Natasha Romanoff x Reader Oneshots

when the party's over

age: 17
tw: self harm
word count: 1,4k
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Y/n's POV

Ever since I picked up the blade for the first time I couldn't let it go. I went through different sober streaks but always ended up carving red lines into my skin again. It just seems like when you started once, it never lets go of you, it has you in its hold, it's arms wrapping around your throat and the longer you stay clean the harder it closes around you.

Sometimes I wish I never even started, then again it gives me the possibility to breathe, just for a split second as the world around you disappears, you're able to breathe freely, fresh air floating your lungs. It's relieving.

I always hear about guilt. People feel guilty when they cut. I can't understand that, I don't, I never will. Without cutting I wouldn't be able to function, it keeps me going, why would I feel guilty about finding a way to do just that?

Sometimes I feel like my mind is broken, every person feels guilty, why won't I?

They say it's because of the parents or friends or people who care about them, sometimes they feel guilty just because they do. I just don't feel that. It's messed up. I just can't feel guilty about my self harm, I know I'm not supposed to do it, I know it isn't healthy, but can I feel guilty about being alive, about staying alive? If I wouldn't have this I couldn't cope, I think I would drown, drown in my own thoughts, drown in my past and trauma, I think I would die- I don't wanna die. It's a huge misconception, not everyone who hurt themselves are actively suicidal. No, I don't want to die, I sure thought about it but not because I want to die, no I just want it to stop, to stop the thoughts and the memories- so that's why I cut. I cut and cut and forget about everything around me. I forget about my childhood, my parents and the years I spent on the streets and all kind of different of shelters.

The first time Natasha caught me I was thirteen. I was crying on my bathroom floor covered in my own blood. She didn't scream at me, she didn't want me to feel guilty, she just took my hands in hers, pulled me close and told me that everything will be okay. I didn't say 'sorry', she didn't made me, she told me she understood, that she knows.

No, Natasha isn't my mom, but she sure as hell is the only person that I love as one, the only person I really trust.

She told me I should come to her, come to her when I had urges or when those urges took over and my whole body was acing and bloody. So I did, ever since that day I stood in her room at random times of the day, begging her to make it stop, to take this feeling away, but never once I said that I'm sorry, because that would be a stupid lie and I don't lie to her. She never took my blades away, she said that wasn't the way to solve this, that I would just find another way to harm myself. She understood, she always did. She never blamed me, never told me to stop, that I'm being unreasonable, she understood me, she understood why I'm doing it.

She understands that you can't just stop, not after years of doing it. That's just not how it works. She got me a therapist, sat with me in every session, she was there when I decided to stop seeing her, that it just wasn't for me. I never really opened up in therapy, sometimes barely said a word, my past just making it too hard to talk to someone I didn't know, I didn't trust. She told me it's okay, that not everyone is made for therapy. Afterwards she bought books and talked to professionals, doing everything she could to help me. I got better, but I never stopped, I always relapsed, I never made it past two months, this feeling just eating me up.

"Tasha, please" I cried down the line of my phone, my hands shaking "please, I don't wanna die". I heard the ruffling of things as she got up as fast as she could "What's wrong, sweetheart, tell me what's going on" she said, I bet she already knew what was going on. I cut too deep, it just didn't stop bleeding, I never went that deep before. "Too deep, too d-deep" I stuttered down the phone, horror in my eyes as I watch the fat swells out of my forearm. "I'll be right there, baby, just stay on the phone with me, everything will be okay" she told me, her voice calming as always.

I cried out for her as the door bursted open, my phone dropping to the floor. "It doesn't stop, Natty it doesn't stop" I wailed, watching as she ripped a towel down from its bar, pressing it down on my arm. "It's gonna be okay, pretty girl, you'll be just fine" she said over and over again, waiting for the bleeding to stop- but it didn't.

She called Bruce, escorting me to med bay even though it was the middle of the night. I was shaking as we got down, I hate doctors- she held me, whispering sweet nothings into my ear.

I laid in between her legs as Bruce injected anaesthetics into my forearm, numbing it so that he could stich it up and stop the bleeding. Natasha held my other hands, telling me to look at her and not him, telling me to calm down, that everything was okay. She talked me down, stopping my panic, my fear of dying, telling me that she got hurt worse on missions and that she pretty obvious is still alive. She just held me, letting me relax into the warmth of her body.

She took me to her room that night, not wanting to leave me alone, fearing I might pick up the blade again- truth be told I didn't for another month. I was terrified but then the feeling took over again. She let me cuddle up to her in her bed, she never let anyone in her bed, I was special, she made me feel special. She caressed my back and head until I fell asleep in her arms, not waking up til the morning where I found her looking down at me, telling me how much she loved me, how strong I was for fighting this, how pretty I look when I sleep, she got a kick in the ribs for that.

She never let me out of her eyes for the next couple of days, she never told me to stop the cutting, but she sure wanted to, she was afraid, scared that I would cross the line at some point. She knew about my fear of dying, but she also knew how overwhelming thoughts can be.

She always kissed me goodnight after that night, always coming into my room asking me how I'm feeling, and if I was on edge she'd bring me to her room, putting on a movie and waiting for me to fall asleep before she would get a good nights rest.

But now my door stays closed at night. No one checking on me before falling asleep. Now I turn and toss around at night, snuggling into one of her hoodies, missing her smell, missing her voice and missing her warmth. Missing her comfort.

Now there's no one there to clean my arms, to help me through my urges, to sing me to sleep when I had a nightmare.

Now I spend my days away from school, at her grave, knowing that six feet under the ground isn't even a body, knowing it's just an empty coffin.

Now I spend my days screaming and crying at the universe, hating it for taking the only person that I loved, hating it for not letting me say goodbye.

Now I don't care how deep I cut, maybe I get to see her when I just cut a little deeper, a little more.

Now I don't want to keep fighting, not wanting to win the year-long struggle with my blade, now I want it to win, to give me my happiness back- to give me my Natasha back.

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take the pain bitches:) this is your friendly reminder that she's officially in a little more than two weeks

tbh this might be the most relatable thing I've wrote so far lol