unlady-like-12-25-36

[unlady-like-12-25-36]

cure of ra

[unlady-like-12-25-36]

UNAUTHORIZED DIVORCE.

✷ n. romanoff x fem!ex wife!reader

Warnings: Explicit content, g!p!nat, dom!nat, sub!reader, p in v, creampie, no condoms used, explicit language, dirty talk, fingering (r receiving), oral (r receiving), hair pulling, toxic!nat, nat invades the reader's house, manipulation, Breeding Kink. Minors dni.

⌗ Solnyshko ⥱ solnyshko is a diminutive form of "sun", used to convey warmth, light and affection.

The rain was pounding against the windows when you heard the noise.

A soft click of the lock. The sound of boots on the floor.

You sat up in bed, your heart racing, before the lights suddenly came on.

And there she was.

Natasha Romanoff, standing in the middle of your room, drenched from the rain, her tactical uniform clinging to her like a second skin. In her fingers, dangling carelessly, were the divorce papers—torn in half.

"You…" Your voice trailed off. "How did you get in here?"

Natasha smiled, slowly, like a predator before its prey.

"Do you really think a lock would stop me?" She dropped the papers to the floor, stepping on them. "I gave you two years, Solnyshko. Two years for you to realize you were making a mistake."

You stepped back, but she was already too close, the heat of her body burning even through her wet clothes.

"The divorce is final," you insisted, getting up from the bed, trying to sound firm.

Natasha laughed, low and husky, one hand gripping your wrist while the other slid to your waist.

"Oh, really?" She pulled you close, until you felt exactly how happy she was to see you. "Because the civil records say otherwise."

Your stomach lurched. She was lying. She had to be.

Natasha saw the doubt in your eyes and smiled, her lips moving close to your ear.

"Want to see?" She pulled a document from her pocket—a marriage certificate, intact, with both of your names still engraved on it. "It never made it to court. You're still my wife."

The air left your lungs.

Before you could react, Natasha pushed you against the wall, her body pressing against yours, hard and demanding.

"And now," she whispered, her teeth grazing your neck, "you'll remember exactly what this means."

Natasha didn't wait for your answer. Her lips met yours in a kiss that felt more like a fiery declaration of war, possessive and filled with the pent-up rage of two long years. You tried to resist, but your traitorous body responded as it always had, arching against her as if you'd never been apart.

Her hands roamed your body with the familiarity of someone who'd never forgotten a single detail, awakening every inch of your skin with touches that blended pain and pleasure in perfect measure. "You thought you could just erase me?" she growled between bites on your neck, her fingers squeezing your waist hard enough to leave marks. "That I'd let you go?"

Your knees weakened as her fingers found the skin beneath your nightgown, gliding with irritating familiarity over the places only she knew so well.

"You still react the same," Natasha observed, satisfied, as a moan escaped your lips despite yourself. "Two years and your body still remembers who it belongs to."

"I don't belong to you," you breathed, even as your legs involuntarily parted at the feel of her knee pressing between them.

Natasha laughed, low and husky, as her other hand dropped to your hip. "Such a sweet lie. Let's see how long you can keep it up."

In one movement, she threw you onto the bed, covering your body with hers before you could react. The torn divorce papers landed beside the pillow—a silent reminder of the farce she'd engineered.

"Now," Natasha whispered, pinning your wrists above your head with one hand while the other ran down your body like a sentence, "let's settle this little rebellion."

Her fingers traced the contour of your hip before slipping beneath your nightgown, eliciting an involuntary shiver from your skin. "Two years without touching you," she murmured, her lips trailing along your collarbone. "Two years of abstinence. Do you have any idea what you did to me?"

Her hand dropped abruptly, her fingers finding the heat between your legs through the thin silk of your panties. You gasped, trying to close your legs, but Natasha's knee was already firmly positioned between them.

"It seems someone was waiting for me," she observed with a predatory smile, feeling your wetness through the fabric. "Even after all this time. Even pretending to forget me."

Your hips moved against your will, seeking the contact your body still remembered so well. Natasha growled in satisfaction.

"That's right, solnyshko. Don't fight it." Her teeth clamped down on your earlobe. "You were always mine. I was just lending you to the world for a while."

With a sudden movement, she ripped the thin silk barrier, making you shiver at the cool air against your exposed skin. "But the loan is over."

Her fingers found your clit unceremoniously, circling with the precision of someone who had the map of your body committed to memory. "Let's see how many 'no's' you can say when you're screaming my name," she challenged, increasing the pressure exactly at the point that made you see stars.

The orgasm hit you like a speeding train, tearing a muffled scream against Natasha's shoulder as your body writhed beneath her hands. She didn't give you time to catch your breath.

"Only the first," she announced, descending through your body like a storm. "I'll collect every day we spend apart." Her tongue found your center with a sharp thrust, making you writhe again. "With interest."

Outside, the rain continued to pound against the windows, muffling the sounds of your moans and Natasha's husky voice between your legs, murmuring in Russian all the things she would do to you until dawn.

"Now do you understand?" Natasha whispered, her voice rough as she emerged from between your legs, her chin wet and her eyes burning with renewed possessiveness. "No paper, no time, no distance will change what you are."

Her fingers—still damp from you—clasped your chin tightly. "Mine. Forever."

When she rose from the bed, you thought for a moment she was leaving. Until you heard the sound of her belt being unbuckled, wet clothes falling to the floor. Natasha emerged from the darkness like a ghost from all your dreams and nightmares—naked, imposing, and hard as stone.

"Time to remember your place," she growled, flipping you onto your stomach with a force that made the mattress tremble. Your knees dragged against the sheets as she positioned herself behind you, one hand tangling in your hair to pull your head back.

"Say it. Say it's mine." The tip of her cock pressed against your entrance, making you moan loudly. "Or I'll make you spend the whole night pretending you don't want this."

You tried to swallow your pride, but your body was already betraying you, pushing back against her in a silent plea. Natasha laughed, a dark, victorious laugh.

"I knew you missed this." She slammed into you in one go, tearing a cry from your lips as she filled you completely after so long. "So tight, almost like you've been waiting just for me."

Her hips began to move with a relentless rhythm, each thrust calculated to hit that spot inside you that made your vision blur. One of her hands gripped your hips hard enough to leave bruises, while the other continued to pull at your hair, keeping your back arched perfectly beneath her.

"You will sign the new papers tomorrow," Natasha ordered between deep thrusts, her voice trembling with the effort of maintaining control. "The correct ones this time. With a marital obedience clause."

When you tried to open your mouth to protest, she chose that moment to deliver a particularly strong one, making you scream and clutch at the sheets.

"Oh no, solnyshko," she growled, leaning over your back, her lips hot against your ear. "You lost the right to speak when you tried to run away from me." Her teeth ground into your shoulder. "Now just listen and accept."

The rain outside increased, matching the frenetic rhythm of your bodies. Natasha was everywhere—in the sound of her heavy breathing, in the smell of her sweat mixed with the rain, in the delicious pain of her relentless possession.

And when the second orgasm hit, stronger than the first, you finally understood—there was no escape. Natasha Romanoff wasn't the kind of woman who took no for an answer. And, God help you, part of you loved it.

The air rushed from your lungs as she pulled you back hard, each thrust now calculated to hit that spot inside you that made your body tremble uncontrollably.

"Two years without filling you like you deserve," she murmured, her lips warm against your spine as one hand moved down to your abdomen, pressing there as if she could feel every inch of her inside you. "Two years without marking you inside, without leaving you dripping wet for days."

Her fingers dug into the sheets as she changed the angle, hitting a spot that made your legs tremble.

"I'll fill you to overflowing," Natasha promised, her voice husky with pent-up pleasure. "Until there's not a single inch of you left that isn't marked as mine."

Her rhythm became erratic, more brutal, and you knew she was close—you could feel it in the way her nails dug into your skin, in her labored breath against your back.

"And when I'm done," she continued, her teeth digging into your shoulder, "I'll start again. Until I'm sure you've got it. Until you forget you ever tried to live without this. Without me."

Your name escaped her lips in a moan as she finally reached her climax, spilling herself inside you with a victorious growl that echoed through the room. Natasha didn't stop immediately—she continued moving slowly, prolonging the pleasure for both of you while whispering words in Russian that you didn't need to understand to feel.

When she finally collapsed onto your back, sweaty and panting, her lips found your ear in an almost tender kiss.

"Tomorrow," Natasha murmured, her fingers tracing possessive circles on your toned hip, "we'll go to the registry office. You'll sign the new papers." Her teeth grazed your ear, "The ones that say 'forever' this time."

You tried to turn to face her, but your body was limp, exhausted, still trembling with the echoes of pleasure. "And if I refuse?"

Natasha laughed, a dark laugh that made your stomach churn with anticipation. "Then I'll take you tied up. And then I'll make you sign on your knees." Her hand slid between your legs, slowly collecting the proof of her possession. "Have you thought about it, solnyshko? Me fucking you while you try to write your name..."

Your body reacted before your mind could process it, a moan escaping against your will. Natasha smiled victoriously.

"You'll never say no to me again," she promised, licking her fingers devotedly. "Nor will you want to."

As she lay down beside you and pulled you against her body, you noticed something cold on your finger—your wedding ring, replaced while you were distracted. Natasha intertwined your fingers with hers, the two rings glinting together.

"Welcome back to the wedding, solnyshko," she whispered, sealing the promise with a kiss.

[unlady-like-12-25-36]

Zora’s Baby

Zora Bennett x Reader

Word Count: 2,434

Summary: It was a near miss. A close call. You are fine. At least, that’s what you’re telling yourself to keep from descending into a state of complete and total panic.

Warning: Dinosaur attack, blood, general scary dinosaur behaviour. Smut, thigh riding, mommy kink, praise kink. Dom Zora kinda. Choking kink.

⋆ ݁. 𓍊𖠰𖥧 . 𓍊𓋼 𖠰 ݁↟ 𓃦 𖡼. 𖤣𖥧 𖠰. ݁⋆ ݁. 𓍊𖠰𖥧 . 𓍊𓋼 𖠰 ݁↟ 𓃦 𖡼. 𖤣𖥧 ݁⋆ ݁

You're all standing in a field, tall luscious, green grass brushing against you as it’s swayed by the wind.

Zora and Henry stand not even ten steps ahead of you, barely visible in the tall grass. Both of them are enraptured by the titanosaurus in front of them.

You’re just as mesmerised, watching the animal embrace its lover. It's truly a sight to see. Something so heart warming. So surreal.

Everything about the moment feels perfect. The warmth from the sun heats you just enough to keep you comfortable. The breeze drifts through the grass, making the soft surface brush against your skin. The sounds of nature surround you, lulling you into a state of tranquility.

The look on your girlfriend's face brings everything together. The complete awe and wonder in her eyes draws your attention almost as much as the dinosaurs themselves.

Zora turns toward you, a cheeky smile on her face as she gestures towards the two titanosaurus and then between the two of you. You shake your head at her, a laugh tumbling past your lips at her silly sweetness. She winks at you, smile wide on her face before she turns back toward the two dinosaurs.

Your own eyes follow hers, gazing up at the sixty five foot dinosaurs. Elation fills you. This is something you’d dreamed of for years. You’ve imagined this moment so many times. You don’t think you could be any more at peace.

You close your eyes, taking a deep, prolonged breath to savour the moment. Life really couldn’t get any more perfect than this.

A sharp rustle from behind you catches your attention, your eyes snapping open as you turn. You half expect to see a baby triceratops or some other herbivorous dinosaur. You smile, eager to meet a dinosaur up close.

The grass parts, a long snout peaking out, sharp teeth bared. A noise fills the air, low and pulsing. Your breath catches in your throat, the creature steps forward and you come face to face with a raptor.

You scream, raw and instinctive, staggering back a few steps. It lunges at you, knocking you to the floor as its talons dig into your shoulder.

You cry out, blood dripping from your wound. The raptor tilts its head at you, contemplating. For a terrifying second you think you see the creature smile. Crazed and vindictive. Enjoying the pain it’s causing you. The raptor shifts its weight, its tallon digging into your skin further. Tears stream down your face, your eyes wide as you stare up at the monster on top of you.

The raptor rears its head back, mouth wide open ready for attack. It lets out a terrifying shriek, the force of it pushing you further against the ground. You close your eyes, terror seeping into your bones as you wait to feel its teeth rip into your flesh.

Loud shots ring through the air, one after another, each followed by a howl from the animal above you as it digs its claw further into your skin.

The raptors body is heavy when it crashes against yours, limp and unmoving. You want to scream, to claw your way out from under the crushing weight of the beast. But you can’t move, your body too overcome by shock to cooperate.

Zora’s boots land against the ground with a loud thud as she runs to your side, the noise dulled, all but drowned out by the sound of your own heartbeat thrumming in your ears.

“Y/n!” Her eyes are wide, frantic as she looks down at you. Her voice is loud and demanding as she yells for everyone to help lift the creature off of you.

Her hands are firm on you as she drags you from behind the raptor, hauling you up onto your feet with impressive strength.

“Are you okay?” Her voice sounds distant, her hands where they grip your forearms barely registering in your mind. “Are you hurt?”

Your breathing is uneven, your hands shaking, from fear or adrenaline you didn’t know. “M-my shoulder.” You whimper, Zora eyes immediately zero in on the wound. “We need to get you bandaged up.”

You nod shakily, all your senses coming back to you at once as you feel Zora move to step away. Everything is too much, the sun, the breeze against your skin, the quiet sound of long grass grazing off each other. You feel altogether too fragile. Too raw and open to the world.

Your hands clutch at her instinctively, knuckles white as they grip the front of her tactical gear. “No please.” You all but cry, desperation lining your voice.

Zora’s eyes snap to yours. She looks at you, really looks, the sheer terror in your eyes, the colour drained from your face. You're shaking, she can feel it where you hold her, see it in the way your legs barely keep you upright.

Zora’s jaw locks, her eyes darting to the unmoving dinosaur on the ground, green orbs filling with something altogether too hateful. She nearly lost you. That damned thing could have killed you. It was going to.

“We need to get out of here.” Henry’s voice pierces through her thoughts. “Raptors hunt in packs. If there’s one, the others aren’t far behind.”

Zora nods, ordering Henry to pass her bandages and a wrap. She makes quick work to cover the wound on your shoulder. It’s messy and rushed but it’ll have to do for now.

“Now, Z!” Duncan calls, voice filled with urgency, his eyes scanning through the field for possible threats. She doesn’t bother giving him an answer.

“Can you walk?” She asks you instead, eyes boring into yours. You nod shakily, your legs collapsing under you as you try to take a step.

Henry is at your side in seconds, slinging one of your arms over his shoulder as Zora does the same with your other.

You're slow as you move through the field towards the outpost nearby. Zora and Henry practically have to drag you. You keep apologising, insisting you don’t understand what’s going on with you.

“You're in shock.” Henry says, his voice soft. “It should wear off soon.”

Zora stays silent through the journey. Her eyes fixed straight ahead of her, her jaw locked. Her hands around you never falter. Her mind replaying the moment she heard you scream on loop. She hesitated. When she turned and saw you on the ground, the raptor pinning you. She hesitated, her whole body just shut down, fear of losing you taking her over. It was all of five seconds before she kicked into action. But those five seconds could have cost you your life. She’s not sure she’ll ever forgive herself for that.

—————————————————————

Once the outpost is cleared and checked for security concerns you all decide it’s best to spend the night. Everyone needing rest after the long day you’ve all had.

Zora takes time to clean your wound properly, all the while murmuring soothing words and soft apologies as you flinch and try to stifle whimpers.

She bandages it with care, ensuring you’re comfortable and will heal properly. You were lucky enough to only have a flesh wound, no bone or muscle damage. Nothing too severe anyway. You’ll still have to go to a hospital once you get home but this will keep you going for now.

Once everything is done she asks how it feels, placing a kiss above the wound once you nod your approval and thank her. The shock has worn off now, though you're still extra clingy. Still needing your girlfriend close.

Zora stares at you for a long moment, at the now bandaged wound on your shoulder, at your hand where it's laced with hers. Your head rests on her shoulder, your breathing back to normal as you soak up the comfort she offers you.

Zora’s mind flashes back to the attack. To the moment she nearly lost you. Her eyes darken, her hand tightening in yours. You look up at her, a question on the tip of your tongue before she stands, pulling you up with her.

She ignores you as you ask where she’s taking you, doesn’t answer when you ask if she’s alright. She leads you out of the room where everyone rests, up three flights of stairs, and down hallways, through doors until she deems you both far enough not to be heard by the others.

“Zora-“

She shushes you, hands gripping at your waist. She leans in, lips hovering over yours, her breath shaky. “I could have lost you.” She whispers. She’s slow as she backs you against a wall, mindful of your shoulder. Her hands push gently at your hips, her eyes locked where her hands meet your skin.

Her fingers run over your body, tracing every inch of skin she can reach, hands sliding under your clothes. “If I had reacted a second later…”

“But you didn’t.” You reassure her, hand resting on her cheek. “You saved me.”

Zora’s eyes snap to yours, darkening, something unreadable flickering over her face. Her hands grasp at you, pushing you firmly against the wall.

“Zora!” You gasp, exasperated. Confusion flickers over your face, brows knitted together at her actions.

“I almost lost you.” She whispers again, the pain dripping from her words knocking the air from your lungs.

“I need to feel you.” She says desperately, her body leaning into yours. “Please, baby.”

The second you nod Zora drops to her knees, gently pulling your pants and panties down your legs, kissing every inch of skin exposed to her. Once they reach your ankles Zora lifts each leg gently to remove the offending clothes, tossing them to the side with little care for where they land. She leans forward, her eyes slipping closed as she rests her head against your bare thigh. You bring your hand to her head, gently carding your fingers through her hair.

She releases a shaky breath, leaning back to look up at you. Your breath catches at the sigh of her and she smiles, leaning in to place a final kiss to each thigh before rising to stand in front of you.

She makes quick work of riding herself of her own pants, leaving her standing before you in black panties and her green vest top. Your mouth waters at the sight of her, toned legs and muscular arms on display.

She’s back on you in seconds, her body pushing yours back against the wall. Her breath fans over your lips as her thigh slides between yours, pushing up against you, pressure hitting right where you need it and you gasp. Your hands fly to her shoulders, your hips moving against her on their own accord.

Her thigh is firm and warm between your legs, your arousal making her skin slick. “Oh god.” You groan, head falling back against the wall, all thoughts of your close call earlier in the day gone from your mind.

Zora’s hands find their home at your hips, guiding your movements. You sign, her name tumbling past your lips. Zora smiles. “Good girl.” Her lips trace your neck, kissing and biting any bit of skin she finds.

You moan, hips stuttering against her thigh and her hold on your hips tighten, pushing you down against her greedily.

“I’m never letting you out of my sight again.” She says between marking and kissing the delicate skin of your neck.

“I’m fine, love.” You pant, hips grinding down more insistently. Her thigh pushes up against you, her hands dragging you forward. “Really I- fuck that feels good.” You moan, a fresh wave of arousal hitting Zora’s thigh.

“What you are.” Zora’s voice is dark, filled with lust and something else as her hand comes to rest around your neck, applying enough pressure to make your head swim. “Is mine.”

“Mine to love.” She presses a kiss to the mark she’s made on your neck.

“Mine to protect.” She kisses your cheek.

Her lips hover over yours, greedily taking in every moan and whimper falling from your lips. “Mine to fuck. However I like. Whenever I like.”

“Oh god, Zora. Please.” She smiles, her grip on your throat tightening. You’re soaking, slick spreading down your thighs and over Zora’s.

Her lips trail from yours over your cheek to your ear, her hot breath setting your body on fire. “Go on, baby. Cum against mommy’s thigh.” She takes the lobe of your ear between her teeth, biting gently.

A loud moan passes your lips, your legs shaking, pleas and her name falling past your lips as you come apart on your girlfriend’s thigh.

Your hands grip her shoulders, nails digging in hard enough to leave a mark and she loves it. Loves that she’ll have a reminder of you like this. Completely ruined for her and only her.

“Just like that baby.” She coos, guiding your hips to ride out your high against her. “Fuck you’re so pretty like this.”

It takes you a few minutes to come back to yourself, your breathing laboured, head leaning against zora’s shoulder as you catch your breath.

Zora’s hands move, one running over your back soothingly and the other cradling the back of your head against her. “There you go, baby. You're okay.” She whispers.

You lean back, arms loose around her neck as you look up at her. “I really am, you know. I’m okay. It was scary but then you were there and I knew I was safe.”

Zora releases a breath, her lips covering yours in less than a second. She kisses you softly, like she needs it. She kisses you like she’s planning to for the rest of her life.

She pulls back to look at you, her hands pulling you flush against her. “Marry me.”

“What?” You blurt out, eyes wide.

Zora smiles, nudging your nose with hers. “I love you. I never want to be without you.” She leans in to kiss you again, loving the way you melt into her.

“Marry me.” She whispers into the air between your lips.

You smile, a teasing lilt to your voice. “No ring Bennet?”

Zora laughs, her smile lighting up her face. “When we get home I’ll get you any damn ring you want.”

Her face turns serious but the softness in her eyes stays. “Marry me.” Her voice drips in sincerity. “And I’ll spend every day of my life showing you how much I love you.”

“Well.” You say, pulling her into another kiss. “When you say it like that, how could a girl say no?”

⋆ ݁. 𓍊𖠰𖥧 . 𓍊𓋼 𖠰 ݁↟ 𓃦 𖡼. 𖤣𖥧 𖠰. ݁⋆ ݁. 𓍊𖠰𖥧 . 𓍊𓋼 𖠰 ݁↟ 𓃦 𖡼. 𖤣𖥧 ݁⋆ ݁

A/n: I’m not used to writing for Zora yet I feel like I need to rewatch the movie to see more of her character. Purely for research purposes Ofc

[unlady-like-12-25-36]

UNAUTHORIZED DIVORCE.

✷ n. romanoff x fem!ex wife!reader

Warnings: Explicit content, g!p!nat, dom!nat, sub!reader, p in v, creampie, no condoms used, explicit language, dirty talk, fingering (r receiving), oral (r receiving), hair pulling, toxic!nat, nat invades the reader's house, manipulation, Breeding Kink. Minors dni.

⌗ Solnyshko ⥱ solnyshko is a diminutive form of "sun", used to convey warmth, light and affection.

The rain was pounding against the windows when you heard the noise.

A soft click of the lock. The sound of boots on the floor.

You sat up in bed, your heart racing, before the lights suddenly came on.

And there she was.

Natasha Romanoff, standing in the middle of your room, drenched from the rain, her tactical uniform clinging to her like a second skin. In her fingers, dangling carelessly, were the divorce papers—torn in half.

"You…" Your voice trailed off. "How did you get in here?"

Natasha smiled, slowly, like a predator before its prey.

"Do you really think a lock would stop me?" She dropped the papers to the floor, stepping on them. "I gave you two years, Solnyshko. Two years for you to realize you were making a mistake."

You stepped back, but she was already too close, the heat of her body burning even through her wet clothes.

"The divorce is final," you insisted, getting up from the bed, trying to sound firm.

Natasha laughed, low and husky, one hand gripping your wrist while the other slid to your waist.

"Oh, really?" She pulled you close, until you felt exactly how happy she was to see you. "Because the civil records say otherwise."

Your stomach lurched. She was lying. She had to be.

Natasha saw the doubt in your eyes and smiled, her lips moving close to your ear.

"Want to see?" She pulled a document from her pocket—a marriage certificate, intact, with both of your names still engraved on it. "It never made it to court. You're still my wife."

The air left your lungs.

Before you could react, Natasha pushed you against the wall, her body pressing against yours, hard and demanding.

"And now," she whispered, her teeth grazing your neck, "you'll remember exactly what this means."

Natasha didn't wait for your answer. Her lips met yours in a kiss that felt more like a fiery declaration of war, possessive and filled with the pent-up rage of two long years. You tried to resist, but your traitorous body responded as it always had, arching against her as if you'd never been apart.

Her hands roamed your body with the familiarity of someone who'd never forgotten a single detail, awakening every inch of your skin with touches that blended pain and pleasure in perfect measure. "You thought you could just erase me?" she growled between bites on your neck, her fingers squeezing your waist hard enough to leave marks. "That I'd let you go?"

Your knees weakened as her fingers found the skin beneath your nightgown, gliding with irritating familiarity over the places only she knew so well.

"You still react the same," Natasha observed, satisfied, as a moan escaped your lips despite yourself. "Two years and your body still remembers who it belongs to."

"I don't belong to you," you breathed, even as your legs involuntarily parted at the feel of her knee pressing between them.

Natasha laughed, low and husky, as her other hand dropped to your hip. "Such a sweet lie. Let's see how long you can keep it up."

In one movement, she threw you onto the bed, covering your body with hers before you could react. The torn divorce papers landed beside the pillow—a silent reminder of the farce she'd engineered.

"Now," Natasha whispered, pinning your wrists above your head with one hand while the other ran down your body like a sentence, "let's settle this little rebellion."

Her fingers traced the contour of your hip before slipping beneath your nightgown, eliciting an involuntary shiver from your skin. "Two years without touching you," she murmured, her lips trailing along your collarbone. "Two years of abstinence. Do you have any idea what you did to me?"

Her hand dropped abruptly, her fingers finding the heat between your legs through the thin silk of your panties. You gasped, trying to close your legs, but Natasha's knee was already firmly positioned between them.

"It seems someone was waiting for me," she observed with a predatory smile, feeling your wetness through the fabric. "Even after all this time. Even pretending to forget me."

Your hips moved against your will, seeking the contact your body still remembered so well. Natasha growled in satisfaction.

"That's right, solnyshko. Don't fight it." Her teeth clamped down on your earlobe. "You were always mine. I was just lending you to the world for a while."

With a sudden movement, she ripped the thin silk barrier, making you shiver at the cool air against your exposed skin. "But the loan is over."

Her fingers found your clit unceremoniously, circling with the precision of someone who had the map of your body committed to memory. "Let's see how many 'no's' you can say when you're screaming my name," she challenged, increasing the pressure exactly at the point that made you see stars.

The orgasm hit you like a speeding train, tearing a muffled scream against Natasha's shoulder as your body writhed beneath her hands. She didn't give you time to catch your breath.

"Only the first," she announced, descending through your body like a storm. "I'll collect every day we spend apart." Her tongue found your center with a sharp thrust, making you writhe again. "With interest."

Outside, the rain continued to pound against the windows, muffling the sounds of your moans and Natasha's husky voice between your legs, murmuring in Russian all the things she would do to you until dawn.

"Now do you understand?" Natasha whispered, her voice rough as she emerged from between your legs, her chin wet and her eyes burning with renewed possessiveness. "No paper, no time, no distance will change what you are."

Her fingers—still damp from you—clasped your chin tightly. "Mine. Forever."

When she rose from the bed, you thought for a moment she was leaving. Until you heard the sound of her belt being unbuckled, wet clothes falling to the floor. Natasha emerged from the darkness like a ghost from all your dreams and nightmares—naked, imposing, and hard as stone.

"Time to remember your place," she growled, flipping you onto your stomach with a force that made the mattress tremble. Your knees dragged against the sheets as she positioned herself behind you, one hand tangling in your hair to pull your head back.

"Say it. Say it's mine." The tip of her cock pressed against your entrance, making you moan loudly. "Or I'll make you spend the whole night pretending you don't want this."

You tried to swallow your pride, but your body was already betraying you, pushing back against her in a silent plea. Natasha laughed, a dark, victorious laugh.

"I knew you missed this." She slammed into you in one go, tearing a cry from your lips as she filled you completely after so long. "So tight, almost like you've been waiting just for me."

Her hips began to move with a relentless rhythm, each thrust calculated to hit that spot inside you that made your vision blur. One of her hands gripped your hips hard enough to leave bruises, while the other continued to pull at your hair, keeping your back arched perfectly beneath her.

"You will sign the new papers tomorrow," Natasha ordered between deep thrusts, her voice trembling with the effort of maintaining control. "The correct ones this time. With a marital obedience clause."

When you tried to open your mouth to protest, she chose that moment to deliver a particularly strong one, making you scream and clutch at the sheets.

"Oh no, solnyshko," she growled, leaning over your back, her lips hot against your ear. "You lost the right to speak when you tried to run away from me." Her teeth ground into your shoulder. "Now just listen and accept."

The rain outside increased, matching the frenetic rhythm of your bodies. Natasha was everywhere—in the sound of her heavy breathing, in the smell of her sweat mixed with the rain, in the delicious pain of her relentless possession.

And when the second orgasm hit, stronger than the first, you finally understood—there was no escape. Natasha Romanoff wasn't the kind of woman who took no for an answer. And, God help you, part of you loved it.

The air rushed from your lungs as she pulled you back hard, each thrust now calculated to hit that spot inside you that made your body tremble uncontrollably.

"Two years without filling you like you deserve," she murmured, her lips warm against your spine as one hand moved down to your abdomen, pressing there as if she could feel every inch of her inside you. "Two years without marking you inside, without leaving you dripping wet for days."

Her fingers dug into the sheets as she changed the angle, hitting a spot that made your legs tremble.

"I'll fill you to overflowing," Natasha promised, her voice husky with pent-up pleasure. "Until there's not a single inch of you left that isn't marked as mine."

Her rhythm became erratic, more brutal, and you knew she was close—you could feel it in the way her nails dug into your skin, in her labored breath against your back.

"And when I'm done," she continued, her teeth digging into your shoulder, "I'll start again. Until I'm sure you've got it. Until you forget you ever tried to live without this. Without me."

Your name escaped her lips in a moan as she finally reached her climax, spilling herself inside you with a victorious growl that echoed through the room. Natasha didn't stop immediately—she continued moving slowly, prolonging the pleasure for both of you while whispering words in Russian that you didn't need to understand to feel.

When she finally collapsed onto your back, sweaty and panting, her lips found your ear in an almost tender kiss.

"Tomorrow," Natasha murmured, her fingers tracing possessive circles on your toned hip, "we'll go to the registry office. You'll sign the new papers." Her teeth grazed your ear, "The ones that say 'forever' this time."

You tried to turn to face her, but your body was limp, exhausted, still trembling with the echoes of pleasure. "And if I refuse?"

Natasha laughed, a dark laugh that made your stomach churn with anticipation. "Then I'll take you tied up. And then I'll make you sign on your knees." Her hand slid between your legs, slowly collecting the proof of her possession. "Have you thought about it, solnyshko? Me fucking you while you try to write your name..."

Your body reacted before your mind could process it, a moan escaping against your will. Natasha smiled victoriously.

"You'll never say no to me again," she promised, licking her fingers devotedly. "Nor will you want to."

As she lay down beside you and pulled you against her body, you noticed something cold on your finger—your wedding ring, replaced while you were distracted. Natasha intertwined your fingers with hers, the two rings glinting together.

"Welcome back to the wedding, solnyshko," she whispered, sealing the promise with a kiss.

[unlady-like-12-25-36]

there’s this extremely kind soul of a woman on instagram that makes accessible recipes that don’t require standing, chopping, or a stove and she might just have a permanent place in my heart

edit: here's her YouTube account, as well as her TikTok and Facebook :)

[unlady-like-12-25-36]

jurassic world rebirth is so healing for natasha romanoff stans. those who get it, get it.

zora bennett i love you.

[unlady-like-12-25-36]

A Little Unsteady

Zora Bennett x Reader

Word Count: 2,553

Summary: Your years of hard work and study pay off when you are asked to go on a once in a lifetime mission as the head paleontologist. Your girlfriend isn't as excited about the prospect as you are.

Warnings: Death, blood, broken bones, general violence. Possible incorrect information about dinosaurs. This does not follow the plot of the movie directly, there is some deviation.

⋆ ݁. 𓍊𖠰𖥧 . 𓍊𓋼 𖠰 ݁↟ 𓃦 𖡼. 𖤣𖥧 𖠰. ݁⋆ ݁. 𓍊𖠰𖥧 . 𓍊𓋼 𖠰 ݁↟ 𓃦 𖡼. 𖤣𖥧 ݁⋆ ݁

The last couple of hours were hell. Absolute chaos. You’re not sure you’d ever run so much in your life. 

People died. Two of your friends, killed right in front of you. 

None of what happened will be easily forgotten. You’ll never forget the screams, the pain in their eyes. 

You’ll never be able to sleep soundly again, the memory of one of your closest friends calling for you as they were torn to pieces surly haunting you.

Even now, as a helicopter comes into view, you can’t help but let the screams plague your mind. Help is coming, a way out of this hell within reach. But it’s come all too late to save some of the people you loved most. 

——————————————————

Zora forbade you from going on the mission. She didn’t care that you were the best for the job, didn’t care that it was unfair of her to deny you this. She refused. You simply wouldn’t be put in harm's way. She wouldn’t allow it.

You argued back, stood your ground. Told her how unreasonable she was being. That it had been your dream since you were a child to see a real live dinosaur up close. That you had worked for years to get to the top of your field in palaeontology. That you had been recruited by the person running the whole operation personally. 

Plus, she was going. You pointed out many times how hypocritical it was for her to say it would be too dangerous for you while planning on going herself. 

She would always argue that she was trained in combat. You’d always say you know more about the animals and their behaviour than she did. 

This back and forth went on for days. Until she finally relented, seeing how much this truly meant to you. 

You squealed, threw your arms around her and thanked her profusely. Promising to do exactly as she said, no questions asked. 

Zora’s arms were tight around you, her face dropping into the curve of your neck, breathing you in. She was nervous, out of her mind with worry at the thought of bringing you into such an environment. But how could she look you in the eye knowing she took your one opportunity to live out your dream. 

She swore to herself she wouldn’t let anything happen to you. Even if it meant putting the mission in jeopardy. 

—————————————————————

Things started off simple enough. You’d all made it to the island with no casualties. You’d even gotten to watch your girlfriend in action, the sight of her at the front of the boat, gun in hand as she fearlessly took on the megalodon memorising you. 

Once the whole thing was done she’d strode towards you, a wide smile on her face. “You impressed?” She teased and you couldn’t help but lean in to kiss her. “Always.” She’d laughed, her eyes shining as she leaned in to kiss you again.

Everyone made their way into the jungle and you were in awe of everything. Any time you caught even a glimpse of a dinosaur your eyes lit up, hand tugging excitedly at Zora’s to draw her attention. 

She’d always glance at the dinosaurs, only sparing enough of a look to determine if they were a threat, before fixing her eyes on you. She loved seeing you so happy, loved the look of pure joy on your face, the sparkle in your eyes. 

Not long into your journey you all stumbled across a triceratops. It seemed lazy, unbothered by your presence but friendly all the same. You approached it slowly, keeping in its eye line as if asking permission to get closer. 

The moment your hand touched the animal you could have sworn you felt your heart glow, ready to combust any moment. It was everything you’d ever dreamed it to be.

You turned to Zora, the widest smile on your face, the beginnings of tears in your eyes. She was at your side in seconds, one arm around your waist and the other being guided towards the animal. 

She felt the rise and fall of the animals breathe beneath her fingers and for the first time understood your love for the creatures. 

“Bella.” You murmured, eyes fixed on the triceratops as you ran your hand over it in a soothing manner. “I’m gonna name her Bella.” 

Zora smiled, because of course you’d name the animal. You leaned forward, your whole body leaning against Bella’s and she let out a sound of contentment. 

“She likes me.” You whispered, voice filled with so much emotion. 

Henry stepped forward, camera raised as he told you to smile. Zora had her arm around you, a smile on her face as she looked at you. You’d probably scold her when you saw the photo, because she wasn’t looking into the camera. But she didn’t care, she couldn’t tear her eyes away from you. 

You cried when it was time to leave. Bella whined as she mourned the loss of her new friend. 

—————————————————————

Jane was the first of your friends to die. She was brought along as your right hand man, someone to talk to who understood as much as you did. Someone to help strategise.

She wandered off, going against every rule set forward and basic common sense. She’d seen a stegosaurus, not too far from where you’d all been resting. She was only curious, too enthralled with the idea of seeing the animal up close to think better of going alone.

She didn’t realise her mistake until a swarm of Compsognathus surrounded her. 

You’d all heard her scream. Each and every one of you on your feet and sprinting in the direction of the noise as soon as it reached your ears. 

By the time you got to her there was nothing left. Your friend was gone. 

Zora’s arms were around you before you had the chance to break. Her voice grounding you as she pulled you away from the bloody scene. 

Jack was the next to die. The man that you’d known since childhood. The one who introduced you to your girlfriend. 

You were inside a cave, mid way down a huge cliff, collecting samples from pterodactyl eggs. Zora stood over you, her eyes glued to the way you skilfully manoeuvred the instruments. 

Jack stood watch at the entrance to the cave, machine gun held tightly in his grip. “Nearly done in there?” He called.

You smiled. “Always so impatient.”

You felt the gust of wind enter the cave before you saw it, the huge pterodactyl making its way inside. 

Jack raised his gun, bullets flying towards the angry creature but none of them stopped it. Not a single one even slowed it down. 

The creature lurched forward, large mouth wide open as it reached for Jack, locking its jaw with a sickening crunch. 

You screamed, running towards the man. You grabbed his arms, trying to pull him free as the prehistoric bird tried to wrangle him away. 

Blood poured from its mouth, staining your shirt. Jack cried out, fear and pain clear in his eyes. 

Zora drew her gun and aimed at the animal's heart. She shot once, twice and a third time but the thing didn’t even flinch. 

“Y/n.” Jack screamed, his grip on you tight enough to leave a bruise. “Please don’t let me die.” He begged, tears streaming down his face. 

You wanted to promise you would never let that happen. Reassure him that he would be alright. But the monster clamped down on him again and in his shock and pain he let you go. 

The pterodactyl was in the air before you could get a hold on him again. Jack screamed for you and you tried to run towards the cave entrance. 

Zora stopped you, her arms holding you back as you fought against her. “We have to do something. We have to save him.” You screamed, trying to break yourself free from your girlfriend’s hold. 

“He’s gone, baby.” She said sorrowfully. “I’m so sorry. But he’s gone.” 

She didn’t loosen her grip on you until you lost all fight, your body going slack in her arms. She pressed a kiss to your forehead, heartbroken over the loss of her friend but selfishly so grateful that you were still alive. “”It’s gonna be okay, y/n.” 

—————————————————————

You were running, all of you. Zora only half a step ahead, her head turning to seek you out periodically. 

The helicopter came into view and you all stopped, a wave of relief going over everyone. Zora turned to you, a wide smile on her face. “We’re going home, baby.” 

You smiled back at her, exhausted and covered in dirt. The first thing you wanted to do when you got home was shower then sleep. 

The helicopter landed, the sound drawing Zora’s attention for all of ten seconds. It was then that you wished you’d just listened to her and stayed at home. 

Zora hears you scream. Loud, piercing, filled with agony. Her blood runs cold, every bone in her body screaming at her to react. 

She spins around, gun already drawn and pointed at the raptor standing over you with your leg in its jaws. She barely has a second to let the shock of the scene wash over her before she empties a clip into the animal, not stopping until it falls limp and unmoving beside you.

Her legs carry her to you faster than she’s ever moved before, her knees dropping to the ground with little care for the uneven gravel beneath her. “Y/n?” She cries, hands gripping your shoulders. “Can you hear me?” 

Your eyes are barely open, your breathing shallow. You manage a weak nod. “My leg?” You whimper. 

Zora moves down your body, eyes scanning you to take in the damage. “It’s definitely broken. But still there.” She says, making quick work of taking off her belt to make a turner kit. You could tell she was downplaying how bad it was, you could feel it. Sharp, ragged pieces of bone ripping into muscle and skin. 

“Yay.” You try to joke, smiling half heartedly. Your intention to ease the tension is lost as Zora lifts your leg to wrap her belt around you. You gasp, hands reaching to grasp anything they can. 

Henry drops beside her, his eyes wide and filled with shock and fear. “She’s losing too much blood.” He says, voice shaking as he takes your hands in his own. “We need to get her to a hospital.” 

“We need to stop the bleeding.” Zora’s voice sounds strained, so far from the loving tone you’re used to. 

“Zora-“ 

“Ready?” She asks, one hand flat on your thigh and the other gripping the belt. You whimper, knowing this will only increase the already unbearable pain but nod anyway. 

She tightens the belt around your leg and you scream, your whole body lurching as your vision goes white. Henry’s hands fly to your shoulders, pushing you back toward the floor to steady you. You shift, something wet soaking your clothes beneath you. Blood, you realise, your blood spilling all over the floor. A wave of nausea hits you and you have to fight against yourself to stop from getting sick. 

She secures it quickly, making her way up to hover over you again.  “I know, baby. I know. I’m sorry.” 

“We need to move, Z.” Duncan calls, gun held tightly in his arms, ready at a moment's notice to fend off another raptor attack. “It’s not safe here.” 

“Y/n I need to pick you up okay?” Zora says, sliding her arms under your knees and back. Her eyes are wide when you look into them, filled with panic. 

“No no no. Please- agh.” You cry out as she hauls you up from the floor effortlessly, holding you tight against her. 

Another wave of pain shoots through your body. You feel yourself slipping into darkness as Zora runs with you in her arms. Her voice sounds muffled as she pleads with you to stay awake. 

You don’t feel it when she lays you down in the helicopter, all senses dulled to the point of near oblivion. 

The last thing you hear before you black out is Zora yelling at the pilot to inform the mainland that there has been an accident and a medical team needs to be on standby for your arrival. 

—————————————————————

You wake in a hospital bed. The bright, unforgiving lights hurt your eyes. Your mouth feels dry. Your bones feel stiff. But you're alive. You're not sure you have the ability to properly process how you feel about being alive right now. 

You shift, moving to sit up. Zora appears beside you. Her eyes wide, the beginnings of tears welling in them. “You're awake.” She breaths, her hand finding your cheek. “I can’t believe you're awake.” A tear slides down her face and your heart breaks. 

You try to speak, to tell her you're okay, to promise you wouldn’t leave her. But your mouth really is so dry. She notices, because of course she does and gets you a cup of water. 

“I’m sorry.” She says as you drink, her head dropped between her shoulders. “Y/n I am- I am so sorry.” 

You stare at her, at a loss for words. None of this is her fault. You insisted on going. You all but baggered her for weeks. “Zora.” You call, voice so resolute it draws her attention straight away. “This wasn’t your fault.” 

The blond only shakes her head, hands joined in front of her, knuckles turning white. “I should have protected you. You could have died, y/n.”

You sit up, rising on shaky arms before slumping back against the pillow. “It was my decision to go, Zora. I stand by that decision even now. None of what happened is on you. I don’t want to hear you saying otherwise.” 

She takes a breath, her eyes looking anywhere but at you. “I thought you were dead.” She whispers. “By the time we got you to the hospital, you’d lost so much blood.  You were barely breathing, y/n. You were dying and there was absolutely nothing I could do about it. I just had to watch you get worse and worse and I-”

A sob breaks through her lips, all of the pent up fear and grief from the past few days finally coming out. 

You call her to you, shuffling over on the bed to make room for her. She climbs in beside you and immediately rests her head against your chest, needing the comfort of hearing your heartbeat. Some reassurance that you really are alive. 

“I’m okay.” You murmur to her, hands running over her back to sooth her. “I promise. I’m okay.” You hold her until she calms, her breathing slowing to match yours along with her heartbeat. You both lie there for a while, just enjoying the comfort of each other's presence.

“Hey, Zora.” You break the silence after a while. She hums against you, hand drawing patterns over your stomach. “I do still have my leg right?”

Zora laughs, turning her head to smile against your skin. “Yes, baby. You’ll be back to forcing me into long walks in the woods in no time.”

⋆ ݁. 𓍊𖠰𖥧 . 𓍊𓋼 𖠰 ݁↟ 𓃦 𖡼. 𖤣𖥧 𖠰. ݁⋆ ݁. 𓍊𖠰𖥧 . 𓍊𓋼 𖠰 ݁↟ 𓃦 𖡼. 𖤣𖥧 ݁⋆ ݁

A/n: Not my favorite thing I've ever written but wanted to try something new, hope ye like it :)

[unlady-like-12-25-36]

how does she go from that to that to that, and another question, does she need me to sit on her strap lap in the last pic

[unlady-like-12-25-36]

Friends Don't Kiss

Pairing: Natasha Romanoff x fem!reader

Summary: Friends spend time together. They share inside jokes, quiet moments, maybe even late-night movies. And sometimes…they kiss. That’s normal. Right? At least, that’s what Natasha keeps telling herself.

Warnings: fluff, light angst

Words: 4140

“Would you kiss me?”

Steve chokes on his coffee, spluttering mid-sip. He coughs violently, thumping his fist against his chest as he tries to catch his breath.

Across the kitchen, Natasha doesn’t flinch. She stands coolly with a mug in hand, one hip leaning against the compound’s countertop, her expression unreadable.

“You know,” she adds, far too casually, “as a friend.”

Steve finally manages to recover, blinking at her like she’s grown a second head. 

“I’m gonna need a little more context.”

Natasha shrugs, gaze fixed somewhere past him. 

“Just making a point. I’ve kissed you before. We’re still just friends.”

“That was different,” Steve says slowly, carefully, like he’s not entirely sure where this conversation is headed. “We were on the run. It was for a mission.”

“Right,” Natasha nods quickly, seizing on that. “Exactly. So sometimes a kiss doesn’t have to mean anything.”

Steve sets down his coffee, eyebrows furrowing. 

“Did you kiss someone, Nat?”

She scoffs immediately, a sharp breath meant to dismiss the question, but her shoulders stiffen, betraying her.

“No,” she says too quickly, brushing past it. “Why would you ask that?”

Before Steve can press further, the kitchen door slides open.

You step in, pausing just briefly when your eyes meet hers. A flicker of something passes between you—then it’s gone, replaced by your familiar, easy smile.

“Morning,” you say, grabbing an apple from the counter before sliding easily into the space beside her. “You two solving world peace already?”

Natasha’s grip on her mug tightens. Her pulse trips over itself at your closeness, at the casual brush of your shoulder against hers.

“Morning,” she mutters, not quite meeting your eyes.

“You’re up earlier than usual,” Steve returns your greeting while watching both of you now with a curious gaze, noticing the subtle shift in the air. 

You shrug lightly.

“Decided to turn in early last night,” you respond before turning to Natasha. “Sorry, I didn’t see you when you got back, Nat.”

Natasha shakes her head, brushing off the apology.

“It’s fine,” she says simply. 

But it’s not. Not really. She had looked for you last night when she came back from her mission, hoping for your usual smile at the hangar. Instead, FRIDAY informed her you were already asleep. She’d swallowed her disappointment and told herself it didn’t matter.

Natasha takes another sip to keep herself occupied from further conversation. Unfortunately, it seems you have no intention of letting her do that.

“Can I have some?”

Natasha glances at you with a raise of her brow, and you give her a small smile as you nod at the mug in her hand.

“There’s more brewing,” she responds, gesturing to the coffee machine in the corner.

You don’t move her gaze from hers.

“I know,” you grin. “But I want yours.”

Natasha sighs, long-suffering but fond, and hands it over.

You take it with a bright smile in thanks, drinking the last of it with satisfaction.

Natasha watches you as you finish, her lips twitching slightly into the ghost of a smile before she can stop it.

Something about that simple exchange makes the room feel smaller. 

Steve observes you two quietly, picking up on the subtle tension that hums under the surface like a taut wire. You and Natasha have always been close. That’s not new. But something feels different now.

“Well, I’m heading to the training room,” you announce, handing Natasha back the mug and tossing the apple in your hand once before catching it again. “See you two later.”

You’re gone before either of them can respond.

The silence that follows stretches.

Steve leans against the table, watching the doorway you disappeared through before turning his eyes back to Natasha. 

“So,” he says, voice even, “something you’d like to share?”

Natasha scoffs, rolling her eyes as she pivots to rinse out her mug. 

“This has nothing to do with her.”

Her tone is dry and dismissive. But her mind betrays her.

She remembers the way the two of you had been curled up on the couch in the common room just a few nights ago. 

A rare, quiet evening with no missions, no alarms, just shared stories and laughter over absurd field mishaps. Your knees touching hers. Her arm draped along the back of the sofa. 

You leaning closer, head tilted back slightly as you laughed, completely at ease.

Natasha remembers the way her fingers twitched with the urge to touch you. 

How, without quite realizing it, her hand lifted to cup your cheek. 

The moment stretched, her breath caught, and then she leaned in.

The kiss was soft, hesitant in the way that Natasha had not fully comprehended what she had done.

When she does, she goes to pull away when you suddenly kiss her back.

Your hand had come up, anchoring against her shoulder, the other sliding to the back of her neck as you deepened it, slow and sure. 

Then, the elevator chimed.

And the moment shattered.

Instinctively, Natasha pulls back, jumping to her end of the couch by the time the other team members come into the room. 

Next thing she knows, you were swept up by a conversation with Wanda while Natasha sat there frozen, lips parted, heartbeat wild, her hand brushing over her mouth in disbelief. 

The warmth of your kiss still lingering on her skin like a brand.

You never brought it up again.

Neither did she.

And now, days later, she finds herself standing in the kitchen convincing herself that friends kiss sometimes. 

That it doesn’t have to mean anything. That it didn’t mean anything.

“Sure, Nat,” Steve says slowly, watching her a little too closely now. “A kiss doesn’t have to mean anything...”

Natasha relaxes slightly, but before the relief can take hold in her mind, Steve continues nonchalantly.

“…unless you want it to.”

Natasha doesn’t respond. Her jaw sets just slightly as she stares into her empty mug. Then, with a sigh, she curses herself for even asking Steve.

His words just brought up a flurry of new problems for her.

~~~~~~~ ⧗ ~~~~~~~

She did it again.

She’s doing it again.

What started as a simple spar at your request had quickly escalated—one move leading to another, until she had you pinned flat on the mat. Her knees straddled your hips, hands locking your wrists above your head with effortless control.

You were both breathless, sweat-slicked skin flushed from exertion.

Then you smiled up at her, teeth flashing, that same teasing spark in your eyes that always got under her skin, and Natasha couldn’t look away. Couldn’t think past the heat in her chest. Her gaze dropped, lingering on the curve of your parted lips as you panted beneath her.

And before she could stop herself, she leaned in.

The kiss wasn’t hesitant this time. It was hungry, claiming, as if making up for every second she hadn’t let herself think about the feel of your lips since that night on the couch. Her grip loosened, hands sliding from your wrists to your sides, fingertips brushing over the sliver of skin just above your waistband.

Like before, you didn’t pull away.

Instead, your arms curled around her shoulders, pulling her closer with a quiet urgency. 

Her mouth moved against yours again, and again—slow, deliberate, until your breath caught and you exhaled her name in a moan that made something in her pulse stutter.

“Natasha…”

Her name on your lips.

It cracked through the haze like a whip.

And she freezes.

Reality slams back in, fast and merciless. 

Natasha pulls away suddenly, breathing hard as her eyes search yours. Her hands lift, hovering like she wasn’t sure where to place them anymore.

“Shit,” she mutters, shaken. “I’m—I’m sorry.”

You blink at her, dazed and confused, lips still parted.

But before you can say anything, the door slides open.

“Damn,” Sam’s voice calls out as he steps into the training room, towel slung over his shoulder. He pauses at the sight, then lets out a low whistle and smirks.

“Give her a break, Romanoff. She’s already red in the face.”

Natasha straightens back instinctively, only to realize the flush on your face wasn’t from exertion.

You let out a breath of laughter, dragging a hand through your hair. 

“I’m fine,” you say, voice light, easy. “She didn’t do anything wrong.”

Your palm lightly taps Natasha’s thigh—a subtle, casual cue.

She blinks at you, still hovering above, startled by how calmly you are taking all of this. Then she shifts, climbing off with fluid grace, but her mind still reels. 

Why weren’t you reacting differently? Why were you acting like what just happened between you two was normal for friends?

You push yourself to your feet and turn to offer your hand down to her.

Without hesitation, she takes it.

Your grip is warm and steady as you help her up. Before she can say anything, you brush your hand over her shoulder, flicking away the dust from your earlier scuffle. Then, like it was the most natural thing in the world, you pat her cheek twice, a gentle, reassuring touch.

“You didn’t do anything wrong,” you repeat, softer this time.

And then you walk off coolly and composed, leaving her standing there.

Staring.

Processing.

“What the hell…” Natasha mutters under her breath.

Sam moves beside her, picking up a dumbbell nonchalantly like he hadn’t just walked in on something.

“Hey, Sam?” she asks, still staring after you. 

“Yeah?”

“Friends can kiss, right?” she asks. “Like… that’s a normal thing friends do sometimes?”

Sam pauses mid-curl and turns to look at her with a slow grin. 

“What kind of friends you got, Romanoff?” he chuckles. “’Cause I’d love an introduction.”

Natasha doesn’t respond.

Her eyes are still locked on the door you disappeared through, her thoughts a whirlwind of tangled lines she couldn’t figure out how or if she wanted to untangle.

~~~~~~~ ⧗ ~~~~~~~

The movie plays on, its flickering light casting soft shadows across the darkened room. But Natasha isn’t watching it.

She’s trying to. Or at least pretending to.

Her eyes are on the screen, but her mind drifts, tangled in thoughts she can’t quite sort through. The question loops endlessly in her head like a broken reel.

Can friends kiss? Should friends kiss? Did it mean anything?

You shift slightly beside her, and the motion draws her out of the haze. Then comes a soft sound—a small yawn, muffled behind your hand. 

Natasha glances down at you.

Your head rests gently against her shoulder, your body curled comfortably into the side of hers. You’ve been like that for most of the movie—close, warm, familiar. Nothing new for the two of you. 

But now, it feels different. Everything feels different.

She tilts her head toward you slightly. 

“We can stop here if you want,” she offers, her voice low. “You’re tired.”

You shake your head with a sleepy smile, eyes barely open. 

“It’s fine. It’s almost finished anyway.”

Natasha studies your face for a moment longer, searching for something beneath your words. Then she relaxes, leaning her head against yours again, letting the rhythm of your breathing soothe her.

But only a few minutes pass before she feels your body grow heavier against her, your breath evening out. She shifts subtly to glance at you, and sure enough, your eyes are closed, mouth slightly parted in sleep.

A quiet exhale escapes her lips.

She lets the laptop finish playing the credits, then carefully reaches over to close it, setting it on the nightstand without disturbing you too much.

As she leans back again, her eyes linger on you, peaceful and completely unaware of the storm still quietly waging inside her.

She hesitates.

You’d probably sleep better in your own bed. Less risk of a sore neck.

“Hey,” she whispers, brushing her fingers lightly against your arm to wake you. “Want me to carry you to your room?”

You stir, eyes fluttering open, still half-lost in sleep. You look up at her, your gaze soft and unguarded.

“Can I sleep here?”

Natasha stills.

The way your face is tilted toward hers makes her heart stutter. You’re so close, lips parted slightly, your breath warm against her cheek.

Her fingers tighten against the sheets.

She should say no. But she doesn’t.

“…Sure,” she says instead, voice barely audible.

You smile in that sleepy, content way that always makes her chest ache, and shift to lie back more fully on the bed, your head finding the pillow beside hers like it’s always belonged there.

Natasha stays seated for a moment, just watching you. Studying the soft lines of your expression. The trust etched so easily into every part of you.

Then your eye cracks open, lazy and amused, and you pat the empty space beside you.

“Come on,” you murmur. “You should sleep too.”

Natasha swallows.

She moves beneath the covers slowly, cautiously, like the sheets might burn her. The moment her weight settles, you immediately scoot closer, nuzzling into the curve of her body with a comfort that’s almost too much.

She freezes.

Her arms hover mid-air, unsure where to land. Her instincts war with her confusion about the situation.

But then you sigh softly, and it eases something in her. She lets her arms wrap around you, tentatively at first, then fully. Her hand rests lightly against your back.

Your body fits against hers like it was always meant to.

Her heart beats too loud. Her thoughts race too fast.

But your breathing, soft and steady, grounds her.

You’re not overthinking this. You’re not avoiding eye contact or spiraling like she is. You’re just there. 

Maybe she is overreacting.

So she presses her lips to the top of your head, just barely a kiss, light and reverent.

And tells herself it’s fine.

That it’s just something friends do.

~~~~~~~ ⧗ ~~~~~~~

The corridor outside the tech lab is mostly quiet, the hum of machinery muffled behind glass walls. Natasha had only meant to drop by to check on some routine data upload from her last mission, but she slows as she rounds the corner and catches sight of you through the glass.

You’re leaning against the counter in the lab, your stance relaxed, familiar. A quiet, polite smile plays on your lips as you speak to one of the newer lab techs, who is a little awkward in their stance and clearly trying to flirt.

Natasha pauses at the entrance, something instinctual anchoring her in place. 

“I just figured,” the technician says, nervously fidgeting with their hands, “maybe we could grab a coffee sometime?”

Natasha blinks. Her fingers tighten unconsciously around the datapad in her hand.

You let out a soft chuckle, not unkind. 

“That’s sweet,” you say, your tone warm but edged with gentle finality, “but I’m actually already seeing someone.”

Natasha frowns, her heart skipping heavily.

Since when?

The lab tech falters only slightly, nodding good-naturedly.

“Ah. No worries. It was worth a shot.”

“We could still be friends,” you offer kindly.

They chuckle lightly as they gather their things, nodding in agreement.

“Well, if they mess up,” the tech jokes, “you know where to find me.”

You smile again, a brief lift of your brow.

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

They leave, footsteps fading down the hall.

Natasha stays frozen for a beat longer, her brain racing as she tries to understand. A strange, unfamiliar tightness lingers in her chest, something sharp and green and burning low.

Why didn’t you ever tell her you were seeing someone?

The question echoes through her like a bruise, throbbing harder the longer she thinks about it.

A few seconds pass before she finally moves, stepping into view from where she’d been half-hidden around the corner. Her approach is quiet, boots soft on the tile, but you look up at the sound anyway.

“Nat, hey,” you greet, still casual, like you hadn’t just said something that made her stomach drop unexpectedly.

Natasha crosses her arms across her chest.

“Were you ever going to introduce me to them?”

You blink at her, brow furrowing.

“Who?”

“The person you’re seeing.”

There’s a flicker of confusion in your expression, your head tilting slightly as if trying to piece together something obvious that you’ve somehow missed.

“That’d be…difficult,” you answer slowly.

Her heart skips again—this time not from surprise, but from something closer to hurt. 

“Why?” she presses, a little sharper now. “You don’t want them to meet your friends?”

Your mouth parts slightly. You study her, eyes narrowing faintly, not in anger, but in realization. 

“Is that what you are?” you ask quietly. “Just my friend?”

Natasha hesitates. Her arms tighten around herself, defensive.

“I thought I was,” she says with a shrug that tries too hard to be casual.

The silence that follows isn’t long, but it feels like it stretches forever.

You nod slowly, the movement small and almost imperceptible. 

“Right,” you murmur. “My mistake.”

And even though you smile, easy and familiar, there’s a flicker behind it. Something small and wounded that vanishes just as quickly as it appears. Like it costs a little more this time to offer it.

“I thought we were something more.”

Natasha’s lips part in stunned silence.

You shake your head slightly, not in denial, just…regret. 

“I’m sorry for the misunderstanding.”

Before she can find her voice, before she can reach out and ask what you mean—what she means to you—you step past her.

“I’ve got to prep for my mission,” you say quietly. “I’ll see you after, Nat.”

And then you’re gone.

The hallway seems impossibly still.

Natasha doesn’t move.

She just stands there, frozen in place, her eyes still on the space where you’d been just seconds ago.

I thought we were something more.

The words echo in her chest like a hollow ring of glass about to break.

Natasha presses a hand lightly to her sternum, as if she could push the ache away.

But it lingers. Deep and burning.

She knew it.

She knows it now more than ever.

Friends don’t kiss.

~~~~~~~ ⧗ ~~~~~~~

The hangar is nearly silent at this hour, long past the time anyone should still be awake.

But Natasha is.

She leans against a metal railing in the far corner of the bay, arms crossed loosely, her mind racing in quiet loops. The empty stretch of concrete around her does little to ease the restless energy in her body. She’s been replaying your last conversation for hours now, trying to decipher what it meant, what you meant.

The distant hum of turbines pulls her attention up.

The Quinjet descends slowly, its engines quieting as it settles onto the landing pad. Her spine straightens involuntarily. She catches herself smoothing her palm against her thigh, like she’s bracing for something.

The ramp lowers with a hiss, and then there you are.

You spot her the moment you step down.

Your steps falter just a bit, surprised but not displeased. Your expression shifts into something soft and unreadable before you offer a faint smile.

“Hey,” you greet lightly. “You’re still up?”

Natasha picks up on the subtle wariness in your voice. Not distrust, just a layer of confusion she knows she put there.

“I wanted to talk,” she says, quieter now, her arms unfolding slightly. “If that’s okay.”

You pause. Then, after a breath, you nod.

“Yeah… we probably should’ve had this talk before I went around thinking we were something other than friends,” you joke, a little self-deprecating, but not cruel.

Natasha winces, her mouth twitching. She knows she earned that.

You exhale and tilt your head toward the hallway. 

“Come on. Let’s talk in my room. I need to get this mission stink off me.”

She follows without hesitation, grateful for the return of your usual teasing tone.

“Yeah, you do,” she quips back.

You gasp in mock offense, throwing a look over your shoulder. 

“Wow. Brutal honesty? No mercy, huh?”

Natasha just smirks. “Would you prefer lies?”

“Only the flattering kind,” you call as you enter your room.

Natasha follows in after you with a small chuckle. She sits at the edge of your bed, hands in her lap, waiting as you disappear into your bathroom. She hears the rush of water from the shower and feels oddly tense like she’s waiting for a mission to start, but this one requires emotional precision she hasn’t quite mastered.

When the bathroom door finally opens, and you emerge, a towel draped around your shoulders, skin still damp and fresh from the steam, Natasha’s thoughts short-circuit for a moment.

Her gaze catches on the curve of your neck, the soft line of your collarbone—

She tears her eyes away, scolding herself silently.

This is exactly how things got so muddled.

You shoot her an amused look as you dry your hair with the towel. 

“You gonna stare all night or talk?”

Natasha clears her throat, suddenly focused on her hands again. 

“Right. Sorry. I just…wanted to ask something.”

You toss the towel aside as you nod.

“Ask away.”

She hesitates. 

“Why…why did you think we were dating?”

You blink, surprised at the question. Then you let out a soft breath and sit beside her on the bed.

“Well,” you begin, voice easy but edged with a thread of honesty, “months ago, you asked me to go to the Avengers Festival with you. We spent the whole day together. Just us.”

“I thought you’d enjoy it,” Natasha replies quietly.

“I did. And I was even more excited when I thought you were asking me out on a date.”

You glance at her, gauging her reaction.

Natasha’s lips press into a thin line. 

“Only it wasn’t… to me.”

“Right,” you say, a hint of disappointment in your tone before you continue with a sigh. “But then you invited me to that new restaurant for dinner the next night.”

“You mentioned it once. I thought you’d want to go.”

“I did mention it. To Wanda. I didn’t expect you to remember something I had said in passing.”

Natasha lowers her gaze. 

“I do,” she murmurs.

You smile faintly. 

“Then came movie nights. Every week. Just us.”

“You hadn’t seen any of the classics. I thought it’d be fun.”

“And it was,” you say before teasingly adding as you lightly nudge her shoulders. “Especially learning you know all the lines.”

There’s a pause. Then your voice softens.

“Then…you kissed me.”

Natasha’s breath catches.

“Twice,” you continue.

Her eyes flick to yours.

“Three times,” you correct with a small smile, “if we’re counting the one where you got nervous and bailed halfway through, settling for the top of my head instead when you thought I was asleep.”

Natasha swallows, stunned into silence.

“Well?” you ask gently. “You gonna explain? Because last time I checked…”

You shift toward her, slow and deliberate.

“…friends don’t kiss.”

She searches for an answer. Any answer. But none of them feel true. Not the ones she told herself, not the ones that let her avoid the real thing.

“These past days I've been trying to convince myself that kissing didn’t have to mean anything,” Natasha admits, voice small. “That I could just…”

She trails off.

“Avoid what you actually felt?” you offer, your tone gentle, not accusatory.

She meets your eyes then, and something in her cracks. 

“Maybe I just didn’t want to admit I wanted something more. Because if I did…and you didn’t…”

“I did,” you interrupt softly.

Your hand lifts to her hair, your fingers brushing a few loose strands back, tucking them gently behind her ear.

“I do.”

Her breath trembles.

You stroke her cheek with your thumb, grounding her.

“No more mixed signals, Nat,” you say with a playful edge, though your eyes are sincere. “You’re gonna have to be more direct, or I’ll start thinking I made it all up.”

She doesn’t hesitate this time. Her hands slide to your waist as she pulls you closer, steady and sure.

“Tomorrow night…will you go out with me?” she murmurs.

You grin, raising a brow.

“On a date?”

She nods, smiling now too.

“On a date.”

You lean your forehead against hers.

“Then I’d love to.”

There’s a beat of stillness, warmth blooming in the quiet between you. Then Natasha’s gaze flicks behind you toward the bed and back at you, one brow rising.

“Can I stay here tonight?”

You raise an amused brow.

“You sure that’s a good idea?”

“Why wouldn’t it be?”

You smirk playfully.

“Because, in case you’re unsure…” you whisper, tilting your head closer to hers. “…friends don’t typically sleep with each other either.”

Natasha’s eyes sparkle, a soft smile forming on her face.

“Then it’s a good thing,” she says, drawing you in, her voice a low murmur at your lips, “that we’re not just friends anymore.”

~~~~~~~ ⧗ ~~~~~~~

a/n: a little something as I procrastinate on my series 😅 thank you for reading!

[unlady-like-12-25-36]

hello, i have a like fic request for you. i’ve written something similar myself but i wanted to see how you’d write it 🥹

my idea is that Nat has touch-trauma from her time in the Red Room, she has no problem with faking it for missions and such, but when it comes to people she cares about, she can’t do it. reader’s love language is physical touch but tries her best to be respectful towards Nat’s trauma and lets her take the time she needs to want to be physically affectionate with reader.

you don’t have to write it if you don’t want to, just a little idea for you 🫶🏼

- 🤍

Quiet Hands. | N.R

Warnings: Redroom, mention of SA and violence

Word count: 1,7k

A/n: I love delving deeper into her character. And I also believe that she would act that way, so thank you for the request. <3

The Red Room never truly let its ghosts rest.

Even years later, when the sharp sting of the widow’s bite no longer buzzed at her wrists and the tightness of a chokehold wasn’t a constant memory pressing into her skin, Natasha still carried it with her, the ache, the stiffness in her shoulders, the quiet dread in the back of her mind.

It wasn’t the physical pain that lingered. That had faded, eventually. Scars healed. Bruises faded. Skin mended. But the things that no one could see, the hollow of her chest, the phantom echoes of commands spoken in cold Russian, the way her own hands sometimes felt foreign, those were the things that didn’t fade.

In the Red Room, affection was a weapon. A calculated tilt of the head. A gentle smile designed to lure someone in before striking. Touch was a means to an end, never something that could be given freely. They trained it into her: You are a tool, not a person. Your body is a weapon, not a home.

And so, when she left, escaped, the thought of anyone touching her, really touching her, felt unbearable. Not on missions. She could pretend there. Slip into a role. Smile. Wink. Let hands graze over her skin, because it was an act, a performance, and performances had endings.

But with people who mattered? People she cared about? That was different. That was terrifying.

And then you came around the corner. She met you by accident, it was a rainy afternoon in New York, the sky low and heavy, clouds rolling in like waves. Natasha had been trying to outrun her own thoughts, slipping through the crowded streets, a hood pulled low over her hair, just another face in the crowd.

You weren’t supposed to be there. You were balancing a cardboard tray of coffee cups, navigating the slick pavement, too focused on not spilling your order to notice the world around you. That’s when it happened, a shoulder bump, a stumble, the sound of a cup hitting the ground, liquid splashing onto the street.

“Sorry-” Natasha turned, an apology on her lips, but the words caught in her throat. Because you were looking at her with wide eyes, lips parted, a laugh bubbling up even as coffee dripped down your fingers. There was no fear in your gaze, no calculated interest, just… warmth.

“It’s okay!” you said quickly, waving off Natasha’s murmured apology, “I wasn’t watching where I was going. Typical, honestly.”

There was something in your voice, a soft, unhurried kindness. Like you weren’t in a rush to be anywhere else. Like you weren’t measuring Natasha’s worth in tactical terms or waiting for her to make the next move.

Natasha found herself saying, “Let me buy you a new coffee.”

You smiled, the corners of your eyes crinkling. “You don’t have to do that..”

“I want to.” Natasha replied, surprising even herself with the honesty of it.

So she did. The two of you walked to the café together, the rain easing into a gentle drizzle, Natasha holding the door open for you, your fingers brushing briefly, just for a moment. A jolt ran through Natasha’s chest, sharp, unexpected. You didn’t seem to notice. Or maybe you did, and you were just good at pretending.

You exchanged names while waiting for your drinks, your voice soft, easy, Natasha’s a little rough around the edges, guarded but curious. You told her you were a student, studying art history, working part-time at a gallery nearby. Natasha didn’t share much, couldn’t, really, but you didn’t push.

Instead, you talked about a painting you loved. How you could spend hours staring at brushstrokes, how art felt like a conversation with the past. Natasha listened, really listened, the weight in her chest easing just a little.

When you parted, you smiled, really smiled, not the polite kind you give to strangers, and said, “Maybe I’ll see you around?”

Natasha wasn’t sure why she wanted so badly for that to happen. It did happen, again and again.

Little things. Running into each other on the street. Bumping into one another at the same café. A quiet conversation here, a lingering glance there. Slowly, carefully, Natasha let herself be drawn into your orbit, never fully, always cautious, but there.

It took weeks, long, tentative weeks, before Natasha worked up the courage to ask you out for dinner. And it took two months for Natasha to call you her girlfriend.

Two months of trying. Of sitting on the couch with you and not leaning into your touch, even though every cell in her body screamed for it, wanted it, but couldn’t.

Because the truth was, Natasha could fake it with anyone else. She could play a role, slip into a part. But with you, she didn’t want to pretend. She wanted to be real.

And the real her couldn’t handle touch, not yet. You weren’t naïve. You knew who she was, the Black Widow. The ex-assassin. The spy. You had read the articles, the sanitized versions, the headlines that only hinted at the things Natasha had done, the things she had survived.

But none of that could have prepared you for the truth, the raw, unspoken reality that lived in the tight line of Natasha’s shoulders, the way she sometimes seemed to fold into herself when you so much as shifted too close on the couch.

The first time it happened, when you had, without thinking, brushed your hand across Natasha’s back, just a soft touch, barely a whisper, she had gone rigid. You had felt it, like a physical shock.

Natasha had frozen, her breath caught halfway in her throat, her body stiff as if she were bracing for a blow. You had pulled your hand back instantly, your own heart cracking just a little.

“I’m sorry..” you had whispered, voice barely audible.

Natasha’s lips had twitched into something like a smile, but her eyes didn’t quite match. “It’s not you.”

And you knew that. God, you knew. But it didn’t stop the ache in your chest, the quiet, desperate longing for closeness.

You were a touch person, always had been. Hugs that lingered. Hands that reached for others without thinking. Leaning into people when you laughed. It was how you loved, with your body as much as your words.

And you loved Natasha.

You loved her in the way you could only love someone when you saw all the cracks and scars and still thought they were beautiful. You loved the sharpness in Natasha’s eyes when she was focused, the quiet way she listened when you talked about art or the latest exhibition at the gallery. You loved the way her voice softened late at night, when the world was dark and quiet.

But God, you wanted her. Not even in a sexual way, not really, not yet. You just wanted to be close. To hold her hand without feeling her flinch. To pull her into a hug without watching her body go still, waiting for permission that never seemed to come.

It was hard. Hard not to reach out when you sat side by side on the couch, your thighs just barely brushing, and your fingers itched to lace through hers.

Hard not to lean in when Natasha laughed, that rare, genuine laugh that made your chest feel too small for your heart. Hard to fall asleep next to her and feel the warmth of her body but not the closeness. To lie there in the dark, eyes wide open, your body aching to touch, but not daring to.

You tried. You tried so hard to be patient. Because you saw it, the effort Natasha made. How sometimes, when she was brave, her fingers would hover, barely grazing your wrist, like she was testing the water. How, every now and then, she would let you brush your shoulders together, not pulling away, just breathing through it.

And you never wanted to make her feel trapped. Never wanted to take more than Natasha could give. But sometimes, in the quiet moments, it hurt.

It was late one night, the rain tapping softly against the window. You were in Natasha’s apartment, she was curled in a chair, reading, and you were on the couch, half-heartedly scrolling through your phone.

The distance felt heavy. You stared at Natasha’s profile, the way her hair fell loose around her face, the faint shadow of a bruise on her temple from a mission she wouldn’t talk about. She looked so alone, even in a room you shared.

Your chest ached with it. And before you could stop yourself, the words slipped out, soft, hesitant, but heavy with feeling:

“Can I..can I hold you?”

Natasha looked up sharply, eyes wide, the book slipping slightly in her hands.

You felt your breath catch. You tried to smile, to make it light, but your voice cracked when you added, “Just… just a hug. You don’t have to. I just… I miss you.”

It wasn’t fair, you knew that. It wasn’t fair to ask. Natasha stared at you for a long moment, her eyes dark and guarded, a storm behind them.

Then, slowly, so slowly, she set the book down. Her hands clenched into fists on her lap, and your heart twisted.

“I’m sorry..” you whispered, already regretting it, “You don’t have to-”

But Natasha moved. Carefully, stiffly, like she was walking across broken glass, she rose from the chair and sat beside you on the couch, leaving a careful inch between you. Her body was tense, like a wire pulled taut.

You didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. After a long moment, Natasha whispered, so soft you almost missed it, “I don’t know how to do this.”

Your heart broke, not in a shattering, painful way, but in the quiet, aching way that made you want to hold someone even tighter.

You turned, just slightly, your voice trembling as you said, “That’s okay. We can take it slow. I’m here.”

And you were. You sat there, still, your hands folded in your lap, letting Natasha choose. Letting her try.

And after a long, heavy pause, Natasha’s hand reached out, shaking, tentative, and hovered over yours. Not quite touching. Just close enough that you could feel the heat of her skin.

It wasn’t a hug. It wasn’t even really a touch. But it was something. And you would take it.

Because love wasn’t always soft and easy. Sometimes, it was patience. Sometimes, it was waiting. And for Natasha, you would wait as long as it took.

-

-

-

-

[unlady-like-12-25-36]

Bearer Of The Seed

Summary: Natasha Romanoff was a complex and dangerous woman, unpredictable, impulsive and arrogant—those are the only things you know about her. So the thought of being connected to her through a child was unsettling, to say the least. Yet you knew, as soon as the words of the scripted vows you loathed to say forcefully fell from your lips, there was no turning back.

Pairings: Targaryen Natasha Romanoff x Female Reader

Word count: 5.1k

Tags | Warnings: +18 HOUSE OF THE DRAGON AU, AMAB!Natasha, Targayen!Natasha, top!Natasha, bottom!r, smut, angst, forced marriage, Natasha plots to make r pregnant while r plots to deceive Natasha, lots of chasing, dubcon, breeding kink, rough sex, bleeding, creampie, fingering, overstimulation & squirting (r receiving)

Author's Note: Scheduled repost

⧗

"Father, smith, warrior. Mother, maiden, crone, stranger…"

The words felt like acid on your tongue. Each one stinging you as they leave your lips. You loathed having to say them. You loathed having to agree. This wasn't some love match. It was the voice of a prisoner accepting their fate.

You force yourself to keep your eyes on Natasha, refusing to blink despite the tears forming. You will not cry. Not in her presence. You will not give her that satisfaction. So you try your best to stand tall, to be defiant. Though it's hard when you feel so completely defeated as you said the final words that will seal you both forever.

"I am yours...and you are mine. From this day...until the end of my days."

The last word was hardly out of your mouth when Natasha took a step forward and captured your lips with hers. Natasha's grip on your hips tightens as she pulls you firmly against her. Her lips are rough and insistent as they move against yours. You can feel the tension and desire coursing through her as she claims your mouth in a possessive, greedy kiss.

With what seems like great effort, Natasha breaks the kiss. She takes a step back and you notice a sly smirk slowly appear on his face as she watches you try to catch your breath and you so badly wanted to wipe that on her face. Clearly, she was enjoying the effect she had on you, but you will not make this easy for her.

You will make sure to play this game on your hands, not hers.

⧗

"Heirs…"

Hearing your now family bring up the subject of heirs, made you feel a lump form in your throat. It was something you'd tried to avoid thinking about, but you knew it was a reality you would have to face.

Natasha didn't even flinch. She seems confident and unbothered, like she has no concerns in that regard. She responds without missing a beat.

"Oh, we'll have heirs. Plenty of them, in fact."

Natasha's grip on your hands tightens slightly, you force a tight-lipped smile on your face as you struggle to appear calm.

"I will make sure that our marriage bed will not lack heat. We'll have as many children as the Gods see fit to bless us with." She added with such confidence.

You knew that the celebration was coming to an end and you were starting to feel overwhelmed by the noise and the crowd—by her. The air felt hot and stifling. Without saying a word, you excused yourself but as you stood Natasha didn't let go of your hand. So you eyed her intently—authoritatively and she immediately released your hand, you didn't miss the flicker of hesitation and fear in her eyes. Her usual confident and authoritative demeanor seemed to be gone for a moment, revealing just the slightest crack in her armor.

As you walked, a small smirk tugged your lips, it gave you a sense of satisfaction, knowing that you had the power to affect her in that way. For a brief moment, you felt like you were in control, that you had some bargaining power in this situation.

Of course you do, you will play this game right on your palm, right?

You stepped into the cool night air of the corridors outside, you tried not to let your emotions get the best of you as you thought about the fact that your family had been saved, you realized just how high the cost was. Natasha had saved you from ruin, but the price was steep. You were now the payment, a pawn in a larger game of power and politics. Knowing that you were traded like a piece of livestock in exchange for your family's safety, it was a bitter pill to swallow.

One of the foremost was the fact that you will need to carry the child of someone you didn't really know. Natasha Romanoff was a complex and dangerous woman, unpredictable, impulsive and arrogant—those are the only things you know about her. So the thought of being connected to her through a child was unsettling, to say the least. Yet you knew, as soon as the words of the scripted vows you loathed to say forcefully fell from your lips, there was no turning back.

It is inevitable or perhaps it can be avoided?

You were lost in your own thoughts, worrying about your future, when the maid servant's voice broke your train of thought.

"The celebration is over, your Grace. The King will be expecting you in her chambers."

Her words and the instructions were simple, but they sent a shiver of unease through you. But you wanted to test the waters, you wanted to test who among you holds such power to the both of you.

"Let her know that I am denying her request," you replied coldly as the night breeze.

"But your Gra—"

"Tell her that." you cut her off with a finality, "I'll be at my chambers, I'll retire early for tonight." You added, hinting that if she wished to prove the power she has on you, she will come and show you.

The night slipped away and you opted for the secret chambers that only and your maester, Wanda knew. Inside, you hoped to find solitude and respite from the pressures and chaos of the day. You stayed in the dimly lit room, the only light provided by a few flickering candles, as the night went on. You didn't know whether or not Natasha had come to your original chambers, expecting to find you there.

But you will make sure not surrender yourself, not without a fight.

⧗

Natasha was growing increasingly frustrated as she recounted different excuses from the maid servants every time she inquired about you. She hadn't seen you since the night of your wedding, and the more time passed the more suspicious she became.

Another maid servant entered her headquarters and she is for sure to deliver another excuse from you.

"The Queen is not feeling well, your Grace." The maid servant stood before the King, her hands clasped in front of her nervously as she delivered her message.

"What happened? What does the maester say the issue is?" The suspicion that she had in mind is now gone and is replaced by a deep concern for you.

"Well, you Gr—"

"I will go and check on my wife."

"I fear the Queen doesn't want anyone in her chambe—"

"I'm not anyone, I am her King. I am her wife."

Without another word of excuse, she rose from her seat and stalked out of the room. The King wasted no time making her way through the halls of the Keep, her steps were loud as she walked towards your chambers.

The moment Natasha stepped into the chambers, her eyes immediately fell upon your pale form lying in the bed. She was by your side in an instant, her hand reaching out to touch your forehead—and she could feel the heat radiating from you.

"Gods, you're burning up," she muttered, as she took in your sickly appearance. Natasha's eyes darted to the maester as she confirmed that you would be fine in time, and that you had been examined already. "And what is the cause of her sickness?" she questioned, her gaze returning to you.

Wanda cleared her throat, as she darted her eyes on your sleeping form. She breathed, shutting her eyes before she explained the cause of your illness.

"It appears the Queen has fallen ill due to stress and exhaustion," she said with a shaky voice, as she watched Natasha softly caress your body. "And it would be best for her to be left alone for a few days, allowing her body to rest and recover," she added, finally eyeing the King.

"Days?" Natasha repeated as if she didn't hear it clearly.

"Yes…"

Natasha let out a heavy sigh, her mind conflicted. On one hand, she wanted to keep you in her sight and she wanted you to be okay now so she could spend the nights with you fulfilling the obligations of making a long line of heirs. On the other, she knew the maester was likely right about your need for solitude and rest.

"Rest and heal, my sweet. And I will make sure to make up for the night we missed," she said in a soft and gentle tone, only for you to hear as you continued to lie there, your eyes closed in what appeared to be a deep and restful sleep.

"I'll have you full of my seed in no time."

She caressed your face for the last time gently before leaning down to kiss your forehead.

As she withdrew, she turned to the Wanda who was standing just outside the doorway of your chamber.

"Do everything you can to ensure that she is well soon," she instructed.

"Yes, your Grace."

As soon as Natasha left your chambers, you slowly and stealthily got up from the bed where you had been feigning sleep. Your body trembled slightly as you inhaled deep breaths, the adrenaline coursing through your veins. You were grateful that your plan had worked, and that Natasha had believed your act of being sick.

Wanda, your trusted maester and ally in your plan, looked at you with a sigh as you got up from the bed.

"I told you hot water and a cloth would do the trick," she said, referring to the method she suggested to fake your elevated temperature.

"I'll have you full of my seed in no time."

"My Grace, are you alright? Are you really sick now? You look pale."

You snapped back to the present, your mind still replaying Natasha's words from earlier when she spoke to you while you were pretending to be in a deep slumber.

"I'm fine," you assured Wanda, your voice a little shaky. "Just a bit…tired, that's all."

Tired of all this.

"Well, I shall leave you alone then, my Grace."

Wanda has been the first person you became close with, and she has been nothing but supportive to cover up for you and your plans. You even heard her lie for you not since a while ago and that was not even a part of your plan. But when the King asked about your condition—your fake condition, she still did with no hesitation.

"Thank you, Wanda."

⧗

It had been several days since Natasha's visit, and you had successfully managed to avoid her so far due to your pretense of being sick. Now, you were stepping out into the gardens, seeking a change of scenery and some fresh air pretending to be sick and staying in bed is making you really sick now.

The gardens were a lovely sight, the sun shining brightly and the flowers in full bloom. You strolled along the pathways, enjoying the peaceful atmosphere.

As you were walking in the garden, relishing the tranquil surroundings, your eyes caught a glimpse of something or rather, someone—in the distance. It was Natasha, standing next to Caraxes, the Blood Wyrm.

Her gaze was fixated on you and you could tell that she was surprised to see you out and about, considering the fact that you were supposed to be unwell. And now, she is making her way over to you.

Your instincts kicked in immediately, and your first thought was to run. Without hesitation, you darted through the gardens, your heart racing as you navigated the twisting and turning paths of the maze.

As you ran, adrenaline pumped through your veins, and you quickened your pace, determined to elude her as long as possible. You were dressed in a gown made of flowing silk, the fabric soft and lightweight against your skin. The hem of the dress brushed against the grass as you ran, occasionally catching on the leaves of the maze bushes. You sprinted through the maze, dodging and weaving between the high walls of greenery. As you continued running through the maze, your heart rate spiked ever higher when you caught a glimpse of Natasha through the gaps in the leaves.

Seeing her so close, so determined to find you, sent another jolt of adrenaline through your body, the fight-or-flight response kicking into high gear.

Although you were aware that she would eventually catch you, you refused to let her have an easy victory. You steeled yourself, determined to play this game in your own hands.

The twists and turns of the maze became your playground. Every time you thought she was closing in, you would change direction, taking unexpected forks that would put some distance between you again.

As you sprinted through the maze, looking back in the direction you last saw Natasha, a sudden body slammed in front of you. The force knocked you off balance, catching you off guard.

A pair of hands locked around your arms, effectively trapping you, preventing any further escape.

"Are you running away from me?"

Natasha's intense gaze was met with your fearful ones, your heart raced and your words came out in a slight stutter. "Y-your Grace…" you started to say, but your mind was too preoccupied with the situation to form a coherent response. You gulped as you looked away, and then replied with a shaky voice. "No, your Grace," you said, your eyes still fixed on the soil where you were standing. Despite your denial, there was undeniable fear in your voice.

"I was expecting that you're still in your chambers, resting. Wanda told me you're still sick."

"I wanted to go out, g-get some fresh air…"

"You should've come to me so I will go out with you."

"I…" you hesitated for a moment, wanting to be careful on how you're going to say the next words, "I wanted to have some time alone, y-your Grace."

Her grip on your arms relaxed slightly as she heard your response. "I haven't had a night alone with you since our wedding, Y/N," she said, she sounded a bit disappointed that made you hitch your breath. "Look at me." She commanded, leaving no room for disobedience. And you slowly did, as your gazes met, her eyes softened with a little fire of an intense desire, and her proximity to you made your heart race even faster.

In a swift and dominating move, Natasha closed the remaining distance between you and claimed your lips in a searing kiss. Natasha sensed your attempts to resist so she deepened the kiss, her tongue demanding entry, as her hands on your arms pulled you even closer to her.

Your resistance was a futile battle and you finally surrendered to her but you fought not to moan as her tongue explored the cavern of your mouth, leaving you breathless and vulnerable. As Natasha moved her attention towards your neck, her lips and tongue trailing along the sensitive skin, you tilted your head back, submitting to her control.

Her lips left your neck as she leaned towards your ear, her words a low, seductive whisper.

"I shall be expecting to see you in my chambers tonight."

⧗

The evening had arrived, and Natasha made her way to her chamber, fully expecting to find you there—in her bed in all your glory. However, as she entered the room, her eyes scanned the space, but you were nowhere to be seen. Her initial confusion quickly turned into seething anger as she realized you didn't follow her command.

She wasted no time and stormed through the corridors, her patience wearing thin. It has been far too long, and she is determined to have you, one way or another. Her strides were purposeful and filled with seething anger, her mind set on one mission.

To find you and bring you to her bed.

As soon as she stepped into your chambers, her eyes slowly adjusted to the dim light. She approached the figure lying in the bed, she leaned closer to get a better look of you, and when she dipped her knee to the soft bed, the figure suddenly moved, emitting a piercing scream. Startled, Natasha let out a gasp, quickly realizing it wasn't you but your maid servant.

"Y-your Grace!" The maid servant rushed out apologetically as she immediately threw the thick covers out her body and stood.

"Where is Y/N? Why are you in the Queen's bed?!" Natasha demanded.

"Queen Y/N noticed I-I wasn't feeling well and…well, I am fine but-but the Queen insisted that I am not fine," the maid servant's hands flew in different direction as she tried to explain herself, "and she told me…she insisted that I should rest, right here, in her bed. And she left." The maid servant scrambled, the words coming out in a rush from her lips not wanting to receive the seething anger of the King.

"Forgive me, your Grace…please."

The maid servant's continuous apologies grew quieter as Natasha's attention shifted. Her gaze moved towards the window, where she spotted a figure dashing towards the garden maze. She instantly recognized it was you, and a sly smile tugged at her lips. Ignoring the maid servant, Natasha stepped towards the window of your chambers.

Once again, you found yourself racing through the labyrinthine maze, your breath coming in short gasps as you desperately sought an escape. The twists and turns of the paths seemed to taunt you, creating a confusing web to ensnare you. Fear and adrenaline coursed through your veins, your mind focused on one goal and that is to survive the night without having to spend it on the King's bed.

Natasha's voice echoed through the night, "Making a maid servant sleep in your own bed, just to fool me?"

Despite the gasp that escaped your lips at the sound of Natasha's seething voice, you refused to let it slow you down. Your legs propelled you forward, your bare feet pounding against the cool grass as you continued your race through the maze. There was no time for looking back, only the need to elude her pursuit.

"You were never ill, Y/N!"

As you ran through the maze, the tears of fear started to well up in your eyes, causing you to shut them tightly shut. The emotions coursing through you were overwhelming—fear, defiance, and the weight of the situation hitting you all at once. Yet, amidst it all, a small part of you stubbornly held onto the hope that you could somehow escape Natasha.

Just as you rounded a corner in the maze, a strong body suddenly locked onto you, arms encircling you like a vise grip. Caught off guard, you let out a gasp in surprise, struggling against the strong hold. The realization that Natasha had finally caught you struck you like a bolt of lightning.

"I knew you heard me that time…I never lied when I said I will make sure you're full of my seed."

In a swift and effortless motion, Natasha scooped you up and threw you in her shoulders, her strong grip on your thighs unyielding as she carried you to her chambers. You tried to resist, squirming and fighting against her, but her strength was undeniable. Despite your attempts to break free, it was clear that you had no chance of escape.

The game is no longer in your hands. It never was.

The guards stationed nearby stood at their positions, their eyes averted from the scene. They could only watch as Natasha carried you flailing in her arms, your screams piercing the air. Fear for their own lives kept them in place, knowing full well that they could have their heads off if they bothered to look in your direction.

"Lock the doors!" she barked, her tone leaving no room for questions. The guards obeyed, swiftly securing the chamber doors, sealing you and Natasha inside. Without a moment of hesitation, she hurled you onto her bed, the force of her throw causing you to bounce slightly upon the plush mattress.

"Strip," she commanded in a low voice that made you shiver in fear, "Remove every piece of clothing you wear. I want to see my wife before me in all her naked glory. Do not forget to remove any trinkets or tokens you may be wearing."

Your hands were shaking when you let your dress slip to the floor, revealing your vulnerable form, your body betrays you with gooseflesh. Tears well up in your eyes, spilling over and cascading down your cheeks.

Natasha watched, sitting at the bed as you stripped the last piece of clothing out of your body.

Her cold, green orbs leisurely take in every inch of your bare flesh. They linger on the fullness of your breasts, the pebbled peaks begging for her touch. Her gaze trails down to the small, dark mole at the side of your breast, a unique birthmark that she commits to memory. Her eyes continue their languid descent, taking in the slight roundness of your belly soon to be full of her seed, the flare of your hips, and the soft curls at the juncture of your thighs. She studies the glistening evidence of your fear and humiliation, the pink folds of your pussy already swollen and slick.

The shame of your nakedness burns through you like a physical touch, amplified by the fact that Natasha remains fully clothed. Her silken robes and velvet cloak seem to mock your naked form just reminds you of the game that is now holding place in her hands.

A cruel smile plays on Natasha's lips as she sees the shame and fear in your eyes. She rises once more, her tall form towering over you. Her hands go to the sash at her waist, undoing it with deliberate slowness.

The silk slithers to the floor, pooling around her feet. She begins to slowly unlace her leather breeches, her gaze locked with yours. As the garment falls away, revealing her hardened cock, you can't help but gulp, your eyes wide with trepidation.

She stepped closer to you, caressing your cheek. You didn't know why but you leaned in to her touch as she wiped the tears off your face. She looked at your glossy eyes before she leaned forward, her lips pressing against yours in a soft, yet commanding kiss. Your lips part instinctively, allowing her to sweep her tongue inside, claiming your mouth as hers.

"Open wider," she demands, breaking the kiss to gaze down at you. She tilts your head back further, forcing your mouth open wider. She kisses you again, this time her tongue probing deeper, exploring the warmth of your mouth. She sucks on your bottom lip, pulling it between her teeth and biting down gently.

Your breath hitches, a soft whimper escaping your throat as her kiss becomes more intense. Her hands tangled in your hair and you can't help but moan softly, the sound muffled against her lips.

Natasha broke the kiss and sees the raw innocence in your eyes, the moisture making them glisten like jewels. Your lips are swollen and parted, a thin string of saliva stretching between them, quivering as you suck in ragged breaths. Her gaze darkens with lust and satisfaction.

"My bed has been lacking...heat," she murmurs, her voice low and gravelly. She reaches out, wiping the saliva from your chin with her thumb. "And you, my sweet, are going to warm it tonight."

You took a step backwards and tilt your head to the side to avoid her touch.

"You make it difficult," she says, her voice tight with frustration, "to fulfill the one duty that should be simple. I have conquered cities, bent knees to mine, tamed dragons. And yet, you make it hard for me to plant my seed in your womb."

"Am I just a bearer of your offspring?" you pinched your brows together, finally eyeing the King as the tears cascaded down your face.

"Yes," she replied bluntly, undressing herself, "in this, you are." As her clothing falls away, revealing her breasts and her tanned, muscular body, she meets your gaze squarely. "But know this, my sweet, you are not just any bearer."

"You are my Queen—my own wife who dared to deceive and defy me," she says as she steps forward, her eyes roaming over your body hungrily. "And when I have won, when you carry my child, you will be the mother of my heir."

"And perhaps," she says, her voice dropping to a near whisper as she leans over you, "when this is done, when my line is secured, you will be something more." Her gaze holds yours captive. "But for tonight, you are simply the woman I must breed."

Your heart shatters in your chest as she speaks those words. The cold, hard truth of her intent cuts deep, each word a knife twisting in your soul. You are not her beloved, her equal, but a tool, a vessel to bear her child and you knew it from the beginning.

Without you carrying her offspring, you are nothing.

Natasha then grabs you roughly, flipping you around and throwing you onto the bed. She climbs over you, positioning herself behind your ass.

With a sudden, brutal motion, she thrusts herself inside you, ignoring your cries of pain as she tears through your resisting body. She groans in satisfaction, her hands gripping your hips as she begins to rut into you with merciless force, her dragon's strength overpowering any objections you might have.

"You are mine now," she growls, her breath hot against your ear. "No more defiance, no more resistance. You will bear my child, as is your purpose." Each word is punctuated by a hard thrust, her hips slamming against your ass cheek with brutal intensity.

She pulls out of you suddenly, her thick cock glistening with your virgin blood. Natasha flips you over, pushing your hips in the bed. Her body pressed heavily against yours as she positioned herself between your legs. Without warning, she slams back into you, her dragon-sized cock splitting you open.

You're screaming now, your voice echoing off the walls as she fucks you with brutal, animalistic intensity making your face contort in pleasure mixed with pain.

She moves to silence your screams and releases your mouth long enough to trail her lips down your body, pausing to suckle at each breast roughly, her teeth scraping against your sensitive nipples.

"You are so tight around me, Y/N," she groans, her voice low and possessive. "Your body was made just for my pleasure. Your virgin hole is so snug, clasping around me like a glove. You were made to be filled by me."

Her hands grip your thighs, spreading you wider, allowing her to bury herself deeper. As she grinds her hips against yours, she leaned down and your hands immediately clawed at her back, your fingernails digging into her skin.

Her muscled back flexes under your desperate, clawing hands. You feel each ridge of muscle, the hard strength of her. Despite the pain she's causing, despite the brutal taking, your body responds to her, your core clenching around her cock as you feel her powerful body move against yours.

"Y-your…Grace…" you called out for her, mouth open as she tore you apart. You held her neck and the silver locks of her hair, your legs crossed at her waist.

"You're my Queen." She growled in your ear.

"Yes, your Grace!" You cried out in pleasure.

"Then you will take what I give you, you will be painted with my seed and soon enough you'll bear my heir."

Her words made your pussy clench even tighter around her massive cock. She feels it, her thrusts becoming even more powerful as she drives her seed deep into your womb.

She straightens up, her hands gripping your hips as she slams into you one final time. Her body stiffens, her head thrown back in a silent roar as she finds her release. She grinds her hips against yours, ensuring every drop is deep inside you. Then, she pulls out of you slowly, her eyes locked onto your well-stretched opening. She watches as her seed begins to leak out mixing with your virgin blood, a possessive growl rumbling in her chest. Without hesitation, she pushes the escaping seed back inside with her slender fingers.

"My seed stays inside you," she continues to push her fingers inside you, scooping up the white and red liquid, forcing it back into your walls, making sure it's as deep inside you as possible. She repeats this process several times, her fingers pumping in and out of you as she ensures her claim is secure.

The sensation of her fingers pushing into you, combined with the gentle throbbing from her earlier pumps, becomes too much to bear. You can feel yourself growing more and more sensitive, the line between pleasure and pain blurring. You moan, your voice barely a whisper.

"Your Grace...it's too much…"

She ignores your plea, her voice dark as she murmurs, "It's Natasha for you, my sweet." Her fingers continue to push into your overstimulated hole, the motion causing you to convulse around her.

"Natasha…" you stammer, her name tumbling from your lips like a prayer as the intense sensation consumes you. Her name on your lips, filled with such raw emotion, makes her own stomach flutter.

You convulse violently, your body shaking uncontrollably as a gush of liquid spurts out from between your thighs. Natasha muffles her approval against your neck, her voice thick with satisfaction as she feels the evidence of your spend.

"Say it again," she demands, her fingers continuing to pump into you as the aftershocks wrack your body. "Say my name like that again, Y/N." Her own control is slipping, your words affecting Natasha more than she'd like to admit. You whimper, your voice hoarse.

"N-Natasha...Natasha...only...only you…" Each word is punctuated by a sharp breath as your body continues to spasm around her fingers. She lets out a low groan, her head dropping to your shoulder as she listens to you beg for her alone.

"You're so good for me," she praises, her voice rough with desire. She withdraws her fingers from your dripping pussy, bringing them to her mouth to clean them with a hungry suckle. Her eyes never leaving yours as she does so, drinking in the sight of her Queen overcome with pleasure.

"From now on, you will sleep in this same bed as mine so I can ensure that you remain well-bred every night."

[unlady-like-12-25-36]

"𝘼 𝘽𝙖𝙩𝙩𝙡𝙚 𝙈𝙚𝙖𝙣𝙩 𝙩𝙤 𝘽𝙧𝙚𝙖𝙠 𝙐𝙨"

Katarina x f! reader - 𝗔𝗿𝗰𝗮𝗻𝗲

𝗦𝘆𝗻𝗼𝗽𝘀𝗶𝘀:

Loving Katarina had always felt like walking a tightrope between life and death. You both knew that love had no place in the world of assassins, but that didn’t stop you from holding onto it until she tore it away. When she chose duty over you, you let her go, believing it was the only way to survive. But fate was cruel. The next time you saw her, it was at the edge of a blade—yours and hers, drawn against each other in an assassination neither of you had realized was meant to be mutual. Now, with the weight of betrayal and love in your hands, you are forced to fight the one person you never wanted to harm.

The rain fell in sheets, drenching the dimly lit courtyard where you stood, heart pounding in your chest. You had long since stopped believing in fate, but standing here now, blade drawn, facing the woman you had once loved—it felt like destiny’s cruelest trick.

Katarina’s eyes met yours, cold and calculating, but you could see the flicker of hesitation in them. A silent storm raged between you, unsaid words, unhealed wounds.

“I should’ve known it would be you.” Her voice was sharp, but there was something frayed at the edges.

You swallowed the lump in your throat, tightening your grip on your dagger. “I didn’t.”

For a moment, neither of you moved. Just standing there, under the darkened sky, with nothing but the sound of rain and the distant hum of the city beneath you. But you both knew—this wasn’t a moment you could stay frozen in.

Then she struck.

You barely dodged in time, her blade slicing through the empty space where your throat had been a second ago. The clash of metal rang through the alleyway as you blocked her next strike, the force of it sending vibrations through your arm. She was fast. She had always been fast.

“Paano lalaban, kung ikaw ang kalaban?” The words echoed in your mind, twisting into the rhythm of your clashing blades. “How do I fight, when you are my enemy?”

Your body moved on instinct, but your heart rebelled. Every attack, every counter, felt like it was tearing a part of you apart. And you could see it—see the hesitation in her strikes, the way her movements faltered ever so slightly, the way her breath hitched when your dagger nearly grazed her ribs.

She didn’t want this any more than you did.

But duty was duty.

And then—she made her move. A low sweep of her leg, a sharp twist of your wrist, and suddenly, you were on the ground, vision swimming as she struck you hard enough to disarm you. Your dagger clattered to the pavement, your body paralyzed from the hit.

Katarina loomed over you, drenched in rain, her breath coming fast. Her blade hovered at your throat, but her hands trembled.

She should’ve finished it.

Instead, she spoke, voice a whisper against the howling storm.

“I love you.”

Your heart clenched, eyes burning. You tried to move, tried to reach for her, but your limbs refused to obey.

“I love you, I’m sorry.”

Through blurry vision, you saw her figure standing over you, her daggers trembling in her hands. She could finish this. She should. But she didn't.

Instead, she turned.

"Katarina…" Your voice was weak, barely more than a whisper.

She paused, just long enough for the city lights to cast her in an ethereal glow. Then, without a word, she disappeared into the night.

Darkness swallowed you whole.

When you woke up, she was gone. The only proof that she had ever been there was the faint warmth lingering where her hands had held you down, the ghost of her breath still lingering in the air.

And the undeniable, agonizing truth that she had chosen duty over you.

𝗔𝘂𝘁𝗵𝗼𝗿'𝘀 𝗻𝗼𝘁𝗲- I hope you like this story of katarina. I write this listening to "Di na posible" by similar sky, and "I love you, im sorry" by gracie abrams. Btw, feel free to send request.

[unlady-like-12-25-36]

Sinister fortune cannon???👀

[unlady-like-12-25-36]

Hey there! I really loved the ones you did for Wanda, so i was wondering if you'd be down to do one for Natasha with Touching 35, Hugs 17 and Hands 13 (if you're ok with it going that way).

If not, it's totally cool, love your works :)

Natasha Romanoff x Reader

prompt: linking hands together during sex, hugging from behind, kissing their bruises and scars | words: 1.686k | warnings: (+18), shower smut, bottom!natasha, language, mentions of violence.

challenge masterlist | general masterlist

-&-

The only sounds in the surroundings were running water and the news coming from the corner television that Natasha probably left on.

You closed the bedroom door behind you, making just enough noise to announce your presence without startling her - Not that you believed it was possible to sneak around with a black widow.

Natasha left the bathroom ajar and your gaze met hers in the reflection in the mirror. She smiled at first, no sound coming from her lips, neither of greeting nor of pain even though she was treating significant cuts scattered across her body. The purple marks on her back and chest were almost completely visible through that sports tank top she was wearing, and you sighed as you leaned against the door.

She held your gaze. "All it takes for you to show up is a near end of the world, huh?"

The teasing made you smile. You crossed your arms, knowing that if you didn't keep your hands busy, you would touch her. And you needed to know if Natasha wasn't mad at you first.

"Well, at least now I know that I can't leave you alone for five minutes without that leading to the eventual destruction of all mankind." You say, an undertone in the sentence that makes Natasha frown slightly. You sigh before adding; "I just said goodbye to my brother. We both agree that it's best to always have an Asgardian on the team." 

Natasha swallows hard and looks away. She's a master at hiding her emotions, and she does a great job of disguising the news that would easily be the best thing she's heard in weeks. She gives you a small chuckle, looking at you in the reflection. "You two think too highly of yourselves, you know? We took care of half of Ultron's army while your brother was taking a bath in a cave." 

You chuckle, joining in the comfortable push and pull you've always had ever since you first met her, so many years ago when Thor first came to Earth. 

"Is that so?" She hums in agreement, her body language betraying her and leaning towards you. "Because I heard you spent half the time in handcuffs." She raises an eyebrow. 

"Your intel is incorrect," she counters. "Ultron knocked me out, but I had my hands free." You laugh at her irony, shaking your head in disapproval. She smiles, mimicking the gesture before taking a deep breath.

An exchange of glances and the mood in the room changed completely. You looked at her so intently that Natasha thought it best to go stare back to the mirror. Finally, you spoke. "You could have called me." It was a whisper, too gentle or sad to be accusatory. She sighed softly. "I would have kicked Stark's ass in a second. Blown up a few things, or even charmed a few minds. But I would have been here. And you definitely wouldn't have been unconscious." 

She rested her hands on the sink, somewhat tense and visibly tired. "It wasn't anyone's fault." She counters seriously but keeps her tone as friendly as she can. "It's the job, malysha (baby). We go and fight, and come home with a few scratches. I knew how important your mission was. I won’t call you if it isn’t a matter of life or death. I was sure we could handle it, and in the end, we did."

But your gaze was on the large bruise on her shoulder when you replied with a "Few scratches, huh?" 

She gave you a sad smile and with a nod, you knew what she was allowing. 

You can touch me. 

You uncrossed your arms and moved slowly. Natasha sighed as she felt your hands touch her elbows, and then her shoulders until your arms wrapped around her. She was overcome by a sudden urge to cry - all the stress of the last few weeks, all the fights. And all the missing you burning feeling in her chest. She sighed, sinking into the warmth of your embrace for a moment. You kissed her neck and stared at her through the reflection. 

"Let me take a look." You asked and she opened her mouth to retort with a "You don't have to" but you were already hushing her gently, wrapping your arms around her waist to spin her around and have her against the counter. She bit her lip to hide her own reactions, eyes watching you carefully undress her.

The tank top came off first and she could see the darkness in your expression as you took in the new display of bruises. Then her combat pants and she removed her socks as you set the items aside in the corner.

Close again, you traced some of the more superficial bruises on her torso on your way to removing her bra.

Natasha said nothing, the cool air of the room making her body tremble just before it warmed again beneath your touch.

When you bent down to pull her panties to the floor, she let her fingers play with the strands of your hair for a moment.

“You’re such a charmer,” she murmured teasingly. “You’ve barely gotten here and there’s already a naked girl in your room.”

You chuckled, throwing her panties in the corner with the other clothes. "Don't be silly, this is your room." You replied in the same tone and tugged on your shirt, which got stuck in the attempt and Natasha was happy to help between one giggle and another.

She didn't steal any kisses, but you forgot to ask. You were busy exchanging complicity looks and giggles as she pulled your belt and pants away, and you stumbled out of your Asgardian boots.

Finally, you were both naked and under the shower. She turned it on and didn't wait for the water to heat up before pushing you under, and you didn't pull her along in sympathy for the number of bruises she still had.

But the light, teasing ,and joking mood changed as your fingers traced her new scars.

The water did most of the work, of course - Natasha still needed a lot to get used to the mystical side of life, and the existence of gods like you, but she would certainly never stop being enchanted by your abilities. Her body relaxed under your enchanted touch. The water drops would do the healing, but you ran your hands and lips over as much of her skin as you could, slowly as if you were idolizing every inch of her. When you finally got to your knees again with your lips on her thighs, Natasha was already panting, her legs shaking. 

"You're such a tease." She comments with her eyes narrowed, the hot water and the affection of your touch had completely relaxed her. She was aroused, of course, but it was warm, comforting somehow. 

You giggle mischievously, the bruises are completely gone now. The mystical, silvery glow of the water you manipulated to heal her had also completely drained down the drain, and now all that was left was you and your affections.

You looked up, slightly mesmerized by the beauty of the woman in front of you.

Your lack of action made Natasha look down, a smile playing on her lips. 

"Don't be shy now, darling. I'm ready for you."

You let out a shuddering sigh but resisted just long enough to tease her. "You always want me on my knees, Natalia. Is it because I'm royalty?"

She giggled, her dominant hand tangling in your hair and before she pulled you up, she growled an affectionate "Come here you dork."

Despite the urgency, the kiss was tender. At least at first, filled with the longing you felt for each other. Then Natasha's tongue slid to your bottom lip, never asking permission before increasing the urgency of that kiss, and you were grateful that her fragile human body was healed and allowed you to press her roughly against the wall.

She moaned into your mouth, fighting for dominance in the kiss before being overpowered by the sudden friction of your knee against her core. With her hips moving of their own accord, it didn't take long for her to break the kiss with pleading moans, full of need. You never denied her, you never could. She didn't even need to ask and you already moved your knee away to sink your fingers into her, being rewarded with the sweetest sounds and breathless sighs.

The hot water dripped against your back, and the closer Nat got to the climax, the more her body writhed. Natasha liked to kiss you when she came because she knew it drove you crazy to feel her shudder and whine into your mouth when she did it. One of her hands grabbed your face to control the kiss as your fingers danced inside her, filling her completely in a back-and-forth motion that was driving her mad. On instinct, she dug her nails into your back, and you grunted in slight pain, before using your free hand to hold hers against the wall. The brief restraint pushed her over the edge and all it took was a twist of your wrist and she came, whimpering into your tongue.

You kissed her chastely a few times until she could respond properly. She was still throbbing deliciously against your fingers when you pulled back to suck your fingers clean.

Natasha looked at you with dilated pupils, the hand that had been on your face falling to your shoulder next to the one you released.

"I think very highly of you, too, you now. “ She confessed with a rusky worn-out tone. “Just don't get too cocky."

You smile, shaking your head at your girlfriend's post-orgasm state.

Not that you've decided on a label.

"Making you come is all I need to get some compliments, then? Good to know."

"Shut up."

"With pleasure. I happen to have plenty of other ideas to occupy my mouth with."

She shakes her head, a goofy smile on her lips. "Idiot."

"And all yours, baby."

[unlady-like-12-25-36]

MARVEL COMICS CHARACTERS X FEM!READER

You are extremely physically affectionate towards your lover

Characters: Peter Parker, Tony Stark, Steve Rogers, Thor, Loki, Clint Barton, Natasha Romanoff, Bucky Barnes, Matthew Murdock, Frank Castle, Bullseye, Marc Spector, Taskmaster, Johnny Storm, Reed Richards, Ben Grimm, Susan Storm, Felicia Hardy, Stephen Strange, Namor, Johnny Blaze, Eddie Brock / Venom, T'Challa, Elektra Natchios, Muse, Victor von Doom, Peter Quill & Nova

Peter Parker (Spider-Man)

- Peter Parker was not used to this. The easy touches, the warmth of your hand against his, the way you leaned into him as if gravity itself was pulling you closer. He had spent so much of his life keeping a careful distance, making sure the people he loved never got too close—because close meant vulnerable, and vulnerable meant loss. But you? You never seemed to care about the dangers or the excuses. You curled into his side when he sat on the couch, laced your fingers through his when you walked together, kissed him just because you felt like it. And Peter—awkward, hesitant Peter—was utterly helpless against you.

- At first, he didn’t know what to do with it. The first time you pressed your face into the crook of his neck while he worked on his web-shooters, he short-circuited so hard he nearly ruined the entire mechanism. "Uh—babe? Not that I’m complaining, but—is this a thing? Are we doing this now? Oh, we are doing this now. Okay. Cool. No problem. Just—uh, gimme a sec to process." But you never waited for permission. You just kept touching him—soft, constant, reassuring—until eventually, he stopped questioning it and started needing it.

- The first time he realized just how much he needed it was after a particularly brutal night. A fight that left his body aching and his mind even worse. He barely made it through the window before you were there, wrapping yourself around him like you knew. And suddenly, everything that had been clawing at him—the guilt, the exhaustion, the loneliness—dissolved. He didn’t say a word. He just held you tighter, buried his face in your hair, and breathed.

- Now, Peter craves it like oxygen. He reaches for you before he even realizes it—pulling you against him in his sleep, hooking an arm around your waist as he scrolls through his phone, nudging his nose against yours just because he can. The world is cruel, unpredictable, dangerous—but your touch? Your warmth? That is something Peter Parker will never take for granted.

Tony Stark (Iron Man)

- Tony Stark was a man who built walls. Not the kind that crumbled easily under the weight of kind words and patient gestures—no, his were reinforced, designed to keep people out. He had spent years perfecting the art of distance, of making sure no one got too close. But you? You were different. You didn’t knock on the door, waiting for permission—you climbed right over the walls, landed in his space, and stayed. With your hands, your lips, your unwavering need to touch him, to hold him, to remind him that he was not alone.

- At first, it was… jarring. Tony was used to attention, yes, but not this kind. Not the kind that wasn’t expecting something in return. The first time you hugged him—just because—you felt the way his body went rigid, the way his hands hovered awkwardly before settling on your back. "Wow. This is… new. Okay. Hugs. We’re hugging. Cool, cool, cool. No existential crisis here." But you never relented. You pressed into his side when he worked late, kissed the back of his neck when he got lost in his own head, traced absentminded patterns into his palm during meetings. And Tony? He found himself melting into it before he even realized what was happening.

- The real turning point came one night when he woke up gasping, his chest tight, his mind drowning in memories that refused to stay buried. He didn’t even have to reach for you—you were already there, pulling him close, pressing soft kisses against his shoulder, grounding him with your touch. "I’m here," you murmured against his skin, and Tony Stark—genius, billionaire, survivor—broke. He clung to you like a lifeline, burying himself in your warmth, letting himself be held in a way he had never allowed before.

- Now, he seeks it out. He’ll act like he doesn’t, make some snarky remark about "needy girlfriends", but the second you stop touching him? He’s pulling you back in, draping himself over you like the most dramatic man alive. "Hey, where do you think you’re going? My affection quota isn’t filled yet." And if anyone so much as thinks about commenting on it? He just smirks, pulls you even closer, and says, "Jealous? You should be."

Steve Rogers (Captain America)

- Steve Rogers was a man out of time, a soldier who had spent most of his life with his fists clenched, his mind trained to endure. He was not accustomed to softness, to indulgence, to the kind of affection that did not come with conditions. And yet—here you were. Always reaching for him, always pressing close, always reminding him that he was yours. You kissed the inside of his wrist like it was sacred, ran your fingers through his hair when he let himself relax, curled against his chest like you belonged there. And the truth was? You did.

- At first, he didn’t know what to do with it. The first time you wrapped your arms around him from behind, he went stiff, his body tensing as if bracing for an attack. But when you simply hummed, resting your head against his back, something in him unraveled. He exhaled—slow, steady—before covering your hands with his. And that was the moment he realized—this was not something to fear. This was something to cherish.

- The first time he sought it out was after a particularly difficult mission. The kind that left blood on his hands and ghosts in his mind. He came home, exhausted, battered, but the moment you reached for him—he melted. He let himself sink into your arms, let himself need you in a way he rarely allowed himself to. And when you whispered, "I’ve got you," he closed his eyes and believed it.

- Now, it’s second nature. He reaches for you without thinking—pulling you into his lap when you’re both reading, brushing his knuckles against your cheek as he passes by, resting his hand on the small of your back whenever you’re near. Affection is not something he was raised to expect, but with you? With you, it is something he will never stop craving.

Thor

- Thor Odinson is a man of grand gestures, of roaring laughter and earth-shaking love. But when it comes to you—his affection is not just thunderous, but constant. He adores the way you reach for him without hesitation, the way your hands find his in quiet moments, the way your touch lingers as if you cannot bear to be apart for too long. And oh, how he thrives under it.

- The first time you showered him in affection, he grinned—wide, bright, eager. "Ah! My love, you are truly as radiant as the stars!" He embraced you effortlessly, lifting you into the air, delighting in the way you laughed against his chest. He was never one for restraint—if you wanted to touch him, to hold him, to kiss him senseless—he would let you. Encourage you. Because there was nothing Thor loved more than being loved.

- But it was the quiet moments that truly undid him. When you curled against him after a battle, your fingers tracing over his scars. When you pressed sleepy kisses to his shoulder before drifting off. When you simply held his face in your hands, looking at him like he was more than just a god, more than just a warrior. Like he was yours. And in those moments, Thor Odinson—Prince of Asgard, champion of realms—felt human.

- Now, he craves it like a force of nature. He pulls you into his lap without warning, presses lingering kisses to your forehead, wraps his arms around you so tightly you can feel the strength in them. If anyone dares to comment, he simply laughs, throwing an arm around you with a smirk. "Jealous, are we? Ah, but who could blame you? My beloved is irresistible!" Because to Thor, your love is not just something he accepts—it is something he reveres.

Loki

- Loki was not accustomed to tenderness. Affection, in his experience, had always been fleeting—given only in exchange for something, laced with expectation, or worse, manipulation. But you? You gave without asking. You touched without hesitation. Your fingers traced the sharp lines of his face as if he were something to be studied, not feared. You kissed his knuckles absentmindedly, tangled your fingers in his hair, rested your head against his shoulder as if it were the most natural thing in the world. And Loki—cunning, guarded, untouchable—let you.

- At first, he did not know what to do with it. The first time you cupped his face in your hands, he had gone utterly still, his breath caught between his ribs, waiting for the inevitable trick, the hidden knife. But all you did was smile, tracing the delicate skin beneath his eyes as if he were precious. As if he were yours. And something in him—something ancient, something wounded—cracked apart.

- He is not a man who gives easily, but when he does, he gives completely. Now, Loki seeks your touch like a starving thing—leaning into your warmth as you press against his side, pulling you into his lap without a word, letting your hands wander over him as if to prove he is real. He teases, of course—"Darling, do you find me so irresistible that you cannot keep your hands to yourself?"—but his voice is softer than it should be, his hands tightening against yours as if begging you never to stop.

- And if anyone so much as questions it? If they dare to call him weak for the way he melts beneath your hands? He merely smirks, his arm curling around your waist as he whispers, "Ah, but love, what better trick is there than to make the gods themselves fall to their knees?"

Clint Barton (Hawkeye)

- Clint Barton had spent a lifetime watching his back, expecting the worst. He was not used to gentle hands, to soft embraces that did not come with conditions or an ulterior motive. He had lived his life running—always moving, always fighting, never letting anyone get too close. And then you happened. You, with your touch that lingered like a second heartbeat. You, with your hands that grounded him when the world spun too fast. You, who reached for him not because you needed something, but simply because you wanted him.

- At first, he brushed it off with humor. The first time you reached for him—grabbing his hand absentmindedly, brushing your lips against his temple—he raised a brow, smirking. "Wow, you just can’t help yourself, huh?" But then he noticed the way he relaxed under your touch. The way the tension in his shoulders eased when you pressed a hand against his back. The way his pulse slowed when your fingers traced lazy circles against his skin. And suddenly, it wasn’t funny anymore—it was necessary.

- He never asks for it outright—he’s too stubborn for that—but you start noticing the way he lingers. The way he moves closer without realizing it. The way his fingers brush against yours just a little too long before he actually grabs your hand. And when you finally call him on it—"Clint, you like this."—he just huffs, rolling his eyes. "Yeah, yeah, don’t get a big head about it." But his grip on you tightens. Because for all his bravado, he’s never letting this go.

- Now, he doesn’t even try to fight it. He pulls you against him when you’re standing still too long, rests his chin on your shoulder, tugs you into his lap with a grin. If anyone makes a comment, he just shrugs. "What? She’s warm." And if you ever stop touching him? If you deny him affection? He’ll groan dramatically, throwing himself onto the nearest surface. "Babe, please. I’m literally dying. Have some mercy."

Natasha Romanoff (Black Widow)

- Natasha Romanoff was not built for softness. She was trained to endure, to resist, to survive—but not to need. Affection had always been a tool, a weapon to be wielded when necessary, but never something meant for her. So when you came along—when you touched her so easily, so freely—she did not know what to do with it. The first time you hugged her, without hesitation, without purpose, she had simply frozen.

- It wasn’t that she didn’t want it—God, she ached for it—but want was dangerous. Want could be exploited. So she told herself it was nothing, that it didn’t matter. But then it kept happening. You would take her hand absentmindedly, lean into her warmth without hesitation, press a kiss to her shoulder just because you could. And she—cold, untouchable Natasha—let you.

- The first time she reached for you, it was barely noticeable—a hand on your waist, a finger brushing against yours. But once she let herself have it, she couldn’t stop. Now, she seeks it. She won’t ask, won’t say a word, but if you sit beside her without touching her, she will fix it. A hand on your knee. A foot nudging against yours. A quiet, steady reminder that she is here. That you are hers.

- And if anyone so much as mentions it? She raises a brow, her expression unreadable. "What? You think I don’t deserve nice things?" Because Natasha Romanoff may not have been made for love, but with you? With you, she is relearning what it means to have it.

Bucky Barnes (Winter Soldier)

- Bucky Barnes was a man starved of warmth. For so long, his body had belonged to everyone but him. He had been touched in violence, in control, in suffering—but never in love. Never in a way that asked for nothing. And then there was you. You, with your gentle hands and your stubborn refusal to let go. You, who traced the lines of his palm as if mapping a constellation, who pressed kisses against the cold metal of his arm as if it were worthy of tenderness. You, who reached for him as if he were not something broken.

- At first, he flinched. Not because he didn’t want it, but because he didn’t know how to take it. The first time you pressed your forehead against his, he nearly pulled away. But then you sighed—soft, content—as if this was normal, as if he was normal. And he… let it happen. Just this once.

- But once was never enough. He started to crave it, to need it. Now, he is the one reaching for you—pulling you closer in the middle of the night, pressing his nose into your hair, grounding himself in you. If you so much as walk by, he is grabbing your wrist, tugging you into his lap, resting his chin against your shoulder. He doesn’t ask for it—he just takes it. Because after years of being denied choice, of being denied himself, this is something he chooses.

- And if anyone dares to comment on how much he clings to you? He just gives them a slow, dangerous smile. "You got a problem with the way I love my girl?" Because Bucky Barnes has lost too much already—he will not lose this. He will not lose you.

Matthew Murdock (Daredevil)

- Matthew Murdock feels you before you even touch him. Your presence wraps around him like a second skin, the scent of you lingers in the air, the warmth of your body radiates inches away. He hears the tiny shifts in your heartbeat before your fingers even graze his skin, the way it quickens ever so slightly before you reach for him. And he loves it—craves it. He is a man made of contradictions, torn between faith and sin, violence and tenderness. But you? You are the one indulgence he does not seek penance for.

- He drinks in every touch like a dying man. Your fingers threading through his hair, the press of your lips against his jaw, the way you trace patterns over his scars as if rewriting his past with something softer. He does not flinch, does not pull away—no, he leans into it, into you. Because for all the things he has lost, all the things he has chosen to lose, this—you—he will hold onto with both hands.

- He lets you guide him in ways he never allows anyone else. You tilt his chin up before pressing a kiss to his lips, brush your nose against his as if memorizing him in your own way. He revels in it, in the way you seek him, the way your affection comes without hesitation. He doesn’t have to ask, doesn’t have to reach—because you are always there, grounding him, holding him together when the weight of his double life threatens to break him apart.

- And if anyone ever dares to call it weakness? If they think for one second that loving you makes him soft? He only smirks, tilting his head. “You think I don’t know exactly how lucky I am?” His fingers tighten around yours, thumb brushing against your wrist where your pulse beats steady beneath his touch. “I’d rather be a fool in love than a man without her.”

Frank Castle (Punisher)

- Frank Castle is not a man built for softness. His hands are meant for war, his body carved from violence, his heart a thing long since buried beneath grief and blood. But then there’s you. You, who touch him with something gentle, something that does not demand or take or wound. Your fingers ghost over his scars as if rewriting history, your hands linger on his shoulders as if reminding him that he is still here. Still alive. Still worthy of being touched.

- He does not know what to do with it at first. The first time you reached for him—cupped his face, pressed your lips to his temple—he went rigid. Not out of fear, but out of something worse. Because he had forgotten what it felt like. Forgotten the weight of tenderness, the way affection could seep into a man’s bones and soften him. And Frank Castle does not do soft.

- But then you kept doing it. You never hesitated, never recoiled from him, never asked before reaching for him as if you knew he needed it before he even did. And soon, he began to crave it. Now, his hands find yours before you even offer them. His arm wraps around your waist instinctively, tugging you close, keeping you there. And when he buries his face in your neck after a long night, when his hands grip your hips like a man desperate to hold on, he does not speak—but you know. You know.

- If anyone ever dares to question why the Punisher—a man feared, a man unstoppable—allows himself to melt beneath your hands? He only levels them with a look that could kill. "You think love makes a man weak? Love is the only thing that ever made me fight harder." And then, without hesitation, he pulls you into his arms, presses a kiss to your forehead, and lets the world watch.

Bullseye (Lester)

- Bullseye is a man who takes. He is selfish, greedy, unapologetic in his desires. He is a man who was never given love, who was never taught tenderness. So when you give it to him—freely, without hesitation—it both amuses and terrifies him. You, with your hands always reaching for him. You, with your lips that press against his skin like a promise. You, who touch him not with fear, not with reverence, but with something even more dangerous—affection.

- He lets you do it, of course. Hell, he wants you to do it. He soaks up every touch like an addict chasing his next hit. Your fingers in his hair, your nails scraping down his back, your lips trailing over his scars like a silent claim. He thrives on it, thrives on the way you never shy away, never flinch, never hesitate. It’s a game to him at first—seeing how far he can push you, how much you’re willing to give. But then? Then it becomes something else. Something real.

- He doesn’t like to admit it, but he gets jealous. Not in the way most men do—no, his jealousy is something sharper, something deadly. If someone so much as looks at you too long, if they think they can take what is his, he makes it known that you belong to him. Not with words—words are useless—but with a smirk, a hand curling around your throat just to feel your pulse race beneath his fingers, a kiss so possessive that it leaves bruises.

- And if anyone questions why he allows himself to be loved? Why he lets himself have this? He only grins, something sharp and cruel. “Why wouldn’t I? You ever seen what happens when I want something?” His grip on you tightens, his lips brushing against your ear as he adds, “And trust me, baby—I want you.”

Marc Spector (Moon Knight)

- Marc Spector does not believe in good things lasting. He has lived too many lives, worn too many faces, bled for too many gods to believe in permanence. He is a man who knows how to fight, how to kill, how to survive—but not how to be loved. And yet, here you are. Always touching him, always pulling him closer, always reminding him that he is yours.

- He doesn’t know how to handle it at first. The first time you brushed your fingers across his jaw, he flinched. Not because he didn’t want it—but because he did. And wanting was dangerous. Wanting meant losing. But you were patient. You never pushed, never demanded—just gave. And little by little, he let you in.

- Now? Now he is desperate for it. If he wakes up in the middle of the night, his hands seek you out before his mind even catches up. If he is spiraling, if the weight of his past is too much, he finds solace in your arms, in the press of your lips against his knuckles, in the way you hold him without needing a reason. You ground him. You keep him whole.

- And if anyone ever thinks that loving you makes him weaker? That your touch somehow softens him? He only chuckles, dark and low. “You think love makes a man weak?” His arm tightens around your waist, his grip steady, unyielding. “No, love makes a man dangerous. Because now? Now I have something worth fighting for.”

Taskmaster (Tony Masters)

- Taskmaster is a man of reflexes, of calculation, of knowing before it happens. He has memorized a thousand different ways to break a man apart, has studied movement until it is nothing more than muscle memory. And yet, when it comes to you, all of his instincts—his sharp, honed precision—fail him. Because how does one prepare for you? For the way you reach for him without hesitation, for the way your fingers trace the edge of his mask before pushing it away so you can kiss the scarred skin beneath?

- He doesn’t flinch, but he stiffens—not out of rejection, but out of unfamiliarity. He is a man who has lived in the shadows, who has worn a thousand faces but never his own. But you? You do not want his skills, his talents, his ability to mimic the perfect kill. No, you want him, the man beneath the mask, the one no one else has ever bothered to know. And that is something he cannot prepare for.

- At first, he makes it a game—testing you, pushing you, waiting for you to hesitate. But you never do. Your hands are steady, your touch unwavering. You press kisses to his scars as if rewriting the story of how they got there. You run your fingers through his hair like it is something precious, something yours. And slowly, without realizing it, he starts to crave it. Now, if you pull away first, if your touch is missing for even a second too long, he misses it.

- And if anyone so much as questions why Taskmaster—a man feared, a man whose skill is his everything—allows you to touch him so freely? He only smirks beneath his mask, tilting his head. "Because she's the only thing in this world I don’t want to copy—I just want her to be mine.”

Johnny Storm (Human Torch)

- Johnny Storm is made of fire, of heat, of something too wild to be tamed. He burns bright, so bright, and yet—when you touch him—it does not hurt. He does not let it. You press your fingers to his cheek, and the flames simmer beneath your touch. Your lips graze his jaw, and he melts into you, his hands pulling you close, always close, as if the space between you is unbearable.

- He thrives on your affection. It fuels him like oxygen to a fire, makes him burn hotter, makes him alive. If you so much as brush against him in passing, his arm is already wrapping around your waist, tugging you back into him. If you lean against him while watching TV, he is grinning, burying his face in your hair, breathing you in. He is insatiable—not because he needs it, but because he wants it. Wants you.

- And oh, he flaunts it. If someone so much as looks at him the wrong way, he is already pulling you onto his lap, already pressing his lips to your shoulder with a smirk. “Yeah, she’s mine. You jealous?” It is playful, teasing—but underneath it, there is something real, something desperate. Because Johnny Storm has always been adored, has always had fans, admirers, women who wanted the Human Torch. But you? You want Johnny, and that is something he will never take for granted.

- And if anyone thinks that love, that you, make him less? That your touch somehow dims his fire? He only laughs, shaking his head. “You kidding? Love doesn’t make me burn out. Love makes me burn brighter.” And with that, he kisses you—claims you—right there in front of the world, because there is nothing about you he will ever hide.

Reed Richards (Mister Fantastic)

- Reed Richards is a man of science, of logic, of problems waiting to be solved. He is not one for frivolous things, for unnecessary distractions. And yet—you. You, with your hands that reach for him so easily. You, with your lips that press to his temple as he works, with your fingers that thread through his hair when he has been at his desk for too long. You, who has become something he cannot simply explain, cannot analyze, because love—true, deep love—is not something that fits within the confines of logic.

- At first, he does not know what to do with it. He stiffens when you wrap your arms around him from behind, hesitates when you take his hand in yours. But he is a quick learner. Soon, his fingers find yours before you even offer them. Soon, when you rest your head against his shoulder, he leans into you rather than away. And soon, he realizes that your touch is not a distraction—it is a necessity.

- You do not take offense when he loses himself in his work—you understand him, understand that his mind is constantly moving, constantly racing. And because of that, he makes an effort for you. He sets his tools aside when you tug at his sleeve, lets you press your forehead against his, lets you pull him into your world of warmth and touch and feeling. And over time, he begins to crave it, begins to seek it out rather than wait for you to give it.

- And if anyone assumes that the great Mr. Fantastic has no time for something as simple as love? He only adjusts his glasses, his fingers lacing with yours as he responds, "On the contrary, love is the greatest equation of all.” And then, without hesitation, he kisses you—not because it is logical, but because it is right.

Ben Grimm (The Thing)

- Ben Grimm is a man made of stone, of rough edges, of a body that was never meant to be touched. He has spent years pulling away, avoiding the weight of hands that might recoil, of fingers that might fear what he has become. But you? You never hesitate. Your hands find his without hesitation, your fingers trace the lines of his knuckles, your lips press against his jaw as if he is not a man made of stone but of something softer.

- At first, he tells you not to. “You don’t gotta do that, doll.” His voice is gruff, edged with something bitter, something vulnerable. But you only smile, only brush your fingers along his arm like it is the easiest thing in the world. And suddenly, he does not feel like a thing anymore. Suddenly, he is Ben again, just Ben, a man who is still worthy of love, of touch, of you.

- Now? Now, he needs it. Needs the weight of your arms around his waist, needs your hand in his, needs your touch to remind him that he is still here, still whole. And when you kiss him, when you cradle his face in your hands as if he is precious, he swears he could crumble beneath you. Because you see him, not the rock, not the monster, just him.

- And if anyone dares to look at you with pity, to question why you love a man like him? He only chuckles, low and deep, before wrapping his arms around you with something possessive, something sure. “She ain’t with me ‘cause she has to be. She’s with me ‘cause she wants to be.” And as you press another kiss to his lips, he knows—without a doubt—that he is the luckiest man alive.

Susan Storm (Invisible Woman)

- Susan Storm is a woman of poise, of quiet strength, of hands that have shielded the ones she loves more times than she can count. She is used to being the protector, the one who stands between the world and those she cares for. But you—you do not let her bear it alone. You reach for her, fingers brushing over hers, and for the first time in too long, she lets herself be held instead of holding the weight of everything else.

- You are a woman of touch, and at first, it surprises her. Not because she does not crave it, but because she has learned to go without. To be soft is a risk, to be vulnerable is a danger—but when you press your lips to her temple, when you pull her into your arms without hesitation, she melts. She had forgotten what it was to be touched without expectation, without urgency. With you, she remembers.

- Your affection is not a distraction—it is an anchor. When she returns from battle, weary from holding up her force fields for too long, you are there, guiding her to rest with a hand at the small of her back. When she loses herself in thought, in planning, in the weight of responsibility, you remind her that she does not have to be invisible to herself. Your touch pulls her back, reminds her that she is not alone.

- And when you reach for her in public, when you lace your fingers through hers in the presence of others, she does not pull away. No, she holds on tighter. Because love is not something to be hidden—not anymore. And when someone asks her if she ever tires of your endless affection, she only smiles, pressing a kiss to your knuckles as she whispers, "Never."

Felicia Hardy (Black Cat)

- Felicia Hardy is a woman of thrill, of quick escapes, of stolen jewels and stolen hearts. She has spent her life slipping through fingers, never staying in one place for too long. Love is a game to her, a dance she has always led. And yet—when it is you reaching for her, when it is you pressing kisses to her bare shoulder, when it is you curling against her at night—she does not run.

- You are soft in a way she has never trusted, yet she trusts you with something more valuable than any diamond—her time. Your hands are never idle when you are near her, always tracing patterns along her skin, always pulling her close, always grounding her. And though she will never admit it, she is addicted to it. Addicted to you. Addicted to the way you stay when she has spent her life learning how to leave.

- She teases you for it, of course. "You just can't get enough of me, can you?" she purrs, her voice all silk and mischief. But then you press your forehead to hers, then you kiss her like she is precious, and suddenly, she is the one gasping, the one holding onto you. Love has never been something she let herself have, but with you, she realizes she does not have to steal it—it is already hers.

- And if anyone dares to question why the infamous Black Cat allows herself to be caught in your arms so easily, she only laughs, wrapping herself around you like she has never belonged anywhere else. "Oh, sweetheart," she purrs, pressing a kiss to your jaw, "I'm exactly where I want to be."

Stephen Strange (Doctor Strange)

- Stephen Strange is a man of logic, of precision, of a mind that once thought itself above something as frivolous as love. He has wielded power beyond comprehension, seen realities beyond this one, and yet you—you and your endless touches, your unwavering affection—are the greatest mystery of all.

- You do not ask for permission to touch him; you simply do. You brush a hand over his shoulders as he studies ancient texts, you trace the lines of his scars when he is lost in thought. And at first, he stiffens beneath it, unaccustomed to being handled with such care. But you do not stop. You do not pull away. And so, little by little, he begins to lean into it.

- Now, when you curl against him in the quiet moments between battles, he is the one seeking you out, the one pulling you closer, the one pressing a silent kiss to your wrist as if to mark you as his. He will never admit how much he needs it, how much he needs you, but his actions speak louder than his pride. He has faced countless enemies, battled forces beyond mortal comprehension, but losing you? That is the one fate he refuses to allow.

- And when others look at him, the great Sorcerer Supreme, and wonder how someone so untouchable could belong so wholly to you, he only smirks, wrapping his cloak around your shoulders as he murmurs, "Even magic has its weaknesses. She just happens to be mine."

Namor

- Namor is a king, a warrior, a god among men. He has ruled beneath the waves, commanded armies, and stood against the greatest forces this world has ever known. He bows to no one. And yet, when you reach for him, when your fingers trace the sharp lines of his jaw, when your lips press against his skin like he is something sacred—he does not pull away.

- You are unlike anyone he has ever known. Where others fear his power, you cradle it in your hands, unafraid, unshaken. You touch him as if he is not a king, not a god, but a man. And though he will never say it outright, it unravels him. No battle, no war, no enemy has ever undone him the way your fingertips grazing his collarbone does.

- At first, he treats it as a privilege—something you are lucky to have. But then, you stop one day, pulling away just slightly, and it is only then that he realizes—it is he who has been privileged all along. He who needs you. Now, when you touch him, when you press yourself against him, his hands are already reaching, already holding you tighter, as if daring the world to take you from him.

- And if anyone so much as questions why the mighty Namor allows himself to be so utterly devoted to your touch, his response is simple. He lifts his chin, his grip on your waist tightening as he declares, "Because she is mine. And a king does not let go of what is his."

Johnny Blaze (Ghost Rider)

- Johnny Blaze has spent a lifetime running—from the past, from the fire inside him, from the weight of every sin he has burned to ash. He does not get to have softness, does not get to have something good—or so he has always believed. But you—you and your hands that never hesitate to touch him, to hold him, to pull him back from the flames—you make him question that.

- Your fingers trace the scars along his arms, the burns that never truly fade, and instead of flinching, you press your lips to them. He is not used to being handled like this, like he is something worthy of tenderness. And yet, you do it so effortlessly, so naturally, that he forgets how to breathe every time you do.

- When the Ghost Rider takes hold, when his body is consumed by Hellfire, you do not step away—you reach through it. Your touch grounds him, pulls him from the abyss, reminds him that he is more than a cursed soul wrapped in leather and chains. And though he will never say it aloud, he knows—if there is any salvation left for him, it is you.

- And if anyone dares to question why the Spirit of Vengeance allows himself to be so weak beneath your touch, he only smirks, pulling you into his arms, his voice a low growl against your ear. "Weak? Nah, sweetheart. You’re just the only thing worth holding onto."

Eddie Brock / Venom

- Eddie Brock is a man who has spent his life being unwanted—by his father, by society, by the world that cast him aside the moment he fell. Venom is a creature that has known nothing but hunger, a parasite by design, a monster in the eyes of humanity. But you—you reach for them both like they are something to be loved, and neither of them knows how to handle it.

- Your hands never hesitate. You stroke Eddie’s jaw when he grits his teeth, your fingers slipping into his hair like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Venom, in turn, coils around you, tendrils wrapping over your shoulders, tracing your cheek. "She is ours," the symbiote purrs, delighted, possessive. And Eddie, for once in his life, does not argue.

- Eddie is gruff about it, muttering things like "You’re clingy as hell, you know that?" but his actions betray him. He leans into your touch every damn time, closes his eyes when you kiss his temple, sighs when you pull him into your embrace. Venom is far less subtle, practically preening under your affection, slithering around you, murmuring about how perfect you are, how deliciously devoted you must be to them.

- And when people stare—when they whisper about how strange it is that someone so soft belongs to someone so monstrous—Eddie only smirks, wrapping an arm around you as Venom’s voice hums inside his head. "Let ‘em talk," he says, pressing a kiss to your forehead. "They don’t get it. But we do."

T’Challa (Black Panther)

- T’Challa is a king, a warrior, a mind sharpened by strategy, a body honed for battle. He moves through life with precision, with grace, with an unwavering sense of duty. Love, affection—these are things he appreciates, but never allows to distract him. And yet you—you slip through the cracks in his armor with every touch, every embrace, every kiss pressed to the back of his hand when you think no one is watching.

- Your touch is not demanding, nor is it fleeting—it is a constant, an unspoken declaration. And though he does not say it aloud, he finds himself seeking it, needing it. A hand at his shoulder when he is lost in thought. A brush of fingers along his wrist when he is tense. A silent, grounding presence when the weight of Wakanda, of the world, threatens to press too heavily upon him.

- When you curl against him at night, when you lace your fingers through his as he works, when you press your lips to his in a moment of quiet devotion—he knows, without question, that you are not merely his lover. You are his home. And for a man who has spent his life fighting for his people, for his throne, for his legacy—you are the one thing he fights for himself.

- And when others bow in reverence to their king, when they wonder how a ruler so composed allows himself to be touched so freely, he only smiles, his fingers tracing the curve of your jaw as he murmurs, "Because even a king is a man. And a man must cherish what is his."

Elektra Natchios

- Elektra Natchios is a weapon, a blade honed to perfection, a shadow in the night that moves without hesitation. She does not need touch, does not crave affection—at least, that is what she has always told herself. But you—you with your hands that never hesitate to reach for her, your lips that press against every scar she has earned—you make her question everything.

- At first, she resists. Your touch is a distraction, a weakness she cannot afford. But then, she notices the way her body relaxes under your fingertips, the way her breath slows when you hold her, the way her mind quiets when you run your fingers through her hair. And suddenly, it is not a weakness—it is a lifeline.

- You touch her like she is not just a weapon, not just a killer, but a woman. And though she does not say it, though she still carries herself like she is untouchable, her actions betray her. She leans into you when no one is looking, she lets you hold her after a fight, she lets you love her without condition. And that—more than any battle, more than any war—is the most terrifying thing she has ever faced.

- And if anyone dares to suggest that the infamous Elektra Natchios has softened under your touch, she only smiles—a sharp, knowing thing. Because she has not softened. No, she has simply found something she is willing to kill for. And that, she thinks as she curls her fingers around yours, is far more dangerous.

Muse

- Muse does not understand softness, not in the way others do. He sees the world in smears of red, in the curve of a scream, in the way the city bleeds its stories onto concrete. He is an artist first, a killer second, and something unnameable in between. Affection is not in his vocabulary—at least, not until you start tracing patterns into his skin, your fingers ghosting over his ribs, your lips pressing against his jaw like a whisper of devotion.

- He does not react at first. He merely watches, blank eyes reflecting nothing but the shapes of your hands as they roam over him. You touch him as if he is something real, something worthy of being held, and it confuses him. But confusion does not stop him from leaning into it. He lets you press against him, lets your warmth seep into the cold spaces inside him, and though he does not speak, he feels—feels the way your touch lingers, the way it changes him.

- Your touch is a contradiction to everything he is, a stark contrast to the violence that drips from his hands. And yet, he craves it. Craves you. He does not say it, does not know how to say it, but he shows it in the way he lets you near when no one else is allowed, in the way he allows your fingers to wipe the wet paint from his face, in the way he follows your warmth like a moth drawn to flame.

- And when people whisper, when they wonder why someone like you chooses someone like him, he only tilts his head, an eerie smile curling at his lips. Because they do not understand—they do not see the art in your touch, the poetry in your fingertips, the masterpiece you paint onto the canvas of his skin. But he does. He always does.

Victor von Doom (Dr. Doom)

- Doom does not yield. Doom does not bow. Doom does not allow weakness, nor does he tolerate sentimentality. And yet, when your hands rest against his armored chest, when your lips press against the cold steel of his mask, he hesitates. Not out of reluctance—but because you dare to touch him as though he is human, as though he is something beyond the monarch, beyond the mind, beyond the mask.

- At first, he dismisses it. You are simply fascinated, drawn to power as all are. But then, your fingers curl against his bare skin when the armor is removed, when his defenses are lowered, and he feels it. It is not awe, nor is it fear—it is something else, something dangerous. Affection. Devotion. Love. And he does not know what to do with it.

- You do not shrink from him, do not recoil from the scars, from the weight of his name, from the sheer gravity of his presence. Instead, you pull him closer, your warmth pressing into his bones, your touch unraveling the careful control he has spent years perfecting. And Doom, for all his brilliance, for all his power, finds himself undone by something as simple as your hands upon his skin.

- And if anyone dares to question your place at his side, dares to suggest that Doom has been tamed, they do not live long enough to repeat the mistake. Because Doom does not bend—but for you, for your touch, for the impossible gift of your warmth—he allows himself to be held.

Peter Quill (Star-Lord)

- Peter Quill has always been a man of touch. A hand on the shoulder, an arm around the waist, a flirtatious brush of fingers—it is second nature to him. But you—you take it to another level. You reach for him constantly, threading your fingers through his hair, tugging him into embraces, pressing kisses to his cheek just because you can. And at first, he thinks, Yeah, okay, this is nice.

- But then he realizes—this isn’t just casual affection. This isn’t just something fun. It’s you—you, who touch him like he is real, like he is worthy, like he is more than just a scrappy thief with a playlist and a knack for getting into trouble. You hold him with intent, with meaning, and it wrecks him.

- There are moments, quiet ones, where he doesn’t crack a joke, doesn’t fill the silence with music or sarcasm. He just lets you touch him—lets you brush your fingers over the stubble on his jaw, lets you trace the curve of his lips with your thumb, lets you pull him into your warmth until he forgets where his body ends and yours begins.

- And when the crew teases him, when Rocket smirks and Gamora raises an eyebrow, Peter only grins, pulling you closer with a laugh. "What can I say? I’m a lucky guy." But later, when it’s just the two of you, when your hands are pressed against his chest and your heartbeat matches his, he knows—it’s not luck. It’s you. And he’s not letting go.

Nova (Richard Rider)

- Richard Rider has spent a lifetime holding the line—for the galaxy, for his people, for everyone who has ever needed a hero. He is used to the weight of duty, of responsibility, of battle. What he is not used to is someone holding him. But you? You are relentless. You pull him into hugs without warning, lace your fingers through his, press kisses to the scars he’s earned in wars too many to count.

- He resists at first—not because he doesn’t want it, but because he doesn’t know how to accept it. He’s always been the soldier, the protector, the last man standing. But you refuse to let him carry it alone. You reach for him when his shoulders are tense, press your forehead against his when the weight of the universe sits too heavy on his spine. And slowly, slowly, he learns to lean into it.

- Your touch is an anchor, a reminder that he is more than Nova Prime, more than a warrior bound to the stars. You bring him back—to the moment, to you. And when he finally, finally allows himself to wrap his arms around you in return, to pull you into his chest and just breathe, he realizes—he has been waiting for this his entire life.

- And when the stars call him away, when duty demands he leave once more, he does so with the feeling of your hands still lingering on his skin, with the memory of your warmth wrapped around his soul. And no matter how far he flies, no matter how deep into the void he goes—he knows. He will always come back. Because he is not just Richard Rider, not just Nova. He is yours.

[unlady-like-12-25-36]

15 Minutes

Natasha Romanoff x Reader*

18+ only, read at your own risk

Word count: 2430

Requested by abyss anon (and other anons): here me out. i've been listening to 15 minutes by sabrina carpenter and the lyrics “i can do a lot with fifteen minutes, only gonna take two to make you finish” is stuck in my head.

what if masc!r with innocent!shy!nat who is completely and utterly inlove with reader but too afraid to make a move? and when she finally does... *wink* but we all know baby natty is going to make up for it all night.

AN: This basically became pure filth with like a sprinkle of plot so...enjoy!

*Reader has a penis, no pronouns used.

The first time Natasha met you, she knew she was in love with you. Which really sucked for her because you were the type of person who didn’t look at her twice. You were constantly surrounded by people who were prettier, better, and more important than her. Natasha felt so insignificant around you, and whenever she tried to make her presence known, it always ended in a colossal and embarrassing failure.

She had exactly three conversations with you. The first was just an exchange of names, so she didn’t count that. But it was the first time she got to touch your hand and look into your eyes, and she almost physically fell for you right there.

The second conversation was at the dining hall’s salad bar, where the two of you had reached for the tongs to the romaine at the same time. You had insisted she go first, and Natasha had tried to make a joke about lettuce that fell so short it kept her up for three nights. 

The third conversation took place on a basketball court, where you were playing a scrimmage with a few friends. Natasha emboldened herself to approach, which she immediately regretted when you passed her the ball and asked if she could sink a shot from the three-point line. She stumbled through a pickup line about if you could show her, but you and your friends had only laughed. Naturally, she had missed, and she went home in shame, promising to never speak to you in front of others again.

She always told herself that if she had 15 minutes alone with you, she could get you to give her a chance. But getting those 15 minutes was an impossible task in itself.

Or so she thought.

She finds you sitting alone in the common room, staring at the television, but you hardly look interested in the James Bond movie playing.

Fifteen.

“Y/N?” Natasha whispers. Your head shifts in her direction, but you don’t say anything to acknowledge her. “Is anyone sitting with you?” You grunt, which Natasha cannot determine as a definitive yes or no. “Can I sit with you?” She holds her breath, surprised by her own confidence but fully expecting a denial.

“Sure,” you say, to her shock.

Natasha rounds the couch. You make no effort to move and she settles on the cushion next to you.

Fourteen.

She isn’t sure what to say next. You seem incredibly absorbed in the movie, and she’s nervous to break your focus.

“Natasha,” you say, still not looking at her. “That’s your name, right?”

“Yes.”

“It’s a pretty name. For a pretty woman.”

Natasha’s heart thunders in her chest. Did she hear you correctly? “You think I’m pretty?” she asks.

“I think you’re beautiful.” You look her in the eye now, and Natasha has to catch herself before she falls off the couch.

“I…Um…Wow. Thank you. That’s…really nice of you to say,” she stammers.

“I’m not just saying it. I mean it.”

Thirteen.

Natasha stares at you, trying to read your passive expression. Maybe you were just messing with her, or took a bet from your friends to flirt with her. No one–not even Bruce–wanted her. So why would you? 

“You’re especially cute when you’re nervous,” you say.

“Nervous? I’m not–”

You chuckle. “I know the effect I have on you. And most people. But I hardly notice any of them when you’re around me.”

Natasha feels like she’s in a dream. Are you really saying these words to her? And you mean every one of them? She pinches her thigh, but the sting doesn’t do much to clear her head. “I’ve wanted you since the moment I saw you,” she admits in a rush.

“Is that so?” Your right eyebrow lifts and Natasha squeezes her thighs together subtly. “I never approached you first because…well, I didn’t think you’d be able to handle me.”

Twelve.

Natasha leans forward, resting her hand lightly on your upper thigh. She’s determined to prove you wrong if that’s the only thing she succeeds in tonight. “And what makes you think that?”

Your expression changes to one of surprise. “You’re cute, but way too innocent–” The words die in your throat when her hand slides up to cup the bulge in your sweatpants. 

“You were saying?” she says, turning her voice into a huskier tone. 

“Natasha,” you grunt, and she can tell you’re fighting to keep your hips pinned to the couch, “Don’t start something you can’t finish.”

“I don’t plan on it.” She grips onto you and wonders if the fabric is thin enough for you to feel the heat of your palm. 

“Someone can walk in at any moment,” you warn her.

“Good. Then they can see you’ve always been mine the whole time.” She feels you twitch and start to harden. She wonders if she can get you off with her words alone, but quickly decides she’d much rather have you inside her instead. 

Eleven.

“I didn’t take you for an exhibitionist,” you comment. 

“What do you know about me? Besides my name,” she counters.

“That you’re awful at flirting–oh shit.” Natasha pushes her hand past the waistband of your sweatpants and it closes around your hot and hard flesh. She rubs you up and down, her thumb brushing the underside of your tip with every stroke and she grins when she starts to see your thighs tremble. “You ever done this before?” you gasp, your hips rocking off the couch to push yourself through her hand. 

“You tell me, baby.” 

You grunt at the term of endearment. “Not quite what I expected from you,” you say. 

“In a good or bad way?”

“Hmm, well…” You look down at your crotch, frowning because you can’t see any of the action under your sweatpants. Natasha uses her free hand and tugs them down, and you lift your butt up to slide them to your knees. Your cock bobs out and Natasha subconsciously licks her lips, knowing she is that much closer to having you the way she always dreamed of. “Are you gonna keep staring at it or do something with it?” you ask suddenly.

Ten.

“I don’t want you finishing too early,” Natasha says, right as a bead of pre-cum leaks out of your dick.  

“I won’t,” you say, although for once, your voice lacks confidence.

“I bet you can’t last two minutes in me.”

Your eyes narrow at the challenge. “And what if I can?”

“Then I’ll let you take me back to your room and fuck me any way you want.”

You inhale sharply at the filthy thoughts her words inspire. 

“But if you can’t…” Natasha squeezes your cock for emphasis, “Then I get take you to my room and fuck you any way I want.”

You snort. “That’s not really a bad deal either way.”

“You’ve hardly seen what I can do,” Natasha warns.

“So show me more.”

Nine.

“Be careful what you wish for.” Natasha leans over and takes the head of your cock in her mouth.

“Goddamn,” you mutter, pumping your hips up into the new heat of her mouth. You had severely misjudged Natasha in her innocence, but you weren’t upset to be wrong. Her tongue flicks against your tip and you’re practically squirming in your seat when she presses down and takes you into her throat.  

“Fuck, your mouth feels good,” you pant, your hands coming to the back of Natasha’s head and gently pushing on it to keep her in place. “This is hardly fair,” you whine.

Natasha releases your cock and it slaps against your stomach, glistening with her saliva and your pre-cum. “You want me to stop?” she asks.

“Not really.”

Eight.

“Then be quiet,” she says, and her dominance surprises you. It also makes you even harder, which you didn’t know was possible at this stage anymore. “Besides, we aren’t even at the main event yet.”

“Main event?” You have to bite your lip to distract yourself as her mouth descends on you again. You squeeze the muscles in your thighs to keep them grounded, not wanting to show her how close you are. 

“Mhmm,” she mumbles around your cock, and the vibrations have you holding on the couch cushions for dear life. The pounding between your legs heightens, spurred on by the fact that the prettiest girl around has her head in your lap, her mouth bobbing frantically up and down your dick. 

Seven.

“You’re cheating,” you whine, but you totally love it as you jog your hips up a few times. 

“I’m what?” Natasha draws back fully and the cold air that hits your cock makes it visibly twitch. 

“Ugh, fuck,” you mutter. “Never mind, baby. Just put your mouth back and–”

“No,” Natasha says, and you shrink back into the cushions just a little. Maybe you should have kept your mouth shut like she said. “I can tell you’re about to cum, and I don’t want you finishing in my mouth.”

“Oh.” Somehow, despite every skill she’s just showed you, you’re surprised she won’t swallow. But you won’t hold it against her. She’s already doing better than most of the girls that sleep with you.

Six.

Natasha leans towards your face, her lips brushing your cheek on her way to your ear. “I want you to finish in my pussy,” she whispers, and the words alone nearly send you over the edge. 

“Oh.” You don’t even realize you’ve reached down to grip the base of your cock, squeezing hard to quite literally prevent yourself from finishing all over your sweatpants. 

“But…I don’t know if you can last that much longer,” Natasha says, pulling away from you. 

“Yes, yes, I can,” you plead. You would do everything in your power to please and if you couldn’t…what was really the worst that could happen? 

“Hmm.” Natasha tilts her head, as if seriously contemplating ending things with you right here.

Five.

“You started this,” you protest. “You can’t leave me hanging.” Literally.

“I didn’t expect you to be so whiny,” she says.

“I didn’t expect you to be this mean,” you counter.

Natasha chuckles. “And you’re the one who said I couldn’t handle you.”

“Yeah, yeah,” you say, happy to eat your words if she’ll ride you. Natasha stands up, and for a moment you think she’s going to walk out on you, but she shimmies down her jeans and you drool at the sight of her lacey red panties. You drop your sweatpants to your ankles so you have more room to move as Natasha swings her leg over your waist.

Four.

You can see the damp patch of her arousal and it hardens you further to see she’s just as excited as you are. 

“Two minutes,” she says, humping you slowly. 

“Easy,” you promise, but you already know you’re going to lose. You reach for her hips, happy that she doesn’t swat you away, and pull her towards yourself until her stomach presses against your cock.

At first, you had been genuinely concerned that someone would walk in on the two of you, but now you couldn’t care less. You were about to get with the Natasha Romanoff, someone your friends had told you would be untouchable. 

Your hands wrap around to her butt and squeeze teasingly. “I’m ready for you,” you remind her, as if she forgot what she was supposed to be doing.

Three.

“I can see that.” She reaches down to grab your cock and drags it along the wet patch of her panties. You groan and dig your fingers harder into her butt. She was far more of a tease than you had ever imagined.

“Come on, baby,” you beg as your cock rubs against the smooth fabric of her panties.

Natasha pulls her panties to the side to reveal her glistening center. Your eyes widen and your hips jerk up to brush through her wetness. She puts one hand on her shoulder to steady herself and uses the other to finger herself. The slick noises she makes are downright sinful and you’re practically vibrating with excitement.

“Let me,” you say, eager to get any part of you inside her and trying to replace her fingers with your own. 

“I think I’m ready,” she says, lifting herself up high enough to position the head of your cock with her opening.

Two. 

Both of you inhale sharply at the first contact. You’re certain you’ve left your marks on Natasha’s butt as she slowly sinks down, taking your entire length in her molten heat.

“Fuck, oh, fuck,” you gasp as you feel yourself twitching inside of her. Natasha rests on your thighs and rocks back and forth. A moan rips out of your throat and your head falls back on the couch. The tightness surrounding your cock is too much. 

“Don’t let me down,” Natasha teases, raising a few inches and falling back down again. Her hand slips around your throat possessively, but even that isn’t enough to bring you back from the brink.

Your bodies move together in a calm rhythm that does not match the emotions racing inside of you. While part of you wants to jackhammer into her like an animal, part of you also wants this feeling to last as long as possible.

Which, to be perfectly honest, wasn’t going to be more than another minute. 

“Do I feel good?” Natasha whispers, threading her fingers in your hair and pulling your head back so you have to look her in the eye as she fucks you.

“You feel perfect,” you grunt, your lower body starting to shake, but you give up trying to fight it off.

One.

“You’re lasting longer than I thought,” she hums, clenching around you with the tightness of a vice and you arch your chest into her, slipping your hands under her shirt to clutch at the warmth of her skin.

“Not for much longer,” you admit, feeling a thin layer of sweat forming on your forehead. The band in your stomach finally snaps and your thighs lock in place as you spill your seed into her, but hardly feeling relieved. Natasha circles her hips to coax out every last drop, leaving you shaking and begging her to stop. 

“I think I won our bet,” she says, finally climbing off your cock. 

“Whatever,” you mutter, your cheeks tinged red. 

“I want to claim my prize now,” she continues, pulling her jeans back on and offering you her hand.

You don’t protest and go to follow her back to her room.

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AN: Thanks for ideas, anons! Hope you liked it. :)

Please like, reblog, and comment! Follow for more content. 🥰

[unlady-like-12-25-36]

The making of..