IM SORRY HOW LOBG AGO DID YOU WRITE THIS??? Its So Good Please- Bubba And Peach Thats So Cute😭😭🥰

*Y/N getting a tour of the Avenger Compound*

Natasha: There are so many rooms in this building you will inevitably get lost, but don't worry the only one you'll need to know is down the hall. You'll be spending most of your time in there anyways.

Y/N: *Curious* Oh, what room is at the end of the hall?

Natasha: My bedroom.

Y/N: Oh.

Y/N: Oh.

Y/n: Do you have any skeletons in your closet? Natasha: You mean literally or figuratively? Y/n: Honestly, the fact that I have to specify...

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

blurb idea: Natasha is your momsbestfriend teaching you the wonderful pleasure of tribbing

𝐠𝐮𝐞𝐬𝐬 𝐰𝐡𝐨’𝐬 𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐨 𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐧𝐞𝐫

────────────────────────

blurb

mom’s best friend!natasha x reader

summary ➞ it’s literally just sex in a pool house, enjoy

disclaimer ➞ strong language, significant age gap (r = 20s, nat = 40s), smut, tribbing, dirty talk (praise + degradation + pet names), almost being caught, orgasm denial (?)

a/n ➞ i was writing angst and hurt my own feelings, so i wrote this + didn’t bother editing it as a form of self care. this piece of work is not to be copied or translated anywhere. thank you for reading!!! comments and reblogs appreciated <3

Wet skin met the smoothed-over ceramic floor, evidence of the swim you had taken and the thin layer of sweat that had worked already worked it’s way onto your flesh.

In a fury of hungry kisses and wandering hands, Natasha had haphazardly pulled your bikini top up towards your collarbone and left the matching bottoms to hang from one of your ankles.

She payed little mind to the way your body slid across the titles, bracing one hand against the darkened grey wall behind your head to corner you between it and her own dampened body. With her other hand, she held your hip in place so that she could freely rock her cunt against your own.

She was entirely entangled into you, now, a disarray of lips and tongues and naked skin. It was becoming harder and harder to tell your limbs apart from hers - not that either of you cared too much about locating where one of you ended and the other began.

Her gaze was heavy as she watched the pure delight begin to glint in the soft edges of your features. “Oh, don’t give me those eyes, dove.” The muscles in her legs flexed excitedly when she said it.

“What’s wrong with my eyes, Ms. Romanoff?” You knew what you were doing - and she knew that you knew - watching the shiver that rolled down her spine at the formality in your words. Enjoyment etched itself into her features but she was entirely aware that you were teasing her.

Whatever sounds managed to dislodge from your lips were only swallowed by Natasha’s, including the involuntary giggle that rumbled from your chest when her swimsuit cover brushed against the skin of your stomach.

A series of whimpers followed when her knee moved to pin you impossibly closer to the floor. “Those are - shit - those are ‘fuck me?’ eyes.” She panted as her head lulled back.

You started to curl your tongue around a devilishly sarcastic ‘how fitting’ but the words were lost somewhere in the back of your throat and replaced with a vulgar moan.

She smirked at the sound, “What was that? I’m sorry, dove, I can’t hear you over all those desperate, pathetic noises.” She quipped, hand tightening around the edge of the wall.

Pleasure sparked up through your belly as her clit lashed against yours. She was greedy in her movements, mostly worried about chasing her own pleasure - which only just so happened to be your pleasure as well.

“You gonna cum for me, pretty baby?” She questioned, finally closing what little gap there was between the two of you to delve her tongue into your mouth in a messy kiss. You nodded, frantic and desperate, before tangling your hands in the back of her hair.

“Vision, sweetheart? Do you know where Natasha ran off to? I found this bottle of sauvignon blanc downstairs and I was going to open it with her.”

Natasha’s hand fell to your mouth, muffling the surprised gasp that tumbled from your lips as your mother’s voice echoed from the backyard. You met her eyes frantically as her hips slowed their movements to a stop.

“I think she went to the restroom, darling.” Your father answered from somewhere nearby.

Natasha detached herself from you completely, a smirk spreading across her face as her hand absorbed the sound of your protesting whine.

“Later, dove.” She assured as she replaced her hand with her lips and tugged her bikini bottoms back up her toned legs, “I promise I’ll make you cum later.”

Shame

Warnings: mommy kink, size kink, smut, swearing etc

Natasha loves the fact that you’re smaller than her, she absolutely revels in it but, of course, she’d never tell you that... The redhead has always been the smallest of the avengers so when you came around she would always tease you about your height (even though you were only a few inches shorter than her).

It was always “hey tiny” or “how’s the weather down there?” with Natasha. You assumed she taunted you about your height because she genuinely didn't like it. She probably thought it was childish to be a full grown adult and 5’2. And at first you didn’t say anything, not wanting to anger the intimidating woman, but after a while you two became quite close and you started to fire your own taunts, “well you would know considering we’re the same height, Tasha.”

Those words stunned the assassin; she didn’t expect the nickname so her cheeks flushed a deep red, which you picked up on. Not long after that, you started dating. Obviously, you confessed your feelings for the woman first- you knew if it was up to her, she would never come clean- and she returned those same feelings.

As the relationship progressed and you started to learn about her characteristics, you made the assumption that your girlfriend had a somewhat kinky side. With the way she carried herself around the others, she definitely had a dominant personality in the bedroom...which you was most certainly correct about!

You had discovered a whole different side to Tasha that only you knew about. You felt privilege and yet confused; you felt as if there was a whole new depth to her character you haven’t seen until now...

Here you were, ankles and wrists wrapped in red silk attached to each bedposts. If it wasn’t clear, Nat liked you tied down; completely and utterly helpless to her touch.

Lewd noises of the redhead’s strap thrusting into you at an inhuman pace-accompanied with your whorish moans- filled the almost silent room. Tasha’s sex playlist playing from the sound system with her red led lights on display. The occasional grunt from the woman above you joined in whenever her clit brushed at the right angle against the strap.

“Fuck, baby. Your tight pussy is gonna make me cum. Such a sweet pussy. All for me.” Natasha loved sex talk; always reminding you about how good you look, feel and taste. She was always calling you cute little nicknames as she brings you to climax, and even when she allowed you to return the favour.

On the other hand, she adored degrading you. She adored making you cry at her venomous words as she fucked you stupid. But, she only reserved those titles for when you were a bad girl and needed to be punished...

“Oh. Shit, Tasha. I-I’m gonna cum.” Your first orgasm almost washes over you; however, she had different ideas and pulled out before you could slip. Snaking a hand around your throat she applies little pressure, letting you know she was pissed.

“What did you call me?!” She seethes through her teeth. Sheer fury with a tinge of lust swirling in her eyes as she pins you beneath her weight like a predator with its prey.

You don’t know what you did wrong.

You always moaned her name as you came.

You thought that was what she liked...

Countless thoughts raced through your mind about what you had allegedly done wrong and Natasha had seen, so she relieved you of your mounting stress.

“When we’re in here doing this...” She harshly snaps her hips, driving the head of the toy up against your sensitive walls. You throw your head back in euphoria, unintentionally letting a carnal growl escape from within.

“It’s mommy, little one.”

Mommy...that’s new. You whisper to no one, anxious she might overhear you. Fear brews in the pit of your stomach, but excitement overpowers it, and a wide grin forms on your face. This is what you’ve been waiting for.

“I’m sorry... mommy.”

Your girlfriend groans audibly at the way you whine her new name. She couldn't stop herself from thrusting back into you, slowly at first but gradually picking up the pace. She couldn’t rip her eyes from you; the way your tits bounced in time to her thrusts, your gaping mouth as threads of incoherent words and moans tumbled, your shuddering muscles that rippled beneath her finger pads.

The hand pinning your thighs apart moves to grip your jaw. She pushes her thumb in your mouth, waiting to see how you react. But you know what she wants. So you suck the digit, swirling your pink tongue around it, lathering it with your saliva as a light “hmm” vibrates against the pad. Natasha’s light green irises turn into a dark emerald shade, raging lust even more evident.

“Open.”

She spits in your mouth, no need to instruct you what to do next since you've already swallowed, your eyes rolled far back in your head.

“Look at your pretty little pussy. So pink and fluffy...hmm, take me so good, baby.”

“Only for y-you, mommy.” You whine out with her thumb still deep in your mouth, on the brink impending orgasm. Unfortunately, Natty pulls her entire body away from you once again and this time you can’t help but let out a loud whine of frustration.

“Hey! Don’t start that shit with me, little girl.” Your head jerked to the side, and your cheek burned from the connection of Tasha's palm, as well as the fresh tears - mixed with your running mascara - streaming from your eyelids. Her poisonous words stinged even more so than the slap. It seems as if you’ve discovered another one of her kinks...

“For that, you’re gonna ride my cock...like a good, little slut.” She trails her fingers over your reddened cheek before releasing you from her silky restraints and situating herself against the pillows, so she can yank you onto her lap.

Still stunned from the slap, you failed to notice her aligning your core with the strap until she pushed you down, stretching your tight walls once again. You cry out - the loudest you had done this whole night- which spurs on the redhead to rock your hips agonisingly slow.

“Oh no, pretty girl...you’re so tight. You’re too little for me, huh? So small and precious... let mommy help you.” She moves to rub fast circles on your swollen clit. Involuntarily, you rut up to meet Tasha’s fingers, wedging the strap even deeper.

Ahh so she does like my size...she likes it a lot more than she lets on. You wonder to yourself. You wouldn’t dare say your thoughts aloud unless you wanted the assassin to spank your ass black and blue, and still not let you cum. The addicting pleasure of her cock inside you, her digits circling harder on your bundle of nerves and her powerful hips rolling into yours knock you out of your deep trance.

“That’s it, printessa. So beautiful. Riding me like this. So eager...fuck, I could cum just by watching you.” Her praises spur you on and you start to bounce, holding her shoulders for support, suddenly desperate to make yourself and mommy cum. Her eyes remained glued to your marked breasts, shoved in her face as they move rhythmically. She removes her fingers from your bundle of nerves and brings the drenched digits to her lips, checks hallowing as she sucks them feverishly.

“You taste so sweet, baby.” She moans gently at the taste of you. Peering up at you,she silently commands you to keep your eyes trained on hers. No matter though because if she kept looking at you like that, you weren’t gonna last long...

“Mommy, ’m gonna cum.” Your bounces become more out of rhythm with her thrusts: tits grazing against her face, moans and whimpers echo the bedroom walls and your pussy gushes around her thick cock.

“Beg me.”

“Please, mommy...oh, let me cum for you. I’ll do anything please, can I cum? I’ll be good, promise, please please...” You weep out, praying she’ll have mercy on your soul and finally let you finish. She remains silent for a few moments, compelling you to hold on a little longer before she decides. She grabs your hips instantly, forcing you to bottom out as she fucks up into you harder than ever.

“Cum for me, baby. Cum for mommy.” She pants out- a little tired from her rapid thrusts- and you immediately clamp on her, back painfully arching, making it difficult for her to continue her ministrations.

You can hardly even moan since you're struggling to breathe, and yet she pulls you down to kiss you as if she's stealing whatever little air you have. Pulling slightly back, you attempt to take some deep breaths before letting out a string of promiscuous wails as she soothes your convulsing body.

“You’re all good,baby. That’s it, good girl.”

She coos as you finally crash, collapsing forward into Tasha’s chest, hissing at the strap moving still deep inside. She tilts your heavy head up, forcing you to look into her eyes. The flicker of green descends from your eyes to your lips which lets you know that she wants you to kiss her. Tiredly, you lean forward, pressing your lips against hers. You don't slip a tongue. You merely push your lips against hers.

She doesn’t like that and roughly spanks your ass twice, your body jolting forward in painful surprise. If you were going to kiss Tasha, you had to kiss her properly...

To be honest, you loved this rough side of Natasha. During the early stages of the relationship, she was timid and entirely selfless. Not sure how far she should go or if you loved her as much as she loved you. But she was ravenous now, using your body for her pleasure- and yours.

You lean forward again, this time parting your lips allowing the redhead to slip her tongue into your mouth. Her hands- still on your ass- massage the red globes. She drives her tongue deep; as assertive as she wishes because you belong to her. Only her. Releasing your muffled moans into her mouth allowing her to swallow them whole, your palms cup her breasts as you gently pull them towards you and then back to her; playing with them as a sort of comfort instead of pleasing her.

The kiss becomes more sloppy, more messy as both of your saliva moistens the kiss and dribbles out the side of your mouth. At one point, your tongue slips from hers and splashes against her cheek but she’s too engrossed in the make out session to care; your enamouring whimpers depriving her of her senses.

Her hands at your ass- squeeze it softly- beginning to make you rock against her; completely forgetting about her cock still inside you. You shriek at the stinging ache and Nat silences you with another long kiss before slowly lifting you off her, and tossing the toy somewhere for her to clean later.

“Sorry, honey. I forgot.”

Her hand brushes the sweat-drenched hair away from your forehead and she leans over your frail form, pressed delicately against the sheets, to grab you the bottle of water she got beforehand.

“Here, drink this before you go to sleep please.”

You gulp down the water as if you had been neglected of the clear liquid for a long period of time. Small drops end up dribbling from the corner of your lips and down your chin. Nat notices, leaning down to lick away the residue, a subtle whimper escapes your throat and you suddenly remember she never came.

“But, y-you didn’t finish, Tash.” You pant, voice still hoarse from your cries of ecstasy.

“It’s okay, baby. Today was all about you anyways.”

Still selfless, I see. You wanted to reply but you were too exhausted to open your mouth. Your fatigue suddenly washing over you as your eyelids droop, too heavy to keep open.

“Go to sleep, kotenok. Promise I’ll be here when you wake. I love you.” She kisses you once on the cheek, then twice on the forehead ...your favourite types of kisses. Bathing in her radiating warmth, you shuffle fowards, limbs locking around her waist, your naked flesh flushed against each other.

“Thank you. Love you too, mommy.”

As expected, Tasha was peering down at your dishevelled form the next morning: hair thrown everywhere and puffy eyelids. To her, you looked beautiful.

“Good morni-”

“So mommy, huh?”

The Russian was taken aback by your unexpected question. Of course, she forgot about how she made you call her mommy the previous night. She didn't even bother asking if you were okay with it. She simply told you, and that was the end of it. When your words finally register in her brain, a dark red blush - almost the same color as her tresses - appears on her chiselled cheeks.

“Don’t kink shame me!” She leaps on top of you, blowing wet raspberries onto your exposed stomach. Your contagious giggles ring sweetly in her ears, and your limbs flail incessantly, attempting to push the much stronger woman away. Once she finally lets go, she returns her attention to your face, only to find you grinning up at her with pure adoration in your eyes.

“Oh, you don’t have to worry about that... mommy.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Notes: i keep getting carried away with these but here’s this. i worked on this like all day so hopefully y’all like it <3

Taglist: @teenwonder @wandasugarbby (bc i used one of those prompts you talked abt but it’s nat sorry sjshsjd)

Seera-Li Marvel Masterlist

╰(*´︶`*)╯♡

Natasha Romanoff

Show Mommy What You Got  NS*FW

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

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

At Her Altar, As Her Worship Fluffy

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

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

Speak up baby NS*FW

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

Or

Natasha fucks you until you cry.

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

Naughty girls NS*FW

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

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

To be continued...

Oh gods this is so good my heart is melting😭 This really helped some of my insecurities and Scarlet is so sweet💕💕 You managed to convey emotion really well I honestly felt anxious before the premiere- I love this

What We Talk About When We Talk About Love

Scarlett Johansson x Reader

Word Count: 4.1K

A/N: Based on this lovely request. Please note this talks about body insecurity and also coming out. There are also sexy scenes :)

——

You didn’t know why Scarlett loved you, but you trusted that she did. You didn’t always love yourself. Kindness was easier with others than it was for yourself.

All the first moments between you and Scarlett had been hesitant. You’d met through friends, there’d been group dinners, nights at bars. You’d liked her smile, but you didn’t let yourself consider it.

You hadn’t known she liked women. Noone had. When she’d taken your hand the first time, in the back of the taxi cab, the movement had been rushed. Her eyes had been focused forward, but you’d caught her shallow breaths. There’d been a heartbeat of a moment, you’d felt everything hang in the balance. Then, you’d squeezed her hand back. 

Scarlett had turned to face you, eyes wide. Her cheeks had shimmered golden with the glow of the night time traffic. She’d looked briefly surprised, and then, abruptly she’d looked scared. You’d held her gaze as you smiled.

Scarlett had searched your eyes for a long moment before she’d smiled back. But, she did smile back.

You left the taxi cab together.

Keep reading

ahhh imagine nat or wandanat is away on a week or two long mission and you miss them so you read fanfics about her or them and on the night she comes home you are asleep with your laptop open on your lap. as nat goes to move it she sees a fanfic about her x y/n and she finds it adorable but will tease you about it when you wake up by saying something like, “by the way detka, am i better to you in real life or on that website where you are in a fake relationship with me?” and you just turn into a stuttering mess. or she finds your laptop open with smut and finds out you have a mommy kink or something 😵‍💫

warnings: older!nat, younger!reader, size difference but like... that’s for every fanfic i write ever, dirty talk, talks about using a strap, thigh riding, talks about cum eating/play (?). NSFW

y’all the fucking warnings is sending me LMAO

You huffed at the words on your phone, it was getting too much, your girlfriend’s lack of presence was irritating, let alone frustrating as you were now basically humping your pillow in sexual frustration.

You knew you shouldn’t have read smut fanfic about her, the writers on Tumblr were too good. You had read one where she had tied up the ‘reader’ and fucked her with a strap until she basically passed out and while you knew Natasha isn’t the type to push you that far, you wished you could feel what her you had felt against you once more.

But no, she had another week in Mexico, she needed to finish this mission and well, you needed to finish your homework. You tried, but it wasn’t eventful as you could focus without having a fucking flashback to an image of your girlfriend eating your cunt out between your legs, or to how you would scratch her back as she fucked you senseless.

And now as you laid there, tears swelling in your eyes, you huffed and puffed and gotten comfortable in your bed and decided to sleep, unaware of the light of your phone as it was still on.

-

When Natasha arrived home, a faint ache to her back, she journeyed up the stairs to your shared room with her.

It was just on the break of dawn when she returned so when she entered her bedroom and found fast asleep, she wasn’t surprised that you were so deep in your slumber that your phone was still on.

But as she tucked you in and pulled your phone away, she caught a glimpse of her name written in various paragraphs which caught her attention. Her emerald eyes glazed over the screen, curious to what you had been reading, Natasha found the words “Y/n” and her name typed up onto some scenario where fictional her was fucking fictional “reader”.

Natasha grinned when it hit her. Her girlfriend was reading a smut fanfiction about her... while she was on a mission. Natasha assumed it was because you had missed her more than usual, and the fact that you couldn’t even have phone sex with her made it worse.

Once she turned the phone off, her smile reached her face as she saw you fast asleep. She slipped in beside you soon after, she’ll tease you about it tomorrow.

-

When you woke up the next morning expecting a cold bed beside you, you weren’t expecting warmth and a large body curled up next to you.

Your eyes fluttered open and softly, you stretched your arms wide open as you turned and realized your girlfriend was home a week earlier than expected.

You threw yourself at her, burying your face deep into the crook of her neck and smiling. She smelled good, she must’ve taken a shower before she left for the plane and regardless, she was here.

She was apparently awake as the older woman hugged you in return, her large muscly arms tight around your small stature made you whimper. Unknowingly to Natasha, her thigh had slipped between your legs and accidentally pressed up against your core, you sighed, a shiver up your spine making your shake.

“Good morning,” she greeted you with a smile to her tone and never let you go, “was your dreams just as good as the fanfiction you were reading about me?”

You stilled in her hold and flushed, your cheeks warmed and your hid deeper into your girlfriend’s neck out of embarrassment.

“You weren’t supposed to see that?”

“Well, I did,” her grin was still present, “I bet I could fuck you better than what they did in that story.”

“D-Don’t say that...”

“Why not?” You whimpered when Natasha pressed her thigh further against you, making you realize that it hadn’t been an accident at all. “Does it make you wet thinking about my fingers fucking this pussy open?”

“Tasha...” You frowned and shook your head. “It’s not fair.”

The older woman chuckled. “What’s not fair, baby?”

“I haven’t been able to get off... I couldn’t even call you to guide me.” Natasha could hear the genuine sadness and frustration present in your voice and while it was partially entertaining, she couldn’t leave you high and dry. Her thigh forced you to ground yourself on her and one of her hands left your head to grip your hips to help you.

“I’m here now, princess.” She dragged your hips against her right, she was wearing shorts, you were merely wearing her shirt and just a pair of panties. Natasha could feel your arousal smearing against her pale skin, it was sticky, and somehow audibly loud as you starting riding her thigh. “Is this better than that fanfiction you’ve read?”

You nodded, breathing her scent in and grasping onto the fabric of her cropped shirt. There wasn’t much, meaning as you pulled on her top, it drew up and revealed her toned abs and the underside of her breast.

“What were you even reading about?” She was teasing you, but you didn’t care, you just wanted to get off, you wanted to cum on her thighs, make it sticky with your finish and have her make you lick it off her skin.

“The reader was caught...” You whimpered when you hit that good spot. “She was masturbating a-and... Oh God— You caught her f-fingering herself and you w-wanted to help.”

Natasha gripped your ass, her hand splayed over the curve of your bottom as she helped you ride her thigh up and down. You were going faster, harder, and you were drenching your panties and she could feel you getting near.

And as she tugged on the roots of your hair and pulled your head back, she caught sight of your face, your lips parted in euphoria, eyes shut just as your lashes fanned your cheeks. The moans you were letting out were animalistic, dangerous, and your chest was heaving.

All the while your hand was snuck around her, gripping on to her body for dear god as your hips came to a stuttering stop.

“Better than any fanfic?”

You nodded with a looped smile, nuzzling your cheek against your lover’s shoulder. “Yes... so much more.”

OMG HII for slutty Sunday, I've had this thought stuck in my head for so long but basically dom!CEO!Natasha romanoff brings sub!shy!female reader to work and there's cockwarming, use of vibrators AND BASICALLY JUST NAT TEASING R AND DEGRADATION AND PRAISE KFOROFOEIDIDJFJJWOW also r is so innocent and just lets her mistress play with her and I can't get rid of the thought of nat having r kneel beside and table and just plays with her boobs and fucks r's mouth w her fingers *dies* yeah anyway. Horknee.

-Raven <3

Hold Me in Your Lap of Luxury

Summary: Natasha finds a way to entertain herself at work: you.

Warning: smut, cockwarming, vibrators, praise, degradation, mistress kink, not proofread

A/N: i’m in love with this request so i turned it into a short fic

“Come here,” the redhead says, beckoning you over. She pats her lap as she pulls away from the desk to make space for you. You hesitantly make your way over to her. The woman becomes impatient as she pulls you onto her lap herself.

“Natty,” you start but a sharp look from the woman in front of you has you saying, “mistress?” She hums in return as she ducks her head to scatter kisses across the skin of your neck. Your head falls back slightly to give her more space on her canvas.

You swallow harshly when her hand comes up to grope your chest. You don’t know what to say so you remain silent until the redhead glances up at your flustered expression. “There’s no need to be shy,” she mutters against your skin.

Natasha pulls away to stroke your heated cheek. She leans down to press her lips against your timid ones. Her palm comes up to cup the back of your neck bringing you closer to her. The woman has no rush, simply trying to coax you from your shell.

Her hands run down your sides—you let out a giggle—landing on your hips. Natasha untucks your shirt as her hands run up under it to grope at your chest again. She pulls away to grin at you before gently pushing you off her.

You stare at the woman with wide eyes but quickly become flustered at the sight of the toy in her hand. She beckons you over with a mischievous grin. Her hands come up to your hips, swiftly pulling your pants down as you watch her with blazed cheeks.

“Be a good girl and put this on,” she grins handing you the pretty pink vibrator. You gawk at the woman, lips parted as you struggle to say something. Natasha raises a brow at you silently encouraging you to speak—hoping she’ll get to punish you.

“Here?” you ask timidly, glancing around the office where anyone could come in at any moment. She chuckles at your timidness.

“Where else?” That’s all you needed to hesitantly pull your panties down before you’re interrupted, “keep them on,” she says. You swallow harshly at her command but nod.

Once it’s in, you deal with the discomfort for a moment before you jolt forward, almost falling into your mistress’ arms. “Oh!” you let out as Natasha catches you. You can see the remote in her hand as she controls the vibrations that have your eyes rolling to the back of your head.

“Go ahead and kneel for me,” she mutters, pointing to the spot beside her chair. You glance down at the dirty floor before pleadingly glancing up at the woman. “Don’t make me tell you again.”

You have no other choice than to slowly make your way down. The floor is cool against your knees as you stare up at your mistress. She brings a hand down to cup your cheek as she coos at you. “Such a good girl,” she says.

At her praise, you can’t help but buck your hips against the floor, desperate for any sort of friction. “Dirty whore,” she mutters, lightly slapping your cheek. She doesn’t hesitate to bring up the setting on the vibrator, though, reveling in the way you buck against the air.

“Please,” you whine, wanting her to touch you. She tuts at you before turning away from your—as she calls it—pathetic whines. Natasha leaves the high setting on yet ignores your pleas to cum. She knows you will anyway and she’ll take great pleasure in punishing you for it.

When you do cum—without permission—she grins to herself before turning to you with a mischievous glint in her eyes. “Desperate whore just couldn’t help herself, could she?” she mocks. She chuckles at your tears as you apologize profusely.

“Sorry won’t do it now,” she coos but beckons you up. You’re quick to stand as you shuffle on your feet, afraid of whatever punishment was ahead of you. Natasha pulls you closer to her by the back of your neck. “Naughty girls get punished,” she mutters.

She keeps you there close to her as her fingers come up to your mouth. The redhead pushes in two fingers into your mouth resting against your tongue before they make their way down to trigger your gag reflex. Natasha chuckles at that mercilessly fucking your face before she pulls her fingers away with a trail of saliva.

She watches you attempt to regain your breath as she unbuckles her belt. The woman pulls out her strap which you recognize as the biggest one she has. She pays her lap and you’re quick to straddle her. Natasha pushes aside your panties and guides her strap into your glistening cunt.

“Now, you’re gonna stay here and warm my cock while I finish up, and I’ll deal with you when we get home,” she grins. You don’t know what she has up her sleeve but when her knee starts bouncing you know what it is. She knows the effect she has on you as you notice the subtle smirk on her face as she works.

“If you move your punishment will be even worse.”

🏷: @winters-witch-bitch, @anartistsmuseinlondon, @consciouschunkofmoss, @inluvwithfictionalwomen, @riveravalonsage, @therealvangough

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

HAPPY FANFIC WRITERS APPRECIATION DAY!!!!!

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

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

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

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

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