natasha romanoff x fem!reader one-shots

𝐮𝐧𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐛𝐥𝐞

a/n: (requested) based on the song by justin bieber

warnings: blood, situational alcohol abuse, a form of self harm

A smell of alcohol and something metallic lingers in the air, sharp and unescapable.

It's pitch black in the living room of your apartment. A whiskey tumbler sits on the coffee table, bloodied bandages and cotton balls scattered around it. The whiskey bottle is open, half empty, and the cap is nowhere to be found.

The suit on the floor is torn and soaked with blood. Combat boots, dirty and wet, have toppled over next to it.

Natasha's on the couch, holding an ice pack to her head. Only dressed in boxers and a sports bra now, every scar and bruise is on full display. Her eyes are closed, her hand clenching and flexing on her thigh. Nails rake over skin, draw blood, but she doesn't register it through the haze in her head.

The mission didn't go as planned. In the beginning, everything seemed fine — they made it to the location, disarmed a few guards, managed to get into the building. Her assignment was to go and free a few hostages, which she managed quite well, considering she had to fight two guards in the process.

She doesn't remember much else. Just a cell that they somehow got her into. Rusty metal and leaky pipes on the ceiling, blood on the walls.

Pressure around her wrists, her throat. It was brief, but it left its mark. Memories resurfaced — memories that never fully sank to the bottom of her mind's ocean. It felt like grappling with the ghosts of her past, being pulled underwater, drowning, fighting for her life. She could feel the water in her lungs and the blood thrumming in her ears. Salt burned her nose.

Her limbs grew heavy from the kicking and wrestling. She wanted to let go, surrender to the heavy weight of the water, but she couldn't allow herself to. Survival is something that the Red Room ingrained into her.

If there's one thing she can't do, it's die.

Death means giving up.

Four hours later, Natasha still feels like, sometimes, death may be the better option. With the way her head is pounding and her scars are burning, anything to get rid of the pain is welcome. It's why her eyes tracked the liquor shelf first when she got home.

You enter the living room not too long after. Keeping your eyes on her, you turn on the small light before blindly closing the door and locking it.

What you're seeing is not entirely unfamiliar, but it always manages to leave you startled and speechless for at least a minute or two.

"Nat?", you say quietly. No response. "Nat, love."

She opens her eyes. They look empty when they meet yours.

Not a word. Again.

You step closer and bend over to pick up her suit. You fold it, tentatively, unsure how to act. How to make this better, fix it, help her.

You can't. You've tried to before, but it keeps happening.

You sit down and put the folded suit aside. Natasha turns her head away, blank eyes fixed on the ceiling. Whatever happened earlier sucked the life out of her, leaving her completely exhausted. She doesn't want to talk, which you understand — but it feels important to you, anyway.

"Love", you say, touching her hand. She's been carving deep lines into her thigh for a while now, leaving her skin raw and burning. Dark blood is stuck under her fingernails. "Talk to me."

"Get out."

"Nat-"

"I said get out."

You stare at her, eyebrows furrowed in silent concern. You can't tell whether she needs space or support, and that frustrates you.