@blooodwords This Is Amazing! I Really Love The Natural Push And Pull Of Their Relationship And Don't

@blooodwords This is amazing! I really love the natural push and pull of their relationship and don't apologise for the plot it is so interesting!! I'm super excited for the next chapters (no rush💕) I am curious as to why Natasha doesn't touch the reader sexually though? Is it a personal preference or something else? Either way, best of luck with future writing endeavours!🥰

part 2 to gun smut?

i need to know why r is so fucky in the head 😭

a/n: yeah ok let's fuckin go. sorry to disappoint but this one does not actually include gunplay. and it's sorta plot heavy — i got a lil carried away. also please excuse any mistakes as it is long past my bedtime.

home of blood and bone.

RATING: E FOR EXPLICIT SEXUAL CONTENT (18+ ... MINORS DNI).

PART ONE ... PART TWO.

natasha x fem!reader ; natasha pries her way into your past, into your biology, and into your future. and you let her.

warnings: nsfw, semi-explicit violence, explicit smut, knifeplay, lil bit of blood.

i do take requests but please give this a read before doing so!

a“How was the psych eval?”

Natasha Romanoff lingers in your doorway with a mug of coffee and a scowl.

“Thorough,” you tell her without looking up from your workbench. You’ve been toying with the grappling hook launch controls on your utility belt for the better part of an hour.

“Big man says you were difficult.”

You were not.

You’d make that clear if you cared, but you don’t. And if Tony Stark cared about your difficulties he’d pull you from the roster. Fact that you’ve got a seven am mission briefing the next day tells you everything you need to know.

A noncommittal noise falls from your lips to fill the silence.

Natasha steps into the room. The door clicks shut behind her. “Were you actually difficult?” Her tone softens. You don’t like that. “Or was it your charming brevity? I know talking’s not your favorite thing.”

In that moment you don’t like that she knows you and you really don't like that there isn’t a way to tell her as much without sounding like a grade-a asshole. Not that she would mind—you really doubt she would—but you’re still stuck on that pesky wanting to please her thing. It’s been seventy-two hours since the day in the jet and you still haven’t figured out a way to force her from your mind. And to think you used to be so good at pushing people away.

“Dunno, Nat,” you mumble, huffing. You push a torx driver a little too hard into a screw and the panel it secures sprouts a hairline crack. “Motherf—what more do you people want from me? I answered their questions.”

Natasha drops a tablet onto the workbench and taps the screen.

Security cam footage.

You grit your teeth and wish Natasha wasn’t over your shoulder, watching you watch this.

Conference room four.

An unremarkable woman in a pencil skirt sits across from you with a legal pad and a pen.

You’re stone-faced and still, hands clasped in your lap, looking right at her.

“Do you experience compulsive thoughts relating to the incident that took the lives of your parents?”

“No.”

“Do you suffer from nightmares about the incident that took the lives of your parents?”

“No.”

“Do you experience flashbacks to the incident? By this I mean—”

“I know what you mean. And no.”

“If something happens that reminds you of the incident, does it trigger an intense emotional response?”

Yes. Sometimes. But you’re careful not to show it.

“No.”

“Do you actively avoid things that remind you of the incident?”

“No.”

True. You tend to seek them out.

“Have you experienced generalized anxiety since the incident?”

“No.”

True enough.

“Trouble sleeping?”

“No.”

That one, at the very least, is only half a lie.

“Do you startle easily?”

“No.”

True.

“Do you feel that the—”

“Say the word incident one more time and I’m gonna flip my fucking lid. I don’t have PTSD.”

“What does that mean, ‘flip your lid?’”

“Get violent. I don’t know.”

“Are you stating that you intend to inflict violence upon me if I continue administering this evaluation?”

“No. I don’t—don’t hurt people who don’t deserve it.”

“Who does deserve it?”

Bullshit question.

She’s leading you.

It’s fine.

“Nobody at present,” you tell her.

“Who deserved it in the past?”

You shift in your seat, crossing your arms, trapping your hands between your elbows and ribs.

They already know. This lady, Tony, all of them. You don’t think there’s a single person on the compound who hasn’t read your file.

“Family.”

“Whose family?”

“Mine.”

“When you speak of your family do you include yourself?”

There it is.

You smile, mocking and sweet, and, “Obviously,” you say.

The video stops.

Natasha spins you around in your chair and clamps her hands on your shoulders. She’s the first person to touch your skin, your actual body, no barriers, since the day on the jet. All at once you wish you were wearing more than a tank top and wish she’d never stop touching you.

“By that logic,” she says, “your own logic, you deserve to be dead.”

“By the logic of all the world, actually,” you say, “yes. I should’ve been dead the day my family was. Don’t think it takes a professional to figure that out.”

“I don’t think I’ve ever heard you use so many words at once.”

You roll your eyes.

“Look at me,” Natasha says next, and doesn’t speak again until you do. “I know you’re fucked up—so am I. It sort of comes with being one of us. And—”

“Your point?”

“Don’t be a jackass,” she says, laying a firm pat on your cheek that feels more like a slap than you were expecting. “I’m trying to tell you that the deaths of your parents are in the past. It’s done. But the idea that you’re walking around wishing you were dead, too? Not okay.”

“Right.”

“We need you.”

“That so?”

It’s true enough.

Tony wouldn’t have recruited you if you weren’t valuable, if you couldn’t do things nobody else could. You’re so ingrained in the operations of the Avengers that at this point, yeah, they probably do need you. Teams are reliant on their members, and whether you like it or not the Avengers are the only people who haven’t kicked you to the curb the moment they found out what exactly is in your past.

It isn’t until Natasha says, “Listen to me. It wasn’t your fault, and you shouldn’t torture yourself over it,” that you realize how wrong you are.

Your eyes narrow.

In less than a millisecond you make a weighted decision.

Your hands knock hers from your shoulders. You need space between the two of you if you’re going to let this conversation unfold. You don’t want her that close when you confide, you don’t think you could handle watching her recoil.

“What do you know about the deaths of my parents?”

Natasha furrows her brow, says, “They were shot point-blank by a HYDRA rogue after refusing to turn over their research on genetic engineering.”

You don’t know why you want to tell her.

You know it’ll ruin everything.

But if Natasha doesn't know, who else is in the dark?

You don’t want to spend your time around a team that doesn’t even know the fundamentals of your history. You want them to know exactly what you are, and if after that they still want you to stay? You will.

“I was never a rogue,” you tell her, gritting your teeth, “and I was never HYDRA.”

Natasha steps back. “You—?”

“And they didn’t refuse to turn over anything.” Your voice is thickening, getting rough around the edges. “I didn’t even ask for it, I’d already seen it all.”

“Are you saying what I think you’re saying?”

It isn’t pity that she’s looking at you with but you can’t place whatever it is and that alone makes you want to put your head through a wall.

“I’m saying that I was an experiment. Bred in a lab to be the perfect, indestructible child. You had the Red Room, I had the house I grew up in.”

“But” — she’s pacing, never getting any closer to you than where she started — “you aren’t indestructible. I know you aren’t.”

“They made a mistake in my genetic code. I can bleed if I want to, I can feel pain under the right circumstances, but I’m not sure that I can die. And—”

It clicks so plainly on her face.

“You want to find out,” Natasha finishes for you. She comes to a stop, studying you from across the room, and you can see her putting the pieces together like you’re right there in her mind. “You didn’t kill your parents. You killed your captors.”

“You killed Dreykov.”

“…Touché.”

“You altered my file. Why?”

“I didn’t think you’d want to walk in here as the mommy and daddy killer. Was I wrong?”

He wasn’t.

Mostly.

But.

“I thought everyone knew.”

“I know,” Tony says, and to his credit he does manage to look apologetic. “And you thought they accepted you anyway. Which they do, still, by the way. Now that they actually know.”

No matter how deep you dig you can’t find it in yourself to be upset with him. He only did what believed was best. For you and for the team. You know more than most what a decision of that caliber feels like.

“Right,” is all you say.

You turn to go.

“You’re taking Romanoff with you,” Tony says before you make it out the door, “on the Evora job. And on all jobs from here on out.”

“I don’t need a babysitter, Stark.”

“Maybe not,” he says, “but good luck telling her that.”

Natasha’s behavior around you hasn’t changed.

You don’t know whether that’s because things are genuinely the same or because she wants you to think things are the same.

It’s hard to gauge whether it actually matters one way or the other.

“Guy calls himself Elemento.”

“Gross.”

“Yup,” Natasha says, “but he can bend the elements to his will.”

Your behavior around Natasha has changed, if only a little. You’re talking more. Mostly to fill the silences she leaves hanging in the air, the spats of quiet that make your head hurt.

“Bullets and martial arts won’t do much against that,” you say. “Offense a little intended.”

“Ouch.” She’s grinning. “You can’t be bent, however. I’m just backup.”

She’s right.

As usual.

You’re an experiment the elements can no longer touch. You put your ability to be altered to bed the day you shot your parents.

Elemento can’t bend you.

And he doesn’t.

His gift only works when he’s breathing.

You putting your hand through the skin of his throat and tearing out his windpipe takes care of that. The bullet between his eyes takes care of the rest.

Spilling Elemento’s blood across the white tile floor of his laboratory is the closest you’ve ever come to creating fine art. When it splashes across the front of your battle suit and freckles you in red you reckon it’s the most color you’ve worn since childhood.

Before his body hits the floor you’ve pulled his hard drive and crashed out through the nearest window.

It isn’t until you’ve got an arm around a rung of the rope ladder dangling from Natasha’s chopper that you realize you’re still holding onto the flesh you pulled from his neck.

You wait to ask your questions until Elemento and his ruined lab in Evora are six hours behind you and you’re mostly cleaned up, until Natasha’s found an itty-bitty hotel room to camp out in for the night.

“Why does Stark give me the messy assignments?”

“He trusts you,” Natasha says without looking up from a dime-store paperback she swiped from the front desk. “And you have considerably fewer morals about leaving loose ends.”

So that’s it.

“Right.”

You don’t say much for the rest of the day.

You just sit on the floor at the foot of the bed and think. Mostly about the fact that okay, yeah, you don’t think too much when it comes to killing the people Tony wants you to kill, and a little about the fact that Natasha doesn’t seem to mind the carnage. Whatever red she had in her ledger doesn’t keep her from letting you have your fun.

Funny word for what you do for the Avengers, that one. Fun.

You weren’t allowed much fun as a kid. Hell, you can barely call your upbringing a childhood.

Most of what you remember is being pricked for blood, being rolled under x-ray machines, withstanding test after test until your parents were satisfied with their creation. You remember asking to celebrate holidays, birthdays—anything—and being told no. You remember watching the neighborhood kids board the school bus every morning from your bedroom window and hating that you weren’t allowed to go to regular school with them. Most of those memories are laced with hate.

Makes sense that murder constitutes fun these days.

“Hey.”

You pull yourself out of your thoughts.

The window’s gone dark.

Natasha has the bedside lamp on, casting a dim yellow glow across the little room, and she’s right there with you, dangling her head off the end of the bed and peering at you with affectionate amusement.

“You’ve been in your head for hours,” she tells you. “It’s four am.”

“Oh.”

“Come to bed.”

You look down at your clothes: gray tactical pants splattered with blood, boots caked in dust and dirt, sweat-stained tank top clinging to your chest. Off in the corner your battle jacket lies crumpled in a heap.

“I should shower.”

You wait until the water’s scalding before stepping in.

When you get out your skin’s red and warm and in the foggy mirror you notice a gash along the length of your forearm. It doesn’t need stitches but you figure Natasha’s going to say something about it anyhow.

She does.

“That hurt?”

“No.”

“Did you clean it?”

“Are you always such a mom?”

“My sister would say yes.”

You dress in a spare tee and a pair of sweats with the gaudy Avengers logo on the hip.

There’s only one bed.

You crawl in and lay still on your back.

Natasha props herself up on an elbow and studies you.

“You said you can bleed when you want to, and feel pain under the right circumstances. What does that mean?”

“It means exactly what it sounds like it means.”

“Elaborate,” she says.

“Later.”

“Fine.”

She kills the lamp.

It takes her ten minutes to decide to slip a hand over your bicep and squeeze. Another five to tuck her leg up over your hip. When you don’t move she finds your hand and pulls it to her thigh, and, “Just—there,” she mumbles against your ear. You squeeze, she hums.

Eventually, you don’t know how long—you lost track of the minutes as soon as she invited you to touch her—Natasha’s lips find your skin. She leaves soft kisses along your jaw, slow and steady, until she finds your lips and licks into your mouth with a gentle curiosity that distracts you enough not to notice the hand slipping under your shirt until Natasaha’s nails bite into your skin.

For a moment you want to ask what this is, what the time on the jet was. You push the thought away as Natasha swings a leg over your hips, mounts you, and leans over to flick the lamp on.

“I want to try something,” she says, peeling your shirt off, grazing her fingertips over your sternum and down your stomach. Then she pulls a knife on you, a little folding one that snaps open with a satisfying click. The sound itself is enough to light a fire deep in your core.

You don’t nod. You don’t speak. You just smile, dreamy and expectant, because while it isn’t a loaded gun it does still excite you.

Natasha sets the blade at the base of your throat, and, “I want you to bleed,” she says, brows raising. “Can you do that for me?”

You can. Even though you can hear your heart thudding in your ears and you can feel the scorching tingle of arousal as it shoots down your spine, you can do it.

The knife follows the path her fingers took only moments ago: over your chest, between your breasts, along the divot between the muscles of your stomach. In its path little droplets of blood sprout before your eyes, painting you red for the second time that day. Natasha wipes the blade on the sheets and drags her fingers over the thin wound, smearing blood across your skin.

A moment passes in silence, you watching Natasha while she inspects the slice she put into you. In that moment your heart picks up, thundering against your ribcage, and you know she can feel it just as easily as she can see the heavy rise and fall of your chest.

“You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?” Rhetorical—she’s smirking. “No blood this time. I don’t even want to break your skin.”

You have to think about it for a moment, tunnel way back into the corners of your mind to find the switch that kills your pain receptors and fortifies the density of your skin, but you can do it. You’d only practiced finding and hitting that switch under the clinical observation of your parents a thousand times as a child. It used to take you hours—this time it takes only seconds.

When the blade slides over your skin this time, nothing happens. Not even a scratch.

“Like a butter knife against marble,” Natasha mumbles.

You can’t tell if she’s studying you as a whole or just the cut and the would-be one. At least she hasn’t said anything about the fact that you’ve fought by her side time and again and not once has she ever seen you refuse a wound. Surely it means something, to her or whichever psychologist Tony has on retainer this month, that you choose to let yourself get hurt when things come to blows, but you think it’s hardly the time to dwell on that.

The knife clatters onto the bedside table.

“Sorry,” she mutters, pressing her palm against your abdomen, grazing her nails over the firm muscles she finds there. “Although I’m absolutely certain you don’t need an apology. Still—not every day I hurt one of my own on purpose.”

“One of your own, huh?”

She rolls her eyes.

“I wouldn’t be here to keep an eye on you if I didn’t care.”

“You sure it isn’t just so you can get into my pants again?”

“All I have to do is smile at you to accomplish that.”

“Touché.”

Natasha smiles.

You prop yourself up on your elbows to meet her halfway as she ducks down to kiss you. The taste of her tongue is second only to the taste of her cunt, and you consider yourself lucky to know the taste of both.

Doesn’t take much more than a heavy hand of yours slipping down between her legs and cupping her through her little sleep shorts to convince Natasha to let you have her. You get her out of her bottoms and push your fingers through slick lips, pushing her wetness around with your fingertips before sinking into her in one fluid motion.

You almost ask her if it’s good, if it’s enough, but her eyes rolling skyward, her fingertips pressing into your skin, and her back arching as she rolls her hips against your hand tell you all you need to know. She’s warm and wet and tight around your fingers as you stroke her from the inside, practically coaxing her wetness out of her cunt and into the palm of your hand.

“Good?” You ask anyway because even with the pleasure written on her face you still value a verbal confirmation.

“Good,” Natasha says, nodding.

Before you can say anything else she slips an arm around your neck and rolls onto her back, pulling you right down on top of her with your hips nestled between her thighs and your hand trapped between your bodies.

“Better,” she says, smirking up at you. “Fuck me like this—like you mean it.”

“Easy,” you tell her, because it is, because you really do mean it.

You thrust your fingers into Natasha’s warm cunt while she mouths at your throat, sinking her teeth into the soft spot where she finds your pulse, sucking a bruise into your skin that you know will linger for days, and you don’t think you’ve ever been so eager to wear a mark before. And you’re still bleeding, smudges of blood on your chest staining Natasha’s shirt from where she presses up against you, but you don’t care, and you don’t think she does either.

Notching your hips against the back of your hand and using the steady grind to fuck your fingers into her helps, makes it feel a little like what you’d guess a biological male might feel in this situation, holding yourself above Natasha with an arm that’s starting to cramp while you push into her. You’d watch if you could, you reckon the sight of your fingers disappearing into her clenching hole is a mighty fine one, but she’s palming at your breasts, teasing your nipples, and her arms are in the way. You settle for slipping a third finger into her cunt, stretching her open, grunting happily as she keens into your ear and gushes around your fingers.

“I wish I had your stamina,” she mutters through a yawn, pushing her hands through your hair as you crawl down her body, settling on your belly between her legs. “You aren’t going to let me sleep yet, are you?”

You give your answer by burying your face in her cunt, licking through her lips, grazing your teeth over her sensitive clit, and drinking her in. She tastes better than you remember: heady and intense and entirely Natasha. You hum against her, prop one of her legs over your shoulder, and coast your hands along her thighs. She’s warm to the touch and warm against your tongue and if it weren’t nearing five o’clock in the morning you’d spend all the time in the world right here.

But because it is nearing five o’clock you spend maybe ten minutes between Natasha’s legs, licking into her leaking hole until she tenses and trembles and spills onto your tongue. By the time you wipe your mouth on the sheets and crawl up to her side she’s barely awake, but, “Thanks,” she mumbles, draping an arm across your middle and leaving a lingering kiss on your shoulder. “For not shutting me out.”

Natasha falls asleep tucked up against your side and by the time she’s snoring softly against your shoulder you’ve decided that, whatever the circumstances, whatever the mission, having someone tag along to babysit you isn’t the worst thing in the world at all when that person is Natasha.

And, for what it's worth, you're glad you haven't figured out how to push her away.

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natasha romanoff x reader natasha x reader black widow x reader Natasha natasha romanoff x reader smut natasha romanoff imagine black widow imagine black widow x reader smut

Too Important

Natasha Romanoff x Fem!reader

Warnings: Mentions of sex, a little bit of angst if you squint hard enough, fluff.

Word count: 1.3k

A/N: This was a little hard for me to write but I poured my heart and soul into it so I hope everyone loves it. :)

You met Natasha in your first mission as a SHIELD agent. It felt surreal to say the least.

You looked up to her from the very first minute because she made every move, every ability and every skill look easier than it actually was. You'd pay attention to her every move, all in adoration.

She must've noticed it, because she started passing by you in the SHIELD corridors and immediately send a sweet smile your way.

You wished you were more like her.

You quickly became acquainted to each other. You were always training together, talking, laughing, her hand would would place itself on your biceps whenever you made a bad joke, you even went as far as thinking she was flirting with you.

She became more active at the compound, in the training room at the same time you were. She'd watch your every move in adoration just like you did to her.

She'd be up at 4am everyday, and you grew a habit of waking up as early as she did so you would have breakfast together because you didn't know when you would see each other again throughout the day.

Natasha felt appreciated, you were certainly not a morning person, but you'd make an effort just to see her, and she'd kiss your cheek with a small smile and begin her chores for the day, it almost felt like nothing could defeat her.

That was until you had looked at her SHIELD files at the first opportunity you had and you found out she had a story that led up to her becoming a Black Widow.

You ended up knowing more about her hard infancy, about her mother, about the Red Room, all about her missions... you became aware of what they had done to every widow to make them more efficient, making you red, you had fumed in anger.

And you thought that maybe the only thing that could actually defeat her was her own past.

Sometimes it was hard to notice it. her eyes never stopped glowing, but if you squinted hard enough, she would let you see the tiredness in them.

One day, the only time you saw her was late at night in the showers, right after she finished training. She was in her gym clothes, sweaty and hair all over the place, you still loved the sight. She stood quietly, head staring at the wall in front of her when she thought no one was there. Her eyes held a weary look, a sigh following behind.

You had wondered: what if things had turned out differently for her, what if she had had a partner, kids, a mom and a dad, what if she wasn't a avenger, what if she didn't wish so badly to wipe the red out of her ledger... who would she really be?

Just a few moments went by and her eyes soon followed yours, her spy sense never faltering. Her look went from weary to hard at the sight of someone there, quickly realizing it was you, she dropped the façade and gave you a small smile telling you to come in. 'Hey... what're you up to?'

'Oh nothing, I was passing by and I saw you... you okay?' Worried was evident in your tone and in your eyes too. Her smile faltering just a bit and coming back just as quickly, you would've never noticed it if you weren't a spy.

'Yeah, I'm alright, just a bit tired' it was an obvious lie.

You had spent so much time with Natasha that lying to you was becoming a harder task to do, like her walls weren't as up, she was becoming more human around you and you loved it.

You placed your arms on top of her shoulders and brought her in for a hug, gently placing a sweet kiss on her forehead.

Stunned, she took a minute to hug you back, but once she did, she squeezed you in her arms and pressed a kiss to you neck making you shiver.

'Well, I'm glad everything's okay. I just worried. You're too important.'

You let her go and the look she gave you made you believe she didn't really think she was important. It was almost a melancholic sight. Eyes seemingly off in an unknown insecurity you had never seen in anyone before. You felt the need to bring her back to your arms but you held back.

She nodded and looked at you then. Kissed you on the cheek and went back to the showers taking her clothes off, a small gasp coming from you and a smirk in her lips, eyes still prominent on you as she undressed.

You were never prepared to see her naked, not when just in previous minutes her eyes held a saddest gaze you've ever seen. But she had a naughty smirk on her face and you wondered if what she was doing was one of her many Black Widow moves.

But you forgot all about it when she placed her plump limps on yours. She didn't particularly taste like anything but her mouth screamed neediness and want, even more when she placed you gently against the wall and made you touch her nude breasts that were displayed for you and you only.

It made you feel things, you knew your panties were a mess, and deep down you knew it was wrong; she was deflecting her insecurities and sadness on what she was doing to you, but all you could think about was her hands all over the place... when she lifted her leg up and placed it on your waist... how it felt when you knee came in direct contact with her womanhood, when you realized how wet she was and how turned on you were.

You made her come thrice then, before showering together and finally parting ways to your respective rooms after a chaste kiss. You knew you wanted to be with her and she knew that too. Was it a Black Widow move?

She became distant after that, much to your dismay. You had noticed the subtle bags under her eyes whenever she was up for breakfast, but you weren't brave enough to ask her what had happened, you didn't want to come off as selfish, to think that the reason she looked smaller was just because of you. Maybe life had gotten in the way, so you gave her space.

Maybe that had been the wrong move; you found out later through a co-worker that Natasha had been having a fling with another agent, someone who took her for granted and bragged to all of his friends that he had been with the "hottest, dirtiest chick in the game". It had brought tears to your eyes once you heard it but you never let them fall. You felt betrayed, thinking you and Natasha had something special. You realized all along it was only one of her Black Widow moves.

You didn't know how to approach her, how sad she looked having dinner by herself one night, you felt bad, you thought that it wasn't her fault if she had lead you on, maybe it had never been her intention.

She looked at you, tears in her eyes, but she did the opposite of what you did, she let them fall. She had been broken a long time ago, before becoming an avenger. She had been broken at birth.

She looked younger with a pout between her lips and a frown, 'Am I still too important to you?'

You sighed and this time you didn't hold back from bringing her into your arms. You had whispered she was more important than anything you've ever had. She had sobbed on your shoulder saying she was sorry.

'What are you sorry for?'

'I was scared. I never had someone care so much for me, please tell me you still do' voice as small as an ant, head now cuddled into your neck.

'I do' her arms grasped your waist tigher.

You were wrong, it has never only been a Black Widow move, Natasha Romanoff had you and you had her too.

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seera-li

3 years ago

Reflection

warnings: nsfw under the cut, mommy kink, use of toys (strap-on), slight spanking

a/n: based off this ask, not proof read

“Eye’s on me, pretty girl.”

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natasha romanoff smut natasha romanoff x reader avengers mcu natasha romanoff black widow THIS IS AMAZING OHH MY GOD natasha romonova natasha romanoff x you black widow x reader natalia romanova natasha romanoff imagine black widow smut

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seera-li

3 years ago

title: ovary action

summary:

You squint at her. “You know, just because you, personally, don’t get your period doesn’t mean you can’t show a bit of sympathy.”

“Go ahead, bring up my traumatic forced sterilisation.”

notes: sfw mediocre gfs fluff where ur on ur period and nats, for once, an above average gf

inspired by conversations with @ataraxyaz

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marvel natasha romanoff x reader natasha romanoff DAMN... natasha x reader nat natasha romanov x reader screaming...crying where is my gf?

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seera-li

3 years ago

oooh what about soft!dark! bucky and nat with ballerina daughter reader?

warnings: INC3ST, dad!bucky x mom!nat x daughter!reader, groping, and breast play. NSFW

DO NOT READ if this offends or triggers you in the slightest, your media consumption is your own responsibility.

Natasha cocked her head at your form, her husband right beside her against the walls of mirror.

She shook her head and huffed. “Turn your other feet a bit more outwards, sweetheart. It’s too inwards.”

You frowned, inching your left feet out in order to fulfil your mom’s demands. You had to. The dance was to be perfect. Of course, you were the Swan Lake, it had to be perfect no matter what. Your mom had been the Swan Lake when she was your age, it was your turn.

This year, both your parents were just in involved in your training and as Natasha shook her head at your failed attempt to fix your feet, she sighed.

“Let’s take a break. We’ll go over this section again tomorrow.” Your frowned turned into a pout when Natasha shook her head. Your eyes went from your mom to the older man beside her, your father’s eyes soft and gentle as he started making his way towards you.

His large arms, wrapped around your shoulder, he towers over you like some giant over a dwarf. “You’re too harsh on her, Tasha.” Your father swayed you in his arms as he held you, arm moving over to your stomach.

“She needs the practice, James.” The redhead inched towards the two of you and soon the pout on your bitten lips disappeared just as your mother ran her knuckles along the apples of your cheek.

“I’m sure she’ll be the best white swan out there.”

You giggled when Bucky dipped his head in the crook of your neck, your eyes settled on your mother’s pursed lips as your father peppered kisses all over your fragile skin.

“I have no doubt.” She said, head tilting gently as she watched the scene unfold. Her husband’s hand splayed over the flat plans of your tummy, while the other travelled further up as Bucky cupped your breast through your leotard. “I just want the very best for you.”

“I know, Mama...” Your head lulled back, eyes fluttered closed at the sensation of your father’s groping hand. You tried to focus but instead, you melted when Natasha’s hand dipped between your legs and under the mesh skirt to rub your cunt through your leotard.

The older woman chuckled, her lashes heavy as she looked up and saw her husband sucking hickeys on the skin of your collarbone while pinching the pebbled nipples through your shirt.

“Just relax, sweetheart.”

Bucky nipped at your neck, while Natasha’s hand was relentless as she hooked the gusset of your body suit to the side.

“You deserve it.”

Tags

marvel natasha romanoff x reader mcu natasha romanoff black widow natasha romanov Dark fic natasha romanoff x you black widow x reader natasha romanov x reader I- :OOO ohhh my godd

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seera-li

3 years ago

hey 😘😘😘

(REAL)

Tags

marvel natasha romanoff x reader mcu natasha romanoff black widow natasha romanov natasha romanoff x you black widow x reader natasha romanov x reader why is this funny lmao

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seera-li

3 years ago

Love that it's now 100% confirmed canon that Natasha spends her free time watching over the top Cold War era spy fiction/techno-thriller movies like James Bond and WarGames, and she's a gleeful little geek that gets a kick out of quoting the dialogue.

I love so much that we spent years assuming Nat would mock the shitty spycraft in movies, but actually she's enthralled every time. Like, a five-year-old seeing Frozen? That's Natasha any time these movies are on the screen. Yes she's seen them a million times, but when your entire life is dangerous spy hijinks it must be so nice to see stuff that you do in a context where no one you love is in danger at any time.

Also the thing that's so nice about her being a geek is that the movies have tried so hard to make us think she's a badass. And, I mean, she is totally a badass! But "Do you want to play a game?" could have been a one-off thing, a way to tease Steve and integrate Steve and make her own fun while on the run. Instead it's become a running part of her personality, which takes how the Red Room used popular media as indoctrination and turns it into something she can relax with and make into something that's her own.

Like I feel at this point if we found out that Clint used to call Nat every week after Dog Cops finished airing to dissect the plot, it would not feel out of character, and that is beautiful.

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seera-li

3 years ago

Words Beneath Your Skin

gif commissioned by: giuliacommissions

Pairing: Wanda Maximoff x Fem!Reader

Please do not repost/translate anywhere. Reblogs/Comments are much welcomed ♥

Masterlist || Taglist Blog

Summary: You don’t remember physical intimacy that much. You can’t miss something you can’t recall the last time you had. Except Wanda Maximoff turns out to be a touchy person.

Warnings: me hurting ur feelings cuz when's the last time someone hugged you like this? hm. Also unbeta’d lmao.

Notes: I haven't had someone hug in me in so long I'm pretty sure I would burst into tears.

Count: ~2.3k

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You never really noticed it. You've lived so long without it, it's never really occurred to you.

That's how things slip under the radar, after all. You live for so long without something, you end up never thinking about it.

You can't remember the last time someone has held you for longer than a second. You get quick hugs here and there from your friends and your family and kisses on the cheek in passing greetings and farewells.

But shit.

When was the last time you actually physically had someone hold you or hold them?

You weren't even aware of it until you got to know Wanda more. A strange superhero who visited the library for hours on end in a bean chair, watching shows on her laptop.

Nothing had ever really happened—you never wanted to intrude in her space, and she definitely looked like she didn't want anyone to interrupt her.

As you stacked books, you thought about what would bring someone like her to the library so often. It would be much more comfortable to watch shows in the comfort of your own home, wouldn't it?

But you see the things in the news, the things people write about her online, and you think—maybe Wanda Maximoff doesn't feel like she really has a home anywhere because her real home was blown up in the sky.

Maybe people like Wanda Maximoff also need an escape and somewhere quiet to be left alone.

You try to be respectful of that. You never hover or gawk at her. You politely let her know when the library is closing and never linger. If Wanda appreciated any of that, you'd never know as she never said anything or looked at you.

That's fine; you've never been one to stand out anyway.

Until you do. At least to her.

On a sunny day, the paparazzi catches wind of her in the library and huddle around the windows to snap pictures inside. Wanda looks like her world has collapsed once more. People grumble like it's Wanda's fault they can't get any peace and quiet in there—like she's the reason the sun was being blocked from shining inside.

Ridiculous; honestly, you think.

You close the blinds to the library as if it's a very common thing to do during the busiest hour of the day. You ask Wanda to pack up her things, and she does without giving you a fuss but looking somewhat forlorn.

It isn't until you lead her into the staff room with a sofa, a small kitchen to the side, and windows with mosaic glass films covering it. It still allows the light to come in but offers the privacy Wanda just lost.

It's then that Wanda realized you weren't kicking her out and banning her from the library.

"You'll have to stick it out here for a bit. I'm sure the paparazzi will get bored at some point," you shrug. "No one really comes in here except me. The other staff pop in for coffee but everyone else likes to eat at that cafe across the street."

Wanda looks around, her leg and fingers suddenly feeling jittery.

"Thank you," she finally tells you sincerely. "You didn't have to...I'm sure your other customers are upset you closed the blinds."

You roll your eyes. "I'm sure they'll survive a couple hours without the natural light." You stand up and get ready to go back outside. "Vitamin D is overrated anyway."

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Something friendly brews between the simple civilian and the superhero. She says she doesn't really see herself as a superhero, though. Superheroes probably haven't killed many people before, even if inadvertently.

Wanda says she's her...just with a little more.

Honestly, you don't really care. You're well aware you don't belong in her world—the world of chaos, training, and preparing for the next time Earth might be threatened.

The only thing you worry about is your building collapsing while you're in it if the Earth ends and your student loans.

"I don't know..." you tell Wanda as she asks if you'd be willing to go to the Compound during the day before your shift starts at the library.

Unfortunately, the paparazzi never did get bored, and they've taken to staking out the area knowing Wanda would come in. Since Wanda had stopped, the paparazzi also stopped.

The idea of meeting other superheroes doesn't really appeal to you. It feels strange and honestly overwhelming.

But when Wanda purses her lips, you relent.

You don't really understand Wanda, and you find yourself not really pushing to endeavor to. You let her set the pace and get to know each other slowly without expectations.

In the back of your mind, you distantly realize that you're not a very physically intimate person, or at least you've become someone who isn't physically intimate anymore.

You remember the days in high school when you used to hold your best friend's hand innocently all the time. The days when you hugged someone boisterously and kisses their cheek.

You wonder what happened.

But Wanda isn't someone who was touchy either.

At least that's what it had seemed like in the beginning. Even though Wanda admitted she liked your company, she had never offered a hug when seeing you.

Until you came to the Compound.

And it was like the privacy of the thick concrete walls and distance from everything else made her feel safer.

A brief hug. Awkward and unsure.

You barely had time to even feel the pressure of her hands and chest before she moved away.

"Was that...is it okay?" She asked, and you almost laughed at how she was asking for permission after hugging you.

"Of course," you smile at her, unsure of what to make of it all.

⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷⋆⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷

Brief hugs become regular.

And because they were so brief, it took a long time for them to become less awkward.

There's a certain energy around Wanda. You don't want to say that she's awkward, but she's—antsy.

You only figure out what's exactly wrong when you're having dinner with her and the rest of her friends, and she puts her hand on the space between your shoulders just below your neck.

She lingers.

And when the warmth from her hands seep through your shirt into your skin, you feel your body becomes hot with heat. You can feel her rings pressed into you, and as she applies more pressure from her fingers, moving across your back, you tense to hold the moan in the back of your throat.

Mortification sets in as you realize two things.

One, Wanda was a physically intimate person. Two, you were severely touched deprived to the point that someone just touching your back was setting you off.

⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷⋆⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷

The new physical intimacy makes you unsure. A small war rages within you with what you want to do. A part of you wants to touch and be touched by Wanda. The other part of you wants to shirk away.

You don't remember what it feels like to be held by someone for the sake of being held. There's some memory of it vaguely in the back of your mind, but that was a distant memory.

You're lying on the bed with Wanda, reading a book as she watches TV. You notice that she watches a lot of sitcoms. You've asked why and remember her saying it's comforting that so much could happen in one episode, and be all resolved in the end.

Such small insights happen between the two of you. You never really say what's the issue, but the other person seemingly can always read between the lines.

Suddenly, Wanda turns on her side as she scoots up against you, her arm over your stomach and leg hooking over yours. Her cheek is pressed against your shoulder as she continues to stare at the TV.

Your body does that weird thing where it clenches up, and you immediately begin to feel sweaty.

How was it possible for someone to be so warm?

And soft.

Occasionally, Wanda's hand would drift over yours when she held you, and you hadn't realized someone could be so gentle to touch.

There's another realization that there's an intimacy of knowing someone when they hold you because you also know what she smells like chai and orange blossoms.

You don't know what to do with that information.

All you know is that there's a lump in the back of your throat as you try to focus back on your book. She strokes your side and the top half of your thighs, and you swallow harshly.

When Wanda feels you beginning to tremble, she stops and looks at you with concern.

"Are you okay?" She asks slowly as she sits up, still touching you.

You were totally losing your marbles in front of Wanda, and the entire thing is mortifying.

Her tone is so gentle and caring, and you felt your eyes burn.

"I don't know," you bite out, and it's true. You want to say yes, but you also want to say no.

Wanda stares at you a long time as you stubbornly stare at your book even when your eyes feel wet.

You feel Wanda pull away, and despite your unsureness, that feels even worse.

"If don't want to be touched, you can just say so," Wanda tells you gently with no malice or hurt behind her words and tone. But she sounds insecure, and that makes you want to really break out into a sob.

And although the book is your only shield from Wanda seeing total vulnerability, you close it and set it aside on her night table.

"I know," you tell her stiffly as you put your hands in your lap. "It's not that I don't want to. It's just—it's been a while since someone has touched me the way you do."

You pick at the invisible cotton on your pants.

"It's just...it feels overwhelming—to be this close to someone. I both want it and don't want it." You purse your lips the moments the words came out of your mouth. "Well, I feel like I don't want it because—I don't know—it feels like it's too good to be true."

Wanda watches as you stumble over your words as you subtly try to dab your eyes before you look up at the ceiling disinterestedly, but she knows it's just so the tears will go back in.

It's a daunting realization for Wanda that you're touched-deprived. Despite the devastating life Wanda has lived, she's always has been a touchy person and received a lot of affections in her life—mostly by her parent, then Pietro, and occasionally, Natasha will indulge her in linking arms when they watch movies together.

Slowly, as if to let you know you can say no at any time, Wanda moves back with her arm and leg over you and pulls you closer.

You're pressed into her body, head on her shoulder as she strokes your back and pulls the blanket over the two of you in a warm cocoon.

Wanda thinks you appreciate that she doesn't say anything. She just sits there and resumes watching TV as you close your eyes.

Wanda replays every memory and every interaction she's had with you since befriending you. Your distance makes sense, and it's sad. It kind of breaks her heart.

It's been a while since Wanda has felt any sort of determination, but she wants her touch to be comforting to you. You're so lovely, and Wanda thinks she's falling for the girl who's given her shelter at the cost of depriving others of natural Vitamin D.

⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷⋆⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷

You think Wanda has been very attentive to you lately. Maybe something shifts, but you're not really sure. All you know is that Wanda is working her touch into your daily life. It's holding hands, it's long hugs, and cuddling you at the end of the day and in the mornings before you go.

But the moment things really changed? That was when Wanda pulled your arms to wrap around her, and the experience of holding Wanda Maximoff is vastly much different than being held by her.

You like it. You come to like both, and it isn't long that you find yourself biting your own tongue to stave the craving of wanting her touch.

Wanda watches you with interest as she lies on top of you as you play with the ends of her hair.

You seem rather frustrated for some unknown reason and also perplexed by your emotion.

When you let out a quiet huff, Wanda smiles.

"Is there something you need?" She asks.

You pause from tugging on her hair as you move your eyes down look at Wanda, who's lying on your chest.

You're antsy again.

You like her touch, that much you know. You like the weight of her body over yours because it feels reassuring.

"I don't know," you answer honestly.

Wanda adjusts herself so that her face hovers over yours and your eyes follow hers.

"More or less?" She asks.

It takes you a minute, but you answer a hesitant, "more, I think."

Wanda hums with a nod as her hands move under your back, and she holds you closer to her. "Let me show you and you can decide if you want more."

Wanda leans down, and when her soft lips press against yours, your nerve-endings light up with a jolt. She kisses you the way she has always shown you intimacy—slow and steady.

You press back, wrapping your arms around her neck without hesitation.

When Wanda pulls back, you mutter, "more. Definitely more."

You've gone so long without it; you've never really noticed. But Wanda makes you notice everything at every time. You're not sure how you could've missed it.

But perhaps this is how Wanda Maximoff loves. Slow, steady, rapacious as she stares at you.

Her eyes shine with devotion, and you like that her lips are warm too when she kisses you everywhere.

She's good at physical intimacy, that much you're sure of. Under her slow hands, you're determined that perhaps you can be the one to show her emotional intimacy for the girl you've fallen for.

Tags

ahhhhhh wanda maximoff x reader wanda maximoff x y/n wanda maximoff x you avengers imagine wanda maximoff imagine wanda maximoff fluff wanda maximoff fanfiction elizabeth olsen x reader

2K notes View Post

seera-li

3 years ago

not to be a hedonist but. pleasure IS the whole point, my loves. we are made for pleasure. humans have not survived out of spite or sheer grit or simply to make more humans. we live for pleasure. the pleasure of licking the last delicious crumbs off your fingers and feeling sunlight on your skin and massaging a loved one's shoulders. we're made to fill our bellies with delicious food, to nap in soft grass, to touch each other in joy and comfort.

there is no shame or guilt in our bodies doing what they were made to do. and we are made for pleasure.

113K notes View Post

seera-li

3 years ago

https://vm.tiktok.com/ZSJgfUx1s/

https://vm.tiktok.com/ZSJgfXcGN/

https://vm.tiktok.com/ZSJgfH6up/

The first one...,,,🤰

THE FIRST OH MYG OFhifdc

BUT THE LAST??S??XSBHDB that scene was so cute omg

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