Black Widow - Blog Posts
Introducing a new MCU fan to fanfic world
*smiles* Okay, So first we are going to start off with some wholesome spider-son and irondad. After that you can start on that platonic Stucky and ease into the romantic variation. After you’ve read a few Stucky fics, I suggest Stony. Then we have that one straight ship that can be shipped with literally anyone else, Clintasha. What? Oh yeah, just ignore Clint’s family. It rarely exists. So! Ready to start?
it just me or is that Scarlet Johansen making a surprise appearance in Agent Carter?
There’s a resounding crack. The deck breaks beneath them. There’s a split second of clarity, the eye of the metaphorical storm. Clint can see his own panic reflected in Natasha’s wide eyes.
He lunges for her, managing to grab hold of her forearm just as another tremendous wave breaks over the ship, breaks the ship. They slam into each other, Natasha taking the opportunity to slide her free arm around his waist, and just like that, they’re underwater.
She allows herself to envision a clean journey back. A miserable hike, nothing the Black Widow can’t handle, then debrief, and then collapsing on her couch and not leaving her apartment for two days. Recharge time. Every great spy needs it.
Sunburn was not something she had given any particular thought to.
Natasha’s certainly thinking about it now.
Natalia Alianovna Romanova
commissions are open / support me on kofi
quit being a nail in my coffin, i don’t need another one
are you all sick of this shade of orange-red yet
MCU, give me more Black Widow and snazzy undercover outfits! the haircut is totally stolen from Chris Samnee, who draws the most beautiful and badass Nat imo
The best example of the gulf between Nat and Steve that neither of them see is that Steve would absolutely not read Nat’s file that she shared with the world post-SHIELD, to prove that his friendship with her, and Nat would absolutely assume that Steve had read her file, to prove his friendship with her.
And both of them would assume that the other understood exactly the right choice and acted accordingly, and never even think to discuss it.
Because friendship.
shove it, sir
civil war mini comics: 1/?
✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:**:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧ ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:**:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧ ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:**:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧
та самая участь
au (or alternate multiverse? amu?) where every version of someone’s soul is connected and interlinked, so when natasha and gamora died for the soul stone, it killed every version that ever was, is, or will be of them
yelena probably saw natasha with the avengers all those years later and realized she’d never seen natasha truly happy like that as children
I don’t want your pity, I just want somebody near me
Natasha Romanoff x Reader
Words: 1k
Warnings: talks of depression/general sadness. Some swearing. Self-indulgence to the max.
A/N: This is my first fic ever so please go easy on me. Also I wrote this at 2am while listening to Mitski which is a warning all on its own.
Keep reading
to play the fool pt 3
| natasha x fem!reader | request by @strangegardentaco | part one, two
warnings: blood, injury, IDIOTS
a/n: final (?) part! hope you guys enjoy
You collapse through your window, a tangle of legs and arms, and sprawl across the carpet.
The ceiling is murky in the dim afternoon light. You can still smell smoke, woven into the fabric of your suit, the twists of your hair.
You don't know how long the two of you lie there, unmoving. Natasha is a dead weight across your bruised ribs. You can smell something else, too: blood in your nostrils, on your tongue.
The sun must go down at some point: it's as if you blink, and the darkness closes in. It wakes you up. When you can no longer see the outline of the couch in the dark, the tunnel-panic clamps hard down on your heart. You grip Natasha by the shoulders and push her with trembling arms until she rolls onto the carpet beside you, and you shove yourself upright, your breath hot against the inside of your mask. You pull it desperately off, fingers catching in your hair, and discard it. You tug at the laces on your boots by the light from the window, trying to calm your heart, to catch your breath. You can still feel the rock against your palms, the soil sneaking down your shirt.
The boots come off and you get to your feet, stumble your way to the light switch. Your pulse staggers on doggedly, faster than you can count. You flick the switch and the room floods with light. You sink against the off-white wall and press your face to the cool, lumpy paint. You don’t dare close your eyes.
Beyond the couch, Natasha is draped over the floor like a dead thing, red ponytail splayed across your carpet. You stay by the wall, your eyes on her, until your heart has slowed and your chest has loosened and your head is firmly on your shoulders.
You move across the room on shaking legs, using the furniture as crutches, towards her. You roll her onto her back, yank up her sleeve and search for a pulse: your fingers leave smears of dirt and blood across her pale wrist. You feel the beat, shallow and weak under your thumb. Good. Good.
Your brain won’t work, neurons firing sluggishly. You have to wake up. You have to assess the situation.
All you really want to do is collapse on the floor next to Natasha and sleep.
But you won’t. You tug your gloves off, wincing as they peel away from your ruined fingernails, and check Natasha’s airway. She’s breathing. You try to think.
You’ve done this before, a hundred times. You’ve stitched yourself up. You’ve dug bullets from skin, you’ve cleared grit from wounds, you’ve done CPR and cracked ice packs and set bones. You can do it.
You hesitate only once more, when your hands move to unzip Natasha’s suit. God, if she ever wakes up, she’s going to be so mad at you. But you take a look at her grey, peaceful face, and worry overtakes embarrassment. You pull the zip down: beneath, her undershirt is ripped and bloodied and dirty with sweat and soil. You peel the suit off her shoulders and down, scanning for wounds - a slice down her upper arm, a huge splay of bruises over her stomach, grazes on her elbows and knees and hips. Little nicks on her legs, seeping blood. Another larger knife wound stretches over her ribs when you roll her onto her side.
And that leg, the one that had been trapped under a rock when you’d first found her: it’s bruised and the knee is bent at an odd angle. Dislocated, perhaps.
She’s battered. You hate it, a deep well of anger that rises like a bucket drawing water the more you uncover. You hate that too, that you care so damn much. She doesn’t care about you. She barely tolerates you - she only ever talked to you to keep you out of trouble. What right do you have to care?
You eventually decide to move Natasha to the bathroom: that’s where your first aid kit is, and the light is bright in there and you have a multitude of fluffy bathmats that you can use to carpet the floor. You hook your hands under Natasha’s arms, brace your legs and pull. You drag her across the carpet, through the kitchen and into the bathroom. You lay her down halfway through the door, and drag the first aid kit and a few bathmats out of the cupboard, laying them haphazardly across the floor. Then you grab Natasha again and haul her in the rest of the way.
You collapse down beside her, your spine to the cold bathtub, knees up, and rest your head on the lip of the bath. You catch your breath. Natasha’s blood seeps into one of your bathmats and you groan, but make no move to shift her. Your energy is spent.
With tired fingers, you tug the first aid kit towards your feet. You unzip it, flip it open. Suture packs and bandages and single-use ice packs stare back at you. This is useless. You can barely lift your head.
But you manage it. It takes you hours. You clean Natasha’s wounds, slather her bruises in arnica, stitch her up, all the while keeping an eye on her sleeping face. She doesn’t so much as twitch, not even when your hand cramps in the middle of a loop through the knife wound on her ribs. Deep sleeper, you think, and you want to slap yourself for noticing anything about her. She’s not your friend.
So why is she unconscious on your bathroom floor? Why did you crawl through a hundred metres of rock to rescue her?
“Fuck you,” you say. Her body doesn’t reply. You don’t want to feel like this, panic sitting perpetually in your throat like a stone lodged there. You shouldn’t have gone. You should have let the Avengers fend for their damn selves, like Natasha was so adamant that they would. You rest your head against the lip of the bath again, and your eyes glaze over. You mustn’t sleep, though: sleep means dark.
The pain reaches you late. Something aside from the grazes and bruises and blood still sitting heavy in your nose. At first you think it’s a remnant of the knot in your throat, of the tide of adrenaline receding slowly and sadly and leaving you on the brink of useless, useless tears as you stare at Natasha’s stone-still face. But it’s not.
It becomes a burn, a sting in your side first, then a flare that becomes impossible to ignore. You unzip your jacket, letting gravity pull your heavy hand downwards.
You’re bleeding. You register this slowly, the soaked and half-dry patch of your dark top, the wetness uncomfortable on your hip. “Ow,” you say, to the empty room. You poke, and the pain intensifies, fades back to ground state. You hiss in through your teeth as you roll your shirt slowly up.
It’s a long gash down your side, the edges of the wound pink and raw like a burn, steadily seeping blood. The gun. The shot. The burst of energy from your eyes. The bullet must have grazed your side, deep. “Ow,” you say, and it drops from your lip as a whimper. With fresh blood on your fingers, you fumble for the first aid kit and drag it towards you, searching one-handed for gauze to soak up the blood. Your shirt keeps slipping down. Frustrated, you pull the shirt up and grab it with your teeth, then press the gauze hard to your side. It hurts, burns, and you grunt through your teeth, tongue against the roof of your mouth. Your eyes flicker sideways to check that Natasha is still sleeping.
The stitches are torturous, dipping in through your ragged skin and drawing the sides of the wound together as you pinch with one hand, your eyes watering and tears spilling onto your cheeks. Your stomach is a mess of blood and water that you’ve splashed on to clean yourself, your pants soaked with it. You swear into your top, damp with saliva. You feel filthy, your nails black with dirt, snot and blood welling in your nostrils. You finish the last knot and think desperately of a shower.
But you should wake Natasha, before she chokes on her own vomit in her sleep or something. You can’t leave her unconscious on your bathroom floor.
You strip your ruined shirt off and tie it around your face, trying to ignore the stink of blood in your nose. You don’t know why you bother to hide at this point, but something about the covering makes you feel safer, surer of yourself. You don’t bother with your hair.
You take Natasha by the shoulders and shake her, once, twice.
“Natasha,” you say, your voice slightly muffled by the shirt. “Natasha!” Louder. Nothing. You grab your phone from where you’ve discarded it on the edge of your bloodied sink and search for an alarm sound: the most annoying, repetitive ring on there. You press play. It rings. And rings.
Natasha’s eyebrows move, shift into a frown. Her eyes open into slits. You don’t turn the alarm off, not yet. The ringing becomes louder, more insistent, and she blinks twice, lips parting, tongue passing over them. Her eyes slide to you, a little unfocused.
“Asshole,” she says, her mouth barely moving.
“Huh?” you say, playing it up.
“Turn that the fuck off.”
“You’re welcome,” you reply sharply, and you cut the alarm off. Natasha says nothing for a few seconds. She licks her lips again, stares glassily up at the ceiling. You wait, ignoring your pounding, anxious, traitor heart.
“It’s bright,” she observes.
“Your knee is dislocated,” you say. “I would’ve put it back, but I didn’t think that would be a pleasant wake-up.” Her eyes shift back to you. You try to ignore them, how brilliantly green they are, how keen and observant even in their half-focused state. Impossible.
“Why are you still wearing that?” she asks. Her voice is rough. Your fingers touch the shirt over your face.
“Who was the kid?” you counter. Natasha sighs. She digs her elbows into the floor and shoves herself up into what looks like a painful sitting position. She notices the blood and water and stitches and bruises and perhaps the fact that she’s in her underwear.
“Oh,” she says. Her fingers drift across the line of stitches over her ribs. You might be imagining it, but you think you see her shudder.
“I have a paramedic certificate,” you say. “And like - a shit ton of experience. I go to a lot of protests as a medic.”
“You shouldn’t have done that while I was asleep,” she says.
“I don’t have any anaesthesia,” you reply, slightly irritated. A thank you would be nice. But Natasha doesn’t thank you. She rises fast, face clenched in pain, flips up your toilet lid and retches into it. Her spine curves, the vertebrae showing starkly under her pale skin. Muscles roll as she convulses again, but you don’t hear the splatter of vomit. She must be dry-heaving - by the look of the bruises on her stomach, that will hurt.
She stills eventually, panting into your toilet bowl. Her hair snakes down her back, the nape of her neck damp with sweat.
“Do you want some water?” you ask.
“No.”
“Okay.” You wipe your hands on your ruined bathmats. “Do you want a shower?”
“Leave me alone,” Natasha says. Her voice echoes in the toilet, but is somehow still incredibly small. You frown at her curved back, heat rushing to your face. How can she make you feel this stupid in your own home?
“Fine,” you say. The bathroom is far too small for two people. Too cramped, too bright, too hot. You get unsteadily to your feet and leave, shutting the door hard behind you. She slumps to the floor with a rustle, and you walk away before you can hear anymore.
You wash off in the sink, your ruined shirt discarded in the kitchen bin. The water lands cold on your feet and you don’t care, can’t bring yourself to care. The world is bright beyond your window, even this late at night, the glitter of street lamps and windows and billboards. Maybe even the orange glow of fire. This is where your effort to become a meaningful part of that world has landed you. Splashing yourself with cold water in the kitchen sink, banished from your own bathroom and bleeding like an idiot.
You turn the tap off and pat yourself dry with a tea towel that ends up in the bin as well, smeared with blood. You fetch a towel from your room, lay it over the couch and lower yourself gingerly onto it, rest your head back. The room is well lit, warm now. You won’t sleep. You want to, but you know it won’t come. You probably won’t sleep easy for the next week.
Inevitably, as you gaze out of the window from your seat, your thoughts return to the idiot woman hacking up blood and nothing in your bathroom. You can’t hear her, so she’s not showering, not throwing up. You have a sudden awful vision of her lying passed out on the blood-soaked bathmats, frothing red at the mouth, and you have to stop yourself from getting up to check on her.
You sit there as the sun comes up. Natasha doesn’t come out, even as the hours drip past, and eventually you make up your mind to talk to her. You pull your mask back on, grimacing at the dried blood and smell of sweat in it, and you walk to the bathroom door on unsteady legs.
“Natasha?” you say, tentatively. No answer.
Then, just as you’re about to call again; “Yeah,” she says, from within the bathroom. You hesitate, trawling for what to say next.
“You can have a shower if you want.”
“You can come in if you want,” she replies dryly. You take that as an invitation and open the door to find her sitting with her back to the wall, head tipped back. Her face is still ashen. You expect her to say something, an apology maybe, but instead she sits there with her damn wounded pride and stares you down.
“Nice mask,” she says. You seriously consider kicking her out at that moment, but the feeling fades just as quickly as it comes on. Because her eyes drop almost shamefully and her fists curl in her lap. It’s not an apology, not a thank you, nowhere near to anything you’d accept for either of those things, but for some fucking reason you can read those movements like words on a page and it softens your resolve to be harsh with her.
“Shower,” you say shortly. “You stink.”
“You stink,” she fires back at you. You turn and leave again before you can snap at her.
You hear the shower switch on as you’re eating an apple and glaring aimlessly through the kitchen window. Natasha doesn’t shower for very long. You’re only halfway through your apple when you hear the water shut off again. You stay where you are, hear her climb out of the bathtub, feet squeaking on the ceramic.
She calls your name. You take a large bite of the apple and toss it into the trash can. You take your time walking to the bathroom, and when you open the door she’s wrapped herself in the shower curtain and is scowling up at you from her seat on the edge of the bathtub.
“What?” you say, your voice faltering from the anger you’d meant to inject. Her eyes are large and her lashes are wet and her bare, pale shoulders are scattered with freckles and small wounds and you rip your eyes away from her.
“I didn’t want to use your towel,” she says. She shifts, and the curtain rustles around her.
You roll your eyes and turn to leave. You pull a towel from the hall cupboard and throw it through the door at her: she catches it before it hits her face, with a wince.
She clutches it to her chest and you raise your eyebrows at her.
“Anything else, your majesty?”
“Why are you so angry with me?” Natasha asks, and that heat, that hatred with yourself that you’ve lain your thoughts out before her, rises again from your stomach.
“You-” you say, but your throat is thick with emotion now and you know you can’t explain it.
Natasha tilts her head at you. “I didn’t ask you to do any of this,” she says.
“What?” you exclaim. “Are you serious?!”
“I told you to leave,” she fires back. “It’s not my fault you’ve got a hero complex like all the rest of them-”
“Hero complex?” you spit. “You’re the one who ran alone into an explosion to save a baby! Let me have this, you said that! Hero complex my fucking ass.” Natasha opens her mouth again and you step back and slam the door on her, your heart trembling in your chest with rage.
● ● ● ● ● ● ● ● ●
She doesn’t emerge from the bathroom after that until you swallow as much of your pride as you can and hand her sweats and a t-shirt without looking her in the eye. You feel like she’s trying to catch you off guard, constantly now, and you half expect her to drop her towel or something just to shock you, make fun of you. But she doesn’t. She takes the clothes and waits until you’ve left, and then she wanders out of the bathroom in her borrowed clothes, limping on her bad knee. You look over at her from the couch, where you’re spooning cereal into your mouth under your mask.
You frown. “Your knee,” you say before you can stop yourself. She looks surprised like she expects you to snap at her again.
“I put it back,” she replies, with a shrug. Like it’s nothing. You gape at her for a second, then pull yourself together when you realise she can’t see your expression.
Shower. Dress. You’re still practically half-naked and you’re cold now, and you suddenly don’t want to be the only one undressed. You set your cereal down and move past her to the bathroom.
“Ice in the freezer,” you say, and you shut the door behind you. You pull the mask off and wipe with relief at the condensation on your face.
The shower is glorious, warm, and the pressure harsh on your shoulders. It’s freezing at first, which makes you jump and curse - Natasha must have taken her shower cold. You spend as long as you dare under the spray, ever conscious of running up your water bill for no real reason. When you step out, you see that Natasha has left her towel folded on the window sill. Her ruined suit is nowhere to be seen until you pedal open the bin and you see the suit, the ruined bathmats and a length of bloodied bandage.
“Huh,” you say to yourself, quietly, without meaning to. You pull on a jumper that won’t rub your stitches and loose shorts, and you step out of the bathroom. The steam follows you out like a cloud. Natasha is slumped in your armchair with your frozen bag of peas on her knee, the early morning sunlight glowing across her face. Her eyes are closed.
You pull open your fridge and reach for a beer.
“I feel like it’s a bad idea to drink right now,” she says.
You look over. She still hasn’t opened her eyes. “Shut up,” you say. You flick the cap off on your counter and drink deeply.
Natasha shifts in her seat, to face you. That’s when you realise you forgot to put your mask back on. You freeze. Your stomach lurches.
Natasha stares at you for a second too long, her mouth moving like she’d been about to say something. Then her eyes flick away, almost guiltily. In the silence that follows, you both try hard not to acknowledge it. But your face feels cold and bare, under the stare that lingers even as Natasha sets her eyes firmly on the arm of the couch.
Your heart thunders like a drum.
“Thank you,” Natasha says, almost too quiet to hear.
“What?” you say, shock reflexes taking over even as the words register. Natasha looks at you again, eyes narrowed, like she thinks you’re messing with her. And sure. It would be easier to mess with her, draw it out of her again and again and revel in your victory but-
-you don’t want to. You don’t even know what she’s thanking you for: some idiot, pretentious part of you could imagine she’s thanking you for the honour of seeing your face - as if she ever would. Maybe the stitches, the clothes, the shower, maybe she’s thanking you for dragging her out of that hot, damp hell-hole on trembling legs.
“You’re welcome,” you say, and you take a long sip so you don’t have to see her face change.
More silence, thick as a wall between the two of you. You don’t want to think of her shaking and trembling against you, how determined you’d felt right then in the dark, but the images come anyway.
“What happened to you?” she asks, and she nods at your side, where the deep graze and the stitches are. You look down. You remember all the questions you have for her, that’s she’s so adamant not to answer.
“Bullet,” you say. “Grazed me. Some idiot in a hood.”
“You don’t know who it was?”
“I was a little too preoccupied to ID them,” you reply, a bite in your voice. You’re not angry. You’re just thinking real hard about how heavy Natasha had felt against you. Like a corpse. You tilt your head at her. “They wanted to know where that baby was. You feel like filling me in?”
Her face closes off. “No,” she says.
“Right. So I got shot for nothing.”
“Did you blast them?” Natasha asks, ignoring your comment.
“They’re dead,” you reply, dully. You look at the floor. She’s fallen silent. “I didn’t mean to, I just-”
“You don’t have to explain yourself to me.”
You can’t look at her. “Hawkeye will have found them by now.” She rustles the bag of peas, rearranges them. “What did they want with the kid, Natasha?” Now that she can hear you, is awake and looking you right in the eye, or attempting to, her name feels naked coming from your mouth. Raw and too personal.
“Doesn’t concern you,” she says.
“It does,” you say. You wait for anger, but your body’s too tired for it. “Please just tell me what’s going on.”
She shifts again, and pain materialises on her face with the movement, for just a second. You rest a hand on the countertop and wait it out.
“Fine,” she says eventually. “Sit down. You’re dead on your feet.” That irks you, for a reason you can’t decode.
“I’m fine.”
“Sit down.”
“Jesus Christ.” You move to the couch and throw yourself down, glaring at her. “Happy?”
“Ecstatic,” she says dryly. She molds the bag of peas to her knee and begins to explain.
● ● ● ● ● ● ● ● ●
She falls asleep on the armchair to let you digest what the hell you’ve just heard, and the sun comes up through the window like a torchbeam. You call into work at eight, holding your nose closed, and tell your manager you have a shitty cold. He answers with a grunt and hangs up. Easy enough. You toss the phone onto the cushions beside you.
The silence coating your apartment seems to buffer the noise of the outside world, of car horns and voices. Natasha sleeps fitfully, half-woken every few minutes by the sunlight on her face, but you’re too exhausted to get up and close the curtains. You finish your bottle and set it down on the coffee table, where it sweats condensation.
You don’t know when you fall asleep, but you wake with your heart in your mouth and your hands fisted in the couch cushions. You suck in breaths through trembling jaws. Visions of tight tunnels and blood under your nails and Natasha’s ashen face fade as you blink them away.
The armchair is empty when you come to your senses. Something overcomes you: a wave of disappointment maybe, or regret - and then you hear the toilet flush and you feel monumentally stupid. You’d missed her for a second there. What right did you have to miss her? Why should she make you feel that way?
Natasha emerges from the bathroom, drying her hands. “It’s midday,” she tells you, and your heart lurches in shock. “You don’t sleep very well.” She leans a hip on the kitchen counter and pushes a hand through her hair, observing you through quarter-closed eyes.
“Neither do you,” you say. Her eyes narrow. “Can you get me a drink?”
She turns away, turns on the sink faucet and fills a glass with water. She rounds the edge of the counter and hands it to you.
“You know what I meant,” you say, but you take it anyway.
“You’ll get a beer belly,” she says, her voice flat. She must be tired if she’s too exhausted to tease you properly. You pull your sweatshirt up and poke at the muscle on your stomach.
“I think I’m okay,” you say. You raise your head to take a sip of water and Natasha’s eyes move from your stomach to your face. She looks awkward standing there: and that’s not a word you’d ever think to use to describe Black Widow. But she doesn’t look like Black Widow right now - she looks like a woman barely scraping five foot six in a t-shirt way too big for her, and the sun is turning her hair copper-gold through the window. She looks normal.
“Stop staring at me,” she says.
“You first.”
She breaks the eye contact.
“What are-” you don’t know what you intended to ask. You stare down at your water and collect your thoughts. “Do they know where you are?” you say eventually.
She raises one eyebrow at you. Your heart does awful, traitorous things in your chest and you hold her gaze for as long as you can. “You mean the Avengers? I don’t let them track me.”
“Okay,” you say. “You know, you can sit down if you want.” Your stomach growls. The corner of her mouth twitches up. “I’m hungry,” you say. “Sue me.”
“So eat.”
“Too tired.”
“God, you are pathetic.”
That should piss you off. It doesn’t. You give her a lazy grin and secretly wonder to yourself how the hell all this happened to you.
Natasha smooths down a loose thread on the seam of her (your) sweatpants. They’re rolled up twice at the waist. “Thank you,” she says. “For coming back for me.”
“Choose a better way to die next time,” you say, instead of something nice or gracious or meaningful.
Natasha sighs. “I don’t know why I bother with you,” she says, sinking onto the arm of the couch, above you.
“I’m irresistible.”
“You’re an idiot.”
You think about calling for pizza, a half-smile on your face. You wipe it off quickly, but not before she sees.
“I wouldn’t have left you there,” you say. Her eyes drift away. Makes you think about who else left her behind before. You don’t think promises mean much to her: they’re only words. Like threats. Blackmail. You don’t think words get under her skin as much as they do yours. “Swear.”
“I know.” She looks down at her hands. “I tried to stay awake. I thought you weren’t coming, in the end.”
You have this stupid, terrible urge to reach out and take her by the hand and tell her - what? What would you tell her that would mean anything?
It doesn’t subside. The moment passes. You slump into the couch.
“You know, you didn’t have to hide your face,” Natasha says. “When we got back.” She’s stumbling over words.
“Yeah, you already knew what I looked like,” you reply. You shrug. “It just felt better, having it on.”
“I didn’t know what you looked like. You know, you’re not too bad at the whole secret identity thing.”
You frown. “Then how did you find me the first time?”
“I followed you,” Natasha says casually. “You were bleeding everywhere. You weren’t moving very fast. I guessed which apartment was yours.”
“You guessed?” you echo. You imagine Natasha turning up in Nadia Henstridge’s apartment next door: the woman is verging on ninety - seeing Natasha in her boots and leather jacket sitting in the dark would probably send her headfirst into a heart attack.
Natasha grins. “I’m a very good guesser.”
“Sure,” you say. More silence: you hate the silence. You don’t want to hear your own heartbeat, or Natasha’s breathing. “The mask made me feel safer,” you say. I didn’t want you to be disappointed, you don’t say.
Natasha looks down at you. She reaches out and touches your cheek, softly with the pads of her fingers. You stare at her, your heart in your ears, drowning out everything. “You look better without it,” she says.
You want to kiss her. You realise that, what that stupid, burning heat in your chest is. Once you’ve found that urge, you can’t stop thinking about it, even as she withdraws her hand and looks away.
Do something, you scream at yourself. All this inward thinking is driving you insane. Say something.
You reach for her hand, and you intend to tug her round to look at you, but you pull too hard and she overbalances, sliding off the arm of the couch and onto the seat beside you with a surprised yelp.
“What the hell?” Natasha exclaims. Her bright green eyes are narrowed, cheeks flushed - God, she looks incredible.
“Um,” you say. You can’t do it. You can’t do it.
“Um,” Natasha says, mocking you, and she slides a hand into your hair and pulls you in to kiss her.
It’s easier than you’d thought it would be. Her face fits right to yours. Her lips are warm. You can feel where it’s split, taste the blood. You kiss her back, one hand wrapped around hers, one settled on her knee. Your chest tightens, loosens, excitement firing like sparks in your brain.
She pulls away from you. You take a second to open your eyes.
“Idiot,” she says. You frown at her. “I’m gonna kiss you again,” she says. You make an agreeable noise and she pulls you in, hand on the back of your neck. She steals your breath. She kisses your bottom lip, the corner of your mouth, and your fist curls in the fabric of your sweatpants.
The two of you surface, still centimetres apart, and you suck in a breath. “Thank you for coming back for me,” she says, against your mouth. Her hand loosens in yours.
“Always,” you say.
“You have really nice abs.”
You laugh, a crazed little giggle. She grins at you. You kiss her again, mouths half-open, smiles half-formed.
The next time you pull apart, she runs her thumb down the column of your throat.
“I’m still hungry,” you say, to distract yourself from the feel of her skin on yours.
“I’ll buy you pizza,” Natasha says.
“To thank me for saving your life.”
“No, this is to thank you for saving my life.” She tilts her head sideways and kisses your neck, and a gasp of surprise falls from your open mouth. She laughs, sending vibrations through your skin, into your bones.
● ● ● ● ● ● ● ● ●
She orders pepperoni. You accuse her of playing it safe and she swats you with a pillow, and the two of you eat out on the fire escape and watch the day roll past. You rest your head on her shoulder.
“This is fucking good,” Natasha mumbles around a mouthful. She wipes her fingers on the pizza box and reaches for another slice. She crams half of it into her mouth at once.
“You eat a lot for such a small person,” you observe. Natasha throws you a playful look of disgust.
“You’re like, an inch taller than me.”
“An inch can make all the difference,” you joke. She slaps your shoulder halfheartedly. A truck horn goes off in the distance. There are three wisps of cloud in the sky, and the metal of the fire escape is warm beneath you. Natasha’s clean hand winds its way into yours.
“I like you a lot,” she admits, quiet. Your heart swells instantly.
“I like you too,” you say. You squeeze her hand. Silence, once again. You know what you’re both thinking. Natasha words it first.
“They’ll be looking for me,” she says.
“I know. You should go.”
She sighs, and her breath ruffles your hair. “I will. I don’t want them coming after you.”
“I thought you said you don’t let them track you,” you say. A little, helpless worm of fear squirms into your words. You try to squash it.
“Hawkeye can find me,” Natasha says. “If he tries really hard.” She snorts to herself.
“Where will you go?” you ask. “I’ll give you some shoes.”
“Manhattan,” Natasha says, almost dismally. “I’ll come back, though.” She looks at you. She presses her face to your hair. “Promise.” You smile at the sun, eyes half-shut. You hope she catches it.
● ● ● ● ● ● ● ● ●
You lend her sneakers and help her into a coat and you swallow jealousy when you open the door for her. They have her all the time, see her smile and hear her talk: why don’t you get a little more time?
You kiss her hard, so she’ll remember, so she will come back, even though you know she will. Her hands curl into your shirt, and she grins against your mouth. When you separate, she licks her lips.
“I wanted a good one,” you say. She tugs on a lock of your hair.
“I’ll come back for you,” she says, in earnest.
“I believe you.”
And you watch her walk away, until she’s all the way out of sight down the corridor.
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
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
Keep reading
OPF request, natasha braiding R's hair after a shower together with some discussion about their past during the braiding? Also some of the head lean backward, pulling on braid for a kiss please :) If you'd like (I would also love it) the showering scene with them both being dumb and nearly getting soap in their eyes or something lmao
yesssssss, this is beautiful!
| natasha x fem!reader | only pretty faces |
warnings: mentions of death
You hear Natalia switch the shower on, the water thundering through the pipes, and you slip out of bed and pad down the corridor to the bathroom. Still no lock on the door: you push it open with your fingertips and inhale the steam that billows out. You step in and shut the door with a click behind you: Natalia’s shadow twists in the shower.
“Hey,” she says, from behind the half-drawn shower curtain. “You scared me.”
You pull your clothes off, let them crumple in a pile next to hers, and tie your hair back.
“I’m not scary,” you say. You lift a leg over the lip of the bath and step into the spray: it’s hot and forceful. Natalia reaches for you, grabs your elbows and pulls you closer. She kisses you, her face warm and wet. Her hair is soaked down, soap bubbles drifting off her shoulders - you reach out and smooth them away with your palm.
“No,” she says. She runs her fingers over your eyebrows, dripping water into your eyes. “You’re not. You’re cute.”
You pull an awful face at her, but you don’t draw away. Eventually, she smiles at you, kisses you again with that smile still on her face.
“Want me to wash your hair?” she asks, palms flat against your sternum.
“Yes,” you say. You push your forehead against the strong bridge of her nose. She presses her lips to the space between your eyebrows. “Let me sit down. It’s early.” She laughs.
“Okay.” She presses lightly on your shoulders and you go willingly, sinking to the floor of the bathtub. You trace her thighs with your fingers as you drop, and then you twist so your back is to her, your knees up to your chest. The spray of water is rapidly wetting your hair. Natalia tugs it gently out of its hair tie and digs her fingers into it, sorting through the snarls and knots. Then she sits behind you, lays her legs out alongside yours, and starts the wash.
Her hands are strong and steady, lulling you back into a steady doze. You lay against her chest, allowing her to enclose you, less like a cage and more like a shield against the wide white wall behind the two of you.
Each cycle of the wash is gentle and thorough. You must sit there for at least an hour, but she doesn’t complain of wasting the day or sitting in discomfort in half an inch of warm water. This intimacy is strange, close and naked but not sexual, easy in a way that makes you want to sink into her, crack her open and climb inside. You grip her legs to ground yourself from those images.
Natalia’s hands paused in your hair. “You good?” she asks. The spray beats down on your shoulders
“Good,” you say. You squeeze her knees playfully and in retaliation, she smears bubbles over your cheeks.
“Idiot,” she says, affectionately. You lay your head back on her shoulder and she grins down at you.
“You’re dripping soap in my eye,” you say, blinking rapidly. Your eye begins to burn.
“Oh, God,” Natalia says, sticking her hands into the shower stream quickly to rinse them off. “Sorry, sorry-” She cups her palms and splashes water over your face, too much, and it goes spilling into your mouth and up your nostrils. You splutter, scrambling up into a sitting position and scrubbing at your face. Behind you, Natalia begins to giggle in between her apologies. You twist and spit a stream of water in her face.
When the two of you step out, washed and scrubbed pink and breathing hard from your little water fight, Natalia grabs her towel. You tug it out of her hands. She raises her eyebrows at you quizzically.
The words almost stick in your throat. “Let me,” you say. Natalia hesitates - hesitates like she never does - and you grip the towel, so fearful of her withdrawal.
“Okay,” she says. You nod.
You dry her, feet first, then shins and strong calves and thighs, and as you progress, she watches you carefully. Observes you like she’s learning. You dry her stomach, her ribs, her spine, pausing to touch the rise of muscle beneath her skin. You keep your touch deliberately gentle. Her shoulders lose their tension when you wipe the water from her collarbones.
“Done,” you say, and you fold the towel over the rail and step away. She’s watching you still, hands in fists by her side. She seems to shiver, and you crouch to pick up her fresh clothes and offer them to her. She takes them, but doesn’t put them on, rather holds them out in front of her as if she’s afraid they contain a spider or a venomous snake. “Nata,” you say. Her eyes are wet. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing’s wrong,” she says faintly. “I-” she cuts off her words and stares down quickly at her feet. “Nothing’s wrong. That was sweet. That’s all.”
Those words break your odd little trance, shrugging off the moment like a gossamer layer. You grab your t-shirt and pull it on over your head, your hair dampening the collar.
“Do you want cereal?” you ask, moving past her out of the bathroom door.
It seems an age before she answers. “Yes,” she replies, her voice soft, frail like an icicle.
● ● ● ● ● ● ● ● ●
You fix her cereal for her and by the time she’s dressed and wandered through the door of the kitchen, your hair has dried in tangles down your back. She surveys it instead of your face.
“Do you want me to braid it?” she asks, without making eye contact. You shove her bowl towards her and she sinks into a chair, receiving it with both hands. “You remember? We used to braid-”
“I remember,” you say. “I remember most of it.” That’s not at all true. You remember gentle fingers in your hair, your own hands fumbling through soft red and black and blonde locks. You also remember the snap of a neck in your hands, the dead stare of a little girl with her hair still in braids, fresh from the night before. And you remember pain and pain and pain.
Natalia lifts her spoon to her mouth.
You chew meditatively on your toast. You want her legs around your hips again, your head on her shoulder. You want to lie against her, within her, forever. “I’d like that,” you say.
She smiles at you, relief dawning on her face.
She sits you down on the floor in the living room and switches the TV on. The punch bag is laid underneath the window like a sedan. Then she sits behind you, knees around your shoulders with a comb and a hairbrush and bends your hair to her will.
Natalia is gentle with you: always gentle. She pulls knots apart with her fingers, brushes your temple with her knuckles.
“I remember this,” you tell her, and her hands still in the half-done braid. The TV twitters on. “This was one of the good memories.”
“One of the only ones,” she says softly. She carries on, twists and turns, locking your hair into itself. “You really remember this?”
“Only the concept,” you say. That at least is true: the braids are your memory, not the hands that made them, not the faces they framed.
“I braided your hair,” Natalia says, after a long pause. Far too casual. “You wouldn’t let anyone else touch it. Except for Kira.”
“Except for Kira,” you echo. You don’t remember Kira. You don’t want to ask: some sickening part of you imagines broken bones and blood in the snow. Natalia finishes the plait and gathers up the rest of your hair.
She pauses.
She tugs lightly on your hair and you tip your head back obediently, until your crown is in her lap and she’s staring down at you. Your neck stretches and strains.
Natalia leans down and kisses you, a touch more like a steal. You reach as far as you can to kiss her again, but she withdraws and pushes your head back up.
Her fingers card gently through your remaining hair, gathering three strands. “You don’t have to remember if you don’t want to,” she says quietly. “God knows I’d rather be ignorant.”
“I’m not ignorant,” you reply. You watch the TV move and flicker with dazed eyes. “I remember the pain. I remember that I don’t want to go back. Anymore.” You’ve dragged yourself from the mud: no, she did. She rescued you.
“I know,” Natalia says. She strokes your cheek with her thumb and you lean into her touch. “I’m grateful for you.”
requests | masterlist
taglist: @when-wolves-howl @fayhar @maggieromanov @transbi-spidey @romanoffscottage @blackxwidowsxwife @lizlil @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
notes: listen guys, I am so unmotivated right now. I’m so close to finishing TPTF and I’m so frustrated about this but here’s a little thing to keep you hooked. (also I linked my ko-fi in my bio if you felt like giving me money UNRELATED to fic writing because I am NOT MAKING MONEY OFF this, okay marvel?)
a late spring masterlist
How can knowing someone be so destructive yet so vehement at the same time? You and Natasha know it far too well in the journey of your relationship
WARNINGS: bestfriend’s mom!nat x younger!reader, unspecified age gap relationship, eventual smut, established relationships, and angst!
First Love / A Late Spring
Naked Truths (COMING SOON!)
a late spring
how can knowing someone be so destructive yet so vehement at the same time? natasha knows it too much when you and her share a moment of vulnerability in the wake of your affair
warnings: bestfriend’s mom!natasha x younger!reader (age is not specified but 18+), age gap, established relationship, and no smut yet
“Bella?”
Your voice was meek and was barely a whisper but within the silence of the room, it was loud enough for the redhead to whip her head back from where she was hanging out from the window.
She looks at you wide eyed, almost perplexed but certainly guilty that you caught her sneaking out from a sleepover that she was hosting.
“Where are you going at this hour?” You didn’t check the time but you knew that it was late. You had slept way past into the night to know it.
Her eyes travelled from you to the phone she was holding. It didn’t dawn on you that she was most likely sneaking out to meet some boy, one certain blonde that was none other than Steve Roger’s son.
Almost sheepishly, she turned to you apologetically.
“Grant asked to meet up,” she tells you. “I’m gonna be out for a while. Don’t stay up for me.” She turns to leave without letting you speak but then turns right away as if she’s forgotten one last note. “Also, don’t tell my mom, yeah? You scratch my back and I scratch yours?”
She’s gone within a blink of an eye and you’re there left to wallow on her carpeted floor.
It’s only when you peel yourself from the ground and stretch that you realize it’s 6 in the morning. You’ve barely gotten some sleep and despite it being the weekend, you still feel like you need some sort of long awaited beauty sleep to make up for the long week you’ve had.
But as hard as you try, sleep doesn’t come easy for someone like you and as you pad your way out of Bella’s room you decide that a small meal will suffice.
You’ve spent enough time in the Romanoff household to know that Bella’s mom always keeps the kitchen stocked. No matter the time of the day.
As you arrive downstairs, you're met with the sight of the older redhead on the tip of her toes as she reaches for something above the fridge — inevitably raising the shorts she was sporting and flashing you a glimpse of her…
“Well, you’re up early,” her voice forces you back to the land of the living and for a moment, you forget that it’s merely you and her. “Can’t sleep?”
You smile lazily and sit across her from the kitchen island. “Something like that, yeah.”
She watches you with a smile, her hands busy as she slices kale and cucumbers for her morning smoothie.
But the smile turns into what almost looks like a frown, reading you and your silence and it throws you off.
“Is it Bella?” She asks. “She sneak out again?”
You stay silent; scratching Bella’s back. But the redhead has enough experience on her belt to read you through and through.
“It’s alright,” she tells you. “She doesn’t know it but I have cameras around. I see her running back home with Roger’s son ‘round seven in the morning.”
You play with the string of your shorts. “And you’re not worried?”
She shrugs. “It’s Grant,” she tells you like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.
You haven’t been friends with the Rogers for long but the Romanoffs have. You have no doubt for the trust that Natasha has for Steve. They’ve been friends far longer than you’ve been alive and that alone makes you nod to her one word answer.
“The question is,” she starts. Her eyes never leave the cutting board and neither does the cutting. “Why do you put up with Bella? Not that I don’t appreciate you keeping my daughter in place but you know?”
You nod as if you understand.
You’ve always liked Bella. She had been your very first friend the moment your family moved here a few years ago and while you had the biggest crush on her for a while, it dissipated into nothing more than an infatuation that you got over.
But as time grew, so did your interests.
Much to her mother’s playful demise, Bella was straight as she can be. The boys she hung out with, the ones she dated, all were eccentric, different in their own ways but same throughout the end.
You didn’t mind Bella having fun, it just meant more time for you to spend with her mother on days like these where you and the redhead sought out each other’s presence
So you shrug at the question. Having absolutely no true answer because it’s just the way it is.
Bella goes out and you go down to her kitchen.
You sit there across from her with a soft smile, eyes slightly swollen from sleep but nevertheless still wide awake at the sight of the older woman in front of you.
Though Natasha can read you and cocks her head from where she stands. The cutting stops for the first time and she frowns slightly.
“You’re so tired,” she observes.
You shake your head in denial. “I’m alright.”
“Alright?” She repeats, unconvinced as she cocks a brow. “I haven’t seen you this tired since the last time we fucked, sweetheart.”
Your skin blooms with heat at the word fuck. Your minds wonders how someone so sensual, so put together, have so much vigour in saying the word fuck.
It makes you duck your head in embarrassment at the reminder of your affair with the woman. It hadn’t been the first time and it certainly won’t be the last.
Natasha has skills and as much as you hated to admit it, you were addicted to her. To her touch, to her taste, and everything in between that she could do to you.
She was relentless and endless at the same time.
She laughs at your reaction. “What? I’m just saying.”
You shake your head but don’t respond. Your throat feels too tight to speak and your skin too warm to move. The effect that she has on you has always left you in shambles, especially knowing that you’d be leaving her in a few months for school.
It hurts more to admit it but even Natasha knows that this timid affair has an expiration date. She just has a better composure than you do. After all with her experience, you’re sure you’re just another one of the girls she’s had in her life.
Your heart squeezes at the thought but you force the fear down and remind yourself two months is still a long time.
However you must’ve pinched your brows or pursed your lip because when you look up and find Natasha staring at you, she’s got a slight twitch of a frown to her lips.
“You okay?”
You shrug, unable to tear your face away from her look. Neither can she but her gaze grows and there's almost an understanding of what she’s asking.
She voices it regardless, communicating to understand what’s there between the two of you is what you want.
“C’mere,” she asks of you. Your body moves on its own and with a blink of an eye, you’re met with the sight of the older woman over you.
Natasha is a good four inch taller than you and the sight of her stature towering over you makes you feel so small and weak that it reaches your stomach.
You wiggle your toes in effort to release the tension that you feel but Natasha sees through it and dances her knuckles against your cheek.
It’s soft and gentle and affirming. And it makes your body melt against her own, with your head in the crook of her neck and shoulder and arms slipping around her toned body.
You feel every muscle contract beneath her shirt and under your pyjamas. Some other time where you weren’t so tired you would’ve felt warm and all of the other emotions but right now, all you feel is her and how soft she feels against you.
She smells good too. Almost like a sweet musky scent that’s just so Natasha and it just makes sense.
She doesn’t ask if you’re okay because she knows you all too well. There’s no awkward silence, no awkward small talk between moments, it’s only her.
But within a few inking seconds, you tell her something that’s been bothering you weeks into the start of your affair.
“I don’t want to leave,” you admit. It’s the first time you’ve expressed the imminent future for the two of you; you’re moving for school, Yale’s not far but it’s not any closer to where Natasha is either.
Conflict had risen inside of you when you had started your affair with the woman just as the same time you had gotten your acceptance letter to Yale.
You had worked your ass off to get into Yale but knowing that you had her, someone that you felt like had understood you all too well, leaving made it all much harder.
“I know,” she tells you, not an ounce of effort in forcing you to stay because she knows. Natasha is a mom, one to your closest friends and she knows that despite whatever happened between the two of you, this affair is not worth declining a prestigious educational opportunity.
But instead Natasha offers some insight. A slight glimpse of that hope she has in her because however much she hates to admit that she’s having a relationship with someone younger , she feels much more solemn in knowing that a joy in her life is departing.
“But we’ll be okay,” she says. “Visit every reading week or whatever holiday you’ve got, yeah?”
You nod to her suggestion and she lifts your face from her chest to face her. She’s got a pinch to her brow that makes her look tense but you know she’s anything from that.
“Reading week, Christmas, Thanksgiving, Easter. Whatever holiday, okay?”
“Okay.”
“Yeah?”
You smile at her softly.
Natasha smiles back.
You think for a moment that she might’ve assumed that you were going to deny her. But you were going to do anything but that. As much as your relationship with her is odd, she was everything to you and you didn’t know what you would do.
You melt at the sight and let her press a whisper of a kiss against your lips and then to the tip of your nose. You smell the hint of mint on her tongue and you sigh against the gesture.
You part your mouth to speak but you’re cut off when you hear the door upstairs mix amongst the steps that echo down the stairs.
Bella’s back and she must’ve assumed that you were already awake and down with her mother.
After all she knew of Natasha’s schedule just as you knew hers.
You pull away within hearing the steps and return back to your seat as if nothing’s amiss. When Bella reaches where you sit across from her mother, you return a lazy smile, feigning sleep.
“Morning!” She beams. She’s too perky for someone who’s just ‘woken’ up at 7:30 in the morning.
However her mother is not as dumb as she would’ve thought. Natasha only smiles. Just as she told you, she didn’t mind and when she spares a glance at you, she tells you just the same.
It’ll all be alright.
Be Kind
Natasha Romanoff x Reader
Word Count: 1K Words
A/N: Smut. You're naked in bed with your girlfriend Natasha.
Natasha didn’t have to tell you about her long day. You already knew. You kissed her shoulders as she walked through the door. Her arm wrapped around you easily, filled with affection and relief at the sight of you.
It was late evening, you’d both eaten already. It seemed natural to lie in bed together. Sleep wasn’t coming. You watched the lingering stress in her body.
You watched television for a little bit. Letting her hold you, letting the warmth of her press up behind you. Being here reassured her. You knew that. Still, you wished you could do more.
You told her so.
You felt Natasha’s smile as she kissed your shoulder.
‘You are beautiful.’ She told you. ‘I just want you here.’
‘I would carve these thoughts into your skin if I could.’ She added lightly, teasing you with the slight scrape of her teeth.
You turned in her arms readily.
You let your finger follow the weighted curve of her breast.
You smiled as you kissed over her nipple lightly.
‘Maybe I will too.’ You pretended to consider. Letting your teeth scrape the sensitive area.
Natasha’s breath caught.
‘No.’ She decided for you, carding her own fingers through your hair. ‘Be kind.’
‘Okay.’ You mumbled obediently enough, taking her nipple between your lips and sucking slowly.
Goosebumps ran flush across her skin. You touched them with a heady mix of awe and curiosity at your effect. Natasha sighed, her voice keening at the slow pressure of your palm on her breast.
You sucked lightly again. You felt her hip buck into your abdomen. You turned her on her back, smoothing her hair away from her face. She watched you with the slight uncertainty of anticipation. Attraction rushed through you.
You let your cheek fall against her tight nipple. You smiled at the feel of it pressing into you too.
You turned your attention to her other breast. Watching the same goosebumps coat her skin as you rubbed her other nipple between your thumb and forefinger.
Natasha let out an incoherent sound under her breath. You glanced up to see her bite her lip.
You frowned automatically, tugging her lower lip free with the pad of your thumb.
You crawled forward over her front and kissed her slowly.
Kissing Natasha felt like you were falling. You loved it. Maybe it was because your eyes were closed. You felt alone and safe. You could taste her, and feel her chest move beneath you. You could hear the hums of pleasure she made at the taste of your tongue.
Her fingers slipped between your legs. Her hand slid against your vagina roughly. You jolted in sudden pleasure. Your own taut nipples brushed against hers.
Natasha swore at the sensation. Her breathing was erratic. You watched her face, her eyes raised up to the ceiling. The pink flush on her cheeks.
You slid back down her front. You sucked at each nipple before letting your thumb pads take up a steady rhythm of tugging and teasing.
You slid lower.
Natasha said your name. Low and soft and wondrous. Her body curved as she sat upright with you between her thighs. Her hands gripped your shoulders tightly then. You felt the strength she never showed, slowly coming free at her fingertips. You knew there’d be bruises on your skin in the morning.
You ran your tongue from her belly button down her left thigh.
Natasha whined as your lips brushed past her vagina.
The sound curled like heat between your legs.
You sucked at the skin of her upper thigh. There was a small scar here. Tiny, faded and secret to the world.
You kissed the mended skin reverently. You could smell her wetness this close. It caught in your throat, like something extravagant you wanted more of.
You moved your tongue closer to her vagina and Natasha sighed in relief. Her fingers slid expectantly into your hair, ready to hold your mouth where she wanted it.
You teased her more. You couldn’t help it. Every panting breath of her anticipation made you wet between the legs too.
You licked lightly along her labia. Natasha gave a small cry. You lapped at the soaked wetness she couldn’t help. You savoured the taste of her again in your mouth.
Natasha fidgeted with desperation. You felt her thighs twitch as she barely resisted holding your head tight between them. You smiled at your own effect.
Natasha said your name again, this time she was pleading.
You ran your tongue along her labia one more time, resting with the slightest pressure at her clit.
‘Be kind.’ Natasha moaned suddenly, and the desperate order made you smile wider. You moved your hands to slide up and down her thighs.
With sudden intent, you slid your tongue between her folds and caught the edge of her clit.
Natasha held your hair tighter than ever. You could feel the muscles in her thighs twitching uncontrollably now.
‘Be kind.’ She whispered breathlessly, obviously sensing she’d found the magic words.
You obliged, again gliding your tongue lightly over her clit.
Natasha let out a barely muffled scream.
‘Be kinder.’ She pleaded tensely.
You pressed your tongue harder against her clit, swirling slow circles against it. Natasha’s ragged breathing pierced the room, stuttering along with your vacillating touch.
Every part of her tightened in anticipation. You felt the nearness of her orgasm and licked faster.
Natasha mumbled incoherently. You dipped your tongue inside of her and dragged it out slowly.
Natasha screamed your name.
Her legs tightened immediately around you. She fisted your hair suddenly as her stomach coiled and uncoiled.
You tasted the final rush of wetness and lapped at it eagerly. You stayed gentle, Natasha’s soft panting telling you how sensitive she was to any more touch.
As the orgasm slipped away, Natasha lay back against the bed. You crawled forward again, missing the feeling of being flush against her.
Her eyes were closed. All subtle signs of stress were gone from her face. You revelled in the moment. Her lips were parted. You licked your own before you kissed her.
Natasha gave a lazy grin as she looked up at you. She reached up to touch your cheek with her thumb.
Love spiralled up inside your chest.
You could hear the affection and relief in her voice.
‘You were kind.’ She praised you gently.
Tagging:
@whofan88 @lostandsearching @causeitswhatjesuswouldfreakingdo @xxromanoffxx @b-5by5 @peggycarter-steverogers @iblameitonclint @natasha-danvers @reminiscingtonight @mindofwesley @blackxwidowsxwife @wandaromanova @wandavixen @peabrain112 @theperfectlovestory @wellsayhelloaagin @owloftheshadows @wickedmuses @strangegardentaco @hallecarey1 @marvels-writings @alexzz13 @ic-4u @007giuliastonem @natashabelovas @iliketozoneout @chasethemoon @p0orbaby @tastetherambeau @rightwereyouleftme @wouldirunofftheworldsomeday @whataloadof @fxckmiup @333hhm @women-am-i-right @pleasantbearscissorstoad @blackwidow-3 @nowthisisliving27 @wandastan-2
to play the fool pt 1
| natasha x fem!reader | request by @strangegardentaco
summary: You’re not an Avenger. Not even close. But sometimes, damn, you really wish you were so everyone would stop getting on your ass.
warnings: blood, violence, spidey-baiting, r is an idiot
a/n: this was the greatest request I’ve ever received. I wrote way too much and I’m sorry. Probably will have a part 2, maybe a part 3. Also I’M ONE FOLLOWER AWAY FROM 150! i know that’s probably not a lot to most people BUT IT IS TO ME so I posted this because people always follow me after I post my fics :)
Keep reading
and it bears repeating how hard my heart’s beating
synopsis: you and Natasha had always had that spark between you, now it’s brighter than ever.
pairings: natasha romanoff x reader
genre: some angst, fluff.
warnings: none.
please do not repost my work anywhere for any reason at all. if you do see this happen to any of my stories, please let me know. thank you x.
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Keep reading
Marching On
(Bruce / Tony / Clint / Steve / Natasha)
Masterlist
(Gifs not mine)
(After the events of the Avengers, everyone moves into the tower; such broken people saved the world.)
1/ Bruce
He thinks she doesn’t like him.
It’s fair, he supposes, after the events on the helicarrier. He purposefully stays out of her way for the first month at least.
It’s easier when there are others around, and everyone makes an effort. Tony engages him in conversations of biomechanics and the theory of nanotech; and he watches Steve awkwardly adapt to the niceties of having money and time to live that’s not in war.
Clint, he watches more than the others. His quick smile and easy humour is genuine that he can tell, and he finds that when he’s quite he can hear the intelligence of the archer in all the things he doesn’t say.
.
Bruce moves into the Tower at Tony’s request. He’s been a nomad for so long that he figures it doesn’t really matter where he stays, and Tony promises to pump money into the vaccine program in India, where Natasha found him.
It’s probably more good than he’ll ever do.
There’s mandated therapy for all of them after the events of New York.
Guilt tears at him and he tries to explain to the therapist that he has had enough therapy for a lifetime, he knows he’s responsible for multiple deaths, and it’s things he lives with daily.
He tells her that her time would be better used with people that actually need it; children that have lost parents, people who have lost their partners, those that are injured, traumatised… the list could go on.
He should be last on the list, he tells her, of people getting help, and with that he’s promptly signed up to fortnightly sessions.
Tony laughs when he tells him, and says she said the same to him. He clasps him on the back and leads him to his lab.
“Build something,” Tony advises, “it helps.”
And Bruce knows that he’s made the right decision in coming here.
.
He likes watching people.
Clint the most, he thinks.
Tony is predictable.
Steve is aloof, polite.
And where there’s Clint, there’s usually Natasha.
It’s rare that they aren’t together and he can see how protective she is of him.
It’s little things. The way she walks through the door last, checking his back. The way she makes sure he eats, and refuses when he offers her some.
And the way she is quick with her words whenever anyone says a bad word against him.
She can be caustic where Tony is blunt, matches Steve’s quietness and there’s times that he’s left the room at her suggestion but it’s felt like his own idea.
He likes watching Clint, because it means he can also watch Natasha.
.
He feels particularly rattled after a therapy session, and he passes Natasha going in.
“Good luck,” he murmurs, and she smiles shallowly at him. He doesn’t think much of it and heads straight to bed even though it’s just after 3pm.
He wakes up some time around midnight, his stomach rumbling and his throat parched.
His room holds snacks, but he wants the left over fried rice they had two nights prior.
A beer would also be good, he thinks, even if the buzz he once experienced no longer occurs.
Slowly moving to the kitchen, he finds Natasha sitting at the breakfast bar eating cereal.
Purposely, he makes some noise to alert her to his presence but she already knows, standing and moving around the bench bringing her bowl with her, throwing the rest of the food into the disposable.
“Don’t stop on my account,” he opens with.
She shrugs.
“Was done,” she says, with a tired smile.
Bruce nods and pulls the rice from the fridge. Looks for the beer and pulls out two, offering her one that is declined as she seems caught between keeping him company and sneaking out.
“You can go,” he tells her, putting the food in the microwave and opening the beer as it cooks.
It works to catch her and social pressure makes her sit.
“You couldn’t sleep, either?”
Natasha watches him closely, as he pulls the hot food out and shakes his hands against the heat. He feels idiotic around her.
In a moment of abject honestly, she shakes her head.
“Clint had a nightmare,” she says, not looking at him.
Bruce finds it interesting, that in the middle of the night is when Natasha is most honest.
He nods, sitting next to her with his food and beer.
“Want to talk about it?” he asks.
He doubts that she will, as silence fills the kitchen.
So he offers up some of himself.
“Today in therapy,” he starts, “we talked about hyper vigilance and how I over obsess… over-estimate, maybe, the potential for danger at any given moment.” He takes another bite and wonders where he’s going with this.
“The practice was to be more mindful but not fearful of my surroundings.”
He scoffs.
“Why does therapy always seem so draining?” he finishes. He starts eating again, not expecting answers, even almost expecting her to leave as he sips his beer and finishes off the rice.
Natasha watches him closely, he feels her gaze run over him, and it’s likely that this is what the therapist was talking about.
“There’s three doors in this room, I have two guns ready, ones under the table,” she pauses.
“Tony is in the lab, Clint is asleep in his bed, and Steve is in the gym,” cocking her head, she stares at him.
“And you’re in here eating.”
Straight faced, they make eye contact.
“I think we must have had similar conversations.” She smirks.
Bruce grins.
“Tony should get a refund, that’s two for one advice,” he jokes.
“Was your homework the same too?” He laughs.
She grows serious, and he wonders what he said. As much as he watches her, he still has no idea what she’s thinking.
“Small acts of trust,” she says, as she stands and heads for the fridge.
He laughs.
“At least it’s tailored to our particular issues,” he deadpans.
He watches as she takes some string cheese from the fridge, slowly opening it, and pulling it apart.
He stands and disposes of his bowl and as he turns he watches her chew on the cheese as she disposes of the rest.
Shrugging, Natasha yawns, and bids him good night.
He replies in kind, and, as Bruce heads back to bed, it occurs to him that it was likely Natasha practicing what the therapist had asked of her.
Even if to him it seemed like nothing.
.
There’s a difference, Bruce notices in the way Natasha acts with him.
It seems that on days that therapy occurs they end up in the kitchen at midnight. Sometimes Clint is there, sometimes Tony.
It’s like a repair of sorts, where he offers her something of himself and when he’s lucky she offers something back.
Small acts of trust, he thinks, is a lesson they’re all learning.
.