Communication Is Key

She’s Everything

Soft!Natasha Romanoff x Reader

Word Count: 2K

A/N: Based on a lovely request. Please enjoy some fluff. Based on song of the same name.

Not all secrets are intentional. 

It hadn’t made sense to tell the others when you’d started dating Natasha. Things felt tentative anyway. 

There was a softness with Natasha that you’d only guessed at before. 

She was hesitant before every date.

————-

She knocked on your door before the first one. 

You were going to the cinema, Natasha had invited you over text. It was more than friendship, but you weren’t quite sure what else it could be yet.

Natasha met your gaze when you opened your door. She smiled nervously and you realised that this was the side of her that she didn’t normally share.

Her hands were buried deep in her jacket’s pockets and, when you told her that she looked great, she glanced shyly at the ground.

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unironically want that mediocre gfs w u stuck and just the 'nat 😳😳😳what r u doing'

you know. you know what. i make myself laugh. thats what matters.

title: you dirty, dirty girl

summary:

Nat chuckles. Her hands, calloused and hot, squeeze your cheeks. Spread them. Her mouth hovers over your tailbone. “Seriously? You got yourself stuck in the laundry machine in this get-up?”

“It was not on purpose. Pull that back up, so help me-”

content: nat/f!reader, dom/sub, cum filled strap, anal, anal plug

(ao3)

Fate is cruel. So very cruel. You have never wanted to die this badly.

For over ten minutes—you can tell based on the number of songs that have played, you have been stuck in your laundry machine. In your fucking underwear like some lousy porn. What’s worse is that you decided that today of all days, you would invite Nat over. Nat, who only ever takes two-hour naps at most and went to sleep on your couch an hour and a half ago. Nat, who will laugh so hard she dies from oxygen deprivation when she sees you. And then you will die because you’re stuck in a laundry machine with no possible escape.

At least you’ll die next to each other. How romantic.

Picture this: blades at the inside of the laundry machine, cut up into strings. What bliss.

You stick your forearm into your mouth for the third time so far so you can muffle your scream of pure frustration. You will not be surprised at all if you lose your voice tomorrow.

It all started because of Nat’s stupid fucking sock. She’s always complaining that your laundry machine eats her socks, so you’d made sure to fish them all out. Except when you tried to grab the last one (patterned with cartoon spiders hanging off a faucet—a gag gift you got her for her birthday), you had leaned too far in and now you couldn’t squeeze your shoulders back out.

How does this happen in real life?

The rim of the laundry machine is starting to bite. You smack the inside of the machine with your fist, kicking your legs out. Another infuriated cry into your forearm.

Another song begins playing. You hate this song.

You close your eyes, feeling your head throb, and then suck in a deep, long breath. The air is humid, disgustingly so.

It’s time.

It’s time to suck it up.

You prepare a lungful of air, and— you screech.

Thud!

“Fuck!” comes Nat’s sleep-raspy voice.

That felt good. You scream again, making sure there’s a real guttural note to it.

“Baby?” Nat yells, confused, slightly panicked. Rapid footsteps. The door swings open. “Are you okay?”

“Get me out,” you grit lowly.

She doesn’t react immediately. You imagine she didn’t hear; she’s taking it all in. Maybe, she’s still rubbing her ass from falling off the couch. Then: “…what the hell.”

“Natasha.” Your knuckles blanche with how tight your fists are clenched. You speak louder, enunciating: “Get. Me. Out.”

A warm hand on your lower back, where your spaghetti top has ridden up. The music from your phone pauses, and Nat crouches next to you. “Is there a spider in there or something? I told you I’m not going to kill spiders for you. The joke is old.”

“I am not.” You inhale. Hold. Exhale. “I am not fucking joking right now, Natasha fucking Romanoff, if you do not get me out of here-”

“You’re really not funny. You’re not.” Nat pokes your ass cheek. “I could be sleeping right now.”

“Natasha!” you screech, thrashing your lower body. “I’m fucking stuck in the laundry machine! Get me out. Get me out!”

Another lengthy pause. Nat puts both hands on your back and leans down, presumably to peek into the laundry machine because she’s an asshole who doesn’t believe you. Which is just so—

“Annoying piece of shit! Fucking-” You slam your palms down, metallic clanging grating against your ears. You feel like a child throwing a temper tantrum.

“For real? For real, dude. You’re…” Nat presses closer and breathes down your neck. So not helping. “…wow.”

“I will break up with you.”

“But…”

“Don’t.”

“But step-sister-”

“Natasha,” you grind out between your teeth.

Her body warmth withdraws, and you sigh in relief. Then, she hooks her fingers into your panties and slides them down to your knees.

“I will kill you. I will kill you. I will kill you.”

Nat chuckles. Her hands, calloused and hot, squeeze your cheeks. Spread them. Her mouth hovers over your tailbone. “Seriously? You got yourself stuck in the laundry machine in this get-up?”

“It was not on purpose. Pull that back up, so help me-”

“I don’t believe you.” She removes a hand. Only to bring it back down in a spank.

You yelp, flushing deeply, abruptly. “I don’t care,” your voice hikes up a pitch on another spank, “Nat, please.”

“That’s more like it,” she husks, breath fanning across your back. “Begging.”

It must be a Pavlovian response to that specific tone of voice. No other explanation for why you’re moments from getting wet. You did not do this on purpose.

Nat noses along the curve of your ass. You feel her lips curve into a smile; you can just picture it: impish, cocky, shit-eating. She digs her nails into your stinging ass cheek, bites the other one, and gives it another harsh smack.

The ass bad airflow in the drum must be fucking with your head. You bite your lip to prevent a whimper from escaping. To your great shame, you feel arousal gush out. Perhaps Nat won’t notice immediately, so you have time to brace yourself for the incoming humiliation.

Nat leaves a wet mark on your ass, and it prickles on your skin as it dries in the air. She sighs very contently, and you know, at that moment, the game is over.

“Sweetheart, do you want to safeword?” You slot your teeth into the bitemark on your arm and groan into it. Her hand rubs your smarting cheek as if to console you. She’s unbearably smug when she says: “I didn’t think so.”

You move your arm to your forehead, leaning heavily onto it. This is happening. It would be fantastic if those blades appeared now.

To your horror, Nat pulls away entirely and takes a few steps back.

You make a noise of alarm, body taut like a bowstring. “Don’t leave me here. Nat, please, don’t. Please.”

Footsteps returning. Hand patting your spine. “Just for a minute, okay? I’ll be quick.”

“Promise?” you whisper, afraid for a second that she won’t hear.

But she pats you again and says, “Promise, sweet girl. Be good.”

And she’s gone for ages.

The embarrassment from this whole situation makes you heat up, makes you tense, makes you wet, and the latter makes the humiliation greater. It’s a vicious cycle. You’re definitely not thinking clearly anymore, pulled into that happy, fuzzy space where anything Nat does gets you off. Where time moves nonlinearly.

You sigh, biting your lip and waggling your foot as you wait for her. It feels like too long, but you can’t trust your sense of time, and you can’t trust Nat to not take forever just to fuck with you. But she did promise—she doesn’t usually break promises like this.

“Nat?” you ask, voice meek. Pathetic.

No response.

You brace your hands on the end of the drum and push. No go. Still.

Unfortunately, this is when Nat decides to come back. Pitter-patter of her feet incoming fast. You knew she wouldn’t lie. She wasn’t trying to drag it out—

“Well, well.” Nat stops at the door. “I was going to be nice, you know?”

You drop your arms with a sad moan. “You were gone.”

“Good girls are patient.” Her voice comes closer. “Good girls get their pussies filled.”

“Please.” You practically claw your way deeper into the machine in an attempt to appease her.

She tsks, and her hands grip you by the hips, pulling you back in place. “Hold still now. I’ll fuck you if you listen.”

“Okay,” you eventually mutter.

Nat hums. You hear clinking and rustling. She’s tampering with something. You wish you could twist around and see her, gauge her mood. Alas, the tight space does you no favours.

Anyway, you did agree to hold still, didn’t you?

For a long time, nothing happens. This time, you’re sure Nat’s fucking with you, but you don’t know what to do to get her moving. Your slick is trickling down your thighs now. The odds are stacked against you.

“Nat, please,” you whine.

A huff. “That was your second chance.” She’s still not touching you. You curl your toes, tensing up. “How many spanks for the impatience?”

“…um, five?” you attempt.

“We’ll do five times the number I was thinking. Better luck next time.” Her palm comes down out of nowhere and with a punishing force. You cry out, trying to twist into the drum. She just drags you back out. “Count for me. No mistakes, and I’ll halve the number.”

Were you not so horny, you would’ve asked her why she’s acting like a primary school math teacher. Instead, you choke out: “One.”

She hums and hits at your thigh this time. You wriggle, count, and she resituates you. Repeat. The spanks land along your ass and thighs, and, every so often, she pauses to massage your stinging flesh. By the time she hits twenty, you’re a snivelling mess.

She shushes you, squeezing a hand through to rub circles between your shoulder blades. “Five more, okay?”

You nod, though she might not see it. Still, she takes it as a go-ahead to give you five more swats, alternating spots with each one. You spit out the last five numbers in quick succession, voice small and wobbly.

Nat squats low to kiss at your tender skin, murmuring praise and encouragements to you until you sigh. “I’m okay now. Mostly.”

Her hand rests gently on a bruise. “Mostly?”

You nod again, head drooped into a pile of your arms. “Yeah. Green.”

A thoughtful hum. Then, she’s gone, and there’s the pop of a cap being opened. “Relax for me, sweetheart.”

With a keen, you do your best to slacken. Even then, when cold fingers touch your still sensitive ass, you jolt and hiss.

“Sorry, baby,” Nat soothes. Gingerly, she tugs you open. “Come on. Deep breaths. You know how prep goes.”

You do. Your clit throbs.

You do as you’re told, trying to count out each breath. You begin to appreciate her cool touch, overheated as you are.

When she’s deemed you sufficiently calm, she presses her lubed thumb against the ring of your ass and makes tiny circles on it. Your cunt clenches in anticipation.

“You’re my good girl,” she coos, ghosting her other hand along your inner thigh. “My baby. Good little slut for me, hm?”

Tiny: “Mhm.”

Nat rewards you with the first knuckle of her index finger. You gasp, and she cuts it off with one of her own. “No matter how many times I fuck you, you’re still this tight,” she says, almost like she’s musing to herself. Another press of her lips to your ass, then she pushes her finger all the way in. “So good for me.”

Yes. Good. You nod, eyes clenched shut.

Before she slips her second finger in, she gives you a few thrusts that have you groaning and dropping heavily into the laundry machine. Nat’s patient with you, waiting for you to settle back down before pistoning both fingers into you. Once, twice, three times.

She scissors her fingers, curls them, twists them. Each time, you try not to writhe. Your earlier screeching has your throat too raw to make sounds louder than a breathy wail, so you’re left whimpering and heaving for breath.

Overlaying all of this is Nat’s filthy whispers. She calls you good, her precious baby. Yet, every time your cunt leaks more arousal, or it clenches on nothing, or your sphincter spasms around her fingers, she’s groaning out greedy whore, aching for cock. Your head spins from it all.

After an age, she drags her fingers out of you with a sound that verges on forlorn.

“I’m fucking you ‘till I’m bored,” she informs you.

“Please, please, please,” is all you can say.

She laughs, probing at your asshole with the head of her strap-on, and you’re instantly babbling out pitiful sounds, and she just laughs a bit more. Your arms are damaged from how hard you grip onto them, from the occasional snap of your jaw around them.

The cock splits you open slowly, rubs against your hypersensitive skin, and you hiccup midway through a cry. Nat stops when she bottoms out, cursing under her breath at the sight of your ass wrapped tight around the girth of her piece.

Then, the sound of a shutter.

Your sound of confusion sounds like a mewl.

“Don’t think,” she says lightly, jerking her hips into a grind, “just take it.”

Your lungs run ragged, trying to take in enough air for your brain.

She strokes over your waist, down your thigh, and exhales softly. Pulls out halfway and drives the cock back in. “Oh, sweetheart,” she sighs. “Yes. Just take it.”

“Yes,” you echo, eyebrows crinkling as she starts up a snappy pace, “yes, yes, yes-”

The fit is tight, excruciating in its pleasure. The friction of your muscles around her girth has you drooling on your arm, mouth slack and open.

After a particularly loud whimper, Nat plants a hand on your back and presses you into the rim of the machine. With the leverage, she can fuck into you harder, faster. Her other hand flits around your body and slithers down your navel to cup your mound.

You buck down into her hand.

“Stay,” she barks. With her assistance, you’re returned to your previous height, much to your chagrin.

“Please,” you moan brokenly, “Nat, please.”

She pinches your ass, ignoring your mournful yowl. Somehow, she fucks you harder, your bodies swaying forward with every shove. The ache, the sound, of her front meeting your backside has you needier. Somehow, needier.

So full. Alight with sensation. Just not where you need it.

Nat takes pity. She reaches around and, this time, sweeps the pad of her finger over your clit.

You wail.

The finger draws tight circles around your clit, pressure becoming more deliberate, harsher, as your cries escalate into—nothing.

Your mouth falls open silently, overworked throat failing at producing noise.

And you’re full—so full—more full. Nat releases into you with a grunt, a gasp, and then a long groan. Fingers splayed out on your back, the other hand slipping away from your dripping cunt.

Fake cum pools heavy inside you, fucked deep inside you by the strap that Nat keeps pushing into you.

Afterwards, she drapes her body over yours with a puff of breath.

“Thank you,” you mumble eventually.

She barks a laugh. It’s a cute sound, you hate to admit. “You’re welcome for using you as a fleshlight.”

You manage a smile. “Any time.”

Another exhale as she hikes herself up using the edge of the machine and inches her cock out of you. She hums in sympathy with your quickened breathing.

You make to wiggle out after, but she stills you with a hand.

“What’s the rush, baby?” There’s a hint of mirth in her voice that you don’t trust at all. A very familiar click of shutters. “Look at you, gaping for me. Leaking for me.” Her thumb whips out to catch the cum dribbling out, pushes it back in. “Better not waste, though.”

Your clit throbs with your pulse. “…Nat.”

“What?” But she doesn’t give you a chance to continue, bulldozing on: “You know, honey, the absence of your humongous mommy kink has been quite disappointing.”

“My god.”

“Laundry machine? Anal? Coming inside? Check, check, and check. Weird familial-”

“Please stop.” Your temple throbs with your pulse.

Nat’s laugh, cackle, really, is much less charming this time around. “Hold onto this for me, will you?” she basically croons. And then she sets the tip of what you assume is a plug at your asshole. “Anyway, don’t act like you don’t love this whore that you are.”

“Nat,” you whine, but then you stop because you can’t deny her. She makes a point of holding the plug in your ass at its widest point and then releasing it, enjoying the view of your ass swallowing it.

“Greedy little hole,” she notes. Then, she claps her hands together, makes a sound like she’s dusting them off, and gets up. “Well, that was fun- Oh, you didn’t start the dryer.”

“You- Nat, you’re not leaving me-”

“Sure am.” Beep. Beep-beep. The dryer starts loudly. Obnoxiously. Nat’s shadow passes over you, and then there’s the sound again, of camera shutters. “These are great. Can’t believe this is real life. Can you?”

“Nat! You are not leaving me here!”

“Thanks for letting me borrow your phone. Let me just send that over to myself…” The fact that she used your own goddamn phone to get a picture for this really drives the shame home. “Anyway, see you when the dryer’s done.”

Footsteps receding.

You shriek, shrill. Your ass closes tight around the plug, around the cum inside you, and you feel how utterly soaked your lower half is. And your upper half, from the laundry water.

“We’re fucking over!”

Nat’s laugh rings through the house.

DELETED BLACK WIDOW SCENE

ok but why did they delete a bike chase thats so cool also im living for the yelena and nat sibling bickering “do you know where you’re going… and you drove us into a cage” “this gate wasn’t here 8 years ago!”. and nat riding a motorbike is just iconic at this point since she’s done it in so many movies (my favourite was probably age of ultron cause she got to grab caps shield lmao). plus in a lot of the promos we saw photos from this scene and i mean scarlett and flo on a motorbike is pretty amazing so yeah it makes sense but i would have loved to see it in the show as well. anyways yeah pls let me know what ur thoughts are (:

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.

requests | masterlist

taglist: @when-wolves-howl @fayhar  @maggieromanov  @transbi-spidey @romanoffscottage @blackxwidowsxwife @lizli @screechcat @maddess @mellxa @haeva @diaryoflife @natashasilverfox @vicmc624 @strangegardentaco @phantomvael @lorsstar1st  @rysnwilder  @ima-gi--na-tion @paryl @picnicmic   @smallestavenger @lainjupi   @d1s0nym @simpforflorencepugh1 @the-v01d @kqmui @s1ut4nat @btay3115 @emril-osvigne

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

This isn’t Taylor or Leigh but simply ✨her✨

oh bestie... beefy Nat... get ready for needy beefy Nat content. This turned into uhh... not a drabble, but I don't think anyone is gonna be mad about it? I wrote this to that "training with Nat" playlist that's literally like... sex playlist?? Shay knows the one

words: 1.2k

warnings: 18+ only, minors DNI; smut; physical restraint (but reader is like, used to it); fingering; clothed sex; daddy kink; mocking; Nat pound me into the training mat challenge

summary: honestly just.. Nat gets needy after sparring

It wasn't fair how much Natasha had to suffer over the past hour. You'd invited her to come workout with you, nothing too intense, just a sparring partner to work on hand to hand combat with; there was no one better to ask than her.

The entire time the two of you went back and forth on the mat, she got the upper hand and while you were tired of losing, you were even more tired of how distracting she was. Natasha typically wore shirtless tops around the compound, that wasn't new, but facing her in a fight you could see the muscles in her arms and you didn't know if you were out of breath because she was putting you through the wringer or if the fantasies in your head were getting the best of you.

Sparring was effective, but you wished Nat would toss you on the mat for a completely different reason.

"Okay okay, I give up!" It was the fifth time she'd pinned you and fuck, you would be surprised if you could stay coherent enough to make your way back to your room. Yes, you shared one with the redhead, but she liked to train longer than you so you figured that maybe if you were quick enough you could spend time recovering with a hot bath and your fingers between your legs.

Natasha let you up, rolling onto her back as you left the mat. The angle gave her the perfect view of your ass, outlined by the tight fabric of your stretchy shorts. For as much as you'd been watching Natasha, she'd been watching you right back; each time she took you down was a struggle in restraint. It'd be too easy to take you right there, but she'd resisted only because any one of your teammates could walk in. "Quitting already? But we were having so much fun."

Could be having a lot more fun upstairs. The thought came to your head before you could stop it and the resulting whine was too loud in the quiet room to go unnoticed. "Letting you run me into the ground repeatedly is a very one-sided type of fun, Natasha."

The older woman jumped up with ease, years of endurance training letting her recover with a quickness you could only ever envy. You didn't see her walking over to you, too preoccupied with gathering your bag together to get out of there. When she spoke again, she was right behind you and Natasha smirked as she caught your thighs instinctively pressing together. "You couldn't convince me you don't like losing to me if you tried."

"Why would I like losing?" You kept your back to her on purpose; if you looked at her you were sure you'd end up begging her to take you right there.

Natasha stepped closer, just enough to grab you. She was too fast for you, too strong, and she had you pressed flush against your front before you could process your shock. "Because I know you too well; you’re not subtle and you love it when I trap you."

Squirming away was fruitless; Natasha barely gave you room to breathe. You couldn't complain though, not when her hand was making its way to your breasts, squeezing roughly even when you cried out. The fights and her show of strength left you powerless to do anything but let your girlfriend touch you as she pleased, nipples pebbling both under her teasing and with your top half now exposed to the cold gym air. "Natty, we can't.. not here..."

She shushed you way too gently for how brutishly her other hand was sliding down the front of your shorts, hot breath tickling your ear. "I can do whatever I want and right now, I need my sweet girl to stay still while I fuck her."

You nodded quickly, your knees going weak almost as soon as her fingers spread you open. Risky as it was here out in the open, this was so much better than your fingers would ever be. She kissed your bare shoulder as she examined and groped you hungrily at her will. When her fingers were easily coated with your slick, the both of you groaned so loud there was no way anyone passing by the door wouldn’t have heard.

It was messy and crude, Natasha circling your clit until you’d soaked through your panties and possibly even your shorts— you loved it. “Daddy, please…”

“Oh fuck,” Maybe Natasha hadn’t meant to say it aloud, but she did and if the hard bite where your neck met your shoulder was any indication, she was quick to hide any other impulsive reactions. It was no secret how much the redhead adored the title, especially from you. Anything from you, really; she needed every part, every word, every whine you blessed her with. “Say it again, tell me how much you want it.”

“I-“ Stringing a sentence together proved difficult, Natasha’s fingertips just barely grazing your entrance throwing your brain into one thought alone. “Fuck me, please, daddy! I need you inside…”

A singular finger slid in, slow and steady and not at all what you needed to get off. You whined pitifully, trying to force yourself down on her hand to no avail. “I thought you wanted to wait? What happened, changed your mind?”

You wanted to yell and scream that it was all Natasha’s doing, that you’d be upstairs in your room if you had any say in the matter, happily bent over the mattress while you thrust onto your favorite vibrator. But that didn’t matter; you’d still be thinking of her, wishing it was her taking charge instead of a toy you controlled.

In her strong arms you felt captured and kept; no matter how you struggled, her hold on your body kept you still as a doll in a child’s grasp. “Stop squirming, baby. Daddy just needs to make you feel good.”

She was certainly doing just that, having slid a second finger alongside the first, stretching you perfectly. Your hips bucked back into her own and as her thumb played deviously with your swollen clit, you were even more grateful for Natasha’s support because without her, your knees would’ve given in a while ago. It didn’t take long before you were fighting off your orgasm, begging breathily to be allowed much needed release. “...’m so close.. Please…!”

Trying to escape her touch was pointless; Natasha was relentless in how she played with you, “Shh, it’s okay. Go on… cum for me.” It only took two curls of her digits to make you fall apart completely, your whimpers echoing off the solid walls of the empty training room. Your vision left for a moment, ears ringing as your body fell slack. Not for a second were you in danger of falling to the ground because Natasha was still holding you against her, one hand toying with your breast as her other was firmly buried between your shaking thighs.

The heel of her palm brushed over your over sensitive bud and you flinched away, but her grip never eased. The tip of her nose grazed the shell of your ear slowly, gently, unbothered by how you struggled against her firm body as she started fucking into you all over again. Natasha had stood and fought with you that afternoon on her best behavior, suppressing the urge to call off your training for her own favorite form of exercise. But now she’d won all rounds and she was going to be as selfish as she pleased. “Oh no, princess, I won five times and you owe me my rewards.”

Clint Barton’s House of Strays, by me and @geeodes

A whole one person said they were interested so get fuckin ready

In a post-S.H.I.E.L.D., post-Sokovia Accords world, where is Natasha to stash dozens of newly freed child assassins?

- is what she says when she shows up at Clint’s door with Yelena, Melina, Alexei, and five widows under the age of 20 trailing behind her

Clint:

Natasha:

Yelena:

Melina:

Alexei:

The widows:

Clint:

Clint: So are you guys staying for dinner, or…?

They did stay for dinner

And dessert

And breakfast the next morning. Clint’s kids come downstairs to find five child spies asleep on the floor in living room, and the five child spies wake to see three kids in matching pajamas openly staring at them

Clint and Laura talk, and soon enough, Widows start flooding in.

Sent by Yelena from all over the world, girls ranging from six to thirty show up in droves

After a while shoving Widows on couches and mattresses and guest bedrooms, Clint convinces Laura to let him start a new project.

With Natasha, Alexei, Melina, and eventually Tony’s help, he builds a lodge beside the farmhouse.

Bedrooms go in on the top floor; bunk beds for reunited sisters, singles for girls who have never known a quiet night’s sleep, a wide kitchen on the main floor stuffed with food the girls have never had the chance to eat.

Widows who don’t want to stay at the farm are sent to the Avengers Tower (which Tony did not sell, *cough*) and are given access to therapy and job opportunities, and anything else they could need while they adjust to life outside the Red Room

It brings more controversy down on Tony, but what else was he gonna do? Say no?

He considers it after one particularly indoctrinated 6-year-old tries kicking his ass and has to be pulled off him by Natasha

The lodge becomes a safe haven for Widows, even after they’ve found their places in the world.

It takes a while for some to forgive Melina for her part in their enslavement, but she does her best every day to earn their forgiveness.

She becomes friends with Laura Barton, their relationship awkward at first but eventually effortless. The two share looks that are indecipherable to others, but they conduct entire conversations without saying a word. Natasha is befuddled.

Alexei warms up to the Barton kids immediately. They hang off his arms while he booms war stories and nonsense, shrugging off Clint’s concerns

“Relax, Robin Hood. They are soft and squishy, they learn to be strong!”

“… Whatever you say.”

Thanksgivings at the Barton farm start moving outside. Long tables are stuffed with Widows of all ages, Avengers, agents of S.H.I.E.L.D., families, and anyone else who will fit, crowding around in the kitchens and living rooms and fields, swapping stories and inside jokes

Nowhere in the world is totally safe, but the Barton farm feels pretty close

You be out here making me soft😭 This is really sweet, I appreciate it💕🥺

HAPPY FANFIC WRITERS APPRECIATION DAY!!!!!

I want to thank all of you wonderful writers that share your amazing works with us. I hope that you all know how much happiness & joy that you have given to me & I’m sure so many others. Getting to read your fantastic stories have put so many smiles on my face & have made my days so much brighter. I’m sending out love to all of you, REALLY THANK YOU ALLL FROM THE BOTTOM OF MY HEART!!!! You are all FABULOUS!!!!! Here are some of the terrific writers that I have read from this past year,

@thorfanficwriter @what-is-your-plan-today @bolontiku @tilltheendwilliwrite @wordynerdygurl @sweater-daddiesdumbdork @sagechanoafterdark @jewels2876 @jobean12-blog  @that-damn-girl @jay-and-dean @roonyxx @denisemarieangelina  @joannaliceevans-fanficblog @the–sad–hatter

@americancowgirl19 @anathewierdo @angrythingstarlight @beccaanne814 @beyondspaceandstars @bitsandbobsandstuff @bonkywobble​ @buckstaybucky​ @buckybarnesdiaries @buckycuddlebuddy @buckysknifecollection @bugsbucky @callmeluna​ @carryonmywaywardcaptain​ @chevyharvelle @crispychrissy @cuddles-with-bucky @datfandombitch @elatedmarvel @fandom-basurero @fangirlovestuff @hannahshattuck @helloimanavenger @high-functioning-lokipath @honeyloverogers​ @howlingmedic @imagine-assembling-the-avengers @imaginedreamwrite @imagining-supernatural @just-the-hiddles @katymacsupernatural @ladytodd @lokibug  @loki-hargreeves​  @lostinthoughtsandfeelings @luci-in-trenchcoats​ @magellan-88 @marvelgirl7 @mostly-marvel-musings @navybrat817 @original-wintersoldier @percywinchester27 @plus-size-reader  @samwilsons-pillowpecs @shield-agent78 @shy-violet-soul @smediumsmeatbae @specialagentlokitty @spinsterlocity-writes @starlight-loki @starlightcrystalline @supernaturallymarvelous  @sunflowerxbarnes @sunriserose1023 @talesmaniac89 @thatfangirl42 @the–blackdahlia @the-emo-asgardian @theycallmebecca @tuiccim @thinkinghardhardlythinking  @twittytelly @vodka-and-some-sass @waiting4inspiration @waywardnerd67 @whisperlullaby @world-of-aus @writingfromkitchenator @writingsoftheloser  @why-did-i-write-this @xbuchananbarnes

And I hope that if you haven’t check out their work you do, I’d highly recommend them & so many others on here. It would take forever to list all the wonderful & talented writers on here, but I really want to thank each & every one of you that post on here, because you have given me so much joy!!! All of

And I love & appreciate you all so much🤗🤗🥰🥰😍😍❤️❤️!!!!! 

OLDER MOB NAT! AND HER YOUNG (FRESH GRAD) INNOCENT! R WHO WORKS AS HER ASSISTANT IN THE OFFICE.

warning: older!nat, younger!reader, mob boss, age gap relationships. SFW

When Natasha entered the room with you in tow, your hairs travelled to the sway of her hips. You couldn’t help but blush at the sight of your boss’ curves, feeling inappropriate at the way you ogled her like she was your girlfriend.

But her dark voice broke you out of her little reverie as she finally say behind her desk, blazer unbuttoned just as she shirt, just enough to give you a glimpse of her lace bra and the purple hickeys that adored the plump of her chest.

“Just set it down here, hon.”

You nodded, blushing at her pet name your boss gave you. And despite it all, you were warm all over as you leaned over her desk and organized the paper of the revenue of her club.

“Are you all set, Miss Romanoff?” You asked her softly before you decided to leave, your back straight and posture perfect as you stood in front of her. “Anything else I can get you?”

She shook her head, eyes settled on the papers in front of you. She didn’t bat an eye at you, only hummed and when you nodded, you picked your feet from the floor and headed towards the door.

“Actually,” she started, “there’s one thing you forgot, dear. Come back.”

Your heart pummeled out of your chest, fear settling in your bones at the thought of fucking up some of her paperwork and accidentally leaving it unorganized.

But when the mob boss stood from her chair and walked around her desk to sit against it, she smiled as you neared her presence once again.

She cocked her head, eyes settled into yours.

“You think I wouldn’t remember?”

You frowned, eyes shaded in shame at her words.

“I knew you were busy, Natty.”

Natasha clicked her tongue and then shook her head, eyes heavy as she looked at you. When you refused to look back, her hand reached out and tilted your head up to force your gaze onto her.

“I’m never too busy for you, hon.” Her thumb grazed the apples of your cheeks and then dragged them over the slope of your nose. A flush snuck up on your face and the older woman grinned. When Natasha leaned closer and caressed her nose against yours, you took initiative and gave her crimson lips a peck.

The woman pulled back with a raised brow, her emerald eyes wide and dark as she looked at you with surprise.

“You’re getting bold, sweetheart.” She squeezed your cheek together. Then, after letting a moment pause, she smiled and closed the gap to press her lips against yours. With the taste of cigarettes and coffee present on her tongue, it envelopes you with surprise. The older woman teases your mouth open and even widens the kiss enough.

The sounds echo in the room, almost pornographic, you’re the first to pull away when you lack air.

“Don’t forget to bring me the manila folders when you come in for your lunch break, okay?” You nodded at her demand. After all, above everything else, she was still your boss at work. At home, in the comfort of her million dollar condo in the heart of New York, she was Natty, your girlfriend.

only pretty faces: saccharine

| natasha x fem!reader |  part one, two, three, four, five, six, seven |

summary: She’ll find you. She’ll find you. She’ll find you. She’ll–

warnings: r being completely batshit insane AGAIN lol, FLUFF FINALLY : rated [T]

a/n: god im over it now i just wan them 2 be happy

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