welcome to my blog!! my name is star, and iâm so happy youâre here :)
what i write: exclusively wlw fics, mostly in the marvel universe (for now)
who i write for: the girls, the gays and the mentally ill. plz no cishet men, this is not for you lol
Summary: Uhhh based off a request of r meeting Nat on a train and then I took it too far and now this is part one of I don't know how many and I don't know where I'm going with it yet! Bye! Enjoy!
Warnings: None
Word Count: 2,500
Song: Call It Fate, Call It Karma by The Strokes
The first thing you notice about her is the way she watches reflections instead of people. You catch it in the train window- your own face clouding over hers, your tired eyes and purple eye bags floating somewhere near her shoulder. Sheâs looking at the glass, not directly at you, like sheâs searching for something.
You look away first.
The train rattles somewhere between âcharming European countrysideâ and âdefinitely the middle of nowhere.â You werenât supposed to get on this train. You were supposed to get on the earlier one, the faster one that didnât involve questionable upholstery and a man across the aisle eating tuna straight from the can. Youâre not supposed to be on this train at all really. Youâre supposed to be at home, doing something mundane like laundry or grocery shopping, but instead, youâre here.
And so is she. Sheâs wearing black- of course she is. Not in a dramatic brooding way, more in a âthis fabric wonât show blood or coffee stainsâ way. Practical. Her red hair is tucked behind one ear, but a few strands have escaped, softening what is otherwise a face carved from cool disinterest. You tell yourself not to stare, but it proves to be quite difficult. Thereâs so many details to take in.
âYouâre very subtle,â she says without turning her head.
Your soul leaves your body for a brief moment. âI was staring at the countryside,â you reply quickly.
âWeâre in a tunnel.â
You focus your eyes to the window and find that the train is, in fact, going through a tunnel. Itâs pitch black out.
âMhm, very scenic. I love tunnels actually.â
You think you see the faintest twitch at the corner of her mouth. Itâs definitely not a smile, but itâs something, and you count that as a victory. She finally turns to look at you properly. Green eyes, sharp jaw, rigid, curious in a way that feels a little dangerous, like sheâs sizing you up and double checking the math.
âWhy are you on this train?â she asks.
âBudget constraints and poor decision making,â you say. âYou?â
A pause. âWork.â
âAh. The mysterious kind?â
She tilts her head. âIs there another kind?â
âAccounting,â you offer.
âIâve seen men cry over spreadsheets,â she says flatly. âItâs a dangerous job.â
A few heads turn, like they can feel the stagnant air between the two of you. Her attention remains pinned to you like a thumbtack through paper. Thereâs something about her that feels lonely. Not in a sad, obvious way, more like sheâs solitary by choice. Permanently braced for impact. You donât know why you sat next to her. There were plenty of other open seats next to far more normal people.
âAre you running toward something,â you ask lightly, âor away from it?â
Her expression doesnât change. âThatâs a bold question.â
âIâm a bold person.â
âYouâre on the wrong train.â
âBold and bad at logistics.â
That almost tug of a smile again. The tunnel ends and light floods back through the compartment. For a split second, you see her more clearly- a faint scar peeping over the collar of her jacket, her hands braced on the chair, her body angled towards the aisle like sheâs waiting for something to happen. She studies you like youâre a puzzle she didnât expect to enjoy.
âYou ask a lot of questions,â she says.
âItâs a coping mechanism.â
âFor?â
âExisting.â
A silence stretches between you, like sheâs weighing her options.
âIf you keep moving, nothing can catch up to you,â she says bluntly.
You cock your head. âDoes it work?â
âSometimes. But you donât seem like someone who runs.â
âIf youâre calling me boring, Iâm offended. And I do run. I absolutely do.â Youâre not quite sure what youâre referring to, or why youâre spilling so much to a complete stranger. Sometimes trains become liminal spaces like that. Spaces where things begin to slip through the cracks.
âNot from me,â she says testingly.
Your heart does something inconvenient. âI donât know you,â you reply.
âYouâre still here.â
You swallow. Thereâs something magnetic about her, sure, but youâre vulnerable and sheâs a mystery. You know getting wrapped into something or someone may not be the smartest decision here.
âI could be a terrible person,â she adds casually.
âI guess you could,â you shrug, desperate to keep the conversation light.
She just searches your face for a moment, an action that feel likes waiting before a judge to decide your fate. You feel suddenly nervous, maybe because of her, maybe because youâre regretting your decision.
You clear your throat. âIf you are running, I hope itâs towards something better.â You look away, ending the conversation. Yes, thatâs good. No beautiful strangers, nothing tying you anywhere.
âAnd you?â she asks, despite your attention averting back to the window. âWhat are you running toward?â
You think about missed trains and missed opportunities. You shouldâve made up your mind quicker, gotten on the earlier train to avoid whatever reflection this interaction is forcing upon you. Maybe you shouldâve just stayed home. With your ex. In the apartment. That you share. You think of telling the woman beside you that you just couldnât handle it anymore, that youâd moved to the city for her, that youâd passed up your dream job for her and thatâs why youâre running. Running is grandiose for this situation. You barely have anything but your bag and the clothes on your back. Itâs a futile attempt really. And you know that. But it still means something at least. The past few months had felt like everyone else got a map and you didnât. A guide to survive life post grad. Youâre breaking, but youâd never admit that to anyone.
âI donât know yet,â you say finally.
The train begins to slow, a small station approaching. Itâs small and forgettable and then you realize you donât even know where you are. She stands, smoothing down her coat and grabbing a small bag from the overhead rack. She looks down at you, hesitates.
âTry to take the right train next time.â It sounds almost fond.
âMistakes are part of the journey,â you respond.
Then, to your surprise, she leans down slightly, close enough that you can smell something clean and sharp- like winter air.
âBe careful,â she says quietly. âYou ask too many questions.
You tilt your head. âYou answer them.â
She smiles properly, the first time she has this entire ride. It transforms her, makes her look younger. Lighter. The train doors hiss open. She steps towards them and then pauses.
âIf you ever find what youâre running toward,â she says without turning around. âI hope itâs worth sticking around for.
And then sheâs gone. The doors close and the train rumbles. You sit there, staring at your own reflection in the window. Your heart is beating a little too fast, your face burning. You donât know her name. But youâre not thinking about going back anymore. Youâre thinking about the next stop and whether, maybe, youâll choose to get off. Maybe this was a good choice, maybe she was a sign. Maybe youâre supposed to disappear for a little bit.
By the time the train comes to another stop, youâve almost convinced yourself she was a sleep-deprived hallucination brought on by stale train air and unresolved emotional baggage. Almost. The station is small, one platform beneath a flickering light. A vending machine that looks like itâs lost custody of its own will to live. Itâs late. The kind of late where your footsteps sound louder than they should and every shadow feels like it might materialize into something sinister. You wonder if your ex has noticed youâre gone. Of course she has. You wonder if sheâs doing anything about it.
You adjust your bag on your shoulder and step off the platform and into the street. Cold air bites your face. You exhale, watching your breath curl upward like a ghost. New city, fresh start. At least for now. Even if itâs just temporary, even if you suddenly become logical and force yourself to go back home.
You make it approximately twelve steps before walking directly into someone. Itâs not a gentle bump, more of a âI was looking at Google Maps and not my surroundingsâ kind of collision. You bounce back. They donât.
âOh my God- Iâm so sorry, I wasnât looking, I-â
âYou should.â
You freeze. That voice. You look up slowly, and of course. Of course itâs her. Standing under a dim streetlight, like sheâs been personally curated by the universe for dramatic timing. Black coat. Red hair catching the light. Expression frantic in a way that makes your chest tighten.
âYou got off an hour ago,â you say.
âI did.â She responds quickly, but sheâs not looking at you. Her eyes are darting through the darkness behind you and to your right.
âYou donât live here.â
âNope.â
âAre you following me?â
Her eyes seem to catch on something and then she reaches out, grabbing your arm and pulling you towards her. âNo, Iâm not,â she narrows her eyes, the reserved stranger you knew on the train suddenly no more. Sheâs fierce in a way that has you bordering on panic. âAnd I was really stupid for talking to you on the train, I-â she looks up again quickly and you try to turn your head to see what sheâs looking at, but she stops you. âYou need to come with me right now.â
âSorry, what?â but sheâs pulling you down the street, tugging your arm until you fall into stride with her.
âMy name is Natasha,â she says quickly without looking at you, her hands rustling with something in her coat. You tell her your name, but she barely acknowledges it, her focus clearly on something else.
âWhy the fuck am I following you again?â
She shoots you a look and then you hear the cocking of a gun from underneath her coat. Your eyes go wide and she gives you a look that says âkeep movingâ.
âI- fuck,â she hesitates. Your mind starts racing. Maybe she really is as mysterious as you were making her out to be. She continues to hastily scan her surroundings, one hand now out of her coat and back on your arm, the other holding what you presume is a gun. âIâm working,â she says flatly, like sheâs decided against making something up. âIâm on a job and I got a little distracted.â
âA job? People normally just have jobs, they arenât typically on jobs-â
âWould you give it a rest?â she shoots you a quick glare. âIâm planted here on purpose, I calculated a tip off point where they were supposed to find me, but I got off on the stop before instead.â She talks quickly, as if you understand a single word sheâs saying. âIt wasnât until I got off the train that I realized how many brutes were on it. They shouldâve gotten me while I was on it, but they didnât. They think youâre me.â
âExcuse me?â
âThey donât know what I look like, thatâs the whole point,â Natasha says with a hint of annoyance. âThey think youâre me, and leaving you to die wouldâve been great for my mission actually, it wouldâve thrown them right off my trail- but I didnât, I canât.â
âThanks I think.â The city approaches, the street lights becoming more frequent and the bustle of people becoming louder.
âJust keep your head down,â Natasha says firmly. And you do, letting her lead you through the streets, her grip on your arm loosening as the two of you get lost in the crowd. In any other situation youâd feel absolutely terrified. If you didnât want to get away from your old life so badly, maybe youâd be horrified at this sudden side quest. But itâs more exhilarating than anything. You and Natasha walk for what feels like forever, until she swiftly pulls you down a dark alley.
âIf youâre planning on killing me, make it quick.â You say it jokingly, but her lack of response makes your skin prick.
You trample through the darkness until she comes to a hard stop, flipping a switch and punching in what sounds like a code on a keypad. You hear the sound of a heavy metal door opening, and then a faint sliver of light peeks through the alley. She tugs you through a doorway, pushing a large red button with the palm of her hand, forcing the door closed behind her. Youâre in a small hallway, with another metal door and just a single flickering overhead light. Perfect murder room. Natasha digs out a set of keys from her jacket pocket, the gun seemingly gone now. Part of you thought she was lying at first, that this whole secret agent thing was just a front to get you to hook up with her. But the dual security starts to make you think otherwise.
She gets the door open and pushes through. You follow her, straight into a big open room. A flat. And a nice one too. As nice as a windowless, concrete loft can get. You walk past her into the open room and you hear the keys being tossed onto a table and the door closing behind you. You think you hear her let out an exhausted huff, but youâre too busy taking in the scene. The loft could easily be sterile, almost medical with the gray walls and floors, but thereâs sashes hanging from the ceiling, scarves tied together, strung across the walls adorned with tiny little string lights.
âCool place,â you say with a shrug.
âUh-huh.â Natasha walks past you, tearing off her coat and hanging it on a rack. Your eyes follow her as she walks across the room and into what you assume is the kitchen.
âSo,â you call out, backpack still on, rocking back and forth on your heels.
âI have a spare bed,â Natasha calls out. She comes back into the room with a glass of water, handing it to you. âHere.â
âThanks,â you mumble, taking it and taking a sip. The entire situation still isnât registering, probably because you still donât fully believe her.
Natasha just stares at you for a moment. She doesnât look like that woman on the train anymore. Sheâs different, harder. âThereâs food in the fridge, help yourself. Roomâs around the corner, Iâm going out.â
âIs this some weird human trafficking front or something?â
âWhat? No,â she scoffs. âIâm just going to scan the perimeter, Iâll be back in a bit.â
âScan the perimeter?â
âDid you listen to me at all?â
âKind of.â
âIâm trying to help you. If you want to leave, be my guest.â She pulls on a different jacket, a blue one, and a large white scarf. You believe her, you think. Probably.
âSo, what- Iâm just here until you let me out?â
âYouâre here until itâs safe,â Natasha says absentmindedly, pulling on a pair of boots.
âI came here to exist in a new city, not a new dungeon.â
She looks up now, her eyes hard but undeniably guilty. âIâm sorry,â she says flatly. And then she exits quickly, the door slamming behind her and the lock clicking.
Apologies, Iâm having such bad burnout and writers blockđ« . I have no idea what to write or what I want to write and school is eating me alive rn so bear with me
Summary: cute little birthday for Nat. I had a request for post movie moving in together, so here it is!
Warnings: none
Word Count: 1,000
Song: Beach Baby by Bon Iver
If you want to start Star Power from the top: Part One
You push Natasha down the hallway, your hands on her lower back, steering her into the living room and towards the kitchen.
âWhat are you- stop.â She attempts to bat at you, but she doesnât try quite hard enough for it to do anything.
âJust breathe, youâre fine.â You push her into the kitchen and then release her and she stops fighting as she takes in the scene.
âYou know I donât like-,â Natasha whispers, but her words seem to get caught in her throat.
âYou like it?â You drop your hands to your sides. Youâd spent the last hour and a half decorating Natashaâs kitchen and dining room for her birthday, locking her in her room to get it done. You strung a little star garland you cut out of green construction paper, string lights, balloons floating to the ceiling and even stayed up all night baking her a cake. Thereâs a pile of wrapped presents on the counter- you went out and bought her a silver watch sheâd been eying, a couple Haruki Murakami books (her favorite author), another cashmere sweater to add to her collection, and a soft floral perfume that smelled like her the second youâd sprayed it in the store.
Natasha doesnât turn around to look at you, taking in the decorations for a long moment. You know her birthday isnât her favorite thing on Earth, but you wanted to give her a mini celebration just for her. No flashy surprise party, no big dinner, just a slow day where she doesnât have to do anything except exactly what she wants to do.
Natasha turns to you finally and you notice that her eyes are glassy. âThank you,â she says softly.
âBaby, donât cry.â
âIâm not,â she says with a futile attempt at snark.
âI know youâre not a birthday girl, but we can do whatever you want today.â
âI might squeeze you until you explode.â
âIâd rather you didnât.â
You find yourself with Natashaâs feet in your lap as the two of you watch a movie, the winter wind whistling across the window panes of the penthouse. The two of you are currently emerged in a blissful few months of absolutely nothing. Filming for Quinnâs next project doesnât start until February, giving you time to just be together and finish moving all of your stuff over from L.A. You have everything in boxes in Natashaâs spare room, itâs all just a matter of unpacking now. Moving in together had come up with Quinnâs newest project proposal- a film adaptation of Rita Mae Brownâs Rubyfruit Jungle. The Macintosh empire has been growing with you and Natasha at the very center. Itâs good, steady. More than you ever couldâve imagined.
âHey.â Natasha kicks up her socked foot but you catch it before it can hit your face.
âYes?â You turn to look at her and find that sheâs grinning.
âIâve decided what I want to do today.â
âOh?â You narrow your eyes. âDoes it involve me exploding?â
âEventually,â she says, going absolutely deadpan. âBut first, we order an irresponsible amount of Thai food, we donât answer a single email, and you help me unpack exactly one box. One. I refuse to spend my birthday doing manual labor.â
You gasp. âOne whole box? Donât go wild.â
She nudges you with her heel. âDonât push it.â
The movie continues to play in the background, something neither of you are paying attention to anymore. Natasha shifts, pulling her feet out of your lap so she can sit up and look at you properly. Her expression turns soft, something that makes your chest ache in that warm, familiar way.
âYou didnât have to do all that,â she says quietly.
âI know.â
âThe cake. The presents. The⊠stars.â Her lips twitch.
âYou love the stars.â
âI tolerate the stars,â she corrects. âBecause you love them.â
You reach for her hand, threading your fingers through hers. âI just wanted you to feel celebrated. And⊠seen.â
Natasha goes quiet again, just studying your face. The city hums faintly far below the penthouse, the wind rattling the windows. Everythingâs warm and safe.
âI do feel seen,â she says finally.
âYeah?â
âItâs hard to hate my birthday when you make it feel like this.â
âLike what?â
âLike I get to exist without earning it.â
You rub your thumb over her knuckle. âYou donât have to earn anything with me.â
âCareful. I might actually squeeze you until you explode.â
âYouâre very fixated on that today.â
âItâs my birthday. I get one violent fantasy.â
You grin. âFair.â
She kisses you then, slow and unhurried, in a way that feels more steady than anything. And when she pulls back she doesnât go very far.
âThank you,â Natasha says again.
âFor what?â
âFor building a life with me,â she says simply. It lands heavier than you would expect it to.
You glance toward the hallway where your half unpacked boxes sit in her -your- spare room. Soon-to-be-office. Soon-to-be-shared-closet. Soon-to-be whatever the two of you decide. The future doesnât seem like something distant or abstract anymore. It feels like socked feet, winter wind, too much takeout, and a single unpacked box.
âHey,â you murmur.
âHm?â
âAfter Thai food and our one box, we could open your presents.â
She hums thoughtfully. âAnd if I hate them?â
âYou wonât. Iâm really good at giving gifts.â
âAnd if I do?â she teases.
âIâll return everything except the watch.â
Her eyebrow lifts. âWhy?â
âBecause I engraved it.â
Natashaâs mouth falls open. âYou did not.â
âI did.â
âWith what?â
You shrug. âJust a date.â
âWhat date?â
You grin. âThe day Her Blank Canvas began filming.â
âThatâs not even when we started dating.â
âI feel like there was enough lesbian angst going on to qualify.â
âYouâre impossible.â
âAnd you love it.â
She wraps her arms around you without another word, pulling you into her chest, squeezing tight enough to steal your breath, but not quite enough to make you explode. Outside, winter continues to rage. Inside, Natasha laughs softly into your hair, and you decide you wouldnât trade this quiet, ordinary happiness for anything else in the world.
Summary: Natasha spots one of your tattoos while youâre sparring, revealing a long, pained history. (Based on a request!!)
Warnings: angst, hurt/comfort
Word Count: 3,000
Song: Christmas Kids- Roar
Youâve been an Avenger for about a year now, finally starting to feel like youâre actually becoming a real member of the team. Everyone had always been welcoming- at least in their own ways. Steve was nice right off the bat, as were Tony and Thor, but the rest of the team took a bit more patience. Wanda came around once she realized you werenât a threat and Natasha lurked in the shadows until you coaxed her out. Your relationship with each of them was professional, but familial at the same time. Thereâd always been a grounding feeling that each of you had been through enough to understand each otherâs pain, to be there when things got hard, to leave judgement at the door. And not to mention, you all live in the tower, so thereâs bound to be a bit of closeness that crosses professional boundaries.
You zip up your jacket, the zipper resting tightly at your neck, your legs fully covered and your sparring gloves on. The tower has always been a bit cold- you blame Tony for that. You also have a few markings, more than youâd like to admit, etched in with ink, preventing you from ever being able to forget the life you once lived. The fights you fought. Some of your tattoos were by choice, pieces of liberation, but some werenât. And revealing one would mean revealing the rest, and that wasnât necessarily a can of worms you felt like opening just yet.
You step into the training sector to find most of your teammates already hard at work. Steve and Bucky are by the punching bags, Wandaâs sparring with Tony, and Natashaâs standing next to one of the mats, her eyes landing on you and a grin spreading across her face. You meet her with your own smile, walking towards her. Youâd always liked sparring with Natasha. She was good, better than the rest of the team, although youâd never tell her that, and you always liked that she didnât go easy on you.
âCould I interest you in a friendly fight?â Natasha asks as you approach, tying her hair back.
âI could be convinced.â You plant your hands on your hips. You train with her every chance you get to hone in on your hand to hand combat skills.
âI didnât hit you hard enough last time?â Natasha lunges into a stretch.
âGuess not.â You kick off your shoes and step onto the mat. Natasha follows, standing opposite of you and squaring herself into position. Sheâs in a tank top and leggings per usual, showing off the biceps you find your eyes lingering on for a bit longer than they should. Natashaâs attractive, sure, youâd be an idiot to think otherwise.
âFocus on your breathing,â she says with a nod and you nod back, getting into position and holding your hands in front of your face. âYour breath is the most important part, if you donât control it then youâll fumble your hits.â
âI know, I know.â You crack a small smile. She gives you nearly the exact same run down every time you spar with her.
âWell you donât act like it.â Natashaâs eyes narrow. And then thereâs this part, where she tries to provoke you to make you mad so you hit her harder. It never works.
âYeah whatever, just hit m-â Youâre cut off as she swings her leg up into a roundhouse, which you dodge at just the last second.
âSee?â She recenters herself as you lunge back.
âThat had nothing to do with my breathing,â you swing and she hits you with a counter, a punch that would land on your stomach if your knee didnât come up to block it.
âThatâs better,â Natasha huffs, before sending an uppercut that you dodge with a turn of your head. Foolish mistake. Your eyes leave Natasha for maybe a second, but itâs enough. She sweeps her foot and kicks your legs right out from under you. Thereâs nothing you can do, and so you accept the fall and go tumbling down with a gasp. But Natashaâs quick, and she grabs your jacket with a bark of laughter, hoisting you up before your back can hit the ground. You nearly get whiplash from how quick she pulls you, and then- a tear. Natasha loses her grip as your jacket tears right where sheâs holding it, and you nearly fly back down, but you regain your balance quick enough to stay upright.
âOh, uh-â You try to catch Natashaâs bewildered eyes as you steady yourself. You look down and see that sheâs ripped the seam that travels from your elbow down your forearm.
âOh my God, Iâm so sorry- are you okay?â Natashaâs cheeks heat up and you laugh.
âYeah, Nat, Iâm fine.â You wave her off.
âI can buy you a new one.â
âNo, no, donât worry about it,â you say, giving her a knowing look. âI have plenty of these, I promise.â Your hand travels to the zipper at your neck, dragging it down and peeling off the jacket without a second thought. The air hits your arms and chest, and you become aware of all the skin your tank top leaves uncovered. It doesnât have to be a big deal. You tell yourself it doesnât have to be a big deal. People have tattoos- itâs normal. Except not all of your tattoos are exactly tattoos, some of them creep more towards branding. You throw the jacket to the side and clear your throat. Natashaâs gone still in front of you, but you avoid looking at her.
âYou didnât tell me,â she says quietly.
âHm?â You lift your head to meet her eyes, but you find that hers are glued to your right shoulder. Right where the Hydra emblem was burned into your skin all those years ago. A gnarled, raised, pink scar that you tried so hard to cover up with other tattoos. But it was futile, really. The brand went deeper than skin. Sometimes you think you can feel it in your bones.
âI didnât know.â Natasha looks at you now, with a facial expression youâve never seen before.
âWhat? About my sweet ink?â You let out a light laugh, stretching your arms out in front of you and scanning your eyes down the trails of vines, stars, and patterns tracing down your arms, chest, and stomach. But Natasha doesnât laugh in response and the silence is deafening. She doesnât look at the other tattoos, not at the snake peeking out from your sternum, or the tendrils creeping over your shoulders and wrapping down and around your back. Sheâs looking at the Hydra emblem. The scar. You feel a bit self conscious all of the sudden- not because Natashaâs seeing your tattoos, but because having them out in the open means theyâre real. You begin to curl into yourself slightly, your hands coming up to cover your forearms. Natasha seems to notice and snaps her eyes away from your right shoulder.
âHey, itâs okay.â She reaches out towards you, but stops herself from getting too close. âIâm sorry, I didnât mean to- I didnât-... I just didnât know you had so many.â She clears her throat.
âNo yeah, itâs shocking, I know.â You look down at the floor. A beat of silence goes by.
âI didnât mean to look at-â
âItâs okay,â you say quickly, turning around and putting your shoes back on.
âMhm.â You donât turn back around. You pick your discarded jacket up off the floor and leave the training room as fast as you can.
You donât let yourself breathe until youâre safely in your room with the door shut behind you. You drop the jacket and let your face fall into your hands. You hadnât meant to react like that- itâs really not that big of a deal. But you havenât let anyone see your bare arms in years. At least three. Doctors had when you were injured, but no one that mattered. It wasnât that she saw, it was that she cared. And then she didnât know what to say, and it made you feel bad, like youâd put her in an awkward position. That scar has always made you feel like a monster. You run a finger over it with your eyes closed, feeling the rise and fall of uneven skin, each tendril and the eyes of the skull. Sometimes you can still feel the burn, if youâre left alone for long enough.
You decide to just stay in for the night, lay low and keep yourself from spiraling. You take a hot shower, running all of the sweat of the day off before putting on sweatpants and a hood over a baggy t-shirt. Youâre about to settle in with a book when you hear a light knock at the door. You shuffle over and open it slowly.
âHi,â a small voice says and you see Natasha standing in the dark hallway.
âHi,â you echo, giving her a smile, trying to forget the last interaction you had with her.
âCan I talk to you for a second?â She says it gently, like sheâs worried she might scare you off.
âYeah, come in.â You open the door and step to the side, letting her walk past you. You shut the door behind her and turn around, leaning your back against it and crossing your arms. Natasha seems lost for a second, scanning her eyes around the room. Eventually, she settles them on you, clearing her throat.
âI just wanted to apologize,â she says curtly. âI didnât mean to make you uncomfortable.â
âNo, you didnât-â
âWe all have scars, I never meant to make you feel self conscious about yours.â
âItâs okay, Nat,â you say with a firm nod. âSeriously. Itâs okay.â You give her a weak smile, but you mean it. It was uncomfortable, sure, but not because of her. Itâs uncomfortable because it just is, and for some reason, it feels nice that someone else knows. Itâs freeing.
âAnd I would never tell anyone.â
âI know.â
âAnd it doesnât make me see you any differently.â
You hesitate for a moment. âAre you sure?â
âOf course Iâm sure,â Natasha says fiercely. You just look at her, searching for any ounce of doubt. And when you find none, you just nod. âLook-â Natasha turns around abruptly, lifting her tank top halfway up, revealing a black widow emblem etched into the skin of her upper back. For a second you think it might be intentional, but then you see the raised bumps of scar tissue underneath the black lines. You step forward instinctively, to get a better look.
âHow old were you?â You whisper.
âEleven,â Natasha responds. She drops her shirt and turns back around to face you.
You just stare at her for a moment, and her gaze stays on your face. Not at the ghost of the scar beneath your sweatshirt, not at your arms, trying to imagine the scars there. You wordlessly lift your sweatshirt up and over your head, your t-shirt along with it, leaving you in just a sports bra. Itâs not a sexual gesture- not in the slightest. You just want her to know. You want her to see it all and see what happens. Her eyes remain on yours, like sheâs waiting for permission. Your gaze falls to your shoulder and your hand comes up, brushing over the scar and all of the tattoos surrounding it.
âI was thirteen,â you say quietly. âIt was a rite of passage. They did it with a hot iron, planted in plain sight so everyone would know who I belonged to.â You look up and see that sheâs studying the scar curiously. Not with pity or fear. âI got the tattoos once I was out. To try and distract people from it maybe.â
âI get it,â Natasha whispers, and then she brings a finger to the scar. She looks at you once for confirmation and you nod. She touches it lightly, feeling the rise of skin.
âAnd I just wanted to be able to put marks on my body that I liked. For me.â
âTo take back whatâs yours,â she murmurs.
âExactly. But theyâll never cover it up fully. Itâs not possible. The scar tissue- itâs too deep. I came to learn that I canât hide it. And itâs- thatâs okay. Iâm trying to be okay with it.â
âYou donât have to hide it,â Natasha says quietly, continuing to study the scar.
âI knowâŠâ you trail off, looking down at your arm and the tattoos there. âBut itâs a reminder to everyone. Hydraâs the enemy. I just- I donât know.â
âYouâre on the team for a reason.â She says it gently, lifting her eyes back to yours with her finger still on your shoulder. âI came from a bad place too. I was a bad person. That doesnât mean I canât be better. This scar doesnât define you, but itâs cruel that it tries.â
âDo you still try to hide yours?â
âI did,â Natasha shrugs. âBut no one around here cares. Thereâs just as much blood in my past as Steve's, as Tonyâs and Wandaâs. Itâs kind of part of the job. I have scars all over my body. Some from bullets, some from shrapnel and knives. At first they made me feel gross, like I was tainted for life, but theyâre just part of me now.â
âCan I see?â You ask cautiously and Natasha smiles.
âYeah. Yeah of course.â She lifts up her shirt and you see a scar just above her left hip. âThis is from a mission in Romania. I was escorting a politician and the enemy shot him right through me.â
âGod,â you huff.
âAnd this-â she twists, showing her elbow, âthis is shrapnel from a grenade in Sokovia. Thereâs still a couple shards in there, but for now I just got this cool scar,â Natasha sighs. âThereâs a few more, but thatâs a story for another day.â
âI donât think Iâm ready for the rest of the team to know yet.â You wrap your arms around yourself like a shield.
âThey donât have to know,â Natasha says, shaking her head. âNot ever, if you donât want them to.â
âBut Iâm glad you know,â you say quietly, meeting her eyes with a small smile. There was a time when you told yourself youâd just hide it forever. Itâs not too hard- the scarâs on your upper shoulder, so itâs easy to find clothing that covers it.
âYeah?â she cocks her head, studying you.
âYeah.â
Natasha brings dinner to your room an hour later, pushing through the door with two plates of food. You accept the gesture gratefully, eating with her on the floor in comfortable silence. It feels good to have a friend. A real one.
âSo,â Natasha says as the both of you are finishing up.
âHm?â You stab your fork at a piece of food.
âWanna show me the rest of your tattoos?â She quirks a smile and your grin.
âTotally.â You stand up and she follows, picking up both the plates and setting them on the dresser. âThis is ivy,â you trace your fingers up and down the vines on your forearms. âThere were these crazy vines growing over the windows in my first apartment after I got out. I loved it so I got it kind of everywhere.â You pull down your shirt slightly, pointing at your sternum. âAnd this is a snake. Not sure what type, I didnât really get that far. Hurt like a bitch though, I donât know why I thought that was a good idea.â
Natasha laughs lightly. âAnd the one on your back? I saw it poking out.â
âYeah,â you turn around, lifting your shirt until the entirety of your back is exposed. âItâs a sword with vines,â you whisper, âI wanted to connect it to the ivy on my arms.â
You feel a soft hand on your back, tracing up the blade of the sword and then towards the vines wrapping around your shoulder blade and up towards your neck. Your skin tingles and you stay frozen, careful not to move, to shatter the moment- whatever it may be.
âI like that theyâre your own,â Natasha says quietly. âThat you chose to get them even after your scar.â
âIt was the only thing I could think to do,â you say it like a confession.
âYouâre strong.â
âSometimes.â
You drop your shirt, but Natashaâs hand stays on your skin, her fingers lightly gripping your shoulder blade as you turn around. You find her much closer than you expected, her gaze and touch unwavering. Her hand stays still underneath your shirt, as your eyes search her face. Sheâs solid, grounded in a way that feels safe. Your body feels whole for once. Not just a jumbled pile of pieces that you try so hard to stitch together. Something worth mending.
You realize you can feel Natashaâs breath on your face and then she falters, like sheâs only now registering your proximity.
âIâm sorry, this probably isnât-â
âNo,â you say quickly, voice barely above a whisper, âno, stay.â
Natasha just nods, the fear in her eyes fading and thatâs when you know you want to kiss her. Is she fighting to keep her eyes away from your lips like you are hers? Does she seem a bit nervous, or are you just making it up? But her body betrays her and her fingers dig into your shoulder blade ever so slightly. You lean forward, just an inch, testing. And then her eyes fall to your lips.
Natasha swallows. âAre you su-â
âYes.â You nod hurriedly.
âThank God.â And then she surges forward, pressing her lips to yours. Itâs soft at first, but then sheâs pulling you flush against her, her hand trailing down your back, finding your waist and then your hip. Her lips move against yours like sheâs been waiting for this and you match her hunger because maybe you have been waiting for this. You sigh into the kiss and then sheâs pulling away, her arm wrapped around your waist to keep you close.
âMaybe you can show me the rest of those scars some time,â you say without thinking. Her lips are swollen and her eyes are glued to your lips.
Omg that was my request (Tattoos) it was so good you never fail to amaze me. First my other request which you did with âEmbers On Her Lipsâ and now this? What kind of sapphic crack are you taking.
Lots of love
-âïž
Oh my gosh Iâm so glad you liked itđ I was having crazy writerâs block with it
Summary: Natasha spots one of your tattoos while youâre sparring, revealing a long, pained history. (Based on a request!!)
Warnings: angst, hurt/comfort
Word Count: 3,000
Song: Christmas Kids- Roar
Youâve been an Avenger for about a year now, finally starting to feel like youâre actually becoming a real member of the team. Everyone had always been welcoming- at least in their own ways. Steve was nice right off the bat, as were Tony and Thor, but the rest of the team took a bit more patience. Wanda came around once she realized you werenât a threat and Natasha lurked in the shadows until you coaxed her out. Your relationship with each of them was professional, but familial at the same time. Thereâd always been a grounding feeling that each of you had been through enough to understand each otherâs pain, to be there when things got hard, to leave judgement at the door. And not to mention, you all live in the tower, so thereâs bound to be a bit of closeness that crosses professional boundaries.
You zip up your jacket, the zipper resting tightly at your neck, your legs fully covered and your sparring gloves on. The tower has always been a bit cold- you blame Tony for that. You also have a few markings, more than youâd like to admit, etched in with ink, preventing you from ever being able to forget the life you once lived. The fights you fought. Some of your tattoos were by choice, pieces of liberation, but some werenât. And revealing one would mean revealing the rest, and that wasnât necessarily a can of worms you felt like opening just yet.
You step into the training sector to find most of your teammates already hard at work. Steve and Bucky are by the punching bags, Wandaâs sparring with Tony, and Natashaâs standing next to one of the mats, her eyes landing on you and a grin spreading across her face. You meet her with your own smile, walking towards her. Youâd always liked sparring with Natasha. She was good, better than the rest of the team, although youâd never tell her that, and you always liked that she didnât go easy on you.
âCould I interest you in a friendly fight?â Natasha asks as you approach, tying her hair back.
âI could be convinced.â You plant your hands on your hips. You train with her every chance you get to hone in on your hand to hand combat skills.
âI didnât hit you hard enough last time?â Natasha lunges into a stretch.
âGuess not.â You kick off your shoes and step onto the mat. Natasha follows, standing opposite of you and squaring herself into position. Sheâs in a tank top and leggings per usual, showing off the biceps you find your eyes lingering on for a bit longer than they should. Natashaâs attractive, sure, youâd be an idiot to think otherwise.
âFocus on your breathing,â she says with a nod and you nod back, getting into position and holding your hands in front of your face. âYour breath is the most important part, if you donât control it then youâll fumble your hits.â
âI know, I know.â You crack a small smile. She gives you nearly the exact same run down every time you spar with her.
âWell you donât act like it.â Natashaâs eyes narrow. And then thereâs this part, where she tries to provoke you to make you mad so you hit her harder. It never works.
âYeah whatever, just hit m-â Youâre cut off as she swings her leg up into a roundhouse, which you dodge at just the last second.
âSee?â She recenters herself as you lunge back.
âThat had nothing to do with my breathing,â you swing and she hits you with a counter, a punch that would land on your stomach if your knee didnât come up to block it.
âThatâs better,â Natasha huffs, before sending an uppercut that you dodge with a turn of your head. Foolish mistake. Your eyes leave Natasha for maybe a second, but itâs enough. She sweeps her foot and kicks your legs right out from under you. Thereâs nothing you can do, and so you accept the fall and go tumbling down with a gasp. But Natashaâs quick, and she grabs your jacket with a bark of laughter, hoisting you up before your back can hit the ground. You nearly get whiplash from how quick she pulls you, and then- a tear. Natasha loses her grip as your jacket tears right where sheâs holding it, and you nearly fly back down, but you regain your balance quick enough to stay upright.
âOh, uh-â You try to catch Natashaâs bewildered eyes as you steady yourself. You look down and see that sheâs ripped the seam that travels from your elbow down your forearm.
âOh my God, Iâm so sorry- are you okay?â Natashaâs cheeks heat up and you laugh.
âYeah, Nat, Iâm fine.â You wave her off.
âI can buy you a new one.â
âNo, no, donât worry about it,â you say, giving her a knowing look. âI have plenty of these, I promise.â Your hand travels to the zipper at your neck, dragging it down and peeling off the jacket without a second thought. The air hits your arms and chest, and you become aware of all the skin your tank top leaves uncovered. It doesnât have to be a big deal. You tell yourself it doesnât have to be a big deal. People have tattoos- itâs normal. Except not all of your tattoos are exactly tattoos, some of them creep more towards branding. You throw the jacket to the side and clear your throat. Natashaâs gone still in front of you, but you avoid looking at her.
âYou didnât tell me,â she says quietly.
âHm?â You lift your head to meet her eyes, but you find that hers are glued to your right shoulder. Right where the Hydra emblem was burned into your skin all those years ago. A gnarled, raised, pink scar that you tried so hard to cover up with other tattoos. But it was futile, really. The brand went deeper than skin. Sometimes you think you can feel it in your bones.
âI didnât know.â Natasha looks at you now, with a facial expression youâve never seen before.
âWhat? About my sweet ink?â You let out a light laugh, stretching your arms out in front of you and scanning your eyes down the trails of vines, stars, and patterns tracing down your arms, chest, and stomach. But Natasha doesnât laugh in response and the silence is deafening. She doesnât look at the other tattoos, not at the snake peeking out from your sternum, or the tendrils creeping over your shoulders and wrapping down and around your back. Sheâs looking at the Hydra emblem. The scar. You feel a bit self conscious all of the sudden- not because Natashaâs seeing your tattoos, but because having them out in the open means theyâre real. You begin to curl into yourself slightly, your hands coming up to cover your forearms. Natasha seems to notice and snaps her eyes away from your right shoulder.
âHey, itâs okay.â She reaches out towards you, but stops herself from getting too close. âIâm sorry, I didnât mean to- I didnât-... I just didnât know you had so many.â She clears her throat.
âNo yeah, itâs shocking, I know.â You look down at the floor. A beat of silence goes by.
âI didnât mean to look at-â
âItâs okay,â you say quickly, turning around and putting your shoes back on.
âMhm.â You donât turn back around. You pick your discarded jacket up off the floor and leave the training room as fast as you can.
You donât let yourself breathe until youâre safely in your room with the door shut behind you. You drop the jacket and let your face fall into your hands. You hadnât meant to react like that- itâs really not that big of a deal. But you havenât let anyone see your bare arms in years. At least three. Doctors had when you were injured, but no one that mattered. It wasnât that she saw, it was that she cared. And then she didnât know what to say, and it made you feel bad, like youâd put her in an awkward position. That scar has always made you feel like a monster. You run a finger over it with your eyes closed, feeling the rise and fall of uneven skin, each tendril and the eyes of the skull. Sometimes you can still feel the burn, if youâre left alone for long enough.
You decide to just stay in for the night, lay low and keep yourself from spiraling. You take a hot shower, running all of the sweat of the day off before putting on sweatpants and a hood over a baggy t-shirt. Youâre about to settle in with a book when you hear a light knock at the door. You shuffle over and open it slowly.
âHi,â a small voice says and you see Natasha standing in the dark hallway.
âHi,â you echo, giving her a smile, trying to forget the last interaction you had with her.
âCan I talk to you for a second?â She says it gently, like sheâs worried she might scare you off.
âYeah, come in.â You open the door and step to the side, letting her walk past you. You shut the door behind her and turn around, leaning your back against it and crossing your arms. Natasha seems lost for a second, scanning her eyes around the room. Eventually, she settles them on you, clearing her throat.
âI just wanted to apologize,â she says curtly. âI didnât mean to make you uncomfortable.â
âNo, you didnât-â
âWe all have scars, I never meant to make you feel self conscious about yours.â
âItâs okay, Nat,â you say with a firm nod. âSeriously. Itâs okay.â You give her a weak smile, but you mean it. It was uncomfortable, sure, but not because of her. Itâs uncomfortable because it just is, and for some reason, it feels nice that someone else knows. Itâs freeing.
âAnd I would never tell anyone.â
âI know.â
âAnd it doesnât make me see you any differently.â
You hesitate for a moment. âAre you sure?â
âOf course Iâm sure,â Natasha says fiercely. You just look at her, searching for any ounce of doubt. And when you find none, you just nod. âLook-â Natasha turns around abruptly, lifting her tank top halfway up, revealing a black widow emblem etched into the skin of her upper back. For a second you think it might be intentional, but then you see the raised bumps of scar tissue underneath the black lines. You step forward instinctively, to get a better look.
âHow old were you?â You whisper.
âEleven,â Natasha responds. She drops her shirt and turns back around to face you.
You just stare at her for a moment, and her gaze stays on your face. Not at the ghost of the scar beneath your sweatshirt, not at your arms, trying to imagine the scars there. You wordlessly lift your sweatshirt up and over your head, your t-shirt along with it, leaving you in just a sports bra. Itâs not a sexual gesture- not in the slightest. You just want her to know. You want her to see it all and see what happens. Her eyes remain on yours, like sheâs waiting for permission. Your gaze falls to your shoulder and your hand comes up, brushing over the scar and all of the tattoos surrounding it.
âI was thirteen,â you say quietly. âIt was a rite of passage. They did it with a hot iron, planted in plain sight so everyone would know who I belonged to.â You look up and see that sheâs studying the scar curiously. Not with pity or fear. âI got the tattoos once I was out. To try and distract people from it maybe.â
âI get it,â Natasha whispers, and then she brings a finger to the scar. She looks at you once for confirmation and you nod. She touches it lightly, feeling the rise of skin.
âAnd I just wanted to be able to put marks on my body that I liked. For me.â
âTo take back whatâs yours,â she murmurs.
âExactly. But theyâll never cover it up fully. Itâs not possible. The scar tissue- itâs too deep. I came to learn that I canât hide it. And itâs- thatâs okay. Iâm trying to be okay with it.â
âYou donât have to hide it,â Natasha says quietly, continuing to study the scar.
âI knowâŠâ you trail off, looking down at your arm and the tattoos there. âBut itâs a reminder to everyone. Hydraâs the enemy. I just- I donât know.â
âYouâre on the team for a reason.â She says it gently, lifting her eyes back to yours with her finger still on your shoulder. âI came from a bad place too. I was a bad person. That doesnât mean I canât be better. This scar doesnât define you, but itâs cruel that it tries.â
âDo you still try to hide yours?â
âI did,â Natasha shrugs. âBut no one around here cares. Thereâs just as much blood in my past as Steve's, as Tonyâs and Wandaâs. Itâs kind of part of the job. I have scars all over my body. Some from bullets, some from shrapnel and knives. At first they made me feel gross, like I was tainted for life, but theyâre just part of me now.â
âCan I see?â You ask cautiously and Natasha smiles.
âYeah. Yeah of course.â She lifts up her shirt and you see a scar just above her left hip. âThis is from a mission in Romania. I was escorting a politician and the enemy shot him right through me.â
âGod,â you huff.
âAnd this-â she twists, showing her elbow, âthis is shrapnel from a grenade in Sokovia. Thereâs still a couple shards in there, but for now I just got this cool scar,â Natasha sighs. âThereâs a few more, but thatâs a story for another day.â
âI donât think Iâm ready for the rest of the team to know yet.â You wrap your arms around yourself like a shield.
âThey donât have to know,â Natasha says, shaking her head. âNot ever, if you donât want them to.â
âBut Iâm glad you know,â you say quietly, meeting her eyes with a small smile. There was a time when you told yourself youâd just hide it forever. Itâs not too hard- the scarâs on your upper shoulder, so itâs easy to find clothing that covers it.
âYeah?â she cocks her head, studying you.
âYeah.â
Natasha brings dinner to your room an hour later, pushing through the door with two plates of food. You accept the gesture gratefully, eating with her on the floor in comfortable silence. It feels good to have a friend. A real one.
âSo,â Natasha says as the both of you are finishing up.
âHm?â You stab your fork at a piece of food.
âWanna show me the rest of your tattoos?â She quirks a smile and your grin.
âTotally.â You stand up and she follows, picking up both the plates and setting them on the dresser. âThis is ivy,â you trace your fingers up and down the vines on your forearms. âThere were these crazy vines growing over the windows in my first apartment after I got out. I loved it so I got it kind of everywhere.â You pull down your shirt slightly, pointing at your sternum. âAnd this is a snake. Not sure what type, I didnât really get that far. Hurt like a bitch though, I donât know why I thought that was a good idea.â
Natasha laughs lightly. âAnd the one on your back? I saw it poking out.â
âYeah,â you turn around, lifting your shirt until the entirety of your back is exposed. âItâs a sword with vines,â you whisper, âI wanted to connect it to the ivy on my arms.â
You feel a soft hand on your back, tracing up the blade of the sword and then towards the vines wrapping around your shoulder blade and up towards your neck. Your skin tingles and you stay frozen, careful not to move, to shatter the moment- whatever it may be.
âI like that theyâre your own,â Natasha says quietly. âThat you chose to get them even after your scar.â
âIt was the only thing I could think to do,â you say it like a confession.
âYouâre strong.â
âSometimes.â
You drop your shirt, but Natashaâs hand stays on your skin, her fingers lightly gripping your shoulder blade as you turn around. You find her much closer than you expected, her gaze and touch unwavering. Her hand stays still underneath your shirt, as your eyes search her face. Sheâs solid, grounded in a way that feels safe. Your body feels whole for once. Not just a jumbled pile of pieces that you try so hard to stitch together. Something worth mending.
You realize you can feel Natashaâs breath on your face and then she falters, like sheâs only now registering your proximity.
âIâm sorry, this probably isnât-â
âNo,â you say quickly, voice barely above a whisper, âno, stay.â
Natasha just nods, the fear in her eyes fading and thatâs when you know you want to kiss her. Is she fighting to keep her eyes away from your lips like you are hers? Does she seem a bit nervous, or are you just making it up? But her body betrays her and her fingers dig into your shoulder blade ever so slightly. You lean forward, just an inch, testing. And then her eyes fall to your lips.
Natasha swallows. âAre you su-â
âYes.â You nod hurriedly.
âThank God.â And then she surges forward, pressing her lips to yours. Itâs soft at first, but then sheâs pulling you flush against her, her hand trailing down your back, finding your waist and then your hip. Her lips move against yours like sheâs been waiting for this and you match her hunger because maybe you have been waiting for this. You sigh into the kiss and then sheâs pulling away, her arm wrapped around your waist to keep you close.
âMaybe you can show me the rest of those scars some time,â you say without thinking. Her lips are swollen and her eyes are glued to your lips.
Nat and r moving in together in a new place, and putting up a cabinet or shelf to display all the awards they won for projects they did together. Just them being the ultimate hollywood power couple and also absolute softies at home