Hello, would you write for Natasha being an absolute bottom? Kinda like Come on Baby(Regina). Dont be shy to put all your interested kinks. Also could r be Gip please.
You Won't Survive
Natasha Romanoff x Reader
Smut - gripping
Natasha Romanoff does not get cornered.
She’s survived gods, monsters, men who thought they owned the world—and yet here she is, back pressed lightly to the kitchen counter in the Avengers Tower, arms crossed, jaw tight, eyes sharp but wavering. And the reason?
You.
“You’re hovering,” she says coolly, but there’s no bite behind it. Not really.
You lean in anyway, unbothered. Smiling like you already won. “I’m persuading.”
Her eyebrow twitches. That’s it. The tell. The microscopic crack in the armor.
“Persuasion usually involves facts,” Natasha replies.
“Oh, I’ve got facts.” You tick them off on your fingers, stepping closer with every word. “Fact one: you haven’t walked away yet. Fact two: you keep looking at my mouth like you’re deciding something. Fact three—”
“I am not—”
“Nat,” you cut in, soft but heated, eyes locked on hers, “you’re a world-class assassin and you’re scared of one date?”
Silence.
God, she hates that you see her.
Her shoulders loosen just a fraction, like she’s exhaling without meaning to. “I don’t date,” she says. “I don’t do… whatever this is.”
You tilt your head. “You mean feeling wanted? Because you’re doing a terrible job avoiding that.”
That gets her.
Her lips part like she’s about to argue, but nothing comes out. Instead, her gaze drops. Just for a second. And when it comes back up, it’s darker. Warmer. Less certain.
“You don’t know what you’re asking for,” she murmurs.
You step into her space fully now—still not touching, but close enough that she can feel you there, like gravity. “I’m asking you to let me take you to dinner. Then maybe, afterward, you can be my dinner.”
Her mouth twitches. Almost lets out a whimper. Almost.
“And if I say no?” she asks quietly.
You shrug, easy, confident. “Then I’ll survive. But you won’t. You'll keep thinking about how you let someone stand this close and didn’t push them away.”
Natasha swallows.
For someone who controls rooms with a glance, she looks dangerously undone right now. Trapped not by you—but by how much she wants to say yes.
“You’re relentless,” she says.
You grin. “I promise, you'll like it, red.”
“I’m not interested,” she tells you, arms folded, expression locked down like a vault. “Drop it.”
You hold her gaze for half a second longer than necessary, searching for the crack that is there reminder or not. Then you smile—easy, unbothered, almost sweet.
“Suit yourself.”
And you walk away.
Natasha tells herself that’s that.
She is wrong.
--
The next day, the Avengers common area is loud—Tony running his mouth, Steve pretending not to judge, Bruce half-laughing into his coffee. Natasha is at the counter, focused, safe, invisible in plain sight.
Until you slide in.
Not next to her. Never next to her. Across. Leaning back. Casual.
“So,” you say, loud enough for everyone, eyes only on her, “does anyone here know if Romanoff likes her coffee black, or is she secretly a cream-and-sugar person?”
Tony snorts. “Ooo, personal.”
Natasha doesn’t look at you. “Drink your coffee,” she says coolly.
You hum. “Didn’t answer the question.”
Steve glances between you. “Do you two—”
“No,” Natasha says immediately.
You grin. “Not yet.”
Her jaw tightens. She finally looks at you, and there it is—that look. The don’t you dare look. You raise your brows like: what?
Later—hallway. Empty. Or so she thinks.
She turns a corner and nearly collides with you. You don’t touch her. You just… stop her momentum by existing.
She exhales sharply. “You said ‘suit yourself.’”
“I did.” You lean back against the wall, blocking nothing, giving her space she absolutely does not need. “And I am.”
Her eyes flick to your mouth. Damn it.
“You’re being inappropriate,” she says.
“Inappropriate would be whispering,” you reply lightly. Then you soften, just a bit. “This is just flirting.”
“This is cornering.”
You tilt your head. “If I were cornering you, red, you’d know.”
Silence stretches. Charged. Heated. Not sexual—worse. Intent.
She steps closer despite herself. “Why are you doing this?”
Your voice drops, not soft—honest. “Because you said no like you wanted me to stop wanting you. And that’s not how this works.”
Her breath stutters. Just once.
Another day. Another chance encounter. Training room this time. You toss her a towel like it’s nothing.
“Careful,” you say. “If you keep glaring at me like that, people are gonna get ideas.”
She wipes her hands slowly. “You’re enjoying this.”
“Mm. A little.” You meet her eyes, fearless. “But mostly I’m enjoying you pretending this doesn’t get to you.”
She steps in close—too close—and lowers her voice. “One day you’re going to push too far.”
You don’t back up. You just smile, warm and dangerous. “And on that same day,” you say, “you'll beg me to keep going.”
Natasha huffs and stands there—cornered again—not by your body, but by the fact that she hasn’t told you to leave.
--
The training room smells like rubber mats and sweat and focus.
Natasha’s alone—of course she is—moving through drills with ruthless precision. Punch. Pivot. Kick. Reset. She doesn’t hear you come in, not until the rhythm stutters.
She straightens slowly, towel over her shoulder, eyes already sharp. “If this is another—”
You don’t smile. You don’t tease. You don’t move closer.
You just say it.
“One dinner, Red.”
That’s it.
The room goes quiet in a way that means something.
Natasha blinks. Once. Like she’s recalibrating. “I said no.”
“I know.” Your voice is calm, steady, not chasing her anymore. “This isn’t chasing. This is an offer.”
She studies you now, really looks—like she’s trying to find the angle, the trick, the pressure point. There isn’t one. You’re standing easy, hands loose at your sides, already halfway prepared to walk out.
“And if I say no again?” she asks.
You shrug. “Then tomorrow it’ll still just be an offer.”
That does it.
Her shoulders drop the tiniest bit. The fight leaks out of her stance like air from a blade cut. She turns away, wipes her hands, buys herself time she doesn’t need.
“You don’t negotiate like anyone I know,” she says quietly.
You tilt your head. “That a complaint?”
She turns back. Her eyes are warm now. Dangerous. Soft in a way she never lets people see.
“…No,” she admits.
A beat.
“One dinner,” she says at last, voice low. “Public place.”
You grin—slow, satisfied, but gentle. “Of course.”
She exhales, something like a laugh trapped in her chest. “You’re insufferable.”
You take a step back toward the door, already letting her breathe again. “Yeah,” you say. “But you said yes.”
--
Dinner is supposed to be neutral ground.
That’s what Natasha tells herself as she sits across from you in a low-lit restaurant she definitely scoped three exits for. Candle between you. Wine she hasn’t touched. Posture perfect. Guard up.
You, on the other hand, look devastatingly relaxed.
“You clean up well, Red,” you say, eyes dragging over her just long enough to be rude.
She lifts her glass, buys herself a second. “So do you.”
That’s it. That’s all she gives you. And still—her ears are already pink.
You lean forward, forearms on the table, voice dropping just a touch. “I like this version of you.”
Her brow furrows. “This version?”
“The one who showed up,” you say simply. “Didn’t run.”
She opens her mouth to snap back, then stops. Closes it. Looks away.
Strike one.
Dinner comes. Conversation flows easier than she planned. You listen—actually listen—chin propped on your hand, eyes never leaving her face. When she talks with her hands, you track the movement like it’s choreography.
At some point, your knee brushes hers under the table.
Accidental. Totally deniable.
She freezes.
You don’t move it away.
Her breath hitches—barely—but you feel it more than see it. She shifts, like she’s deciding whether to retreat or press back.
She presses back.
You smile like you won the lottery.
“Comfortable?” you murmur.
She glares at you over her fork. “Behave.”
You do not behave.
When she makes a dry comment, you laugh and reach out—just fingertips—to brush a crumb from the corner of her mouth. It’s brief. Intimate. Public enough to be insane.
Natasha stills completely.
“You had something—” you say innocently.
Her eyes darken. “You could’ve told me.”
“But then I wouldn’t get to touch you,” you reply, voice warm, unashamed.
She swallows. Hard.
“God,” she mutters, “you’re—”
“Persistent?” you offer.
Her lips part. Close. “Distracting.”
Strike two.
Later, you walk her out. City noise hums around you, but the moment feels sealed off. She stops short of the car, turns to face you.
“This was one dinner,” she reminds you, trying—failing—to sound firm.
You step closer. Not crowding. Never crowding. Just close enough that your hand brushes her wrist.
“I know,” you say softly. “I’m not asking for more.”
Your thumb circles once. Slow. Deliberate.
Her pulse jumps under your touch.
“But?” she asks, voice thinner now.
You tilt your head, eyes flicking to her lips and back. “But you’re allowed to want it.”
She exhales shakily, like the idea alone knocks the air out of her.
“I don’t—” she starts, then stops. Her composure fractures, just for a second. “You make this difficult.”
You grin, affectionate and lethal. “Funny. I was thinking the same thing about you.”
Then you kiss her.
Not gentle. Not testing.
It’s deep and heated and deliberate, like you’ve been building toward this moment for days and finally decided you were done being polite about it. Her surprise lasts half a second before she melts into it, hands fisting in your jacket like she needs something to hold onto.
She makes a quiet sound—frustrated, wrecked—and you feel it straight through you.
Your other hand slides up her back, pulls her closer. No hesitation. No mercy. She presses back without thinking, body betraying her composure completely.
When you break the kiss just enough to breathe, your forehead rests against hers.
“Still think this was a bad idea?” you whisper.
Her eyes flutter open. Glassy. Flustered in a way she never is.
“You—” she exhales, fingers tightening at your sides, “you don’t play fair.”
You grin against her jaw, brushing another kiss there—slower now, possessive. “You came anyway.”
She laughs softly, breathless, then groans when your hand slides down to her hip, squeezing just enough to make your point.
“God,” she mutters, clearly overwhelmed, “I said one dinner.”
You pull back just enough to look at her—really look at her—pressed against your car, lips swollen, eyes lit up like you just cracked something open she keeps locked down.
“And you survived,” you say gently. “Barely.”
She shakes her head, trying and failing to regain control. You lean in again, stopping just short of her mouth.
And you let her close the distance and kiss you back.
--
The back of your car is too small and somehow still not close enough.
Natasha is half-sprawled against the seat, jacket discarded, hair a mess, eyes blown wide like she can’t believe she let it get this far—and can’t believe she wants more. Her hands are everywhere, gripping at you like you’re the only solid thing left in the world.
“Jesus,” she breathes, forehead dropping to your shoulder, voice wrecked. “You— you’re not fair.”
You smile against her jaw, low and dangerous. “You already said that.”
She lets out a sound that’s more frustration than words when you pull her back in, mouths crashing together again, all heat and hunger and zero patience left. Every touch lands heavier now—intentional. Claiming. She reacts to everything, like her body decided it’s done pretending.
Your hand settles at her waist, steady, grounding—and she melts into it immediately, like she’s been waiting for permission to fall apart. But you don't stop there. Your fingers trail lower, slipping under the hem of her dress, finding the heat between her thighs. She's already soaked through her panties, her pussy slick and swollen, begging for contact without her saying a word.
You push the fabric aside and slide two fingers inside her, slow at first, feeling her walls clench around you like she's trying to pull you deeper. Natasha gasps into your mouth, her hips bucking up instinctively, chasing the intrusion. Her breath hitches, ragged and desperate, as you curl your fingers just right, stroking that spot inside her that makes her entire body jolt.
“Oh my god,” she murmurs, breath shaking, knuckles white where she’s clutching you. “Don’t stop. Please—”
That word hits harder than anything else tonight. You pump your fingers faster, your thumb circling her clit in firm, relentless circles. She's dripping now, her arousal coating your hand, the wet sounds of your fingers thrusting in and out filling the cramped space. Natasha's thighs tremble, squeezing around your wrist as she rides your hand, her head falling back against the seat with a soft thud.
Her first orgasm crashes over her without warning—her pussy fluttering wildly around your fingers, gushing hot and slick as she cries out, a broken moan that echoes off the car windows. Her nails dig into your shoulders, her body arching off the seat, every muscle taut and quivering. You don't let up, though; you keep fucking her through it, drawing out the waves until she's whimpering, oversensitive and gasping.
But she's not done. Not even close. You add a third finger, stretching her wider, and she sobs your name, her hips grinding down harder, like she can't get enough. The second climax builds fast, her clit throbbing under your thumb as you rub it faster, your fingers plunging deep and twisting. Sweat beads on her skin, her shirt clinging to her heaving chest, nipples hard and visible through the fabric.
“Fuck—yes, right there,” she pants, her voice raw, eyes squeezed shut as pleasure rips through her again. This time, she squirts, her release soaking your hand and pooling in the seat beneath her, her whole body convulsing in your grip. She's melting completely now, boneless and shuddering, but you keep going, slowing just enough to let her catch her breath before picking up the pace once more.
Her third orgasm hits like a storm, her pussy clamping down so tight it almost pushes your fingers out, but you're determined to keep them in, fucking her through the spasms. Tears leak from the corners of her eyes, mixing with the flush on her cheeks, and she buries her face in your neck, biting down on your skin to muffle her screams. Every pulse of her release feels like a surrender, her body yielding to you completely, emotionally and physically wrecked.
You stay close. You keep her there. Let her ride the feeling, let it crest and break and pull her under again, until she’s gasping your name like it’s the only thing anchoring her. Your free hand strokes her back, holding her steady as she trembles in your arms, aftershocks rippling through her with every gentle thrust of your fingers.
When she finally slumps against you, breathless and stunned, she laughs softly—disbelieving.
“…I hate you,” she says weakly.
You brush your thumb along her cheek, gentle now, intimate in a way that feels almost worse, while your other hand eases out of her, slick with her cum. You bring your fingers to your lips, tasting her on your tongue—salty and sweet—before wiping them on your jeans.
“No,” you murmur. “You really don’t.”
She doesn’t argue. She just leans into you like she already knows this was inevitable. Her hand drifts down, fumbling with your belt, eyes locking onto yours with a mix of exhaustion and fresh hunger. “Your turn,” she whispers, voice hoarse but determined, as she frees your cock from your pants. It's rock-hard, throbbing in her grip, pre-cum beading at the tip.
She strokes you slowly at first, her touch tentative from the afterglow, but it builds quickly—her fist tightening, twisting just under your tip the way that makes your breath catch. The car feels even smaller now, the air thick with the scent of sex, her body pressed flush against yours. You groan, thrusting into her hand, watching her face as she works you over, that vulnerable spark in her eyes turning wicked.
But she wants more. She shifts, straddling your lap despite the awkward space, her soaked pussy hovering over your length. “Need you inside me,” she breathes, sinking down inch by inch, her walls still fluttering from her orgasms, gripping you like a vice. The stretch makes her whimper, her eyes fluttering shut as she takes you fully, bottoming out with a shuddering gasp.
“Oh fuck,” Natasha moans, her voice breaking as she settles there, your cock buried deep inside her. She's trembling already, her inner muscles clenching involuntarily around your thickness, like her body's overwhelmed by the fullness. She tries to move, to lift her hips and ride you, but she only manages a shallow rock before she freezes, a dazed look crossing her face. “I... I can't,” she pants, her hands pressing flat against your chest, nails digging in. “You're too much. Feels so good, I—please, just... fuck me. Fuck me, fuck me. Please, I need it.”
Her plea sends a jolt through you, and you grip her hips tighter, holding her in place as you buck up sharply, slamming into her from below. She cries out, her head tipping back, pussy squeezing you in response. “Yes! Like that—harder,” she begs, her words slurring with the haze of pleasure, completely lost to the sensation of you stretching and filling her. You set a punishing rhythm, driving your cock up into her slick heat over and over, the angle hitting deep, brushing that sensitive spot inside her with every thrust.
Natasha's breath comes in ragged bursts, her breasts heaving as she clings to you, unable to do more than grind down weakly to meet your movements. “God, you feel so good,” she gasps, her voice raw and needy. “Don't stop—I'm so close. Keep going, please...” The wet sounds of your cock pounding into her echo in the confined space, her arousal dripping down your shaft, soaking your balls. She's cock-drunk now, eyes glassy, lips parted as she murmurs incoherently, every upward snap of your hips drawing a fresh whine from her throat.
You feel her tightening first, her walls fluttering wildly around you as her climax builds. “So close—fuck, you're gonna make me cum again,” she sobs, leaning forward to capture your mouth in a messy kiss, tongues tangling desperately. You thrust harder, faster, one hand sliding up to pinch her nipple through her shirt, rolling it between your fingers. She shatters with a keening moan, her pussy convulsing around your cock, gushing hot and tight as waves of release crash through her. “Yes—oh god, yes!”
The vice-like grip of her orgasm pulls you under too. You growl against her neck, hips snapping up one last time, burying yourself to the hilt as you cum, thick ropes of your load flooding her pretty pussy, pulsing hot inside her. Natasha trembles violently, riding out the aftershocks with whimpers, her body milking every drop from you.
As the high fades, she collapses against your chest, still impaled on your softening cock, neither of you moving to separate. “Stay,” she murmurs breathlessly, her arms wrapping around your shoulders, face nuzzling into your collarbone. “Please... don't pull out yet. I want to feel you."
You nod, your hands stroking soothing circles on her back, keeping her close in the humid warmth of the car. The windows are completely fogged now, sealing you in your own little world. “I'm not going anywhere,” you whisper, pressing a kiss to her temple. “You okay?”
She lets out a soft, shaky laugh, lifting her head to meet your eyes, her cheeks still flushed. “Okay? That was... a lot. I've never felt anything like that.” Her fingers trace idle patterns on your neck, a tender contrast to the raw passion from moments ago.
“Yeah?” you smirk, your voice is gruff. “Your pussy feels so good, red. The way you begged... fucking hell.”
She blushes, biting her lip, but doesn't look away. “Shut up.” She shifts slightly, a small gasp escaping as your cock twitches inside her, still half-hard.
--
Morning comes in rude.
Sunlight slices through the car window, landing directly on Natasha Romanoff’s face like a personal attack. She groans, shifts—and immediately freezes.
Because something is very wrong.
The backseat is cramped. Her leg is draped over yours at an angle that defies physics. Your arm is still around her waist, lazy and heavy with sleep. She blinks once. Twice.
Then it all hits her at the same time.
“Oh my god.”
Her voice is hoarse, panicked, and barely above a whisper.
You hum, half-asleep, entirely too comfortable. “Mornin’, Red.”
She tries to move. Realizes she can’t. Realizes why. Goes completely still again.
“This—” she swallows, cheeks flushing hard, “this is not acceptable.”
You crack one eye open, grin already there like you planned this. “You say that like you didn’t fall asleep first.”
“I did not fall asleep,” she hisses. “I passed out.”
“On me,” you add helpfully.
She drops her face into her hands. “We’re still… like this.”
“Yeah,” you say, stretching just enough to make the situation worse for her sanity. “Turns out cars aren’t built for dignity.”
She peeks at you through her fingers. You look unfairly pleased. Relaxed. Smug.
“Don’t,” she warns.
You absolutely do.
“Well,” you murmur, voice warm and infuriatingly amused, “on the bright side—this might be the longest you’ve ever stayed.”
Her glare could cut glass. Unfortunately, it wobbles halfway through.
“This never happened,” she says.
You grin wider. “Nat, you drooled.”
Her eyes widen. “I did not.”
“Right here,” you say, tapping your shoulder. “Very vulnerable. Kinda cute.”
She groans again, but this time there’s a laugh tangled in it—quiet, betrayed, real.
“…We need to move,” she says, trying for authority and landing somewhere near flustered.
“In a sec,” you reply, entirely unhelpful. “I’m enjoying the view.”
She exhales, long and slow, then finally looks at you properly—hair a mess, lips soft, guard completely down in the early light.
“You’re unbearable,” she says.
You shrug. “And yet.”
She shakes her head, but she doesn’t pull away. Doesn’t rush. Just rests her forehead against yours for one quiet moment before reality kicks back in.
“…Next time,” she mutters, “we’re getting a hotel.”
You smirk. “Next time?”
She closes her eyes.
Damn it.
---------------
aye
