MENACE
natasha romanoff x reader ; you've never been more helpless. nat likes you best like that.
warnings: nsfw, explicit smut, cnc, unsafe bdsm practices, no aftercare, somnophilia, heavy choking, one single mention of medical kink
RATED E FOR EXPLICIT SEXUAL CONTENT ; 18+
a/n: i think i remember how to do this. cheers.
Natasha Romanoff is grumpy when you meet her (and sporting a week’s worth of insomnia under her eyes and wearing a tee that’s a little too tight, too, but as appealing as both of those are neither endears you as much as her furrowed brow and little frown).
Two weeks later you’re on recon with her, some assignment dropped into your lap an hour before wheels were expected to be up.
“You’re going into the field, rookie,” Stark told you, and, “Romanoff will babysit you, but if you’re as good as your resume claims you shouldn’t need her.”
Recon only. No engagement unless necessary.
The two of you post up in a slimy cave high in the mountains, half a mile above the entrance to a long forgotten mine that may or may not be the newest hideout of one of Stark’s most-wanted. It’s a stupid assignment, Stark could have sent drones, but you reckon he just wants to see how well you do with bullshit assignments, last minute takeoffs, and taking orders.
“Could be fun,” Natasha says, dangling a flask in front of your face.
“Is this a test?”
She smiles.
An hour later you’re tipsy and breaking a protein bar in half to split for dinner.
“I know this is bullshit,” she says, and to her credit she does sound apologetic, “but Tony likes to test people. He wants to see you prove yourself, you know, make it known that you’re as competent as you are on paper.”
You can’t say that’s not fair. This is, after all, no nine-to-five, but, “How am I supposed to prove myself when there’s fuck-all to do?”
Natasha laughs.
An hour later Natasha’s her own stoic version of piss drunk, you’re far worse off, and you’re staring at each other with a vigor that would scare the hell out of you even if she weren’t your immediate supervisor.
But you’ve always liked fear.
You make the first move: you crawl onto her lap, sink down against toned thighs, and tuck in. Her lips are warm, softer than you’re used to, and she doesn’t protest. She licks into your mouth and clamps her hands around your thighs and though you’ve never crossed a boundary like this before, you can’t see yourself ever going back.
Natasha makes the first move next time.
When she asks you out for drinks the week after you return you assume the address she sends you will be a bar.
It’s her apartment.
Bold.
She answers the door in black fatigues and a tank top and takes you right to her bedroom, sinks down on the edge of the California king, and puts you on her lap. She likes you there, where she can reach all of you, where your chest presses up against hers, and your mouth is right there for the taking. She’s gentle until you push your hands through her hair and tell her, “You don’t have to be so nice, you know.”
She’s never gentle after that.
She likes throwing you around, and likes that you can take it, knows it makes your heart flutter and your cheeks flush when she reminds you time and again how much stronger than you she is. On your back is how she likes you best, with your legs spread open and your knees pushed back as close to your chest as they’ll go.
Sometimes she’ll clamp a hand around your throat and dig her nails into the soft skin beneath your jaw until you can’t breath and you’re clawing at her arm and your vision’s starting to go. Sometimes she won’t let go at all, not until you slip away and your body slackens and she’s left fucking a fake cock into your helpless cunt.
You don’t know what she does to you when you’re out cold until she starts to film it.
Filthy fucking videos, those are, full of her laughter and your inability to protest while she does things like stuff her fist into your sloppy hole or perform a full pelvic exam wherein she dons rubber gloves and leaves you gaping around a speculum far longer than any licensed practitioner ever would.
“Look at you,” she’ll say later after she slaps you back to consciousness and queues up her newest video, “you’re so easy to break.”
It’s easier when you come back to with your mouth empty; when she brings you back and you’ve still got your own panties stuffed into your mouth she never lets you pull them out to catch your breath until she’s had her fun holding you down while you struggle to regain your hold on the world.
Sometimes you wake back up on your own while she’s in the middle of things. You either love or hate those times the most, but you’re never sure which.
“...doesn’t matter if you don’t want it,” she’s saying this time, and she’s blurry above you (and there are three of her and three sets of nails carving jagged red lines down your torso, but you know there will only be one of each in a minute or two), “gonna fuck your whore pussy anyway and you’re going—to—take—it.”
“—Nat—”
“Look who’s awake.”
You can hear the smirk in her voice, can see the bright white glare of her cell camera, and you’re sure you look like hell and that she’s going to give you shit for that later, but that’s the least of your worries.
“Stark should fire you,” she says. “Maybe he will once he finds out you’ve been getting your stupid hole stuffed on camera for months. Or maybe he’d like your little videos. Maybe he’d even want a turn with you, huh? Would you like that?”
No, but only because by her rules you're not allowed to think about anyone else like that.
But you can't say that, not unless you want her to go and make it happen. You learned long ago that Natasha Romanoff is nothing if not genuine in her threats.
“Maybe I would,” you say, low and hoarse, and it almost sounds like a growl.
She finds a pressure point and digs in, and, “Don’t you dare fucking lie to me,” she says, and you’re out again.
The next morning you wake up to the sun cutting through the window and warming your bare back, waking with you the memories of the night before and bringing it all to a boil in your belly. You want to relive them. You want her to fuck you again, to stuff you full and flood you with desperation and desire.
She pulls the sheets from your body and flips you onto your back, coasting a hand up your shin as she settles at the foot of the bed.
“Show me your pussy,” she says, soft, mocking, like she’s requesting the easiest thing in the world from the dumbest little thing she’s ever met.
Your knees part, legs falling open without thought, and you can tell the slick between your thighs from the night before is still there.
She lifts her brows and looks.
“You look sloppy,” she says, pulling your lips apart and dragging a nail over your clit. “Let me make it worse.” She slaps you before you have time to think and though it hurts it’s the lingering sting that pulls a cry from your throat. It’s been a while since she’s hit you like this, between the thighs, where the shame hurts worse than anything else.
The next time you see it coming, but you don’t stop her. You don’t even bother to keep your legs from trying to clamp shut when she slaps your cunt for the second time, you just screw your eyes shut and force your legs open again because for that you know she won’t stop until you’re crying and begging her to do something—anything—to get you off.
It takes you a minute to focus up when she’s done, to familiarize yourself with the steady throb between your legs and the warm pressure of Natasha pushing something into you.
She’s kneeling between your legs, hands clamped around your thighs to keep them apart as she lazily fucks into you with a cock as thick as your forearm.
“Look at that,” she says with a little laugh. “Even when you’re looser than a ten-cent hooker I can still find something to stretch you out with.”
And you know she can feel you clenching as she tries to ease out, like you’re pulling her in, and if she were any man she’d be spent in sixty seconds or less, but her stamina knows no bounds and even as your hole gushes with relief she’s still driving into you, and you wouldn't have it any other way.
