#natasha romanoff x woc!reader | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

solitaryearthperson · 2 years

Text

Woman-crush (Sequel to Girl-crush)

Summary: The team finds out about Natasha and (Y/N)’s relationship and is concerned about the age difference.

(The reader is 18+and uses she/her pronouns. The ethnicity/race is any.)

(Y/N) = Your Name

(S/C) = Skin Color

"Do you wanna go to your room after this?" I heard Nat whisper to me.

Keeping my eyes on the TV screen, I nodded my head, feeling my cheeks heat up. Her voice still makes me blush.

Seeing my nod, she turned her gaze back to the screen, but scooted closer to me, making me feel the warmth of her body, and the heat in my cheeks instantly got warmer at her closeness.

Me and Natasha have been going strong for the past three months. At first, it was a little awkward for us. Well, for me at least. I didn't really know what to say to her and didn't know how to control my nervousness around her, but after a little while of cuddling and making out with her, my nervousness has almost disappeared. Again, almost. Not completely. I still get nervous about certain things we do and certain topics we talk about. One of the topics we currently talk about a lot is our age difference. Natasha still has some concerns about the age difference between us, and it’s understandable, but I tell her all the time, “I don’t fucking care.” She knows I don’t care, but she also worries about what the rest of the team may think, especially Steve Rogers and Clint. She doesn’t want them to think that she’s taking advantage of my age or lack of experience, so we both agreed that we’d keep it a secret for now.

“Uh, is the kid old enough to watch this part?” I heard Tony ask, and I zone out of my thoughts to see that the movie we’re all watching is on a heavy make out scene that look’s to be leading toward sex.

“Very funny, grandpa,” I told him.

“I’m the hot friend of the dad,” he remarked, then pointed toward Steve sitting on a recliner, “He’s grandpa.”

“Shut up,” Steve told him.

I heard Nat let out a chuckle before feeling her hand touch mine. I look down to see that her pale, soft hand was touching my (S/C) one, and instantly I put it over hers. I felt her tense at the action, before quickly relaxing.

“What’d you think of the movie?” Natasha asked me as she wrapped her arm around me and pulled me closer to on my bed.

“It was alright,” I told her. “Maybe we could go on a...movie date sometime?”

“What would you want to watch?” she asked, her body more relaxed and her demeaner much calmer than it was in the compound living room.

“I don’t know. Maybe a horror movie?”

She was about to respond when a sudden knock came at my door. She quickly unwrapped her arm from around me and scooted away, putting some distance between us. The action made me feel a little bit of anger, but I swallowed it down and yelled, “Come in!”

The door opened and I saw Steve walk in with a weird expression on his face. He looked like he was uncomfortable about something.

“Steve,” Natasha greeted him with a smile, hiding her irritation at Steve interrupting us. Even though she's a master at hiding her emotions, I've begun to notice small things that give her true feelings away.

"(Y/N), Nat, we've noticed something's off with you two for a while now-"

Before I could say it, Natasha already beat me to it. "What's 'we'? Who's 'we'?"

Entering the room after Steve, was Tony, Clint, and Bruce and they all looked slightly uncomfortable. Even though the room was quite large, even for a bedroom (thanks to Tony’s money), all the men in the room made it seem smaller.

“What’s going on?” Natasha asked, looking at all of them.

“Well, it’s...” Steve started, looking more uncomfortable at me and Nat, then quickly looking to the others before looking back at us. “We noticed that, um,...”

“Oh My God!” Tony interrupted him. “We saw you two holding hands in the living room earlier and Steve here thinks you two might be dating. Boom! Done!”

“Tony!”

“What! You were taking too long!”

“Nat, (Y/N), are you two...together?” Bruce asked, no longer being silent.

We were both silent as neither one of us knew if we should say the truth or not.

“Are you?” Tony asked, uncertainty in his voice.

“Yeah,” I decided to speak up. “So what?”

“It’s just,” Steve sighed, rubbing the back of his neck uncomfortably. “We can’t help but notice quite an age gap between you two and we’re just-”

“I don’t care if there’s an age gap, me and Nat are together. Just deal with it,” I told them. I’m not gonna allow them to destroy what me and Nat have.

“Kid, we’re just concerned-” Tony started.

“I. Don’t. Care. There’s no need to be concerned.”

“Nat,” Clint finally spoke up. “How long you guys been together?”

“Three months,” Natasha answered.

“How do ya feel about her? You care about her? Not using her or taking advantage of her?” Clint asked her. I couldn’t hear any judgement in his voice, only curiosity and genuine concern for me and his friend.

“No, absolutely not,” Natasha shook her head and reached out for my hand. I happily placed it in hers and I felt my insides flutter. As if sensing it, she smiled at me, making the fluttering worse.

“So you’re not using her for sex or anything? You actually care about the kid?” Tony asked.

“First, she’s not a kid. Second, again, no, I’m not using her for sex. We haven’t even had sex yet,” Natasha answered him.

I could feel my face grow hot at her answer and I tried not to show the slight uncomfortableness at her mentioning that. I looked to Steve and saw that he was slightly uncomfortable with the topic of sex, even though it’s not explicit.

“Are you satisfied? Can you leave so we can have our privacy?” I asked, squeezing Nat’s hand, hoping to be alone with her again. She squeezed my hand back softly, letting me know that she wants the same.

“Yeah, yeah, sure, kid. We’ll leave you two. Give you some...privacy.” Steve quickly ushered the others out of the room, somehow sensing me and Nat’s want for privacy.

“We’re leaving the door slightly open, you two,” I heard Tony say before he pushed the door further open on his way out. Before I could get up and close it, Steve quickly closed it after himself.

After they left, the room was left in a strange silence and I wondered about what Natasha was thinking. She was still holding my hand, but she was looking at the closed door with a pensive look on her face.

“So,” I started, scooting closer to her, going back to the distance that was between us before the others had came in. “They know now. Is that okay with you?”

“What do you mean?” Nat turned to look at me, confused.

“You don’t have anymore concerns about us, right? No more worries about what they might think about us?”

“No,” she shook her head, and turned her body towards me. “I’m just thinking about something else.”

“What?” I felt my heart skip a beat at might worry her now.

Suddenly a familiar small smile appeared on her face along with a mischievous look in her eyes. “Your face when I mentioned sex.”

My face began to get warm again and I looked down at the bed to avoid looking at her face. “I didn’t make a face. I was just surprised you told them that.”

“Is there something wrong with telling them that?” She asked, her hand gently grabbing my chin and lifting my head to look at her.

“No.”

“Are you embarrassed about us not having sex yet?” She asked leaning her head closer to mine, our lips almost touching.

“N-no,” I stuttered, glancing at her plump lips before looking at her beautiful green eyes. “Are you fine with us not having sex yet?”

“Of course. I’m ready whenever you are, baby.” She leaned in and our lips touched softly at first, but then it quickly turned slightly less soft and more on the rough, lusty side, and I felt the fluttering inside me again, but this time it was way stronger than before. Our kiss only lasted a few seconds, but it felt like it was so much longer, and somehow not long enough and next thing I knew she was pulling away, but I didn’t want her to. “Whenever you’re ready, baby,” she repeated, her usual somewhat low voice, now lower and raspier.

I could feel the fluttering now become full on butterflies batting their wings hard in my stomach as I looked at my former crush, now girlfriend tell me that whenever I was ready, she would give me (what I am sure will be amazing) sex.

“Okay,” I swallowed, looking up and down her body before meeting her lust-filled eyes with mine.

#Marvel imagine #Marvel x reader #Avenger x reader #Black Widow x Black!Reader #Black Widow x Black Reader #Natasha Romanoff x Black!Reader #Natasha Romanoff x Black Reader #Natasha Romanoff x WOC!Reader #Natasha Romanoff x Sapphic!Reader #Natasha Romanoff x Sapphic Reader #Black Widow x Sapphic!Reader #Black Widow x Sapphic Reader #Black Widow x Bisexual Reader #Black Widow x Female Reader #Natasha Romanoff x Female Reader #Natasha Romanoff x Bisexual Reader

176 notes · View notes

wiinterz · 3 months

Text

MARVEL UNIVERSE ☆

≽^•⩊•^≼ ⦙ 𝓇𝑒𝓂𝒾𝓃𝒹𝑒𝓇. i write for plus size black & brown readers in mind, all my fics are catered to plus size/chubby readers. if my works don’t cater to you, there are many talented writers who might. do not come on my account to spread hate, you will get blocked. minors dni with my nsfw content, you will get blocked also. blank pages = blocked. please do not plagiarize my works, if you feel inspired by them please give me credit. give credit when credit is due.

*if a work with ☙ next to it, it means it’s an old piece*

recs | rules | taglist | help hub | main m.list

fics.

no saturn tonight.

drabbles.

miguel o’hara…

video phone - miguel (18+)

the price of love - miguel (18+)

headcanons.

no saturn tonight.

wiinterz © do not repost, copy or translate my works.

18 notes · View notes

raleighcarreras · 2 years

Text

if i die young

Part 2: lay me down on a bed of roses

Pairings: Natasha Romanoff x black!female!reader, Yelena Belova x OFC

Warnings: canon typical violence; brief racial profiling

Rating: Mature

Wrd Cnt: 1.8k+

Chapter(s): Part 1 , Part 3 , part 4

Summary: despite yourself, you've taken the black widow's words to heart and are determined to prove her wrong. Even if that means throwing yourself directly in the line of fire.

Notes: ive decided natasha has a version of the super soldier serum in this just because i can. the song is Mad Woman by Taylor Swift. Thank you for all the rbs and likes on part 1. The first pic is a glimpse at the back of the reader's suit. Same rules as always. 18+ only blah blah

And there's nothing like a mad woman. What a shame she went mad.

"Do you know how to sew?" Your voice came out a bit harsher than you may have intended but you meant serious business, to say the least. Natasha Romanoff had gotten under your skin. You were not some pushover who would sit on the sidelines just because someone you barely knew told you to.

Fuck that. You were going to prove her wrong if it was the last thing you do. Besides, the people need you. Even if they might not know they do yet. You'll show them! You'll show them all.

Okay, maybe you need to slow down. You're starting to sound all super-villain stroking a white cat in a high back office chair.

"Do I look like I know how to sew?" Kamilah said with a tone that made you rethink your entire strategy.

You had laid out steps of course. Steps to be taken seriously by your peers. Peers who didn't even know they were your peers yet.

Step 1: Make a suit

Addendum: The tighter the better obviously.

"What gay person doesn't know how to sew?" You asked as you entered the nearest Michaels Craft Store in search of the superhero craft section. Which clearly they had. How else were people's cosplays so realistic?

"Definitely most of them." Kamilah deadpanned.

"Fine. Whatever. You have an hour to graduate from YouTube University with your bachelor's. I'm at the store looking for supplies." With that, you hung up. You were joking about the superhero craft section, but that didn't mean you knew what you were looking for instead.

You knew you wanted the thing to be durable, but it wasn't like you had access to kevlar.

You did a quick Google search. Hm, maybe you do have access to kevlar. You pause, why is that so easy to get?

In the meantime, you'll settle for swiping spandex and nylon, a slim utility belt, and a few LEDs off of the shelves. As well as a cheap sewing machine.

Standing in the checkout line was only cumbersome because you only had so much arm space. Your bounty, of course, was not the least bit heavy.

Just as you're setting your stack of materials onto the counter, that pesky buzzing started in the back of your head. The only way you could think to describe the feeling was if someone tried to taze you with their vibrating phone. It made sense to you, it did not make sense to Kamilah.

Sure enough, the guy at the register next to you is seconds away from pulling out a revolver. He's wearing a green bandana over his nose and mouth, the rest of him covered in black, much like your former suit. Could this dude be anymore predictable.

You silently handed your phone to the frightened cashier in front of you. "Do you mind texting the contact labeled 'Bestie yellow heart emoji' that I'm going to be running a little late...then call the police I guess."

"Hey, you! Stop talking!" He's shaking nervously, you think he'll shoot wildly if given the chance, however.

There's 4 people in line behind you, 3 other cashiers and various others throughout the store. Odds are the revolver chamber isn't full. The gun looks old as hell and bullets can be expensive.

So, you're going to have to play Russian Roulette.

Natasha would be proud.

"Robbing a craft store? You must be desperate, man."

Everyone in the building looked at you like you're crazy.

The robber gestured for the cashier to continue stuffing loose bills into his duffle. Then he turned to you, "You got a death wish?"

You shrugged, leaning nonchalantly on the counter, "Why? You think you're man enough to grant it? The shaking in your hands could've fooled me. But if you're my fairy godmother, then so be it."

Oh, you've definitely got a death wish.

"What did you just call me? A fairy?!" He shot a warning directly into the ceiling above your head. One less bullet to worry about.

You raised an eyebrow at the Russian accent that had seeped into his words. It wasn't there a second ago. But that was the least of your problems.

"Something like that. Now, why don't you be a good common criminal and leave all of these perfectly innocent people alone."

"No."

His gun raised at you again. Aimed right between your eyes.

There's a sudden flutter of movement then the gun goes off.

You winced in pain.

"Fuck, you've got a very hard face, my guy." You shake out your fist, feigning discomfort. It occured to you at the very last second that you were going to have to do this without the flashy enhancements. No webs. No sparks of electricity.

But, hey, super strength was harder to detect.

The second bullet lodged itself into the counter. You're 78% sure he only has one left. Or he would if the gun wasn't in your own hand now.

The Russian guy rolled around in agony on the floor. Blood gushing from the crater you had pounded into his face. You didn't measure your swing very well on that one.

His crying and curling into the fetal position revealed a symbol branded into the skin of his lower back:

♧

You didn't have any time to think much about it before the police were barging into the building like you hadn't already done their job for them.

"Drop the weapon!"

You looked at the revolver in your hand with an eye-roll. You sort of walked into that one.

You dropped it, then slowly dropped to your knees with your hands behind your head.

"Could you tell 'Bestie yellow heart emoji' that I'll just see her tomorrow?"

~•~

"What are you doing here? Here to bail me out?" You're excited at the prospect of seeing her again. But, she didn't need to know that.

Natasha rolled her eyes at you, "Maybe. If you answer my questions right."

You scoffed at her through the steel bars, "What do you want now? I'm staying out of your way."

"I want to know why you caved a man's face in."

"Sometimes I forget to pull my punches." You mumbled with a pout. Coincidentally, that's when you realized this was her first time seeing your face. You stole your features into a harsh glare in an attempt to look intimidating.

Natasha tsked, "Can't do stuff like that."

"Oops. He'll be fine. Skulls grow back. I could've killed him, but I didn't. In fact, no one but him was hurt."

"They could have been."

"Yeah, if I wasn't there."

"You've really got a death wish."

You were so tired of hearing that, "So what if I do! Why do you care? You don't know me. You don't know how I got these powers or why. Why it was me and not the other people in that room. You don't know what it's like to be helpless in a world that was built on your oppression, and one day you get the ability to fight back. You don't know what it's like to decide not to..."

Natasha had the good sense not to say anything as you trailed off.

You slowly sat down on the cold concrete of your cell, "These officers around here...none of them know I'm choosing not to pry these bars apart and just walk out of here. None of them know I could just shut down all of their overpriced gear with a snap of my fingers. None of them know that they should be thankful that I don't want revenge."

You wiped your sweaty hands on your jeans. You were starting to overheat. Natasha didn't know that there were consequences to using your powers. Kamilah didn't even know that.

Sometimes you overheated like a college student's 6-year-old laptop during finals week.

"I don't want revenge, Nat. My life's been pretty good. I don't thrive off vengeance. My parents aren't dead or missing. I'm not struggling to pay rent for a shoebox apartment. I love my day job. I have nothing to avenge. I just want to help. And I don't get why you won't let me do that."

Before Natasha can speak, a police officer is walking over to your cell, his keys jingling as they dangle between his stumpy fingers. He has the wherewithal to look mildly sheepish, "Sorry about that, the witnesses and security footage corroborated your story."

You slinked out of the cell without so much as a glance to the officer or Natasha. The latter of whom followed you with determination.

You just let her. She clearly got to do whatever she wanted. You were drained and just wanted to strip down to your birthday suit and soak in an ice bath.

"I'm not done interrogating you."

"Some interrogation that was, Romanoff. You heard the doofus. I'm off the hook."

Natasha adjusted her gait to keep in step with you, "What happened to 'Nat'?"

You stopped strutting, "What?"

"You called me 'Nat' back there. Why back to 'Romanoff'?"

You stared at her deeply, you calculated the numbers of dips and ridges and bumps on her face, then you hummed, remembering yourself, "We're not friends. Must've just slipped."

"Ah. Yeah. I guess we're not."

You both started walking again.

"Did you see anything out of the ordinary during the robbery?"

You gave a hollow chuckle, then you suddenly ripped your hoodie over your head. Thankful, you were only wearing a sports bra underneath.

"You mean apart from the Russian guy robbing the place?"

Natasha resisted the urge to roll her eyes, "What do you mean Russian?"

"One of your kinfolk. Sorry, I shouldn't assume all of you know each other."

That time she didn't resist the urge, "Ha. Ha. Now, take this seriously."

"Yes, Mommy." You said with a similar eye roll and a mocking tone. You frowned as Natasha started to choke next to you, "You alright? Didn't know super spies choked on air."

"I'm-hkk-okay. Keep going."

"Yeah, well, he was Russian but clearly didn't want anyone to know it. He was doing his best middle America impression before I made him mad. Also, he had a club branded on his lower back. He's a part of a Club Club." You giggled at your dumb as rocks joke.

Natasha abruptly stopped walking.

"Come on. Club Club wasn't that bad."

Natasha scratched at the back of her head, "No. It's not that. Even though it was that bad. I-um-just remembered I had somewhere else to be."

You tried not to sound dejected in any way, shape, or form, "Alright. When can I expect an impromptu visit from you again? I assume you're not going to stop stalking me."

Natasha smirked a devilish smirk that would have put the fear of God into you if you weren't a giant whore, "Well, it wouldn't be an impromptu visit if you expected it, would it?"

You shook your head.

Natasha started in the direction in which you came, "Please try not to get hurt."

You smiled brightly, "I'll do my best."

#natasha romanoff #natasha romanoff fics #natasha romanov x woc! reader #natasha romonova #natasha romanoff x fem!reader #natasha romanoff x reader #jessicas fanfic #marvel fanfic

33 notes · View notes

cthulhu-calling · 1 year

Text

Illusions of Love I

Bucky Barnes x Natasha Romanoff x f!Reader

Summary : You’re interning for the brilliant Natasha Romanoff, world renowned Egyptologist and art historian and the woman you’ve had a crush on for the longest time. The only problem is, she’s married. And what’s even worse? Her husband is the most attractive man you’ve ever met.

Warnings : fluff, smut, angst, threesomes, LDR, inaccurate information about Egypt (sorry)

Author's Note : This is a NatxBuckyxf!Reader story. Whatever I've written about Egypt and ancient Egypt is made up and I cannot vouch for it's validity. Please feel free to correct me if I am wrong. I've tried to be as respectful as possible and I apologize if the content offends anyone.

I always imagine reader as a woc but try not to use many descriptive words so my fics can be read by anyone. This work is not beta'd and any and all mistakes are my own. Comments and feedback is always appreciated.

Word Count : 1603

series masterlist

Sweat was running in rivulets down your spine, the sweltering heat of the sun beating down on you as you ran towards Dr. Romanoff’s tent, a pack of archeological brushes in one of your hands and the other shielding your face from the harsh sun.

You had been interning for her for almost six months now. For the past two months of your internship, you had been helping Dr. Romanoff out here in Egypt, just west of Alexandria. They believed they were a step closer to locating the elusive tomb of the enigma that was Cleopatra and her lover, Antony.

Seeing that Dr. Romanoff was one amongst the most brilliant minds of the century and largely considered the greatest Egyptologist since Carter himself, it was no surprise she had been involved in the aforementioned archeological dig.

You’d been in Alexandria for almost two months now and Dr. Romanoff’s husband, Mr. Barnes was coming to visit having planned to stay for a week. That’s why you were in such a rush today to finish as much work as possible so she could go to receive him at the airport. She had invited you out to dinner with them but honestly, you knew she was just being polite. They were meeting after months and they probably wanted their time alone. Plus, you didn’t need more of a reminder of just how single you were.

Opening the flap of her tent, you rush in and hand her the brushes as she asks for particular ones.

While she continues to brush and clean an artefact found in a smaller tomb, you observe her. Brows furrowed in concentration, lower lip gently tucked between her teeth and hand movements precise. Her wavy hair held back by an embellished claw clip in a tight low bun at the nape of her neck, a few errant strands framing her face gracefully.

Droplets of sweat line her brow and flow down the side of her throat but she pays them no mind, soldiering on with her work.

“You don’t have to continue standing there Y/n, take a little nap if you so wish.”

Ah, busted.

“Uh- I’m sorry. I’ll leave you alone,” you apologise and walk out into the blazing sun. You couldn’t wait for the cold embrace of the night, a much needed reprieve from this sultry heat.

Walking to the little basin in the shade, you splash some of the water on your face, pretty much exhausting whatever is left. Shrugging off your loose fitting cotton shirt, you cover your head and face with it, your stupid little hat had blown away earlier in the day.

The drying water gradually cools your face as you sit in the shade, against the side of the tent. The bandana around your neck was completely drenched with sweat but provided a cooling effect so you opted not to remove it, no matter how much it stank of sand and perspiration.

Before you realise it, you’re dozing off, mouth agape and head thrown back. Attractive. You don’t even hear Natasha call for you. A little frustrated and also a little worried, she walks out, looking for you. She hopes you’re not passed out from dehydration or a scorpion sting.

She finds you dozing off without a care in the world. The sight brings a smile to her face as she moves closer to you bending down and tugging at the helix of your ear which causes you to jolt awake.

“I wasn’t sleeping!”

“No need to make excuses dear, I quite understand. Anyway, I need to ask a favour of you. Dr. Nasser will be heading down here in a while,” you nod your head in understanding,“and I won’t be able to go pick Bucky up. Could you please meet him at the airport instead?” She pleads and you shrug your shoulders in assent.

A smile is quick to take over her face and she pats your head affectionately.

“Off you go.”

Rolling your eyes, you wave bye and walk off without a word. She usually did most of the talking, naturally. She was the professor after all, not you. As you stalked off to change into clothes that didn’t reek of sweat and to put on some deodorant, you wonder what Mr. Barnes is like. You hope he’s nice and not a sad old git.

You change out of your stinky tank top in favour of a baby blue linen shirt, opting to stay in the same cargo pants. You’d have to get a new hat as well. You really should have packed better but for now, the baseball cap you’d borrowed from your brother (he’d argue that you stole it) would have to suffice.

Mr. Stark, the man funding the dig, had hired a car for Natasha specifically, her being the chief Egyptologist. Of course, you used the car just as much as her and had developed a rapport with the driver, Mr. Hassan. He was a loud man in his late 50’s, short and balding with an infectious laugh, his English polished to perfection with the amount of tourists he interacted with on a daily basis. What surprised you to quite an extent though, was the degree of fluency in French. The talkative man could make friends with anyone by virtue of which, he had the best stories. As you drove to the airport, he was telling you the funniest story about a German tourist who had somehow found himself having unwittingly purchased a herd of camels.

Mr. Hassan drops you off at arrivals as he goes off to park his car. You wait with a sign in hand. You’d hastily made one with a random piece of paper and a ballpoint, scribbling his name and phone number onto it. You hoped it was legible but if it wasn’t, there wasn’t much you could do. You tried to make the letters more pronounced by over writing on them but it just made an even bigger mess. You’re just surprised the paper hadn’t torn yet. After about half an hour of waiting, you watch a man walking in your direction, squinting at the sign in your hands. You were taken aback, no doubt. The tall, dark haired man was in his late thirties or early forties, his physique more suited to that of a model rather than an investment banker. His white shirt is well fitted and you can see the well defined muscles of his arms when he fixes his laptop bag on his shoulder.

“Mr. Barnes?” you question as he approaches you.

“In the flesh. You’re Miss Y/l/n, I presume?” he asks, holding out his hand which you shake. It’s a firm grip, something you hadn’t really appreciated about someone before.

“Yes, but please call me Y/n,” you say awkwardly.

“Great, then I must insist on you calling me James,” he says with a blinding smile thrown your way. You agree sheepishly, still struck by how attractive the man is.

“I’ll just give a call to Mr. Hassan, the dig site is pretty far from here,” you pull your phone out, calling Mr. Hassan. You make idle chit chat while you wait and you find out that it’s actually their anniversary this weekend, which is the reason why James is visiting. They’ve been married five years.

“What about you?” he asks and you know it’s a natural progression as questions go but how do you tell a man that it’s his wife you’re crushing so hard on? Luckily, Mr. Hassan pulls up at just the right moment, providing you with the distraction you need. He places James’ suitcase in the back as the two of you get in. There’s no room for any other ‘incriminating’ questions as Mr. Hassan manages to engage Mr. Barnes in a discussion about something that you simply cannot be arsed to recall. With the temperature cooling down, you doze off for a little while, only waking up just as you reach the site. Dr. Romanoff is waiting for you, well, for James.

As you grab his suitcase from the trunk, you avoid looking at the embracing couple. Once they pull away, with James’ arm still around her waist, you ask if you should leave the suitcase in Dr. Natasha’s tent.

“Absolutely not, I can do it myself. As long as you point the tent out to me,” he says, taking the suitcase from you.

“Yes, that should give you time to get ready. Dr. Nasser has invited all of us to dinner at his house,” Natasha declares.

“Oh,” you say, tugging on the strap of your messenger bag. The idea of dinner with them makes you uncomfortable despite the prospect of Mrs. Nasser’s amazing cooking. The first time you had dinner at Dr. Nasser’s home, you were enlightened. The mediterranean and middle eastern influences were apparent in the traditional feast she’d cooked. Not only that, the woman was the best company (as opposed to her husband, short spoken and ill tempered). The thought of having to sit through dinner with the beautiful couple makes you queasy.

“Do you already have plans Y/n? If so, cancel them. You’re coming,” she says in her classic stern tone that you haven’t been on the receiving end of in a long time.

“Yes ma’am,” you say, offering her a salute. Bucky laughs as Natasha rolls her eyes at you. You didn’t have any plans but seeing her act like she has a right over you, it does something to you. You don’t know how you’re going to handle six more weeks of this.

#bucky barnes x reader #natasha romanoff x reader #bucky barnes x natasha romanoff x reader #female reader #f!reader #smut #fluff #angst #long distance relationship #egypt #inaccurate information about egypt #i'm sorry #f/f/m

128 notes · View notes

spookiekewchie · 3 years

Text

⛓kinktober 2021- sex machine⛓

—so start me up and watch me go, go, go, go

MINORS DO NOT INTERACT

Characters: Natasha Romanoff x woc!reader

Summary: The one where you let Natasha talk you into something new

Word Count: 602

Warnings: general language warning, use of a sex machine, overstimulation, multiple orgasms, a google translation (Nat calls the reader bunny in Russian), oral (f receiving)

A/N: DAY TWENTY TWO OF KINKTOBER! All mistakes and errors are my own. I gave it a look over but knowing me I probably missed a few things. The divider is by @firefly-graphics

DO NOT repost or translate my work anywhere. Reblogs are always welcome, and let me know that you enjoy my fics.

There’s a sheen layer of perspiration clinging to your bare form, you tremble with a mix of exhaustion and pleasure that leaves you panting. If you could think clearly you’d be cursing Natasha out for talking you into this. “Trust me, Зайчик.” She had said when you had skeptically eyed the machine earlier. “It’ll be fun.” She assured you, gently working you out of your clothes and stripping you bare. You believed her, and it had been fun at first but then things got intense and after that sixth orgasm your brain was fuzzy and your body overworked.

You don’t know what number you’re on now, all you know is that you’re cumming again and you can feel your juices dripping down your thighs as your body clenches and pulses around the fake cock that’s mounted to the pistoning machine. You try to cry out but your voice is raw and hoarse from how you’ve been screaming. It feels so good, but so overwhelming. You want it to stop, but you also don’t want it to end. The machine is relentless in how it fucks into you, and you think that it can’t get any more intense.

It does though, because Natasha is holding the controller and she ups the speed. You see stars for a moment, mouth hanging open in a silent scream as the new unrelenting pace rockets you right into another orgasm so strong that your arms give out and your upper body crumbles to the bed. It gives you the perfect view of Natasha’s delicious pussy, and you swear you’ve never seen the woman so wet before. You know it’s because of you, or rather it’s from watching you get absolutely wrecked by this damn machine that she’s got you taking. She sets the controller down, and you breathe out a shaky breath as you watch her scoot down the bed and put herself close enough for your mouth to reach her sopping core.

She doesn’t even need to tell you what she wants, your mouth is already on her with a moan at how good her tangy sweet essence tastes on your tongue. Natasha’s hips arch off the bed slightly, pressing her core harder against your mouth as you loudly and messily eat her out. It helps just slightly to bring you back down to Earth, but it doesn’t stop you from falling apart again when you feel the thick dildo mounted onto the machine hitting that spongy spot on every thrust that it makes. Your toes curl, and your hands grip the covers and you try to brace yourself for the earth shattering orgasm you know will come sooner rather than later. Your lips seal around Natasha’s clit, sucking at her bud and letting your tongue flick back and forth over it, greedily wanting to bring her over the edge with you.

Natasha’s so close, and you can tell by how she tangles a hand in your hair and tugs, her hips rolling against your mouth as she moans and cries out for you to keep going. You do for as long as you can, but it’s the feeling of you screaming when your climax hits you that finally sends her over. You gush around the toy still sawing into you, body shuddering as you sob out a broken moan and pull your hips forward to get yourself away from the persistent machine. You collapse on top of Natasha, breathless and feeling clammy but she doesn’t seem to mind as she runs a hand over your back soothingly.

“See, Зайчик. I told you it’d be fun.”

#natasha romanoff x woc!reader #natasha romanoff x black!reader #natasha romanoff x reader #natasha romanoff x you #natasha romanoff x woc #natasha romanoff reader #natasha romanoff fic #natasha romanoff fanfiction #natasha romanoff fanfic #woc!reader #black!reader #kinktober 2021 #trilla writes

182 notes · View notes

afriendlyblackhottie · 3 years

Text

Misc. Masterlist

(A/N: Let’s just call this the not Chris (Evans) List.)

Bucky Barnes

Nosy*

Posey* (part 2 of Nosy)

Losing Count*

Kin*

Waking* & More*

Thor

Your King*

Not a Date* (w/ Bruce Banner)

Punny*

Fertility*

Holiday Cheer* (w/ Steve Rogers)

Girls/Girls/Boys*

Henry Cavill

Keepsake*

Taste*

484 notes · View notes

operation-619 · 3 years

Text

Steve Rogers

WOC/Reader

AU series were Bucky is safe and sound after AOU, (Y/N) (L/N) is a troubled woman with a haunting past, and its coming back to enslave her. But she doesn’t care, her interest is in a certain Captain America lead to a night that set off a series of unfortunate twists and turns. Can she come out on the other side, with her past a secret and a family to come home to. Or will she burn and take everyone down with her.

Her: I-Forest , II-Crimson , III-Hiraeth

My home isn’t a place - where you’ve come to know these people well enough home isn’t a physical object. Coming soon

Call me when its over - she’s just a friend, right? Coming soon

#Steve Rogers #steve rogers x woc #MCU #tony stark #POC #dark fic #nomad!steve rogers x reader #powerful!reader #Tony Stark x reader #plus size #alternate universe #Bucky Barnes #natasha romanoff #bruce banner #Thor Odinson #hydra x reader #the first avenger #Her-original series

55 notes · View notes

chrissmissus · 3 years

Text

New series coming soon.

I have been really procrastinating on this idea of writing on my Tumblr page. After some thinking, I decided to do it because why not! So I'm working on three new marvel series right now all of them are dark fics but I might change my mind later. I'm really excited to start this new journey with you guys. Hope you enjoy cuz we finna have some fun. Feel free to ask me anything whether it's something you want to see me write or advice or anything cuz I don't care.

Love, C

18 notes · View notes

solitaryearthperson · 2 years

Text

Girlcrush

Summary: Sapphic!Reader has a secret crush on Natasha and doesn’t know how to deal with it.

(The reader uses she/her pronouns and is 18+. The ethnicity is any.)

Oh shit! She sees me! I look back down at my book and pretend that I wasn’t just looking directly at the back of Natasha’s red head. I try to spare a glance back up at her to see her eyes slowly move away from my form and onto Bruce passing by, and I sigh in relief.

I’ve only been in the Avengers for a couple months, but my crush on the Black Widow had been around way before that. It started a little while after the attack on New York, when people were still processing the existence of aliens and the existence of superheroes at the same time. I was a senior in high school at the time and everyone was talking about the Avengers, specifically who they like the most from the team. I kept it a secret that the Black Widow was the one who made my heart race and my palms sweat and told them that it was Captain America. Who knew that I would end up having powers as well?! Apparently some time after graduating, my powers began showing up and as much as I tried to control them, they ended up becoming a big problem that I couldn’t ignore and soon my family got a call from an agent at SHIELD who said that Nick Fury was interested in me joining the Avengers I obviously said yes, because who wouldn’t want to live with a bunch of superheroes.

“(Y/N),” Natasha’s smooth voice brought me out of my thoughts and I looked up from my book to see her standing across from me with raised eyebrows.

We were standing in the kitchen with the counter between us and I was bent over my side of the counter holding my book in front of my face like an idiot.

“Yeah?”

“What are you doing?”

“What do you mean what am I doing?” I tried to keep my voice calm and not show any nervousness, but failed. “I’m reading, clearly. Why do you ask?”

“Clearly,” she began, her voice showing her skepticism, “You have been standing there with a book in front of your face for the past 20 minutes, pretending that you’re reading, but I can clearly see your eyes looking at me.”

I opened my mouth to give a comeback, but I honestly didn’t know what explanation to come up with so I just sat my book down and closed my mouth.

“Why are you pretending to read in the kitchen and why are you staring at me?”

I didn’t know what to say. Well, technically I did know what to say, I just don’t know how to say it or if I should say it. I don’t know how old Natasha is, but I do know that she’s definitely older than me, so my crush on her would definitely make things awkward not just for me and her, but probably for the rest of the team. And would she like me back? I don’t really know if Natasha likes women or not. Maybe it’s because of her being an assassin, but I can’t really get a feel of what her preference is.

“(Y/N),” Natasha said, annoyance becoming clear in her tone.

“Yeah, yeah, um...” I looked around the kitchen, stupidly trying to find some courage somewhere in here. “I was curious about...”

“About?”

“About whether you, um...”

“Whether I like you or not?” Natasha finished for me.

I stared in disbelief at her, not sure again what I should say.

Seeing my face, she let out a low chuckle that seemed to create a strange yet warm feeling in my stomach. “Ever since you got here, you’ve been literally acting like a little puppy, following and staring at me with those little lovesick eyes. It wasn’t that hard and it did not take that long to figure out.”

“Oh,” was all that could come out of my mouth.

She began to slowly make her way around the counter, her green eyes watching me and staring at my body. Is she trying to intimidate me? See if I’ll just start swooning for her? I wasn’t going to let her know that just her talking to me made me nervous so I kept my eyes completely on hers as she made her way to me. There was a smug smile on her face, as if she already knew the affect she had on me. But I kept my cool and tried to look as confident and unbothered as I could.

She finally stopped in front of me and leaned in so her face was closer to mine, and suddenly I could my feel face heating up with how close her lips were to mine as well.

“Do you think I like you?”

It was a weird question to me and I didn’t really have an answer to it.

“I don’t know. Do you?”

I tried to take the lead and leaned in to kiss her, but it seemed she already knew my intentions and she wrapped an arm around my head and pulled me to her to have one of the best kisses I’ve ever had. Her lips were soft and tasted like fruit and despite her harsh and intimidating exterior, she was surprisingly gentle.

When we finally pulled away to get some air, I instantly felt my cheeks get warmer, and I instantly thanked whatever deity out there that could hear me for having darker skin, so she wouldn’t be able to tell.

“Do you want to be with me?”

The question took me off guard. Didn’t we just kiss each other?

“Like dating? Me and you? Yeah, of course!”

“I’m...a person that has a hard time opening up to people. I just wanna warn you.”

“I don’t care. I like you. We’ll figure it out.” I told her and meant it. I didn’t really care that she might have a hard exterior to get through. I was kind of expecting it, considering she’s a former assassin and superhero. I was just glad that my secret girlcrush was now my official girlfriend.

#Marvel imagine #Marvel x reader #Black Widow x Reader #Black Widow x Black!Reader #Black Widow x Black Reader #Black Widow x WOC!Reader #Natasha Romanoff x Black!Reader #Natasha Romanoff x WOC!Reader #Natasha Romanoff x Sapphic!Reader #Natasha Romanoff x Sapphic Reader #Black Widow x Sapphic!Reader #Black Widow x Sapphic Reader #Black Widow x Bisexual!Reader #Natasha Romanoff x Bisexual Reader #Black Widow x Female!Reader #Natasha Romanoff x Female Reader

60 notes · View notes

neonovember · 2 years

Text

Black Umbrellas

natasha romanoff x fem!reader

summary; you grief the life you thought you’d live, you grief the person you thought you’d become with her.

warnings; angst to the 10th power, hugeTW for death, loss, grief, sadness that’s masquerading as anger, mentions of major depressive and anxiety episodes, major character death, mentions of disorders eating, isolation, self harm, fluff, (semi sad ending?, it’s kind of neither).

author notes; was I on an undeclared hiatus for a while? yes most definitely! If you squint hard enough you can see the droplets of tears from pulling this out of my ass, please beware of warning and triggers, most of this writing is just poor descriptions of what grief even begins to feel like, so beware lol.

Black umbrellas gripped tightly by the mourners as they huddled in the soaked downpour, glistening droplets sliding off the edges and grooves of the umbrella.

They gather, moving in unison, in togetherness, bounded and shared in grief and loss, moving like a wave, over, until their blanketed sadness ripples into the shore, until they are swarmed within the masses of people in ordinary, in mundanity, because death is something that happens, that just happens, and the world won’t stop spinning, and the people won’t stop living, or working or resting, because death is will always be the ending of life, there is no parabolic cycle in which death ceases, there is no reality in which it doesn’t morph to become normal.

Death is nothing but enabling the living. Bonded grief, safe only in the prism of memories that become too clouded with age and rubbed with heat, it’s pristine, clarity leaving just as fast as it came. The once unrelenting image of her burned into cranials and irises, never leaving even in rest, that gut wrenching nauseating memory that becomes an aged heated picture, it’s bile rising burn felt almost daily, now instead, leaving an everlasting aftertaste.

The abhorrence keeps you grimacing after every swallow, after every breath, a reminder. A sacred oath you kept in grief and loss, in a blurred stage between depression and shock, that you’d never forget, never break their once so familiar face, their so close touch, the heat of their voice, their smile, their laugh.

Death leaves you with simple promises you’ve made in desperation, with illogical bargains, will hopeless wishes; to remember them, to seize forgetting, to be branded with the spoken syllables of their name.

You never stop whispering her name, not in rest, not in battle, not even in pleasure. It stays branded within you, it plants its feet within your mind to grow, to wilt, to seize, and then to repeat, until it is an endless cycle. An endless cycle of remembering and then forgetting, and the cruel chastising after. Mind incredulous at its audacity to leave the grief, even momentarily, heart clenching with guilt, wilting from red to grey, to grey to red.

You had grown accustomed to this battle, to this routine, and any assuring hand or concerned advice was shushed away into the overflowing cabinet. Steve had tried, really, tried, unrelenting desire to help, to free you from this repetition you’ve consumed yourself with.

The same ignorant belief that spurred him into rescuing James Buchanan Barnes, the belief that sent him into hiding, his dark Captain uniform becoming second skin, it’s star turning black with use and age of his rogue.

He’d found you at the funeral then, his hands wrapped around your face, scanning in concern over your faltering expression. He begged you to let him in, let him share the burden of grief, let him see you, goddamn, just see you. You hadn’t, and you still don’t now.

Instead you laughed, the loudly inappropriate sound booming across the greened lawns. Vibrating off those goddamn black umbrellas before bounces across the cemetery grass. You had turned heads, mouths opened in shock at your confidence, your disrespect.

How dare you stand there amongst them whilst they mourn her death, and laugh?

Her casket empty because they didn’t have a body to bury, even despite your request to bring her back, use the god awful gifts given to you by crazed scientists for good, they had refused, and so she was left there to rot whilst you fiend a funeral that seemed so wrong, so inappropriate, so dumb. She would’ve thought it was, anyway.

You couldn’t help it, it was beyond your control. You laughed louder at their faces, leaning back, clapping a hand across your mouth, trying, failing at hiding your emotional outburst. You willed your body to stop, you knew what would come next, and Steve did too, his body stepping closer to catch you. You felt yourself falling before you actually did, the gut nauseous change toppling you over as your snickers turned into sobs, your eyes burning with mascara and hot with tears.

You didn’t want to cry, not here, not in front of everyone, you’d much rather it in your bathtub fully clothed with a bottle of some Russian hard liquor she used to love. Drink away the embarrassingly pedestrian funeral. Curl a hand around the base of the bottle until it shattered at the thought of a weightless casket.

Steve held you close, protective arms wrapped around you, cocooning you in his warmth and grip, shielding you from the prying ears and eyes of the faceless crowds of people that didn’t know her.

You begged Steve why?

Why had she done it? Why had she sacrificed the one thing you’ve ever needed in life? Why had she gone and bleached her ledger if it meant leaving you? You couldn’t understand, you wouldn’t, your mind heavy and pounding with a headache.

Steve walked off with you in his arms, motioning for Banner and Stark to follow, carrying you into a tinted Chevrolet, or Mercedes’ or whatever unmarked suv was surely organised by Stark, the billionaire's strategic planning for your eventual mental breakdown. Better to have you shielded from the public, kept shut into the tinted windows of vehicles instead of in upstate New York’s most prestigious fucking graveyard. Didn’t need the rest of the world to watch on as an Avenger loses her grip on reality.

You may be infected with grief and loss but you weren’t fucking stupid, you had a duty, even now in grief, a duty branded to you the moment you took up the mantle of an Avenger. People were scared, the world was scared, and they’re only hope was you, and for them to see you, see you like this, show them you felt pain and hurt and loss, would be to show them that you were just like them. Human. Capable of the same fucking depression and grief they felt everyday.

It was disturbing, it was fucking inappropriate that’s what it was, how dare you? How dare you shake them with the reality that you were still helpless to the destruction of death? How fucking dare you become them. How dare you warp their sense of superiority and benevolence they’ve granted you? It didn’t make sense, it couldn’t.

The public couldn’t comprehend that you could grief, that you felt the natural process of human emotion. Or maybe they did know, and had grown accustomed to the stoic, emotionless barrier the Avengers had glazed over themselves, maybe they had learnt to see them not for who they wore, or who they were, but for what they served. Their purpose. Their mission. Thier weaponised killing and justified murder.

It was hushed behind the backs of their minds but it was true, the avengers weren’t seen as people, they were dehumanised, it was the only way they could rationalise it, they needed them. How could you save them if you needed saving? How could you save them when you couldn’t even save yourself?

The motions of the unmarked car grow thick, your limbs lazy and lagging, sore from your depression.

You cried more inside the haven of the fabric walls of the car, leaning into Steve’s lap, Banner's finger crazing over your leg in assurance. Whispering “I know, I know, I know”.

You hated her, hated what she’s done, you’d screamed it then, pulling a fist into your mouth, your mind begging for your body to stop.

Steve gently pulled your hand away from your jaw, resting your head in the croon of his neck instead, humming softly at your blubbering, the silent wake after you cried the last of the moisture from your eyes, the dehydration from your ministrations settling in.

The ride was short, or at least it felt like that, you didn’t really know, consumed with burying your face into Steve’s white button up. He leaned into you, brushing your coils from its dampened rest on your forehead. You liked the smell of him, Steve, his musky scent of patchouli and something earthly remained exactly as it was the first time you met, it was the only thing that hadn’t changed, beneath cologne and dirt there it layed, all these years.

You would’ve made a joke of it in different circumstances, today wasn't that day, perhaps it would be long until that time came. His scent was the only thing you’ve kept now, it’s the only thing you know now, his scent is like a stamped reminder of everything you’ve lost and the very few you still have.

“Hey, sweet girl, we gotta get up” He whispered it cautiously, calculating if maybe the uttered words would spring you into another breakdown.

Muffling a groan you raised from his lap, tugging at his hands pulling them towards you. He wrapped an arm around you as he eased the both of you out of the car, the hard cement felt like pillows under your black heels, marshmallowy and soft, like your movements weren’t really there, like you’ve sunk into the depths of the Earth.

Fluttering your eyes across your surroundings you realise you’re in the Towers carpark, the noticeable, embroidered A centred at the front. You don’t know how long it’s been since you’ve been here, avoiding the place all together, avoiding her smell, her room, her clothes, her being within these spaces. It was too much, one morning entering the tower had you leaving in muffled sobs, too much.

Steve squeezed your arm, sensing your thoughts;

“You have to try, you’ll never recover if you don’t at least try” He whispered, an optimistic expression on his face that had you scoffing.

“You know Steve, for someone who’s lost the love of their life, I thought at least you’d give me a fucking break” You raise your face at him, lips trembling.

He gulps back a swallow, cerulean blues glazed in pain and sadness as he reviled, and begged you not to continue you’re fevered rant.

“I don’t want to try, I don’t want to do anything, try for what? For what Steve? A life that’s half pretending I’m over it and half wishing it was me?!”

“She’s gone, forever, just like that, and I just, I just, my heart, Stevie, my heart hurts goddamnit. She did this, she made my heart hurt, and I hate her for it, I hate her, I hate her, I hate her!”

Steve watched you scream your obscenities, taking on the wrath of your anger and delirium because that’s just who he is. You feel yourself doing it and you hate it, why can’t you just get over it? Why does your heart have to burn all the time? Why can’t she give back that piece she has of you? The one she’s kept since you’ve loved her? You need it, you need it, you need it back really bad.

“Please,” Steve pleaded, begged, bargained for your resolve, trying to reach the depths of your mind in which you were cognitive, in which you had reason.

“You need to sleep, you have to sleep” He said it like a suggestion, he meant it as a command.

You were too tired to resist the strength of his arms, and the heat of them. You let yourself be tucked into a bed in a darkened room, you let your mind tug into the abyss of sleep. That night was the one night you had gotten any proper sleep, you had no idea why, until you woken and smelt her everywhere. Steve had put you in Natasha’s room. Your first instinct was to scream at him, slap him for doing this to you, grief the moment when you didn’t have to face the reality of her death.

Months later, you’d thank him, you’d take him out for dinner at her favourite restaurant, and look over the menu without tears burning your vision. Eat a full meal instead of small bites Steve or Clint would feed you.

You didn’t know what would’ve happened to you if you hadn’t slept in her room that night. You didn’t know if you’d ever really recover, and that’s not to say you're okay now, no, things weren’t ever going to be as they wore before. Death crafts you a new normal, it gifts you with perseverance, with awkward party tricks and horrible sentence starters called I lost the love of my life.

You had stopped being angry by the second month, you had nothing to be angry about anymore, just gaping holes in the places she’d once warmed.

You were a shell of a person for a long time, depressed and anxious, all nail biting and knuckles in palms. You weren’t the cool depressed, the “weed” medicating anxious, you were the weeping-into-the same-jumper depressed. You were the eat everything within the kitchen or go days without food until you hunched over in stomach spasms kind of anxious. You were a mean drunk, or, maybe you became one after, you’d always remembered how she loved when you were tipsy, she wouldn’t like it now.

Steve had stayed through all of it, every single part of yourself you became and evolved through. God you willed yourself to create distance, keep him at arms length so you never have to go through what you’d gone through, but Steve, he is an enigma, a man out of time, a man who finds dealing with you at your worst more normal than operating a fucking Iphone. You knew through all of this, through the nights he sat at your bedside waiting for your hiccuped breathing to get heavy, that it was for him too. Steve needed this as much as you did, if not more.

You’d often say you credit Steve to saving your life, but he saved so much more than that. He saved your soul, the memories and versions of you that felt so foreign sometimes, miles away. You were sure if you’d died then and there, people would remember you as the one that went crazy, the Avenger that couldn’t get a grip, Steve made sure you became more than that, the Avenger who went crazy but still laughed at his jokes.

Steve became your favourite person, he became your safe haven after a hard day, the person you felt at ease with, the only time you really ungripped your hands and let your shoulders fall.

Sometimes, when he felt really honest, he’d tell you about Peggy, you’d watch him whilst you both sat on the balcony in the moons of the night, watch as the gleams of love, sorrow and longing took over his face, he’d catch himself soon though, when you leaned in too close, when you looked at him a little too understanding.

This was for him too remember, and he hadn’t finished grieving even centuries later. And so you’d watch him grip his jaw and shut his mouth, paint his face with a pained smile, watch those cerulean blues fall.

There were questions that were never answered even now, even years later when her grave had grown over with green grass, and the insects and worms had eaten away at the wood of her casket.

You’d made a promise to never forget her, to always keep her branded into the cranium of your mind, and that never changed, she was always there, even if her face had melted with age and the edges of your memories had grown wilt with life.

You'd grow to accept it, you trusted yourself to that, maybe not now, maybe not until decades past, when you're on a rocking chair on the front porch of a lake house. But you would.

Natasha’s death wasn’t spectacular, she didn’t get a street or a school named after her, her poses weren’t sculptures in museums, or featured in Smithsonian’s. She simply existed. From the span of indescribable time on Earth. That was the most beautiful part, she was kept alive in the minds that knew her, not in the cinderblock pieces of public space to be observed by hundreds, or on the piece of graveled road that would become rusted with holes and overgrown by weeds.

She’d stay, in the minds of yours, in the head that had a thousand streets with her name, a hundred sculptures of her, a million movements Yelena would hate.

In your mind, grief never banked the shore, never fell or washed over, it morphed, in the sun, in the rain, in the wind, it glinted in light until you saw it for what it only ever was;

Love.

85 notes · View notes

helahades · 4 years

Text

By the Water Fountain

(Natasha Romanova x Black!Fem!Reader)

A/N: This is my entry into @fanfictionaries trope challenge! I sort of completely twisted the prompt up. Mine was Best Friend’s Brother.

This fic doubles as a songfic for Water Fountain by Alec Benjamin.

I recommend listening to that song before reading. ( on youtube // on spotify )

Warnings: Red Room like abuse. Codependency. Trauma. Angst. Rejection. Seriously, abuse. Everyone is abused. Injury. Dissociation. Trauma.

Word Count: 3.4k

—

Under a blended peach sky, and during the in between that hangs both the sun and moon, a pretty girl is thinking about her soft and unshakable love for you.

Practice is over, and you’re smiling, looking out across the courtyard from where you sit with Natasha on the fountain’s edge.

“Do’ya ever want to get married, Natalia?”

When you say her name, it’s tangy and sharp, the Russian way, with a hint of Spanish, but gentle all the same. A drip of nectarine streams over your lip and down your chin, and you don’t even catch and cover it like you might if you weren’t high on dreams.

This dance academy seems like forever sometimes—its been years of your life since they demanded your recruitment—but you always take time to dream. If you don’t, Nat won’t, and her unspoken appreciation of your hope keeps the both of you warm.

At first, because she can’t help it, she thinks about marrying you, as if that’s what you meant.

“Maybe someday, I guess,” comes a thoughtful monotone that only Nat can conjure, “Why—you thinking about marrying Alec?”

“God no,” you huff, cuddling into her shoulder as the fruit goes bitter. She opens up to you physically in a minute way, receiving your warmth and closeness despite the neutrality of the coming breeze.

“Well...I just don’t know actually,” you continue, “The two of us fell in love way too young, you know… And I needed him then, so maybe it was more like dependence.”

Shifting on the cool stone of the fountain's edge, you are suddenly aware of the way the tights sit on the skin of your thighs, stretching with each movement.

It becomes hard not to think about the love shell you’re trapped in. Everyone at the academy has found a different way to cope, and for some, including the you of the past, that meant lying with someone just to remember intimacy.

That was before. Before you knew the meaning of the word, and before after dance practice naps in your little haven turned into kissing and heat and softness.

Some days, swaddled up and tangled with the other, you would press kisses under Nat’s jaw, where she smelled like cinnamon and flowers and fabric softener, and she would giggle like the world never gave any weight to feeling. She would dance her fingers along your spine when the peach stretched into moonlight, and the darkness would stun her into remembering you’re promised to another. Her brother.

“Sometimes, Nat…I think I love you instead, and that kinda scares me.”

You look at her, you squeeze the sour fruit.

She says nothing.

Her rejection is acid to your soul.

—

Shadows and blown glass and dried petals and the wood of your apartment at sunset.

It all runs through Natasha’s mind in a haze when she begins to think about the energy here and why she loves it, and why it feels so secret. She doesn’t go this far, but it all feels like sapphic poetry that a man might try to capture, but would never understand if he barged in here. It’s a secret world made for fond hearts.

When the both of you are here, you can pretend that your instructor doesn’t make you repeat across the floor routines til you bleed, or that you haven’t been criticized to the point of tears and vice. You shed the day together, so that when the masks go on in the morning, they aren’t shoved away by the bends of emotion. You touch and whisper and still yourselves passionately, being at one with dancing dust and ticking clocks.

Some days, you can’t explain, but she always understands, it’s easier to lie still and it feels like autonomy after a day of being forced to move. You can’t stop stretching your ankles and marking routines, and some nights you wake sobbing when the transition of a routine leaves you. But she’s here, like she always is, as you are for her.

You remind her to eat, when to stop, and when to put on clothes when the AC chill rattles too bitingly. You dream for her, until she can do it alone, and her soft grins grow into beaming cheesy smiles.

When you kiss her, she’s sweet. Her lips are plump and hydrated (because you can only stop dancing to drink water) and she makes soft sweet sounds against you that run down your throat and into your heart.

When she kisses you, she’s breathless, and she remembers all the ways you taught her to dream. She likes to hold your hand and kiss you languidly or sharply, like you have all the time, or none of it. Hands pushing up tank tops, thighs between each other, collarbone kisses, then Alec. He comes to take Nat home, to tell her it’s time to go, and he kisses you hard and scratchy before slamming the door, stealing your peace, and shattering your haven.

—

It’s not that you don’t like Alec. You did at one point, even feel in love with him. His energy is as strong as his body, and he seems to comically be everything Natasha isn’t. He fills rooms with overwhelming charm, his dancing is sharp, agile, cutting through the air like licks of flame.

You prefer to see Natasha dance in her tortured grace, she can be quick, but when allowed, her grace is slow like a bloom and moves outward from her form.

Natasha and Alec both have learned how to play this system. They’re both clever and witty, but Natasha is the best because of natural skill, while Alec is exceptional because he still runs the sibling rival race that Natasha dropped from years ago.

Alec plays everything to win, he is outwardly passionate, and to be the focus of his attentions is a life secured in… something. You love him in the way that you must love someone that is good enough, that can get you out of here.

If Natasha would say the word, you would leave him. She doesn’t hesitate because of some familial loyalty. Her brother isn’t a jerk, necessarily, just oblivious to the finer things. Nothing about the unique circumstances they’ve survived together brought them closer together as siblings. Natasha didn’t know that hurt people could heal from two into one. She didn’t know people should have someone to confide in, and you don’t really either.

Alec is just… a pleaser. A source of abject power in social circles. He rides the line of knowing how to deliver performance, but knowing which one will get the right results. He controls. And he is incredibly hedonistic. It’s hard not to compare this with how you and your best friend only try to pleasure the other. She lives for your smiles, even if they’re just chemical, and even if she has to squint for them in the moonlight.

There’s just something about having someone who knows hurt in the same way as you without explanation. You scratch a line in the baseboard by your door when one of you sprains or breaks an ankle again from the incessant repetitions forced upon you at the academy. You’re both fucked up enough to laugh about it.

You roll frozen water bottles over knots and stretch through the resistance of scar tissue. When the sky falls into the time of buttery peach, she falls into you, warm like sunset and lovers’ candles. You like to kiss between her thighs, where she smells sweet like sugar cane, even like bubbly hand soap, and you kiss the moons where her nails dug into her thighs too hard when she tried not to let the instructor make her cry. In the soft tissue of your underarms, when you fold over her, sometimes you feel the gentle drag of her body’s scattered hairs. And it’s intimate in ways unspeakable.

She’s pink everywhere. In her cheeks, in the reflection of her hair on the walls, between her thighs, and her lips. She feels vulnerable with you. It’s enjoyable in a way she resists some days. Reminds her of getting tickled. She hates it just like she hates not being able to pull the thread back that unwinds from her heart, and the way she opens when you smile at her.

It’s intimate and innocent the way you learn how another woman’s body can be different. The rounds of your nipples are wider, darker, softer in their edges. The curls of the hair on your mound roll into you, framing you, while Natasha’s aim down, straight, the way rain points down windows. Your eyes are honeyed caramel, Natasha’s are the splashes from the water fountain. You could look at each other forever. But you don't. You have class in the morning.

A frigid and grating rap of knuckles lets you know Alec is here. Shooting up, it’s a flurry of sweatpants and tossed scrunchies, a routine you and your best friend know too well. When you come to the door, he pushes in like he does, kisses you with the sharp grating of his newly shaved face. He groans into it, pulling you in with a scoop of a muscled arm. When he pulls away, your head drops. You can’t see her cat eyes, her firey hair, her composed face wearing its mask before she really should.

“Nat. Walk yourself alone, tonight,” Alec commands into the night, eyeing you with the calm and cool intent of predation, freezing the wax of your candles. The crickets seem too hush outside.

Nat makes for the door, with a face that reads as stoic to anyone who can’t read the slight upward curl of her lips. She pulls the ends up like strings, lest they melt into a grimace in front of this man made of fire.

“Are you sure”—

You knew it was futile before you began. He raises an eyebrow like you’re crazy, and she’s looking back, just for a second, eyes like oceans, before she picks up her bag and is out the door, walking brusquely across the quad.

You wish the chill had swallowed you instead. That you had slammed the door.

Motions happen.

You pull off your shirt, because he never knows how, he carries you to your little bed. His belt buckle hits the floor like a gunshot, and when he crawls over you, you stare at the ceiling.

—

“Baby,” he nudges.

When he touches you, you leap out of the fog, sleep leaving in a gasp.

He knows.

When he passed out without learning to perfectly spot during fouettés, they dumped buckets of ice water on his bare back. Poked him in the ribs for not improving his cambré. Made him balance relevé in the snow, naked, for falling out of it on an off day. You know why he’s the best. And it’s not because he wants to be.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, accent tumbling. He rolls closer to where you sit, hands pulling your waist til you’re close enough to gather in his arms. He tugs you to lie with him. It’s comfortable enough.

“Baby,” he starts again, massaging a welt on your shoulder, “we need to get out of here.”

You want to scream at how obvious it is. You think about how you’ve cried it on your bathroom floor. How Natasha would say “One day.”

“And baby,” he whispers again, soft like he can’t stop, always, every night, “we’re doing it together.”

He presses a ring into your hand. It might not fit, it’s most likely stolen. But that’s not the point.

“I love you.”

The innocence has left.

—

The sun has risen, the sky is white like it’s running off a dandelion, and you’re in class.

Rose. Roza. You’re the rose, the pretty flower, paired with fire for a man.

You’re in the middle of a showcase—new dancers, new victims watching your display, sitting in a line against the mirrors, watching your demonstration with Alec before they themselves will go on and show their best.

It’s controlled—always. Each turnout and disengagement from the floor matches a single piano note. You face away from each other, the idea being that you can only trust yourself to be on time, and that your partner must know you won’t fail. There is a lift at the end, that depends on this synchronization, and if you fall before Alec comes ready from his pirouette, you’ll surely be injured. He’s always ready, it’s hardly a worry.

Launching out of your plié, you spin like leaves in the wind, like the flower they named you. Catching his eye as he plants after the pirouette, he catches you by the hips, raising you with a press of his shoulders. A gentle wrist, pointed toes, arched back, and the silence of your peers. Nobody claps. Claps are for the surprised.

When Alec lets you down, slowly and controlled, at least fifteen seconds after the final note, you catch a red bun when your vision levels. Mask sealed.

—

“Did you get home safe?”

“We don’t have homes.”

“Clearly not,” you spit, burning with her rejection.

Her face says nothing. You can only hear the spouting, rushing water.

“Does it not matter to you, Natalia,” you question, voice breaking slowly.

Her voice never comes.

“We’re getting married—Alec and I…”

You say it carefully. Like a threat. Hoping she’ll care.

“I remember the you that couldn’t imagine that.”

“I remember the you that didn’t make me want to.”

She looks bored. Like she’s waiting through the tantrum of a child. Your heart swells. Irritated with anger. Mask cracking.

You turn the ring in your pocket, upset with letting her win. Upset with knowing this is how it ends, and that your one day isn’t together. Upset with spending endless nights growing into her, just for her to watch you leave with indifference.

Pulling out a coin, the one that matches hers, the ones that you found before the fountain, you watch where she sits. You watch until she looks at you, and slide it closer to the water. You don’t push it in.

“He says he loves me. Who knows if he means it. But he said it...and you didn’t. I can’t be here forever, Nat.”

She blinks, willing words to come, and as you walk away, they still haven’t.

The sky turns sour.

—

Porcelain. Smooth, painted baby angel porcelain. You twirl like you’re in a music box, like a spring propels you. You dance until the days blend together, and you perform for Americans. You dance until they want to take you.

The rose and the flame.

—

Your American pointes are stiff. They expect you to break in new ones. When the sky turns peach, you’re under fluorescents, twirling like the wind. Twirling for hours.

“I heard Americans smell like wet dogs.”

He doesn’t bother to be quiet, and he’s smiling with the promise of intertwined futures. It also helps that no one practices as late as you, lovers more in love with a journey to come.

“I heard they have a lot of money.”

“That, they do, Roza,” his tongue rolls Russian, and he crosses to kiss the tips of your fingers. He’s so sweet in the nights.

His hands are unwrapped, his regular shoes are on the floor. Your eyes flicker to them, disapproving, before looking at him. Regular shoes scuff the dance floor.

“What will they do?”

He pulls your arms out of third, pulls your hands into his, stroking your locked up knuckles, undoing the forced curves of your hands. He’s telling you to come with him. To rest your overworked body. There will be plenty of time to practice in America.

It’s a sweet moment, soured only by being the wrong ending, and your unfinished business.

“Come with me. It’s our last night in this stupid place. Let’s celebrate.”

You let him pull you close. You kiss him and you mean it.

“I just have one thing to do.”

—

Knocking on Nat’s door, you realize it’s the first time you’ve done so and been unsure if she would answer. It’s 2am, after all, and the words you spoke before were very final.

When the door swings open, not enough time passes for a wait. She hadn’t been sleeping. There aren’t many words. There doesn’t have to be. What would you even say, really?

You go for a hug, but closing the distance, it morphs into a kiss. A gentle one. A sweet meet of the lips. A goodbye. Then, both of you are crying. Neither of you knows enough about America, enough about life without the other...but too much about saying goodbye.

There aren’t any words because they’re the kind of words you’ve already said to other people. The words that you hate to hear, that have been wrung too many times from the back of your throat to cover the spaces between that no language can. There aren’t words to say how this sucks.

Your lover, your confidante, your supporter. You try not to think about that strange fight. You try not to think about how she couldn’t say she loves you. You both know she does. Only she knows that her love won’t save you from this place. If you leave and have a boring life with Alec in some city or countryside, at least no one will beat you again. No more broken ankles, and no more bad jokes about them.

Some place squeezes in the back of your throat, pulling at the wells of your eyelids. When she pulls out your coin, the one you left behind, she presses it into your hand, watery tears on her pink cheeks, and she looks like a peach sky. Standing together with silent tears, it’s a moment before you calm them, breathing together like you would when tears meant harder hits.

You put the coin in your bra, giggling, because there’s nowhere else for it to go. She giggles too, and it’s a stupid thing, but the thing you find, because something needs to do. Something needs to be tallied in the baseboards.

“He’s waiting for me,” you whisper in your watery voice.

It’s always like this. Someone always has to start it with a timer.

You come closer because she’s so warm.

She strokes your face, pushing back some fly away hairs.

“You’ll do amazing. Don’t mess it up there. Don’t doubt yourself. Don’t be afraid of them…”

She pauses, conducting the waves that threaten her composure.

“Don’t forget me...I won’t forget you.”

And that is the most she can give. That is her love, in different words, and that is the most she can say without you deciding to stay. You’d tough it all out with her, but it wouldn’t be right. She will make it out. You need to believe it.

You kiss her again. You hold her hands, and you walk away before more tears fall.

—

When you wake up, your back and legs ache, but the sunlight is in your bones, and your soul is light with new beginnings, and mourning like you’re already gone.

Alec made love to you last night, and you enjoyed it. Maybe… maybe there’s some understanding. Maybe life won’t be bad.

When you’re walked to the car that will take you to the plane, you pass the water fountain. The sky is blinding and empty. So is the seat that Nat usually takes. You taste nectarines.

Alec squeezes your shoulder, and you’re back in the moment. He tells you he loves you, the wind twirling around like a blessing. It feels unearned.

It’s an easy car ride, and as time clicks by on the digital clock, you recoil at the car freshener blowing into your nose with the biting freeze of the air conditioner. You can’t stop watching that clock. You take moments when you know Natasha’s alarm is ringing on her floor, when class starts, when lunch begins.

You think about what the American schedule will be like all the way to the plane. You wonder where you’ll go when the sky turns peach.

Soaring over cities, you see water. You see the glimmer of Nat’s tears, and you wonder if she’ll see the same sea when she makes it out.

You wonder if she’ll think of you too.

—

(reblogs appreciated!)

tags: @xbuchananbarnes (ty honey) @invisibleanonymousmonsters (ily) @threeminutesoflife @honeychicanawrites @sapphirescrolls @tropicalcap @mariahthelioness29 @avintagekiss24 @allaboardthereadingrailroad @venusbarnes @hurricanerin

#fanfictionariesclassictropechallenge #nat x reader #natasha romanoff x reader #natasha x reader #ballet au #dancer!au #nat x black!reader #natasha x black!reader #natasha romanoff x black!reader #black!reader #woc!reader #nat x woc #nat x woc!reader #nat angst #natasha angst

103 notes · View notes

stachmousworld · 4 years

Text

Avenge me tomorrow (Ch.5)

Summary: Nat’ has enough. Bruce is green. They all need to talk.

Previously: Thea fled. The team is left alone.

Part 1 - Part 2 - Part 3 - Part 4 - Part 6 - Part 7 - Part 8 - Part 9 - Part 10 - Part 11

Avengers Tower

They all saw Thea almost running to the elevator. Nat’ was the first to move. She hadn’t been as shocked as the others because she expected it. Like Bruce, who was just behind her. When he told her about last night, how he found Thea in the communal room alone, Nat’ had been appalled.

It’s true that after watching the video, she had to take a few cold showers to repress her arousal. But after watching it again, this time closely, some things had seemed off. She hadn’t been able to tell what precisely, until Bruce and she talked – or more like when she tried to talk him out of destroying the entire tower. He had worked himself in a murderous fury. She had tried all the songs she’s known and a few child stories, with no success.

For the first time.

Nat’ remembered vividly being hopeless and scared for Bruce. Even though he had put himself in the Hulk-room for the reminder of the night, she hadn’t been able to shake off the reasons why he’d been so mad. When he came back to himself, at dawn, Bruce had long ranted on the lack of aftercare and the unease he had felt toward the end at Thor’s words. He had been so agitated, even under his human form, that he had fallen back into his old self-destructive ways. After a transformation so sudden, he used to scratch his forearms, punch the walls and starve himself.

Nat’ had deplored not being with him physically. She would have hugged him and provided some care: food, massage, or only her presence.

And then it clicked.

It was supposed to be normal, between them, to take care of the others or even to stay together. They were all well-documented on subspace and the dangers of letting the sub alone. Above all in a poly-relationship. Their scenes could get heavy and loaded really quick. They were so used to be with each other that they’d forget how difficult it could be for a sub. Even if some of them were switch, they never really lost themselves like Thea would do. She’d fall into subspace so beautifully that Nat’ has prayed to God every day to make it last.

Guess, this time he didn’t listen to her prayers.

Between the speech of Thor, the denying of basic care and attention for Thea, Nat’ had witnessed their train slowly get off rail. She knew deep down they had crossed a line. Bucky’s genuine concern and Thea’s body language have put her on edge. Nat’ had been undercover at that time. She hadn’t been able to call them nor ask JARVIS to put a halt on the scene.

Now, she regretted it more than anything. They should have been clearer about their relationship. They should have sat down, with Thea, and revealed their true intentions. All the things unsaid and the ambiguous situations piled up until they blew out. Like a huge pile of shit.

And now, Thea was gone. She was probably thinking that they played her and that they only saw her for her body and not mind. Sure, they were not nice people, but they’d never toy consciously with people. Unless it was a mission.

Thea had been honest from the beginning about everything. Her kinks, her lifestyle, what she wanted with them, and instead of admitting what they wanted, to have a real polyamorous relationship with her, they stayed silent. It wasn’t as if they didn’t care for her at all. She was curious, sarcastic, super smart and inventive, nice, and sexy.

What had been attractive about her wasn’t her beauty. Even at first. No, it had been her snark. She knew what she wanted, and she went for it. Along the lines, they had forgotten that behind that façade, there was someone. They sure as hell talked a lot about her. About their feelings and how hopeless they felt, but it seemed that they didn’t get their point across. She was everything they had wanted to complete them.

The team was one and as one, they tended to love the same kind of people and fight for the same causes. But when in love, they found it hard to find someone who wouldn’t ran away because of the number of partners involved or their lifestyle.

So, when Nat’ witnessed Thea dissociation and anxiety every time one of them made a suggestive remark, she knew she was right.

They had fucked up.

Nat’ ran after Thea and tried to reach her, but the doors closed. Thea hadn’t reply when they called after her. She didn’t even turn around.

“Jarvis, can you block the elevator?”

“I’m afraid, I can’t Miss Romanov,” Jarvis replied.

“Why not?” Tony asked, surprised.

“Miss Carmelia has an important meeting.”

Nat’ sighed and thanked Jarvis anyway. Tony muttered something about creating an AI too perfect.

“What’s happening?” Clint asked, confused. “Why did she run off like the devil was chasing her?”

“We’ll talk about that later. First, let’s find her, Steve and Bucky you take the stairs and Thor, the airway. Don’t let her go away.”

They came back a few minutes later. Without Thea. What a surprise, Nat’ thought bitterly. She glanced at Bruce who stared straight in front of him, jaw locked. She could vaguely see a hint of green on his skin.

“So, where is the wonder girl?” Clint asked.

“We didn’t see her leave,” Steve explained, not even out of breath.

“Thor, did you have any chance?” Clint continued, as Thor landed on the balcony. He swirled his hammer a few times, eyebrows frown. Clint was about to ask again -

“Nay. I have scanned the entrance of the building and didn’t see her,” he replied pensive.

Natasha refrained herself from throttling them for their obvious lack of concern and took a deep breath instead. She had hope to salvage whatever the fuck, they managed to mess up, but with Thea gone and the idiots here, it might be more difficult.

“We have to talk,” she declared coldly. “Everyone in the living room. Now!”

The group settled quite calmly. Steve had a concentrated face, Bucky looked somewhat guilty and knowing, Bruce had still a hint of green in the eyes and didn’t look any of them, Thor was surprisingly lost in his thoughts and Tony…well Tony was looking rather sick.

Nat glanced at Bruce.

“If you need to go to your room, I’ll understand.”

He growled, shaking his head vehemently. Nat looked at him for a couple of second and nodded, respecting his choice. She settled into Clint’s opened arms.

“What the fuck was that yesterday guys?”

Next chapter

#polyavengers #avengers x reader #character of color #original character of colour #avenger x woc character #black!female character #avengemetomorrow #steve rogers #natasha has enough #natasha romanoff #bruce x natasha #avengers x black!reader #avengers x plus size reader #thor

48 notes · View notes

cthulhu-calling · 1 year

Text

Illusions of Love II

Bucky Barnes x Natasha Romanoff x f!Reader

Warnings : fluff, smut, angst, threesomes, LDR, inaccurate information about Egypt (sorry)

Author’s Note : This is a NatxBuckyxf!Reader story. Whatever I’ve written about Egypt and ancient Egypt is made up and I cannot vouch for it’s validity. Please feel free to correct me if I am wrong. I’ve tried to be as respectful as possible and I apologize if the content offends anyone.

I always imagine reader as a woc but try not to use many descriptive words so my fics can be read by anyone. This work is not beta’d and any and all mistakes are my own. Comments and feedback is always appreciated.

Word Count : 1182

series masterlist

You look at yourself in the dirty mirror, contemplating if you should maybe put some makeup on. Maybe some lipstick. And mascara. Yeah, good enough. You grab a sweater for when it gets colder. You spray a little bit of perfume on and that’s it.

Dr. Nasser lived in Alexandria and you were absolutely dreading the drive. When it was just you and Natasha, you could talk about work or just sit in comfortable silence. But you know the dynamic has changed since James’ arrival. God, it’s just a crush! Why are you getting so intense about this? Natasha had let Mr. Hassan leave for the night so you had to get a fare taxi so you couldn’t even count on him to cut the tension.

You waited near the main tent for the two of them, shaking your leg even as you stood. You have no idea why you’re this nervous. When they did show up, you had to do a double take. My goodness, they’re the most attractive couple you’ve ever seen. You need to calm down.

“Ready to go Y/n?” Natasha asks, smirking.

“Yes, I’d take a good home cooked meal over sandwiches any day. And I can’t wait to see Hen again,” you’re smiling by the time you finish that sentence.

“Yes, I cannot deny that she’s growing on me too,” Natasha says, smiling genuinely too.

“Who’s Hen?” James asks.

“Mrs. Nasser’s cat. She’s adorable,” you gush.

“And chubby,” she points out.

“Chonky,” you giggle.

“Okay, now I gotta see this cat,” James declares.

The taxi shows up and you get into the front even though both of them insist it should be Bucky sitting up front. You’re weirded out but accept anyhow.

“So, Y/n, you’re a grad student?” James asks.

“Yeah, art history. That’s why I’m pretty lucky I got this internship or my job prospects would be nil,” you joke.

“Oh, please, Y/n. You are my best student. You were gonna be fine with or without this job,” Natasha declares and you can feel the heat rise to your cheeks. She’s never complimented you outright before. Not like this.

“Thank you,” you mumble, unable to hold back a smile.

“So, are you seeing someone?” James asks. You can say you weren’t expecting that line of questioning.

“Um, no. Not really,” you mumble. You decide they don’t need to know about the boyfriend that broke up with you when you said you were leaving for three months. Apparently, three months without sex would surely drive him crazy. That day you’d made a mental note, never date an ex-frat boy.

“You don’t have to tell us if you don’t want to,” he reassures and you can hear the guilt in his tone at the prospect of having made you feel uncomfortable.

“No, it’s just complicated,” you brush it off.

The hand that lands slowly on your knee sends a bolt of electricity through you. Natasha’s small but weathered hand gently squeezes your knee and you find yourself wishing you’d worn something shorter, just to feel her skin on yours.

“I’m here if you ever wanna talk about it,” she says and removes her hand with a final pat. All you can do is nod your head, still reeling from her touch.

The rest of the ride passes in silence. Natasha and James don’t even speak to each other, oddly.

At Dr. Nasser’s house, his wife greets you with a crushing hug. She’s a tiny woman, barely five feet and no more than ninety pounds, but her hugs have never not been painful. As the two doctors and Mr. Barnes make conversation, you follow her into the kitchen where Hen is sitting at the counter. “She’s spoiled rotten,” Mrs. Nasser declares, feeding the big cat a piece of dried meat from her hands. The cat comes to greet you, rubbing herself against you and purring. You pick her up, nuzzling into her soft fur. “She deserves to be,” you say, making the older woman laugh.

You help her set the table, against her vehement protests for you to sit down and enjoy yourself. You find you could avoid making a fool of yourself if you just stuck to Mrs. Nasser’s side. Juvenile, you know, but effective. Dinner is pleasant, the food absolutely delectable. You get to know that Dr. Nasser’s son is in Dubai, working as an architect but he’s going to be visiting soon. Mrs. Nasser offers to introduce the two of you, not bothering with subtlety at all, making heat rise to your cheeks.

“What about you James? No plans on starting a family anytime soon?” she asks. There’s an instant change in the atmosphere in the room. Natasha takes a large gulp of water, putting the glass down on the table more harshly than necessary, refusing to meet anyone’s eye.

“Believe me, ma’am, there’s nothing I’d like more,” he declares and you can feel Natasha bristle next to you.

“We’re waiting for the right time,” she adds, looking directly at James from across the table.

“Yes, we’ve been waiting for the past four years for it to be the right time,” he adds, doing little to conceal his frustration. It’s awkward, the silence that envelops the table. After a few moments, Mrs. Nasser clears her throat.

“How about some dessert? Would you be so kind as to help me, Natasha?” she questions sweetly but everyone sees it for it is a distraction to ease the growing tension and no one can deny, it is absolutely welcome.

“Sure,” Natasha smiles forcefully, following Mrs. Nasser into the kitchen. It’s quiet for a few moments until Dr. Nasser engages James into a conversation about the stock market. Or at least that’s what you think they’re talking about, you're not really listening. You’re still reeling from what just happened. Guess they’re not the happy couple you thought they were.

The ride back is jarringly quiet, you’re in the back with Natasha again while James sits in the front, taking phone calls the whole time, at least till you fell asleep, involuntarily leaning your head against Natasha’s shoulder. She shakes you awake just as the car comes to a stop. You wipe drool from the corner of your mouth, embarrassed and confused as to why she didn’t wake you up sooner. As if reading your mind she says “You needed that nap. Plus, you looked cute,” she whispers the last part in your ear, making heat rise to your face.

Once you reached the site, all of you retired to your tents. You longed for your comfortable back home or even one at a hotel in Alexandria. You changed into something more comfortable, warmer before slipping into your sleeping bag. You were exhausted but you couldn’t sleep. The sweet embrace of slumber was just out of reach, your mind going back to the awkwardness of dinner. You grab the book you’d been reading, trying to focus on the words on the page but failing. You toss and turn for a while after, finally falling into a restless sleep.

#bucky barnes x natasha romanoff x reader #bucky barnes x reader #natasha romanoff x reader #female reader #f!reader #smut #fluff #angst #f/f/m #inaccurate information about egypt #i'm sorry

90 notes · View notes

peacefulwriter88 · 5 years

Text

Part Three: Such Fine Music Waits in the Shadows of Hell

Steve Rogers X Reader WoC, Bucky X Reader WoC

Warnings: M for Mature (language, SMUT)

A/N: This is a three part series inspired by the Hades and Persephone mood board I created that inspired me to write about Steve as a living Hades and a ballet reader as Persephone. You can read Part One here and Part Two here.

“Aren’t you afraid of my darkness my dear?” Hades asked with mischief dancing in his eyes. “No,” Persephone replied, “You haven’t even seen mine yet.”

-Unknown

___

I’m losing her.

There’s nothing else to say but that the woman that was my daughter no longer belongs to me.

Her cheeks blush secretly with the secret she doesn’t tell and her laughter carries a new tune that is foreign to my ears and and her eyes lie to me before her voice does.

Someone else has laid claim.

I can see it in the way she moves, her strut now of confidence her soft words full of surety. There’s a ghost that’s been whispering secrets in her ear and sputter out against me and she withdraws from me in shame.

And she leans into it willingly

“Who is he?” Reyna looks over at you, her daughter during the third rehearsal of Manon. You look up from the deep stretch you were engaged in, sweat dripping from your face as you quirk up an eyebrow and ask,

“What?”

“The man? The one who’s widened those naturally stiff hips of yours, who leaves bite marks across your neck.”

She’s disgusted that you think she wouldn’t find out, that you were still twelve and thought you could outwit her. At first you had been careful and despite her suspicions you had been consistent with your lies.

But now you were getting sloppy, his love bites were prevalent everywhere - your thighs, your neck, your cleavage and with the long rehearsal hours you had gotten lazy covering his work.

You smile, resume your position and snicker,

“Oh mother really with the dramatics. Do you think you could’ve kept me a pure innocent forever? It doesn’t matter who it is - you’d never guess anyways. What matters is that I’m still focused; I’m still showing up and providing my best and it doesn’t matter who takes me to bed when I’m done.”

Reyna gasps, she knows the whole room has stuttered in the motions from your crisp, clear words. You had never talked back to her. You were her good girl - her angel - and you would have never found the words to rise against her.

Yet here you were. You stand up, arms stretched wide as you move from her, pass your classmates.

“I’m going to finish stretching outside. Where I’m not going to be judged.”

Reyna doesn’t have the words as she watches you saunter off.

____

Everyone’s caught wind of the tiff. Naive and sweet angelic Benedetti mouthing off to her bitchy mother Reyna, the former queen?

It spreads like wildfire.

Reyna wouldn’t be embarrassed no, would gladly ingest the whispers if there weren’t new words also tangled in gossip.

“Y/N got off her high horse and isn’t as pure as we thought anymore.”

“Apparently this guy fucks the shit out of her. Have you seen the marks he leaves all over her? God, let me find a guy like that….I loved being marked up.”

“At least she’s didn’t turn into her mother and is still quiet little Benni.”

“She got tired of being the ballets little princess and has given into sin.”

No one knows who the mystery man is.

Reyna suspects her roommates do, they all smile and giggle with you in warm up, shut down any injury inquiries that float their way and Reyna worries it’s with the director. Wouldn’t be the first time a Benedetti slept with one to get ahead, she knows, but she doesn’t want your story to end like hers.

So she presses.

Visits you unexpectedly, walks you to and from your apartment. She’s smothering you, she knows and it’s finally a cold evening that you turn on her and yell,

“Enough! I’m thirty - I’m my own woman and I can love who I please.”

“It's not about who you choose to love. You can choose whoever gives you joy. It's the fact that you won’t share who it is with me and you tell me everything.”

You sigh as you stop in your tracks and look at her. Your beauty was at its prime, the confidence that only sex and love can give you paired with the years of work you’ve invested in your body. Honestly, Reyna knew that it would only be time before someone captured your eye, stole your heart and with it your dreams.

Except she didn’t expect this, this natural rebellion, this change in attitude.

“For as simple as my life is he’s isn’t. And you had made it clear from the minute I hit puberty that love couldn’t be an option in my life. So why would I tell you?”

There is bitterness and pain in your words and Reyna reaches for you. You shrug out of her embrace, wipe at your eyes.

“Its fine,” it obviously isn’t as you move past her, walking faster, “Just respect the boundaries I’ve created in my personal life. You’ve controlled everything else about me this far, respect this.”

You storm away, annoyed and Reyna watches your shadow disappear into the night.

____

She is kindness.

She is hope.

She is rivaled light and good, her energy radiates out of her pores. She dances a tango of life and death and doesn’t trip up in its complicated discourse, she takes his savagery and turns it into love.

Flowers weep at her departure and blossom upon her return and she has turned hell into a sanctuary of comfort, her arms a shield from thorns and bone.

She is his and he is hers and together they laugh alone.

Steve watches you as you stretch out to your toes from the comfort of the floor, the muscles in your body contracting as you reach out with ease. There is something beautiful about the way your body was layered in equal parts muscle and fat, strength and softness that captured your soul.

You were upset, you’d never voice it but the minute you stepped into his apartment, cordially greeting Sam before you walked into his bedroom he knew there was something distracting your thoughts. You had barely touched your dinner. Odd as you were ravenous lately after rehearsals and despite the topic he tried to start you wouldn’t keep the normal steady beat of a conversation.

“So I was talking to Sam,” his voice startles even him as you look over to him from your stretch, your head easily resting on your thighs and he takes a moment to admire the flexibility and strength in your body, “He’s thinking of moving out.”

Your hands stop reaching, irises looking deeply into his before you lean up, stretch out to the ceilings. Your body cracks and he winces, still uncomfortable with the natural sounds your body creates from being a dancer as you cross your legs and look at him.

“Are you going to move out to?”

He shakes his head,

“No. I like it here. I like this neighborhood - I like this privacy. I like that my neighbors treat me like any other guy who would live in a building and call me Steve. I like being able to do normal things with you here.”

You smile at him, it's the first he’s seen you crack all evening and he exhales heavily as he looks down at his hands. Their stained from ink, the nails dirtied with blood and grim from the mission he and Sam just got back from. He thought this would be easier, would come up naturally after dinner when you both were putting the dishes away or cuddled on the couch watching a new TV show you and Sam had selected.

He’s not sure of your mood, unsure if he’s the cause of your silence and it makes him insecure - hesitant for the first time in what feels like months. Knows that if Sam could witness his mild panic attack he’d tell him to hold off, to wait until you both were in better places.

He’s impatient - knows the anxiety of not asking would cripple him more than your answer so he pushes through the fog.

“Well that's good.”

Your voice is soft and velvety in that way that soothes him and he looks up at you, his eyes scrunching together.

“I suppose…..well, my point is. I was wondering if you would like to, and this is no pressure I know we’ve barely been dating, if you would like to move in with me?”

The smile on your face doesn’t break as you look over at him, whimsical before you stand up and walk toward him. He’s been sitting at the edge of the bed and you easily slid between his legs, sitting on his right thigh as you wrap your arms around his neck. You press your forehead to his own as he draws you closer to him, your breath mingling with his as you lift your hand to his cheek.

“This is a big step Steve. Not just for you or for me individually. This is a big step for us. For our relationship.”

His eyes peer into your own as he tightens his hold around you,

“I know that. I also know that there was only one other woman who has made me feel the way you make me feel when I even think about you. And I was foolish and choose the happiness of others over my own. I don’t want to repeat that again. I choose myself and I choose you.

I love you.”

It's the first time he’s voiced the words out loud. Before they felt too delicate, too fragile to expel out into the world. He’s selfish, he wants you all the time, you’ve given him the gift of what it feels like to be human again. He pictures a future with you, wants you to be the only one he makes sacrifices to and for, wants to protect you from the cruelties of the world.

Your eyes fill with wetness, thick tears that swell at the base of your eyes and spill out over your cheeks. Even when you cried you were beautiful and he leans in to press his lips to your cheeks, his mouth catching a tear before it can finish its descent down your face.

“I love you too.”

“I know.” he grins.

You smile, press your lips against his own in a kiss before you whisper,

“Yes. My answer is yes.”

____

You move in the second week into your show, a month after he has asked. You insist to him that you can wait, that there was no rush and your roommates understood but he pushes back and says he can do it easily. That he can recruit others to help out.

You only agree after insisting you must pack all of your things first.

It's an easy request.

Meanwhile the world has gone quiet - its as if having the world's population snapped in half, then snapped back into place - has provided a peacefulness in humans. Sure there were incidents that would arise but they weren’t like before. The world may not have a need for the Avengers anymore. It causes Steve to become restless, idle.

He goes to all of your shows because he has the extra time, sometimes watching in the shadows to draw your form and other times he’s in the front row, loving the passionate look of love that he only sees when you dance. His name is becoming an afterthought on people's mind, a ghost of who he was despite the missions he takes and its one Sunday morning, the both of you making breakfast together at the stove that you clear your throat, whisper,

“So I was talking to a friend and….they have an opening down at the New York School of Art. I told them about some of your work and they said that you would have an excellent chance of getting in. You know, if you wanted. And less people aren’t recognizing you on the street so you could be in peace.”

Despite the fact that your arm is wrapped around his waist, the other sauteeing onions he feels you withdrawing and he pulls you to him, kisses your head.

“Are you suggesting I go to art school?”

You bite your lip anxiously and shrug.

“I don’t know even half of what it means to be responsible for saving the world, to have the power of strength and agility running through your veins. I don’t know what it must feel like to have so much of what has come to define a part of your identity to suddenly be stolen because humans have learned the art of resting.

I do understand restlessness, of feeling caged and not being able to break through to what gives you joy and I know you don’t sleep through the night like you used to, that you spend all of your time drawing and that you're living in silence. I think you should try something that will give you joy. Just for a bit.

The world will always be around for saving.”

“I’m not sure that’s true.” He cuts you off and you exhale, placing your chin on his arm.

“That's okay. You aren’t looking at it like I am, outward in.”

“You’re telling me to sacrifice others for my own happiness?” he doesn’t mean to be defensive and you hesitate before you answer,

“I’m saying that you can choose you sometimes and not be the bad guy. That you can make your own happiness and not rely on it from others.”

He’s silent after that and you don’t approach it even further. Made it clear where you stood on the matter.

He doesn’t apply immediately. Instead, he tries to take on as many missions that come up. He was hurt by your words, he doesn’t deny that. It makes him withdraw from you and it's on a cold night that you whisper into the darkness, ‘I just don’t think fighting brings you happiness. That’s all I meant Steve. I just want you to be happy.’ Your words are hurt and broken - he knows that you’re probably crying and it causes him to draws you to him, kiss you in apology. Perhaps it didn’t. He starts to focus on the emotional connection he has when he’s fighting for freedom, the way it makes him feel after and he comes to the sound conclusion you’ve known all along.

It doesn’t feel good anymore. Not even self serving. Just another routine. Another exhausting, draining routine.

He tells you he applies one late autumn night, fresh off of a mission and not even undressed from his uniform and showered. Crawls into the large shared bed you’ve both invested in, arms drawing you back into his chest as you wrap yourself around him.

“I can’t rely on you completely for my happiness.” he whispers into your hair, holding you tightly. Tears fall from his face because he realizes that the selfishness he holds in his heart for you is because he doesn’t know how to be happy without you, that he willingly broke the heart of his best friend to try to guarantee some form of joy for himself. He doesn’t want to dilute his happiness with you, wants to know how to bring warmth to his own heart - to not live in darkness so he can give you the same joy you give him.

“I know. You’ll figure it out,” you turn to him, press your lips sleepily upon his closed eyes. “You’re not alone and I love you. Just, for once, do something for you.”

___

Break me of your bonds.

I can no longer dance in the ballet of your love. No longer want to be a slave to your beauty, my soul a prisoner to your heart.

Let me be free of you, to seek forgiveness in the act, to bathe in serendipity. May my dark heart find light in someone else, to dance a tango with a devil, to find comfort in her hell.

Let me be free,

Please.

Just let me be.

The first time is an accident. Its after he leaves Sam and Steve’s for dinner with you, an awkward two hours in which he is accosted by your presence. He tries to numb his brain of you - tries to erase the kind way you rest your hand on his metal arm or try to understand the way his calculative brain thinks through things when he’s forced with a gun in his hands or the sound of your laughter when he tells a joke.

It's not love that bonds you to him, he knows, all of your love is reserved for Steve. There is an understanding, an empathetic knowledge of what it means to be the puppet for someone else for years and to be given freedom and to fall into yourself because freedom is as foreign as living.

He cries silently on the walk back because he’s gotten to that place in his thoughts where in a world where Steve stopped existing there was no you and him. Of course that meant that in a world where there is no Steve, though, there probably wouldn’t be a him. Not the version of himself that he was today at most, he’d still be fighting his memories as the Winter Soldier.

The world operated in a cruel, manipulative balance.

So when he happens upon her, crying alone on the balcony where she thinks no one knows she sneaks off too late in the night, he just wants someone to hold. For someone who understands what it means to be robbed of happiness and to feel that there is only emptiness in the future.

He doesn’t mean to kiss her.

But he’s so touch starved, and her lipstick is as bold as her wavy red hair, she burns in the darkness that he has to have a taste. He expects her to punch him in the gut, to try to rip off his prosthetic arm, to ward him off of her but instead she leans into him just as eagerly, arms wrapping around his body.

That's how it begins.

Natasha isn’t the kind of woman who wants to be romanced, still acts cold with him on missions or when the group is forced on social outings. Except, she eagerly waits for him in the safety of his room, hands gripping for the soft fabric of his shirt, legs wrapping themselves around his waist, mouth sloppily on his own. She’s majestic in the safety of the night, laughs and whispers with him, makes promises that breathe hope into his heart as she rides him passionately. Doesn’t cower away in fear with him.

In return he tries his best to keep her happy, cleans her guns for her before missions and picks up the little russian cookies she likes to treat herself to on occasion. She laughs more, now with him instead of at him, appreciates his input when its given, challenges Steve on why he’s been so distant with his longtime friend. She quietly paints herself onto him, brushes her hands against his own in public, teases his foot under the table during briefings.

For a while he thinks he’s forgotten all about you, that you’ve become a cloudy memory in the list of cloudy memories and that he was no longer your slave - that he was free of you.

For a minute he believes he’s free.

“We should do something for each other.”

It's her voice in the darkness, arms wrapped around his own after a session of lovemaking. Her face rests on his chest and he chuckles, kisses her forehead.

“We do do things for each other. Like have sex.”

She laughs, it's not seductive and dark but light and playful as she squeezes herself to him.

“Not like that. Like go out and do something that doesn’t involve a bed and physical activity,” he laughs again as she lifts her head, her eyes twinkling in the dark. “I want to treat you to a night out. You’ve been really….great these past few months. Let's go on a date. Jump one step ahead of making it official.”

He nods, presses his lips against her own. He could do that. For her, he could try.

He doesn’t suspect it to be the last place his heart can survive.

Until he’s looking up at the building, waterfalls dancing in its twinkling lights, Natasha’s arms wrapped in his own. Convinced him into a tuxedo, herself a tight black dress as she steers him to where Steve stands, waiting for them. He’s also in a tuxedo, hands stuffed in his pockets, his face forming the beard Bucky was acquainted with when he first saw his friend in Wakanda.

“Thanks for getting us tickets Steve. There sold out - your girlfriend is making a name for herself and its damn near impossible to snag one.”

Steve is relaxed, Bucky hasn’t seen his friend in what feels like years and the blue eyes that watch him now are different from months back. They’re full of light, full of the Steve that he remembered, that he missed.

“She was happy to hold them for you. She was happy to hear that Bucky was dating someone and feeling a bit hurt he hadn’t come to see her dance.”

“You’ve met her before?” Natasha asks surprised, looking over at Bucky and Steve shrugs it off,

“She made dinner for him and Sam a few months back. She’s excited to meet you Natasha.”

Bucky’s never watched you dance, made a point to never cross that line for his heart. Knows that it's a dangerous path that it would take him down, that his heart would always belong to you and no other.

He’s right in his hypothesis.

You’re a siren, melodic and entrancing the moment you step onto the stage. There’s a powerful gentleness to the way you carry your body, a silent grace in the way you narrate the love story. There’s joy, joy that can only come from doing something you love and why Steve latched on to you, why he stole you from Bucky’s heart strings and kept you for his own.

You breathed love into life.

By the time the curtain falls there’s hot tears that pour from his eyes and it’s Natasha who wipes them away, lovingly teases the sensitive part he’s shown in public. There’s a haziness in her eyes, they glitter with her own tears but when one escape she turns away, looks at Steve and brushes it away like it was nothing.

“She’s invited you both to dinner if you want.” Steve says lowly, above the chatter of the theater patrons and Bucky wants to say no but Natasha is faster as she breathes out ‘yes, of course’.

The restaurant isn’t far from the theater, the same one Bucky had followed you and Steve too months earlier, the upscale dining decor brighter peering out than when he was looking in. You join them forty five minutes later, pea coat billowed open as you rush to their table - to Steve. He stands immediately when he senses your presence, smiling as you shuffle toward him in your heels.

“I’m so sorry! The interview went far longer than I expected and then my mother needed a word. I think she may be onto to you.”

You lean up and kiss him, pausing when you pull away to whisper the soft words Bucky’s heart can’t bear.

I love you.

Steve repeats the words, endearingly before he’s helping you out of your jacket, exposing the off shoulder burgundy dress you’ve opted into and you barely slide into your seat before your eyes drink in Bucky - Natasha.

“Oh my, my manners! Bucky, I’m so happy to see you again! And I’m happy you finally came to my show.”

You lean into him, hugging him and he feels attacked as his senses are overwhelmed by jasmine, your warmth. You pull away and drink him in, before your eyes are flickering over to Natasha,

“You must be Natasha. Steve has spoken so much of you, it’s an honor to finally meet.”

Natasha spends a half minute drinking you in, breaking you down before she extends out her hands, smiles seductively back to you. Bucky can sense you withdrawing into yourself, eyes flickering over to Steve who easily places his hand around your waist, gives your hips a squeeze. How odd, he finds, that a woman like Natasha intimidated you when you carried the weight of everything Natasha had ever yearned. Natasha isn’t malicious though, she’s sincere as she compliments your dancing, your technique and strength. You’re humble, nearly falling into your seat as Steve wraps his arms around you, caresses your arm when you get flustered. Bucky liked that fame wasn’t changing you, that you were still shy and quiet and unaware of the beauty and gifts that you carried with you.

You are mindful when you turn the tables and ask more about Natasha, her past, a conversation that in the past the redhead would have shut down immediately but with you it flows languidly, like the wine the waiter keeps pouring into their glasses. You’re a mindful listener as you learn about the red room, about Natasha’s history with ballet - how she still had an affinity and passion for it and halfway through her words you rest your hand over her own, squeeze it gently. You don’t say anymore, both Steve and Bucky are worried that perhaps even for you you’ve crossed a line but Natasha leans into it with gratefulness, squeezes your own hand back until dinner arrives.

You were enticing, even for someone like Natasha.

The conversation eventually turns to how Steve was faring in art school, Bucky didn’t even know his friend had applied and Steve makes a point to flip the attention back to you and how proud he was to see you get featured in the Times and be asked full time to be a prima for the company. He talks about how he no longer felt the heaviness from being Captain America full time, that he liked his classes and the challenges they provided, allowed to see the world like he used to. There’s a new air of happiness about him, emits from him and its startling for Bucky because he’s never known his blonde friend to be happy or content. Always bitter and finding something to be bitter about - that was the Steve Rogers.

When Bucky broaches if Steve would consider quitting the Avengers, its you that quickly steps in, shaking your head though you tenderly place a hand over Steve’s.

“I’m happy that Steve has finally made space for him to be happy - that he has carved out what gives him joy. But I don’t think it would also be realistic to think he could completely quit something that has defined so much of him and his personality. While I won’t lie and say I’d like that alternative, it wouldn’t be fair to him, or me or the world.”

You withdraw from the stares from the three of them and lean into your wine glass, shaking your head,

“It's not my decision to make it...sorry Steve. I shouldn’t speak on your behalf.”

Bucky knows Steve doesn’t mind it - that he agrees with you from the way he smiles at you, lifts your hand and kisses it while mumbling it’s ok. Steve no longer served himself in melancholy, he served and respected you and Bucky wonders if you were aware the magnitude to have someone like Steve loyal and ready for your beck and call. Perhaps not knowing made it better.

When Natasha and Bucky leave the couple two hours later it’s Natasha who states,

“I’m giving my blessing for Steve to marry her.”

Bucky flashes her eyes to him as she looks up at him thoughtfully. He didn’t even know Steve was debating it and when he’s fucking Natasha later on that night it’s your face he imagines in the dark.

One more desire to soothe his aching heart.

___

Apparently Steve isn’t though - not fully. It was just something that Natasha was starting to put into Steve’s ear because she liked you that much. Liked the perspective you gave Steve, liked that you weren’t like the people in their life, had a quiet power to you.

She starts inviting you to things - to the Tower with Steve for dinner, out bowling with the team, birthdays. The both of you are withdrawn at first, you and Steve. You’re cordial enough but you don’t make a move to connect with any of the other Avengers, your eyes withdrawing into itself whenever anyone speaks too enthusiastically about the worlds they have seen. You always fall back to Steve, but when he’s distracted in another conversation you find Bucky, admitting after the third engagement your flusteredness.

“Your world is so different than my own,” you say bashfully at a birthday event, a cup of sparkling water in your hand. “Steve keeps these things from me, knows I don’t need to know it all to love him. Meeting a man from space, a real life martian….its a bit tantalizing and I’m not sure if its in a good or a bad way.”

You’re speaking about Thor and it makes Bucky laugh, makes him ease into his own seat.

“I know what you mean.”

He takes these opportunities as not curses but as gifts to learn more about you. He learns that you’ve been asked to dance prima for the next few ballets, that you would do a small tour with your company in the coming winter months and that you and Steve were remodeling your apartment. He provides silent guidance to the gifts you should buy Steve for the holidays and is surprised on Christmas morning of the album you’ve crafted as his present - pictures from a time that his mind has long forgotten, of his sisters and his mom and dad. Steve and him.

“I was making one for Steve and...I don’t know. It's hard to imagine a world where you existed when my grandparents did but you do and I couldn’t imagine feeling that piece of identity lost.”

He cherishes it more than the sniper rifle that Natasha gifts him.

He learns that you’ve told your mother about Steve, about the family dinner Steve suggested you both host for her. That Steve hates her as much as Reyna probably hated him but that they both tried for her.

“I think my mother fears that Steve is going to leave me and Steve fears that Reyna will never let me live my life.” You sigh one cold New Years Eve party, nervously picking at your finger, a nervous tick. You’ve both stepped outside and the short, gold glittery dress that hugs your body glimmers in the moonlight. “They both have very strong opinions of the other though Steve is better at keeping his feelings to himself.”

You drunkenly admit to him on St. Patrick's Day how much you love Steve’s beard, that you’re happy he’s re-grown it out. Steve’s temporarily left to check on Sam at the pub they had decided to celebrate the holiday and trusted your care with Bucky. It's been six months since the ballet and the trust that was severed between both super soldiers was silently mending itself, enough that Steve didn’t feel the need to protect you from his best friend.

“It's just so soft and it makes him so distinguished. So handsome. So sexy….” you slur the words and though you nearly topple in his arms, he can’t help but smile down as you giggle, grappling his arms. “I like the way it makes my thighs burn after,” you hiccup, “You know.” you wiggle your brows and laugh some more.

He changes the subject after that comment.

He spirals into you, allows himself into the small sliver of your world. Likes that Natasha has coordinated each event to also include you, confides in you.

Selfishly he uses her to get to you.

Until one night, after a bout of love making she withdraws away. Doesn’t curl into his side like he’s accustomed, instead pulls from him, swings her legs out of the bed and sits looking out into the moon out the window.

“Be honest with me Bucky,” she whispers minutes later, her voice low. “Don’t lie, okay.”

“Okay?” he doesn’t know what it is she needs as she wraps her arms around herself. He reaches out for her, his cold fingers grazing her back and her spine ripples in goosebumps as she asks,

“Do you love me?”

Bucky pauses, sits up in bed and clears his throat.

“What?”

“Do you love me?” Natasha asks again, same low voice. She’s met with silence, met with Bucky trying to untangle his thoughts.

Did he love her? He wasn’t sure.

She nods.

“Do you love Y/N.”

His heart lunges, his breath breaks but he doesn’t dare say the word that will betray him. He doesn’t have too, Natasha turns to him tears in her eyes knowingly.

“You moan out her name in your sleep sometimes. I see the way you look at her, the way you look at Steve. I understand why you both stopped talking to each other a long time ago now. It was her. You loved her and she choose Steve.”

Bucky doesn’t say anything, turns and looks away ashamed.

Betrays the truth.

“I’m not going to be a poor woman’s Persephone anymore. Go mourn the loss of your almost lover alone.”

She leaves him swiftly, doesn’t look back and he feel a part of him robbed, that coldness that encases his heart. He wants to call out to her, to apologize, to explain she gives him joy but he knows its all lies.

He loved you and he felt like always will.

Tag List: @Sad-af1121, @whichwayisthebeach-Sebass, @theplumbclub79, @4theluvofall, @tatathekissypatato, @baezen, @lostinthoughtsandfeelings-blog, @plumbfondler, @pegasusdragontiger, @prettybubblesintheair, @docharleythegeekqueen, @brieannakeogh, @palaiasaurus64, @emotchalla, @thejenniferincident, @shayla-markele, @supernovasandcoronas, @toastmaster94, @brandybucky, @papi-chulo-seb, @jaamesbbarnes, @paulxrudd, @badassbaker, @letsalltakeanap @papi-chulo-bucky, @moonbeambucky, @jaceyfade, @samingtonwilson, @violentlybarnes, @wehaveathor, @buckfics, @frostbitebakery, @killmongerdreams, @plussizeappreciationfics, @softlybarnes, @prettyyoungtragedy, @angryschnauzer, @221bshrlocked, @yslbucky @zohoffman @ssweet-empowerment@capsofwinchesters@tacohead13@harleycativy@pietrotheavenger@francezka10@papichulosebastian@obsessionsofmynerdheart@melaninmarvel@avengedqueen26@nasteaxluvgal@winterbuttmunch@nys30@buckyslongasshair@ohlumi@wellthirsted @jalapenobarnes @geminimoonbeamx @ssweet-empowerment @chrisevans-sexualfrustrations @xceafh @misskenni

#Steve Rogers #Steve Roger AU #Steve Rogers x Reader #Steve Roger smut #Steve Rogers x woc #Steve Roger x curvy reader #Chris Evans #Bucky Barnes #Bucky Barnes x Reader #Sebastian Stan #natasha romanoff #natasha romanov x bucky barnes

18 notes · View notes