Natasha X Reader - Blog Posts

the winter woodworker

pairing: nat/f!reader

summary:

You spit out your name in blind fear when the woman steps closer as a threat. “My car broke down on the road. I was cold and-and scared, and the door was unlocked, and your house was- is very warm. And, um, nice.”

The woman looks at you for a long moment. You can’t really make out any features through the cloth wrapped around her nose and mouth, and the beanie tugged low on her head, but you can see the jade green of her eyes as she glares.

You twist up your sleeves. “Um, I like your, uh, your coat rack.”

notes: nsfw, mostly fluff, some smut, this bitch is long! 8k i think! basically nat hasnt talked to a human in months and youre also just a big naive idiot brat and shes very nice to u even tho she makes fun of u and makes u feel awkward because it amuses her

(ao3)

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I love the banter between them they're assholes for eachother in the nicest way possible lmao💕 Natasha avoiding chores and casually talking about killing a man is just so funny😭 Also the mommy kink... Her calling us a good girl I cant do this today😭😭

idiot4idiot

pairing: nat/f!reader

summary:

Natasha Romanov: superspy extraordinaire, Avenger, routine trespasser, and chore-avoider. Oh, and a romantic.

notes: fluff, couldnt get mediocre gfs out of my head<3

series: one, two, ao3

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unironically want that mediocre gfs w u stuck and just the 'nat 😳😳😳what r u doing'

you know. you know what. i make myself laugh. thats what matters.

title: you dirty, dirty girl

summary:

Nat chuckles. Her hands, calloused and hot, squeeze your cheeks. Spread them. Her mouth hovers over your tailbone. “Seriously? You got yourself stuck in the laundry machine in this get-up?”

“It was not on purpose. Pull that back up, so help me-”

content: nat/f!reader, dom/sub, cum filled strap, anal, anal plug

(ao3)

Fate is cruel. So very cruel. You have never wanted to die this badly.

For over ten minutes—you can tell based on the number of songs that have played, you have been stuck in your laundry machine. In your fucking underwear like some lousy porn. What’s worse is that you decided that today of all days, you would invite Nat over. Nat, who only ever takes two-hour naps at most and went to sleep on your couch an hour and a half ago. Nat, who will laugh so hard she dies from oxygen deprivation when she sees you. And then you will die because you’re stuck in a laundry machine with no possible escape.

At least you’ll die next to each other. How romantic.

Picture this: blades at the inside of the laundry machine, cut up into strings. What bliss.

You stick your forearm into your mouth for the third time so far so you can muffle your scream of pure frustration. You will not be surprised at all if you lose your voice tomorrow.

It all started because of Nat’s stupid fucking sock. She’s always complaining that your laundry machine eats her socks, so you’d made sure to fish them all out. Except when you tried to grab the last one (patterned with cartoon spiders hanging off a faucet—a gag gift you got her for her birthday), you had leaned too far in and now you couldn’t squeeze your shoulders back out.

How does this happen in real life?

The rim of the laundry machine is starting to bite. You smack the inside of the machine with your fist, kicking your legs out. Another infuriated cry into your forearm.

Another song begins playing. You hate this song.

You close your eyes, feeling your head throb, and then suck in a deep, long breath. The air is humid, disgustingly so.

It’s time.

It’s time to suck it up.

You prepare a lungful of air, and— you screech.

Thud!

“Fuck!” comes Nat’s sleep-raspy voice.

That felt good. You scream again, making sure there’s a real guttural note to it.

“Baby?” Nat yells, confused, slightly panicked. Rapid footsteps. The door swings open. “Are you okay?”

“Get me out,” you grit lowly.

She doesn’t react immediately. You imagine she didn’t hear; she’s taking it all in. Maybe, she’s still rubbing her ass from falling off the couch. Then: “…what the hell.”

“Natasha.” Your knuckles blanche with how tight your fists are clenched. You speak louder, enunciating: “Get. Me. Out.”

A warm hand on your lower back, where your spaghetti top has ridden up. The music from your phone pauses, and Nat crouches next to you. “Is there a spider in there or something? I told you I’m not going to kill spiders for you. The joke is old.”

“I am not.” You inhale. Hold. Exhale. “I am not fucking joking right now, Natasha fucking Romanoff, if you do not get me out of here-”

“You’re really not funny. You’re not.” Nat pokes your ass cheek. “I could be sleeping right now.”

“Natasha!” you screech, thrashing your lower body. “I’m fucking stuck in the laundry machine! Get me out. Get me out!”

Another lengthy pause. Nat puts both hands on your back and leans down, presumably to peek into the laundry machine because she’s an asshole who doesn’t believe you. Which is just so—

“Annoying piece of shit! Fucking-” You slam your palms down, metallic clanging grating against your ears. You feel like a child throwing a temper tantrum.

“For real? For real, dude. You’re…” Nat presses closer and breathes down your neck. So not helping. “…wow.”

“I will break up with you.”

“But…”

“Don’t.”

“But step-sister-”

“Natasha,” you grind out between your teeth.

Her body warmth withdraws, and you sigh in relief. Then, she hooks her fingers into your panties and slides them down to your knees.

“I will kill you. I will kill you. I will kill you.”

Nat chuckles. Her hands, calloused and hot, squeeze your cheeks. Spread them. Her mouth hovers over your tailbone. “Seriously? You got yourself stuck in the laundry machine in this get-up?”

“It was not on purpose. Pull that back up, so help me-”

“I don’t believe you.” She removes a hand. Only to bring it back down in a spank.

You yelp, flushing deeply, abruptly. “I don’t care,” your voice hikes up a pitch on another spank, “Nat, please.”

“That’s more like it,” she husks, breath fanning across your back. “Begging.”

It must be a Pavlovian response to that specific tone of voice. No other explanation for why you’re moments from getting wet. You did not do this on purpose.

Nat noses along the curve of your ass. You feel her lips curve into a smile; you can just picture it: impish, cocky, shit-eating. She digs her nails into your stinging ass cheek, bites the other one, and gives it another harsh smack.

The ass bad airflow in the drum must be fucking with your head. You bite your lip to prevent a whimper from escaping. To your great shame, you feel arousal gush out. Perhaps Nat won’t notice immediately, so you have time to brace yourself for the incoming humiliation.

Nat leaves a wet mark on your ass, and it prickles on your skin as it dries in the air. She sighs very contently, and you know, at that moment, the game is over.

“Sweetheart, do you want to safeword?” You slot your teeth into the bitemark on your arm and groan into it. Her hand rubs your smarting cheek as if to console you. She’s unbearably smug when she says: “I didn’t think so.”

You move your arm to your forehead, leaning heavily onto it. This is happening. It would be fantastic if those blades appeared now.

To your horror, Nat pulls away entirely and takes a few steps back.

You make a noise of alarm, body taut like a bowstring. “Don’t leave me here. Nat, please, don’t. Please.”

Footsteps returning. Hand patting your spine. “Just for a minute, okay? I’ll be quick.”

“Promise?” you whisper, afraid for a second that she won’t hear.

But she pats you again and says, “Promise, sweet girl. Be good.”

And she’s gone for ages.

The embarrassment from this whole situation makes you heat up, makes you tense, makes you wet, and the latter makes the humiliation greater. It’s a vicious cycle. You’re definitely not thinking clearly anymore, pulled into that happy, fuzzy space where anything Nat does gets you off. Where time moves nonlinearly.

You sigh, biting your lip and waggling your foot as you wait for her. It feels like too long, but you can’t trust your sense of time, and you can’t trust Nat to not take forever just to fuck with you. But she did promise—she doesn’t usually break promises like this.

“Nat?” you ask, voice meek. Pathetic.

No response.

You brace your hands on the end of the drum and push. No go. Still.

Unfortunately, this is when Nat decides to come back. Pitter-patter of her feet incoming fast. You knew she wouldn’t lie. She wasn’t trying to drag it out—

“Well, well.” Nat stops at the door. “I was going to be nice, you know?”

You drop your arms with a sad moan. “You were gone.”

“Good girls are patient.” Her voice comes closer. “Good girls get their pussies filled.”

“Please.” You practically claw your way deeper into the machine in an attempt to appease her.

She tsks, and her hands grip you by the hips, pulling you back in place. “Hold still now. I’ll fuck you if you listen.”

“Okay,” you eventually mutter.

Nat hums. You hear clinking and rustling. She’s tampering with something. You wish you could twist around and see her, gauge her mood. Alas, the tight space does you no favours.

Anyway, you did agree to hold still, didn’t you?

For a long time, nothing happens. This time, you’re sure Nat’s fucking with you, but you don’t know what to do to get her moving. Your slick is trickling down your thighs now. The odds are stacked against you.

“Nat, please,” you whine.

A huff. “That was your second chance.” She’s still not touching you. You curl your toes, tensing up. “How many spanks for the impatience?”

“…um, five?” you attempt.

“We’ll do five times the number I was thinking. Better luck next time.” Her palm comes down out of nowhere and with a punishing force. You cry out, trying to twist into the drum. She just drags you back out. “Count for me. No mistakes, and I’ll halve the number.”

Were you not so horny, you would’ve asked her why she’s acting like a primary school math teacher. Instead, you choke out: “One.”

She hums and hits at your thigh this time. You wriggle, count, and she resituates you. Repeat. The spanks land along your ass and thighs, and, every so often, she pauses to massage your stinging flesh. By the time she hits twenty, you’re a snivelling mess.

She shushes you, squeezing a hand through to rub circles between your shoulder blades. “Five more, okay?”

You nod, though she might not see it. Still, she takes it as a go-ahead to give you five more swats, alternating spots with each one. You spit out the last five numbers in quick succession, voice small and wobbly.

Nat squats low to kiss at your tender skin, murmuring praise and encouragements to you until you sigh. “I’m okay now. Mostly.”

Her hand rests gently on a bruise. “Mostly?”

You nod again, head drooped into a pile of your arms. “Yeah. Green.”

A thoughtful hum. Then, she’s gone, and there’s the pop of a cap being opened. “Relax for me, sweetheart.”

With a keen, you do your best to slacken. Even then, when cold fingers touch your still sensitive ass, you jolt and hiss.

“Sorry, baby,” Nat soothes. Gingerly, she tugs you open. “Come on. Deep breaths. You know how prep goes.”

You do. Your clit throbs.

You do as you’re told, trying to count out each breath. You begin to appreciate her cool touch, overheated as you are.

When she’s deemed you sufficiently calm, she presses her lubed thumb against the ring of your ass and makes tiny circles on it. Your cunt clenches in anticipation.

“You’re my good girl,” she coos, ghosting her other hand along your inner thigh. “My baby. Good little slut for me, hm?”

Tiny: “Mhm.”

Nat rewards you with the first knuckle of her index finger. You gasp, and she cuts it off with one of her own. “No matter how many times I fuck you, you’re still this tight,” she says, almost like she’s musing to herself. Another press of her lips to your ass, then she pushes her finger all the way in. “So good for me.”

Yes. Good. You nod, eyes clenched shut.

Before she slips her second finger in, she gives you a few thrusts that have you groaning and dropping heavily into the laundry machine. Nat’s patient with you, waiting for you to settle back down before pistoning both fingers into you. Once, twice, three times.

She scissors her fingers, curls them, twists them. Each time, you try not to writhe. Your earlier screeching has your throat too raw to make sounds louder than a breathy wail, so you’re left whimpering and heaving for breath.

Overlaying all of this is Nat’s filthy whispers. She calls you good, her precious baby. Yet, every time your cunt leaks more arousal, or it clenches on nothing, or your sphincter spasms around her fingers, she’s groaning out greedy whore, aching for cock. Your head spins from it all.

After an age, she drags her fingers out of you with a sound that verges on forlorn.

“I’m fucking you ‘till I’m bored,” she informs you.

“Please, please, please,” is all you can say.

She laughs, probing at your asshole with the head of her strap-on, and you’re instantly babbling out pitiful sounds, and she just laughs a bit more. Your arms are damaged from how hard you grip onto them, from the occasional snap of your jaw around them.

The cock splits you open slowly, rubs against your hypersensitive skin, and you hiccup midway through a cry. Nat stops when she bottoms out, cursing under her breath at the sight of your ass wrapped tight around the girth of her piece.

Then, the sound of a shutter.

Your sound of confusion sounds like a mewl.

“Don’t think,” she says lightly, jerking her hips into a grind, “just take it.”

Your lungs run ragged, trying to take in enough air for your brain.

She strokes over your waist, down your thigh, and exhales softly. Pulls out halfway and drives the cock back in. “Oh, sweetheart,” she sighs. “Yes. Just take it.”

“Yes,” you echo, eyebrows crinkling as she starts up a snappy pace, “yes, yes, yes-”

The fit is tight, excruciating in its pleasure. The friction of your muscles around her girth has you drooling on your arm, mouth slack and open.

After a particularly loud whimper, Nat plants a hand on your back and presses you into the rim of the machine. With the leverage, she can fuck into you harder, faster. Her other hand flits around your body and slithers down your navel to cup your mound.

You buck down into her hand.

“Stay,” she barks. With her assistance, you’re returned to your previous height, much to your chagrin.

“Please,” you moan brokenly, “Nat, please.”

She pinches your ass, ignoring your mournful yowl. Somehow, she fucks you harder, your bodies swaying forward with every shove. The ache, the sound, of her front meeting your backside has you needier. Somehow, needier.

So full. Alight with sensation. Just not where you need it.

Nat takes pity. She reaches around and, this time, sweeps the pad of her finger over your clit.

You wail.

The finger draws tight circles around your clit, pressure becoming more deliberate, harsher, as your cries escalate into—nothing.

Your mouth falls open silently, overworked throat failing at producing noise.

And you’re full—so full—more full. Nat releases into you with a grunt, a gasp, and then a long groan. Fingers splayed out on your back, the other hand slipping away from your dripping cunt.

Fake cum pools heavy inside you, fucked deep inside you by the strap that Nat keeps pushing into you.

Afterwards, she drapes her body over yours with a puff of breath.

“Thank you,” you mumble eventually.

She barks a laugh. It’s a cute sound, you hate to admit. “You’re welcome for using you as a fleshlight.”

You manage a smile. “Any time.”

Another exhale as she hikes herself up using the edge of the machine and inches her cock out of you. She hums in sympathy with your quickened breathing.

You make to wiggle out after, but she stills you with a hand.

“What’s the rush, baby?” There’s a hint of mirth in her voice that you don’t trust at all. A very familiar click of shutters. “Look at you, gaping for me. Leaking for me.” Her thumb whips out to catch the cum dribbling out, pushes it back in. “Better not waste, though.”

Your clit throbs with your pulse. “…Nat.”

“What?” But she doesn’t give you a chance to continue, bulldozing on: “You know, honey, the absence of your humongous mommy kink has been quite disappointing.”

“My god.”

“Laundry machine? Anal? Coming inside? Check, check, and check. Weird familial-”

“Please stop.” Your temple throbs with your pulse.

Nat’s laugh, cackle, really, is much less charming this time around. “Hold onto this for me, will you?” she basically croons. And then she sets the tip of what you assume is a plug at your asshole. “Anyway, don’t act like you don’t love this whore that you are.”

“Nat,” you whine, but then you stop because you can’t deny her. She makes a point of holding the plug in your ass at its widest point and then releasing it, enjoying the view of your ass swallowing it.

“Greedy little hole,” she notes. Then, she claps her hands together, makes a sound like she’s dusting them off, and gets up. “Well, that was fun- Oh, you didn’t start the dryer.”

“You- Nat, you’re not leaving me-”

“Sure am.” Beep. Beep-beep. The dryer starts loudly. Obnoxiously. Nat’s shadow passes over you, and then there’s the sound again, of camera shutters. “These are great. Can’t believe this is real life. Can you?”

“Nat! You are not leaving me here!”

“Thanks for letting me borrow your phone. Let me just send that over to myself…” The fact that she used your own goddamn phone to get a picture for this really drives the shame home. “Anyway, see you when the dryer’s done.”

Footsteps receding.

You shriek, shrill. Your ass closes tight around the plug, around the cum inside you, and you feel how utterly soaked your lower half is. And your upper half, from the laundry water.

“We’re fucking over!”

Nat’s laugh rings through the house.

I was not expecting a whole FIC?? Okay this is so good and I'm LIVING for the rough concepts rn (possessive natasha..) the boundaries thing seems Sooo in character for her and the red room mention. i really love the red room mention (maybe she doesn't get saved like one on one by clint and instead gets free as a side consquence of shield taking down the red room?) because it really makes sense knowing good from bad but choosing bad just because, and the personality(?) contrast between Natasha's moods is so interesting as well💕

I feel so spoiled rn with this whole background analysis on a completely unrelated side note... can we platonically kiss in the rain and get married?🥰🧐 /j Also congrats btw you have managed to get me motivated to reread the WHOLE dark nat series again so that I can apply this background insight to their interactions🥲

the domestic realm

pairing: dark!nat/f!reader

summary:

“I’m hungry,” you mumble. “Go make me a sandwich.”

She scoffs, slipping her hand under your hoodie to scratch at your back. “You just set women back by, like, five decades.”

additional notes: sfw drabble, kidnapping, dark!nat but shes soft and lazy, stockholm syndrome central, dark domestic fluff redux

series: one, two, three, ao3

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If meant to be evil and mean... why be hot and give me back scratches and call me baby?🤨 I LOVE THIS NEW CHAPTER BTW INCREDIBLE, SHOWSTOPPING

the domestic realm

pairing: dark!nat/f!reader

summary:

“I’m hungry,” you mumble. “Go make me a sandwich.”

She scoffs, slipping her hand under your hoodie to scratch at your back. “You just set women back by, like, five decades.”

additional notes: sfw drabble, kidnapping, dark!nat but shes soft and lazy, stockholm syndrome central, dark domestic fluff redux

series: one, two, three, ao3

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Ohh my god🥺🥲 Natasha in this fic is so contradictory.. I LOVE her honestly I have never watched Jennifer's body but this is making me want to SOO badly oh gods succubus(?) Nat is so hot and mean this is amazing😭💕

fury shakes the rafters

pairing: dark!nat/f!reader

summary:

Aside from the cannibalism, Nat is mostly the same. Still ridiculously strong and stupidly hardheaded. And that face — flinty, cold, mean. Nat’s always been mean. 

(inspired by jennifer’s body)

additional notes: mommy kink, dom/sub, bloodplay(?), dacryphilia, uhh pussy spanking, choking, unhealthy relationship, terrible aftercare

title from a song suggested by an anon: nobody by the crane wives

(ao3)

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Sweet of you to recommend me💕 These fics are also very good!😊

fem(or gn) fic/blurb/hc recs

mostly Natasha Romanoff

if there is any Writer that doesn't Want there Work on here please Let me Know

last updated Tuesday, august 31 at 8:42pm

*= smut there probably wont be any top reader

not a of them Will have summaries

Natasha Romanoff x reader /wandanat x reader

@blooodwords

pt.1) gonna kill you if you don't beat me to it *

you never wanted to be an avenger. now that you’ve been one (quite reluctantly) for a while, things are changing. and Natasha’s finally starting to figure you out — for better or for worse.

pt.2) home of blood and bone *

Natasha pries her way into your past, into your biology, and into your future. and you let her.

@anubvs

pt1) Airmail cocktails

You work at a restaurant frequented by mafia members, so why have you never met the boss until now?

pt2) A single moment

You finally met the big boss of the mob you service at your restaurant, but can someone really change before it's too late?

tasha x r

@clueless-sapphic

cookie flavored Kisses

tasha x r

@twilight-99-tm

Natasha Romanoff x reader drabble *

Limits*

Word count< 1900

Natasha might have crossed a line.

tasha x reader

@spiritualchange

Bestfriendsmomnat x reader *

@sapphosvioletts

cramps

Word count<572

Do you think you could write a one-shot where Nat’s daughter has really intense periods, and Nat helping her through them? You can decide if she’s autistic or not.

Natasha Romanoff x teen daughter reader

birthday girl

Word count< 512

Natasha celebrates her daughters birthday

Natasha Romanoff x teen daughter reader

never alone

Word count< 2625

Natasha had taken the girl under her wing after they saved her from Hydra, she was practically her mom now and saw the girl as her daughter. When her daughter can’t stop the thoughts running through her mind, telling her she’s ungrateful, that she should be happy, she has everything now and she shouldn’t be feeling like this; she takes sleeping pills, maybe too many, just wanting those thoughts to stop and her mind to be quiet. Natasha finds her in that state and they have a talk. No shitty “someone loves you so your depression is better now” trope ending because that’s not how it works lol

Natasha Romanoff x teen daughter reader

not real

Word count< 1674

Natasha’s daughter had looked for Yelena everywhere, only to find her at her mother’s grave. They talk and Yelena promises to be there for her, as they both express their emotions with the recent events. During their meeting, the person they least expect to show up makes an appearance, although her daughter is having a hard time believing it’s real.

Natasha Romanoff and Yelena Belova x autistic teen reader

writeasrain

never tear us apart

tasha x nb! r

@wandaromanova

reality

Word count< 3500

Y/N and Natasha get off to a somewhat rocky start, but the pursuit of happiness is never smooth sailing.

tasha x reader

my hero

Word count< 1100

Natasha comes home from a mission and is moved by what she finds.

tasha x reader

my babies

Word count<1000

Natasha gets a surprise visit from her two favorite people in the world.

tasha x reader

stress relief*

Word count<2500

Y/N had a rough day training some new recruits. She ends up relieving her stress, but not in the way she expected.

Natasha Romanoff x reader

pt1) mile high club*

Word count<2100

Y/N and Natasha have an eventful trip home after a mission.

pt2) I told you*

Word count<1800

Natasha is a woman of her word.

tasha x reader

Wake up call*

Word count<2000

Natasha comes up with the perfect wake-up call for her girlfriend.

tasha x reader

reward*

Word count<2000

The aftermath of teasing is the greatest reward.

tasha x reader

pt1) masterpiece

Word count<3500

The aftermath of teasing is the greatest reward.

pt2) breathtaking

Word count< 2000

tasha x reader

all along

Word count< 2300

Natasha takes training a little too seriously and ends up hurting her crush, Y/N L/N, but maybe the situation isn’t as bad as it seems.

tasha x reader

domestic type

Word count<1100

The Avengers need a safe house to lay low in. Luckily, Natasha knows the perfect place.

tasha x reader

new favorite

Word count<1100

Y/N sees a spider that reminds her of her famous girlfriend; The Black Widow

tasha x reader

flawed

Word count<4500

There’s a silver lining to Wanda’s unfaithfulness.

tasha x reader

@thesecretwriter

pt1) tension *

A night out with your friends, drinks and truth or dare leads to the woman on your mind being rather possessive of you, you’re finally getting what you want.

pt2) tension *

After calling it a night, Natasha asked you to take her home, upon arriving at her apartment, she tells you to come up with her. What does she have in mind?

tasha x reader

Daddy Nat*

While at another one of Tony’s parties, Natasha finds herself watching your interactions with Carol while she was with Steve, Bucky and Sam. While you and Natasha have been together for 2 years, Carol still flirted with you, yet you didn’t really flirt back. You just continued to be normal. An hour after watching you and Carol from afar, Natasha takes you to your shared room to remind you who you belong to.

tasha x reader

@winterwidow17

spreading your Wings

Word count< 745

Y/n wings are cramping up but the team has never seen them. She doesn't wanna cause a scene, but Natasha has a solution.

tasha x reader

@agentofbarnes

can I touch you*

Petal asking if she can kiss/suck/bite Nat's tits. C-can I touch?

tasha x reader

@starsvck

pt1) diet mountain dew*

drugs and alcohol are involved, you and Natasha need to pee, which somehow led to the two of you fucking in Tony’s bed.

pt2) diet mountain dew*

Natasha apologizes for what she did at the part

Ketonok(series masterlist) *

she’s way older than you but that doesn’t seem to be a problem for the both of you when she decides to fuck you one day. nsfw. older!nat, younger! Reader.

tasha x reader

@officialcharactersimp

helping hand(s)*

word count<800

step moms Wanda and Nat come home to find their 19 year old touching theirself and moaning Wanda and nats names? (reader has a vagina and is a huge bottom)

wandanat x reader

nervous breakdown

nervous breakdown; reader is v upset; Wanda taking care of reader; no smut; sadboi hours for reader

Wanda x reader

graduation gift(on going series)

pt1) graduation gift

word count<2800

pt2) you break beautifully

word count<2000

pt3) progress until punished

word count<2200

pt4) mending & amends

word count<3000

You never liked your stepmother, but you never expected her to do anything like this

darktasha x reader

@agentofbarnes

widows bite

Natasha Romanoff showed you a whole new world when you thought for sure that you were going to be stuck at dead end forever.

tasha x reader

@nermalina

mommy Nat blurb

professor/mommy! Nat explaining things to sub! Reader in class and reader 100% gets it. once readers goes into little space at home Nat tries to explain things differently

mommy tasha x reader

@kingpreciouswrld

Why Would you do that

Word count<1200

can you write reader being the big,bad scary soldier and Natasha is like head over heels for them and one day while the team is bonding Natasha boops their nose and everyone went quiet until reader says “…did you just boop me?do it again”

tasha x reader

@aquamarinescarlet

you Were blue

Word count<2300

Telling stories from your childhood with the Avengers brings some feelings to light.

tasha x reader

@yellowvxbes

late at night

word count<512

You can’t sleep and want to watch cartoons, while Natasha just wants to sleep.

tasha x reader

a little secret

word count<952

You had been keeping to age regression a secret from your girlfriend, but when she comes home unexpectedly, it can’t be a secret anymore.

Natasha Romanoff x reader

@seera-li

speak up baby*

word count< ?

Mommy decides to test your limits. It will of course, be fun for you. Or Natasha fucks you until you cry.

Natasha Romanoff x reader

@starksbabie

chronically in love with you

Nat takes care of a chronically ill reader.

tasha x reader

@wandaswifeyforlifey

just a risky move

word count< 713

You, Nat, Steve, Clint and Tony had just got off the Quinjet after a mission but Nat wouldn’t get off your back about a risky move you made during the fight

tasha x reader

@lilian-maximoff

Natty? where have you gone to?

word count< ?

Nat tries her best to catch Y/n's eye but in her mind, she fails, which causes Y/n to go looking for her little redhead.

Natasha Romanoff x reader

@arelyitsherec8

I've got issues

word count<?

Y/n started dating Natasha, it was very unexpectedly, but it had been so beautiful. But what happens when they move in together?

Natasha Romanoff x reader

@lostalioth

soft Kisses*

Word count<?

i just want the soft assassin to take care of me after fucking me senseless okay

Natasha Romanoff x reader

Wanda x reader

@officialcharactersimp

sissy Wanda(on going series)*

sissy

word count< 1400

You thought you hated your older stepsister, but you were very wrong

darkwanda x reader

if you go his series master list all the parts will be there

Yelena Belova x reader

@ynscrazylife

Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer

Yelena struggles to deal with her girlfriend Y/N having a simple cold so she calls in reinforcements.

Yelena Belova x reader

Natasha Romanoff x reader(platonic) and Melina Vostokoff x reader(platonic)

@rachaelswrites

prank war

word count<822

Natasha Romanoff x daughter reader and Yelena Belova x teen reader

@kassies-take

death by duvet

Word count< 1638

After a night to remember, Yelena is left to clean the sheets. She has some trouble.

Yelena Belova x reader

@subdaddyfreyr

Because i Love you

Word count< 590

So basically Yelena Belova x reader where reader wants Yelena to know how much she loves her so she puts chocolate and surprises in the pockets of her vest and maybe even puts little notes in there

Yelena Belova x reader

The recruit(on going series(all parts should be linked in the first part)

team work is never in Yelena’s vocabulary but of course, her new job changes that.

Yelena Belova x reader

more to comes

@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.