#gotham au

[creature-lala]

I drew my and @hopetheprincess ‘s versions of our 3 weed smoking girlfriends meeting

[summer2224]

Red in the Shadows

Natasha Romanoff x Fem Reader

By Summer2224

18+

Gotham AU (yes, yes, DC--I was feeling adventurous, okay? )

sexual content 

Practice writing in Past tense

You and Natasha were childhood best friends in Gotham, inseparable until the city tore you apart. She promised she'd come back for you. You promised you'd never forget her. But Gotham doesn't keep promises. It devours them.

Written November 20-27 2023

7547 Words

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Gotham never slept. It pulsed. It bled. It devoured.

Rain ran like veins down the glass of your apartment window, carrying the city's filth in silver streaks. From six stories up, the city looked almost beautiful, lights smearing through fog, neon signs buzzing half-alive, patrol drones gliding overhead like vultures waiting for the next corpse. But beauty in Gotham was a lie. Everything here was a lie.

A scream rose in the distance, cut off by something sharper. Sirens followed. They always did.

You didn't flinch. You just kept typing.

Your fingers danced across the worn keys of your laptop, each keystroke a whisper of defiance. Words piled on the screen, another piece exposing another name no one dared say out loud. But you weren't like the rest. You'd made a name for yourself in this rotting city, and not by staying quiet.

Y/n Y/l/n. 28. Journalist. Too stubborn to die, too pretty to disappear.

The kind of pretty that didn't come from designer gloss or high-rise penthouses. No, you were Gotham-pretty. All edge and grit and eyes that didn't miss a thing. Thick lashes casting shadows over calculating eyes, skin kissed by neon and sleepless nights, lips that always seemed like they had something biting to say, and usually did.

Your reflection in the window barely looked like the girl you used to be. There were scars now, a thin one on your jaw where someone tried to shut you up. Another, deeper, on your heart where she used to be.

You swallowed hard, pushed her name down like poison. It still burned.

The heater in your apartment buzzed like it was dying, the hum of the city pressing in from all sides. Somewhere below, a fire crackled, or maybe it was a gunshot. In Gotham, the difference barely mattered.

Your latest article lit the screen "The Red Widow: Myth, Monster, or Manhattan Muscle?" A spotlight piece on the elusive gang sweeping through Gotham's underground, brutal, efficient, and always two steps ahead of the GCPD. No one knew who led them. Just whispers. And red.

You tapped your pen against your bottom lip, deep in thought. Somewhere in the pit of your stomach, something twisted. Familiar. Uneasy.

And then, you felt it. That shiver. That crawling sense that someone was watching.

Your eyes flicked to the window.

Rain. Glass. Neon. No one there. But still, your pulse jumped.

The soft creak of old floorboards followed your slow pacing.

Barefoot, you moved with the practiced grace of someone who had danced with both silence and danger, not out of elegance, but survival. The tea kettle hissed, steam curling like a ghost into the dim light of your cramped kitchen. You didn't rush to it. You'd learned long ago not to startle, not at shadows, not at sounds. Gotham trained its survivors in patience.

Your oversized white button-up hung off one shoulder, the thin fabric barely brushing the top of your thighs. It was someone else's shirt once, long ago. Now it just smelled like you and peppermint soap. You reached for the kettle, the handle warm beneath your fingers, and poured slowly into your chipped mug. The one with the faded black cat. The only thing that hadn't been broken or stolen.

A low boom echoed outside.

You didn't flinch, not yet. Just brought the mug to your lips, inhaling the sharp scent of chamomile and ginger. The crackling of gunfire followed, distant but distinct. Then the unmistakable rotor-throb of a GCPD raid drone, heavier than the usual patrols. That sound was new. That sound was closer.

Still, you turned away from the window.

You pushed the aviators up the bridge of your nose, tinted reading glasses, gold-rimmed, catching the dull glow from your laptop screen as you returned to your desk.

The headline still stared back at you, daring, provocative.

"The Red Widow: Myth, Monster, or Manhattan Muscle?"

Your cursor blinked just beneath the opening paragraph. Your own words felt colder now that the world outside was warming up to the idea of fire again.

You sipped your tea and leaned back slightly in your chair, stretching one leg out, the other curled under you. The steam from the mug coiled past your lashes.

You narrowed your eyes behind the glasses and murmured aloud, "Myth? Maybe. But monsters bleed too."

Another pop of gunfire outside, closer this time. You could hear shouting. Barked orders. A scream. Boots pounding pavement.

You didn't even look up. Not yet.

You stared at the screen, fingers hovering just above the keys. For a second, just a breath, the world outside faded into static.

The steam from your mug curled across your cheek, and something about the scent, ginger, warmth, tugged at the edge of your mind.

And just like that, you were twelve years old again.

A cracked sidewalk. Summer sweat on your skin. Natasha beside you, her red hair tied back, loose strands curling around her freckled cheeks.

"I stole this from my foster mom's cabinet," she said, holding up a plastic bag, the dried tea leaves inside crushed and uneven. "She thinks it helps her sleep. I think it smells like firewood and lies."

You had giggled, sharp and short, and she had looked at you like the sound mattered more than anything else in the world.

The two of you sat on the back steps of a condemned apartment building, drinking makeshift tea from chipped mugs. The city around you already reeked of sweat and metal and sirens.

Then, quieter than before, like she meant it too much to say it loud, she'd whispered, "I'm gonna get us out of here one day."

And you believed her. Because Natasha didn't lie. Not to you. Then the memory peeled back like old wallpaper, replaced by the cold hum of the present. Another barked command outside. More boots. Another drone screaming past your window. You blinked, hand still curled around your tea like you'd forgotten how to let go.

You heard it, boots on metal, just outside the fire escape window. Not the heavy, stomping cadence of a GCPD officer. This was softer. More deliberate. Controlled.

Calculated.

Your eyes snapped to the movement just as your body reacted on instinct. Your hand flew to the gun resting on the coffee table, compact, matte black, loaded for the last six months and never once fired.

Your bare feet padded silently across the floor, tea forgotten, heartbeat hammering like a war drum in your throat. You aimed at the window without a sound, breathing through your nose.

Then, the window slid open.

Rain spilled in. And she stepped through.

Natasha.

Older. Broader. Leather-clad and shadow-soaked, her red hair darker now, damp from the storm and plastered to her jawline. Her green eyes, those same damn eyes, locked on you the second she crossed the threshold.

And for a heartbeat, you saw it.

That flicker of something unspoken in her gaze. Relief. Regret. Rage.

Your grip loosened. Your arms lowered. The gun dropped to your side. Then to the table.

Your jaw clenched so tightly it ached as you turned away from her, refusing to give her the thing she came here for, your eyes.

Not yet. Not after everything.

She stepped fully inside, shutting the window behind her. The room fell into a vacuum, no rain, no sirens, just the thudding silence between you.

"Y/n," she said your name like a secret.

You didn't answer. You just walked back to the desk, slow, cold, deliberate.

She exhaled sharply behind you, leather creaking with the movement of her shoulders as she paced once, frustrated, as if you were the one who left.

"You're not even gonna look at me?"

Still, you didn't turn.

Your sigh cut through the silence, tired and sharp, like something you'd been holding in for years. Jaw still clenched, eyes fixed on the screen in front of you, not because the words mattered anymore, but because she did, and you refused to let her see it.

Behind you, she moved, quiet, slow, then leaned back against the wall beside the window. You heard the soft thud of her shoulders as they hit the peeling paint, the creak of leather as she folded her arms across her chest. Her head tilted back, gaze dragging up toward the ceiling, like maybe she could find the right words written in the plaster.

She didn't speak.

But you could feel her watching you, or maybe watching the space between you. The one that used to be filled with stolen tea bags and shared promises.

Her jaw was tight. Muscles flexed beneath skin that had seen more war than warmth. Rain still clung to her, beading along her collarbone, soaking into the lapels of her jacket, but she made no move to take it off.

She looked like she belonged to the storm outside. Like it had kissed her into existence and left her bleeding at your feet.

Devastatingly beautiful. In the kind of way that made your chest ache.

Her face was sharper now. Time had carved it crueler, cheekbones cut clean, mouth downturned, lips full but cold. But her eyes? A storm of green and gold, haunted and hungry, like they were always trying to hold onto something just out of reach.

Like you. And still, you didn't look at her. Didn't give her the absolution she was silently begging for.

The ceiling didn't answer her. And neither did you.

She pushed off the wall. Just one step. Just enough to shrink the space between you by a breath.

"Will you just look at me," she said, voice low and sharp with restraint, "and let me explain?"

You didn't.

Instead, you slammed the laptop shut with a snap like a gunshot, the sound ricocheting off the walls. You stood slowly, shoulders tense, bare legs gleaming in the low light, your oversized shirt shifting with your breath.

And then you looked at her.

Really looked.

Your eyes met hers, not with forgiveness, but with the kind of hurt that never healed properly, the kind that calcified into something bitter and holy.

"What could you possibly have to say to me," your voice cracked just enough to betray you, "after all these years, huh?"

Natasha flinched. She didn't mean to. But she did.

She stepped closer. You could feel the heat of her now, smell the storm in her jacket, the trace of blood and metal still clinging to her skin.

"Y/n," she started, quiet, desperate, "you need to let me explain--"

"Explain?" you scoffed, the sound bitter, alive with old wounds. "Explain those promises you made to me?" your voice rose, sharp and splintering. "You told me you'd get us out of here. Us. You told me you'd come back."

Your voice cracked again, this time deeper. You shook your head and looked away, throat tightening.

"And you disappeared. And I--"

Your words caught, burned behind your teeth.

You turned from her, just a fraction. And then her fingers were on your chin. Firm. Intentional. Turning your face back to hers like she couldn't bear your silence another second. Like she needed your eyes more than oxygen.

But her fingers froze when she saw it.

The scar. Her eyes went dead still, pupils blown wide. Her voice dropped into something hollow and lethal.

"Who?"

You ripped her hand off you, breath hitching in your chest as you turned your face away again, but not before she saw the flicker of pain in your eyes.

"Like you care," you muttered, your voice shaking despite how hard you tried to kill the tremor.

The silence that followed was thick, like the walls themselves were holding their breath.

You stood in front of her, heartsick and shaking, the memory of her touch burning on your skin, and all the things you wanted to say crammed behind your teeth like broken glass.

And behind her rage, behind her guilt, she looked at you like you were still hers. Like no time had passed at all.

Natasha stepped forward so fast it made your breath hitch. No weapons. No threats. Just raw anger and that unbearable grief behind her eyes.

"Of course I care."

You let out a broken laugh. "Bullshit."

Her jaw flexed, voice rising. "You think I wanted to leave you? You think I didn't try to come back?"

You turned fully on her, eyes blazing, voice rising to match hers now, fury ripping from your throat like it had waited years to speak.

"You promised me!" You jabbed a finger into her chest, voice cracking with every word. "You promised you'd get us out of here. That we'd leave this city behind. You looked me in the fucking eyes, Natasha, and you left me to rot!"

She flinched again. Not from the force, from the words. From you.

"I was a kid," she snapped, "They pulled me into a life I couldn't crawl back from. You think I didn't fight? I bled for that promise--"

"But you broke it," you shouted over her, stepping closer, your chest nearly against hers now. "You didn't even write. Not one word. Not one sign. I thought you were dead." Your voice dropped to a whisper. "I wished you were dead."

That one landed.

Natasha's breath hitched. Her lips parted, stunned silent, not because she believed you... but because some part of her did die back then.

You were panting, chest heaving beneath the thin fabric of your shirt, fists clenched at your sides. Every nerve in your body was on fire.

She stared at you, drenched in silence, her voice low now, shaking.

"I didn't come back because I wasn't safe. I wasn't clean. I wasn't the girl you remembered."

You looked at her, eyes swimming with rage and heartbreak.

"You were never supposed to be perfect," you said. "You were just supposed to come back."

And then it happened.

She stepped in, close, grabbing your face with both hands, fingers trembling, not kissing you, not yet, just holding you there, like letting go would kill her.

Her voice cracked for the first time.

"I never stopped loving you."

Your breathing stuttered.

Her hands were on either side of your face, trembling, not from weakness, but from everything she'd buried for years, clawing to the surface now.

You looked up into her eyes, and whatever strength you had left finally cracked. The tears came without warning, slow, hot, helpless, streaking silently down your cheeks.

She didn't say a word. Just reached up with her thumb and wiped them away, slow, tender. Reverent.

You whispered through the shake in your voice, barely audible, "Why now?"

Her thumb paused against your cheek, and she tilted your chin gently, guiding your eyes back to hers. Her voice came soft, like a secret spoken under breath, "I've always been watching."

You swallowed, a tremble in your lip, but you didn't look away.

"Do you know how many times I wanted to grab you and take you away with me?" she whispered, forehead nearly resting against yours, her breath warm against your mouth. "How many times I saw you, bleeding for this city, and all I wanted--" Her jaw clenched. "--was to make you stop fighting ghosts alone."

You shook your head, voice cracking into something sharper.

"Then why now?!" You shoved her back, just a little, not enough to push her away, just enough to scream without falling apart. "Why are you only showing up now, after all these years? Don't circle around it, don't feed me guilt, just fucking say it!"

Her shoulders squared. Her jaw set tight, fury and grief warring behind her eyes.

And then, slowly, she stepped forward again, gently pressing your back against the wall, one hand bracing above your head, the other hovering just beside your waist.

Not aggressive. Not violent. Protective.

Her body caged you in, not to trap you. but to shield you. Like she was afraid something else might rip you away from her again.

Gunshots cracked in the distance. Sirens screamed. A chopper cut across the skyline with a mechanical growl.

Shouting echoed from the street below.

And still, her eyes never left yours.

"The city is corrupt," she said through clenched teeth, jaw tight with control.

You barked a bitter laugh through your tears. "No shit," you snapped. "It's always been corrupt."

Her hand slammed against the wall above your head, palm flat, the sound snapping through the room like another gunshot. "It's worse."

The word came out of her chest like it was bleeding.

She leaned in close, her voice dropping to something low and dangerous.

"It's not just cops taking bribes or gangs running turf anymore." Her lips hovered inches from yours, her breath trembling as she spoke. "They're cleaning house. Silencing names. Tying up loose ends. You wrote about the Red Widow, Y/n."

You blinked. She nodded slowly. 

You stared up at her, back pressed against the wall, the city's chaos pulsing just beyond the glass, sirens flashing red through rain-streaked windows, gunshots rattling like a countdown in the distance.

And still, her eyes were only on you.

You searched them now, deep, unflinching, reading every flicker, every fracture. The softness that used to be there was buried under years of violence, sharpened into something harder, colder... but not gone.

"What do you know about the Red Widow?" you asked, voice low and dangerous.

Her jaw flexed. She didn't answer.

So you pressed harder. Your voice dropped to a whisper. "What aren't you telling me?"

She closed her eyes for half a second, just long enough for you to know it wasn't an easy answer, it never was.

When she opened them again, they weren't cold. They were burning.

"Because I am the Red Widow," she said quietly.

The words hit like a punch to the gut, silent and brutal.

You blinked. Once. Twice. Your heart stopped, your lungs forgot how to work.

She took a step back, as if giving you space would make it easier.

It didn't.

"The gang... the one behind the killings, the turf wars--"

"I built it," she said. Not proud. Not ashamed. Just honest.

"I took everything Gotham gave me -- the abuse, the silence, the men who tried to break me --and I turned it into a weapon."

Her voice dropped lower, almost shaking now.

"But I never used it against you. I protected you from it."

You stared at her like you didn't know her anymore, because maybe, you didn't. Or maybe you did. Maybe some part of you always knew.

The eyes. The precision. The silence in the shadows when you thought someone was watching. The way your name never showed up on any hit lists, not once, not even when you tore into the Widow's territory.

It had always been her.

You stood frozen, the wordless weight of her truth sinking in like cement.

The Red Widow. It had been her all along.

She took another slow step toward you. No aggression. No walls left between you. Just that awful, aching vulnerability she never let anyone else see.

"I've had you protected from the moment I found you again."

You stared. Speechless.

And her voice, low, rough, dragged you backward in time.

Flashback -- 3 Years Ago

The streets were soaked in filth and neon when Natasha saw you for the first time in over a decade.

You were walking out of a courthouse, head held high, voice hoarse from shouting into recorders. A story about a crooked judge. One of your best.

She stayed across the street, behind the wheel of a nondescript black car. Lights low. Engine running. A gun in her lap and a growing ache in her chest.

You looked the same. No, you looked stronger. Wiser. Fiercer.

But under your eyes, she saw it. The tiredness. The fight. The weight you carried alone.

A man followed you. Leather jacket. Eyes too sharp. Natasha saw it, how close he walked, how his hand hovered just behind your bag. A predator. And you never even turned around.

The second you rounded the corner and disappeared from view, Natasha was out of the car.

She followed the man into an alley two blocks over. He never saw her coming.

By the time she was done, his jaw was broken in three places and he'd be pissing blood for a month.

She didn't kill him. She wanted to. But she needed him to send a message.

The next day, you got a text from an anonymous number.. "Watch your back."

You thought it was a threat. It wasn't.

Back to Present

Natasha's eyes were locked on yours now, voice shaking with the weight of it.

"You've had eyes on you ever since. My people. My orders. Anyone that got too close... they were warned."

You blinked slowly, the pieces crashing into place.

"The guy who attacked me outside the subway last year--"

"Taken care of." Her voice was hard now. "The editor who threatened to blackball you after you ran the piece on the chemical plant--"

"Disappeared," you whispered.

She nodded once. "You don't have to thank me." A pause. "You can keep hating me if it keeps you safe."

Something in you broke again, but softer this time. Not from pain.

From knowing you were never as alone as you thought.

You stepped back before you could stop yourself, hitting the wall again, breathless.

"Why didn't you come to me?"

Natasha's face cracked, voice hoarse. "Because I wasn't her anymore." She gestured to herself, to the storm in her skin. "The girl who made you tea on cracked sidewalks. She died a long time ago."

You shook your head, tears threatening again. "She didn't die."

You looked up at her. Eyes red, throat tight. "She's right here."

And for the first time in years, Natasha Romanoff looked like she might break.

Your lips hovered a breath from hers.

Close enough to taste the heat between you. Close enough to feel the tension vibrating through her chest, the storm coiled just beneath her skin.

But it wasn't lust in your voice when you spoke. It was something deeper.

"You're still that girl that fixed my teddy bear with dental floss." Your breath ghosted across her mouth. "Still the girl who taught me how to skip rocks down by the bay, who let me win, even though you never lost anything."

Your lips brushed hers, featherlight, like memory itself.

"Still the girl I gave my body to..."

Natasha's breath hitched.

And then, she melted.

Her body leaned into yours, hips just grazing, her leather jacket pressing against your thin shirt, soaked fabric to bare skin. Her hands hovered, not gripping, not taking, just feeling. Like she couldn't believe you were real.

Your gravity pulled her in, not with force, but with truth.

And her eyes, God, her eyes never left yours. Because she remembered everything.

Flashback – Years Ago

It was raining, like always. You were sixteen. Maybe seventeen. It was hard to keep track back then. The two of you had broken into an abandoned building on the edge of the Narrows, something gutted and left to rot. Rain tapped the broken windows like it wanted in, and the room smelled like dust, mold, and the vanilla chapstick she always used.

You were both soaked, hiding from a fight that had broken out nearby. You were scared, and thrilled. She'd lit a few candles from her stolen stash, their little flames trembling with each draft of wind.

You remember sitting on an old mattress someone had dumped in the corner. It was disgusting, but it was yours in that moment. A world away from screaming homes and broken foster promises.

You had kissed her first. A little shaky. Mouth dry. Heart thunderous.

Natasha had frozen. Not in rejection, in awe.

You remember how her eyes widened, how her breath caught. Like she couldn't believe you'd chosen her.

"Are you sure?" she whispered.

You nodded. You'd never been more sure of anything in your life.

But you were nervous, she could see it. She took your hands, kissed your knuckles like they meant something sacred. Her voice low, trembling:

"You're in control, okay? This is yours. We go slow. We stop whenever."

And you had.

You'd undressed each other one piece at a time, every button a quiet promise, every inch of skin revealed like a truth unspoken. Natasha moved with purpose, but never took. She watched your face the entire time, eyes flicking to your mouth, your chest, but always, always coming back to your eyes.

You remember the way she touched you, steady hands, warm breath, lips finding places you didn't know craved attention. But it wasn't about heat.

It was about belonging.

You'd moaned her name like a prayer when it happened. 

Her mouth had been on your throat, your hand gripping her wrist tight. And afterward, you'd laid there, sweaty, limbs tangled, her cheek on your chest, listening to the rain.

She'd kissed your ribs like they were fragile glass. She never said it then, but you felt it.

She loved you. Even then.

Back to Present

Your breath caught as the memory shattered back into the now.

Natasha was still pressed against you, her lips just brushing yours, not kissing yet, not breaking the tension. Holding it.

Her voice was raw. "I remember all of it."

You nodded, tears sliding freely down your cheeks now.

"I chose you then." Your voice cracked. "I'm still choosing you now."

And finally, she kissed you. Not with heat, not with force.

With reverence. With years of silence, guilt, love, and longing pouring into the space where words failed.

Her hand cradled the back of your neck. Your fingers curled into her jacket. You melted into her like you'd been waiting your whole life for that exact moment, because you had.

Natasha's hands gripped your hips, lifting you without warning, your gasp swallowed into her kiss as your legs wrapped tight around her waist like instinct, your thighs pressing to the sides of her jacket. She staggered slightly, her boots thudding against the old floor as she moved through the apartment.

The kiss never broke.

Outside, the city howled. Sirens wailed low in the distance. Gunshots cracked, two, maybe three. Then the low whup-whup of a GCPD chopper circling overhead.

But in here, time slowed.

Natasha's breath was ragged against your lips, her hands gripping you like she was afraid you'd disappear again. She reached your bedroom in three uneven steps, the door half-open, the room bathed in rainlight through slatted blinds.

She pressed you gently to the bed, lips still tasting yours, still taking. You reached up, fingers tugging at the damp leather around her shoulders.

"Off," you whispered between kisses.

She didn't hesitate. She shrugged out of the jacket, letting it fall heavy to the floor with a soft thud, the sound swallowed by the storm outside.

Another shout outside the window. More boots. More chaos.

But she was focused on you.

You lay back against the sheets, knees bent, legs still wrapped around her. Her hands slid up your thighs, skimming the bare skin beneath your oversized shirt, the only thing you wore. Her touch was reverent, like she was reacquainting herself with something holy.

She kissed down your jaw, slow, savoring, and then your neck, where you tilted your head just slightly, silently offering more.

You felt her shudder. She was trying to go slow.

But there was so much time to make up for.

She leaned back, just enough to kick off her boots, the thud of them against the wall making you both laugh softly through the haze.

And then her body was over yours again, strong, warm, soaked in rain and wrapped in silence.

She looked down at you like she couldn't believe you were real.

"You're still the most beautiful thing I've ever seen," she whispered, voice shaking.

Your hand reached up, brushing wet strands of hair from her cheek.

"Then don't stop looking." 

She kissed you again, deeper this time, slower. The kind of kiss that felt like a vow.

The thunder outside shook the windows. The echo of a distant explosion rumbled like the city itself was unraveling.

But her fingers, slipping beneath the hem of your shirt, sliding up over your ribs, brushing under your breast, were patient. Intimate. Desperate in a way that came from love, not lust.

She was memorizing you all over again. And this time, she wasn't leaving.

Natasha's mouth dragged down your neck, open and slow, kissing across the curve of your throat like she was rediscovering the path she used to know by heart. You tilted your head further, offering more, your legs still locked tight around her waist.

Her breath hitched against your skin.

You could feel it, how hard she was holding herself back. How every part of her was wired for violence, for control, but with you, it softened. With you, her hands trembled.

She gripped your thighs, thumbs stroking slow circles as she leaned in again, kissing you breathless, her tongue tasting the sound of your gasp. Her body pressed down on yours, all hard muscle and soaked cotton, the heat of her seeping through her clothes like a second skin.

You reached for the hem of your shirt, her shirt, once upon a time, and pulled it up and over your head in one fluid motion, baring yourself to her in the storm-lit room.

She froze.

Her eyes darkened as she drank you in.

"Jesus," she whispered, voice wrecked. "You're unreal."

You smirked, breath shaky.

Her hands roamed your body like she was claiming it piece by piece, reverent, thorough, hers. She cupped your breasts, thumbs brushing across your nipples until your hips arched into her, seeking friction.

Then she leaned down again, lips closing around one nipple, sucking slow, tongue swirling with maddening precision. Your fingers dove into her hair, nails scraping her scalp as your head fell back against the pillow.

Another siren screamed outside. Gunshots popped in rapid succession, sharp and chaotic. The city was unraveling.

But here, wrapped in her body, you felt safe.

Her lips moved lower, over your ribs, your stomach, and when she looked up at you, eyes dark, face flushed, hair falling into her lashes, you thought: This is it. This is home.

She sat back on her knees and pulled her soaked t-shirt over her head, baring her scarred, sculpted body in the flicker of lightning through the blinds. She was all strength and history, every inch of her marked by war, and yet in this moment, completely yours.

Your hand reached out, fingers tracing the scar under her ribs.

Her eyes fluttered shut.

"I never forgot," you whispered. "Any of it."

Her hand slid between your thighs. You gasped, not from the touch, but the heat in her eyes as she watched your body respond to her.

"I remember your first time," she murmured, fingers stroking you gently through your panties, slow and precise. "How brave you were. How you looked at me like I was something good."

"You were," you said, breathless. "You still are."

She hooked her fingers in your underwear and pulled them down, slow, watching them slide down your legs like she was unwrapping something sacred. Then she leaned down, mouth hovering just above your inner thigh.

Her breath was hot. You were already aching.

The first touch of her tongue was everything. You gasped, hand flying to the sheets, hips lifting off the bed.

She moaned softly against you, like tasting you again was something she needed to survive. Her tongue moved slow, languid strokes that made you writhe, her fingers digging into your thighs to hold you steady.

Your hands flew back to her hair, curling tight as your body arched.

"Fuck, Nat..."

She looked up at you from between your legs, pupils blown, lips wet.

"I missed how you say my name like that."

Her mouth returned with purpose now, faster, deeper, more desperate. Her fingers slipped inside you, curling just right, and your back bowed off the bed as your moan was swallowed by the thunder outside.

Your release hit you hard, stars dancing behind your eyes as you cried out her name, legs trembling, body shaking under the weight of everything you'd held back.

She didn't stop until you were breathless and boneless, until your body stopped twitching beneath her tongue.

Then she crawled up, kissed you deep, letting you taste yourself on her mouth. You moaned into her, wrapping your arms around her shoulders, not wanting an inch between you.

"Your turn," you whispered against her lips, reaching for the button of her jeans.

She grabbed your wrist, not to stop you, but to steady herself.

"I love you," she said, voice raw. "I never stopped."

You pulled her hand down, guided it to your heart. "I love you too."

You didn't wait. Your hands moved to her jeans, working the button open with urgency, fingers trembling with adrenaline and aftershock. Natasha stood for a second, breathless, to shove them down, soaked denim hitting the floor with a heavy drop, and you took in all of her.

Strong. Beautiful. Yours. Still yours.

She climbed back into the bed, and you rolled with her, flipping her gently beneath you, straddling her hips, your thighs still slick, your heart pounding loud enough to drown out the sirens outside.

Your lips met again, messier now, more open, the kind of kiss that said we survived.

You pulled back just enough to whisper, "Lie back."

Natasha's pupils dilated. She obeyed.

The sight of her stretched beneath you, body bare, chest rising with quick breaths, hair fanned across your pillow, lips parted, stole your breath.

You kissed her collarbone, the curve of her breast, the sharp arch of her ribs. You memorized every scar with your mouth, your fingers. She gasped your name when you slid down her body, your hands dragging slow, reverent paths down her stomach, over her hips, to her thighs.

Gunshots echoed again, closer. A window shattered in the distance. The city screamed.

But inside this room, she was quiet.

Except for the breath she lost the moment your tongue found her.

Her legs fell open as your hands gripped her thighs. She was already soaked, not just from the rain, but from you. You licked a slow, deliberate stripe from the base of her slit to the top, tasting her like she was honey.

She whimpered and you smiled against her.

"God, Y/n..."

Her hands fisted the sheets as you flicked your tongue against her clit, slow, rhythmic, teasing at first, then firmer, faster. Her hips bucked, but you held her down with a strong arm, lips wrapped around her, tongue circling, tasting, worshipping.

She was so responsive.

So undone.

Your name tumbled from her mouth again and again, breathy, helpless, like a mantra. One of her hands dropped to your hair, not guiding, just clinging, grounding.

Her thighs trembled against your shoulders.

Another explosion outside, this one heavy, rumbling. The sky flashed white, lightning backlighting her silhouette like something mythic.

Her orgasm hit fast, shuddering, gasping, her back arching off the bed as her body writhed beneath your mouth. She moaned your name again, louder now, not caring who heard.

And when she finally came down, eyes glassy, chest rising fast, you climbed back up her body, kissing her lips softly, slowly, letting her taste the want and love you'd carried for years.

She cupped your face, kissed you deep, and pulled you into her arms, wrapping herself around you like she couldn't bear the idea of space between your bodies.

You laid there in the dark, breathing hard, tangled in limbs and silence, the chaos of Gotham still alive outside your walls.

"Stay," she whispered. "Run with me. Tonight."

You rested your forehead against hers, brushing your thumb across her mouth.

The sirens were getting louder again. And you had a choice to make.

You didn't answer. Not yet.

Your body tensed, just slightly, a twitch of your jaw, the shift of your hand on her ribs.

She felt it. Your silence was a stone thrown into the fragile stillness between you.

Natasha's eyes opened, staring up at the ceiling, heart hammering against yours. You could feel it, how afraid she was to say more. To push. To beg.

Because Natasha Romanoff doesn't beg.

But she'd almost beg for you.

She kept her hand on your back, rubbing small, absentminded circles, trying to pretend she didn't feel the hesitation beneath your skin.

You didn't move. You just breathed, eyes fixed on the cracks in your bedroom ceiling.

You wanted to say yes. God, you wanted to say yes.

But Gotham was in your blood. And so was the fight. And leaving meant... surrender. It meant choosing her over everything else.

So you said nothing. Not yet.

Natasha turned her head just enough to look at you.

You felt her eyes watching you.

Searching.

"Say something," she whispered, and for once, there was fear in her voice.

Not the kind she'd ever show a stranger.

Only you.

You looked at her finally, eyes soft, unreadable, your lip caught gently between your teeth.

"I don't know if I can."

The words landed like ash. But Natasha didn't pull away.

She just nodded once, jaw tight, eyes hardening like she was building armor again, brick by brick, from the inside out.

"I get it," she said.

She didn't mean it. Not really.

You knew that. And she knew you knew.

You laid your head back on her shoulder, silent, your arm tightening around her waist.

Outside, the rain came harder.

A spotlight from a patrol drone lit your window for a second before sweeping past. Somewhere, someone screamed.

You didn't move. And neither did she.

But the question still hung in the dark like a noose.... Will you run with her?

The room stayed quiet for a long time.

The only sounds were the slowing rhythm of your breathing and the distant hiss of rain sliding down the glass. Somewhere in the city, a building alarm began to scream, long, low, mechanical wailing, a death cry wrapped in steel.

You still hadn't said anything.

Natasha shifted beneath you, her cheek brushing against your forehead as she pulled the sheets higher around your tangled legs, as if that could hold the moment in place. As if she could anchor you here with her.

"I have a route," she said, voice low, steady, like if she kept it clinical, she could survive the silence.

You didn't respond. But you didn't move either. That was almost worse.

Her arm tightened around your waist.

"I've got IDs. Clean ones. Transport through Blackgate tunnel access. No scans. No drones. I can get us out past the Narrows before sunrise."

You stared at the wall.

Eyes wide open.

Breath slow.

She hesitated, watching your profile, your lips parted slightly in thought, or uncertainty, she couldn't tell which anymore.

She swallowed.

"I bought a place outside the city," she added, voice almost a whisper now. "Small. Quiet. It's nothing. But it's safe."

Still, you didn't speak.

And Natasha... broke a little.

Just a flicker.

A single tear slipped from the corner of her eye and disappeared into her hairline before she could wipe it away.

You didn't see it.

You didn't feel the subtle tremor in her arm as she held you tighter, trying to memorize the shape of your body against hers. As if she could steal this moment and take it with her, even if she had to leave alone.

"I'm not asking you to give up who you are," she said finally, her voice quiet but raw. "I'm just asking you to let me keep you alive."

Still, your lips didn't part.

Your silence answered for you. And Natasha said nothing more.

She just tucked her face into your hair, breathing you in like it would be the last time.

Before Sunrise

The world was still dark when Natasha slipped out of bed.

She moved carefully, quiet, precise, as if every creak of the floorboards might break her resolve.

You were curled beneath the sheets, one hand resting in the space where her body had been, your breath slow and even. The first hints of light touched the corners of the sky outside the window, casting a faint gray wash over the rain-slicked rooftops of Gotham.

She stood at the edge of the bed, watching you for a heartbeat longer than she should have.

Then she leaned down, and kissed your forehead.

Her lips lingered. Just long enough to hurt.

"I love you," she whispered against your skin. But only once.

She pulled on her jacket, still slightly damp, the scent of you clinging to her sleeves now. Her boots were soundless across the floor. She looked around your apartment, at the mug still sitting on the table, your laptop closed, the window still streaked with rain, and her heart cracked.

It was harder to walk away than she'd planned. But seeing you awake, and staying, would have destroyed her.

Her Place

She moved fast through back alleys and empty streets, sticking to shadows like muscle memory. Her safehouse was a windowless box on the edge of the industrial zone, full of weapons and worn-out ghosts.

She didn't linger. One bag. Two weapons. Flash drive. Burner phone.

She paused just once in the doorway.

Looked back at the mattress on the floor, the cracked mirror, the broken photo frame she never fixed.

She left the light on.

Blackgate Tunnel Access -- 5:41 a.m.

It was colder here. Darker.

Water dripped from rusted pipes, echoing down stone corridors lined with rot and forgotten things. The city above was waking, but not this place. This place was dead.

Bobby was already waiting.

Grimy coat. Smoker's cough. Eyes twitching from too many sleepless nights.

"You ready?" he rasped, adjusting the duffel over his shoulder.

Natasha stood at the edge of the tunnel entrance, the old chain-link gate twisted open just enough to pass through. She looked over her shoulder, back at Gotham.

The sun hadn't broken the skyline yet, but the edge of it glowed, just barely. Buildings rose like teeth into the dawn. She could still hear it: distant gunfire, tires screeching, a city that never stopped bleeding.

Her throat tightened.

She didn't want to leave you. But she'd accepted it. She turned back to Bobby, jaw set. Nodded once.

And stepped forward....

"NAT!"

Her body froze.

For a second, her brain couldn't process the sound. Then her heart did.

She turned. And there you were.

Running. Breathless. Crying. A bag slung over your shoulder, still half-zipped. Boots unlaced. Shirt wrinkled. Face flushed.

And perfect. So fucking perfect.

Your eyes met hers and you ran faster.

Natasha barely had time to move before you collided into her, arms thrown around her neck, kissing her like it was oxygen, like you'd been underwater and she was the only thing keeping you alive.

She staggered back a step and then caught you fully, arms locking tight around your waist, spinning you in the dim tunnel light.

"I'm coming with you," you sobbed into her mouth, lips trembling, eyes shining.

Her hands cupped your face, her fingers shaking, her own tears finally spilling down her cheeks.

"You came," she breathed. "I didn't think you--"

You kissed her again, cutting off the words, tasting the salt of her tears and yours, both of you crying and laughing into each other like the weight of the whole city had just lifted off your shoulders.

She kissed you again. And again. And again.

Holding your face between her hands like she was afraid you'd vanish if she blinked.

"You didn't think I'd let you run alone, did you?" you whispered, forehead against hers, both of you breathless.

She shook her head, eyes wild with joy and disbelief.

"I didn't think I deserved it."

You kissed the corner of her mouth, her cheek, her scarred jaw.

"You don't get to decide that. I do."

Behind you, Bobby cleared his throat.

Natasha smiled through the tears, eyes locked on yours.

She grabbed your hand, fingers lacing through yours tight.

"Then let's get the fuck out of here."

And together, still crying, still laughing, you stepped into the shadows of the tunnel, just as the first sliver of sun kissed Gotham's skyline.

One Year Later

The world had burned, and you hadn't watched it.

You'd left it.

The news still came sometimes, through old channels, broken signals, half-booted transmissions. Gotham was worse than ever. The GCPD had all but collapsed. Masked factions waged open war in the streets. Buildings fell. Names disappeared. Everyone whispered that the Red Widow had vanished. That she'd either died, or gone underground so deep, not even hell could find her.

They were half right.

Because Natasha Romanoff was no longer Gotham's.

She was yours.

The midday sun poured in through gauzy curtains, golden and soft, pooling across the hardwood floor and onto the tangled mess of white linen sheets. The cabin smelled like cedar and honey and skin. Outside, the wind stirred tall grass and birds called to each other in lazy loops above the trees.

Inside, it was quiet.

And warm.

Your bare leg was thrown over Natasha's hip, your body half-stretched across her chest, skin flushed and still damp with sweat. The heat between you still lingered from what she'd just done to you, her fingers still brushing lazy circles across your back, her lips occasionally pressing to your temple like she couldn't help it.

She was glowing.

Chest rising slow and steady. Mouth soft. Hair a mess. Her wedding ring caught the light as her hand moved down your spine.

She wore nothing but the sheet draped low across her hips and the faintest smile, that quiet, satisfied, I love you so much I can't breathe kind of smile.

You murmured into her collarbone, voice thick with sleep and post-orgasm haze. "You're gonna kill me one of these days."

She chuckled low, hand sliding to your ass. "You married me."

You looked up at her, chin propped on her chest, messy hair falling across your brow. "God help me."

She leaned in, kissed your mouth slow, not greedy, not teasing, just home. Then she pulled back slightly, eyes roaming your face like it was the first time all over again.

"You're happy?" she asked, voice quieter now. Less teasing. Real.

You nodded, lips brushing hers.

"I'm free." A pause. "With you, I'm free."

She exhaled, letting her head fall back against the pillow, hand covering her face for a second, overwhelmed, still not used to having this.

You tugged her hand down, kissed her knuckles, then rested your cheek back on her chest.

There were no sirens here. No boots pounding on the floor above. No helicopters. No gunfire.

Just the rustle of trees. The thrum of peace. The warmth of the woman who held you through fire and pulled you into the light.

On the nightstand sat two mugs of half-drunk tea. One photo in a battered old frame. You, and her. Smiling. Safe.

Your rings glinted in the light, matched and simple. She shifted beneath you, hand sliding into your hair.

"Round three later?" she murmured.

You laughed, voice low and wrecked with affection.

"God help me," you repeated, and kissed her again.

And outside, the world kept burning. But you? 

You had already escaped.

[broken-lycan]

@postmortemboobjob behold!!! our boy (adult man)!! *gestures excitedly*

e-girl (nonbinary?) Oswald who drinks too much monster energy and may or may not work at the Hot Topic run by Fish Mooney

[mlady-magnolia]

“Do you remember the last time we did this?”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

[the-nagakenny-archives]

“Mmm, feels real good, don’t it? Thoughts gone like dandelion fluff in a summer breeze. All that emptiness is so warm, so heavy…and you want to give in so badly.”

(With @hahausernamething.bsky.social’s goat detective Sirius qvq)

[aleksku07]

Smth (love them)

[garpen]

Part 22 Gotham Twitter Au

<<Part 21<< Master List >>Part 23>>

Three updates in three days. Everybody say thank you to caffeine for making my brain function normally these past few days (not good for my heart but GREAT for my noggin)

Trolls Band Together is coming on Netflix this Monday and I pray I don't fall back into that hyperfixation bc it was SO BAD when the movie first came out. (Literally watched Trolls 1 TODAY for the hundredth time, and watch it on avg. once a week)

I've already got a part 23 ready to be posted tomorrow (in roughly 24hrs) 👀

[velvetwyrms]

Here we go again, here we go again...

I've been listening to Pliocene on repeat while putting together a palette based on Werner's Nomenclature (a colour palette from 1814 used for scientific illustrations). This song is perfect for Ornithologist!Oswald at the start of my Gotham GLAM AU, so I thought he should be my first test for it!

More of my GLAM AU: Natural History Sector shenanigans (Comic) | Ah Yes, The Fan! (Comic) | Riddlebird first meeting snippet (Fic) | GLAM AU Playlist (Link) | Gotham GLAM Character Masterlist

Why not check out my Riddlebird arctic fairytale too? Here's the fully illustrated, ongoing fanfic, and the Gotham Umora AU tag.

[Please reblog to stop my hours of work from dying in your likes. This lets others enjoy it too and supports me to draw & write more, thank you! <3]