natromilf

[natromilf]

if u get a ★ in ur inbox it means ur moot appreciates u, and ur efforts in the community. send this to 10 mutuals to continue the love !!

If you see this, it's meant to be. Bc I appreciate you all! <3

[natromilf]

🫶🏻🫶🏻

if u get a ★ in ur inbox it means ur moot appreciates u, and ur efforts in the community. send this to 10 mutuals to continue the love !!

appreciate you too moot 🫶🫶

[natromilf]

a/n: I'm back guys, exams all done! thanks for being patient with me. feel free to send as many requests as you would like. summary: y/n gets extremely bored while Alex is working from home and she desperately needs attention. pairing: Alex Cabot x female reader warnings: none word count: 2.5K

masterlist

Bored - Alex Cabot

It was a quiet Saturday afternoon, and Alex was - unsurprisingly - working. Y/N had long since given up trying to convince her girlfriend that weekends were meant for relaxation. If anything, Alex seemed to take weekends as a personal challenge to be even more productive.

Currently, she was perched at the dining table, glasses low on her nose, typing furiously on her laptop. A neat stack of legal briefs sat beside her, color-coded sticky notes peeking out from the pages like tiny flags of impending doom.

Y/N, on the other hand, was bored to death.

At first, she tried to entertain herself. She scrolled through her phone, watched a few episodes of a show she didn’t really care about, played fetch with their dog (who promptly lost interest after five throws), and even considered cleaning—considered. But it had been hours, and she was dying.

Finally, she decided she’d had enough. With a dramatic sigh, she stood up, walked over to where Alex was working, and leaned down until her chin rested on Alex’s shoulder.

“You wanna get your ass beaten in Uno?” Y/N asked, her voice dripping with challenge.

Alex didn’t even look up. “Mmm. No.”

“Wow. You didn’t even think about it.”

“I did. And I decided no,” Alex replied, typing something that sounded very official and very boring.

Y/N straightened up and narrowed her eyes. “So you’re just gonna work all day while I wither away from lack of attention?”

“You could read a book,” Alex suggested.

“I could also eat glass, but you don’t see me doing that either.”

Alex sighed, finally sparing her a glance. “Give me another hour.”

“Another hour?!” Y/N threw her hands up. “Alexandra, I am a woman on the edge. Either you play Uno with me, or I start acting feral.”

That made Alex smirk. “Feral, huh?”

“Yes. Full chaos mode. No rules. No laws. Do you really want that?”

Alex gave her a look, the kind that said ‘I deal with hardened criminals daily. You do not scare me.’

Y/N huffed. “Fine. You leave me no choice.”

She stalked away, leaving Alex to shake her head and go back to work.

Y/N started small. She “accidentally” dropped things near Alex. A pen here. A book there. At one point, she spilled an entire bag of Skittles onto the floor, each one making an unnecessarily loud plinking noise.

Alex exhaled sharply through her nose. “Are you five?”

“I’m bored,” Y/N groaned, dramatically flopping onto the couch.

“You should’ve thought about that before dating a lawyer.”

“Okay, then I have no choice but to escalate.”

Alex shook her head, already resigning herself to whatever nonsense Y/N was about to pull.

She tried snuggling up to Alex, draping herself over her shoulders like a human scarf.

Alex gently pushed her off.

Then tried poking her arm repeatedly.

Alex ignored it.

Y/N started dramatically sighing at random intervals.

Alex turned to her with the patience of a saint. “Is there a reason you’re being extra annoying today?”

“Yes,” Y/N pouted. “You’re not paying attention to me. If I wanted to be neglected, I’d text my landlord about fixing the leak in our sink.”

Alex finally closed her laptop. “Okay. One game. Then I go back to work.”

“One game?” Y/N scoffed. “You’re adorable. It’s never one game.”

Alex rolled her eyes but indulged her anyway, setting her laptop aside as Y/N ran to grab the Uno deck.

They sat across from each other, the cards dealt, the battlefield set. Y/N cracked her knuckles like she was preparing for war.

Alex raised an unimpressed brow. “You’re very dramatic.”

“And you’re about to lose.”

The game started off simple, both of them playing civilly. But then, Y/N played a Draw Four on Alex.

Alex narrowed her eyes. “I see how it is.”

Y/N grinned innocently. “I don’t make the rules.”

Alex drew her four cards, her lawyer brain already calculating revenge.

And then, chaos.

Reverse cards were thrown like daggers. Draw Twos stacked higher than Alex’s legal briefs. Y/N cackled when she skipped Alex for the third time in a row.

“You’re evil,” Alex muttered.

“And you’re losing,” Y/N sing-songed.

But then, Alex played a Draw Four right when Y/N had one card left.

Her smug grin vanished. “No. No, no, no. You don’t have to do this.”

“Oh, but I do,” Alex said, smirking as she slid the extra cards toward Y/N.

Y/N scowled, snatching them up. “This is a betrayal of the highest order.”

“Should’ve thought about that before bullying me into playing.”

The game stretched on, both refusing to back down. At one point, Y/N attempted to subtly throw a card under the table, but Alex caught her mid-act.

“Did you just cheat?”

“It’s called creative strategy.”

Alex stared at her, deadpan.

Y/N sighed. “Fine. I may have bent the rules slightly.”

Alex shook her head, laughing. “You are ridiculous.”

“And you love me.”

“That is debatable right now.”

Eventually, after an unfair amount of Draw Twos, Alex won.

Y/N gaped at her. “You cheated.”

“I played legally,” Alex corrected, smirking as she stretched. “And now, I return to work.”

“WHAT?!” Y/N gasped. “You can’t just win and leave!”

“That was the deal.”

“You monster.”

Alex chuckled, pressing a quick kiss to Y/N’s forehead before heading back to her laptop. “You’ll survive.”

Y/N crossed her arms, stewing.

And then—

“I challenge you to a rematch.”

Alex didn’t even look up. “Not happening.”

“Best two out of three!”

“Still no.”

Y/N groaned dramatically, flopping back onto the couch. “I hate dating a lawyer.”

Alex just smirked. “No, you don’t.”

Y/N wasn’t one to accept defeat gracefully. No, she thrived on revenge. And if Alex thought she was going to just sit there quietly while she went back to her boring lawyer things, she had severely underestimated the level of chaos Y/N was willing to unleash.

For a moment, Y/N considered flipping the Uno table. Full, dramatic rebellion. But then she realized it wasn’t a table - it was the dining table. Their dining table. The very expensive, very heavy dining table that Alex would absolutely murder her for damaging.

So, she had to be smarter.

Quietly, Y/N slipped away into the kitchen.

Alex was back to typing, her fingers moving fast over the keyboard. Completely immersed.

Y/N peeked around the corner, watching. Waiting. Calculating.

Then, she snatched a bag of chips from the cabinet, opened it as loudly as humanly possible, and started munching with the crunchiest bites ever.

Alex froze. Slowly, she turned her head.

“Are you doing that on purpose?”

Y/N, mouth full of chips, gave her the most innocent look she could muster. “Huh?” Crunch.

Alex exhaled through her nose, the way she did when opposing counsel said something particularly stupid in court.

Y/N shoved another handful of chips into her mouth. Crunch, crunch, crunch.

Alex took a deep breath, visibly practicing restraint. “Y/N...”

“Oh, don’t mind me,” Y/N said, plopping down dramatically in a chair. “Just eating my feelings after being brutally betrayed by the love of my life.”

Alex pinched the bridge of her nose. “It’s Uno. You lose in Uno.”

“You cheated.”

“I played by the rules.”

“Your rules are evil.”

Alex shook her head, turning back to her laptop. “Go find another hobby.”

Y/N narrowed her eyes. Alright. Desperate times, desperate measures.

She stood, stretched, and then she flopped onto Alex’s lap. Fully. Bonelessly. Limply.

Alex made a very undignified oof sound. “Jesus, Y/N!”

“You left me no choice,” Y/N said, flopping her arms dramatically over Alex’s shoulders. “You work too much. I am merely redistributing your priorities.”

“By crushing me?”

“It’s called love.”

Alex sighed. “You are the neediest human being alive.”

“And yet, you chose me. So who’s the real fool?”

Alex pursed her lips, trying - and failing - to hide a smirk. “Move.”

“No.”

“I have important things to do.”

“Is it more important than me?” Y/N asked, batting her lashes.

Alex sighed, long-suffering. “You’re ridiculous.”

“And you love me.”

Alex glanced down at her, eyes softening just slightly. “Unfortunately, yes.”

Y/N grinned. “Then play another round of Uno with me.”

“No.”

“Best three out of five.”

“Absolutely not.”

Y/N gasped, placing a dramatic hand over her heart. “So you don’t love me?”

Alex rubbed her temples. “That is not what I said.”

“You implied it.”

Alex stared at her, clearly debating whether or not this battle was even worth fighting.

Y/N turned up the puppy eyes—full-force, desperate, devastating.

Alex sighed, defeated. “One. More. Game.”

Y/N beamed, leaping up. “You just sealed your fate.”

Alex chuckled, shaking her head. “If it means I get some peace after, then fine.”

Y/N cackled as she shuffled the deck.

Alex should have known.

She should have expected Y/N to pull some unholy nonsense.

Because five minutes in, Y/N was grinning like a villain.

“Why do you look so smug?” Alex asked warily.

Y/N laid down a Draw Four.

Alex narrowed her eyes. “You’re a menace.”

“Pick. Up. Your. Cards.”

Alex begrudgingly picked up four more cards. But as soon as she got rid of a few, Y/N hit her with a stacked Draw Two.

Alex’s jaw clenched.

Y/N smirked. “You mad?”

Alex gave her a flat look. “No.”

“Because it seems like you’re mad.”

Alex took a slow, deep breath. “Play your next card.”

Y/N played another Reverse.

Alex’s nostrils flared. “You just want to see me suffer.”

“Would you not do the same to me?”

Alex didn’t answer. Because she absolutely would have.

And then, the worst betrayal of all—

Alex had one card left.

Y/N played a Draw Four.

Alex stared at her, jaw tightening, fingers tapping against the table.

Y/N grinned. “You were saying?”

Alex inhaled sharply, picked up her four cards, and exhaled. “I’m dating an actual gremlin.”

“And winning,” Y/N added.

Alex shook her head. “You’re lucky I love you.”

“Extremely,” Y/N agreed.

Alex sighed, dropping her cards. “Fine. You win. Happy?”

Y/N beamed, throwing her arms around Alex. “I knew you’d see reason!”

Alex shook her head, kissing the top of Y/N’s head before pulling away. “Okay, now can I get back to work?”

Alex had gone back to her laptop, once again convinced that she had won the battle and secured her productivity for the rest of the day.

Y/N, however, was nothing if not determined.

She had tried being annoying. She had tried cheating in Uno. She had tried physically attaching herself to Alex like an overgrown koala. But clearly, all of these tactics had only resulted in temporary victories.

So, she had to be smarter.

More strategic.

And thus, the most diabolical plan formed in her mind.

She decided to go for a run.

But not just any run.

A very intentional run.

She changed into the tightest pair of leggings she owned, leggings that had once made Alex walk into a wall when she first saw Y/N wearing them. Paired it with a sports bra that left very little to the imagination. And, because she was committed to the cause, she even pulled her hair into a high ponytail, knowing full well that Alex had a very specific weakness for that.

Then, without saying a word, she grabbed her headphones, shot Alex a quick innocent smile, and left the apartment.

Alex didn’t even look up.

Perfect.

Now, all she had to do was get really sweaty.

About forty minutes later, Y/N returned, successfully looking like she had just finished competing in the Olympics.

Her skin glistened with sweat. Her leggings clung to her like they were painted on. Her sports bra was damp. She was slightly out of breath, strands of hair stuck to her forehead. She looked like one of those insanely attractive people in workout commercials, except this was all very real.

And she knew it.

She strolled inside, tossing her keys onto the counter, stretching her arms up with an exaggerated groan.

Alex still didn’t look up.

Fine.

Time to turn up the heat.

“God,” Y/N sighed dramatically, walking toward the fridge. “That was a good run. I’m so hot.”

Alex hummed absentmindedly, still typing.

Oh, we’re gonna fix that.

Y/N grabbed a water bottle, twisted the cap off, and tipped her head back, drinking in a way that was entirely unnecessary. A few drops dribbled down her throat, over her collarbone, disappearing beneath her sports bra.

Still, Alex. Did. Not. Look.

Fine. She wanted to play it cool? Y/N would break her resolve.

She grabbed a towel, walking right past Alex’s chair as she started patting down her sweaty chest.

And then – finally - Alex’s typing paused.

Y/N had to fight every instinct not to smirk.

“Good run?” Alex asked, voice suspiciously even.

“Mmm,” Y/N hummed, stretching again. “So good. I feel amazing. But, ugh, I got so sweaty.”

Another pause.

Y/N casually leaned against the table, stretching one leg behind her, subtly accentuating things. “Gotta cool down. Maybe take a long shower.”

Alex exhaled through her nose.

Y/N smirked. Gotcha.

She walked around the table, standing directly behind Alex, hands landing on her shoulders.

“Wow,” Y/N murmured, kneading gently. “You’re so tense. All that work stressing you out?”

Alex stiffened slightly but didn’t react.

Y/N leaned in closer, her lips dangerously near Alex’s ear. “You know, exercise is great for stress. You should join me next time. We could work up a sweat together.”

Alex’s hands paused on the keyboard.

Y/N smirked. “Or, you know, I could just shower alone.”

Alex slammed her laptop shut.

“You’re insufferable,” she muttered, turning in her chair to finally look at Y/N.

And oh, the way her eyes darkened as they swept over her? Y/N felt victorious.

“Something wrong, Counselor?” Y/N asked, all fake innocence.

Alex exhaled sharply. “You planned this.”

“Planned what?”

Alex leaned back, arms crossed, a tiny smirk playing at her lips. “This. The whole running, sweating, stretching, looking like that.” She gestured vaguely at Y/N’s entire existence.

Y/N shrugged. “Can’t a girl just get a workout in without being accused of crimes?”

“You do nothing without an agenda.”

Y/N beamed. “Exactly. So, what’s it gonna be? You back to work? Or are you gonna let me kick your ass in Monopoly?”

Alex sighed, running a hand through her hair, gaze lingering on Y/N’s abs for a fraction too long.

Alex let out a long, long breath.

Then - without a word - she stood up, grabbed Y/N’s wrist, and started pulling her toward the bedroom.

Y/N blinked. “Wait. Where are we going? Monopoly’s in the living room-”

Alex shot her a look.

A very dangerous look.

Y/N gulped. “Oh.”

Alex smirked. “You wanted my attention? You’ve got it now.”

Y/N grinned.

Game. Set. Match.

[natromilf]

🫶🏻

if u get a ★ in ur inbox it means ur moot appreciates u, and ur efforts in the community. send this to 10 mutuals to continue the love !!

😭🥰 i appreciate you so so much too

[natromilf]

hehe

if u get a ★ in ur inbox it means ur moot appreciates u, and ur efforts in the community. send this to 10 mutuals to continue the love !!

love you, love you 🫶🫶

[natromilf]

you're welcome 🫶🏻

if u get a ★ in ur inbox it means ur moot appreciates u, and ur efforts in the community. send this to 10 mutuals to continue the love !!

Thank you very much friend 🥰��

[natromilf]

https://www.tumblr.com/natromilf/789165166415773696/thinking-about-nat-x-actress-reader-when-nat-saw?source=share

would you maybe write a fic for this?🥺🙏🙏 or you're not a writer? :((

hi anon <33 i would but unfortunately im not a writer :<

to all of my author moots here please PLEASE could someone write this 🥹🥹

[natromilf]

if u get a ★ in ur inbox it means ur moot appreciates u, and ur efforts in the community. send this to 10 mutuals to continue the love !!

aw thank youuuu 🥹

[natromilf]

Hi. I just came to say that I think the new Jurassic World did a great job at making me miss Nat a little extra.

hii omg sorry i just saw this, ME TOO! but somehow they are different. rip nat she would've love zora

[natromilf]

TURBULENT FLIGHT.

✷ n. romanoff x fem!flight attendant!reader

Warnings: Explicit content, g!p!nat, dom!nat, sub!reader, p in v, creampie, no condoms used, Natasha squeezes your wrists, slight tightness in the neck, use of "little slut", explicit language, degradation, dirty talk, fingering (r receiving), almost established relationship, Natasha soft at the end, aftercare, soft ending. Minors dni.

The Avengers jet rocked violently in the storm, but you were too busy getting ripped apart in the co-pilot's seat to worry about turbulence.

Natasha had you bent over the controls, your flight attendant uniform hiked up to your waist, her hands gripping your wrists.

"You look so beautiful when you try to be professional," she growled in your ear, her cock pumping inside you, making your body shake like an earthquake.

The panel in front of you flashed red alerts.

"N-Natasha, the autopilot…"

"Quiet," she ordered, increasing her pace as a gloved hand closed around your throat. "You think I can't fly you and this aircraft at the same time?"

Your body writhed between the control panels and her heat, each thrust calculated to drive you insane. You tried to swallow your moans, but Natasha tugged on your hair, forcing your bow back.

"I want to hear how much you're enjoying this, damn you—"

The jet plunged into a rush of air, and you bounced onto her lap, taking every inch with a scream. Natasha laughed against your skin, mastering the turbulence and your body with the same deadly precision.

"That... feels so good to me," she murmured, her teeth scraping your shoulder as her hands marked your waist. "I'm going to make you useless for any more flights."

When you came, it was with a muffled scream against her shoulder, your body convulsing around her. Natasha didn't stop, just gripped your hips and sank all the way in, making you feel every vein in her cock as she unloaded with an animalistic growl.

The silence that followed was broken only by the wet sound as she finally pulled out, leaving you trembling and leaking in the pilot's seat.

"Looks like we have a leak problem," Natasha murmured, sliding her fingers between your trembling legs and bringing them to her mouth with a predatory smile. "Luckily, I'm a maintenance specialist."

Your body was still throbbing as she pulled you back onto her lap, her cock now soft but still impressive against your thigh. You bit your lip to stifle a moan as her fingers found your swollen clit.

"Natasha!"

"Quiet," she ordered, pinching your inner thigh. "Or I'll have to ground you in the cargo hold." Her eyes flashed as she felt you pulse against her fingers at that threat.

"Do you like it when I use you like this?" Natasha growled, increasing the angle to hit you deeper. "When I turn my good flight attendant into a quivering little slut?"

The jet tilted sharply as it began its descent. Natasha didn't stop, her fingers working you with surgical precision, each movement calculated to bring you to the edge again.

"Come on, sweetheart," she teased, feeling your body writhe. "Show me how a good girl begs for more."

When the landing gear hit the runway with a jolt, you exploded into her arm, your fingers leaving marks on the copilot's controls. Natasha held you tightly, kissing your sweaty neck.

With a gentle movement, she helped you to your feet, your legs still trembling like jelly. Natasha pulled a tissue from her coat pocket, kneeling in front of you, and gently cleaned you, leaving a small kiss on the inside of your thigh when she was finished.

"Ready for landing, sweetheart?" Natasha murmured, her tone now surprisingly sweet as she helped you compose yourself. Her fingers, which had been domineering moments before, now arranged your uniform with meticulous care, as if she were assembling a work of art.

"Tony will never let you fly the jet again," you said, looking at the scratched dashboard and seat.

"Ah, Tony..." Natasha smiled, running her hand over the marks on the seat with an almost affectionate caress. "He'll complain for about two minutes, until I remind him about that party in Monte Carlo where he wrecked a rented Porsche."

Her fingers, now surprisingly gentle, straightened the collar of your uniform. "Besides," she added, her voice low and intimate, "some things are worth a little mess."

As they descended the jet's steps, the storm had passed, leaving only the starry night sky. Natasha took off her own coat and draped it over your shoulders, shielding you from the chilly hangar wind.

"I'll take you home," she said, wrapping a firm arm around your waist. "You deserve to rest after such an intense flight."

Her blue-green eyes shone with a silent promise as she opened the car door for you. "But don't get too used to this gentle treatment," she warned, pinching your chin.

"Tomorrow we'll be back to normal," Natasha murmured, adjusting the seatbelt in your lap with surprisingly gentle hands. Her blue-green eyes shone in the dashboard light, revealing a rare tenderness few had the privilege of seeing.

The car engine hummed softly as she drove through the wet city streets. Her fingers tapped lightly on the steering wheel in time with a song only she could hear. Every now and then, she'd steal glances at you, as if memorizing every detail of your still-flushed face.

"You know," she broke the silence, her voice softer than you'd ever heard, "there are calmer ways to get through a storm."

You laughed, feeling a strange warmth fill your chest. "But where would be the fun in that?"

Natasha smiled, a genuine, disarming expression that made your heart race. "Exactly."

Natasha parked the car with her usual precision, but left the engine running for an extra moment, her fingers still intertwined with yours. The rain had stopped, leaving only the glow of the city lights reflected in the fogged windows.

"You know I don't need you to walk me to the door," you murmured, a hint of a smile.

She gave you that expression you loved—half-irritated, half-affectionate. "And I don't need you to remind me that I know that." Her thumb traced gentle circles on your wrist. "But I like seeing you get in safely."

When they finally got out of the car, Natasha grabbed her purse from the backseat with a care that contrasted with the intensity of hours ago. The goodnight kiss was different from the others, slow, deep, full of the intimacy that only years of complicity could bring. When they broke apart, Natasha rested her forehead against yours.

"Tomorrow," she promised, her voice husky. "We'll do it right. With dinner first."

"Dinner?" you scoffed. "Who are you, and what have you done with Natasha Romanoff?"

She chuckled softly before pulling away. "The same woman who will fuck you so well afterward that you'll forget your own name. But first, food."

When you stepped into the elevator, she was still there, watching as she always did, your protector, your lover, your personal paradox of fire and gentleness.

And in the pocket of her coat you were wearing, you found the key to her room in the Avengers Tower along with a note:

"For when you get tired of waiting for me. - N."

[natromilf]

oh gawdd 🥺

Perfectly Made

Natasha Romanoff x Reader

Word Count: 5k

.

Perfect, technically means to be without flaws. But, the thing about flaws is that they’re subjective.

When you looked at the bullet wound scar on Natasha’s abdomen, you felt like your chest was being crushed. It hurt because she had been hurt. Every time your lips passed over it, you made a point to kiss the marked skin.

Because, Natasha was still perfect.

.

Everyone at Shield thought that Agent Romanoff was flawless. You’d spent your time with the agency hearing stories of missions. The tales were half legend, but the biggest rumour was that all the stories were true.

You pretended it was professional jealousy that left you breathless when you passed her in the corridors. You were rising fast at Shield, but Agent Barton and Agent Romanoff walked through the base like they owned it. Deep down you liked her confidence, she’d earned it.

Then, there was the accident. A broken wrist, Fury had told you. Someone had known exactly how to remove Agent Barton from action. Files were slid across the desk to you, Avengers Initiative, Temporary Placement.

There’d been briefings after briefings. You didn’t need hours of discussion to understand their point. Agent Romanoff couldn’t lose mission preparedness. You were going to be the knock off Clint, the stand in for training and any standard missions until his return.

Your heart thumped with anticipation and fear as you were led through the Avengers Training Facility. Agent Hill’s hand had pressed lightly between your shoulder blades as she nudged you forwards into the gym.

You’d stumbled slightly before catching your stride. You felt like a kid at the playpark, told to go and make a new friend. You walked over to the treadmill hesitantly. You didn’t announce your presence, you knew she could hear your footsteps. She didn’t stop running, she didn’t even glance over.

‘Agent Romanoff.’ You tried after a moment. Her eyes moved across to you but her pace didn’t lessen.

‘Yes?’ The single word had bite. You only felt the sting of it until you noticed her eyes. Wariness filled them, unadulterated in a way that surprised you.

The silence lingered as you suddenly understood the real mission. Agent Barton wasn’t just the best partner for Agent Romanoff at Shield, he was also the only one she’d ever had.

You were both awkward kids pushed together at the playpark. You’d seen the apprehension in her eyes, and now, you could see right through the rest of the mask.

She wanted you to like her too.

You hopped onto the neighbouring treadmill and got started.

.

There was something about walking back to your new apartment suite with Natasha that settled the pair of you. Maybe it was being exhausted and sweaty in front of your hero and secret crush. Or, it was the smile that had crept onto Natasha’s face as you’d asked her about some of the missions you’d heard so many stories about.

When you turned to enter your apartment, Natasha touched your shoulder briefly. You startled, her fingers feeling pleasantly cool on your skin, still hot from the workout.

‘I’m the next door on the right.’ She informed you and, again, you saw the tentativeness radiating from her. ‘Let’s talk later?’

.

You ended up spending the evening sitting together on her sofa. The conversation flowed well but you were definitely making an effort. You posed each question gently, unsure which one might be too intrusive. Natasha answered everything with a raised eyebrow, as if she couldn’t believe you cared enough to ask. Her hesitations and careful answers were endearing. Sometimes, in the brief pauses, you saw her eyes flicker over you. You knew she was waiting for the interest to die down, trying to assess what part of her you were really interested in.

.

It took most of the evening until you even thought to ask for something to drink. It was the first time that Natasha had looked really flummoxed by a question.

‘Check the fridge.’ She said, like the contents were as much a mystery to her as to you. You got up to check and found an empty appliance, save for two water bottles and a bag of apples. Uncertainty swung like a pendulum inside you.

You took a water bottle and sat back down next to her. Real Housewives of Somewhere played needlessly on the television.

‘Are you not hungry?’ You asked your most tentative question as you unscrewed the bottle cap.

‘I’ll pick something up later.’ Natasha had replied with a perfectly timed yawn and a sudden reason to say goodnight. As you walked back to your room, you knew one more unsaid thing about Natasha.

Agent Barton had been doing the cooking.

.

The next morning when you met Natasha at the gym, you brought reinforcements. You waved at her with a friendliness that was still a little preemptive. Her returning smile was careful.

You held her gaze when you thrust the energy bar into her hand without a word - too busy chewing on one of your own.

You’d bought apple flavoured. You hated apples, but Natasha had given few context clues and the bag of fruit you’d found in her fridge was all you had.

Natasha’s smile widened when she took a bite.

. »

You were part of the Avengers Initiative for exactly three months.

Each day for exactly three months, you accidentally made too much dinner. Each evening, for exactly three months, you had to knock on your neighbour's door and offer her some leftovers.

It took the full 12 weeks for you to become remotely accustomed to the taste of apple oat bars.

You became accustomed to a lot of things.

The quiet focus of Natasha in the morning training sessions. The way that her hair curled slightly when you sparred well enough for her to sweat in the hot gym.

The way her head rested on your shoulder as you watched TV. Placed lightly at first, as if the gesture always needed your permission to continue. Then, heavier and heavier as you both sank together into a comfortable position on the sofa.

You were even used to her texts now. Ones that referenced American pop culture so adeptly that, sometimes, you’d have to use Google to understand them. The way she mentioned your private jokes over the comms at the worst points on missions, reminding you that she knew you and that she had your back.

When you first met Clint, he shook your hand like an old friend.

When he caught sight of Natasha coming along the corridor, you watched his shoulders loosen with the release of tension. He squeezed your hand one last time before letting it go.

If you hadn’t known Natasha like you did, you’d have felt like a cat sitter who’d done a good job.

You turned away for their reunion, leaving to pack up the best 12 weeks of your life and return to a normal life that would always feel disappointing now.

Half an hour later, there was a knock at your door. You opened it, wondering if this was going to be like a moment in a movie.

Your heart leapt automatically, Natasha was standing in the doorway. Then you felt the confusion spread through you as you took in the large cardboard box, balanced against her waist. The branding on the side was familiar.

‘The largest I could find was a box of 200.’ Natasha told you succinctly. Your head tilted in confusion and she continued promptly.

‘For all those breakfasts.’ Natasha thrust the box out towards you. ‘Thanks for always offering me your second energy bar.’

Natasha’s smile was genuine, her eyes were oblivious. You didn’t move to take the box.

‘I don’t even like apples.’ You said stupidly. Natasha’s lips parted in shock, you saw confusion cross her face.

You leaned over the cardboard box. You felt her breath against your face when she huffed out in surprise. You were impossibly close.

Your lips found hers, feeling the same tenderness in your stomach as you did with every touch she’d ever given you.

She was soft, warm and perfect.

‘I just like you.’ You told her, finally.

.

You never moved out of that apartment. Temporary placement became Avenger In Training.

You never stopped cooking for Natasha either. Except, now you didn’t have to pretend it was all accidental leftovers. Now, you planned for dinner every night. You weren’t an expert cook by any means. For the first few months, you worried more than anything that she’d get sick of the repetitiveness of your recipes. You could only make so much spaghetti.

But, there was something about the days when you’d get word of Natasha returning from a mission. When she’d open her own front door with a nervous expectation that maybe this time you wouldn’t be waiting for her.

The way your eyes would lock onto each other and she’d take the few steps across the room, burying her face into the crook of her neck and letting your arms wrap around her.

‘It’s good to be home.’ Natasha would mumble, and you’d feel a swoop at her words because you knew she didn’t mean her apartment.

‘What smells so good?’ She’d ask, and you’d feel her lips moving against your skin more than you could hear the words.

Then, you’d grin and say, like always.

‘It’s either me or the lasagne.’

Natasha would kiss your collarbone and you’d kiss her hair.

Even when she fell asleep on the sofa before the food was ready, it still felt perfect.

.

It was Clint who must have spilled the secret about your cooking. Soon, the Avengers - who you’d barely even been in a room with before - began dropping by Natasha’s apartment every evening. It felt like adopting a group of appreciative strays.

Sometimes, you remembered how untouchable Natasha and Clint had seemed when you’d first joined Shield. Now you sat alongside superheroes at the dinner table and saw how much they all longed for company and home cooked food.

You didn’t complain about it, but the effort required for cooking also increased significantly. Soon, the dread of making dinner filled you up more than food ever could. You adapted the recipes you knew, adding x10 to most of the ingredients. Every evening, your kitchen felt more like a school cafeteria than it had the night before.

The only part you loved was Natasha’s quiet enjoyment of your company. Each night, Natasha returned from training earlier than the night before. Soon, her reasons for being early became less and less thought out. Soon, she didn’t bother with an excuse at all.

You’d hear the front door shut, and feel her arms snake around your front as she pressed against you, barely hindering your chopping or dicing. Her breath would tickle your neck as she rested her chin on your shoulder peacefully, watching you work.

.

Your comment that night had been offhanded, otherwise you wouldn’t have said it.

Tony had brought you a cooking apron with the Iron Chef America logo emblazoned on the front. Stark Industries had taken to sponsoring most ‘Iron’ themed things and this had clearly been part of the latest promotional campaign. He smirked as you put it on good naturedly.

‘Perfect.’ He declared. You made an ironic model’s pose with a pair of oven gloves already on your hands. Tony laughed loudly.

‘You’ll never leave the kitchen again.’ He declared.

You rolled your eyes in playful frustration.

‘I never do as it is.’

Tony turned then, spotting Natasha as she leaned against the bedroom door frame. You glanced at the ground, feeling a wave of shyness as you realised Natasha’s attention had been openly on you.

‘You’d better start pulling your weight, Nat.’ He warned with a tease.

Only you saw the flicker of uncertainty in Natasha’s eyes.

.

You didn’t think any more of it until the next evening. Natasha arrived at her apartment with a smug grin on her face and a paper bag in her hand.

‘Takeout.’ She announced, placing the bag unceremoniously on the coffee table, before throwing herself down next to you on the sofa.

‘I gave Clint the rest, the vultures can circle his apartment for once.’

She grinned at you, obviously pleased with her solution. You threw your head back against the sofa dramatically, surprised at the relief you felt. You’d never been a regular cook. But, it’d been six months since you’d started dating Natasha and, apart from a handful of dates when you’d both found time to leave the Avengers facility, you’d cooked dinner every day.

A sigh left your mouth and you closed your eyes for a second, revelling in the moment. Then, you turned your head to the side, catching Natasha’s eyes and reaching out a hand to hold hers.

‘Thank you.’ You told her, voice laced with obvious gratitude.

Natasha’s expression looked suddenly conflicted.

‘Do you like cooking?’ She asked quietly, her face consciously wiped clean of any hints of her own emotion. An awkward tension filled the room at once. You rubbed your thumb in circles on the back of her hand.

‘I don’t mind.’ You answered after a moment, trying for something close to the truth, though the words still tasted like a lie on your tongue.

.

After you’d eaten your fill of the takeout. Natasha put her hand on your thigh.

‘I’ll take care of tomorrow’s dinner.’ She informed you, matter of factly. You grinned, feeling seen and loved all in one heady rush.

‘What time should I come over?’ You asked with excitement.

‘Maybe you should just stop leaving.’ She mumbled, crawling onto your lap and tilting your chin up towards her with a single finger.

You stayed that night at her place and every night after.

.

You thought the repeat of takeout the next night was only because you’d both spent most of the day packing up your stuff. Then, before you knew it, a week had passed and you’d tried cuisine from seven different countries already.

You didn’t know how to tell Natasha that, for you, ‘taking care of dinner’ didn’t equate to ‘ordering in some food’.

The other Avengers took the change of circumstances with limited annoyance, returning without complaint to their past diet of food from the staff cafeteria and their own takeout preferences.

.

It took two more weeks before you brought it up to Natasha. There was a new pride in her demeanour and you knew how entangled her happiness was with your own.

You had moved in. Now, she was keeping you fed.

You loved her for the way she cared about you. It made you feel safe and whole.

Every night, Natasha took you into the bed that was now yours to share. She touched you reverently, her fingers slow and lingering. Each brush of her lips thanking you for staying another night with her.

.

‘I know you’re busy.’ You started nervously, picking the rushed morning as your best moment to bring up the conversation you’d been nervous about.

Natasha’s back was facing you, but she slowed her movements immediately. Her head tilted as she waited for your next words, fingers still dragging her tank top past her midriff.

‘I don’t want to be an inconvenience.’ You tried again, losing your train of thought at the most inopportune time when you caught sight of her fingers trailing slowly down her bare waist.

‘You want to leave.’ Natasha answered for you. Her tone was neutral but her voice cracked. ‘You can just say so. It’s not been working out.’

There was a pause as her words registered.

‘Oh, Natasha.’ You murmured at the realisation of what she’d been expecting from you.

Natasha turned around then, eyes bright with tears that she was too proud to let fall.

‘It’s okay.’ She told you, even though her mouth was twisting with hurt. ‘I know I’m not easy to live with.’

You moved around the bed, the tiny tremble in her lower lip compelling you closer to her.

‘It’s okay.’ She repeated. ‘It’s okay.’ Her voice broke again but she kept repeating the words, mumbling more each time.

Your hand pressed slowly against her abdomen, calling her back to you. Natasha stopped speaking abruptly, avoiding your eye contact determinedly.

‘You are perfect.’ You told her seriously, Natasha’s eyes closed at your words and you could feel how much she wanted to believe you.

You kissed her carefully and lightly, trying to tell her how much you wanted her all the time. Your fingers trailed up the back of her neck, tangling in her hair.

‘How could I not want to live with you?’ You murmured against her lips. Natasha kissed you fervently, her hand on your waist holding on just a little too tight.

.

‘I just had an idea.’ You told her as you headed to the elevator a few minutes later, both feeling late enough to hurry your matching strides.

‘Maybe next week, we could take turns cooking?’ You suggested hesitantly. ‘If you don't have time though, I don't mind -’

You watched many emotions slide across Natasha’s face, reflected on the elevator doors that faced you.

‘Let me start.’ Natasha told you a moment later, voice full of resolve. ‘I’ll make you something special on Monday night.’

You couldn’t help but beam at her offer, interlacing your fingers with hers.

‘I’m planning on going grocery shopping on Sunday.’ You started to say, playing at shy. ‘Want to carpool?’

Natasha’s returning smile was small but genuine.

.

You’d anticipated no more than an hour at the grocery store. You walked separately to Natasha, at her own insistence. Still, before you headed to the checkout, you sought her out. You spotted her, still near the front of the store, head bent as she stood, engrossed in her phone screen.

You stilled when you noticed the tell tale markers that she normally never displayed in public. The piece of hair she was twisting between her thumb and forefinger. The furrowed brow, her jaw clenched with silent frustration.

You watched silently as she turned to another customer, showing them something on her phone. They gestured to the products on the shelf, clearly explaining something. Natasha nodded and, for once, you saw the clear exhaustion that she usually kept so well hidden.

It was the same tiredness you’d occasionally seen in the lines of her more careful smiles; a painful self awareness that she didn’t fit quite right in a situation. You hoped desperately that being with you didn’t feel like another role she had to play.

.

It was rare for you to return to the apartment after Natasha. But, on Monday, when you opened the door, it seemed like she might have been there all day.

The dishes stacked in the sink were almost comical. Natasha’s hair was tied up, strands falling out of the messy bun. The heat of the kitchen seemed to have made her more dishevelled than any workout ever had. Natasha still looked perfect.

‘You’re back.’ She called out softly as she spotted you hovering. Any nervousness you had, slipped away at the ease of Natasha’s smile.

‘I’m back.’ You confirmed brightly, heading around the kitchen island. ‘What smells so good?’ Now, Natasha’s smile really went wide.

‘It’s either me or the lasagne.’ She told you with mock solemnity, holding her serious expression until you’d thoroughly kissed it from her face.

‘I love you.’ You told her.

Natasha’s expression stumbled in surprise, her hand reached out to your chest as if bracing from the shock. Then, she regained herself. Her fingers slipped under your shirt and she pulled you closer with a tug on the fabric.

‘Yeah?’ Natasha teased, a blinding brightness to her smile. ‘Well, maybe I love you too.’

.

You felt like you were flying. You didn’t come down to Earth until long after you’d finished the meal. The lasagne was delicious. Natasha smiled gently at your praise, quieter than usual. You loved her distractedness, knowing her mind was still focused on your earlier words. Her hand rested on your thigh whilst you ate.

Natasha moved to deal with the stack of dishes as soon as you’d finished eating. You decided to take the plentiful leftovers over to Clint’s. It was still early, and you thought you might catch the others before they called in their takeout orders.

Clint answered his door with his usual smile. You held out the dish, letting it speak for itself. Clint’s eyes lit up immediately.

‘I love your lasagne.’ He told you seriously. You smirked, wondering if you’d ever hear the word ‘love’ again without feeling at least a small jolt of joy.

‘It’s Natasha’s actually.’ You informed him. Clint laughed.

‘No, it’s not.’ He dismissed you with certainty.

‘Yes.’ You insisted, feeling suddenly defensive of your girlfriend.

‘Jarvis.’ Clint called to the ceiling, knowing how to prove his case. ‘Did anyone receive a food delivery today?’

.

You walked back to your apartment, a little shell shocked. You caught sight of Natasha from the doorway, cleaning the last of the dishes. She rolled her eyes playfully at you, glancing down at the large plate in her hands.

Dishes she hadn’t even used.

The meal had been delivered twenty minutes before you’d arrived home. Natasha had barely kept it warm in the oven.

.

You couldn’t tell her you knew. You tried not to dwell on the lie. More than anything, you were confused.

You took her up to the roof, hoping that seeing the stars together would keep the night as special as it had felt before you spoke to Clint.

Natasha wore your sweater. Her eyes seemed so large when they faced the night’s sky.

She was extra quiet, sensing your mood and trying to match it, even if she didn’t understand what was wrong.

Her smile was nervous when she dragged her eyes away from the stars and back to you. She played with the sleeve of the sweater.

Natasha was still perfect. She always would be.

You remembered your faith in her. You realised that you’d accidentally built the role that she’d started to play. You wanted to tell her that she was perfect for who she was, not who she was trying to be.

Instead, you found a piece of the lightness that you knew Natasha was trying so hard to have.

‘I love you to the stars and back.’ You told her, letting your easy smile wash away the doubts in her eyes.

.

The consequences of small lies really begin when they start to spiral. You promised Natasha that you wanted to get back into cooking again. You knew she didn’t believe you, you knew she saw through it. Still, she nodded neutrally at your words.

You both pretended that the meal times felt the same as they had before. You were overcompensating, playing music as you cooked and trying out new recipes.

Natasha was retreating. Her hands barely brushed your shoulders each evening when she returned to find you cooking.

You’d never been inauthentic with her. But now there was a falseness at the dinner table that you couldn’t control. Natasha started coming home later.

Worse were the days when she’d text you, telling you she was going to eat something with Clint instead. She didn’t invite you and you didn’t assume an invitation. Natasha was pulling away, and neither of you addressed the weird elephant in the room.

How can you tell someone they're perfect, when they’ve tried so hard to hide their flaws from you.

.

Natasha’s discomfort was obvious from the way she stood in the bedroom doorway. Not entering or leaving. You were already in bed, she’d stayed late at Clint’s. Things felt lonely.

‘Thursday is Thanksgiving.’ She told you.

‘Yes, it is.’ You said, looking up from your laptop. You wondered if Natasha felt the same awful anticipation in her stomach. The lingering fear that your relationship couldn’t sustain itself much longer, the inability to divert the train from its tracks.

‘Clint wants you to meet his family.’ Her words were unexpected. You wondered if her wording had been intentional or accidental.

‘And, what do you want?’ You clarified, your voice filled with the caution that you’d never had with Natasha until recently.

‘We should go.’ She answered indirectly, leaving to get ready in the bathroom. You lay your head back against your pillow. You saw the writing on the wall, this wasn’t going to last the holidays.

On Wednesday night, you came back to the messiest apartment you’d ever seen. Your eyes widened in shock at the sight of Natasha in the kitchen. The facade of the last meal she’d ‘cooked’ was obvious in comparison to this.

‘Laura asked us to make brownies.’ Natasha told you briefly, meeting your curious expression with a flat one of her own. There was a tray of batter in her hand. The slight burning smell in the room told you it wasn’t her first attempt.

‘I can-’ You started, taking a step forward.

‘No.’ Natasha told you, with a bite that her words rarely had with you. Her expression was miserable and fierce all at once. ‘It’s fine.’

You retreated to the bedroom. You pretended to be asleep when Natasha finally came to bed. You waited until her breathing had evened out before you snuck back through to the kitchen.

You found the brownies still in their tray. Your nose wrinkled automatically at the smell.

2 hours later and you’d made a decent batch. You took Natasha’s attempt out to the trash.

You hated yourself in that moment.

It didn’t matter to you, and yet, you knew it mattered to her. You were helping to cover up the flaws that you didn’t even see.

You left the kitchen exactly as you found it and went back to bed.

.

The next morning, with both of you dressed and ready, you stood with your heart in your mouth as Natasha took out the tray of brownies.

With one cursory glance at the tray, Natasha slammed it down on the counter, making you jump.

‘I’m sorry.’ You started, but your words were lost to Natasha’s.

‘I’m not fucking stupid.’ She told you and you saw her hands clench.

‘I never said you were.’ You retorted, feeling your own frustration bubble up.

‘Well, you obviously think so.’ Natasha's voice rose in volume but the vulnerability in it made her sound small.

‘I’m not stupid.’ She said again, and you saw the tears filling her eyes. ‘I can learn a language in less than a week. I have perfect fucking aim. But no-one taught me how to do this.’

Her arm raised to gesture at the tray of brownies.

‘It doesn’t matter.’ You murmured quietly. ‘How can you think that it matters to me?’

You caught that secret exhaustion of hers in the resigned sigh that came before her words.

‘How can I not?’ Natasha muttered, avoiding your eyes and picking up the tray. ‘It’s just another piece of me that doesn’t fit.’

She moved towards the door and your hand caught her arm. Her eyes met your own and it stung like electricity.

‘We should talk about this.’ You said, voice cracking. Your eyes burned with tears.

‘You should stay.’ Natasha told you, and just like that, you realised she was really saying goodbye. You watched the door close behind her, standing there dumbly.

.

Clint texted you when Natasha left their house.

Foul mood unless the kids were there, was his glowing review of her visit.

You were too nervous to sit down. You shifted from foot to foot, wondering if you should have just packed up your belongings and left. You knew that’s what she was expecting.

You tried to reassure yourself with the memory of Natasha and the box of cereal bars. You glanced at the kitchen counter, wishing you’d cleaned it up properly. You picked up the apron that was strewn across the island in the middle.

Your heart stopped when you heard her unlock the door.

At first, when Natasha saw you standing there, her face held the same expression as it did when she returned from missions. Hopeful and relieved. Something settled automatically in your chest.

Then, her gaze dropped to the apron and you saw her mouth twist with the repressed hurt. The memory of the morning.

‘Oh, no.’ You mumbled immediately, feeling hurried by the strange embarrassment you felt. ‘Obviously, this isn’t for you.’

Natasha’s hand stopped you in your tracks. You froze at her expression and realised she’d heard an insult not a clarification.

‘Why?’ Natasha asked, voice rasping. ‘Are you trying to make a fucking point?’

‘No.’ You tried to assure her, crumpling the fabric in your hand, wishing you’d planned this better. ‘I heard what you said earlier.’

Natasha’s head tilted and you knew she didn’t believe you. You stopped trying to say the right thing and, instead, all the words you felt fell from your mouth.

‘I never wanted you to be anyone but yourself.’ You blurted out. Now, Natasha’s expression froze, leaving only the wariness in her eyes as she waited for you to continue.

‘I don’t care if you can cook.’ You started. ‘Do you really think I’m here, measuring you against some secret expectations?’ Natasha looked confused. You dropped the apron and took her hands instead.

‘The more of you that I get to see, the more you stand there waiting for me to leave. But, that’s not what I want.’ You mumbled, looking away for the first time as you tried to fight tears. Everything you cared about hung in the balance. ‘You said that you don’t fit sometimes. But you do. You fit. We fit.’

There was a moment, as Natasha registered your words.

.

Carefully, Natasha moved forwards. She buried her face in the crook of your neck. Your arms wrapped around her like so many times before. The sudden relief burned in your chest. This was still familiar. You were still her home.

‘I’ll always think you’re perfect, Natasha.’ You whispered as your lips kissed her hair.

[natromilf]

norway natasha hits different 🥺

Safe

Norway!NR x civilian!r that ran away with her after the Sokovia Accords

Word count: 2.7k

Summary: Going on the run changed her. She may appear soft, civilian clothes and windswept hair tempering the untouchable image of the Black Widow, but she’s hardened now, guarded, forced into detachment by the need to protect. You just want your girlfriend back.

Based on this request

It’s a given considering the request, but 18+

Author's note: I hope you meant sex against the trailer, anon, because that's what I wrote. Also, I think there are more feelings in this and less sex than you may have wanted… whoopsie. I can write more Natasha smut later. Norway!Natasha is simply the loml, and I wanted to do her justice

Norway is cold. It’s cold, quiet, and rather uneventful.

If you asked Natasha, she’d describe it as safe. That’s always the answer you receive when you question Norway. Why not Italy? Why not the Netherlands? Peru? Australia? Japan?

Because Norway is safe. Safe, safe, safe.

It’s been months of hiding from the world, of keeping your heads down, of not being found, yet Natasha is still looking over her shoulder. She’s still memorizing every exit route of the building the second you walk in and drawing your body closer to hers every time you pass by a hooded figure. You don’t understand why.

“No one’s here,” you sigh to her, hands full of grocery bags, trying to take a step toward the trailer. Her own bags are on the ground, forgotten, dropped, her arm now in front of your body, preventing you from striding forward. “Literally no one’s going to find us here,” you try to reassure her, but you know it’s pointless.

Natasha ignores you, remaining silent, eyes scanning the landscape, observing, calculating, listening, for any sound, for anything that shouldn’t be. When she deems it’s safe enough, she proceeds closer, leaving you at the car, her body protectively positioned in front of yours. She glances at the door, inspecting the latch, gauging whether or not it’s been tampered with, before opening it smoothly, silently, and making her way into the small space, gun drawn. She points it left and then right, checking the trailer, confirming there’s no other person within before her shoulders slump—only minutely, her guard is never fully down—and she drops her aim.

“It’s clear,” she calls out to you still waiting outside. You huff out a breath, mumbling a “figured”, and pick up Natasha’s abandoned bags, making your way into the trailer with your arms more than full.

As much as you’re tired of her almost obsessive need for safety, you know her. You know her habits, her background, her history. She needs this… this security, this assuredness that you’re not in harm’s way, that you’re safe.

You may be miles up a windy road away from the nearest convenience store, there may be multiple empty plots of land between you and the next cabin over, but Natasha has to be sure. She has to keep you safe.

Days pass monotonously, it’s always the same. You two make a visit into the small town once a week. Not for fun, never to see the sights. You don’t get dinner or catch a show or perhaps even enjoy a small scoop of ice cream. It’s just for groceries, essentials. Nothing excessive, just enough to get you by until the next week.

Natasha cuts some firewood, you read your book by the window, and eventually night falls and Natasha gets the generator up and running so you two can turn on one of the three movies you have access to over dinner.

You’re about to take a bite of your usual dinner of rice and beans, spoon raised toward your mouth, when the power flickers and then goes out, television snapping off, blanketing the two of you in darkness.

“Fuckin-” you start, but you’re quickly shushed by Natasha.

“Keep it down,” she whispers, standing up swiftly, grabbing her gun that’s never out of reach.

“Natasha, it’s just the generator,” you attempt.

She shoots you a warning look before rushing out of the trailer. You deflate, shoulders dropping, and let her do her rounds. Inside the trailer, outside the trailer, then the perimeter. You know the drill.

You two were having a nice night. Natasha seemed almost relaxed for once, hair freshly showered, hanging down in wavy rivulets, a cozy t-shirt on and sweats, her body next to yours on the sofa as you two finished your meal and watched a movie.

You hardly ever see her like that anymore. She’s hardly ever close to you anymore.

She’s too caught up in the need to keep you safe that it’s like she’s forgotten how to be your girlfriend. Her priorities have shifted, have been forced into shifting with the Accords, your physical well-being overruling that of your emotional. The forehead kisses, the hand holding, the cuddling in bed, limbs tangled together as you two slept, all the affection just… gone. She touches you out of need, out of function, not out of want or desire, to hold you back when she has to inspect an area first, to keep you close when she believes there’s a threat nearby, to guide your motions when you two may need to make a speedy getaway.

30 minutes pass before she returns.

“It was the generator,” she informs you, and you have to physically suppress a groan.  

When the third time this week the generator dies and Natasha dutifully makes her way out of the trailer to sweep the perimeter, you follow her outside, arms crossed in an attempt to protect yourself from the cool night air.

“Get back inside!” she says, voice almost frantic. You can hear the fear in her voice, the ‘I can’t keep you safe out here’.

“Natasha, I’m fine. It’s just the generator. It’s always just the generator.”

“We don’t know that,” she hisses, tense, angry, misplaced.

“Natasha,” your say again, voice a low murmur, breathed pleadingly into the dusk, “stop treating me like I’m fragile. I can’t do this anymore. I need you back.”

Your eyes are unflinching as they meet hers, dark and stormy with years of devastation and heartbreak and having everything that she once called her own ripped away from her. She’s scared.

You slowly make your way over to her, movements gentle, wary, as if you’re approaching a cornered animal, and she may as well be one. She hasn’t wanted to talk, to communicate, since the two of you settled down here. You’ve tried, but she’s always pushed you away, scampered off when things got too serious.

“It’s okay, I’m okay,” you tell her.

“Get back inside,” she tries once again, voice shaking this time.

“Touch me,” you tell her, “Feel me. I’m right here.”

You won’t force her if she’s not ready, you won’t push, but you need her. You need her to know that you’re here, that you chose her, that you’re not going anywhere, that no one is going to take you away, and one of your hands grabs her own and slides it along your front until it’s clasped on your chest by your heart.

“I need you to be here with me.”

Natasha shudders, eyes slipping closed as she marvels at the strong thump of your heartbeat that she can feel underneath her hand.

“I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere. Not without you,” you reassure her, “but I need you back.”

You pause.

“I miss you,” and your voice cracks on the words, you can’t hold it in any longer.

A moment passes. Then another.

And then her lips are on yours, and you gasp, initially unable to reciprocate out of surprise. It’s been so long since she’s kissed you, since she’s connected with you, but then you’re reacting on instinct, your body remembering hers—how could it ever forget—lips brushing against each other in desperate, frenzied touches, needing the contact, the reminder that you two are both here together.

Her hand hovers over your breast, tentative, as if uncertain she still has the right to touch you the same way she used to, but your hand moves over her own and you’re pushing her into you, pushing her until she’s cupping your breast, squeezing it tightly.

Given her hesitancy, you can tell she still feels as though you’re about to be taken away right in front of her, and then, when her gaze drifts over your shoulder to the horizon, to the forest beyond you, you know her attention isn’t fully on you. You reach forward, gripping her chin softly, bringing her back to you.

“No, focus on me. Just on me.”

Her jaw clenches, not from irritation but from fear, agitation, anxiety. She doesn’t know if she’s capable of doing that anymore.

“It’s just us, Natasha,” you murmur, low and even. “It’s just you and me.”

And she lets out a steadying breath through her nose before massaging at your breast once more, trying to focus on the feeling of the soft flesh underneath her palm, the weight of it in her hand, her touch still nervous but gaining confidence, and you let out a groan when her other hand goes to follow the first, grabbing at your other breast, both hands working in tandem.

Hums and sighs of satisfaction are falling from your lips regularly as Natasha begins to let herself relax into the familiar feeling of touching you. Even after all these months, her hands still recognize your form, everything about you is still as natural as breathing, known by heart. She has you memorized, and you can see the moment something shifts in her eyes. She’s no longer going to treat you like you’re fragile. She wants you to fall apart for her again.

Suddenly, she’s spinning the two of you around, and your back is roughly hitting the trailer, her frame pinning yours. You’re immediately arching into her, your body responding readily. You’ve been deprived of her for so long that you’re desperate for anything she’s willing to give to you.

Her lips fasten themselves to your neck, and she’s kissing her way across your jawline, teeth biting at your pulse point. She’s sucking harshly, canines scraping along, and she clearly intends on leaving marks, branding your skin with proof that you’re here with her, proof that you’re still hers. Her tongue darts out to soothe the sharp sting, but you almost don’t want it to, you almost want to preserve the pain, to relish in it, to keep it as evidence that your Natasha is back with you now.

She begins to shove your shirt up, fingers gripping at the hem as they sweep up your abdomen, the cotton garment rising, revealing more and more of you. Your arms raise to help Natasha quickly sling your shirt over your shoulders and roughly discard it somewhere onto the dirt. You shiver at the cool night air, goosebumps forming, your nipples hardening from both the cold and her touch, but you have no time to focus on the chill as her mouth connects with your collarbone, tongue lavishing the sensitive skin there with attention before licking a path from it down between your breasts, leaving sloppy kisses as she goes.

“Natasha,” you sigh out, and she lets out a noise akin to a growl at the sound of her name coming out of your mouth like that, soft, breathy, and desperate. She wastes no time, her hands then clutching at your sweats, tugging at the waistband and pushing them down to your ankles. You’re naked against the trailer in some forest of Norway, Natasha’s clothed form blanketing your own as she presses you up against the biting cold of the metal that is in no way the reason why you’re shaking.

Natasha’s hand drops down to cup at your core, and she moans at the amount of wetness there, your arousal already enough to coat her palm. Your hips roll against her, trying to gain some sort of further stimulation, but she stays where she is, simply reveling in the feel of you.

“Is this all for me?” she asks, her voice sounding like she’s in awe.

You nod your head. There’s no way to deny it, and why would you want to anyway? You want her to know, need her to know. You’re ready, you’ve been ready. You’ve been wanting your girlfriend for months, and now that she’s finally going to touch you, you’re not sure how long you’re going to last.

Two fingers swiftly enter you, your pussy clamping down on them immediately as if determined to never let them go. You want her to memorize the feeling of your walls around her, you want her to never forget how well she fills you, how your body was made just for her.

She begins a slow but firm pace, pumping in and out of you, your pussy’s wet noises audible in the stillness of the night as your juices continue to drip down her wrist.

“God, fuck, Natasha, please,” you beg, your voice choked up.

You need everything she can give you and more.

She increases her pace, sinking into you deeper with every thrust, scissoring her fingers before curling them again.

Your core feels like it’s burning her as she fucks into you, a stark contrast to Norway’s nighttime weather, and Natasha hums into the side of your neck at the hot feeling, continuing to lick and nip at your jawline. She missed this.

Her free hand comes up to pinch at your nipple, and you let out a surprised squeak at the action. Natasha lets out another moan, muffled against you, in response to the sound and desperately needs you to make it again, so she tweaks the hardened bud another time, then another, drawing whimper after whimper, gasp after gasp, out of you, before she resumes her kneading.

You don’t know how much more you can take with the fill, the stretch, the so-many-feelings after so long without them. You whine at a particularly harsh thrust of hers, eyes closing in pleasure, and you can feel her smile against you. There’s the Natasha you know, the one that is well aware that no one knows your body like she does.

“Already?” she asks, and you can only whine again.

She doesn’t need you to answer, she can sense you’re close, she can read your body’s every response, every reaction, and when her thumb comes up to rub against your clit, your knees begin to wobble.

Her body pressed against yours is the only thing truly holding you up. You can barely stand on your own, every part of you trembling with the feeling of her working you open. Her fingers continue their quick pace inside of you, hitting all of the right spots, your velvet walls constricting around her, wordlessly confirming the fact that you’re almost there.

You moan, high-pitched and prolonged, and when your eyes open to look at her…

You expect her expression to be confident, self-assured, knowing. You expect it to reflect the fact that she’s gotten you to your peak in a matter of seconds, but instead, it’s vulnerable, brittle. You can see that she’s nervous. She hasn’t done this in a while, and she doesn’t know if she’ll be able to live up to her memory, to make you feel as good as she once did. Has she forgotten your body, the feel of it, what it needs? Will you be disappointed with her touch in a way she never thought possible?

It's that exposed look of hers that sends you careening, head tipped back, guttural moan leaving your throat and echoing throughout the forest. She’s so beautiful when she’s laid out for you, heart on her sleeve, when she’s giving you all of her. Your knees do give out then, and she has to adjust her grip with one hand on your hip to hold you steady while her other hand continues its movements in and out of you. Your eyes have rolled back, eyelids fluttering against your cheek as pleasure washes over you in endless waves.

And all the while, Natasha is thinking the same thing, is awestruck at the sight of you falling apart before her, because of her, just like you used to. Her thrusts slow, softening to allow you to ride out your climax gently, to wring out every drop of pleasure she can.

You fall forward, limp against her chest, panting for breath as you try to come down from your high, entire form still getting rocked with small tremors and aftershocks, and all she can do is smile, small and grateful that you’re still here, that you haven’t left her, that you came with her in the first place.

“I’m here,” Natasha murmurs, and you hum out a response, unable to speak, but your hands grip her tighter, holding her closer.

“I’m here, I’m here, I’m here,” she repeats.

[natromilf]

RED | ft. N. ROMANOFF

summary Hiding out in Norway, a wounded Natasha Romanoff finds unexpected comfort in the gentle hands of the sweet cashier.

wc 5.5k words

warnings hurt/comfort, injury/blood, graphicwound stitching, age gap (mild, adult reader), bit of angst, mutual pining, tension, natasha being older/tired/broken, fluff

parings post civil war!natasha romanoff x younger cashier fem!reader

Maybe she used to be a nun.

No, no... that can't be right.

Maybe she was a concert pianist once – until an injury ruined her career. Or something dramatic like that. You hum under your breath, chin propped on your palm as you watch her stalk down aisle three, her bright hair a slash of sunset against cheap laminate shelves, neat braids woven through the waves.

Today, she’s picking out canned soup.

You squint.

Butternut pumpkin. Figures.

Maybe she’s a hacker. Some rogue codebreaker siphoning money from billionaires and funnelling it to refugees in the dead of night. A digital Robin Hood hiding out in your nowhere town on Norway’s ragged coast.

She moved here a month ago. You remember – you’d been making conversation with Mrs Hansen as she unloaded groceries at a glacial pace. Then she walked in: beat-up Lada Niva rumbling outside, sunglasses perched low on her nose, head down like she didn’t want to be seen.

You watched her openly. The flex of her forearms as she lifted baskets. The weary slouch of her shoulders under her leather jacket. She noticed your staring, of course. But instead of frowning or turning away, she gave you a tight-lipped smile and disappeared into the aisles.

That first day, she bought so much it nearly buried the conveyor belt. Canned beans, rice, tea bags, cheap vodka, bandages. Survival gear, you’d thought. Like she was stocking up for the end of the world.

Your daydream dissolves when her basket lands on your checkout with a careless clatter. You jolt. That smirk is already tugging at her mouth, knowing she’s caught you drifting off again.

“Off with the fairies, huh?” she drawls, her voice low, smooth, tinged with some unplaceable accent.

“Nope,” you hum, scanning her soup, “exactly where I wanna be.”

She goes by Fanny.

Stupid name. You’d told her that first time. She’d just huffed out a dry laugh and nodded like she agreed.

You still think about that: the way she let you name her something else.

“Your hair looks nice,” you say as you begin scanning her cans. “It’s getting long.”

She purses her lips, fingers rising unconsciously to touch a braid. “Thanks. Started using that weird serum you recommended,” She recalls. “Busy today?” she asks.

You raise a brow. She’s one of five regulars. The only other customer is a mother bribing her kid with Kinder Eggs in aisle two.

“Very,” you reply flatly.

She chuckles under her breath, watching your hands move deliberately slow. You’re the fastest cashier here, but with her, you take your time.

“You hear about Dale and Melissa’s breakup?”

Red furrows her brows. “They broke up?”

You nod. “Melissa told me about it. Caught him cheating with some out-of-town girl. Brutal.”

“Shit… you think they’ll close the café? Dale makes a hell of a coffee.”

You smile faintly at her genuine concern. “Doubt it. I asked Dale about it and he said he’d rather die than give up the art of coffee, whatever that means.”

Your eyes flick to the bag in her basket. Crispy M&Ms. You hold them up, tsking. “Have you ever tried the peanut ones?”

She shakes her head. No.

“You have to,” you say, ducking out of the cashier bay before she can protest. “Trust me.”

She calls after you, her voice half a groan. “I’m on a budget.”

You return triumphantly with a bag of Peanut M&Ms, slamming it down beside the rest. “You’ll like them,” you hum, punching your employee discount in before she can stop you. “For me?”

She scoffs softly, lips curling into a reluctant smirk. Your stomach swoops.

“Fine,” she mutters, sliding her card across the reader. She eyes you, suspicious, like she’s trying to calculate the hidden motive. Like kindness is always a trick.

“Don’t worry about it,” you say, waving her off.

Red slips the M&Ms into her jacket pocket, right against her chest. For a moment, you think about that pocket as a little shrine – your candy sitting there over her heart.

“Thanks, sweetheart,” she murmurs, and your cheeks flame. Her voice is warm, almost teasing, but edged with exhaustion. Her accent shifts between American and Russian seamlessly, like water finding cracks in stone.

As she gathers her bags, she pauses, eyes meeting yours. “See you around, fairy girl.”

Natasha had noticed your little crush the very first time you served her.

You weren’t exactly subtle. Small towns like this usually bred a certain fear of humiliation, a carefulness in the way people spoke. But not you. You were… different. Everything about you was different, she realised. 

She’d seen you before, of course—around the market, at the café, chatting with anyone who’d listen. You talked to everyone, from the grumpy old man who barely muttered a hello, to the stressed-out single mother juggling kids and groceries.

You didn’t just exchange words; you made them count. The way you remembered their names, asked about their day, noticed the little things no one else seemed to care about. 

Natasha watched you approach a scowling butcher one afternoon, smoothing his mood with a joke and a kind smile. She caught you helping a nervous teenager figure out the self-checkout machine without skipping a beat.

You moved through the town like a gentle breeze, warm and constant, drawing people out of their shells without even trying.

The way you slowed down with her. The way you asked questions that sounded casual but carried that gentle curiosity she hadn’t felt in years. 

“I like your jacket. Did you buy it recently?” 

“It’s cold today. How’re you finding the weather?” 

You looked at her like she was some puzzle you were determined to solve—your eyes full of that open admiration, tinged with a quiet pride, like you thought you’d already cracked half her code. Your gaze would drift across her face, down her body—not invasive, never leering. Just… reverent. Warm. 

You were younger.

Not by much on paper, maybe, but enough for her to feel the difference like a cold draft down her spine. Enough for her to think, I’ve lived a whole other life before you were even out of high school, kid. 

She wondered if you knew that. If you could sense the years she carried under her skin, the things she’d done before you ever learned how to flirt with such open sweetness. You worked at the market, and she never heard you mention family.

She never asked. 

Being a fugitive meant never getting close. Never letting yourself want anything. But still. Here you were. Looking at her like she was something worth wanting. Like you couldn’t see the blood under her nails, the ghosts behind her eyes. 

And God help her—she almost wanted to keep letting you look.

“See you, Red,” you called, voice bright in the otherwise silent store. 

She paused just outside the automatic doors, hearing them whirr shut behind her. For a split second, she let herself look back through the glass. You were still there, chin propped on your hand again, staring after her with that same soft-eyed smile. The kind that made something sharp twist behind her ribs. 

Natasha shook her head, blowing out a slow breath as she turned away, boots crunching over fresh frost. She really needed to stop coming here so often. 

Even Mason had raised a brow at her frequent grocery runs. “You don’t even eat that much, Romanoff,” he’d teased last time over the burner phone, voice crackling in and out with the Norwegian winds. “You’re just bored out there, huh?” 

But it wasn’t boredom that pulled her to aisle three every other day.

It was you.

The warmth in your smile. The curiosity in your eyes, untainted by fear or suspicion. Like you wanted to see her. Like you liked that she existed at all. It wasn’t something she was used to. 

She loaded her bags into the back of the Niva with mechanical efficiency, feeling your gaze lingering on her through the smudged windows. She’d had her share of women over the years – flings, missions, blurred lines in dark rooms lit only by city lights. 

Women who clawed at her hair and moaned her name, who stared at her with hunger or jealousy or lust. But no one had ever looked at her the way you did. Like she was… human. 

Like she wasn’t Fanny Longbottom, stupid fake name on a stupid fake passport. 

Like she wasn’t Natasha Romanoff, fugitive Avenger, international criminal, assassin, traitor.

No, to you, she was just Red. She liked that.

It had been a week since you last saw Red.

Normally, she came by every two or three days—sometimes once a week if she was busy. Busy with what? You weren’t sure, and maybe you never would be. A part of you liked the mystery—it gave you room to wonder, to daydream, to craft little stories about who she was beneath that leather jacket and guarded stare.

But a week without a sign was different. Unsettling.

She never missed without warning. Even when quiet, she showed up. You checked the usual spots—the café, the market, the dusty trail where her battered Lada Niva usually rested. Nothing.

Whispers drifted around town—rumors of trouble in nearby villages, strange faces near the docks, men with cold eyes and sharper intentions. You didn’t know if they meant anything, but they tugged at your gut.

Then there were the small, strange details you couldn’t forget: the groceries she always bought—enough for one but stocked like she was preparing for a storm. The way she flinched at sudden noises, like a ghost from her past was waiting in the shadows.

A week of silence was long. You couldn’t shake the growing worry.

On your break, you’d checked the only other mart in town—no sign of her. You asked Dale and Melissa if she’d grabbed a coffee. Nothing. The gnawing unease in your chest only grew.

She didn’t frequent any other places in town. From what locals said, she kept to herself in a trailer a few miles out west. Sometimes you caught sight of her battered Lada Niva winding up the gravel road at dusk, headlights flickering through the pine trees like a ghost story come to life.

That evening, you found yourself driving past her trailer on your way home, the sun dipping low behind the cliffs. Just to… check. Just to be sure. You’d visited once, when she had to do an online order instead, eagerly coming by with the products as she ensured you stayed outside, claiming the inside was a mess. 

Her truck was there, parked crookedly in the dirt, but no lights were on inside. The curtains were drawn tight. You almost drove on. Almost. But something pulled you out of the car, gravel crunching under your boots as you approached her door. 

You raised your hand to knock, hesitated, then knocked anyway. Three soft raps. Nothing. You tried again, louder this time. “Red?” you called gently. “It’s me. Just… checking in.”

No answer. Your heart kicked up a notch. You glanced around—silent forest, empty yard, the smell of salt and pine in the evening air. You knocked again, feeling foolish and scared all at once.

“Red,” you said, firmer now. You try her ‘real name.’ “Fanny. I know you’re in there.” 

Still nothing. You chewed your lip, weighing your options. This was stupid. Just as you go to take a step away, you hear the sound of metal falling to the flaw, clattering. You stop.

“...Red?” You call out again.

Finally, you reached down and twisted the doorknob. Unlocked.

The trailer smelled like stale blood and metal. 

“Jesus…” you whispered, stepping inside. 

The dim light leaking through the curtained windows revealed her slumped on the floor by the narrow kitchenette, back pressed against the cabinet. Her shirt was half-soaked through with dried blood, a bandage dark with fresh red pressed to her side. Blood smeared along the laminate floor, trailing from the tiny bathroom to her current spot, telling a silent story of her stumbling path. 

Her head lolled slightly when she heard you enter, lashes fluttering open. She muttered a curse under her breath. “Leave,” she commanded immediately, voice hoarse with pain and exhaustion. 

“Oh, shit, oh shit, Red, you—” You began, panic already rising in your chest. 

“Leave.” She tried again, stronger this time, but it ended in a choked cough against her bandages, blood seeping between her fingers. 

“What? No, oh— I’ll call an ambulance, wh—” You scrambled for your phone in your pocket, hands shaking. 

Before you could even tap the screen, she snatched a postcard from the counter and flung it with perfect aim into your wrist. The force jarred your reflexes just enough for your phone to slip from your grip and clatter to the floor, the screen cracking against the chipped linoleum. 

Your jaw dropped, the instinct to yell at her about your phone bubbling up—you’d have to drive two hours into the city for a replacement, and— 

Then she coughed again, sharp and wet. “No hospitals. No ambulance. Leave.”

You quickly shut the door behind you, doing the exact opposite as you stripped off your coat and gloves, tossing them onto a rusted hook by the door. “Red, what happened?” You knelt beside her, trying to keep your breathing steady. 

She attempted a glare, but it faltered halfway, her eyelids drooping with exhaustion. “Don’t… worry about it.” 

You scoffed, beginning to open every cupboard in search of a med kit. “You remind me of my ex.” 

She blinked at that, her brow furrowing through the pain. Confused, and almost amused despite herself. 

“Stubborn. Secretive. Charismatic, but reserved,” you rattled off, rifling through another drawer filled with old cans and chipped mugs. “It’s hot at first. Charming. Until shit like this happens.” 

She let out a huffed breath that could’ve been a weak laugh, or just a sigh of pain. “That… what you think… this is?” she rasped. 

You ignored her question, following the blood trail into the cramped bathroom. The air was damp and smelled faintly of antiseptic and iron. On the sink lay a half-used first aid kit, gauze stained with dried blood, surgical thread half unspooled. Your stomach twisted as you imagined her in here days ago, stitching herself up under flickering yellow light. 

Returning to her, you found her head tipped back against the cabinet, eyes closed. Her breathing was ragged, sweat beading along her hairline. 

“Red,” you said softly, dropping to your knees beside her again. 

You peeled her trembling hand away from the wound, inspecting it as gently as you could. 

The stitches had torn open along the lower edge of the cut, about two inches long. Angry red skin, swollen slightly with infection, leaked blood sluggishly down her ribs. The edges were jagged but shallow—defensive, you realised. Like a blade had scraped across her rather than plunged deep.

“Okay… alright…” she swallowed thickly, trying to keep her eyes open despite the grey pallor overtaking her face. She whispered your name, just loud enough to snap your attention back to her.

“Listen to me,” she rasped, voice rough with pain. “Can you do first aid or not?”

You froze for a second, then did an awkward half-nod, half-shrug. 

“What—what the hell does that mean?” she bit out, a flicker of frustration sparking in her dulled eyes. 

“We… we had to do a first aid course at the store,” you stammered, voice trembling as your gaze darted to the gaping wound at her side. “It’s mandatory. I—I remember… orange to the sky, blue to the thigh.” 

She blinked, staring at you in blank disbelief. “That’s… that’s epi-pens,” she croaked, a hint of dark amusement curling her lips despite everything. “And it’s the other way around.” 

She let out a shaky sigh, her head rolling back for a moment before she forced her eyes open again. “Okay. Listen to me. You need to do exactly what I say. Exactly. Alright?” 

You gulped, your vision blurring with tears as you stared at the slick red leaking through her ruined bandage. “Fuck. Fuck. Fuck! Red—why can’t we just—why can’t we call—” 

“This is what you signed up for when you walked through that door, okay?” she cut in sharply, her tone biting despite the strain. Her breathing hitched as she started to really feel the pain of the undone stitches. You were her only resource right now. “Focus.” 

You nodded quickly, your pulse roaring in your ears. She seemed almost calm compared to you. 

“You’re gonna redo my stitches,” she said, her voice turning soft but firm, like she was talking down a skittish animal. “It’s easy. Think of it like sewing. You sew?” 

“Not… really,” you admitted in a small voice, helping her brace herself as she shifted. 

“Great,” she rasped out a weak chuckle. “You get to learn.” 

Together, you maneuvered her onto the loveseat couch nearby, her weight heavy against you despite how slight she felt under your grip. She let out a low groan as you eased her down, her knuckles white where they clenched the bloody gauze. 

“What if—what if I got Dr. Hansen?” you blurted out, your voice shaking as you rummaged through the half-empty first aid kit, fingers closing around a sterile suture packet and black thread, remembering the local doctor. 

“Not happening, sweetheart,” she ground out, glaring at you through half-lidded eyes. “Now c’mon.” 

You let out a trembling breath, blinking back tears as you tore open the suture pack with clumsy, shaking fingers. “Okay… okay… tell me what to do.” 

She swallowed hard, her breathing ragged as she tilted her head to look at you. For a moment, her gaze softened, something unbearably fond flickering there despite the pain. 

“First… pass me the Scotch,”

Without hesitation, you grabbed the nearby bottle, dark, and cheap, half empty. You handed it to her, undoing the cap and watched as she gulped down some. She let out an exasperated breath, as if she needed that. She takes a second.

“Okay. Clean it,” she murmured. “Use saline. Wipe away the blood. Don’t go too deep… just clean the edges.” 

Your hands moved on autopilot, tearing open a saline vial and sterile gauze, your chest tight with terror as you dabbed gently at the torn wound. 

She winced but didn’t flinch away, her jaw tightening. “Good… that’s good…” she whispered, her eyelids fluttering. 

“Red… stay awake,” you say quickly, panic flooding your voice.

“Yeah, sweetheart, I’m… I’m here. Don’t worry about it,” she mutters, forcing her eyes open again. “You’re gonna thread the needle now. About… six inches of thread. Tie a knot at the end. Pull it tight.” 

You fumble with the suture kit, your fingers slick with sweat as you threaded the needle with shaking hands, tying a hasty knot at the end like she instructed. 

“Okay, alright… now what?” you breathe out, blinking away tears that blurred your vision. 

“Simple interrupted stitches,” she says hoarsely, her words slurring slightly. “Go… in one side… out the other. Pull through… tie it off. Quarter inch apart… don’t make them too tight. Just… enough to close.” 

You swallow hard, your hands trembling violently as you bring the needle to her torn flesh. “I—I can’t—” 

“You can,” she whispered, her voice firm despite the haze overtaking her eyes. “You can. Breathe.” 

A tear slips down your cheeks as you push the needle through her skin, feeling her tense under your hands but hearing no sound from her lips. The only sound was your ragged breathing and the distant creak of pine trees outside in the cold wind. 

“Good… that’s it… keep going…” she whispered, her voice growing fainter with each word. 

You worked gently, slowly. Every time she even winced, you would stop briefly, scared you'd hurt her, but she’d insist on continuing, continuing to sip the scotch. She watched you. The only sound being your breathing and her groans, and the squeak of the cheap couch beneath.

“You live here alone?” Natasha wonders.

You glance up at her now, surprised by her attempt at conversation. In your time of knowing her, which has not been long, you instigate the conversations, you ask the questions. You sigh.

“Yeah,” You mumble a response. “Moved here two years ago, after I graduated.”

Natasha hums thoughtfully, like she’s savoring the sound of your voice. Maybe this is why you talk to everyone—trying to fill the quiet that lives inside you both.

“What did you study?” she asks, eyes softening.

You don’t answer right away, your hands steady as you work on her stitches. Natasha waits patiently, sensing you’re lost in your own head.

“I… I tried to enroll,” she finally says, voice a little rough. “Signed up for a History class, actually.”

You smile gently. “Really?”

She nods, a small, almost shy smile tugging at her lips. “I was… angry at work. Thought maybe I’d rebel by learning something for myself.”

“Rebel against work?” you ask, teasing lightly.

She lets out a soft laugh, eyes flickering away for a moment. “More like... the people in charge.” Her voice is low, guarded, but there’s a hint of openness you haven’t seen before.

You continue sewing, then pause. “What part of history did you like?”

Natasha’s gaze drifts to the cracked ceiling as she thinks. “Rome. The time between the Republic and Empire. It’s… dramatic. Full of change. You’d probably like it.”

Her voice softens, almost like she’s sharing a secret. For a moment, she looks more fragile than fierce, and you feel something gentle stir inside you. Natasha smiles at that, eyes watchful as she takes another swig of scotch. Your eyes meet for a moment. You flush under her gaze, clearing your throat.

“I studied economics,” You tell.

She furrows her brows, shocked. “What?”

You chuckle a bit at that. You take a moment before going back to the stitches. It wasn’t too hard at all, you found. You just needed a groove, a bit of motivation. Her.

You chuckle softly, shaking your head. “I know, right.” You take a moment to steady your hands before continuing with the stitches. It’s not as hard as you thought—just a rhythm, a focus. And motivation. Her.

She’s still half reclined against the arm of the couch, one knee bent, the other foot across the other end on the couch, her head lolling slightly as she watches you with hooded eyes, taking the stitches like a champ. “Economics…” she murmurs, a lazy smirk curling her lips despite the pain. “That’s… unexpected.” 

“What, because I work checkout?” you tease lightly, trying to keep your voice from shaking as you knot off another suture. Your thighs are trembling from crouching so long, but you refuse to let it show. 

Her voice is raspy as she smiles. “No. Just… thought you’d do something softer. Art. Literature. Philosophy. Something that matches… all this.” Her hand lifts weakly, gesturing vaguely at your face, at the soft line of your mouth, at the tear tracks drying on your flushed cheeks. 

Your heart gives a little stutter at that, your chest tightening as you focus on threading the needle again. “I like numbers,” you mumble, embarrassed by how shy you sound. “They’re predictable. People aren’t.” 

Her lips twitch into a faint smile at that. “Smart girl,” She pauses. “You seem like such a people person, though.”

You shrug. “I guess. I realised people are way more interesting than numbers. Everyone’s got a story.”

 A pause hangs between you. 

“What’s yours?” Natasha asks, eyes narrowing just a little, curious. 

You shrug again, a small smile tugging at your lips. “I’ll tell you mine if you tell me yours.” 

It’s a challenge wrapped in a dare. She smirks, amused, eyes glinting with quiet defiance, knowing full well that’s not going to happen. Not tonight and leans her head back to lie down.

Your breath catches at her tone, your fingers faltering for half a second before you force yourself to keep going. You can feel her gaze on you like heat, burning into your flushed skin. 

“I um, I never asked what you do,” you say softly, needing to fill the silence before it swallows you whole. Before you say something truly stupid, like please don’t die. 

She chuckles weakly, the sound low and rough. “I… used to work in security, I guess,” she hums, voice distant, words slurring slightly. “Private contracts. Travelled a lot.” 

“Dangerous work,” you say, your voice barely above a whisper as you tug the thread through her skin again, making her hiss softly. 

“Yeah… you could say that.” Her eyes flutter closed for a moment before she forces them open again, pinning you with that sharp, steel-grey gaze. 

Even now, half broken and bleeding out on her shitty couch, she looks like she could snap your neck with a flick of her wrist. And yet… her eyes soften as they trace over your features. 

“You’re good at this,” she murmurs, voice dropping lower, turning rougher, almost intimate. 

Your cheeks burn under her gaze, your stomach swooping. “Don’t say that. I’m literally sewing you back together on your couch. This is… this is insane.” 

“Still good, ‘specially for an econ major,” she insists, lips quirking up into a faint smile. 

Her hand twitches, like she wants to reach out and touch you, but she thinks better of it, her fingers curling into her palm instead. You tie off the last stitch with trembling fingers, cutting the thread as gently as you can. 

Her blood is drying tacky on your hands, smeared down your wrists. You don’t even notice. All you see is her, half-naked and vulnerable in the dim lamplight, her skin gleaming with sweat, her hair mussed and clinging to her temples. 

“There,” you whisper, brushing a damp strand of hair from her flushed forehead. “All done. Did I do okay?” 

She glances down at your work, her tank top bunched just beneath her sports bra, exposing the raw stretch of stitched skin. Adjusting her back against the couch, she exhales a shaky breath, tension draining from her shoulders. 

Her head tips back, eyes fluttering shut as relief washes over her. “Perfect,” she murmurs, voice low and worn, but edged with genuine gratitude.

For a moment, neither of you move. Her breath is ragged, yours shaky. Her eyes flick down to your lips, just for a second, before dragging back up to meet your gaze. 

“Thank you,” she says softly, and something about the way she says it makes your chest ache. Like no one’s ever done anything for her without expecting something back.

You smile a bit at her. “No worries, Red,” A beat. “Now, can I ask what happened?”

She sighs, her gaze drifting to the cracked ceiling above. “Um… well, like you said, my job can be dangerous. You… make enemies with some angry people. And I was just… in the wrong place at the right time, I suppose.”

You nod slowly, letting out a short, humourless scoff. “We’re back to vague, huh?”

She says your name quietly, her voice a rasp. 

“It’s fine. You don’t… owe me shit. Honestly,” you insist, your voice soft but firm. “I’ll make you some tea.”

You move around the tiny kitchen, opening mismatched cupboards until you find a chipped ceramic mug and a half-used box of black tea. The smell of blood still fills the trailer, metallic and thick, clinging to your nostrils. You rinse your hands quickly, staring at the rust-stained sink as pink water swirls down the drain.

Behind you, Natasha sighs. You can hear her shifting on the couch, a low groan slipping from her lips as she tries to get comfortable. Her voice comes again, quiet but insistent.

She says your name once more. 

You don’t respond, you just want to make this tea and make sure she’s okay because maybe the secrets are bad, and scary, and maybe you’ve gotten yourself involved in something worse.

Another minute or so of quiet goes by, tense. She says your name again, this time softer.

“Seriously, Red, it’s not—” you begin, not turning around. 

“Natasha,” she interrupts. Her voice cracks a little, and she clears her throat. “My name… it’s Natasha.” 

You freeze. The electric kettle clicks softly behind you, steam curling up into the dim kitchen light. Slowly, you turn to look at her. She’s fidgeting with her fingers in her lap, tracing the gauze near her wound absent-mindedly, eyes cast down like a guilty child.

“My name,” she whispers again, her gaze flicking up to meet yours, weary but steady, “it’s Natasha. It’s not… Fanny.”

You stare at her, feeling your heart hammer against your ribs. You let out a quiet chuckle, shaking your head. “Yeah… I figured that a while ago,” you murmur, trying to ease the trembling in your voice. “Stupid name.”

“Very stupid name,” she agrees, a ghost of a smile tugging at her lips. 

You hum softly, stepping closer with the mug of steaming tea. 

You kneel down beside her again, pressing the warm ceramic into her shaking hands. “Natasha, huh?” She exhales shakily, nodding. 

“Yeah.” You sit back on your heels, looking at her. Really looking. Her flushed skin, the faint sheen of sweat on her collarbones, the raw vulnerability in her tired eyes.

You both understand that there isn’t a lot of truth she can give you. How this happened, her past, etcetera. But this? This she gives.

“Suits you,” you say quietly, your voice trembling with something you can’t name. She nods again, swallowing hard as she clutches the tea to her chest, letting its warmth seep into her trembling fingers. 

Her eyes flutter shut for a moment, lashes dark and damp against her pale skin. When they open again, she looks at you with an intensity that makes your breath hitch. “Thank you,” she whispers, her voice breaking around the words. “For… staying.” 

You smile softly, reaching out to tuck a stray strand of copper hair behind her ear, letting your fingertips linger against the hot curve of her neck. She lets you, surprised by herself as she leans into your touch.

“No problem,” you murmur. 

Her breath catches at your touch, and for a moment the air between you crackles with something thick and electric, something that makes your stomach swoop and your chest ache. 

“Don’t do that,” you whisper, voice trembling with restraint.

She blinks at you, pupils wide and dark. “Do what?”

You swallow, glancing down at her lips before flicking back up to her eyes. “Look at me like that. You’re hurt. It’d be stupid.”

A tired, raspy chuckle escapes her chest. “I’ve already done stupid, sweetheart.”

Your breath falters at the nickname, your heart giving a painful little squeeze in your chest. Before you can second-guess yourself, you lean down and press your lips softly to hers.

She tastes like blood and salt and something heartbreakingly human. She smiles against your mouth, her hand twitching like she wants to reach for you but can’t quite manage it. It’s gentle, fleeting, so impossibly sweet you think you might cry.

Then she suddenly lets out a sharp, pained yelp. You jerk back, eyes wide in horror. “Wh— oh my god, did I hurt you—”

But she’s chuckling weakly, eyes gleaming with mischief despite her exhaustion. “Got you,” she murmurs, voice teasing and low.

Your jaw drops as you realise she’s playing you. “Oh my god— no. No more deathbed kisses for you, alright?”

“Deathbed?” she echoes, smirking.

“I’ll make it one if you pull that shit again,” you threaten lightly, rolling your eyes as relief floods your chest.

She laughs properly this time, a quiet, broken sound, and you grin down at her despite yourself. You brush your hands against your jeans with a sigh.

“I’ll clean up a bit,” you say, softer now. “Try to get some rest, Natasha.”

She hums softly, eyes following you as you move around her small kitchen, her gaze lingering on the soft curve of your hips, the flutter of your lashes as you concentrate. For the first time in a long, long while, she lets herself watch you without guilt gnawing at her ribs. 

And despite the pain biting deep into her side, despite the ghosts howling outside her thin trailer walls, she feels… safe. 

Just for tonight.

note: hello!! how cool! im quite charmed by this, expect some more nat fics in the future. shes interesting to write for, her dialogue can be tricky tho. anyway thanks for reading!!

[natromilf]

thinking about nat x actress reader when nat saw men taking pictures of her gf's standee she got so overprotective, stole it and take it back on their shared home 😭😭😭

[natromilf]

Day 14: Uniform - Natasha Romanoff

Summary: You worked for SHIELD and had a huge crush on Natasha, so what do you do when she corners you one day, begging for your help as her zipper is broken and she's struggling to remove her uniform.

Tags: 18+ readers only, smut, anxious!reader, mutual pining, kissing, flirting, fingering, oral

A.N: Sorry this is a day late!

masterlist 📚 

kinktober masterlist😈 

AO3 Link 

“I need your help”, came the sultry feminine voice from your bedroom door, completely snapping you out of the fantasy world you were currently daydreaming about from the book in your hand.

You knew who was there before turning in her direction in shock and surprise. “Help? Me? You need me?” your cheeks warmed at your noticeable stutter with questioning as you looked at the beautiful red-haired woman standing at your door. Natasha Romanoff was smirking at you with her hand on her hip and wearing the tight-fitting black widow suit, recently returning from a mission. She looked dangerous and deadly, but from what you could see, none of her weapons were attached to her anymore, even though she was a weapon. 

Natasha tilted her head to the side, her eyes flicking across the room, taking in every detail of your bedroom, and you wished you had cleaned up before she arrived. Standing nervously from your bed, your book is thrown onto the bedside drawer without marking the page with the urgency to give the woman your attention.

She doesn’t say anything; she just continues to look at you with her piercing eyes before nodding her head in the opposite direction, a sign that she wants you to follow her down the hall. You were a SHIELD agent and are currently staying at the Avengers headquarters as you continue to train for missions. You’d made some good friends here and enjoyed finally being able to use your skills for something that mattered.

This was all until you realised that the Avengers themselves actually lived there, not just the agents. You assumed they had their own homes for privacy, but this was not the case, so day after day, you had to see people like Natasha who could casually walk into your bedroom. Your crush on the Avengers was rampant, having admired her since before even joining the institute. Who wouldn’t find her attractive? She was among the most fierce and beautiful women you’d ever seen.

Natasa, ever the spy, was well aware of the effect she had on others and, most of the time, enjoyed shooting down anyone who attempted to flirt with her, walking away without a glance back at them. But not you. Never you. It is evident to everyone who worked at the  Avengers headquarters that you had a deep-seated crush on Natasha, from the fleeting glances out of the corner of your eyes or how you would stammer and stutter over your words when she was close by. You were fascinated with her, but rather than being a strong, independent woman, you resorted to being a nervous wreck, hardly even looking her in the eye because you were so anxious to talk to the beautiful woman.

This only became a fun game for Natasha, who found your crush incredibly endearing, cute even and found any excuse possible to try to talk to you, even adding your name to missions so that she knew you were close by. The more time she spent with you, the more she developed her crush; she was just better at hiding it. It was a fun little game at your expense, and today, Natasha was hoping it would be the end to it all, bored with the teasing.

Natasha walked confidently down the hall, through a set of double doors and into the Avengers section of the building. You nearly tripped over your feet, trying to look around at the area you’d not been to before she halted in front of a door, entered a key code and walked in. The weapons and expensive dress decorating the indicted where she’d taken you. You paused on the threshold to her bedroom, unsure if she meant for you to follow her in here, but she urgently waved you further so she could close the door.

Hiding your trembling fingers behind your back, you turned towards Natasha, your eyes wandering above her head as you couldn’t stomach looking into her beautiful face. “So, um, what do you need help with, Miss Romanoff?”

Natasha tried not to grin at the formal way you addressed her. “It’s pretty embarrassing, actually”, she began, her posture changing completely as her shoulders hunched slightly inwards whilst curling some of her red hair behind her ears to appear as if she was embarrassed. “My zip snapped during the mission, and now, I can’t remove my uniform, and the material has been specially made, so I can’t just cut it off”.

Your mouth suddenly filled with saliva as you automatically glanced at where her zipper stopped, just above her cleavage. Once you realised you were staring, you quickly looked back down to the ground, finding the carpet incredibly interesting all of a sudden.

“Why are you asking me for help and not the seamstress?” you asked when you finally found the courage to find your voice.

“The seamstress doesn’t work on Saturdays, and you’re one of the only people I trust here, so I need to hold the two pieces of material together at the top, and you somehow shimmy the zip down”.

There was only white noise blasting through your head at her request, and without giving yourself time to overthink, you closed the distance between each other. The tips of your shoes brushed against hers as you lifted your fingers to grab the zip buckle. Natasha could see the tremor in your fingertips as she grabbed the two sections of material and tried to squeeze them together.

It was difficult at first to grab the metal, especially as your hands began to sweat, but ever so slowly, the zip descended lower, inch by inch. More of her skin began to be revealed. Her cleavage, her sternum, then lower over her navel until the very edge of her public area, which, to your amazement, was neatly trimmer and a brunette shade.

As you comprehended what you were actually looking at, you stepped away, hands rubbing at your sides like you’d made the gravest mistake possible, scared that Natasha would be upset for revealing so much of her body. However, the assassin was unphased and began to pull her arms from her uniform, pushing the black material off her shoulders, down her waist and hips and then kicking off her shoes and attire, leaving it in a pile on the floor.

“You… You don’t wear any underwear beneath your uniform”, you whispered beneath your breath in awe before quickly looking at that entertaining patch of carpet on the floor, realising you’d been staring at her naked body. Your entire body heated with embarrassment and arousal as you crossed one leg over the other to try and squeeze your thighs together to get rid of the uncomfortable feeling. 

Natasha shrugged at your observation, “I find that the uniform is so tight that I can’t wear any underwear without the seams being seen, so it’s easier to go without”. Nodding your head at her explanation, you continued looking anywhere but at her. Natasha took a dainty step towards you, her smile growing more prominent, “Are you afraid of nakedness?”

You make a point of forcing yourself to look at her whilst folding your arms over your chest. “No, of course not. I just thought it would be polite to give you some privacy”.

Natasha bites the inside of her lips to stop from just outright grinning and laughing in your face. “I don’t mind. You can look”, she quips whilst raising one of her eyebrows suggestively.

You weren’t sure if this was a test, but as your eyes lowered, you thanked whatever gods were listening to this one moment that you would remember for the rest of your life. She was well toned, given her lifestyle and training methods, and scars littered over her body, which was evidence of her work as stabbings or gunshots clearly created them. You were mesmerised by her beauty, from her perfectly trimmed mound, her toned abs, and up to her round, full breasts.

Until that is, something piqued your interest, “Do you have your nipples pierced?”

Natasha tipped her head back and laughed, looking down at her perked nipples with a shrug of her shoulders, making them jiggle with the movement. “Yeah, they’ve made me quite sensitive, but I thought it would be fun. Plus, they’re super cute”.

“You are”, you say, admiring her breasts, but then your eyes go wide in shock, realising what you’d just said and the soft tone you’d said it in. “I mean, they are- the piercings are -I didn’t mean to sound inappropriate, sorry. I didn’t mean- I just- I wasn't, um-”

Natasha took a step forward, closing the gap entirely so that you could now feel the warmth of her skin; she was that close. Her beautiful, naked body within your bubble, you never wanted it to leave.

“It’s ok, I know what you meant. You’re cute when you’re all embarrassed”.

“I…I am?” you say, looking at her like she had grown another head because there was no way Natasha Romanoff just called you cute in any sense of the word, especially when you’re whining away anxiously.

“You are. Might be why I asked you to come and help me rather than the others. Nothing like a cute girl helping to undress me”. You flush at the obvious flirtatious advances, trying your hardest to continue looking into her forest-green eyes that seem to delve deep into your soul. “You’re even more cuter when you’re like this. Reacting more to my words than my naked body. God, I could just eat you right up.” Natasha lifts her slender fingers and runs the back of them over your eyes and around your ear. “I’ve been watching you, y’know?. It's so hard to talk to a cute girl like you when you’re running away from me every time I enter the room”.

“I’m just nervous”, you say and instantly chastise yourself for stating the obvious.

It doesn’t, phas Natasha thought as her other hand gently grasped yours, interlocking your fingers as she stated, “I know. You don’t have to be nervous, Sugar. I only want good things, I promise”.

She lifts the hand that is holding hers, kissing the palm ever so softly and then moves it so you’re holding her face. “You don’t have to be nervous to do anything with me”, Natasha continues, “I want you to feel safe with me. I want to get to know you on a personal and physical way, if you understand what I’m alluding to”.

Your mouth didn’t want to work, with the worry of just blurting out that you were in love with her, so you nodded your head to show your understanding. Being brave, you allowed your fingers to explore her sharp cheekbones, admiring the delicateness of her skin and shocked when she even began to nuzzle into your palm.

“Can I touch you?” she asks sincerely, her eyes wide with hope and yet restrained, not wanting to frighten you off. As your fingers brush through her silky hair, you nod your head, wanting her very much to touch you in any way possible.

Natasha lifts both hands to press against your hairline, exploring your face like she was trying to map every inch of you. Lower she descended, over your cheeks, your nose and finally your lips, pulling on the bottom one with her thumb, which had your eyes automatically dropping to look at hers.

You want to kiss so severely that it almost makes you ache and beg. It seemed Natasha also knew this and had another idea in mind as she implored in the most innocent voice, “Touch me lower”.

You do as instructed, over her jaw and down her long neck, then press her collarbones again, wondering if this is the area where you should stop. However, Natasha raises her eyebrow again in question, so you take that as your queue to explore lower. Your eyes never leave hers as your fingers run down the centre of her sternum, directly between her breasts, until they stop at the base of her sternum.

Deciding to be brave for once in your life, your fingers skimmed the underside of her heavy breasts, and you watched in delight as her breath hitched, chest leaning into the touch. You take this as a good sign and reach for her hard nipples that have a simple metal bar through the centre.

Natasha groans, even though all you’ve done is graze over the bundle of nerves. “So sensitive”, she explains and reminds you of her predicament.

Pulling your hand away, thinking you’d done something she didn’t want, you apologise quickly, “Sorry!”

However, with her lightning-fast reaction, Natashas quickly grabs your retreating hands and pulls them back to cup her again. “I like it. I like everything you do to me and want to do”.

Before you can overthink anymore, Natasha is pressing her face towards yours, eyes closing and lips connecting with yours. Your whole body reacts instantly, leaning closer and mewling into her mouth, pushing harder. Her lips were so plump they felt like soft, warm clouds against your face, and you’re obsessed, crazy for more, never wanting this moment to stop.

But of course, it does as Nat pulls back for a second, and you’re trying to chase after her with your lips, which causes the woman to giggle. “Can I take this off?” she asks, pulling on the bottom of your shirt. You nod, heart beating so hard on your chest you were sure she would be able to hear. Lifting your arms above your head, Natasha removes the article of clothing and begins to admire your black bra. “I love this”. She eyes it for a second before realising that it unclasps from the front. Natasha internally praised you for being so beautiful as she reached to undo the clasp, exposing your breasts to her.

She moans in wonderment at your beauty, cursing herself for waiting this long before making a move. Natasha couldn’t wait any long as her head dipped to lick across your nipple, causing your back to arch to press her face closer, and your fingers gripped into her hair to hold her there.

Something seemed to snap in you, whether the confidence blooming in your core or the anxiety melting away. Either way, you were in this situation, and there was no way you were letting it go to waste. As the red-haired woman sealed her lips around your other nipple, licking and sucking the bud into her mouth, you swiftly pulled her off by your hands behind in her hair, but only to kiss her deeply and passionately.

Whether it was your enthusiasm to kiss her or Natasha’s excitement that you were beginning to feel more confident, something knocked the two of you back so that you were now led on her perfectly made bed. Natasha doesn’t waste a second and is climbing on top of you, straddling your waste with her naked body now hovering over yours. You touch her everywhere now, her thighs, over her arse to pull her hips closer, up her back to then cup her head.

It was everything you wanted and more; couldn’t get enough of her taste, smell, and warmth. Everything about her, you wanted it every day, all the time. She was sweet and delicate with you, but eventually, Natasha too was becoming fevering with her touches and needing more of you.

“I wanna taste you”, she admits against your lips, just as her tongue dares to peek before yours.

“Are you sure?” you asked uncertainly.

Natasha laughed against your mouth, moving to kiss down your throat over the areas that had your toes curling as she confirmed, “Yes, I’m sure I want to eat you out.”

Your only answer was a grin that caused your cheeks to ache with how giddy you felt. Natasha kissed your lips once more before shuffling down your body, leaving a trail of open mouth kisses, tasting every area of your skin she could reach, and spending special particular attention on your breasts. Teasing and sucking on them until you begged her to move lower with how intense your arousal was becoming. 

Natasha noted this, deciding that the next time the two of you were intimate, she wanted to see if she could make you cum just by nipple stimulation. Lower she moved, every touch was gentle and calm, even as she unbuttoned your jeans and began to lower them as well as your underwear down your legs, with the help of you lifting your hips, her fingers still were careful about where she touched.

She then began her journey up, kissing and licking all the places that were most sensitive, like your inner knee and thighs, until she was face to face with the area causing you the most ache.

Her eyes met yours, and a devilish smirk on her lips made you wonder what you had gotten yourself in for as her mouth met your more intimate areas. You broke eye contact first, but only because your body jolted, and you had to force your back to arch, spreading your legs further on the bed as your head tipped back.

Natasha's lips were just as plump and soft against your pussy as they were against your mouth. She kissed you there first, savouring the warmth and liquid that had already leaked from your cunt. The noises you were already whimpering were like music to her ears, so desperate and needy.

Carefully, her tongue licked long strips up your folds before adding pressure and parting them, moving deeper until she was poking at your hole that was already contracting with your arousal around nothing. She contemplated for a moment letting her tongue fuck you, but instead, she paid particular attention to your throbbing clit. Tentative, agonisingly slow circles did the tip of her tongue move around the bud before she pressed the flat front of her tongue and gave it a long lick.

“Natasha!” you cried out, hand moving to grip her hair to hold her there. Nat thought it was adorable seeing you falling apart like this so quickly. She hummed against your pussy which caused vibrations to purr into the nerves, which caused your thighs to tremble and clench with the stimulation.

Nat tickled the backs of your thighs to get them to relax again before travelling the length of the limb until the area where your tongue was still pleasuring. Her middle finger circled your eagerly awaiting hole, and as she sucked on the bundle of nerves, she inserted the finger carefully. In and out and moved before adding a second finger, beginning to stretch your cunt. Your hips began rolling of their own accord, desperate to match the pace of Natasha’s tongue and fingers, which had just started to curl to press against the sensitive spot inside you.

“That feels so good, right there!” Natasha didn’t plan on stopping making you feel this good, but she did contemplate just how pretty you’d look after being edged a few times. She just added that to the lengthening list of things she wanted to try with you in the future.

You had to bite your lower lip as your cries of joy were beginning to echo around the bedroom, still holding onto the red hair and essentially fucking yourself on her fingers and tongue. Opening your eyes, you looked down at the green eyes that were watching your every move.

“Please kiss me”, you asked desperately with a slight quiver in your voice as you were getting closer to orgasming.

Natasha grins, licking her lips and crawling back up your body whilst still curling her fingers, her thumb pressing and rolling your clit instead of her tongue. Her mouth was hungry against yours, forcing your lips wider so she could stroke your mouth's crevices, making sure you could taste yourself from her.

You reach out for her, wanting to feel her body just as badly as she wants to hear you cum, but she has other ideas. The hand you reached for her with was held firmly against the bed as Natasha shook her head. “This is just about you today; there will be so much more time for me in the future. Just enjoy this, Sugar”.

You could have melted at the pet name she’d picked and rushed forward to kiss her feverishly one more, hips rolling and working in time with the curl of her fingers and thumb. She was making you feel so good, expertly touching your body, gripping the back of your head to hold your close.

Resting her temple on yours, she looked at you with glazed eyes and demanded, “Cum for me; I want to see you cum on my fingers, pretty girl”. Her words had your core tightening in arousal, your mouth gaping open to gasp and share the same air as her she was that close to you. “That’s it, you’re doing so well for me. I know you’re close. I can feel it on my fingers; you’re so wet for me, so tight, Sugar. Cum for me”.

Your body convulsed as your orgasm rocketed through your very centre, thighs trembling, arms struggling to hold you up as your pussy squeezed in flutters around her fingers. She didn’t stop her rocking motion; those sweet curls of her two fingers, not under you, had sagged back onto the bed to catch your breath.

Carefully, she eased her fingers out of you, putting on a broad display of her licking your fingers and dramatically moaning at the taste before lying down next to you, resting her head on her elbow.

“Do you wanna go and get some food?  There’s a cute Italian place about half an hour from here”, Natasha asks casually whilst stroking your cheek with the hand that had just been between your legs.

“What? Like a date?” you asked with the tremor returning to your voice as you stared at her with widening eyes.

Natasha takes one look at you and laughs, tipping her head back with how funny she found it. “I’ve just licked you out and had you cumming on my fingers, and you’re getting nervous about a date? You’re too fucking cute, Sugar. Yes, it’s a date. What do you say?”

Your cheeks heat at her amusement, but you’re soon joining her with smiling, nodding your head and saying, “Yes, I’d love to go on this date with you”.

[natromilf]

⁀➷ Lines We Cross // Natasha Romanoff x F!Reader

Summary: You’re cocky, sharp, and far too reckless for Natasha Romanoff’s taste—which makes being assigned to her team unbearable. For her. Tension builds through missions, near misses, and one very small motel bed.

Requested by: @paulasocean -- Thank you for the request, darling! Here's a mix of the different Natasha requests you've sent, I hope you like it!

Tags: 18+ readers only, smut, angst, violence, injuries, marking, enemies to lovers, forced proximity, hurt/comfort, praise kink, oral sex, fingering, teasing, dom/switch, body worship

Words: 4.7k

my masterlist 📚 AO3 Link

The compound is quiet upon arrival, but not silent. You can feel it humming beneath your feet, polished floors, security systems, and trained eyes on you at all times. SHIELD doesn’t do subtle. Even its most peaceful moments feel like they're holding their breath for the next attack or mission. 

You’re no stranger to that.

Your boots echo faintly down the hallway as you follow a vaguely bored agent toward the main conference room. Everything here is clean and clinical, down to the air that smells just a little too sterile.

“You’ll be debriefed by Agent Romanoff,” the escort mumbles under his breath, barely looking at you.

You can’t help but smile. Romanoff, of course, it was her. 

You’ve heard the stories, everyone in the field had. The Black Widow. Blood on her hands and a body count that makes most assassins look like amateurs. But that's not what caught your attention. It’s what people don't say. The quiet respect, the hesitation, the way some agents won't meet her eyes, yet remain oddly loyal. 

You want to see for yourself what all the fuss was about.

And then she walks in.

She’s shorter than you’d expected. Well, not short, but compact. Every move is deliberate. Her red hair is tied back in a braid that sways with every step, and her black tactical gear fits like it was made for her. Which, you assume, it was.

Her eyes lock onto yours.

Green, fierceness. Cold and accession.

“You’re the new transfer,” she says, voice flat.

You nod, leaning back in your seat casually, your smirk returning easily. “Pleasure to meet you, Agent Romanoff.”

Her jaw flexes, just a little.

“Fury must be desperate,” she mutters, flipping open your file without looking at you again. She reads fast. Probably memorised half of it before she walked in.

Your arms cross your chest, continuing to assess every move she makes. “You know, most people start with hello. Or at least thank you for saving that hostage in Cairo.”

She snaps the file shut, her eyes find you, a move you had hoped she would do again.

“You disobeyed direct orders, blew up a museum, and nearly caused an international incident.”

You grin. “Yeah. But I got the girl.”

Her mouth twitches. Not quite a smile, more like irritation curling into something sharper.

“Reckless,” she says. “Undisciplined. Arrogant.

“And yet,” you purr, here I am. Assigned to your task force. The best of the best.”

That gets her. Those bright greens of hers flicking back to yours, sharp enough to cut steel. “You’re not here because I want you here.”

“Oh, I figured that much,” you say casually, dragging a finger across the smooth surface of the table between you. “But maybe I’ll grow on you.” 

Natasha steps closer. Not enough to crowd, but enough that you feel the heat rolling off her body, and the sweet smell of her perfume, covering the underlying scent of leather and gunpowder.

“I don't work with people who don't follow orders,” she says softly. 

You tilt your head. “And I don't follow orders from people who haven't earned my respect.” 

Something flashes in her eyes. Annoyance? Amusement?

“You think this is a game,” she mutters, shaking her head.

You lean in just slightly. “I think you like the way I play. I get results.”

The silence that follows stretches thin, taut, with something unspoken. Her eyes drift to your mouth, for a fraction of a second too long. Then she blinks and steps back.

“You report at 0600. Don't be late and don't talk.” 

“Mm,” you hum, already rising to your feet. “But my voice is my best quality.”

“I've seen your psych eval,” Natasha says, arching a brow as she picks up the file again. “That's not what it says.” 

You grin. “So you have been reading about me, sweetheart.”

Her eyes narrow. You're already halfway out the door when she calls your name. You turn, expecting another warning.

Instead, her gaze flicks down your body once, measuring, but with an edge you can't miss.

“You slip up in the field,” she says quietly, “and I won't hesitate to put a bullet in your leg to slow you down.” 

The threat should make you nervous. Instead, it makes your blood sing.

You wink. “Kinky.”

The door shuts behind you with a soft hiss. And for the first time since you arrived at SHIELD, you realise something dangerous. You want her.

Not just her body, though that was part of it. It’s the way she moves, the silence she carries, the layers of restraint coiled like a spring under her skin. You want to see her unravelled. You want to be the one who does it.

Later that evening, Natasha stands in the dark of the training room, fists wrapped, hitting the bag with clinical precision. Her strikes are rhythmic and efficient, but her mind keeps drifting back to you.

That cocky smile. That infuriating confidence. The way you didn't flinch when she got in your space. Most people back down. You didn't even blink. 

She hates people like you. Except… she doesn’t.

Not really.

“Reckless,” she exasperated under her breath, slamming her fist into the bag. Her knuckles began to ache. But what's worse is that for one brief, stupid moment, she wanted to grab your face, slam you against the wall and kiss you. 

And the worst part? She still does.

~~~~~~~~~

The intel said “minimal resistance.”

Which, of course, meant bullets were already flying by the time you and Natasha reached the rendezvous point.

You press your back to the crumbling stone wall of the safe house, gun drawn, heart pounding. Dust trains from above with every distant explosion. It's dark, close, the air thick with gunpowder and adrenaline. 

Natasha’s bedside you, her shoulder brushing yours.

She doesn’t say anything, but you feel her body hum like a live wire. Her breathing is steady, her stance locked in, gaze razor-focused. The professional in her has taken over completely.

Even like this, with chaos outside the door, you can't help the tug in your chest. She's beautiful like this. Terrifying. And yet every brush of her arm against yours, every quiet glance, causes heat throughout your body. 

Completely unprofessional.

You shift closer, just enough that your lips are by her ear. “So much for minimal resistance.”

She doesn't flinch. “Next time, shut up and read the brief properly.”

You grin despite the danger. “Admit it, you missed me.”

Her head turns, sharp and slow, until her eyes meet yours. In the low light, they seem darker. 

“If I say yes, will you finally stop talking?”

You smirk. “No chance.”

But before she can respond, a burst of movement shatters the tension, three hostiles sweeping the alley outside. Without thinking, Natasha grabs your arm and yanks you back into the shadows, one hand pressed firmly against your chest.

Your back slams gently into the wall behind you. Her body covers yours, flush and close, her face inches from yours. The scent of her completely consumes you—her breath ghosts across your cheek.

You don’t move.

Neither does she.

She’s staring at you like she's trying to memorise your face in the dark. You wonder if she even realises how close she is. If she notices how her fingers have curled slightly against your jacket. How her lips part just enough that you could lean in– 

“Three seconds,” she whispers, breathless. “Then move.”

You swallow hard and nod once. She peels herself off you, silent as a shadow, and slips around the edge of the door. You follow close behind, your body still buzzing where she touched you.

The fight is fast and brutal.

You take down the first with a clean shot, then duck behind the corner as the second one returns fire. Natasha moves silently and precisely. But the last one, he comes at you from behind, fast. You don't see him until it's too late. 

The blade slices clean across your ribs. You gasp, stumbling backwards. Your hand flies to your side, already wet with blood.

Natasha sees red.

You don’t register the sound of her gun, but the hostile hits the ground in seconds, dead before he hits the ground. She’s on him, then on you, grabbing your arm, pulling you toward cover.

“Let me see,” she snaps, her voice suddenly not steady.

“I’m fine,” you hiss, breath catching. The pain is sharp, blooming hot and deep into your side. “It’s just a scratch.”

Natasha pulls your hand away from the wound. It’s not a scratch.

“You’re an idiot,” she argued, voice tight, jaw clenched as she tore into her gear for gauze. “A fucking reckless idiot.”

You hiss when the pressure hits. She doesn't ease up. Her hands are stained with your blood. Her fingers move fast, practised, but there’s a tremor under them you’ve never seen before. 

“You’ve been stabbed before, right?” you say, trying to lighten it. “This isn't even a top-five worst one for me.” 

She doesn't look at you. “Shut up.”

“Didn't realise you cared, Romanoff.” 

That gets her. Her eyes flick up, hard and unreadable. “I don’t.”

But her hand is cradling your side like she does.

~~~~~~~~

You don't make it to the rendezvous point that night. The safe house is compromised, and your wound is slowing you down. Natasha finds an abandoned cabin in the woods, crumbling and isolated, half-flooded with moonlight through broken glass.

She leads you inside, one arm under yours, guiding you gently despite her scowl.

“Sit,” she orders.

You do. Not because she told you to, but because you’re getting dizzy.

Nat kneels in front of you and starts undoing your tax vest. Her eyes never leave your face, not even when her fingers brush over your exposed ribs.

You can’t help but tease, even though there is pain. “You know, if you wanted to get me out of my clothes…”

Her glare is swift and deadly.

“I swear to god–”

But there's colour in her cheeks. Her hands are careful now, gently as she inspects the wound. The bleeding has slowed, but you’ll need stitches when you get back. 

She cleans it in silence. You watch her instead of the pain, watch the little crease between her brows, the way she bites the inside of her cheek when she's focused. You wonder how many times she's done this. You wonder how often she's done it alone. 

“You don’t have to patch me up like this,” you trail off.

“Someone has to.”

Her voice is flat, but then she adds, softer: “I don't like seeing you hurt.” 

You blink. She tapes the gauze down firmly and pulls back, eyes flicking to yours, vulnerable, just for a second.

“You scared me,” she admits. Quiet. Raw.

Your chest tightens.

“You're not supposed to care, remember?”

“I know,” she breathes. She opens her mouth to say something else but stops herself.

You don't move, and neither does she. The silence is thick and soft, almost sacred.

Then she rises to her feet.

“Get some rest,” she says. “We move at dawn,” but as she turns away, you swear you see it, just for a moment. Her hand lingers at her side, like it wants to reach back for you.

~~~~~~~

The next morning is quiet. Too quiet. You wake in the dusty cabin, badanged and stiff, and weak, to find Natasha already moving. She's dressed, armed, and pacing outside, as if the night never happened. 

Fine. You can play this game.

By the time you return to HQ, the mission is scrubbed, and your injury earns you ten days off rotation. You three showed up at the training room with a half-healed side and a smirk. 

Natasha’s already there, because of course she is.

Wearing her black tank top, hair tied up, and an expression like she hasn’t thought about that cabin at all.

“Shouldn’t you be on light duty?” she asks, not even looking at you.

“Thought I'd stretch my legs,” you say, shrugging off your jacket, keeping all wincing to a minimum in front of her. “Besides, wouldn't want you to get soft without me around.” 

Her head turns. Slowly. That look could kill a man. You grin wider.

The spar starts cold and controlled. You trade blows in silence, each movement familiar. You've done this dance before. But there's something different now. 

Something taut in the air. Every graze of her hand. Every shift of weight. You’re no longer sure if it's tension or desire. Probably both.

She grabs your wrist mid-strike and twists, a clean and efficient move. You let her, pivoting, sliding behind her, your breath at her neck.

“You’re getting slow,” you whisper teasingly.

She slams her elbows into your ribs. Pain shoots through your still-healing side, and you grunt, stumbling back. Natasha freezes.

“You okay?” she asks sharply.

You straighten, breathing through the pain. “Takes more than a love tap to put me down, Romanoff.”

Her eyes narrow. “You're not healed.”

“I'm not fragile.”

She steps forward suddenly, crowding into your space. Not angry, just close. Your breathing fails. 

“You could tear the stitches,” she chastises. 

You don't move. “You worried about me?”

“No,” she lies, instantly.

And you should stop, you should let the silence take over. But you don't.

Instead, you reach up and brush a lock of hair from her face, slowly, like you’re testing her limits. Her breath hitches. Just slightly.

“You ever think about it?” you ask quietly.

Her brow furrows. “About what?”

“This,” you say gently. “About what it would feel like. If you didn't hold back.”

Her fingers twitch. Your faces are so close now that you can feel her exhale against your lips.

And then it happens. She kisses you. Hard. Sudden.

Its teeth and its desperation. Her hands are fists in your shirt. You taste the frustration in her, the control she's been denying herself, the heat that's been simmering for days, weeks.  

You kiss her back just as hard. Your body aches from the effort, but you don’t care. You want her to lose control just once.

But just as quickly, she pulls back. You reach for her again, and she jerks away like you burned her.

“No.”

It's a whisper—a plea.

Her chest is heaving. She looks like she's about to break something or run.

“That didn’t happen,” she said, voice void of all emotion.

You blink in surprise. “Nat–”

“I said it didn't happen.”

And then she's gone. Out the door before you’re even able to taste her truly.

You stay where you are, breathless and raw, forgetting all about the pain.

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

The rain starts halfway through the drive. Cold and endless. Beating against the SUB like it’s punishing the road itself.

Natasha drives in silence, hands tight on the wheel, jaw set in that perfect, unreadable line. You sit in the passenger seat, arms folded, watching the way the water streaked down the glass like something out of a movie, you're not supposed to feel anything about. 

She hasn’t said a word since the mission ended.

Another weapons bust. Clean execution. One cracked rib on your end, a busted lip on hers. Still breathing, still walking, still pretending.

It’s been two weeks since the kiss.

Two weeks since she pulled away like “nothing happened,” and left you standing there with your lips tingling and fingers twitching to stop her leaving.

Now she won't even look at you.

The motel is a forgotten thing on the edge of a nowhere town. Flickering neon, peeling paint.

Nat grabs the key from the front desk, nodding once without speaking.

You already know what’s coming.

“Only one bed?” you ask, just loud enough to be a little smug.

She doesn’t answer.

You both step inside the room. It's a small one-bedroom, queen-sized room with faded sheets, a chair that sat suspiciously in the corner of the room facing the bed, and the bathroom light flickers twice before staying on. 

You toss your bag down with a groan, stretching your arms over your head.

Natasha glances at you from the corner of her eye.

“Don't look so smut,” she says under her breath.

“I'm not smug. I'm relaxed. There's a difference.” 

“You’re impossible.”

“You already said that.”

She opens her mouth, probably to argue, but then pauses. She's starting at your side, where your shirt has ridden up slightly from the stretch.  

Her gaze sharpens.

You glance down and realise the gauze is gone now, and it is in place, the sca. Still healing and fresh, risen along your skin. Right where she had stitched you up on returning to SHIELD. 

Her face changes. Like something in her chest caves inward. She doesn't speak. Holds her breath and just stares.

“Hey,” you say softer now. “It's healed.”

She doesn’t answer.

Her eyes trace the shape of the scar like it's a wound she still hasn't forgiven herself for. She steps forward before she realises it, then stops. Like being near you costs her something she isn't ready to pay. 

“It’s my fault,” she says quietly.

You frown. “What?”

“That you got hurt. I missed the angle. I should have cleared the alley better. I didn't see him.” 

You shake your head and take a step forward. “That's not on you. That's combat.” 

“I'm trained to prevent combat casualties.” 

“Jesus, Natasha. I survived. And I'm not a casualty, I'm your partner.” 

Her eyes flash at that. “No, you’re not.”

You blink. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means you can't be,” she bites out. “I can't… I won't have that kind of risk. Not with you.” 

Something softens in your chest. You take a step toward her. She doesn’t move. Not yet.

“You keep pretending that none of this is happening,” you plead. “Like you didn't kiss me. Like you don't care if I get hurt. But you do.” 

She swallows. You press forward.

“You do care, Nat. And it scares the hell out of you.”

Her mouth parts, no sound. Her fists clench at her sides. You can see it all in her eyes, the want, the guilt, the resistance. She’s trying not to shake and trying not to feel.

And she’s failing.

You don't kiss. Not yet.

You walk past her to the bed, toss one of the extra pillows to the floor, and start unzipping your boots.

“I’m not sleeping on the floor,” you say casually. “You can sulk all you want, but I'm not going to let a busted rib turn into a back injury.”

She stands frozen for a second, caught between instinct and impulse. Then, finally, she exhales.

“Fine,” she says stiffly, stepping forward. “Just.. stay on your side and I hope you don't talk in your sleep.”

“No promises.”

You crawl under the covers, back to her, body sore and burning with the weight of everything unsaid.

The bed dips as she lies beside you, silent, distant, but there.

Neither of you has slept for a long time.

At one point, you turn slightly, and you feel it–her fingers, barely grazing your back like she didn't mean to. Like she didn't know her body was moving toward yours even in the dark. 

You don't say anything. But you don't move away either.

~~~~~~~~~~

You wake before the sun. Barely.

The room is dim, cast in early blue light filtering through the bare curtains. You're on your side exactly where you fell asleep, and Natasha is still there. 

Close. Too close. She's lying on her back, one arm draped above her head, the other grazing your side, barely touching. Her body radiates heat beneath the covers. You can feel her warmth through the thin barrier of your shirt. Her breath is slow. Even 

But she's not asleep. You can tell by the way she's breathing. 

Tense. Awake. Waiting.

You shift slightly, just enough for your shirt to ride up an inch. You pretend not to notice. But she does. You feel her hand twitch. 

She’s looking at your scar again.

You stay still, waiting.

She exhales sharply. Controlled.

And then she moves.

Not fast, not rough, just with intention. Her hand slides up, palm pressing gently over your ribs, over the scar. Her thumb brushes the edge of it, slowly. Like she's memorising it. 

You suck in a breath.

“Natasha…”

She says nothing. Her hand stays there, resting lightly on your bare skin. Her body shifts, and then she's closer, her chest against your back, her breath ghosting over your neck and not touching your mouth, not kissing you. Just there. 

“I see it every time I close my eyes,” she whispers, voice raw.

You turn slightly, half on your back, enough to face her. Her hand doesn’t leave your side.

“It's a scar, I've got worse. I've got many.” 

“No,” she says, firmer now. “You don't. Not from me.”

She leans in before she can stop herself. Her lips press against the scar. Once. As if she's trying to take it back, as if she's praying it never happened. 

You feel it, her guilt, her longing.

And then her hand is on your stomach, sliding under your shirt, skin on skin. Her mouth follows, over your ribs, your stomach, soft open-mouthed kisses until your shirt bunched at your chest, and she's looking at you like she's already lost. 

“I told myself it didn’t matter,” she breathes. “That I could stay in control.”

You lift your hand to her cheek, gently. “You don't have to be in control with me, Natasha.”

And that’s when she snaps.

She kisses you like she's drowning in it, fingers tangled in your shirt, yanking it over your head before tossing it aside. Her mouth claims yours, hot and desperate, tongue sliding against yours like she needs to taste you again. 

You gasp as she rolls on top, straddling your hips, hands flat on either side of your head. Her body presses into yours, hard, like she wants to sink through your skin. Like she's afraid you'll disappear if she doesn't hold you down. 

Her lips move to your throat, nipping, licking, biting. Marks. She’s marking you.

You arch beneath her, breathless. “You’re not pretending now.”

“No,” she says gruffly. “Not this time.”

She kisses your chest, down your stomach, slow enough to make you ache. When her mouth returns to your scar, she kisses it again–this time with tongue, with teeth, until you're arching into her touch. Her hands grip your hips tightly, possessively. 

You thread your fingers into her hair. “Natasha–fuck–please.”

She doesn't answer. Just slides lower, between your legs, removing your pants and underwear as she moves with deliberate slowness. Her eyes never leave yours.

“You want this?” she asks, voice like velvet over steel.

You nod. “I’ve wanted you since day one.”

Her smirk is sharp, hungry. “Then hold on.”

Her tongue meets you without hesitation, licking a long, slow stripe between your legs. You gasp, hips twitching, but her hands grip your thighs and pin you down. 

She works like a mission: precise, focused and ruthless. Every flick of her tongue, every swirl, every moan against your clit is meant ot undo you completely. And it works. Fast.

You’re panting in minutes, head thrown back, thighs trembling under her grip.

“Fuck, nat–just like that–”

She groans, the sound vibrating through you, sending heat spiralling to your core. 

“Cum for me,” she says, vocie wrecked. “I need ot feel it on my tongue.”

You do. Hard.

Your back arches off the bed, your breath caught in your throat as pleasure rips through you. She doesn't stop, not until your hips jolt and your thighs tremble and you're gasping for breath. 

When she finally pulls back, her lips are slick, her eyes wild.

She crawls up your body, kisisng yoru throat, your shoulder, that goddamn scar again.

“I’m not done,” she whispers.

And she isn't.

She pulls you into her lap, lips rashing into yours again, and slides her fingers inside you, deep, slow and intentionally, watching your face the whole time. 

You ride her hand, wrapped around her neck, clinging to her. She holds you close with her other arm around your back, whispering in Russian against your ear, a language you can barely begin to understand.

When you orgasm again, this time with your face buried in her neck, sobbing her name.

As your body shakes, her lips find your temple. And for the first time, she lets herself hold you like she means it.

~~~~~~~~~~~

The sun is barely rising when you stir again. You're tangled in the sheets, sore in all the bed ways, Natasha’s thigh warm between your legs and her arm draped lazily over your waist. 

She’s half asleep, hair loose, breathing even. 

You just stare. You've never seen her like this. Soft and still.

She shifts a little as you brush your fingers over her stomach, blinking awake, eyes hazy and mouth parted. She watches you in silence for a few seconds, that deep, unreadable calm in her gaze, before her fingers flex against your side and she muses, “You're staring.” 

"I like the view,” you say with a smirk.

That earns you an eye roll, but accompanied by a fake smile as well. 

You lean over and kiss her collarbone, your lips dragging slowly across her skin. “We’re not done.”

Her brows lift. "Oh?”

“You let me fall apart last night,” you speak against her throat. “Think it's my turn to ruin you.”

Her breath catches. You kiss down her chest, her stomach, dragging the sheets away as you move. She doesn't stop you, doesn't say a word, but her hips arch ever so slightly, betraying just how much she wants this. 

When your mouth hovers between her legs, she looks down at you, eyes dark and heavy with heat.

"youre cocky,” she says, voice still hoard from sleep.

You smirk, lips brushing her inner thigh. “You bring out the best in me.”

Natasha exhaled hard when your tongue dips low, slow at first, teasing. You like a slow strip up her centre, and her hips twitch. 

“Don't tease,” she warns.

“Why not?” you say smugly. “You’ve been teasing me for weeks.”

You dip your tingue again, firmer this time, and she groans, head tilting back, fingers fisting the sheets.

When you start sucking her clit, tongue flickign n practiced movements, her thighs begin to tremble.

“Fuck—” she gapss, hands flying to hold onto your head.

You pull back, just enough to look up at her, your mouth wet and smirking. “What was that, agent Romanoff?”

She glares, eyes glazing, hips already chasing your mouth again. “Shut up and put your mouth to use for once.”

God, you've never been so turned on. You obey, but not without the smug glint in your eye. 

You take her apart slowly, lips and tongue working in synch, fingers digging into her thighs to hold her steady. She's already shaking, breath shallow, curses spilling from her lips like she's been needing this for years. 

You glance up just as her head falls back, mouth open in a gasp, her hand tangling in your hair and pulling you deeper.

“Just like that,” she pants. “Good girl.”

You groan into her, fuck, that praise going straight to your cunt, and double down. Faster, deeper, until she’s gasping your name like a prayer.

She cums with a sharp cry, thighs squeezing around yoru head, back arching off the mattress. You don't stop until she’s trembling, fingers loosening, breath hitched.

When you finally pull back, your chin wet and your smirk unapologetic, she's staring at the ceiling, as if trying to process her own body. 

You crawl up her body, kissing her stomach, her chest, her throat, until you settle beside her.

“Still pretending?” you ask softly, fingers circling her abdomen.

“No,” she says. “Not anymore.”

Silence falls, but not the heavy kind. The quiet is warm now, close, like something safe and earned.

Her fingers find yours under the sheets, and she laces them together.

You glance down. She's looking at your hand like it might disappear.

“You okay?” ask you gently.

Natasha hesitates. “I don't know what to do with this.”

You squeeze her fingers. “We’ll figure it out.”

She lets out a shaky breath. “I’ve never let myself have anything like this.”

“Then its abotu damn time you did.”

You lean over and press a kiss to your temple. And for the first time since you met her, Natasha Romanoff doesn't pull away. 

[natromilf]

glasses, drinking wine, the suit... CAN I SIT ON YOUR LAP PLEASE I'LL BE GOOD