I Really Like Your Take On The Last One! How About These?

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.

So I may have started a new project...

i’m a whore in theory but a virgin in practice

Natasha Romanoff ~ Pain

Natasha Romanoff X fem!Reader Smut

Word count: 2,873

Includes: bondage, blindfold, masturbation, spanking, gagging, praise, fingering, edging, strap on, knife play (minor injury), overstimulation and oral

[ masterlist ]

Buy me a coffee ☕

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Even with your sense heightened you couldn't hear a sound except your own shallow breathing. The blindold covering your eyes had left you to rely on your hearing while all you could see was darkness.

Having said that, your sense of touch seemed to have been sharpened, but that may have been down to having no clothes on. Natasha had pulled them all off you what seemed like centuries ago, leaving your skin hopeful to feel her touch.

Your wrists were beginning to sore from the tight rope holding them together above your head. They were secured to the metal bars at the top of the bed and ensured restricted movements from your hands.

Your ankles had a similar fate and were tied down to each of the bedposts, leaving your legs spread wide open for your girlfriend.

You lay on your stomach with your ass in the air and your head to the side, leaving the silky sheets against your cheek. Your girlfriend knew you felt vulnerable in such a position, something that was definetly a turn on, yet had never left you alone in that state before.

You could only imagine the teasing Natasha had planned for you. She knew all of your kinks, as you did hers, and she was more than willing to try most of them. But there was one she had been promising to do for so long you had come to assume it would never happen.

You were interrupted from your thoughts when you finally heard your girlfriend enter the room. The sound of her footsteps was followed by a mocking chuckle that always left you wet and wanti

"Look at my little whore, all tired up and helpless. Ready to be fucked" She spoke in her dominant tone darkly. You could only whimper in response.

"Please." You said, your voice barely above a whisper.

You could hear her footsteps coming closer to the bed before you felt the shift in weight distribution on the mattress.

You could hear her placing multiple objects down onto the bed and your mind wondered with all the possibilities of what those objects were.

You felt your dominant girlfriend straddle your waist and her bare skin against your own, sending electric sparls throughout your body.

Her slim fingers stroked the centre of your neck so lightly if you hadn't known it was her you would have assumed it was a feather.

The slight touch from her fingertips wandered in a straight line up your neck, jaw and chin. She held it lightly in her hand, her fingertips below your jaw and her thumb a centimetre below your bottom lip.

You knew she was prolonging the feeling of you shaking in anticipation beneath her.

Her thumb stroked the area and you responded by parting your lips for her more. You thought she would slip her thumb or fingers inside, as she had done countless times before, but instead she whipped off the blidfold.

Despite this newfound vision, Natasha was still out of your line of sight. Your disapintment was short lived when she gracefully got off your back and sat down in the chair facing you.

The last time you had seen the beauty she was fully clothed. But in that moment she displayed to you her red lingerie that clung to her body perfectly. It highlighted her curves and made your imagination run wild.

The lace bra and panties displayed about as much as they hid and you felt your arousal grow as your eyes wondered over the matching lacy suspender belt and stockings.

You wanted nothing more than to please her and have her moaning your name, but she had other plans.

"Like what you see?" She smirked as she spread her legs to show you just how thin the fabric was and how little it hid the outline of her pussy lips.

She leaned towards you as she captured her bottom lip between her teeth, maintaining her lustful stare. She placed two fingers on your lips and you instantly opened your mouth for her to slip them in this time.

You sucked on them as you stared back at her and swiped your tongue over the length of her slender fingers. She smirked at your eagerness as she pulled her fingers away and resumed her previous position in the chair.

You licked your own lips at the sight and saw Natasha's had wander teasingly across her stockings, thighs and then the wasitband of her panties, her fingers still glistening.

She didn't hesitate to rub the outline of her pussy through her panties, a sight that made your own pussy clench.

You heard her gasp out when she pressed down on her clit and once she brought her hand away you saw the wet patch she had made on her panties.

"Natasha..." you whined, wanting to touch her.

"No begging, or there will be consequences." She ordered again, breathlessly this time as she continued to stare me down. You nodded your head quickly before your gaze dropped back to those panties that deprived you of the full view.

Natasha's fingers slipped elegantly beneath the red fabric and disappeared into her wet folds. You could hear her moan softly as she started to pump two fingers inside herself at a steady pace.

Her other hand reached up to grap her left breast while she continued to finger herself infront of you. You so desperetly wanted to call out to her. To beg her to let you touch her, any way she wanted. But I knew you wouldn't be successful.

Natasha's pace increased as her moans grew louder and her thigh muscles clenched. You could tell she was close and without considering the consequences you called out to her.

"Tasha, please! Let me touch you." You whined and tried to squirm in your position. Your girlfriend's eyes darkened as a result yet she didn't stop.

You watched in awe as she came on her fingers while her head tilted back in bliss. It didn't take long for her to come down from her high and stand from the chair, her legs only slightly shaky.

"I warned you." Natasha spoke lowly as she moved around to the end of the bed. Part of you expected there to be some kind of warning for what followed, the rest of me knew better.

Natasha brought her hand down fast across your ass and you gave a cry of surprise and pain from the sudden feeling. You would have lurched forward if you weren't so tightly held down, but the restricted movements caused you to experience the pain more than you normally would.

"Quiet." Natasha ordered again. You bit your lip hard to supress any noises you would make.

However, this proved futile as the next time Natasha spanked you you moaned into the bed sheets, the sound definetly loud enough for your sadistic girlfriend to hear.

"Alright then, if you insist on keeping that slutty mouth of yours open..." Natasha didn't bother to fnish her sentence, knowing actions spoke louder than words.

She pulled my blindfold back down over your eyes before quickly spanking you again. This time when you opened your mouth to moan your girlfriend forced a breathable ball gag into your mouth and fastened it at the back of your head.

"Open one of your hands if you want me to stop. I won't be mad." She said gently into your ear, making you smile.

How your girlfriend was able to shift attitudes so drastically in a short space of time always baffled you, but your heart melted whenever she showed her caring side. Everytime you had been gagged she said the same thing.

You nodded and kept your hands in closed fists, hearing a chuckle from her in repsonse.

"Good girl." She hummed, returning to her dominant side. Before you could even respond to her praise you felt another harsh smack to your ass that had you crying out into the gag. You even tried to speak into the gag to beg her to touch you, but your pleading was inaudible, something Natasha evidently found amusing.

She spanked you more until you completly lost count due to only being able to think about the intense stinging feeling across your skin, imagining just how red your skin was and knowing Natasha would apply some cream to that when she was done.

Tears streamed down your face and you whimpered from every little thing you felt. The sensitivity of your skin was making you crazy and completly at your girlfriend's control.

You breathed heavily as you rested your head against the bed sheets and was vaguely aware of Natasha's fingers running across your broken skin. The somewhat soothing gesture didn't last long as her fingers soon dropped down to your soaking core.

"You're so wet, y/n." She husked as her fingers glided over your folds, gathering your juices on her fingers.

You whimpered in response to her words and only wished you could move yourself back onto her fingers.

As if she could hear your thoughts, Natasha slipped a single finger into your folds and pushed it entirely inside you. You moaned softly at the single digit, instantly craving more.

"I'm barely touching you are you're already so responsive." She mocked and moved the single finger in at an agonizingly slow pace, you groaned in protest but your girlfriend only snickered in response to your whining.

She kept this up for a couple minutes and just as you were about to huff out in frustration you felt her withdraw and pump 3 fingers into you at a sudden, overwhelming rate.

You moaned and gasped out into the gag as you felt her fingers fuck you at a rough and hard pace.

You so desperetly wanted to ride her fingers but could only strain your thigh muscles against the ropes. You kept your head firmly against the sheets and hands enclosed in tight fists as though you were protecting something sacred in the palm of your hand.

You could feel the heat rising throughout your body and the pleasure building as Natasha mercilessly thrusted her fingers into your soaked pussy that clenched around her perfectly.

Just as you thought you were about to experience an earth shattereing orgasm, Natasha's fingers abruptly pulled out.

You whimpered and whined into the gag in protest and could hear your girlfriend chuckle at your struggles and pathetic attempt to prolong the pleasure.

You could hear her suck on her fingers as the weight shifted on the bed until Natasha was gone, leaving only the sound of her moving.

Once she was back on the bed she leant over to whisper into your ear while you felt the familiar silicone brush your folds.

"I'll say this once: cum without permission and you will be punished." As she said those words you felt a cool piece of metal glide across your skin. Under the blindfold your eyes widened as I realised what Natasha was holding.

The knife, sharpened to perfection, pressed threateningly against your vulnerable skin. You could guess it was about a six inch blade and imagined it glistening in the light in an angelic manner.

Your core throbbed at the thought of it, yearning to feel it press against you to the point where it tears at your fragile skin.

Natasha placed the strap in line with your entrance and pushed the tip forward for your pussy lips to envelope.

As you clenched around the small amount inside you, you were caught off guard by Natasha pushing the rest of it inside you in one hard thrust.

You cried out into the gag, not being able to adjust to the size before your girlfriend pulled out and slammed the toy back into you. You moaned loudly at the ache the strap caused and dug your nails into the palms of your hands.

Natasha continued to pound the strap into your pussy as you moaned and whimpered in time with her deep, hard strokes.

While one hand held the knife against your stomach, the other grabbed a fist full of your hair and yanked it so your head was thrown back.

All of this combined with Natasha mercillessly slamming the strap on into you over and over made your pussy start to clench around the toy.

You tried to communicate with her that you were about to cum, but of course she didn't care.

Your whole body tensed up and your breathing became increasingly ragged until you clenched around the toy again and came hard on it. You moaned and gasped out into the gag, almost forgetting about the knife pressed against you.

You were reminded of it when you felt a sudden, fast jolt from the knife that slashed across you. You cried out and felt your arousal grow again despite the now slow pace of Natasha moving the strap.

Your stomach felt as though it had been burnt and the red hot sting continued to stay. Natasha dropped her hand that was holding your hair and swipped her finger across the cut and hummed in delight.

You kept your fists tightly closed and wondered if you had drawn blood yourself from how deep your nails were into your own flesh.

"You're doing so good for me." Natasha whispered softly into your ear and started to pick up the pace again.

This time, you were already adjusted to the size of the strap and took it without the feeling of it stretching you slightly.

Natasha's hips moved at a faster rate and every time she filled you up completelt you felt her press against your ass. The knife remained firmly in her hand and on a new area of your stomach, ready to strike the unmarked skin.

Your body trembled from the stimulation to your pussy that made you shake slightly in support of the ropes still binding you down.

You moaned into the gag again as you felt the familiar tug in your lower stomach come back.

You could feel Natasha's grip on the knife tighten as your legs tensed up again and your back arched as much as it could as you came a second time, even more exhausted than the last.

With the orgasm came another cut across your skin, longer and deeper this time. You whimpered into the gag, wishing you could see the marks your girlfriend had made.

Natasha didn't halter her rhythm this time and seemed to instead take her fucking with a new vigour. This time when she thrust the strap on into you you could feel your cum soaking the strap as it pumped into your equally wet pussy, the combination of which was extremely audible and made you gush with wetness even more.

"You wanna cum again, huh? I can hear how wet and desperate you are for me, whore." You moaned in response as your whole body shuddered again, your increasing sensitivity making you all the more vulnerable.

When you came for the third time and felt the sharp blade slice once more, you were so out of breath you needed the gag removed to help you breathe. You opened your hand and felt Natasha instantly stop her movements and pulled out.

"It's okay, you did so good for me." She cooed as she removed your blindfold and gag.

"I'm okay..." You huffed, trying to catch your breath. "I can do...one more." You gasped and felt Natasha untie all the ropes.

"One more? Hmm okay." She flipped you gently onto your back and positioned herself between your legs.

You gazed down in awe at the three cuts across your stomach. They weren't serious and you doubted they would need stitches, yet the bright red blood slowly escaping from the wounds, one of which even trickling down yourside, lit your core on fire.

Your girlfriend grinned knowingly at you as she flicked her tongue against your swollen clit. You gasped out at the sensitivity and rested your head back against the pillow and clossed your eyes in bliss.

Natasha's tongue swiped around your folds, collecting the cum that had spilled out a little prior, befor plunging her tongue inside you.

You moaned out from the sensitivity and gripped her hair for support, encouraging her to tongue fuck you faster.

Her tongue swiped around inside of you perfectly, as though it was the last time she would taste you and wanted to memorize every inch of your core.

The overstimulation meant it didn't take long for your walls to clench around her tongue, pushing it out and leading Natasha to sucking on your clit in response.

"Tasha!" You gasped out as you came hard on your girlfriend's tongue. She licked up every single drop of your cum before leaning up to kiss you.

You kissed her back and tasted yourself on her lips, smiling to yourself at that fact. She pulled back and fell down beside you, looking at you lovingly.

"That was..." She trailed off, unable to find the words.

"Wow-factor." You grinned.

Wings - n.r

Word count: 2565

Genre: comfort/hurt

Request: yes

Warnings: self harm (kinda. like it's with wings but read at your own discretion)

A/n: It's been a hot min since I wrote anything 😬 Might make this into a lil AU. I kinda wanna explore more of Natasha and angel!r's relationship. Like meeting R's parents etc. WE WILL SEE THO XD Also, I changed it slightlyyyyyy I hope that's okay!

Pride wasn't something your species lacked. With wingspans that are easily double your height and reflexes that would make a panther jealous, there was next to nothing that could harm you. The pride each of you had wasn't cockiness but the natural confidence that comes with the knowledge that you are the top of the food chain. Being the apex predator meant you possessed both the deadly ability of a lion and the brain that would rival even the smartest of humans. If charming your way out of a situation was looking increasingly unlikely, then throats would be slit. Despite what people may think, your culture was not one of savages. It was rich and detailed and varied from clan to clan. There was one common tradition that everyone partook in and that was The Leaving. Once a youngling's feathers lose their fluff and gain their silky perfection, they are to leave their family and seek out new blood; be it territory, foods, cultures or people.

You were expected to leave and come back bloodied with victories and new territories to show for it. Each clan had a balance of specialties that were dictated by what your parents did. While a few were lucky enough to have a choice between two paths if their parents had differing roles, most didn't have a choice. You had never been close with your parents although this was a common occurrence. It was the grandparents who raised the young while the parents were off traveling the world to find the resources they needed. How were parents expected to contribute towards the clan's survival if they had to stop to raise children? It made much more sense for those whose wings could no longer carry them the great distances needed to look after the young.

Your parents had reached that age. Their wings were now nothing more than brilliant decorations, marked with each one of their victories. Unfortunately, this meant they now lived vicariously through you. When your beautifully glossy wings reached maturity, your parents all but shoved you from the comfort of your own home, eager for you to make your mark on the world and come back with grandchildren for them to mould.

Something you parents hadn't accounted for was that the world was vastly more populated than it was when they had set out. You could no longer just fly down, intimidate or charm the locals, and claim their land as yours. The weapons had become more developed and they had seen too many otherworldly creatures to fall for the usual tactics. This may have looked like a problem, but for your opportunistic ass, this was the dream.

You were finally free to eat as much as you wanted, drink as much as you wanted and lay with as many people as you wanted.

~~~~~

Your binge of freedom lasted a day.

You were promptly captured by some kind of new technology you absolutely had to bring back with you.

"You thought we didn't notice you?" A man called Fury, asked.

"I thought you were too feeble minded to realise."

"We keep tags on all life not from this planet."

You let out a short bark of laughter. "If you were here first then why are we all over your history? Hell we predate your history." Your large wings bristled, managing to overpower the technology just briefly "I have to ask, where on earth did you manage to get this?"

"Get what?"

"The contraption keeping me here?"

"I am not a contraption." A third voice entered the conversation, thick with an accent that didn't match Fury's.

The woman moved in front of you, her eyes glowing a shade of red you had only seen one other time. The time your grandmother died.

"Want to see some real magic sweetheart? Come with me and I'll show you everything."

You couldn't tell if the red flush on her face was from anger, exertion of keeping you there, or lust. Turns out you never got to find out as a sharp bolt of electricity knocked you out.

That was three years ago and since then you had fought with the Avengers and even become one of them. Your favourite battle was with Thanos. It was positively delicious to rip his slimy little arm off before Thor swung his axe through his head.

There was no real reason for you to stay other than you liked their company. Your parents were eager for you to come back and begin mating so you could head back out again but you had grown to like the humans you called your family. You had learnt many things while being here such as your wings were in fact retractable. Well, they weren't completely retractable but they could almost slide in on themselves, making them a practical size for walking around hallways and sleeping on beds. The downside however, was that you weren't very good at remembering to keep them in. That, and when certain people made you flustered, they just popped right back out again.

Your time with the Avengers had also changed you a little. You had a nickname - something the old you would have cut tongues out of mouths if she had been given one. It was created when Tony Stark had seen you smuggle an interesting looking spoon into your sleeve.

"Damn magpie, anything else of mine you want?"

You didn't know how to react at first. You didn't know he was talking to you and you certainly didn't know how you were anything like the pitiful creatures. Tony then explained the similarities and from that day, the nickname stuck.

~~~~~

"Want to go on a date?" The words left your mouth quickly, the confidence leaving you as you stood in front of the redhead who had tasered you all those years ago.

"What took you so long to ask?" Natasha leant against her doorframe.

You looked at her sheepishly. "Well... in my culture we ask people out a little differently..."

"Wait... is that what all those feathers were for?"

You felt your face heat up with something you would later discover was embarrassment. "Yes"

Natasha's grin put you at ease, "I'm driving but you're paying."

By the time the date rolled around, you were a little less of a mess and feeling more like yourself. Your dress hugged your figure perfectly and complemented your complexion. Turns out, it was probably a good idea that Natasha was driving because one look at her made you weak at the knees. You brushed the lust off as quickly as it came and by the time you had reached the restaurant, your confident persona had slipped back into place.

Your date was going great until Natasha decided to run her foot up the inside of your calf. Your wings sprang out in shock, causing a waiter to spill soup all over the neighbouring table. The string of apologies that left your mouth did nothing to cover the embarrassment you felt. The two of you left pretty quickly after that but not without hearing the annoyed tuts and sharp sighs that left the restaurant-goers mouths.

"Shit I'm sorry Y/n" Natasha said as you both walked back to her car. She was tense. You really hoped it wasn't because you and your wings had embarrassed her.

"It's okay. And as long as you're not too embarrassed to be seen with me maybe we could go on a second date? I'm definitely picking next time though. Just to avoid any soup related accidents." You watched as the tension drained from Natasha's face, her shoulders relaxing just a little.

"Promises, promises."

The flurry of dates after that went well. The lack of dates in crowded spaces hadn't gone unnoticed by you but you couldn't bring yourself to mind. Soon, date night Saturdays were a regular thing and before you knew it, you were in a committed relationship.

~~~~~

One Saturday, you and Natasha decided to stay in with the rest of the team. It was Steve's birthday and you were all having a team movie night to celebrate. Everyone was settled comfortably on the couches littered across the room and you winced when you realised there wasn't going to be enough space for you to comfortably sit. You passed the popcorn bowls around, loud groans left some of the team members as your wings got in the way of the screen.

"Sorry guys." you crouched lower as you made your way to the sofa where Natasha and Wanda were sitting. You sat down on the floor in front of them, causing Natasha to scowl.

"Lyubov, get your ass up here." She and Wanda shuffled so there was room for you in the middle. You smiled at your girlfriend and best friend but shook your head, the rest of the team hushing them as the movie had started.

You felt Wanda reposition and tried to get your wings to shrink even further. You didn't understand the shame you were feeling. Shame wasn't something your species ever felt. Perhaps it was time to go back. Perhaps being here had changed you too much.

~~~~~

You were naturally proud creatures, so why was it that when the team banned you from watching horror movies with them, you felt so damn small.

"Y/n, we think it's best if you don't watch any more horror's with us." Vision led you from the living room, away from the TV.

"Oh."

It had been Bruce's idea for you to watch their weekly horror movie with them while you waited for Natasha, Steve and Wanda to come back from a mission.

"It's not that we don't want you to-"

You cut vision off "It's just that it's inconvenient right?"

Turns out, while horror movies were great fun, they were a little less fun when Sam got covered in fizzy drinks not once but twice because of your wings.

He at least had the politeness to look a little guilty. "Well..."

"It's okay Vis. I get it."

You walked back to your's and Natasha's shared room, thoughts spiralling as you remembered each and every time your wings caused inconveniences like this.

You were taught that you should be treated like gods - that the humans worshiped you - that your species was where the modern idea of angels came from. So why did Vision's words hurt so much?

~~~~~

Natasha had just come back from a mission and you had missed her like crazy. It was late when she came back but you didn't care. You tucked both of you into bed, making Natasha promise she'd tell you all about her mission in the morning. That night, you had a vivid, horrific nightmare. The kind of nightmare that makes you cry out in the night. When you awoke drenched in sweat, you wondered what had woken you. You looked at your girlfriend and that's when the realisation hit you. You had broken her nose. It was her shout of discomfort that had woken you up.

You decided that this was it.

It was fine when your wings bumped into people, or when they knocked over glasses, or bowls of food but hitting your girlfriend in the face so hard it broke her nose was the last straw.

They were coming off and that was final.

You stood up and left the room, not hearing bone snap back into place, not hearing Natasha call out to you in an attempt to get you to come back. You left the compound quickly and efficiently. As soon as you had left, you were beating your wings as hard as you could. You flew up and up, wondering that if you managed to get high enough, whether or not they would freeze off.

They didn't.

You then dove deep into the sea, rationalising that if you did it quickly enough, they would rip right from you. When that didn't work, you snuck into a florists, grabbing the shears that were left on the counter.

You walked aimlessly for miles. The blood from Natasha's nose had dried and made you want to vomit. You weren't meant to be here and you certainly weren't meant to be with a human. Your feet came to a stop and you realised you had walked all the way to the tree where you and Natasha had your first kiss. It took everything in you not to break down and cry right then and there. You were a terrible girlfriend and your body had decided to take you to the one place you didn't want to be.

You gritted your teeth and began to hack away at the wings you and your ancestors were once so proud of. The wings that made you sick every time you saw them.

"Y/n please put them down." Natasha's broken voice bounced and echoed its way around the clearing.

Shame flooded you as she caught you attempting to get rid of the wings she loved so much.

"But they need to go." Tears raced down your face, your eyes unable to stop them no matter how much they wanted to.

"Y/n, your wings are perfect."

You snorted at that, cutting her short "If they were so perfect then why wont they stay in huh?" The bitterness in your voice let slip just how long these thoughts had been festering.

"Because they're not meant to be kept in all the time. I know you've been pinning them back more." Natasha's voice was steady as she moved closer to you, reaching out gently to try and grab the shears.

You took a weary half step backwards, not quite ready for her to touch you. You were an animal backed into a corner and right now, you couldn't see clearly.

"Y/n, baby, please. Your wings are what make you you. Without them you wouldn't be complete." Natasha's hand twitched. "I love every part of you and I know you think your wings hurt me but it's not like I haven't hurt you. Remember when you woke up with me holding a knife to your throat?"

You let out a wet laugh "It was three months into our relationship. The first time you relaxed properly when sleeping with me. You were having a bad dream."

"Exactly. A bad dream. And did you blame me?"

"Of course not." You lowered the shears.

"No. because that's dumb right?"

"Obviously."

"So why do you think I wouldn't act in the exact same way you did when you comforted me that night." Natasha took the shears from your hand.

"But I could really hurt you."

"And I could really hurt you. You forget - I'm a trained assassin."

Your bottom lip wobbled as your eyes filled with fresh tears again. Natasha dropped the shears and tugged you into her. You both sank to the floor as you held Natasha close, your back hitting the tree. Once you finished crying, Natasha wiped away the last of your tears.

"See, if you didn't have your wings, then how are we supposed to have secret conversations?" She smiled cheekily at you as she lifted them both up and wrapped them around you both.

"The damn things heal too quickly for me to cut them off myself. Besides, I'm pretty sure they grow back after a month."

Natasha hit you "Don't even joke."

This is so good, dark but kind natasha is so sweet and you write her so well❤️

No Rest for the Wicked

Natasha x reader AU Drabble

Ghosts

You couldn’t believe the price. Not for a place like this. Not in this city.

And that alone should have sounded all the warning bells in your head. No one would sell a house like this here for that minuscule amount.

But you were so broke and so desperate and maybe it seemed too good to be true, but take the good that comes your way, right?

Everything was perfect on the walk through. You were in awe. Such a magnificent place in the middle of town.

And you did ask, at the end. Because dreamer or not, you aren’t an idiot.

“I want it.” You told the real-estate agent. “It’ll cost everything I have - everything they left me, but I have to know- why is it so cheap?”

She is pristine. Black pencil skirts and clear stockings- hair in such a tight bun it actually tightens the skin of her face. (Cool trick, you register for years later. Will have to remember that one someday.)

Anyway

She is not the type who seems to be easily frazzled but she is noticeably uncomfortable at your inquiry.

She clears her throat and fixes her already perfect hair.

“Someone died here,” she confesses. “Violently.”

Oh, that’s all? You don’t believe in ghosts.

“We’ve had 3 other buyers pull out in escrow,” she continues. “Who knows. Maybe she’ll like you.”

Yeah you’re still not buying it - the story that is- not the house- you are definitely buying the house.

“I’ll sign and give you the down payment right now,” you state with confidence.

You move in that afternoon.

And the place feels like a dream. It feels like a fresh start- a balm to your soul after all your loss.

There are some— strange occurrences. Your glasses moving from your nightstand to your bathroom sink. Drawers that you swear you never touched hanging open, your dog— really seems to hate this place.

But you chalk it up to trauma- you’ve just experienced a huge loss and of course your headspace isn’t good.

But everything else here is.

You love your house, your new job is going great, and you just started dating this person who (fingers crossed) seems good for you.

So what if your house is haunted?

You tell yourself that everyday.

Until you finally see her.

And she is… beautiful.

But so terrifying because there is not doubt in your sleepy mind when you walk into your kitchen one morning (when your dog seems particularly upset) and see this red head beauty already standing at your counter in a white night dress, holding a knife, —that she’s dead.

You fight the urge to run and it’s a good instinct, you think. Because she’s looking at you so hopefully. Like you can see her.

And you are usually quite eloquent and articulate but all you can manage to say is,”Are you her? Did you die here?”

And oh my goodness don’t antagonize a ghost but… she just gives you a kind smile and says, “yes. I’m Natasha. I’ve been watching you.”

You swallow and say, “I know,” before joining her at the counter to drink coffee.

And after that—- you kind of become—- friends?

You welcome her presence and when she materializes you just… hang out and watch TV. She isn’t scary.

You want to know, but you never ask how she died. That seems so private and like something maybe she will tell you eventually. When you’re better friends.

She starts showing herself to you more and more and you honestly like her. Like of course it’s weird she’s a ghost (or a product of your medication) but she starts to become the best friend you’ve ever had.

You can tell her everything because she can’t tell anyone else. She’s dead.

But her physicality is real. And when she is present she can touch you and it’s so nice to be held.

You watch old movies with your head on her shoulder and her arms around your waist but— she’s always gone in the morning and you wake up alone on the couch.

You finally convince yourself out of your dead girl day dreams when you get a better psychiatrist (and better meds) and you meet someone —- who is a dream.

She never comes around when they’re there but you can feel her—- hovering. And you convince yourself you just need a higher prescription.

You’re crazy. Meds are your saving grace. There is no ghost in your house. You just went a little nuts for a while.

But then he has to go on a business trip to Dubai. For a month.

And your back alone in that place.

Except she won’t let you be alone. She’s back and she’s angry. And you don’t know how to apologize to a dead person when you’ve done nothing wrong.

But she haunts your every move. She won’t let you sleep.

Until one night you are so terrified and so desperate you just scream, “WHAT DO YOU WANT FROM ME?! PLEASE JUST TELL ME WHAT YOU WANT FROM ME?!”

They’re the last words you’ll ever speak alive.

You never asked her but suddenly you see clear as day the man she married — choking her— to death.

Just as you feel her hands around your neck.

You’re so cold when you come out of her memory and you know, you know without even having to think about it - you’re dead.

You turn to the side and she is laying next to you with a soft smile on her face, brushing a little bit of your hair away from your eyes.

“You killed me,” you croak out.

“Yes,” she acknowledges.

“Why?!” You plead

“You asked me what I wanted. I wanted you. Forever.”

You’ll never even get to know if there is a heaven. You’ll always be trapped in her hell.

Better Boyfriend Than Him

A/N - had to jump on the bandwagon and base a one shot on Boyfriend by Dove Cameron

Pairing - Natasha Romanoff x Reader

Summary - Bruce left Natasha sitting alone at a Stark party so you decided to show her how she truly deserves to be treated.

Warnings - Smut; cheating, degradation, choking, slight exhibitionism, praise, daddy kink, strapon (r!receiving), biting ig

Word Count - 2116

You sipped on your drink, some kind of fruity cocktail, alcohol tingling your throat as you swallowed it down. Your eyes grazed over the crowd from where you were perched on a stool at the bar; eyeing Wanda laughing with Pietro and Sam, Steve and Bucky sitting across from them too. You saw Tony and Bruce talking animatedly with some serious looking men in suits, your eyebrows furrowed when you realised Bruce had been with Tony the past few hours, not with Natasha.

You shook your head at his negligence, how could somebody like him take somebody like Natasha for granted?

You searched over the bustling hall of people, some dancing, some chatting cradling tumblers of whiskey over ice; squinting your eyes slightly until you found her. A bored look across her features as she mindlessly scrolled through her phone, her other hand supporting a glass as it balanced on her knee. She looked simply magnificent, wine red blazer with matching trousers, one leg crossed over the other, a white button up shirt hugging her figure. You could see the light reflecting off her necklace against her chest, the warm glow of light bouncing off her smooth skin in such a beautiful way.

Wanda gave you a knowing smirk as she watched you approach Natasha, knowing of the crush you'd been harbouring for a while. It was a common occurrence for the pair of you to talk about her and Bruce's relationship, how he doesn't deserve her - she often mentions the loud thoughts she has accidentally heard running around the redhead's mind. Thoughts of you and what she longed to do with you, if only she didn't have Bruce.

It was knowledge of this that gave you the confidence to approach her tonight, plopping down beside her on the sofa. She quickly shut off her phone to bring her attention to you, a soft smile gracing her lips.

"Hey, Nat." You smiled, taken aback slightly at her appearance up close, the red shade of her jacket perfect against her skin. Auburn hair resting on her shoulders in loose waves.

"Hey. Enjoying the party?" She smiled back, you could see the aggravation behind it though, annoyed at the absence of her boyfriend.

"It's alright, you?"

"Having a blast." She deadpanned, sipping the remnants of the brown liquid from her glass, ice clinking against the side as she did so. You hummed at her statement.

"I could see. You've been on your own all night."

"Well, Bruce has been busy talking science." She shrugged and it irked you to see her try and defend his behaviour.

"You deserve better than Bruce." You huffed, both of you slightly shocked at your words, you hadn't expected yourself to be so forthright. Luckily she wasn't annoyed, rather amused with a smirk forming.

"I guess I do." She shrugged leaning closer to you, her leg brushing against yours at her proximity. "Who do you have in mind?" She asked, eyes gazing over the crowds as though looking for somebody to choose, teasingly.

"I could be a better boyfriend than him." You whispered, hearing a low groan at the back of her throat as she seemingly mulled over your statement.

"We shouldn't." She stood up and began walking to the doorway behind you. You followed her, of course, grabbing her wrist just as she stepped into the hallway causing her to whip round to face you. An unreadable expression, eyes darting over your face before she grabbed your face between her hands, tugging it to hers.

Her lips tasted faintly like whiskey, warm against yours as they moved together. She guided your bodies backwards to be out of sight of the party goers, her lips never left yours until she pushed your back against the corridor wall. Her kisses continued down to your jaw, sucking at the flesh of your neck whilst your hands roamed her waist, her body feeling perfect under your touch.

She nipped at your bottom lip, the gasp it elicited posing as ample opportunity for her tongue to slip into your mouth, swirling with yours as you kissed. Her hips pushed into yours as the kiss grew heavier trapping you between her body and the wall, not that you minded.

Her fingers gripped one of your hands that lay on her waist guiding it to the waistband of her trousers, pulling back with heavy breaths, eyes a darkened hue as she undid the button. Her eyes bore into yours as she inched your hand down, fingertips brushing against the hem of her underwear.

"Nat, here?" You breathed out, looking around the empty hallway, the noise of the party in just the next room filling the air.

"Mhm, make daddy feel good baby." She rasped, looking to you to make sure you were on board, the name she used only made the heat course further through you. She sighed into your mouth when your fingers slipped down further making contact with the wetness between her folds.

Your fingertips collected some of her arousal before rubbing over her clit, neither of you caring in that moment if somebody were to walk out and see, both you even going so far as to hope Bruce might wander out. You could only smirk at the thought whilst her tongue licked over a harsh bite to your collarbone, a way to muffle the moan at the back of her throat.

She squeezed a handful of your hair into her fist as your movements continued, pleasure building, hips rocking into yours slightly as she grew nearer to her release. You'd only ever imagined how she would sound coming undone by your hand and as cliche as it sounds, it was music to your ears. A deep groan with shuddered breaths against the shell of your ear, scalp being tugged with how her hand clenched down onto your hair and her body falling into yours.

"Such a good girl, hm?" She panted out, placing kisses along your throat before quickly pulling you along - you both wanted more.

In a haze you found yourself in Natasha's room, you knew that Bruce never comes in here so it was distinctly hers: delicate floral scent in the air, bed neatly made, a photo of you and her taped to her mirror.

She quickly rid you of your shirt, kissing the skin of your chest as she fiddled with the button of your trousers. "This okay, love?" She asked, only pulling them down your legs after receiving an eager nod on your part.

You fell with a quiet thud onto her bed, head resting on her pillows as she climbed on top of you slotting her lips with yours again. Your fingers fumbled with buttons of her shirt, blazer already discarded just inside the door, revelling in the sight of her flesh spilling out of the top of lacey black material. She shrugged the shirt off her body with a smirk looking down at you, throwing it aside before climbing off your body, chuckling slightly at the small whine you released at her absence.

"Wait a second, baby." She muttered as she rid herself of the rest of her clothes, confidence only adding to her allure as she walked away totally nude. "So impatient, huh?" She tutted with a smirk, shuffling in her wardrobe.

Your eyes widened with a quiet gasp as she smugly turned back with a red strap on in her grasp, stepping into it before sauntering back over to the edge of the bed.

"I've not been able to use this, don't you think that's so sad baby?" She pouted, holding your chin between her thumb and forefinger.

"Mhm." You nodded, matching the smirk that pulled her lips.

"You'll let me use it though, hm? Let me fuck you?"

"Yes, daddy." You breathed, and she was satisfied with your answer, climbing back on top of you and kissing your with fervour. You could feel the arousal pooling at the feeling of her hand pressing against your throat whilst the tip of her strap brushed over your clothed core, her teeth biting into your bottom lip before she pulled away.

Her fingers against your skin sent shivers through you as she pulled the underwear from your body, observing every inch of you as you lay vulnerably bare beneath her.

She eased the length into you, moving easily from the wetness between your folds. "So wet for me." She mused, eyes completely focused on the way her cock disappeared into you and the sigh you released at the slow action, adjusting to the size.

She soon increased her pace, thrusting into you rhythmically at the perfect angle that had your eyes rolling back. Her hands dug into your waist to keep her balance, teeth biting down on her lip as she watched your breasts lightly bounce with each thrust, your mouth parted slightly and breathing growing heavy.

"Fuck." She groaned, the strap positioned in a way that hit against her still sensitive clit. "I've always wondered what you'd look like under me like this. Panting, looking like a desperate whore for me." She leant down without letting her movements falter, biting down on your neck and you could feel her hot breath against you. "You like it when I do this?" She muttered as her hand wrapped around your neck, thumb pushing down to restrict your airways.

"Y-yes, fuck." You choked out, climax growing nearer.

"Daddy's little whore." She smiled from above you, her hand reached down to rub over your clit, shocks going through you as your orgasm rapidly approached and the way her hips began to falter showed her second was soon approaching too. "Cum for me, baby. Let me hear how you sound."

The way her finger circled your clit and her hips snapped into you had the pleasure washing all over you not long after, a loud moan tumbling from your lips as you body shook beneath her. The sight was enough for her to fall over the edge right with you, heaving breaths as she held her body up, hands planted either side of your head as you both came down.

"Shit." You sighed out, sweeping the hair that had fallen over your eyes and smiling into the kiss as Natasha pressed her lips to yours once more. She eased out of you leaving you empty and you felt your cheeks heat up at the sight of the wetness on the strap before she dropped it on the floor. Her kisses felt more perfect than you could have imagined, tongue swirling around yours as her hands squeezed your breasts.

"You need to clean up this mess you've made, dorogoy." Her voice rasped before she fell onto her back beside you, dragging you on top of her body by your hair. You crawled down until your face hovered above her slit, glistening with her slick, coating her upper thighs too.

Your tongue licked a stripe up to her clit, humming against her at the sweet taste dancing on your tongue, the vibrations making her hips buck upwards with a low moan. She was sensitive, the way her hand gripped your hair at just a small lick showed you that. You sucked on her throbbing bud, licking over it as her nails dug into your scalp.

"Such a good girl for me." She moaned out. "Mm, so perfect for me princess." Her free hand clawed into the sheets as she fast approached another orgasm, eyes scrunching closed with a grunt as it washed over her, flooding her senses.

She came into your mouth, tongue darting out to catch every last drop, lapping it up eagerly as she had told you to. Her grip on your hair loosened when her heart beat finally calmed down, wiping at the sweat that glistened on her forehead before pulling you back to her. She could taste herself on your lips, only urging her to continue even more.

"You are so good, Y/N/N." She smiled, cheeks blushed red still.

"Yeah?"

"Mhm, so good. I haven't had orgasms this good for six months." She sighed with a roll of her eyes, you grinned knowing that that's how long she'd been dating Bruce, a laugh falling from your lips before you cut yourself off. She laughed too before cupping your cheek with her hand, soft look in her eye as she smiled. "Let me make you feel that good too."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes. So sure, let daddy treat my princess how she deserves." She uttered as she flipped your bodies back over, pecking your lips and jaw. "I can't get enough of you, baby. I just wish I'd realised sooner."

A/N - i love that i implied that bruce wouldn't let nat peg him :)

dorogoy - sweetheart

Seera-Li Marvel Masterlist

╰(*´︶`*)╯♡

Natasha Romanoff

Show Mommy What You Got  NS*FW

Natasha your mommy, decides that you look stunning in lingerie she chose on a vacation in Amsterdam and decides to do something about it.

Warnings: Mommy Kink, WLW sex, implied age gap, reader has a pus*sy, reader wears a bra + panties, no pronouns are used for reader, edging, fingering, clitoral play, Natasha romanoff is referred to as Mommy multiple times, reader is called a sweet thing, Kotenok and sweet heart, author has no clue what Amsterdam is like

At Her Altar, As Her Worship Fluffy

Ever since your turning you have been succumbing to the cold. Your faithful mentor and vampiric 'mother,' Natasha would never allow it to happen.

Warnings: General blood themes because of vampires, Natasha gets bitten consentually on the breast by reader, reader drinks breast milk and blood, reader sucks on Natasha's breasts, no pronouns are used for reader, reader gets called little love

Speak up baby NS*FW

Mommy decides to test your limits. It will of course, be fun for you.

Or

Natasha fucks you until you cry.

Warnings: Heavy general NS*FW themes, presumed mutual consent, presumed safe word, mommy kink, use of a vibrator on reader, use of a strap on- on reader, use of bondage (ropes) on reader, reader gets breasts played with, overstimulation, reader gets manhandled by Natasha, reader cries from pleasure and overstim, mentioned edging, reader begs to stop, clitoral and gspot over stimulation, reader sucks on Natasha's breasts, multiple orgasms, reader gets called a sl*ut, sweet heart, baby and kotenok, Natasha gets called mommy once, no pronouns are used for reader, reader has a pus*sy and breasts

Naughty girls NS*FW

You and your mommy, Natasha, have some fun during movie time. Until you misbehave.

Mommy kink, man handling, se*x toy usage (dildo), implied age gap, reader gets penetrated, vaginal penetration, coc*k warming, grinding, thigh riding, sex with clothes on, WLW sex, Natasha gives reader neck hickies, Reader gets called puppy, baby, honey and little girl, reader comes without permission, implied mutual consent, degradation, squirting, light begging, implied punishment, reader misbehaves, implied rules

To be continued...

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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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

to play the fool pt 2

| natasha x fem!reader |

warnings: injuries, idiots, claustrophobia tw

a/n: I know I wrote this but DAMN just kiss already

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