natasha romanoff x fem!reader one-shots

⑱+ 𝐦𝐚𝐧𝐮𝐬 𝐦𝐞𝐚, 𝐜𝐮𝐥𝐩𝐚 𝐭𝐮𝐚 (𝟏/𝟐)

= my hand, your fault

a/n: (requested) villain Y/N; one of the darker things ive written so far, so please read the trigger warnings carefully; split this into two because it started to turn out way too long, chapter 2 should be done in a week or so

trigger warnings: trauma bonding, smut (oral, n receiving; fingering, n receiving), graphic violence (maiming), blood, body horror, mentions of scalpels, emotional/mental torture, stalking; my first attempt at psychological horror (or something similar at least); there's the possibility i forgot something so be careful while reading

ˣ ˣ ˣ = flashback starts/ends

Each step down the stairs makes Natasha's head pound harder. Her hand slides along the railing, the polished metal smooth and cold beneath her palm. If she wasn't running late already, she'd stop to lean her forehead against it. A particularly nasty headache has been plaguing her for hours — weeks, at this point.

She doesn't know what's causing it. It comes and goes as it pleases. It stays however long it wants to. Not even the handful of painkillers she swallowed earlier, all stolen from Bruce's secret stash of prescription drugs, helped.

Her footsteps are quiet and calculated when she enters the meeting room. Her attempt at sneaking inside unnoticed falls flat. Heads turn, all of them, and she offers a short nod in return. If it hadn't been for Tony insisting she come down and look at this, she'd have stayed in her room.

It's unusual behavior. Even when sick, her last option is to crawl into her bed and rot there. Natasha was conditioned to always keep going — even if it leads to her last breath. She'd bleed out like a pig before quitting a fight. It's what she was taught, it's what her body pushes her to do. Every person on the team has a story about Natasha refusing to back down even when things got rough.

With her back against the wall, she closes her eyes. Not something she'd allow herself, but considering she feels like her head is about to explode, she tells herself she has no choice.

"Alright", Tony says. Swallowing a sigh, she opens her eyes and watches him pull up a webcam feed via his holographic interface. "Here's what we're dealing with. Times Square, 3am last night."

Something about it unsettles her immediately. The SHIELD symbol, upside down and burning. Natasha frowns as she tries to figure out what it's made of — wood? Plastic? She isn't sure, thanks to the feed being grainy. But that's not what causes her to stop. The interrupting piece of footage is.

She'd recognize that room anywhere. She feels that same cold sensation she had back then claw its way down her spine yet another time.

"Where is this?", Steve asks, leaning in. Natasha feels bile rise in her throat. "It's choppy. Who gave you this footage?"

Nausea and an elevated heartbeat don't pair well. Natasha whips around and leaves before her reaction becomes obvious to anyone else. Her headache has turned into a stabbing pain, one that is so bad she presses the heel of her hand to her forehead. By the time she reaches the bathroom, her hoodie is drenched in cold sweat.

She refuses to look at the contents she evicted from her stomach. She flushes with a shaky hand, then turns around to face the mirror. Eyes downcast, she washes her hands and rinses her mouth with cold water until her lips turn numb and prickly, like they're filled with thousands of tiny needles.

Her hand slips from the doorknob. Her head is swimming in a mixture of pain and confusion. The second she's back in her room, she grabs her laptop and opens SHIELD's register of current and retired members.