Sneak Peak!! :D

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

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.

If meant to be evil and mean... why be hot and give me back scratches and call me baby?🤨 I LOVE THIS NEW CHAPTER BTW INCREDIBLE, SHOWSTOPPING

the domestic realm

pairing: dark!nat/f!reader

summary:

“I’m hungry,” you mumble. “Go make me a sandwich.”

She scoffs, slipping her hand under your hoodie to scratch at your back. “You just set women back by, like, five decades.”

additional notes: sfw drabble, kidnapping, dark!nat but shes soft and lazy, stockholm syndrome central, dark domestic fluff redux

series: one, two, three, ao3

Keep reading

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You promised me.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Tasha—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.

Imagine This  - Sink

You x Leigh Shaw (Sorry For Your Loss - Elizabeth Olsen) 

Angst/Fluff

Summary: Anonymous asked:

TW!

Would you be able to write a Leigh Shaw x reader where the reader struggles to eat and Leigh comforts them?

It’s totally fine if that goes too far and you feel uncomfortable writing this

You are married to Leigh Shaw and life has been pretty good but everyone has bad days luckily you are not alone and Leigh is the most supportive caring wife.  

TW: Eating Disorder, Struggling to eat, mental illness, depression, anxiety

Here is the title song: Suffocate by James Quick & Lauren Sanderson

Specifically “Can I justify the days I barely eat, If I starve until my cheeks can’t help but sink? How deep can I go ‘till it’s too deep? If you hear me start to choke, please reach for me.”

Read On Ao3

AN: I loved writing this thank you for the request! I hope you enjoy it. I tried not to make it too triggering to folks who struggle to eat but please read with your own mental health in mind.

Keep reading

Open Arms

Natasha Romanoff x Reader

You come home to find Natasha upset, but you know just how to make her feel better.

Note: I’m back with some more soft Nat. I promise it’s more comfort than hurt. I was listening to Journey’s song Open Arms when this one came to me. I hope y’all enjoy it!

Natasha Romanoff Masterlist, Main Masterlist

You come home from work to be met with a dark apartment. You frown. Natasha told you she would be here tonight, but you see no trace of her.

You’ve been dating her for a few months now and for the most part things have been more than great. She’s seemed a little bit off lately, but you chalked it up to nerves about her upcoming mission.

Yeah she’s the Black Widow and all, but the truth is she does get nervous about missions. The first time she told you that you thought she had to just trying to make you feel better about being nervous for something. But when she looked at you with her piercing green eyes you realized there was only truth in them.

You move through the apartment and go into your bedroom. As you switch on the light, your attention is drawn to your bed. Your stomach drops at the sight of Natasha sitting on the bed with tears falling down her face. She was here after all, but sitting in the dark.

“Hey Natasha,” you approach her carefully. You’ve never seen her cry before. “Are you alright?”

“Hey,” she says with a voice that’s hoarse from crying. She doesn’t answer your question, but you know she’s not alright. You don’t know how long she’s been here. You sit beside her and reach for her hand.

“Do you want to talk about it? We can just sit here, but it seems you’ve been doing that already,” you say softly, not wanting to push her but really wanting to know what’s wrong. She clears her throat and turns her head to look into your eyes. Hers are a deep chasm of emotion.

“I’m falling in love with you. I know it’s too soon to say it, but I just- I need you to know,” Natasha says.

That is definitely not what you expected her to say.

“Natasha I-“

“No, I know. It’s crazy, right? It’s crazy. I can’t believe I’m saying it,” she stands up now and paces in front of you. “But I just- I love you. I love everything about you and I’m so fucking scared of losing you.”

“It’s not crazy,” you stand up and grab her arms to stop her pacing. “Natasha, it’s not crazy.”

“It’s not?“

“No baby, I’m falling in love with you too,” your words don’t at all surprise you.

You’ve known pretty much from the moment you met her that you would love her so much that your bones ache with passion you want to pour onto her.

“I don’t- what if I can’t come back for you? What if I go on a mission and it’s a one way trip? Y/n, I can’t do this,” Natasha says. And that’s exactly why she was in your room crying. She’s scared to leave you forever.

“Hey, hey, hey,” you caress her face gently and wipe away tears as they fall down her rosy cheeks. “You’re the best there is, Nat. There’s no one more qualified to make sure you come home to me again.”

“But you deserve a sure thing, detka.”

“You are a sure thing, Natasha Romanoff. I know it. And deep down, my love, you know it. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. Should I say it again? I love you,” you emphasize your point with soft kisses to her cheeks before landing on her lips. She kisses you back hungrily.

“I love you too. God, it feels so good to say it. I’m sorry you came home to me like this. I just couldn’t stop thinking about everything and I had to tell you how I was feeling,” Natasha says, her hands go to your hips and she rubs them up and down your sides soothingly.

“You never have to apologize for having feelings, Natasha. And I’ll always be here with open arms,” you say with another kiss to her lips.

“With open arms,” she confirms and you both smile.

As you rest together that night, you feel a shift in your relationship. The good kind. One that means she knows how much her love means to you and you know how much your love means to her.

Tag list: @gracebutnotgraceful @i-wished-for-you-too @be-missed @likefirenrain @nataliaromanova-widow @hehehehannahthings @romanoffscottage @b0r3d-s1mp1ng-b1tch @readings-stuff @xxxtwilightaxelxxx @madamevirgo @milfloverslut @yelenabelovaisthebettersister @mrswidowjohansson @alotofpockets @wandassitcom @ggrangerdanger @marvelwomen-simp @maia-lightwoood @mortallytremendoussandwich @xxromanoffxx @peanutbutterprincess @karmasgxrl @wandaslittlewhore @exhaustedfangirl @when-wolves-howl @natashalovers @mythosphere-x

Let me know if you want to be added to my Natasha tag list or have any requests for her 😁

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

ceo natty making sure no one hurts her (pillow) princess

protective and soft natty pls

implied little!r

a/n: I wasn’t sure if you wanted smut for this, but since you mentioned pillow princess reader I just kinda went with it haha.. also I don’t write little!reader stuff so I just made reader shy and skittish? It fits with the vibe I think so I hope this is acceptable? I spent waaayyy too long on this so apologies for typos and whatever

warnings: 18+, minors DNI; smut; creepy men being creepy (Natasha saves you obvs); masturbation (briefly); fingering (r receiving); possessive Natasha, but she's very loving and soft to R

words: 2.9K

kinktober event. || kinktober masterlist. || main masterlist.

If you had it your way you’d be comfortably in bed in your pajamas, curled up while you watched the new baking show Netflix managed to squeeze out. Preferably in your girlfriend’s arms. The same girlfriend who’d kept you away from your cozy plans tonight.

Going into the relationship, you knew Natasha was a busy person. She was important, the best at what she did even. She was respected for good reason; Natasha worked hard to get where she was, having made it to the point where she didn't have to work another day for the rest of her life, but still she showed up and stayed present. It was safe to say Natasha was a workaholic. And while you were proud of her, you did miss her a lot.

Once it was clear you were serious about dating the slightly older woman, Natasha started to let you in more, but you were still subject to cancellations for "work emergencies" and "necessary work meetings." Eventually she insisted you move in with her, claiming she wanted to spend more time with you, but you had a sneaking suspicion the nights you went out drinking your loneliness with friends and her worry for your well-being had something to do with it too.

Living together was nice, sweet even. You got to sleep next to her each night and sometimes you woke up ridiculously early just to watch her resting face, to look at her face when her features were fully relaxed and free from thoughts of her work. Occupying the same space as Natasha also meant she knew your day to day schedule in and out and she tried to plan around you to get the most time with you, but sometimes things came up.

Things like tonight, some Halloween cocktail gathering for people who mean nothing to you, but everything to the future of business. Talks of stocks, trades, and risky investments flew back and forth while you either nodded half-heartedly or zoned out altogether. Natasha convinced you to come with promises of free drinks and laughing at everyone's stuck-up attitudes together and you reasoned that it might be nice to meet some of the people Natasha grumbled about most evenings at dinner.

Instead she'd left you alone about thirty minutes in and she's been sparse ever since, only seeing her for a moment when she found time to check in on you, twirl a stray hair at your ear and promise she'd be back in a few minutes. You wanted to be mad at the redhead, but mostly you were mad at yourself. It was expected she'd be drawn into conversations; everyone wanted to talk to the alluring Natasha Romanoff.

Occasionally she'd gesture in your direction and smile with a few other people, presumably talking about you and it made you blush every time, the proud grin on her face making you feel like the most important person in the room. No, it was impossible to stay upset with her when she looked at only you in such an uncharacteristically soft way.

So you settled into your little corner and scrolled your phone, nursing your glass of champagne while you waited for the event to end. It grew as comfortable as can be to at least not be bothered by anyone else, but of course that didn't last.

"So whose wife are you?"

The voice was almost weaselly, obviously a little intoxicated from the tinge of slur to his words. You let out a long-suffering breath, annoyed that you were now being bothered in the spot you'd carved out for yourself. "No one's. But I'm here with Natasha."

Any hope that he'd go away with the mention of your girlfriend's name was dashed when he only scooted closer. "Ah, you're her. And she left you here all alone?"

"She didn't leave me. She's busy." He was sitting way too close now, your bare arm brushing his suit sleeve. You didn't like this and Natasha would hate it. But she probably wasn't paying attention; you hadn't caught sight of her for at least twenty minutes and when you scanned the room you didn't find fiery red hair anywhere.

Whoever this man was apparently found your answer funny because he was laughing, his alcohol soaked breath hitting your nose along with an unfortunate spray of his saliva. If you could, you would've bolted, but he'd trapped you in the booth you sat in, his arm stretched out to the table now so even the thought of trying to squeeze by him was impossible. Maybe if you were more outspoken, you'd have yelled or had some scathing remark to send him running, but you remained painfully quiet. You cursed your head for staying empty when all you wanted to do was help yourself out of an excruciatingly uncomfortable situation.

"Seems like she left you, sweetheart. Does she do that a lot? I'd never let you out of my sight. Or my bed even." You felt bile rise in your throat at the insinuation.

So absorbed in your disgust, you didn't notice the looming shadow of a certain redhead cast over the drunk party guest. "I'm sure I didn't just hear what I thought I did." The man before you went pale as a sheet, eyes wide as he turned shakily to face your girlfriend. She had her arms crossed across her chest, staring him down as if she wasn't half his height once he stood up.

While he shook in fear, safety washed over you with her mere presence and something else, something like lust flooding you at the sight of her defensive stance. Natasha always made sure to remind you of your free will, to do whatever made you happy, but you wouldn't deny that her stepping between you and your annoyance made you feel.. protected. Like something you were worth protecting. Lovingly owned.

“What was it you were saying? You’d never let her out of your sight?” Natasha went to step closer, but at some point you’d grasped her hand and held it so she could tug you closer until your head was pressed against her hip. Instinctively, you folded against her side, eyes to the ground because as safe as you felt, looking at him wasn’t a necessity anymore so you wouldn’t. Natasha’s hand came to your head, smoothing out your hair much more lovingly than the rest of her.

The poor man finally grasped how fucked he truly was, eyes darting between Natasha and over to where the rest of the guests were talking to themselves, either unaware of the situation or knowing better than to intercept Natasha. “N-No, I didn’t mean it that way. I would never-!”

“With all of the ‘never’s coming out of your mouth tonight, let me add another one to your list,” You doubted Natasha knew her hand was gripping your shoulder almost painfully now, clutching you impossibly closer as if you’d flee without her grounding you. “Never talk to my girl again. Never look at her, never think about her- nothing. Because if you do, that would be really upsetting to me and I wouldn’t be able to let that slide.” Natasha’s typically deep voice currently held more threatening energy than you’d ever heard. It scared you a bit and you vowed right then you’d try your hardest to never be the subject of her ire.

He fumbled and sputtered, scrambling for absolutely anything to say. There was nothing except, “Yes, Ms. Romanoff. S-Sorry for the confusion.” Natasha’s unwavering stare sent him running with his tail between his legs, making his way across the room as fast as his drunken gait would take him.

As soon as your problem fled, the weight of your situation hit you, tears springing to life in the corners of your eyes. “Natty…” Perfectly manicured nails moved to scratch at your scalp, the motion of her fingers soothing your worries instantly.

“Come on, my love, it’s time to go home, yeah?” Her tone was soft again, the voice reserved for you alone. You nodded her head as you mumbled an apology for ruining her dress with your running mascara, but she shushed you in an instant.

The trip home was a blur and that was alright. Natasha took care of everything, as always, and next time you truly registered your surroundings you were right where you wanted to be: home in bed with your love.

You didn’t know if you’d fallen asleep or not, but when you finally took a peek out of the far off window, it was pitch black outside. Slivers of moonlight were the only light source, just barely illuminating the sleeping features of your girlfriend’s face. Flashbacks of the night’s events played through your mind while you thought of the difference between the public persona of Natasha Romanoff, CEO and ruthless negotiator, and your Natasha, a loving partner and fierce protector. The memory of how hot she looked shielding you from harm made your legs squeeze together, a familiar tightening blooming deep in the pit of your stomach.

There was a slight element of shame tied to having been turned on by the sight of Natasha brutally cutting someone down to size, but she was doing it for you and that’s what stuck in your brain. You knew she would do anything for you, but seeing it was something else. Still, you couldn’t wake her up for just this; you’d needed enough attending that night.

Scooting back down under the blankets until everything but your head was covered, you resigned yourself to taking care of your own problems. Shy hands slid down your body, feeling the curves and slopes of your own form until you reached the top of your thighs. Typically you slept in a short nightgown, a simple pair of underwear your only other layer. Natasha’s request, of course; she loved feeling your skin against hers while you slept. Tonight was no exception and you were grateful, less fabric to contend with as your fingers slipped past the thin elastic waistband.

It felt naughty almost to have your hand buried between your legs while your girlfriend slept unaware mere inches from you, but you didn’t want to bother her and as one finger purposely just barely brushed your clit, you doubted she would want to deny you such pleasure. You gasped aloud when your fingers reached your entrance, surprised at how fast you’d grown so wet, but images of Natasha’s hardened expression had you clenching around just the tips of your digits.

“I’m not that deep of a sleeper, just so you know.” Natasha’s words held amusement so she wasn’t mad, but still you couldn’t bring yourself to meet her eyes.

Reluctantly you pulled your fingers away, wiping them on your thigh as if that would erase what you were so clearly doing. “Sorry, Nat.. I just-” But she was on you before you could finish that thought, bringing you flush against her as she swallowed your worries in her kiss. Her grip on your waist was bruising and while you still squirmed, the possession in her hold was exactly what you wanted.

Still laid on your side, Natasha pulled away just enough to look at you, your skin still clearly flushed even in the darkness of the bedroom. She maneuvered your nightgown over your hips, cupping your core in her strong palm, “Poor girl, you were bad enough off that you wanted to take care of it yourself?” It was true, it was bad; usually you asked Natasha for anything, once she’d had you, nothing compared to her touch and while she didn’t have a rule about seeking relief without her, you rarely ever did. It was never as good; she’d long since ruined you for anyone else, including yourself. “You know I would be happy to help.”

Her hand ground the soaked fabric against your sensitive folds, a clear tease just to watch you moan. She could’ve done it by now, nudged the fabric aside and plunged her fingers into you, but she didn’t. And it was on purpose. “Please, Natty?” As much as she loved you and wanted your constant happiness, she had to have some of her own- it happened to manifest in loving hearing you ask for her. There was no greater rush for Natasha knowing you were fully capable of doing things yourself, but still you relied on her. Because you needed it to be her. “Please touch me, keep me- protect me.”

That was all the pleading she needed, her free hand winding about your waist and pulling until your chests were touching. Her other arm was wedged between you now, but there was enough space for Natasha to manage, ridding you of your underwear and immediately bringing her fingers to bare skin, sliding easily through your folds. You whined at her broad strokes, touching just enough to rile you, but slow enough not to get you anywhere. “You’re so wet, and all of this is for me?”

You nodded your head against the pillows, fighting the urge to close your eyes; Natasha liked it when you looked at her. “Just for you, I’m yours, just yours…” Carefully, you started to ride Natasha’s hand, grinding against her palm desperately for any type of relief. The surface was too flat, it was her, but not what you needed and it was getting borderline painful how needy you were.

Natasha only smirked, pleased with your admission, but all too smug about how little she had to do for you to be getting off so wantonly on her open hand. Normally she’d make a show of it, make you wait until you cried out for her, but you’d had a long day so she relented. “Is this what you want?” Two fingers sunk into you humiliatingly easily, stretching your hot sex with an expert touch. Her satisfaction grew with the sound of your moan, settling into a steady pace with her thrusts. “Did you like it earlier when I came to save you?” The reactive clench around her digits was a good enough answer for her. When she curled them, your body curled with them back arching as she hit the spot you never managed to hit yourself. “Do you know why I did that?”

“N-No-” Of course Natasha knew how much you’d enjoyed her little show of possession earlier, one twitch of your jaw and she knew what was going on with you. Being known so intimately down to your very core sent a shiver down your spine and you were dangerously close to losing it now. Your hips moved in time with her hand, yearning for the high you’d tried unsuccessfully to chase on your own.

“Because you’re mine.” She maneuvered you both so that you were straddling one of her thighs, sinking deeper onto her offered fingers. Far beyond caring, your forearms settled on either side of her, close enough to breathe each other’s air while you rocked yourself back in earnest. “And I always take care of my things, don’t I?” The question was punctuated with a kiss to the corner of your open mouth, “I’m the only one who gets to see or touch you like this, I’ll make sure of it.”

Carefully chosen words brought you unknowingly higher, Natasha whispering things you were sure you’d only expressed in your wildest dreams. You rocked forward against the base of her wrist fruitlessly for any type of friction, whining at the lack of pressure. She’d been so giving tonight, surely she wouldn’t deny you just one more thing, “Nat.. Nat.. Tasha, I need-” You tried to explain what your voice couldn’t with a particularly obvious movement into her hand and Natasha’s low chuckle in your ear told you she was already well aware of your needs. “Please?”

A devious thumb made its way to your sorely neglected clit, positioning it just so. Somehow Natasha made sense of your frantic actions, pistoning her hand in time with you. “There you go, take what you need. I’m the only person who can do this for you, aren’t I?” Strained noises of agreement were music to Natasha’s ears, her lips trailing down your neck to mark you further lest you forget for a moment you’re hers alone. “Fuck yourself on my fingers. I want to see you.” Your legs clamped vice tight around hers, ass pressed against her thigh as it propped you from wiggling too far away from her.

The sensations were going to be the death of you, filled with Natasha, mouth latched to that perfect spot in the hollow behind your ear, her free arm slung around your waist to make certain you didn’t stop riding her. You were so close, chasing your high with what Natasha would remember as a whorish moan. Eventually you came with a screaming cry of her name, back arching into her prone form because in some tactical way, she could still be in full control while she laid under you.

When you finally came down, you let your top half sink, arms limp as your head fell onto her chest. Her fingers left as carefully as they could, but still you whined, more from the sudden emptiness than any pain. You felt blissfully numb, sleep already threatening at the edges of your consciousness. “Thank you, Tasha… for protecting me and also.. yeah.” Already hot cheeks burned at your sudden salacious display, but Natasha craned her neck to press a kiss to your messy hair and you let your words float away.

“You only ever have to ask, sweetheart… I’m sorry I left you all alone today.” She spoke softly to preserve the moment, pulling the blanket tighter over you before you could even possibly start to get cold. But you were already gone, drifting away to dreamland and tucked safely in Natasha’s arms. Safe and sound as always.

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