natasha romanoff x fem!reader one-shots

⑱+ 𝐦𝐚𝐧𝐮𝐬 𝐦𝐞𝐚, 𝐜𝐮𝐥𝐩𝐚 𝐭𝐮𝐚 (𝟐/𝟐)

a/n: this took me so long omfg

trigger warnings: trauma bonding, smut (penetration, n receiving; fingering, n receiving; oral, n receiving), graphic violence, blood, body horror, coercion, depictions of mental illness/anxiety + trauma, manipulation/gaslighting, toxic relationship dynamics, mentions of scalpels, emotional/mental torture, stalking, insomnia, sex tape, masturbation (hinted at), description of a corpse, guns

ˣ ˣ ˣ = flashback starts/ends

Natasha's no stranger to insomnia. It's never gotten this bad, though.

She's been losing sleep for weeks. When she does sleep, she's not dreaming. She's stuck in this liminal state, somewhere between sleep and wakefulness. Her body is heavy, her mind is loud, and she's right in the middle — caught in a thick, molasses-like sludge of semi-consciousness.

It's not torture. It's slow psychological erosion. She knew it wouldn't take long until someone dared to approach her about it. She's been aware of her symptoms for a while now.

Clint noticed first. He sees how she zones out, how she keeps touching her face in a way she never has before. He knows she's overusing caffeine, and that it's not helping. He also knows she avoids mirrors, that her sense of time is off. Not by much, but enough to be noticeable.

The rest of the team soon starts worrying as well. Even for Natasha, this is concerning.

She doesn't slack during the mission, but the second she's in the Quinjet again, she slumps into her seat and closes her eyes. Her face is pale, with dark circles under her eyes. She brings her hand up to her face and rubs her forehead.

Everyone else is preoccupied, but Clint can't stop worrying. He hesitates, then sits down in front of her. The Quinjet takes off.

"Hey", he says, touching her knee. "That explosion rattled us all. Still with me?"

"I'm fine", she says, briefly opening her eyes to give him a pointed look. "Just need a minute."

Clint raises his eyebrows, then glances at the team. Bruce shrugs, Tony hasn't even noticed. Steve is trying to stitch his suit, which tore right at the inseam of his thigh, back together. They think it's burnout, which Clint can't agree with.

"You look like you need sleep", he says, a bit firmer this time. "Take a break, Tasha."

Usually, she doesn't run out of patience quickly. But it's been tested for days, and at this point, it's like cellophane stretched over a bed of nails — too close to bursting.

"I said I'm fine", she snaps. "Don't you have wounds to tend to?"

Clint glances at the shirt he's balled up and pressed against his shoulder. A bullet grazed him; it didn't do too much damage, but he's bleeding. He sighs.

"I'm just trying to help. You're not acting like yourself."

Natasha shakes her head. The Quinjet is soaring through the sky, on a direct path toward the Compound. She can feel the exhaustion in her bones, and the hum of the aircraft is only making that feeling worse. She's on the brink of nodding off, but she knows she'll get no rest.

It's a short flight, thankfully. Even if she won't sleep much, she'd rather be tired in her own room.

"You worry too much", she says, picking at a loose string on the sleeve of her suit. "I'm still alive, aren't I?"

"Nat", he says quietly. "Is this about her again?"

Her head snaps up again. Her eyebrows furrow, her eyes simmer with something silent. Despite everything, she can't stand anyone talking about you — especially not in a negative light. Clint never liked you, and she knew that. Despite that, the thought of leaving you because of him never entered her mind.