natalia "natasha" romanova ✦ black widow (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
redhourglass) wrote2022-10-14 08:28 pm
redhourglass) wrote2022-10-14 08:28 pm
Entry tags:
( continued from here )
less irritating
if someone is trying to kill you, it’s generally socially acceptable to take them out
less irritating
if someone is trying to kill you, it’s generally socially acceptable to take them out
neutralize the threat, yeah
you won't have to worry about that here. there were a few drunks like that roaming around earlier but they got kicked out
[ He might have helped them out the door. ]
you won't have to worry about that here. there were a few drunks like that roaming around earlier but they got kicked out
[ He might have helped them out the door. ]
[ He'll send it on over. It's not the ritziest joint in town but it's not the worst dive bar he could find either. It can be impossible to have a drink in peace at those so he avoids them if he can. ]
you just in for a few more or did you want to try to keep up with me?
you just in for a few more or did you want to try to keep up with me?
i can’t be going for both?
( she’s tired of being treated like livestock at her current bar right now, anyway )
( she’s tired of being treated like livestock at her current bar right now, anyway )
sure you can, i was just wondering how high we're gonna jack up my tab tonight. fortunately for both of us i'm not broke
how have things been going on your side lately anyway?
how have things been going on your side lately anyway?
With all respect to the people of Wakanda: they've turned metallurgy into a technologically marvelous art form and have made the most appealing scenario in which Bucky Barnes could hide from the world. The problem is more that Bucky can't hide from the world for long. Oh, he knows why he should... the words in his brain, the bits and bobs of the Ten Rings and neo-fascists and old-school fascists and run-of-the-mill crazy people with an interest in history and remnants of HYDRA all spinning on the same blue ball as he is means that he's going to run into the wrong crowd eventually, even if he does his level best to vanish into obscurity.
But Bucky itches to be in the world. To be doing something to make it a better place, after he unwittingly made it a worse one for so long for all the worst people. He's had some time to sort through the shit in his brain, to figure out what was real and what wasn't, to sort out the few times he had lucidity and feeling and wasn't just a machine, to try and pin them on a timeline based on history, location, what he was up to. It did happen, the lucidity, mostly in the 1950s and 1960s or so, which is... distressing in a new millennium to have the realization that it's been roughly fifty years since you've had a thought that wasn't part of a preprogrammed set.
You know. On top of all the other trauma about the entire situation.
All this to say: he leaves Wakanda. He doesn't leave without saying goodbye (to the children), and he doesn't consider the sort of concern this might bring up amongst his super and over-powered peers. He is a man on a mission.
That mission is to make the world slightly better than it was before he started hiding.
It was rough, definitely, the travel from the heart of Africa to Eastern Europe but he'd practiced handling the worst of it in Wakanda's crowded cities. Got used to the press of other humans, of semi-disappearing in a sea of people when he's built to stand out or vanish completely. To act normal, more or less. He knows what people act like when they're afraid, and when they're not; when they're bracing for the world to end and when it's just another day.
It didn't really occur to him that anyone would bother coming to track him down, at least not until he'd gotten really into it.
"It" being the improvement project. Sure he could've gone after multinational corporations, or become the vengeful boogeyman in greasepaint again... but corporations are actually difficult to dismantle in a meaningful way if one is neither the government nor willing to assassinate an entire board of directors (no matter how much they might deserve it, in his opinion, okay?) and he's not trying to raise the wrong red flags here. He'd do more harm than good before other people got called in to handle it, and so. It. The improvement project. AKA routing a small valley from the chokehold the local mobsters have everything in.
In some ways, going to ground again is like coming home.
It's more familiar to her, more comfortable than being an Avenger ever was (is? was? is?) - she knows this part, knows the dance and how it works, and can replicate all the steps in order. Ditch anything non-essential (read: everything) that could be identifying, cut ties with existing networks of support and control (read: everyone), use a non-traceable method of travel to get out of the country (read: boat). She destroys her existing identities with everything else - bye, bye, Natalie Rushman; goodbye, Rebecca Roth. No telling what Ross knows or doesn't.
Eastern Europe is the logical place to go lurk. No extradition policies, limited surveillance due to poverty, she already knows and speaks most of the languages and her appearance won't stick out. Rick hooks her up with a flat in Kyiv that's seen better days but she knows better than to complain. For the first two months, she barely leaves it - she catches up on her reality tv, watches the news when she can stomach it, spends her nights on the internet scraping for any news of Rogers or the rest. They'll find her when they're ready.
She tacks up diagrams of the Raft (hacked from government servers) to her wall and spends hours staring at them, drawing in pencil different escape routes, marking cameras and other obstacles in highlighter until when she closes her eyes at night she can see it on the back of her eyelids. She wants to be ready, needs this uselessness to translate into value when Steve does come calling. Natasha considers her safehouse a prison of her own making, unwilling to be out and free when the rest aren't.
When Steve does call, it's not to talk about a breakout.
James has gone missing. Only - he doesn't call Bucky 'James'. No one calls him that anymore, no one but Natasha and even then only in her head. He's slipped the leash in Wakanda, disappeared, but there are weird signals coming from the outskirts of Bulgaria about a man with a metal arm roughing up the local gangs. Cap needs someone to get there before Ross does, and while it stings for a moment that he's called her for that...
Well, she is nearby, anyway.
It takes her two weeks to track him, another week to get herself there, and a final week to stakeout where he's staying. The flat he's found makes hers in Kyiv look like luxury, but it's difficult to break into all the same - on a busy public street, where a woman with striking red hair will be noted and obvious. He hasn't forgotten his skills, clearly, and in the end she has to wait until nearly two AM when the street is empty and he's out to shimmy in the bathroom window. She makes herself at home, picking through takeout bags and flipping through random books, trying to discern what he's doing and why he's doing it.
In the end, she settles down to wait, legs crossed, on his sofa. He vanishes like this sometimes; her goal had been getting into his safehouse, not figuring out what he's doing with the locals, so Natasha doesn't know where he goes. Probably to run his own surveillance, on whatever targets he's watching. Still, it'll be dawn soon and he has to come back sometime - and she can be patient, while she tries to squash the feeling that it's some kind of fucked up family reunion they have going on.
When he walks in, flipping on the light, she's still on the sofa, though she's found a book that captures her attention and a mug of tea. Barely glancing up, she waves a hand:
"You were out of vodka."
She'd tried to find his liquor stash first, of course.
It's more familiar to her, more comfortable than being an Avenger ever was (is? was? is?) - she knows this part, knows the dance and how it works, and can replicate all the steps in order. Ditch anything non-essential (read: everything) that could be identifying, cut ties with existing networks of support and control (read: everyone), use a non-traceable method of travel to get out of the country (read: boat). She destroys her existing identities with everything else - bye, bye, Natalie Rushman; goodbye, Rebecca Roth. No telling what Ross knows or doesn't.
Eastern Europe is the logical place to go lurk. No extradition policies, limited surveillance due to poverty, she already knows and speaks most of the languages and her appearance won't stick out. Rick hooks her up with a flat in Kyiv that's seen better days but she knows better than to complain. For the first two months, she barely leaves it - she catches up on her reality tv, watches the news when she can stomach it, spends her nights on the internet scraping for any news of Rogers or the rest. They'll find her when they're ready.
She tacks up diagrams of the Raft (hacked from government servers) to her wall and spends hours staring at them, drawing in pencil different escape routes, marking cameras and other obstacles in highlighter until when she closes her eyes at night she can see it on the back of her eyelids. She wants to be ready, needs this uselessness to translate into value when Steve does come calling. Natasha considers her safehouse a prison of her own making, unwilling to be out and free when the rest aren't.
When Steve does call, it's not to talk about a breakout.
James has gone missing. Only - he doesn't call Bucky 'James'. No one calls him that anymore, no one but Natasha and even then only in her head. He's slipped the leash in Wakanda, disappeared, but there are weird signals coming from the outskirts of Bulgaria about a man with a metal arm roughing up the local gangs. Cap needs someone to get there before Ross does, and while it stings for a moment that he's called her for that...
Well, she is nearby, anyway.
It takes her two weeks to track him, another week to get herself there, and a final week to stakeout where he's staying. The flat he's found makes hers in Kyiv look like luxury, but it's difficult to break into all the same - on a busy public street, where a woman with striking red hair will be noted and obvious. He hasn't forgotten his skills, clearly, and in the end she has to wait until nearly two AM when the street is empty and he's out to shimmy in the bathroom window. She makes herself at home, picking through takeout bags and flipping through random books, trying to discern what he's doing and why he's doing it.
In the end, she settles down to wait, legs crossed, on his sofa. He vanishes like this sometimes; her goal had been getting into his safehouse, not figuring out what he's doing with the locals, so Natasha doesn't know where he goes. Probably to run his own surveillance, on whatever targets he's watching. Still, it'll be dawn soon and he has to come back sometime - and she can be patient, while she tries to squash the feeling that it's some kind of fucked up family reunion they have going on.
When he walks in, flipping on the light, she's still on the sofa, though she's found a book that captures her attention and a mug of tea. Barely glancing up, she waves a hand:
"You were out of vodka."
She'd tried to find his liquor stash first, of course.
He pauses in the doorway, when the light comes on. Shuts it behind him but doesn't move his eyes from her position on his couch, curled up with one of his books. It takes a while for him to decide that he's not hallucinating her being here, in his hideout... primarily due to the fact that he hasn't had a proper hallucination since before leaving Wakanda.
So. If his rather healed-up brain isn't suddenly and inexplicably on the fritz, then something else is going on, and she's really here.
"Well I picked some up." Shouldering the backpack he's wearing off and setting it on the floor, where several bottles clink together. "Is 'what are you doing here' a dumb and bullshit question?"
So. If his rather healed-up brain isn't suddenly and inexplicably on the fritz, then something else is going on, and she's really here.
"Well I picked some up." Shouldering the backpack he's wearing off and setting it on the floor, where several bottles clink together. "Is 'what are you doing here' a dumb and bullshit question?"
He doesn't seem surprised. He doesn't seem not surprised. Flipping another page of the book, she reads a few more lines (mostly for show), before snapping it shut and tossing it haphazardly on the coffee table. Bucky Barnes looks ... good. Good enough for a guy who ran away from protective custody and holed up in some Bulgarian backwater. His eyes are clear, expression open. He's lucid.
Some of the tension, imperceptible to most anyway, eases out of her shoulders. She's talking to Bucky Barnes. Not the Winter Soldier. She'd been ready for either, but honestly? This was the best case scenario.
"You didn't really think you could beat up the local mobsters and have no one notice? One of them has ties to the Kremlin, and has been making noise. It was either me or Ross," she replies, nonchalantly, nodding at the backpack. "You gonna serve us? I thought you army guys were all polite."
Doesn't answer the question of who sent her — but Steve feels like too weighted of a subject right now. Barnes had left Wakanda without a note, or even a text to Rogers. Had to be a reason, even if the reason was that he didn't feel he needed to give him a heads up.. and that's between the two of them, right?
"So. Get bored of hiding out with T'challa?" Not that she was exactly on speaking terms with him, either.
Some of the tension, imperceptible to most anyway, eases out of her shoulders. She's talking to Bucky Barnes. Not the Winter Soldier. She'd been ready for either, but honestly? This was the best case scenario.
"You didn't really think you could beat up the local mobsters and have no one notice? One of them has ties to the Kremlin, and has been making noise. It was either me or Ross," she replies, nonchalantly, nodding at the backpack. "You gonna serve us? I thought you army guys were all polite."
Doesn't answer the question of who sent her — but Steve feels like too weighted of a subject right now. Barnes had left Wakanda without a note, or even a text to Rogers. Had to be a reason, even if the reason was that he didn't feel he needed to give him a heads up.. and that's between the two of them, right?
"So. Get bored of hiding out with T'challa?" Not that she was exactly on speaking terms with him, either.
"Figured everyone else got better shit to get up to, these days," comes out of his mouth unbidden. Yikes. Too many feelings there, scout. Time to reel it in.
Her words have him blinking again and then he re-collects himself, picking the bag back up and turning towards the kitchenette in the two-room studio apartment... if a space divided by half a wall could constitute the definitional value of two rooms. From Natasha's position on the couch she can see the entire space, barring the small bathroom with the door shut.
Either way, Bucky? Only half focused on the details that surround him, now that there's someone in his space. Someone he knows and remembers, from the life between the first and the current. It's a little weird. He figures it would be, even if his brain hadn't had to be completely reconstructed from the hot mess it was before.
Glasses, he has a pair of those, and there are also pastries from a spot at the eastern end of the street that opens in these pre-dawn hours every day. He doesn't go in there daily, but he has made it something of a habit.
He tells himself that he needs to be less paranoid. That having one favorite place to visit wherein he says nothing to the proprietors and makes all his decisions known to them via pointing one gloved hand and shaking his head or nodding probably won't get anyone killed.
Except the Black Widow is on his couch. Reading a 1980s science fiction novel. Or, was, he supposes. So, you know. Maybe paranoia is not that terrible. Or at least, not that without use.
He pours the glasses about 80% full, introduces a splash of orange juice to each, puts them on a plate. Puts the box of pastries under the plate. Carries the entire thing from kitchen to couch, setting it down on the trunk with a scarf draped over it that's currently passing for a coffee table. Sits down, picks up one of the glasses and holds it out to her.
Once she takes it, picks up his own and lifts it in toast. "Za nashe obshcheye zdorov'ye, nashe obshcheye proshloye, nashe obshcheye budushcheye." Drinks it all and doesn't wince, but doesn't sit the glass back down either. "What do you want me to call you, now?"
Her words have him blinking again and then he re-collects himself, picking the bag back up and turning towards the kitchenette in the two-room studio apartment... if a space divided by half a wall could constitute the definitional value of two rooms. From Natasha's position on the couch she can see the entire space, barring the small bathroom with the door shut.
Either way, Bucky? Only half focused on the details that surround him, now that there's someone in his space. Someone he knows and remembers, from the life between the first and the current. It's a little weird. He figures it would be, even if his brain hadn't had to be completely reconstructed from the hot mess it was before.
Glasses, he has a pair of those, and there are also pastries from a spot at the eastern end of the street that opens in these pre-dawn hours every day. He doesn't go in there daily, but he has made it something of a habit.
He tells himself that he needs to be less paranoid. That having one favorite place to visit wherein he says nothing to the proprietors and makes all his decisions known to them via pointing one gloved hand and shaking his head or nodding probably won't get anyone killed.
Except the Black Widow is on his couch. Reading a 1980s science fiction novel. Or, was, he supposes. So, you know. Maybe paranoia is not that terrible. Or at least, not that without use.
He pours the glasses about 80% full, introduces a splash of orange juice to each, puts them on a plate. Puts the box of pastries under the plate. Carries the entire thing from kitchen to couch, setting it down on the trunk with a scarf draped over it that's currently passing for a coffee table. Sits down, picks up one of the glasses and holds it out to her.
Once she takes it, picks up his own and lifts it in toast. "Za nashe obshcheye zdorov'ye, nashe obshcheye proshloye, nashe obshcheye budushcheye." Drinks it all and doesn't wince, but doesn't sit the glass back down either. "What do you want me to call you, now?"
Ah. So, he feels forgotten about? It's a surprisingly ... normal thing, considering who he is. Considering who they are. Is it any wonder that Steve has more on his plate right now than calling up Bucky and asking about his progress? (Though she has a hard time believing that they haven't been in touch at all — though maybe that's just her. After all, she hadn't heard much from Steve before he asked her to come here.)
Still, Bucky's halfway out of the room before she's crafted a careful response, and she lets him go. He's let something slip, they both know it, and her social skills have eroded in the weeks spent studying the outline of the Raft and how best to free everyone. Better he get his space and she work on trying to find something resembling empathy.
When he returns, she raises her own glass to him, "Vashe zdorov'ye," tips it back and drains it the same way that he does. Common past, he hints, and so she's only slightly off guard at his words. It's her turn to pause, to give something away — surprise in her eyes, then guarded wariness. If he remembers her, then...
"Natasha," she says, finally. "No one calls me Natalia anymore."
No one except him, a thousand years ago. Another time, another place — she'd like to convince herself that it was another Black Widow, too. But it's all jumbled together in her head, always; the conditioning, the memories of him (James), her defection.. All there, quieter most days, but never forgotten.
"I didn't think you remembered me."
Still, Bucky's halfway out of the room before she's crafted a careful response, and she lets him go. He's let something slip, they both know it, and her social skills have eroded in the weeks spent studying the outline of the Raft and how best to free everyone. Better he get his space and she work on trying to find something resembling empathy.
When he returns, she raises her own glass to him, "Vashe zdorov'ye," tips it back and drains it the same way that he does. Common past, he hints, and so she's only slightly off guard at his words. It's her turn to pause, to give something away — surprise in her eyes, then guarded wariness. If he remembers her, then...
"Natasha," she says, finally. "No one calls me Natalia anymore."
No one except him, a thousand years ago. Another time, another place — she'd like to convince herself that it was another Black Widow, too. But it's all jumbled together in her head, always; the conditioning, the memories of him (James), her defection.. All there, quieter most days, but never forgotten.
"I didn't think you remembered me."
Forgotten isn't quite the word. He feels... set aside, in a strange way. Like a weapon people have decided to store in a bunker that will never see the light of day again. He understands that was not the goal, that thinking of himself like a weapon is not the most productive move, but that doesn't quite change the feeling does it?
It's foolish. But he'd rather be in the world than hiding out from it, even in paradise.
He doesn't belong there.
"Natasha," he repeats and finally sets the glass down, "a modern name for a modern gal." No one really says 'gal' anymore either, and he's well aware, but he will conduct a one-man resurgence of the term if at all possible.
"I didn't, at first. Didn't remember much of nothing useful or important to begin with." How much does she know, of the shitshow state his brain was in? How much he owes Wakanda, the Dora Milaje? Well. She knows some of it.
She was there. Again and again and then not and then. Again. Years later, when he'd already been forced to forget her. (Again, and again, and then not.)
"But I do now."
It's foolish. But he'd rather be in the world than hiding out from it, even in paradise.
He doesn't belong there.
"Natasha," he repeats and finally sets the glass down, "a modern name for a modern gal." No one really says 'gal' anymore either, and he's well aware, but he will conduct a one-man resurgence of the term if at all possible.
"I didn't, at first. Didn't remember much of nothing useful or important to begin with." How much does she know, of the shitshow state his brain was in? How much he owes Wakanda, the Dora Milaje? Well. She knows some of it.
She was there. Again and again and then not and then. Again. Years later, when he'd already been forced to forget her. (Again, and again, and then not.)
"But I do now."
Maybe she’d been naive to not consider this a possibility. That whatever they were doing in Wakanda might dig up other ancient history in addition to just getting rid of the conditioning. She’d stayed away for sensible reasons: he was Steve’s friend, he had enough going on, he’d shot her (twice!), there was no reason for her to be involved when she had her own plate full with staying off the radar and away from Ross. But now, here it is, laid out in the plain light of day.
Natasha stares at her glass, ruefully, then gestures for the bottle. They’re going to need more vodka for this.
“Steve doesn’t know,” she puts out there, conversationally. Seems like the most important thing to clarify, though she can tell already there are hurt feelings there. After all, she’s here, not Steve. “Never got around to telling him.”
She’s had decades to try and rationalize lies — white lies, lies of omission, lies to protect others… But in the end, it’s all dishonesty. No sense in trying to call it anything but what it is, at least in this case. Steve rarely asked about her past. She never told him about it. Whatever shared history she had with Bucky (James, it’s always James in her head, no matter how many times she tries otherwise), it hadn’t come up.
“How much do you remember?”
Natasha stares at her glass, ruefully, then gestures for the bottle. They’re going to need more vodka for this.
“Steve doesn’t know,” she puts out there, conversationally. Seems like the most important thing to clarify, though she can tell already there are hurt feelings there. After all, she’s here, not Steve. “Never got around to telling him.”
She’s had decades to try and rationalize lies — white lies, lies of omission, lies to protect others… But in the end, it’s all dishonesty. No sense in trying to call it anything but what it is, at least in this case. Steve rarely asked about her past. She never told him about it. Whatever shared history she had with Bucky (James, it’s always James in her head, no matter how many times she tries otherwise), it hadn’t come up.
“How much do you remember?”
There are flowers, and his mouth is dry, and his skin feels hot in a way that would imply he'd been asleep in the sun for too long.
None of these things makes any sense. Because he's dead, truly deceased this time, and he knows it. Can still feel the hand of the Mad Titan at his throat. He was not headed for Valhalla, surely, and Valhalla doesn't appear/look/feel/smell/sound like this anyway.
This is not a noisy hall full of fallen heroes at a meal meant to last an eternity. This is a field full of vivid blooms in strange colors, some scattered buildings in the distance, what could be a city's spires on the horizon, and there is someone else standing not ten feet away from him with their back to him.
The Black Widow. That's... odd. What is she doing here?
He's moving toward her before he realizes he's made any decision about speaking to her, kicking up pollen the entire way there. Either she doesn't hear him or she's so distracted by also attempting to figure out just where they are and how the Hel they managed to get there because her back is to him the entire time as he crosses the distance between them. He should probably stop a reasonable distance, clear his throat, get her attention. Prepare for her to attack him in expectant self-defense.
Ask her, perhaps, just what it is she's wearing.
None of that is what happens.
Instead, he reaches out to touch her arm without saying a word and his brain just kind of goes sideways. He's not sure if he turns her around or if the Widow does that herself. She's got on the flimsiest white shift dress he's ever laid eyes upon, along with some odd circular golden floating headdress. The material of the shift dress clings to her body's curves in ways he can't stop noticing and makes it immediately apparent she has nothing on underneath it. Loki's mouth waters.
He also has on some ridiculously thin set of clothes, in black, which is not terribly unusual, even though it's not what he died wearing. The fact that he has on nothing beneath the pants is also not unusual.
All these things he takes in within the span of a moment because in the next second, he's shoved her back toward the ground, following her down and landing on his knees. His fingers catch at the neckline of the dress to keep her from hitting the ground too hard and while it does work, the fabric rips across her chest and exposes her breasts, and he has bent over to take one in his mouth before he can even blink, tongue flicking against a nipple just before he bites down.
One hand shoves the shift up nearer her hips while the other reaches between her thighs, parts the lips of her cunt, before two fingers press into her. He is dimly aware that this? Should not be happening. Something is wrong. He is too aroused and too willing to give into that sensation without trying to figure out what is going on.
He watches her face as he moves his fingers apart inside of her and sucks a bruise into her breast and decides, firmly, that he does not care.
None of these things makes any sense. Because he's dead, truly deceased this time, and he knows it. Can still feel the hand of the Mad Titan at his throat. He was not headed for Valhalla, surely, and Valhalla doesn't appear/look/feel/smell/sound like this anyway.
This is not a noisy hall full of fallen heroes at a meal meant to last an eternity. This is a field full of vivid blooms in strange colors, some scattered buildings in the distance, what could be a city's spires on the horizon, and there is someone else standing not ten feet away from him with their back to him.
The Black Widow. That's... odd. What is she doing here?
He's moving toward her before he realizes he's made any decision about speaking to her, kicking up pollen the entire way there. Either she doesn't hear him or she's so distracted by also attempting to figure out just where they are and how the Hel they managed to get there because her back is to him the entire time as he crosses the distance between them. He should probably stop a reasonable distance, clear his throat, get her attention. Prepare for her to attack him in expectant self-defense.
Ask her, perhaps, just what it is she's wearing.
None of that is what happens.
Instead, he reaches out to touch her arm without saying a word and his brain just kind of goes sideways. He's not sure if he turns her around or if the Widow does that herself. She's got on the flimsiest white shift dress he's ever laid eyes upon, along with some odd circular golden floating headdress. The material of the shift dress clings to her body's curves in ways he can't stop noticing and makes it immediately apparent she has nothing on underneath it. Loki's mouth waters.
He also has on some ridiculously thin set of clothes, in black, which is not terribly unusual, even though it's not what he died wearing. The fact that he has on nothing beneath the pants is also not unusual.
All these things he takes in within the span of a moment because in the next second, he's shoved her back toward the ground, following her down and landing on his knees. His fingers catch at the neckline of the dress to keep her from hitting the ground too hard and while it does work, the fabric rips across her chest and exposes her breasts, and he has bent over to take one in his mouth before he can even blink, tongue flicking against a nipple just before he bites down.
One hand shoves the shift up nearer her hips while the other reaches between her thighs, parts the lips of her cunt, before two fingers press into her. He is dimly aware that this? Should not be happening. Something is wrong. He is too aroused and too willing to give into that sensation without trying to figure out what is going on.
He watches her face as he moves his fingers apart inside of her and sucks a bruise into her breast and decides, firmly, that he does not care.
There ought to have been a crack.
Natasha can still feel the rush of wind, the way her stomach had flipped on the way down as her feet tried to find purchase on solid ground that wasn’t there and her brain tried to make sense of the utter lack of anything to break her fall. She didn’t have to turn and see the ground to feel it rush up to meet her, a sudden blacking out of her vision and a flash of pain —
but no crack. No thump. And dimly, somewhere, she can smell flowers. The sensation is all wrong; soft grass under her back, the tickle of pollen at her nose. She shouldn’t even be able to feel grass, but it feels like her legs are bare, her arms exposed.
When she opens her eyes, nothing is familiar. Not in the strange, literally alien way that Vormir had felt - a different way. The entire landscape is wrong, from the fields to the buildings in the distance. Even worse, nothing hurts. She feels fine enough to pull herself to her feet, though her body seems to throb (a half-remembered injury?). She’s not frightened. She’s not .. anything, really. At least, not until someone (something?) touches her arm.
They grab her, or she whirls, but the result is the same. She’s staring for what feels like a long moment, pupils blown as she sucks in a quick breath of surprise (and pollen, so much pollen). Loki is dead, for real. Thor had said as much, so it’s impossible for him to be here and…
They go down in a flurry of movement, her reaching for him too late to catch herself but in just enough time to grab him by the lapels and yank him down on top of her. The throb happens again, something very much not an injury, and she’s halfway through another gasp when his lips close on a nipple followed by enough teeth that she snarls. Fingers of one hand curl through his hair, tugging just hard enough to get his attention, while her opposite hand yanks at his shirt until she can feel it rip.
The grass is, thankfully, soft under her back and she shifts her hips to let him push the hem of her dress higher, entire body nearly jumping when his fingers first trace the inside of her thighs. This shouldn’t be happening, it’s all too impossible, it’s nothing and —
He presses two fingers in (fuck, when had she gotten so wet?) and Natasha makes a noise deep in her throat, back arched to press her chest further into his face. It’s not elegant, the way that she sneaks the hand down the lines of his body to cup his length through his pants, fumbling to stroke him a few times in a way that she hasn’t done so clumsily in years. Somehow she doesn’t think he’ll care.
“You’re — Fuck,” she’s made the mistake of shifting her hips again, her words breathless. “I can’t …”
The threads of the sentence unravel, slip through her fingers.
Natasha can still feel the rush of wind, the way her stomach had flipped on the way down as her feet tried to find purchase on solid ground that wasn’t there and her brain tried to make sense of the utter lack of anything to break her fall. She didn’t have to turn and see the ground to feel it rush up to meet her, a sudden blacking out of her vision and a flash of pain —
but no crack. No thump. And dimly, somewhere, she can smell flowers. The sensation is all wrong; soft grass under her back, the tickle of pollen at her nose. She shouldn’t even be able to feel grass, but it feels like her legs are bare, her arms exposed.
When she opens her eyes, nothing is familiar. Not in the strange, literally alien way that Vormir had felt - a different way. The entire landscape is wrong, from the fields to the buildings in the distance. Even worse, nothing hurts. She feels fine enough to pull herself to her feet, though her body seems to throb (a half-remembered injury?). She’s not frightened. She’s not .. anything, really. At least, not until someone (something?) touches her arm.
They grab her, or she whirls, but the result is the same. She’s staring for what feels like a long moment, pupils blown as she sucks in a quick breath of surprise (and pollen, so much pollen). Loki is dead, for real. Thor had said as much, so it’s impossible for him to be here and…
They go down in a flurry of movement, her reaching for him too late to catch herself but in just enough time to grab him by the lapels and yank him down on top of her. The throb happens again, something very much not an injury, and she’s halfway through another gasp when his lips close on a nipple followed by enough teeth that she snarls. Fingers of one hand curl through his hair, tugging just hard enough to get his attention, while her opposite hand yanks at his shirt until she can feel it rip.
The grass is, thankfully, soft under her back and she shifts her hips to let him push the hem of her dress higher, entire body nearly jumping when his fingers first trace the inside of her thighs. This shouldn’t be happening, it’s all too impossible, it’s nothing and —
He presses two fingers in (fuck, when had she gotten so wet?) and Natasha makes a noise deep in her throat, back arched to press her chest further into his face. It’s not elegant, the way that she sneaks the hand down the lines of his body to cup his length through his pants, fumbling to stroke him a few times in a way that she hasn’t done so clumsily in years. Somehow she doesn’t think he’ll care.
“You’re — Fuck,” she’s made the mistake of shifting her hips again, her words breathless. “I can’t …”
The threads of the sentence unravel, slip through her fingers.
She gets a hand in his hair and tugs, hard enough to grab his attention. Hard enough to make his cock jump a little; then she touches him through his pants and his cock strains to meet that contact. Should it even be possible, her causing him more than a fraction of discomfort, considering she's human? Vastly unimportant to the current plot of things as he sees it. Besides, part of him wants her to fight him on this, even if only half in jest, knowing— or at least believing, at the moment— that it will not make a damned bit of difference.
So he laughs at her aborted statement, around her nipple, dragging teeth and tongue across her chest before he bites the other. Spreads his fingers within her to see if he can encourage more noise from her. She's so wet he can feel it practically leaking from her as it begins to pool down towards the palm of his hand. Loki turns his wrist so he can drag the pad of his thumb across her swollen clit before pressing down on it. So he can feel her body respond.
"You can't?" He teases, but his own voice is rough with need, slightly breathless with it, even as he rolls his hips into her touch. This is not nearly enough, suddenly; he wraps his free hand around her wrist and shoves them both together past the waistband, trying to get her to actually touch his cock directly. "I think you can."
So he laughs at her aborted statement, around her nipple, dragging teeth and tongue across her chest before he bites the other. Spreads his fingers within her to see if he can encourage more noise from her. She's so wet he can feel it practically leaking from her as it begins to pool down towards the palm of his hand. Loki turns his wrist so he can drag the pad of his thumb across her swollen clit before pressing down on it. So he can feel her body respond.
"You can't?" He teases, but his own voice is rough with need, slightly breathless with it, even as he rolls his hips into her touch. This is not nearly enough, suddenly; he wraps his free hand around her wrist and shoves them both together past the waistband, trying to get her to actually touch his cock directly. "I think you can."
What he does next is probably the most Loki thing she could imagine — and it's a bit of a relief, frankly. He laughs, the vibrations of his laughter spreading across her skin, and she twitches at the sensation. She pulls his hair again, as though affronted that he would dare laugh at her at a time like this, noting the way that he jumps in her hand and presses his hips greedily into her palm.
His thumb is too rough, the sensation too much, and Natasha shudders as she tries to shift her hips to escape the press, only succeeding in pushing him a bit deeper. She smothers a moan in her throat, biting down on her lower lip rather than giving him the satisfaction of hearing it.
"Fuck you," she spits, but the venom isn't there; it's chased away by the breathlessness, the way she seizes his length eagerly once his pants aren't in the way and strokes him firmly — not rough enough to hurt, but not with any real finesse. It's clear she knows her way around a male body; she might be rough on the shaft, but gentle as she swipes her thumb over the sensitive head, collecting pre-cum and spreading it down his cock to ease the friction of her palm.
Every bit of wriggling her hips drives him deeper — he's got her pinned underneath him, and it's only a fraction of a second longer before a treacherous noise slips out, something half a moan, half a growl.
His thumb is too rough, the sensation too much, and Natasha shudders as she tries to shift her hips to escape the press, only succeeding in pushing him a bit deeper. She smothers a moan in her throat, biting down on her lower lip rather than giving him the satisfaction of hearing it.
"Fuck you," she spits, but the venom isn't there; it's chased away by the breathlessness, the way she seizes his length eagerly once his pants aren't in the way and strokes him firmly — not rough enough to hurt, but not with any real finesse. It's clear she knows her way around a male body; she might be rough on the shaft, but gentle as she swipes her thumb over the sensitive head, collecting pre-cum and spreading it down his cock to ease the friction of her palm.
Every bit of wriggling her hips drives him deeper — he's got her pinned underneath him, and it's only a fraction of a second longer before a treacherous noise slips out, something half a moan, half a growl.
She pulls his hair, says fuck you, and touches him in nearly the same moment; Norns, if that doesn't scratch every single itch he's practically ever had. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he's noted that neither of them is particularly sophisticated in their methods at the moment, despite every small indication that they could be.
Well. Next time, perhaps. There will be a next time, he feels relatively certain about that fact. Thrilled, in no small part.
"We'll get there," he says (partially to himself, partially in response to Natasha) as evenly as possible, which is not actually all that evenly, truth be told. Not when he shudders as her hand works his cock. Not when his mouth is more occupied with grinning at her and biting her breast than making himself able to be clearly heard. Regardless, he doubts that she didn't hear him.
He adds another finger, another shudder chasing across his shoulders as he does so. There's not going to be much more room for whatever currently passes for patience from him, he's aware; the driving desire to withdraw his hand and be properly fucking her is practically a chant in his blood at this point. But he wants her to lose herself, just for a moment, with his fingers inside of her before he allows himself to follow her. Wants to win, an apparently winning means wringing an orgasm from her first.
As his fingers thrust in and out of her, as his thumb rubs furious circles against her clit, his mouth moves up her from her breast to her throat. He fully expects her to pull his hair again, hopes she does actually, although that does little to deter him from trying to bite her neck.
Well. Next time, perhaps. There will be a next time, he feels relatively certain about that fact. Thrilled, in no small part.
"We'll get there," he says (partially to himself, partially in response to Natasha) as evenly as possible, which is not actually all that evenly, truth be told. Not when he shudders as her hand works his cock. Not when his mouth is more occupied with grinning at her and biting her breast than making himself able to be clearly heard. Regardless, he doubts that she didn't hear him.
He adds another finger, another shudder chasing across his shoulders as he does so. There's not going to be much more room for whatever currently passes for patience from him, he's aware; the driving desire to withdraw his hand and be properly fucking her is practically a chant in his blood at this point. But he wants her to lose herself, just for a moment, with his fingers inside of her before he allows himself to follow her. Wants to win, an apparently winning means wringing an orgasm from her first.
As his fingers thrust in and out of her, as his thumb rubs furious circles against her clit, his mouth moves up her from her breast to her throat. He fully expects her to pull his hair again, hopes she does actually, although that does little to deter him from trying to bite her neck.
‘We’ll get there’ feels ominous, it feels intolerable in her current state, but it’s chased by the satisfaction of his shiver (impossible to miss as pressed together as they are). His bite is vicious and she squirms again, fucking herself further down on his third finger and nearly yelping at the sensation. Three fingers is more than enough to feel the sensation of a stretch, and her nails bite into his scalp as she rolls her hips up to adjust the angle of his thumb against her clit.
It shouldn’t be enough. Under normal circumstances, it’d be too much to be comfortable — too fast, too rough, too … just too much. But whatever is coursing through her, to the heat that threatens to burn her alive, it’s just enough —
She comes hard enough that her vision goes grey for a moment, stiffening to buck against his hand and pulling his hair with no regard for any pain she might be causing him. It’s at that moment or a millisecond before that his teeth close on the erogenous zone of her neck and she half-whimpers, half-shouts a release, body shivering into a more relaxed pose before twitching as she clenches around his fingers in aftershocks. At least she has the presence of mind to keep her opposite hand mostly relaxed, though her strokes pause at the tip of him, momentarily distracted by the sensation of pleasure running up her spine.
Fuck. It shouldn’t be possible, not from his fingers alone. She’s never felt anything like that — and she’d rather die than tell him so.
Oops. Die again. Right.
Panting, she palms him harder, strokes reaching a frenzy up and down his cock. She doesn’t want him to think he’s won; not when she can tell how he wants her in how his hips press into her hand, in the way he nuzzles up against her skin and sighs in her ear.
It shouldn’t be enough. Under normal circumstances, it’d be too much to be comfortable — too fast, too rough, too … just too much. But whatever is coursing through her, to the heat that threatens to burn her alive, it’s just enough —
She comes hard enough that her vision goes grey for a moment, stiffening to buck against his hand and pulling his hair with no regard for any pain she might be causing him. It’s at that moment or a millisecond before that his teeth close on the erogenous zone of her neck and she half-whimpers, half-shouts a release, body shivering into a more relaxed pose before twitching as she clenches around his fingers in aftershocks. At least she has the presence of mind to keep her opposite hand mostly relaxed, though her strokes pause at the tip of him, momentarily distracted by the sensation of pleasure running up her spine.
Fuck. It shouldn’t be possible, not from his fingers alone. She’s never felt anything like that — and she’d rather die than tell him so.
Oops. Die again. Right.
Panting, she palms him harder, strokes reaching a frenzy up and down his cock. She doesn’t want him to think he’s won; not when she can tell how he wants her in how his hips press into her hand, in the way he nuzzles up against her skin and sighs in her ear.
It is quite the thing, feeling her body shudder and clench around his fingers in little waves while her hand strokes him like that. Feeling her release soak his hand. He keeps his fingers there, probing gently for the moment, because it's good. So is the fact that her response is to try and pull his own orgasm from him damned near immediately.
What a lovely idea, really.
In some other situation, perhaps, he'd even be willing to entertain the thought that it would be enough to calm whatever has started here between them, but he doubts it. To the degree that he does, abruptly, withdraw his fingers with a hiss just to grasp at her wrist and pull her hand away, pushing his fingers between hers and drawing their entwined hands up above their bodies, teeth at her neck, free hand beneath the small of her back to tilt her hips up and toward him.
Despite her hold on his hair, he wrenches his head from her throat in order to watch Natasha's face as he sinks into her in one motion.
For a moment it's just this: Loki breathing hard, hips pressed against hers, blissfully are of the warm heat of her body, staring at her as he remains still except for the hand not holding hers moving from the small of her back to wrap around her hip, her thigh, reach behind her knee. He encourages her leg up and around his waist at the same time that he drags his hips back a little... only to roughly thrust back into her with a shaky groan.
What a lovely idea, really.
In some other situation, perhaps, he'd even be willing to entertain the thought that it would be enough to calm whatever has started here between them, but he doubts it. To the degree that he does, abruptly, withdraw his fingers with a hiss just to grasp at her wrist and pull her hand away, pushing his fingers between hers and drawing their entwined hands up above their bodies, teeth at her neck, free hand beneath the small of her back to tilt her hips up and toward him.
Despite her hold on his hair, he wrenches his head from her throat in order to watch Natasha's face as he sinks into her in one motion.
For a moment it's just this: Loki breathing hard, hips pressed against hers, blissfully are of the warm heat of her body, staring at her as he remains still except for the hand not holding hers moving from the small of her back to wrap around her hip, her thigh, reach behind her knee. He encourages her leg up and around his waist at the same time that he drags his hips back a little... only to roughly thrust back into her with a shaky groan.
Natasha hisses her displeasure as he pulls back his hand, the shudder of emptiness as her hips strain to follow him. He’s stronger than he seems, pinning the wrist of the hand that had been touching him above her head; it’s in her nature to fight, to provide a little more resistance than he might be accustomed to. Still, she can’t overpower him, still shivering in the afterglow.
Her heart jumps as she notices the way he pulls back, his eyes on her face, and she’s about to snarl a what at him when he bottoms out and all that comes out is a strangled gasp. She’s still sensitive as his hips grind against hers, a pleasure bordering on pain, and her hand flexes in his hair to draw him down until their foreheads bump, until her panted breath mingles with his —
Intimate. Too close, close enough that she can taste his groan when he thrusts, and it mingles with a desperate moan of her own. Following his urging, she twines one leg over his hip, heel nudging the back of his knee as though indicating that he ought to go again.
This close, she can note details she’s never thought about — the green of his eyes, the cut of his cheekbones, how his pupils are blown and focused entirely on her, drinking her in. She hasn’t been this close .. ever, really, and even when she’d been closer there’d been six solid inches of bullet and shatter proof glass between them.
“Don’t tell me you’re getting tired,” she tries to taunt, knowing it must fall flat with how her breath catches as he pulls back again. “Weren’t you a god or something?”
Her heart jumps as she notices the way he pulls back, his eyes on her face, and she’s about to snarl a what at him when he bottoms out and all that comes out is a strangled gasp. She’s still sensitive as his hips grind against hers, a pleasure bordering on pain, and her hand flexes in his hair to draw him down until their foreheads bump, until her panted breath mingles with his —
Intimate. Too close, close enough that she can taste his groan when he thrusts, and it mingles with a desperate moan of her own. Following his urging, she twines one leg over his hip, heel nudging the back of his knee as though indicating that he ought to go again.
This close, she can note details she’s never thought about — the green of his eyes, the cut of his cheekbones, how his pupils are blown and focused entirely on her, drinking her in. She hasn’t been this close .. ever, really, and even when she’d been closer there’d been six solid inches of bullet and shatter proof glass between them.
“Don’t tell me you’re getting tired,” she tries to taunt, knowing it must fall flat with how her breath catches as he pulls back again. “Weren’t you a god or something?”
There's a sound not unlike a laugh but a little too ragged around the edges to be proper amusement at her question. The wording hits him: he was a god, or something, and perhaps he remains so. Difficult to say, what with the being dead and all.
Which begs the question: how did she end up here? He casts it away. They can discuss it later, perhaps, maybe when this overwhelming heat in his blood has managed to somewhat calm down.
Before she'd spoken his eyes had been fixated on her lips, and now they move up to her eyes again as he drives his hips up against hers and then pulls away, at the same unsteady but perhaps seemingly unhurried rate.
Loki wets his lips with his tongue and shakes his head a little, hair flopping into his eyes and brushing against her forehead as he widens his stance between her thighs. Moves his free hand to briefly rest under the small of her back, then upward to settle at her hip, gripping the curve of her body as he thrusts forward again, harder, grinding against her wetness before pulling back and doing it again. A little faster this time. Striking a little harder.
"Better?" He groans against her mouth. The sound they make as their bodies come together is wonderfully obscene, and he feels his cock twitch inside her when he thrusts forward this time. "I'd hate to disappoint."
Which begs the question: how did she end up here? He casts it away. They can discuss it later, perhaps, maybe when this overwhelming heat in his blood has managed to somewhat calm down.
Before she'd spoken his eyes had been fixated on her lips, and now they move up to her eyes again as he drives his hips up against hers and then pulls away, at the same unsteady but perhaps seemingly unhurried rate.
Loki wets his lips with his tongue and shakes his head a little, hair flopping into his eyes and brushing against her forehead as he widens his stance between her thighs. Moves his free hand to briefly rest under the small of her back, then upward to settle at her hip, gripping the curve of her body as he thrusts forward again, harder, grinding against her wetness before pulling back and doing it again. A little faster this time. Striking a little harder.
"Better?" He groans against her mouth. The sound they make as their bodies come together is wonderfully obscene, and he feels his cock twitch inside her when he thrusts forward this time. "I'd hate to disappoint."
The next thrust is purely to tease her, she’s almost certain of it. It’s deep enough, but not nearly quick enough, and her back arches as she groans, trying to press him deeper at a faster pace. She ought to have known better than to say anything; he seems to have more self control than she does at this exact moment, and doesn’t seem inclined to do what she’s asking.
Natasha can feel him adjusting, uses the moment to skim her hand over his chest and back around to his low back, pulling him hard at the same time that he thrusts and holds onto her. She’ll have bruises where he’s grabbed her, but she’s leaving corresponding ones at his waist where her fingertips and nails dig in.
He drives the breath out of her, another shattered moan her only response. The way he grinds down, forward against her clit; it’s just enough, and still frustrating when he pulls back to thrust again.
“Fuck,” she breathes, nose bumping his as her eyes flutter closed. How is it possible that she’s nearly —?
Natasha can feel him adjusting, uses the moment to skim her hand over his chest and back around to his low back, pulling him hard at the same time that he thrusts and holds onto her. She’ll have bruises where he’s grabbed her, but she’s leaving corresponding ones at his waist where her fingertips and nails dig in.
He drives the breath out of her, another shattered moan her only response. The way he grinds down, forward against her clit; it’s just enough, and still frustrating when he pulls back to thrust again.
“Fuck,” she breathes, nose bumping his as her eyes flutter closed. How is it possible that she’s nearly —?
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