#Experimental Web Design | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

neellscapsule · 6 days ago

Text

Webs of Pain. chapter one: a cruel world

summary | you died. you should be buried, or at least not waking up. yet you lie there, suffering, very much alive.

pairing | platonic batfam x spider!batsis!reader.

warnings / tags | angst, hurt/little comfort, y/n is mentioned as a female. literal death, experimentation, consequences of being brought back to life. reader has a severe depression and many scars of what joker and scarecrow did to her. mentions of torture because she has a backstory of how did she end up like that. not the nicest point of her life.

word count | 4.7k

authors note | hi there!! english is not my first languaje so there might be some mistakes, or not, it can depend :) i plan on making this a series. please vote <3

this is NOT a yandere series, but it has dark themes that you already saw on warnings.

dick is 26. cass is 22. jason is 21. reader is 21 tim and steph are 19. duke is 18. damian is 14.

next.

AFTER DEATH, THE HUMAN BRAIN PLAYS IT'S MOST TREASURED MEMORIES FOR SEVEN MINUTES.

It doesn’t feel like that. Time doesn’t move. Time doesn’t end. It just bends inward, pulling back on itself, dragging you into yourself. You don’t feel the weight of your body anymore — there’s no pain, no sense of dying, no echoes of the final blow, of blood pooling beneath your ribs, of lungs collapsing.

All you feel is warmth. Not the warmth of your skin, or the sun. No, this is different — this is the warmth of love.

Seven minutes of love. Of snapshots stitched together by your soul. Memories you never thought you would have to relive—not because they were buried, but because there was no reason to believe you would ever need to hold on so tightly. They were yours. They lived with you.

And then, in four hundred and twenty seconds, they unfurl like silk through your mind. Bright. Soft. Agonizingly perfect.

Your parents — your biological ones. Mary, with her sweet smile and gorgeous curls. Richard, his soft blue eyes, his gentle explanations. You were six when the Joker killed them. You were six when Bruce adopted you. You were six when you became a younger sister to Richard Grayson.

Bruce follows quick — you don't call him that, you don't remember ever calling him by his name. He was dad. Your dad. Yours and your brother's. His proud smiles, his way of loving —not the easiest to understand, but his love anyway—, him patching you up. Running alongside Batman.

He trained you. You never got to be just a kid, but in some way, being Dragonfly was your childhood. Your dad designed your wings. Your tech. Your suit, that midnight lilac that shimmered like if a fairy was in place. He watched you soar.

Oh, how you would miss being her, the most precious creature to run with a Robin.

Alfred came by immediately, his warm hands —how they smelled faintly of mint and old books—, his tender words. The way he knew you. His tea was a love language, his honey-lemon remedy for every scraped knee and broken heart. Every time you thought you had finally fallen too far, done something too reckless, said something too cruel, Alfred never once looked at you like you were lost.

Dick was your older brother, the one who made you a sister, as you had been the only child in your parents marriage. He was the light in the house, the laugh in the cave. The first time you went out on patrol, he called you Dragonfly because you were fast, sharp, beautiful in the way you cut through the air. The name stuck.

You would miss that name. You would miss him most of all.

Then Jason.

And God, if Dick was light, then Jason was fire. Uncontainable, furious, alive in a way you never were before he entered your orbit. You were both twelve and had been rivals from the second he arrived, but not in a cruel way — no, it was more like iron sharpening iron. You trained together. Fought together. Bled together.

Perhaps that was what made you both so close. Powder and fuse, had once Alfred called you. Your twin in everything but blood.

You remember when he first died.

That was the first time you felt your soul break all over again. You were fifteen. You had been grounded — again — for going on missions without your father's permission. And then, just weeks later, he was gone. You were supposed to be with him. You were supposed to—

You stopped fighting after that. For months.

Then one day you started again — harder. With rage.

When he came back, angry and carved from vengeance, you tried to hold him the same way you used to. But Jason wasn’t Jason anymore — not for a long time. Still, he always softened around you, called you “Bug,” his voice dropping in pitch when no one else could hear.

You two were the same age. Same chaos. Same grief.

And in your last year alive, he had started calling you “sis” again. Just once. But once was enough.

Tim came next.

He was awkward when he met you, all logic and eyes too wide for his head. You were fifteen still. He was ten. He didn’t smile much, but he didn’t have to. He listened. And that meant more than anything. You used to steal his headphones when he was coding, just to mess with him. He’d scowl, sigh, and hand you a second pair.

Tim was your constant. When everything fell apart — Jason’s death, Bruce’s disappearances, your injuries, your silence — Tim was there. Steady. Intelligent. Often overlooked, always observing.

Steph was loud, sun-bright, and wild in ways that made the manor feel less like a mausoleum and more like a dorm room. You don't exactly remember when she moved in more regularly, and though you tried to act above it all, you loved her presence. She left your makeup bag notes. Borrowed your boots without asking. Hugged you like she meant it.

And then came Cass. She didn’t speak with words, and you hadn’t needed her to. You had connected through movement. The memory that burns brightest with her is the silent training session under moonlight, just the two of you — your bodies flowing like water, like poetry, like rage. The only sound was your breathing.

Afterwards, she pressed her forehead to yours and signed something with her fingers.

“I see you.”

You had burst into tears.

Were you crying now as well? You couldn't exactly know.

Duke came later. Light, quite literally.

You were older when he joined — already hardened. But he softened you. He reminded you of everything bright that Gotham tried to strangle. You remember him racing you on patrol, skateboarding off rooftops just to make you smile. His optimism was relentless.

And finally — Damian.

Only a year you had with him. But it mattered.

You remember the cold shoulder, the bitterness. But more than that, you remember the slow thaw. Seeing him alongside that cow he loved, the dog he commanded and still treated with so much love. You saw through him, as once your father had with you.

Seven minutes.

You were dead for much more than seven minutes.

And then . . . you weren't.

Water.

Cold, thick water.

You choke on it as you jolt back into existence. Not awake — no, this isn’t waking. Waking is peaceful. Waking is gentle. This is violence. This is agony carved into the shape of resurrection.

Your body convulses. Your lungs scream. River water floods your throat, burns up your nose, and you thrash beneath the surface — flailing, spiderlike, unnatural, primal. Your senses are all wrong. They come too fast, too loud, too bright. Every drop against your skin is a blade, every ripple a scream. Your hands — god, your hands — twitch and tremble, joints locking and unlocking like marionette strings yanked by God Himself.

You claw to the surface.

The air cuts into your lungs like knives. You sob, but it sounds feral, not human. Half-spider, half-death. Your fingers grasp the muddy embankment, tearing into the dirt like your body is demanding to stay this time.

You don’t know how long you lay there.

Time doesn’t mean anything anymore. Not when your memories are still flickering behind your eyelids like film reels melting in heat. Not when you can still taste Joker’s laughter in your mouth, his filth on your skin. Not when you can still hear Crane’s voice, calm and clean and clinical, saying things like "subject stability" and "arachnoid molecular elasticity."

Your skin is raw.

You heave again. River water, bile, and rage spill from your mouth.

And you scream.

A scream that splits the air open. A scream that is seven minutes late.

You don’t know who you are anymore.

You don’t remember coming back. You only remember dying. You only remember blood. And needles. And the look on your father’s face — Dad’s face — when he found your mask, broken in two, lying in a pool of blood.

Why? Why were you there?

Didn’t you have a family? Didn’t you have brothers? Where were your sisters? Didn’t someone come for you? Didn’t he come for you?

“WHERE ARE YOU?!”

You don’t realize you’ve screamed the words until your throat cracks. Your voice is nothing like it used to be. It’s not light or soft or sharp. It’s gravel and glass. All cracked edges and venom beneath.

You drag yourself up the bank. Knees collapsing beneath you. Limbs shuddering with effort.

Your fingers twitch — and from your wrists, soft threads pulse, wet and twitching like veins. But they don’t fire.

You blink. Your eyes adjust to the dark. And you run.

You don’t know how far. Maybe blocks. Maybe miles. Your feet don’t feel the ground. You don’t feel anything. Not until you crash into the rusted gates of Crime Alley.

Of course. You always end up here.

This place was your grave once. Now it’s your shadow.

You collapse in the corner of an abandoned laundromat, curling into yourself. Shaking. Your clothes are too tight. Or maybe your body is wrong. Everything hurts.

You dig your nails into your arms — but you don’t bleed. Not properly. The skin seals again in seconds. You hate that. You hate how quick your body fixes itself. Like it’s trying to forget what happened. Like it’s trying to pretend you weren’t broken at all.

“You should be dead,” you whisper.

You say it again. And again.

“You should be dead.”

You mean it. You were dead. For months. Years. You know you died. You remember the cold, the rot, the last sound being Joker’s voice in your ear, whispering something horrible — something you’ve blocked out because if you remember it, you’ll break apart again.

So you don’t. You press your forehead to the tile. You tremble. You try not to vomit.

Your fingers twitch again, and the webs flex. Unfired. Uncontrolled. You need something. You need someone.

But who? Bruce?

He didn’t come for you. He didn’t save you. None of them did. Not Dick. Not Jason. Not Tim. Not Cass. Not even Alfred. You were just... gone.

Buried in an empty casket. A name on a plaque. A whisper in the manor halls.

You want to believe they looked. That they searched. That they tore the city apart. But you don’t know.

You curl in tighter, and for the first time in years, you cry. Not rage. Not fury. Grief.

You cry because you don’t feel human. Because your reflection is gone. Because the world moved on. Because the girl who was once Dragonfly died and no one ever found her.

Because now you’re something else.

Something more.

Something wrong.

Scarecrow had called it “Project Spider.” As if giving it a name made it less monstrous. As if branding your horror made it a triumph.

You still remember the needles.

Twelve-inch syringes of something black. He called them serum trials. You called them torture. Your veins remember — you can still see them, your skin pale and thin and patterned with scars. Two symmetrical paths running from your wrist to your elbow, like rivers of ruin.

You had screamed.

They had laughed.

Joker. That bastard.

His voice still haunts your dreams. Still echoes in the rhythm of your heartbeat, because sometimes it beats too fast — spider-fast — and that makes it worse.

“Sing for me, little bug,” he’d said once, pressing a scalpel to your throat.

You hadn’t sung.

You’d bled instead.

You are not what you were.

You feel it.

The way your muscles twitch without command. The way your skin itches from the inside. The way your senses sharpen and shatter simultaneously. You feel everything. The worms in the earth. The dew on the grass. The distant heartbeat of a rat two blocks away.

And worst of all — the hunger.

It claws at you.

You need.

But you don’t know what. Or why. Or how.

You stumble to your feet. You’re barefoot, and your legs tremble under your own weight.

Something is… wrong with your spine.

Your balance is off — until you adjust, and your limbs shift with the grace of a predator. It’s not human. It’s not you.

You wander for days.

The sewers. The back alleys. The places even Gotham forgets. You eat trash and rats and once — once — a pigeon. You weep after. You vomit it up and cry so hard you almost pass out.

You aren’t human.

You aren’t.

The city doesn't feel like yours anymore.

But you clawed your way back. Bone by broken bone. Breath by burning breath. And now the city you once lived in lives in you. It breathes through your skin. It pulses with every strand of web you shoot, every scream you silence, every desperate child you wrap in warmth before vanishing into shadow.

You are Crimson Silk now.

Crimson, like blood. Silk, like the threads you cast to protect the only places that still feel real. Crime Alley. The Narrows. The places no one else dares to watch.

They don’t get heroes. They get you. And that’s enough.

You do not own them — you protect them. As best you can. In the way only something like you can.

You move through the city like smoke. The rooftops don't creak under your weight. You work in silence, in spider-patterns. No flair, no flourish. A body hits the ground — a molester trying to corner a teen behind a bar — and within ten seconds he's webbed to the wall and gagging on his own fear. You don’t even stop. He’ll be found. Eventually. And it will take a lot to take off those webs.

You leave notes now. Sloppy handwriting on torn papers or napkins.

“Tell them I said hello.”

You sign them with a bloody spider. Not your blood, that one is poisonous, would kill anyone in contact with it, or at least burn them bad.

No one needs to know who you are. Not really.

You patrol until you collapse. You live that way. Move, move, move until your muscles start to tear, until your stomach caves in, until the hunger swallows thought. Then, and only then, do you stop.

Then it’s back to the den. A racked apartment above a pawn shop where the landlord only comes once a month to collect rent. He doesn’t speak English. You don’t speak Portuguese. You give him the cash and he gives you a nod. It works.

No one else knows you live there but three cats that won't leave. You don’t mind them. One sleeps on your chest sometimes. You call him Alfred. He’s gray. Stern. Judgy.

You haven’t seen the real Alfred since…

You bury that thought like you bury everything else.

You have a system now.

Feed the kids. Break the gangs. Avoid the Bats.

Especially Red Hood.

Jason is out there. You feel him in the same way your spider-sense warns you when something shifts in the air. He doesn’t patrol like the others. He stays. He breathes the Narrows like you do. He sees more than he should.

But you’re faster.

You’ve seen his eyes once — through his helmet.

He’d stared at the fresh webbing across an alleyway, half a man stuck to the side of a dumpster with a sticky note slapped on his cheek.

It had said: “Keep your hands off the girls.”

Jason had tilted his head. You were already gone.

Anyways, the floorboards of your apartment at least don't creak. But the heater doesn’t work, and the window locks are broken —nothing you couldn't replace with your fresh webs. You fixed the sink yourself. Ripped out the moldy pipes and welded them back together with pieces of scrap you stole from the junkyard. Rewired the whole breaker box. Built your own water filter using gravel and charcoal and an old coffee tin.

You survive.

Your mattress is old, your blanket stolen from a motel linen bin, but it’s warm . . . Sort of.

By day, you work at Cecilia’s Diner — a rusty little dive on the edge of Crime Alley, where the windows fog up from grease and the neon sign buzzes loud enough to drive anyone sane up a wall.

You’re the waitress most nights. Sometimes the cook, if Luis doesn’t show up. Occasionally the bouncer, if things get ugly.

They get ugly often.

Gotham doesn’t let anything stay clean. Not for long. Men come in bleeding, high, staggering. Women with black eyes and nowhere to go. Kids hungry enough to eat sugar packets straight.

You serve them all.

“Three eggs, overdone, no yolk?” you ask without writing it down.

Cecilia watches you from behind the counter, chewing on the end of a pencil. She knows you’re not normal. Doesn’t say anything. Lets you eat free. Pays you in cash. Keeps her mouth shut.

You’d bleed for her. You already have.

Once, a guy grabbed your wrist too hard. Tried to drag you toward the kitchen when you brought him the wrong drink. You dislocated his elbow with a flick of your hand and webbed him to the door before he could even scream.

No one questioned it.

They just started calling you Silky.

The name stuck.

By night, you patrol. No tech. No Bat-support. Just instinct. And your suit.

You made it from scraps — stolen Kevlar panels, spandex, other materials you don't even remember the name. The base is black, from toes to neck, a white web pattern you painted with your own hands covers the chest and the abdomen, sharp angular white lines on the arms and thighs. A single red mask covers the lower half of your face, leaving the eyes; they tend to get white when you are too spidey-like.

The web-shooters are homemade. Not pretty but they work.

Your spider sense guides you — a thousand whispers inside your skull, dragging your head toward crime like a moth to flame. Your eyes adjust to pitch black. Your bones bend in ways no human’s should. You leap across rooftops with the silence of something more insect than girl.

The kids love you.

They scream and point when you swing overhead. “It’s her!” “It’s Crimson Silk!” “She’s back!” “Did you see that? She crawled on the wall like a lizard!”

You stop for them.

Drop into alleyways with your mask half-down and crouch low so they don’t feel too small. You mend their toys with webbing. Carry them to the clinic when they’re sick. You make them feel safe.

You used to feel that way once.

Once.

Before the needles.

Before the Joker.

Before Scarecrow cut your body open and called it science.

You don’t hate the Joker, though. Not anymore. Not really.

Maybe, once, you did. Once, you were Dragonfly, and the thought of his face made your fists clench. Once, he was the monster in the closet, the bogeyman in your bloodstream, the voice in your nightmares whispering, laugh, little bug, laugh—

But now?

You thank him.

He pulled the trigger, even if it was a knife, and it was slow and so painful, he ended it. Ended the cage, the surgeries, the ice-cold labs, the peeling scent of Scarecrow’s toxin mixed with your sweat. He dumped your body in the river. He ended the experiment.

Joker was a madman.

But Crane? Crane was methodical.

He didn’t laugh. He recorded. He took notes while you screamed. Adjusted the dosage while you convulsed. Tilted your face toward the light and measured pupil dilation while your organs begged for mercy.

You remember the click of his pen better than the sound of your own name.

You ache for him. Not in any human way. Not with longing or hope or justice.

You ache with the same sharp hunger that your body does when you haven't eaten in two days. That need to consume. To end. To burrow into his chest and tear him apart from the inside out.

You whisper his name sometimes, when the walls get too quiet.

You want him to hear it coming.

But that's another story. For another day.

You eat five meals a day now. It’s required.

Your metabolism burns too hot — you need mass, carbs, salt, iron. You once cleared half the diner's pantry in one sitting after a particularly brutal patrol. Cecilia didn’t blink. She just refilled the fridge the next day.

When the hunger hits too hard, you get twitchy. Mean. Shaky. You smell things no human should. Taste colors. Your fangs poke out whether you want them to or not. You have to chug honey and rice just to calm down.

You learned the hard way that venom leaks when you’re starving. It paralyzes. Not forever. But long enough. You’ve only used it on people three times.

You don’t like to remember. You don’t want to remember what you’re capable of when you lose control.

The rooftops are slick with rainwater, summer heat refusing to cool even under the weight of dark clouds pressing down on the skyline. Gotham breathes in smog and exhales smoke; its heartbeat pulses in alleys and fire escapes, in the rustle of newspapers blown through empty streets, in the groan of buildings old enough to remember the blood that stained their bricks. You move with it. You always have. Or at least, you did—back when you were still someone else.

You land without sound, crouched low like instinct demanded, fingers pressed to the ledge of a dilapidated old clock tower near the upper east blocks—still too close to the nice part of town. You shouldn’t be here. But you followed a lead, and when someone whispers “Scarecrow” in your ear through black market contacts and dying dealers with bleeding noses and red-glassed eyes, you don’t exactly get picky about which roof you bleed on.

Your eyes flick toward movement—blurred but deliberate. Another vigilante silhouette, sleek, red-trimmed, confident.

Red Robin.

He’s standing tall in the spotlight cast by a security beacon that’s been out since last winter. Of course he’d find the one light still working. He’s like that. You can’t hear him yet, but his posture is so damn smug, you don’t need to. It drips off him in waves. You could smell that arrogance even if your spider-sense didn’t warn you first.

You straighten slightly, head tilting.

He speaks before you do. Of course he does.

“New mask,” he says, arms folded across his chest. “New name, new face… but same drama, I’m guessing?”

You don’t answer. Not right away. You don’t need to explain yourself to anyone. Especially not a kid who still smells like Wayne Manor shampoo.

“Didn’t know the Bat let metas out to play without a leash now,” he continues, stepping forward, motioning vaguely at you. “We doing that? Some sort of spider-themed affirmative action?”

Your shoulders roll with a pop as you stand, eyes narrowing beneath your mask.

“I’m no meta.”

He snorts. “Sure. And I’m not tired of getting dive-bombed by people with bloodthirsty nicknames and unresolved trauma.”

“I don’t want to hurt you,” you uttered.

He drew his staff in a single, fluid motion. “You won’t.”

You descend in a blur, faster than he expected. His back hits the gravel rooftop with a sharp exhale, but he’s already swinging a baton before your feet even land. You leap, mid-flip, body folding tight over his strike, back bending unnaturally as the baton sweeps under your ribs. You land behind him and kick.

He spins just in time, catching your foot with his forearm and sliding backward.

“Ow,” he says flatly. “Was that supposed to hurt more, or are you pacing yourself?”

“I don’t pace,” you reply, and your voice comes low, measured. Like something that’s learned to sound calm before it bites.

“Noted,” he grunts, and this time he lunges.

Your fights are always quick. They have to be—your strength is nothing short of brutal, and even when you try to pull back, bones break. But Red Robin isn’t just good. He’s calculated. He moves like he knows he’s two steps behind but bets he can fake being ahead long enough to catch you off guard.

Your limbs move faster than human—he notices. His brow furrows mid-swing, even as he ducks your elbow and tries for your side again. You grab his cape mid-motion, twist, and yank him to the rooftop. He gasps, lands on his side, rolls—and smiles.

“You’re really not the friendly neighborhood type, huh?”

You bare your fangs.

You are not going do to anything with them, but you bare them to scare him, to make him run away from you, so you don't have to force yourself to hurt him.

Venom glistens faintly in the shadows of your mouth—two sharp canines that have long since grown used to being out of place in a human face. You clench your jaw, willing the urge down. You're not hungry, but your hunger doesn’t care. Your body is always reminding you of how much it costs to stay alive.

He freezes, just briefly, eyes locking on your mouth, and you know he's trying to place it—trying to match it with files, images, lost faces.

You leap again.

This time, he doesn’t try to be funny. He fights like a trained weapon, baton in one hand, throwing disks in the other, shouting mid-fight like he can’t turn off his damn commentary.

“You know, for someone this bendy,”—your leg folds around his throat, flips him to the ground again—“you really don’t have a lot of chill.”

You hiss. “Stop talking.”

“Can’t. Contractually obligated.”

You slam him into a metal ventilation unit, denting it in the shape of his ribs. It knocks the wind out of him, but still he gets up. Of course he does. You almost admire it. Almost.

“You’re not a meta,” he coughs, rubbing his side. “But you’re definitely not normal. Not even Gotham-level weird.”

You crouch low, spider-like, wrists twitching subtly. “There’s no one like me.”

He raises a brow. “Oh, you’d get along great with Jason.”

That makes something ugly twitch behind your ribs.

You dart forward again, spider-sense flaring bright white across your nerves. He throws smoke. You web it apart midair.

He whistles, low. “Oh, that’s cheating.”

“This isn’t a game.”

“Could’ve fooled me,” he says, flipping onto a higher ledge. “You fight like someone with something to prove. But you don’t kill. You don’t maim. You just knock the air out of me and bounce.”

You follow. He barely gets a block of movement before you web his ankle, yank him down, and flip him mid-fall.

“Whatever you are, you shouldn’t be here,” he said, tone shifting. “You’re interfering. Gotham has a system. If you’re rogue, then you’re a problem.”

“You think Gotham’s system works?” you asked. “Go look at the kids two blocks from here selling powdered poison to keep the lights on. Go tell them the Bat’s system is working.”

“I do,” he cracked. “Every damn night. Which is why I’m not letting some half-feral experiment run wild through it.”

His breath is hitching, his stance slower. He’s buying time. You feel it in the way he keeps baiting. The talking isn’t just annoyance—it’s cover. He doesn’t understand what you are. And maybe, if he talks enough, it won’t hit him. That awful feeling that creeps into your skin like static.

Your spider-sense tingles again. But this time it’s not him.

Something far away—watching.

You twist sharply toward the distant skyline. A flash of blue. A glint of escrima sticks. A rooftop higher than yours, and too far to act on.

Nightwing.

Just for a second, you see him. Tall, composed. Shoulders squared like a warning beacon in a city full of ghosts. He doesn’t move. Doesn’t interfere.

Your breath catches in your chest like guilt.

“Hey!” Red Robin’s voice yanks you back. “Eyes on me. That’s rude.”

You throw the last of your web fluid without hesitation.

It fires in tight spirals, engineered for speed and impact. You slam him against the wall of the rooftop stairwell, wrap him up head to toe before he can move. Arms pinned, legs locked, mouth left free.

“Wha—seriously?” he grunts. “Do you know how much this suit costs?”

“I don’t care.”

He wiggles a little. “I’m gonna get out of this in, like, ten minutes.”

You’re already backing up toward the edge of the roof. “That’s all I need.”

“And when I do, I’m following you.”

“No,” you say, stepping onto the ledge. “You’re not.”

And with that, you vanish into the night. Web-line launched toward the old power lines that string across Crime Alley like ribs, you swing low, fast, pulse racing, heart torn between venom and sorrow. The world behind you shrinks into silence. But your ears still ring.

He doesn’t know. He doesn’t recognize you. The younger brother who used to annoy you in the kitchen, beg to train with you, joke until you were wheezing from laughter—he doesn’t see you now. Just another shadow in the city. Another threat. Another thing to chase.

And maybe that’s better. Maybe it’s safer that way.

You slip back into the darkness of your own making, breathing hard, tears you won’t cry stinging at your throat. The kids in the Narrows need you. Crime Alley is waiting.

But your limbs still ache with the memory of the fight. And your chest still aches with the truth that you can’t say.

You are Crimson Silk.

And you're not supposed to be alive.

#batfam x reader #batfamily x reader #batsis #batsis reader #spider!batsis!reader #webs of pain #roy harper x reader #maybe #batboys x reader #platonic dick grayson x reader #platonic jason todd x reader #platonic cassandra cain x reader #platonic stephanie brown x reader #platonic tim drake x reader #platonic damian wayne x reader #platonic duke thomas x reader #platonic bruce wayne x reader

1K notes · View notes

widowromanova · 6 months ago

Text

Sniper (Part 4) - Natasha x Female reader

warnings: slight violence, smut

word count: 6759

The rooftop was silent except for the distant hum of the city below. You stayed there for a moment longer, gripping the edge of the railing as if holding on could somehow bring her back. But it couldn’t.

Your breath came out in uneven bursts, the adrenaline starting to wane, leaving only the ache of her absence. Again. The memory of her red hair streaking through the wind seared into your mind.

Then her words echoed back, sharp and unrelenting: Things change.

A rush of determination surged through you. This wasn’t over. Natasha didn’t leave loose ends, and she certainly didn’t come to that rooftop tonight just to disappear.

No, she wanted you to follow her. You pushed yourself away from the edge and adjusted the strap of your gear. Whatever game she was playing, you were done hesitating. If Natasha wanted to draw you into her web, you’d follow - but on your terms.

As you descended the stairs of the building, the familiar tension in your chest began to harden into resolve. You replayed every word, every movement, searching for clues. The gala rooftop wasn’t random. It was deliberate. There had to be a reason she chose this place to confront you - and to vanish.

By the time you reached the street, the cool night air had sharpened your focus. You didn’t have much to go on, but you knew Natasha.

You tightened your coat around you and set off into the city. One step closer to finding her. As you walked through the streets, your mind raced with possibilities. Where would she go? Then, like a lightning strike, it hit you - the safehouse.

It was a relic from a time when trust had been implicit between you, before everything unraveled. The small, nondescript apartment on the edge of the city had been your shared sanctuary, hidden from prying eyes. Neither SHIELD nor anyone else knew about it, and for a while, it had felt like the only place in the world where the two of you could truly breathe.

Your pace quickened as the memory came flooding back: the mismatched furniture, the faint smell of coffee that lingered in the air, and the way Natasha would sit cross-legged on the floor, absentmindedly dismantling and reassembling weapons while you tried to convince her to take a break.

You hadn’t thought about the safehouse in years, but now it seemed like the only place that made sense. If she was leading you anywhere, it had to be there.

You returned to your apartment first. You couldn’t go to her empty-handed - not this time. If Natasha had taught you anything, it was to be prepared, to think two steps ahead.

The room was silent when you entered, the faint hum of the city outside barely registering. Your eyes swept over the space as you moved with purpose toward the hidden compartment beneath your bed. You hadn’t opened it in years, but you knew exactly what was inside.

Sliding the compartment open, you reached in and pulled out a small, unassuming black case. Inside was the device. It was SHIELD tech, highly experimental, designed specifically to counteract enhanced abilities or nullify even the most skilled opponents. It worked like an EMP, but instead of disrupting electronics, it disrupted neural pathways temporarily, effectively incapacitating the target.

Natasha wouldn’t see it coming.

You hesitated for a moment, your fingers brushing over the smooth surface of the device. This was now about finding the person in her that you used to know. You slid the device into your jacket pocket, its presence a weight.

As you stood, your gaze flicked to the corner of your desk, where an old photo frame sat. It was one of the few things you hadn’t thrown away - a picture of the two of you from years ago, back when things had been simpler.

You picked it up, studying her face. The smile, the way her eyes crinkled slightly at the corners. The Natasha in this photo was a world apart from the woman you’d faced tonight. Sliding the photo out of the frame, you tucked it into your other pocket. Not for her - no, this was for you. A reminder of what was at stake. With a steadying breath, you grabbed your gear and headed out the door, your mind already focused.

By the time you reached the outskirts of the city, the dim glow from the morning sun started to appear. The streets grew quieter as you neared the old building. The safehouse was tucked away on the third floor, its faded brick exterior blending seamlessly into the neighbourhood. You hesitated at the entrance, your hand hovering over the doorframe as you steeled yourself.

The lock was newer than you remembered, a subtle sign that someone had been here recently. Natasha. Of course, she’d updated it. You pulled out your tools, your hands steady despite the adrenaline surging through you. The lock gave way with a quiet click, and you pushed the door open cautiously.

The interior was dimly lit, the curtains drawn tight. It smelled faintly of dust, mixed with something sharper - gun oil, maybe. The layout was almost exactly as you remembered it: the small kitchen to the left, the couch you’d both hated but never replaced, and the table where countless plans had been scribbled onto napkins and scraps of paper.

But it wasn’t just the memory of the place that hit you - it was the realisation that she had been here, recently. A half-empty glass of water sat on the counter. The faintest imprint of her boots on the dusty floor. And then you saw it: the box.

Sitting on the table, a plain wooden box, its lid slightly ajar. Your stomach tightened as you approached it, your hands brushing against the smooth surface. Inside were photos - pictures of the two of you. Moments you’d thought were long buried.

She’d taken them. Not stolen, but preserved. Why?

You flipped through them, your throat tightening with each one. The two of you at the safehouse, her leaning on your shoulder, you laughing at something she’d said. Another from a mission, her smirk caught perfectly in the frame.

Beneath the photos was a slip of paper. You unfolded it, the words scrawled in her unmistakable handwriting:

"Not yet. You’ll know when."

The message left you reeling. You clenched the note in your fist, your resolve hardening. If she wanted to keep pulling you into her game, you’d follow her lead. But this time, you wouldn’t hesitate.

The safehouse felt oppressive now, its familiarity twisted into something unsettling. You turned, scanning the room for anything else she might have left behind. Your gaze landed on the couch, and for a moment, you could almost see her sitting there, legs tucked beneath her, a knowing smirk on her lips as if she had predicted your every move.

You paced to the window, pulling back the heavy curtain just enough to peer out into the quiet street below. The faint glow of dawn had given way to full daylight, the city starting to stir. Natasha was out there somewhere.

Was she trying to test your loyalty, your resolve, or was there some part of her that still wanted you to understand? To see the reasons behind her actions?

You turned back to the table, your eyes falling on the box again. The photos were a stark contrast to the woman you faced now. They showed moments of vulnerability, of trust, of something real.

The weight of the device in your pocket brought you back to the present. It was a contingency plan, a last resort. But even as you’d taken it, you knew you didn’t want to use it - not unless there was no other choice.

With one last glance around the safehouse, you moved to the door. You’d learned all you could here. The note was clear enough: Natasha wasn’t done with you yet, and she wanted you to keep looking. But if you were going to find her, you’d need to anticipating her next move before she made it. If there was a part of Natasha still worth saving, you had to believe she was leading you to it.

You stepped out into the hallway, pulling the door shut behind you. The quiet click of the lock felt like you were leaving the past behind - again. But this time, you weren’t chasing memories; you were chasing her.

And you wouldn’t stop until you caught up.

You exited the building, stepping onto the quiet street as the sun crept higher into the sky. The city was waking up, the hum of traffic and distant chatter pulling you back into the present. You pulled your coat tighter, both reassuringly and suffocatingly.

You moved with purpose, blending into the crowd as you retraced steps you hadn’t walked in years. Natasha’s note had been vague, but her choice of location wasn’t random. If she wanted you to find her, she’d leave a trail.

The first stop wasn’t the obvious one. It was the nearby café where the two of you used to meet during missions, a quiet corner of the city where secrets were exchanged over bitter coffee. The thought was almost laughable now - how many times had she teased you for always ordering the same thing?

The café hadn’t changed much. The smell of freshly brewed coffee greeted you as you stepped inside, and the faint hum of conversation filled the air. You scanned the room, your heart skipping a beat when your eyes landed on the corner table. It was empty now, but the memory of her sitting there, her red hair catching the light as she leaned in close to whisper something only for you, was vivid.

You approached the table, your eyes darting to the small notepad left for customers to write reviews or messages. It was a long shot, but Natasha had a flair for theatrics. Flipping through the pages, you found nothing out of the ordinary - until you reached the very last page.

Scrawled in the corner was a simple line: "Close, but not quite."

Your grip tightened on the edge of the notepad as frustration bubbled up. She was toying with you, but at least you were on the right track.

You left the café, your mind working furiously. If she’d been here, she couldn’t have gone far. Natasha was deliberate in everything she did. The safehouse, the note, the café - they weren’t just breadcrumbs.

Your next destination was clear: the alley behind the café, where you used to slip away unnoticed. It was a spot you both knew well, a place where conversations had been had in hushed tones.

As you stepped into the alley, the air grew colder, the shadows stretching long against the brick walls. The faint scent of cigarette smoke lingered, though you knew Natasha didn’t smoke. Your eyes scanned the area, every nerve on edge. Then, tucked into the crevice of a windowsill, you saw it: a small, folded piece of paper.

You unfolded it carefully, the faint imprint of her handwriting making your heart clench.

"You’re getting warmer."

The cryptic message struck a chord. You could almost hear her voice in the words, playfully laced with a smirk.

You folded the note and slipped it into your pocket. With determination, you made your way through the city streets. It was almost instinctual now, the way you moved, the way you searched for where she’d be.

You had been there before, a small, forgotten alley hidden behind a set of old warehouses on the outskirts of the city. The perfect spot for her to challenge you.

The alley was quiet, the air thick with the scent of old machinery and smoke. You walked further in, scanning your surroundings. At first, nothing seemed out of place—until you noticed the torn edge of a scrap of paper caught in the corner of a rusted fence. You grabbed it quickly, unfolding it with urgency.

"Come on... obviously I wouldn't make it this easy."

The note sent a surge of irritation through you. You gritted your teeth, crumpling the piece of paper in your fist. It angered you that the plan she had for you to follow her was working. You forced yourself to take a deep breath, trying to clear your mind. She'd want you to be angry, to let your emotions guide you. That's why the notes were so carefully crafted, an intricate mix of challenge and mockery. Natasha's smugness practically dripped from the words.

You stood there for a moment, your pulse still running high from the chase, but a wave of exhaustion slowly started to settle over you. Your feet felt heavier as you turned back, the alley stretching ahead of you in the growing dark. The distant sounds of the city, once a comfort, now felt more like an oppressive weight. You weren't sure if you were ready to keep going, if you even could.

As you walked, the light of the fading day grew dimmer, the air cooler, and the streets less crowded. The more you thought about finding hr, the more you realised how little you had left to go on.

Eventually, your pace slowed, and the anger you’d felt earlier was replaced with something quieter. The irritation began to bleed out of you, and what replaced it was a sense of helplessness.

By the time you reached the familiar bridge that led home, you realised you were done for the night. The streetlights flickered on, casting long shadows on the pavement. You tugged your collar up against the evening chill, your thoughts scattered, and continued forward, the hum of the city now distant enough that you could hear the sound of your own breath.

And then, a small sound - a rock skittering across the ground.

You stopped in your tracks, heart skipping a beat. Slowly, you turned, the sudden shift in the air making your senses sharpen. There, standing a few feet away in the half-light, was Natasha. Her presence was unmistakable, like she’d been waiting for you.

For a moment, neither of you moved. The space between you felt heavy. Finally, she spoke, her voice low, almost quiet. "Is that it then, Y/N?"

Her eyes met yours, that familiar smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth. You could feel the challenge crackling between you.

You didn’t answer right away. What was there to say? Instead, you took a breath and let the silence hang for just a moment longer.

"Where are we going with this?" you asked, your voice steady despite the way your pulse was quickening. "What do you want, Natasha?"

She didn’t answer immediately, just stared at you for a long beat. Then, her lips curved into that same small, knowing smile. "Maybe I want you to figure it out."

Her words lingered in the cool night air. You stared at her.

"You always did like making things complicated," you said, your voice sharp, betraying the frustration bubbling beneath the surface. "Why now? You could’ve ended it all already."

She tilted her head, eyes narrowing ever so slightly, as if savouring the tension. "Maybe I didn’t want it to end," she replied softly, taking a step closer. "Maybe I wanted to see how far you'd go. You always did surprise me."

The distance between you shrank with each step she took, and yet, it felt like she was miles away. You stayed rooted to the spot, not letting her be the only one to move.

"I could’ve walked away," you said, your tone low. "But I didn’t. So what now, Natasha?"

She came to a stop, just inches from you. Her eyes never left yours. “This isn’t a game, Y/N. Never has been.”

"Then what are we doing?" you asked. For a moment, she didn’t answer. Her gaze flicked from your eyes to your lips, and for just a second, you thought she might say something, but she didn’t.

Instead, she stepped closer, her voice barely a whisper. "You’ll know soon enough."

Then, without waiting for a response, she took a step back, her gaze still steady on you, leaving you standing there.

"Why now?" you asked, breaking the silence, your voice more vulnerable than you intended.

Her lips curled, but there was no humour in it. "Because you’re here," she said simply, the answer almost too casual for the weight of the moment. "And you always follow the trail."

Your chest tightened, the sharp sting of realization hitting you. She was right. You had been following, hadn’t you? Every note, every cryptic word—this whole chase—it had all been because you couldn’t stop yourself from trying to understand her. Even when you knew you shouldn’t.

"You never make things easy," you muttered, mostly to yourself.

Natasha’s gaze softened for a fraction of a second, like a glimpse of something more familiar, something closer to the woman you once knew. Then, just as quickly, it was gone, replaced by that cool, unreadable mask.

"It's not supposed to be," she said, her voice low. "That’s how it works."

You looked at her, the questions swirling in your mind, but you didn’t ask. Not yet. Instead, you took a breath, trying to ground yourself.

"Where do we go from here?" you finally asked.

Her gaze flicked to the city skyline in the distance, and for a moment, she seemed far away. "We keep moving forward," she said softly, the words heavy with some unspoken meaning. "Because I have no other choice, Y/N."

And then she turned, her silhouette disappearing into the shadows of the night.

The night seemed colder now. The tension from just moments ago had dissipated, but the uncertainty remained, gnawing at you like an unhealed wound.

You wanted to chase after her, to demand answers, to understand what the hell she meant by everything. But something inside you held back - an old instinct, the same one that had warned you before.

Some days had passed, many spent wallowing in your apartment trying to decode everything she had ever done or said to you. The walk back to your apartment on this day felt longer than ever, every person reminding her of you - you had stopped by the café to experience your warm memories again. Maybe for the last time.

The sound of your footsteps echoed in the still night. It was then that you heard it - a low hum, the unmistakable sound of a vehicle pulling up behind you.

You turned instinctively, but before you could react, the car came into view, its headlights cutting through the darkness.

The car stopped in front of you, the engine dying with a soft sputter. The door opened, and there she was - Natasha, her figure illuminated by the faint glow of the car screen. Her eyes met yours across the distance, unreadable, calm.

"Did you really think I was done with you?" she asked, her voice quiet.

You didn’t answer right away. You couldn’t. Instead, you just watched her, trying to read her expression. Her body language was relaxed, but you knew better than to trust that. Natasha never let her guard down fully.

"Where are we going, Natasha?" you finally asked, your voice steady despite the way your pulse had quickened.

She stepped forward, the car door still ajar behind her. "You’ll see," she replied, her lips curling into that familiar, enigmatic smile. You stepped forward, toward her, knowing that walking away now wasn’t an option.

The interior of the car smelled faintly of leather and gun oil, a subtle reminder of the world you and Natasha both inhabited. As you slid into the passenger seat, she moved with practiced ease, shutting the door behind her and taking the wheel.

The engine roared to life, and she pulled the car onto the road without a word. The silence between you was heavy, filled with the weight of questions you couldn’t ask and answers you weren’t ready to hear. The glow of the city lights streaked across her face, accentuating the sharp angles and the shadows that seemed to cling to her.

Finally, unable to bear the silence any longer, you broke it. "This feels familiar," you said, your voice cutting through the hum of the engine.

Natasha’s lips twitched into the faintest of smiles. "Some things don’t change," she replied, her tone almost amused.

You turned to face her, studying her profile. Her grip on the steering wheel tightened for just a fraction of a second, a movement so small you might have missed it if you weren’t watching her so closely. "Not everything has to," she said after a moment.

She was always like this - just enough honesty to keep you hooked, but never enough to give you clarity.

The car slowed as she pulled into a desolate stretch of road, flanked by crumbling warehouses and overgrown lots. The city’s glow faded behind you, replaced by the stark stillness of the outskirts.

She parked the car and turned off the engine, leaving you both in the silence of the night. For a moment, neither of you moved. Then she turned to face you, her eyes piercing in the dim light.

"Do you remember the first time we were here?" she asked, her voice softer now, almost vulnerable.

You frowned, glancing around. The place looked vaguely familiar, but the memory eluded you. Natasha chuckled, noticing your confusion. "Relax," she said, a hint of the old familiarity creeping back into her tone. She nodded towards the glove compartment, gesturing for you to open it. You obliged, the old leather creaking under your fingers as you flipped up the lid. Inside was the familiar sight of a sleek handgun, resting atop a stack of old maps. But beneath the map, your eyes caught sight of something else: a faded photo.

You pulled it out carefully, your fingers tracing the edges as you studied the picture. The photo showed the two of you, younger and carefree. The backdrop was a familiar city alley, the old brick wall still standing in the same spot. Neither of you were looking at the camera; instead, you were leaning close to each other, each wearing a cocky smirk.

It had been taken years ago during your time in SHIELD. You remembered that day clearly; the mission to infiltrate a rival organization's headquarters had gone smoothly, but the adrenaline from the success had led to a moment of carelessness. You remembered standing in the abandoned alleyway, the thrill of success still coursing through your veins. It was then that Natasha had pulled out her phone and snapped the shot.

Memories came flooding back as you stared at the image. You could feel the rough texture of the brick wall against your back, the cold night air on your skin. And there was Natasha, her arm slung casually around your shoulders as if it was the most natural thing in the world.

You turned to look at her, seeing the subtle change in her expression. Her eyes were fixed on the photo, a mixture of nostalgia and something softer flitting across her features.

Without looking away, she spoke. "We had it all mapped out back then, didn't we?" she mused.

You looked back down at the photo, not saying anything. Natasha studied your face for a moment, the silence stretching between you like a taut rope. Finally, she spoke again.

"We were reckless," she said, almost more to herself than to you. Her gaze drifted back to the photo, a faint smile pulling at the corners of her lips. "Always pushing boundaries. You remember that time we decided to go deep undercover in that mob hangout without any backup?"

Her tone was casual, but there was a spark in her eyes that betrayed her memory of that night. You remained silent for a while, running your thumb across the photo, "We're still reckless, Nat."

Natasha's expression dropped momentarily before saying, "There's things that have to be done, Y/N." She turned away from the photo, looking down at the cuts on her hands. In the dim light of the car, Natasha's face looked almost gaunt, etched with lines that hadn't been there before.

You studied her in the silence, seeing hints of the woman you used to know beneath the mask she now wore. But there was also a coldness in her eyes.

"They don't have to be done like this, Nat." That use of her name made her eyes dilate ever so slightly. She didn't look at you, but you saw the stiffening of her shoulders. Neither of you spoke for several moments, the words hanging heavy in the air. She was the first to break the quiet.

"You always were too soft." Her voice was quiet, almost a whisper. She placed her hands on the wheel, turning her head at you, "How should they be done then, Y/N?"

There was a challenge in her gaze, as if she was daring you to answer.

"There's always another way." You kept your voice soft. Natasha let out a dry laugh, the sound harsh in the quiet car, her knuckles turning white as she gripped the wheel. She drove the car further towards the warehouse before suddenly stopping outside its large gate. She stepped out of the car, leaning down to peer into the car.

"You know that's not true," she said, "there's no room for 'another way' in our line of work, Y/N."

You followed her lead, stepping out of the car into the cold night air. The old warehouse loomed before you, its shadowy form a stark contrast against the faded glow of the city lights. You knew she was right, you'd both seen the darker side of the world.

The wind bit at your skin as you closed the car door behind you, the sound echoing faintly in the stillness. Natasha was already walking toward the warehouse, each step crunching softly on the gravel beneath her boots. You hesitated for a moment, staring at her back, before following.

"You say there's no room," you called after her, your voice cutting through the quiet. "But you’re here, Natasha. So what does that mean?"

She stopped just short of the warehouse's rusted door, her hand hovering over the handle. For a moment, you thought she wouldn’t answer, that she’d let the silence be her reply. But then, without turning, she spoke.

"It means I wanted to see if you’d follow." Her tone was even.

You stepped closer, the chill of the night forgotten. "And what if I hadn’t?"

She glanced over her shoulder, a faint smirk tugging at her lips, but her eyes betrayed no humour. "Then I’d have my answer."

The implication stung more than it should have. You swallowed hard, forcing yourself to meet her gaze. "And now that you do?"

Natasha turned fully to face you, her expression unreadable. "Now we find out if you’re ready for what comes next."

She pushed the door open with a loud groan, the sound echoing into the dark expanse beyond. The warehouse was dimly lit by flickering overhead lights, casting long, distorted shadows on the concrete floor. Inside, the air was thick with dust and the faint tang of rust.

You followed her inside, your footsteps echoing softly. "You’ve always been good at the cryptic act," you said, your voice low but sharp. You stopped, the echo of your boots ceasing. "I’m tired of guessing, Natasha. What’s this really about?"

She stopped in the centre of the room, her arms crossed as she regarded you. For a moment, she didn’t say anything, just let the silence stretch. Then, finally, she spoke.

"It’s about us, Y/N," she said, her voice softer now. "It’s about what we’ve done. How we've both changed."

The weight of her words settled over you, heavy and inescapable. "And what’s your solution?" you asked, keeping your tone even. "We walk in and make peace with it all?"

Her lips pressed into a thin line as she looked away. "No," she said quietly. "We decide if it’s worth fighting for."

You stared at her, trying to reconcile the woman in front of you with the one you thought you knew. "And what if it is?"

Her gaze snapped back to yours, sharp and searching. "Then you’ll have to prove it," she said, a challenge laced in her tone.

Silence fell between you again, the only sound the steady drip of water somewhere in the shadows. She looked away, her eyes fixed on the dust-covered machinery that had once been in operation. Finally, you spoke again.

"How do I prove it?"

Her head tilted slightly at the question, her gaze flickering back to you. She seemed almost amused by your directness. "Impatient as always," she mused.

She moved, circling a stack of metal crates in the corner, her footsteps echoing off the bare concrete walls. There was a pause as she traced her fingers along the rusted surface, as if she were deep in memory. You waited, the silence stretching around you. Then she spoke, still facing away from you.

"We start with one question," she said, her tone measured. "Do you trust me?"

You used to. But the years of secrets you had shared had built a barrier between the two of you that felt like miles in the dark. She turned to face you, her eyes locking on yours across the room. The distance felt even longer under her stare, her face still a mask of neutrality no matter how much her hands betrayed her.

You dropped your head, unsure of how to respond. She scoffed at your silence, shaking her head.

“That’s what I thought,” she said. There was a hardness in her voice that you’d rarely heard before.

She moved again, pacing in a small circle around you. You stayed still, every nerve in your body on edge. She stopped, her face just inches away from yours. You could see each individual freckle on her skin under the dim warehouse lights, every line on her face as she studied you.

Natasha was so close you could feel her breath on your cheek, could see every flicker of thought behind her cool exterior. Then, in a voice barely more than a whisper, she asked,

"Do you trust me?"

The question hung in the air, each syllable almost painfully loud in your ears. You looked into her eyes, seeing the challenge there. She was asking for more than just an answer.

You opened your mouth to say something, but the words lodged in your throat. You wanted to say yes. She continued to stare at you, waiting for your answer.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, you whispered, "Why should I?"

Her gaze hardened for a moment, a spark of annoyance flashing across her face. "Because that's what partners do," she said, her voice a bit sharper than before.

You could see the frustration build in the set of her shoulders, the way her muscles tensed and relaxed under the light of the warehouse bulb. She wanted you to say yes. "We haven't been partners for a long time, Nat," you warily replied.

Her face was blank, expressionless as she processed your words. But you knew her well enough to see the tension in the way she held herself.

For a moment, she said nothing, just stared at you with her hands shoved deep into the pockets of her jacket. Finally, her lips curled up into a bitter smile. "Fine," she said, her voice flat. "Then what are we?"

You took a step towards her, unable to keep yourself from closing the distance. Her eyes didn’t move from yours, but she stiffened at your approach. You studied her face, the hard lines and angles that were all too familiar. "We were colleagues once," you said, the words so soft you weren’t sure if she heard you as you took a step closer. "Then friends, then…" your voice drifted off, suddenly realising the pain you had felt at losing her.

"Then what, Y/N?" Natasha's expression looked more solemn now.

You swallowed, unsure of how to continue. But before you could speak, she spoke again, her voice so quiet it was almost lost in the silence of the warehouse.

"We were a lot of things... weren't we." Her gaze met yours, that forest green burning into you. "We were good, Y/N." She took a step towards you, grabbing your hands to trace her thumb over the ridges of your knuckles. You shivered at the touch, feeling the rough callouses from years of fighting brush against your skin. For a moment, neither of you spoke, just held each other's gaze as your hands remained in her warm hold. She didn't let go of your hands, simply continued to stare at them as if she could read something from the lines on your palm.

Eventually, she spoke, still tracing your knuckles. "Are you scared of me?"

Her voice was quiet but steady, her gaze flickering to your face for a moment before returning to your hands. You swallowed, "Never." She released your hands but didn't step back, still standing close enough that you felt the faint heat of her body.

Her eyes bore into yours, searching, assessing, as if she were trying to figure you out all over again. "You're lying," she said simply.

"I don't lie, Nat." You grabbed her face, crashing your lips into hers. She responded immediately, her hands clutching at your hips, pulling you flush against her body. You stumbled back towards a stack of crates, knocking a loose tool off the rusted metal as you went. She pushed you back into the corner, pinning you against the wall.

Her hands were everywhere, skimming under your shirt and across your skin, her mouth burning hot against your skin as she found the sensitive spot beneath your ear. You arched into her touch, a soft moan slipping out before you could stop it. She was relentless, fingers tracing down your side and leaving shivers in their wake.

You gasped as her mouth continued to burn across your throat, her teeth nipping at your skin. She hummed against your collarbone, the sound sending a wave of electricity down your spine. "You always did have a hard time keeping quiet," she murmured into your shoulder, her hands still moving restlessly over your body.

You grabbed her by the neck, spinning her around, "Just shut the fuck up for a minute, Nat." She let out a sharp exhale as you shoved her backwards against the crates, her hands clutching at your wrists in surprise. A sly smirk tugged at the corner of her lips as her back hit the metal. She chuckled, low and breathless. "There's the fire I remember."

You pressed into her, closing any distance between you. Your fingers tightened on her neck, feeling her pulse pounding against your palm.

"You don't get to do that," you whispered against her skin, every word a hot promise against the hollow of her throat. Her eyes fluttered shut, a soft gasp escaping her lips as you pressed yourself harder against her. She didn't respond, just tilted her head back to give you better access to her neck.

You nipped at her jawline, feeling her body shudder against your lips. She groaned, her hands gripping your hips. Then, her voice cut through the haze of desire.

"It's my turn."

Her words were like a switch. A low growl slipped through your lips as your body responded, your grip on her neck tightening. She took advantage of the moment, shifting against you and suddenly reversing your positions. Your back hit the crates with a thud, her body pressed against yours, her hands pinning yours above your head.

Her eyes locked with yours, a victorious glint in her gaze as she held you there. You struggled against her grip, but she didn't budge, her body keeping you firmly pinned in place. "Always fighting me," she murmured, her breath hot against your ear. Her grip on your wrists was steel, her nails digging into your skin as she pressed even closer.

Her lips traced the shell of your ear as she shifted her weight, pressing even harder against you, her thigh suddenly between your legs. An unsteady breath left your lips as you felt her hand slip past your waistline. Her touch was feather-light, slowly moving up your inner thigh. Her fingers traced the edge of your underwear, a teasing touch that sent a wave of heat through your body. Her breath was hot on your neck, her body still pressed tightly against yours.

You tried to arch into her touch, but her grip tightened on your wrists, pinning you even more firmly in place. Her hand continued its torturous journey down your thigh, every nerve ending on edge, waiting for her to go just a little lower. You let out a strangled gasp, your body quivering with need and frustration. She chuckled darkly at your reaction, her hand still continuing its maddening motion, her fingers tracing small patterns on the thin fabric between your legs.

"So needy," she whispered, her breath hot on your neck. She shifted against you, her thigh pressing firmly against your centre, adding a delicious friction to the heat that pooled between you. Her fingers dipped into your underwear.

"So wet." You whimpered at the sudden touch, your body arching off the metal beneath you. The air filled with the sounds of your gasped breaths as she finally, finally, touched you where you wanted her most. Her fingers slid through your slick folds, circling slowly but never quite giving you what you needed. She took her sweet time, moving at an infuriatingly slow pace as she teased every sensitive spot with knowing precision.

You bucked against her touch, begging without words for more. Your hips straining against her thigh, seeking the relief she was holding just out of reach. She held you there, pinned with her weight and her hands, as she continued her slow torment. Her thumb brushed lightly over your clit, just a brief, almost accidental touch, but it sent a jolt of pleasure straight through you, making your body jerk against her in response. She chuckled again, the sound low and sultry. Her breath was hot against your ear.

"So responsive," she murmured against your neck. Her fingers teased again, one slipping just inside before withdrawing again. You let out a strangled moan, your hips trying to follow her retreating touch. She continued her slow, torturous rhythm, her fingers circling and brushing over you, bringing you close to the edge but never letting you quite reach it.

You bit down hard on your lip, trying to muffle the gasps that escaped with each movement of her touch. Your body was writhing beneath hers, desperate for release, desperate for just a little bit more. For the final time, she brought you closer than ever before. You felt that familiar feeling building again, "Please, Natasha…" you let out breathily. She quickened her pace, making you groan loudly. "Please, don't stop." She then withdrew her hand, licking her fingers clean with an exacting smirk on her face.

You let out a frustrated groan, your body still trembling from the sudden loss of contact. She chuckled, enjoying the sight of you so helpless in her hands.

"So close," she murmured, leaning back to look at your flushed face. "Better luck next time." She chuckled. You groaned in frustration, your body still trembling from the denied release. You tried to pull your hands free from her grip, wanting to reach out and touch her, but she held firm.

She brought her other hand to your face, grabbing you by the chin, "You sit tight, Y/N." She firmly threw your pinned hands down, "I'll be back before you know it," she walked away from you with a wink.

"Where the fuck are you going?" you yelled after her.

She called back over her shoulder, her smirk evident in her voice. "Just taking care of business." And with that, she was gone, her footsteps echoing faintly through the empty warehouse.

You were left there, alone, panting and unsatisfied, her sudden departure leaving you feeling cold and empty. You brought your hand to your head, wiping the sweat off.

What the fuck did you get yourself into.

a/n: hope that was not too long for you guys, part 5??? ;))

#natasha romanoff #natasha romanoff smut #smut #natasha romanoff x reader #black widow #black widow smut #mcu #wlw #lgbt #marvel

93 notes · View notes