“I’m under absolutely no obligation to make sense to you.”

pervy!nat who brings it home with her because it’s just one pair… how would you ever notice ? she smells it while fucking herself with her fingers. she imagines how it would feel like if you ate her pussy, how it would feel sitting on your face and riding it

pervy!nat who knows that theres a small silver of your bedroom window that doesnt ever get properly covered because your curtains broke and you’re too lazy to fix them but it’s all good anyway because it directly faces her living room window, you’re so lucky your bedroom window faces her living room window and not some random pervert’s

pervy!nat who knows that when you get out of the shower, you immediately head to your room and take off your towel, your naked body shown bare to her eyes as you change into your panties and an old hoodie from school

pervy!nat who installs a small unnoticeable camera at her living room window that directly faces your bedroom window. she’s just protecting you, the camera is there to catch any weirdos that peep at you while you’re naked ! she’s not a pervert ! it doesn’t matter that she looks through the footage when she’s back home and pauses exactly at the moments when you’re bent over, ass facing the camera while looking through your drawers for clothes.

pervy!nat who gets bolder and bolder.

pervy!nat who knows you leave the house at 8am every weekday to go to work and that you only come back at 6pm so she slips the extra key into the door and walks in at 1pm

pervy!nat who immediately goes to your bed, she lies down and smells your scent against the pillows, letting out a deep groan in satisfaction, she had to find out what shampoo you used after this

pervy!nat who pushes her pants down and lets her fingers glide against her entrance teasingly, the whine that comes out of her mouth is pornographic, the wetness covers her fingers easily and she almost felt humiliated by it. you weren’t even here and your smell itself was having this much of an effect on her. she wipes her fingers against your bed sheets

pervy!nat who grabs the pillow from beneath her head, she puts it between her legs and lets her hips grind against it slowly, her thighs are crushing the pillow, her wetness soaking the linen and leaving a dark patch.

pervy!nat who reaches for the panties she swiped a few days ago from her pocket and pushes it against her nose against, taking in a long breath. she mutters curses mixed with your name under her breath as she grinds against the pillow. every time her clit hits the pillow in a way that shoots butterflies up her stomach, her back arches and she lets out a loud moan.

pervy!nat who then takes your panties and presses the cloth against her fingers, she rubs the fabric of your panties against her clit in small circles, “eбать- shit-” she groans. she uses her other hand to take her phone out, hand trembling as she puts in her password for her hidden album. she swipes through multiple screenshots of you from her phone, desperately trying to find that picture of you in your lacy pink panties, you’re bent over your drawer, looking for your clothes as usual but in this one the fabric had slipped between your legs, practically giving natasha a full view of your pussy.

pervy!nat who whines and moans like an absolute loser, she stares at your photo, smelling the scent of you in your room, knowing that the pillow between her legs is where your head rests at night and when you’re tired

pervy!nat who cums in no time, her orgasm washing over her as her legs tremble and her arousal soaks your panties that she’s been holding onto for the past week, she lets out something akin to a moan and a grunt as she cums, muttering your name under her breath as she rides out her orgasm

pervy!nat who lies down on your bed for awhile afterwards, chest heaving because she swears that was the best orgasm of her life even if you weren’t there. she could only imagine what it would feel like the day she finally got you to come over to her house and you let her treat you the way you deserved.

pervy!nat who arranges your bed back to the way it was, placing the pillow she came on back to it’s original spot, it would dry by the time you got home, she didn’t have to worry.

pervy!nat who throws the panties she used into your laundry basket, it didn’t smell like you anymore, it was covered in her arousal. you would wonder why the pair of panties that disappeared from your laundry a week ago magically appeared but you just assumed it was a similar case to how everyone’s random socks disappeared in the washing machine then reappeared in random places.

It doesn’t come in waves. It doesn’t ebb and flow. It doesn’t ever give a reprieve, even at night in the depths of sleep. It just overwhelms, it engulfs, it lingers.

Natasha is drowning.

The funeral is today: SHIELD organized, fitting for a former agent, a proper send off.

Except you’re not here, your body never found.

It doesn’t feel right.

She’s dressed in black, but devastation is all anyone sees shrouding her when they look her way. Natasha exits what used to be your shared apartment and slowly walks to her car.

She takes a glance at the passenger seat once she’s situated inside and is flooded by all the memories of when you sat there beside her, of how her hand always found your thigh, of the way you sang loudly and unashamedly along to every song. She quickly looks away.

The drive is silent. It feels never-ending, but she’s not quite convinced that she wants it to end. Natasha’s not quite convinced that she’s going to make it through the day.

Time passes in disjointed intervals through the services as well. Everything feels fragmented: her thoughts, the speeches, her own words. She thought that sharing the sadness, seeing evidence that others were affected by your passing as well might help her feel less alone, but there’s no relief. Because they aren’t mourning you how she is. Awkward pleasantries and condolences are passed between people, mostly aimed her way, over and over, and Natasha can’t respond to any of them.

The funeral ends, but Natasha can’t bring herself to leave where you were “buried”, the empty coffin having been lowered into the ground hours ago.

The sun is setting now, the sky going bloody, all reds and bruised purples. It feels fitting.

It’s only when the chill of the night becomes unbearable that the redhead lets out a shaky breath and turns away, heading back to her car to start the drive to somewhere she no longer feels that she can call home.

Vodka is immediately poured upon arriving back at the apartment—a generous amount splashing into the glass. Natasha doesn’t bother changing out of her stiff clothing.

She takes the first sip. It should burn. It should sear. The liquid should feel like something as it goes down her throat, but it doesn’t.

More is downed, then more, and more.

Until nothing is left from what was a half empty bottle. Natasha feels like nothing is left in her as well.

She sits there on the floor of the kitchen, chairs forgotten, sofa forgotten, knees drawn up to her chest, and cries. Hot tears spill from her eyes and down her cheeks, dropping onto the tile.

And then she hears something coming from another room. It’s faint, almost inaudible, but she’s supposedly alone, so she holds in her sobs, tries to put a pause on her ragged breathing, and strains her ears to listen to the too familiar, too recognizable, too impossible sound.

It comes again, and familiar, recognizable, and impossible are understatements.

A laugh. Your laugh.

She acts without thinking. Her eyes widen in desperation. It’s you. You’re back.

She quickly stands up from the floor on unstable legs, knees feeling as though they’re going to give out, and stumbles out of the kitchen, shaky steps on untrustworthy feet taking her through the hallway toward the bedroom where you seem to be.

Natasha bursts into the room, all but ripping open the door, expecting—hoping—to see you there, somehow returned to her, only to find the space dark and as empty as your coffin.

Her shoulders slump. She guesses it makes sense. The combination of alcohol and grief—and grief and grief and grief—will probably do that to her. She’s always been able to trust her intuition, her instincts, but her mind’s become unreliable now. She’s not sure how to cope with that either.

Natasha’s on leave from work for an undetermined amount of time. Fury’s orders.

She’d rather be throwing herself into mission after mission, but she supposes Fury has good reason to bench her.

She’s been absentminded, unfocused, even during the routine things, finding herself disconnecting from what is happening around her, or she’s been avoidant. Cooking meals results in her remembering the taste of your favorite food that you always offered her a bite of even though she doesn’t like it. Things burn. Sorting through the mail forces her to see your name, coupons and advertisements still getting sent to you as if you’re here to personally toss them away. Mail is left untouched to pile up. Grocery shopping causes her to miss the way you’d always triple check the shopping list with a concentrated look on your face as your tongue peeks out from between your teeth. The fridge remains empty.

She’s there to simply collect some paperwork, one or two dossiers, a few confidential files—material that won’t put her at risk in the field, distractions.

Her shoes make little noise as she moves through the hallway, but the sound fully ceases when she abruptly stops in her tracks as her nose picks up on a scent that she hasn’t smelled in far too long. You’ve only been “gone” two weeks—because are you truly gone if she refuses to let go?—but it’s been far too long.

It’s just a whiff, just a hint, just a trace on the breeze in a breezeless corridor, but it brushes past her as if she’s been physically touched.

Natasha whips around, spinning in a circle in the unoccupied hallway, looking for any sign that you or anyone else is nearby, knowing that she won’t find one but wildly searching anyway.

There’s no one with her.

The lack of sleep must be getting to her.

It’s in the late evening, sleep eluding Natasha, when she receives a text.

10:03 p.m. Her burner phone. For emergencies only. A number only one person has… or had, since it was you and people keep telling her that you’re no longer here. It’s a nicer way to phrase “dead”, but she can’t bring herself to appreciate the substitution.

‘Are we still on for 4:30 tomorrow?’

She wants to pass it off as a wrong number, someone simply typing those 10 digits incorrectly, but when she takes a closer look, she almost drops her phone.

She sits there, stunned into paralysis, just staring at the screen.

Because the number is yours.

Your number is disconnected. She knows that, given she was just texting it last week, sending a series of apologies, of pleas for you to come back, of guilt-ridden messages detailing how she should’ve been there to save you, how she’ll never forgive herself, how she wishes she could follow even though you’ve gone somewhere she doesn’t yet belong.

Before she can reply, another text comes through.

‘Sorry! Wrong number!’

This time, Natasha is quick to text back, scrambling to hit the right keys in her desperation. ‘Who is this?’

She waits frantically for the next response, for clarification, praying for the explanation that’s impossible but that she so longs to hear.

It wouldn’t make sense, but who cares. That doesn’t matter when it comes to you. The ‘how’ and ‘why’ don’t matter as long as you’re back.

She doesn’t receive a response.

She waits longer, holding the phone in unsteady hands, the text thread remaining open as she hopes the typing bubble will appear, but it never does.

She doesn’t know what to blame it on this time. Maybe your number just got reassigned already, and maybe it really was a misdirected text, and maybe the cruel joke of a coincidence from the universe was a reminder that she’ll never be able to move on.

Natasha doesn’t sleep that night.

Natasha finds herself in your favorite coffee shop often these days.

She thought it’d hurt… and it does, but it’s also one of the few ways to still feel close to you.

She can’t help but always purchase two drinks, your familiar coffee order falling from her lips when she reaches the register along with her own every time. She keeps asking herself if it’s out of habit or her steadfast unwillingness to heal.

Ignoring the pitying looks from employees is getting harder.

You two were regulars, so the employees instantly noticed your absence when Natasha first came in after your passing. “Just you today?” one asked, friendly smile plastered on their face, not realizing the weight what they were saying carried.

Natasha just barely managed to not break down in the middle of the café. Just her today. Just her tomorrow. Just her forever now that she’s without you.

She couldn’t tell them what happened. She didn’t have to.

She’s sitting at your usual table, stuck in her head, her drink in front of her, yours across the table in front of the opposite vacant seat, just staring at the place where you should still be, laughing, talking, living.

The reaction is delayed, but when a very specific and very familiar coffee order being called out by one of the baristas reaches her ears, she slowly zones back into her surroundings.

She looks up from where she had been fixated on your chair.

Whoever ordered the coffee already picked up the drink from the counter, turned, and is currently striding to the door. There’s a flash of your hair color in her line of sight as they pass the table. It blocks their face.

There have been so many peculiarities that Natasha is almost certain that the grief is causing her to unravel bit by bit. She can’t blame it; this is what it does, after all. She’s slipping, fraying at the seams, hearing things, smelling things, perhaps even imagining things, because she’s still half convinced that that text message from “your” number wasn’t real.

So, Natasha can’t be sure—not really—but she feels sure anyway. It’s you.

Natasha is on her feet in a heartbeat, coffees forgotten on the table, one almost spilling over in her haste to push back her chair and stand as she bumps the corner. She moves toward the exit, following after you.

Once outside, she glances around to determine which direction you’ve gone and spots the same head of hair once more. She begins chasing after you.

She feels weak, weeks of not moving much, of not eating much, of not sleeping much taking their toll. But she pushes through the fatigue that already plagues her muscles until she’s within arm’s reach, and then her hand gently brushes your shoulder to get your attention.

She half believes that her fingers are going to go right through you, that she’s hallucinating.

But they make contact, solid and steady, and you turn, looking at her with a puzzled expression on your face.

“Can I help you?” you ask politely.

Natasha can’t speak. It feels like she can’t breathe. You’re here: safe, well, alive, standing in front of her like she’s been mourning you every second of every day for no reason.

She has a million questions. How are you okay? What happened? Why didn’t you come home?

But you’re looking at her with no recognition, and when that registers to her, she falters. Her training instinctually kicks in; she plays it off. “I’m… sorry. You look like someone I know. I thought…” she trails off.

You offer her a small smile; you let out a small laugh. “That’s okay. I know I have one of those faces.”

She knows that smile; she knows that laugh. She knows you, so why…

She glances down at the drink in your hand, the messy scrawl from the barista detailing your order on the side of cup. “You have a really specific order,” she says lamely. She’s fishing now, investigating, trying to trigger something in you.

You nod, laughing again. “I’ve been told my tastes are a bit weird.”

She always told you that.

Her eyes move to the scar on your left hand, an injury you received on an operation in Moldova. Natasha was there. She watched the way you jumped backwards to avoid the knife, raised your hand to block the swing.

“That looks like it hurt,” she says next.

You nod again in agreement. “Cooking accident,” you reply easily, still smiling, not fazed by her out-of-the-blue questions and strange behavior.

She looks at you, gaze flitting across your face, taking in everything she’s dreamed of being given one last chance to see. And you don’t seem to be lying; it looks as though you genuinely believe that you received the wound from something domestic, something civilian.

Her head is starting to hurt. This doesn’t make any sense. You’re here… but with no recollection of your life beforehand. You still have the same preferences, the same marks, but you don’t remember, and no one else seems to recognize you as who you were, judging by how the café employees didn’t bat an eye at what should’ve been an impossible reappearance.

Natasha is beginning to think that the pain of you being so close but out of reach is equivalent to the pain of you being permanently gone. Because, you’re still gone like this, right?

“I’m really sorry,” you tell her as she stands there in confused and dumbfounded silence, “But I have somewhere else to be right now.”

And then you’re moving away from her, leaving her again, just in a different way.

The redhead gets desperate then. You can’t go.

“Moya lyubov!” she calls out to you to stop you, the term of endearment slipping out habitually even though it shouldn’t anymore.

You turn back to face her, and you’re not sure why. The pet name has zero meaning to you now, zero sentimental value. You’ve never heard those two words before—you’re not even sure what language they’re in—but you spin to face the woman who said it anyway, and a fondness you don’t understand fills your chest as you look at her.

Natasha is grasping for something, anything, and you can see the desperation, the anguish within her. You don’t know her, but you want to help.

“What did you say?” you ask.

She just shakes her head at your question, answering with one of her own. “Will you get dinner with me? Tonight?” she says instead.

She needs more time with you; she needs to figure this out. And if she’s ultimately unable to, she’s going to get you back through other means. She charmed you once; she can do it again.

It felt like the right thing. Ocean waves lapping to wash the day away. Getting swept into the current of kisses was easy given the day you'd had.

Exhausting, that's the summary of it. Just one wrong step after another leaving shadows that haunted your day. You try your best to let it go, to let today end so you can just start new.

Kara's hands slipping beneath your shirt feels good. It feels refreshing, allowing your mind to just pause. It's nearly impossible to think of anything else when her tongue is pressed into yours and her fingers are working to unhook your bra.

You cup her cheeks, your mouth chasing right after her's anytime you were parted. You're trying to keep up, trying let it all go, trying to be absorbed into her.

Her goal is simple, please you. She had listened to your day, offered words of comfort. When that first kiss had landed it was easy to continue. It's a distraction too obvious to ignore.

But even now the day haunts you. The distraction fails, and it doesn't matter how good it feels to have Kara's fingers undressing you with such ease.

"Kara," your voice quietly pushes through a few kisses. "Kara, wait…"

She catches your upper lip in a quick kiss, mind otherwise occupied on undoing those hooks at your back. "Yeah, baby?"

You press your forehead against hers, not wanting her to leave but needing things to be put on pause. A part of you hesitates to confess, "It's not working. I thought… I don't know, I thought I could get into it."

Her hands immediately stop, palms pressing to your back as she readjusts with a changed goal. Her eyes open, scanning yours so she can find the problem and give the appropriate solution. Your heart's pounding, had been all day.

"Okay." Kara gives a curt nod, her nose brushing yours with the movement. "We'll stop."

Guilt tries to consume you. "Are you sure? I'm sorry to have started something just to flake on it."

"Hey, no." Her hands move to hold your face, thumb swiping over your cheekbone. "No, I'm glad you're telling me. You're not flaking on anything, you're taking care of yourself."

Kara has that smile pasted on her lips. The one that says she's proud. The one that reminds you how much she loves you (though the smile can only show a fraction of that). The one that welcomes your heart to melt into hers because she's got you.

"It was just a lot." Your voice is vulnerable now, and your eyes sting with the threat of tears.

Kara's brows furrow with concern, nodding again to affirm. "Yeah, fuck today." Her voice matches your volume.

You chuckle at her colorful response. Her eyes make sure to catch the way the corners of your lips curl into a smile—even if only for a moment. Her thumb smoothes over your cheek another time, and she relishes the way you lean into her touch.

She speaks the softest you've ever heard her speak, "No, seriously, fuck today. Fuck anything that gets in your way."

In her foul-mouthed softness she presses a kiss to your cheek. You sniffle, closing your eyes and just letting this carry you to comfort. The second your eyes are shut, she's pressing a kiss there too. Then your nose, your other cheek, your chin, that same first cheek again. Wherever her lips could find on your face.

It starts to tingle with how quickly she was moving, inviting laughter to fill your lungs. When you open your eyes again you see her just taking you in. It's not that oh my god, you're so fragile and I have to protect you look anymore, but that oh my god you mean absolutely everything and I have to support you gaze.

"Thank you." You lean forward to return at least one of the kisses, landing on her lips.

Your lips softly click as she returns the kiss. "My pleasure."

She means it. Kara is thrilled to just exist on the same planet with you, so this? It means something to her that she's built this with you. That she is the one you chose to go to even at the end of a rough day. That you sought her out, and she was helping you to just relax.

"Can I just hold you?" Kara asks, her hands moving to your waist. "We can lay in bed, just rotting away together for the rest of the night."

You smile happily at that offer. "That'd be perfect."

She's not forcing it to be fixed, or insisting that tomorrow will be better. She's just letting it be what it is. The day sucked, whatever. You had her now.

Her smile is somehow larger than your own and she covers your face with kisses galore as her hands go to the back of your legs to scoop you up in her arms. Your legs wrap around her waist, laughter allowing itself to be louder now.

She's dramatic with every step of it. Kara finds it to be so easy to be foolish for you. So her kisses continue, quick and ticklish, and she takes just a few steps towards you bedroom before her feet lift off the ground and she flies you both the rest of the way.

You're laughing quiet, her lips brushing your teeth as you smile into her next kiss. "Are you seriously flying us one room over?"

"It's efficient," she lazily shrugs, pressing a longer kiss into your lips before gently laying you down on the bed.

"It's silly," you reply, unwrapping your legs from her but resting your hands on her shoulders.

Kara lowers, her knees on either side of your legs as she lands softly over your body. "Did you just call me silly?" She feigns offense.

You smile, "I absolutely did."

"You'd better take it back." Her voice holds no threat.

"I can't take back the truth." Your fingers reach to tuck her hair behind her ear.

The rest of her hair falls around both your faces like a curtain. "Well, I guess that's true."

"You're giving up that easily, huh?" You tease.

Kara huffs, giving you a tender, lingering kiss before plopping her body right next to yours. "I recognize a losing battle, and I'm a pretty sore loser so I'd might as well quit while I'm ahead."

You hum, turning on your side to face her. "I don't really think you were very far ahead."

"Shhh, baby, let me hold you." She can't stop her grin from spreading, but pulls you into her before you can get too good of a look.

It's easy. Your arm drapes over her waist, your head rests on her chest. Her hand splays over your back and rubs some soothing circles, and her chin rests atop your head. She's warm, and the gentle, rhythmic beating of her heart helps your body know it can relax.

Pretty decent wrap up to the end of an otherwise fucked day.

kara who has a really hard time finding a job. well, the problem isn't finding a job, the problem is staying at the job. sometimes she feels like she doesn't fit in, that she can't handle doing “normal human” stuff.

by the time she gets home, she couldn't be more relieved to see that you got home earlier than her, seeing your figure sitting on the couch and greeting her. she doesn't even reply, she just takes her shoes off and gets closer to lay her head between your thighs. she kisses your skin as she mumbles about how annoying her day was, letting a groan out when she feels your nails scratching her head.

sometimes it ends up with her burying her face in your pussy and wrapping her lips around your clit, but usually you just allow her to take a nap on you, kara holding your leg and snoring as you watch something on the tv. ♡

she likes to lay her head on your chest to listen to your heartbeat. she doesn't need to do that to hear it but she likes to! 😊

she will happily hold your stuff and follow you around when you're shopping if you let her in the dressing room, sitting on a little bench as she watches you try everything you got and ask her if you look good— like she isn't looking at your with heart-shaped eyes.

“you're just saying that because you're my girlfriend.” you complain after kara said you looked stunning for the third time in a row. she rolls her eyes and pulls you closer by the back of your knees— she wraps her arms around your thighs and looks up at you with a smirk. “no, you just look good in everything.” she placed a kiss on your belly, making your heart flutter. “also, i never lie to you.” and, as much as you hated to admit it, she was absolutely right.

she's terrified of fighting near the area you live/work, afraid of you getting hurt or worse. and whenever that happens she ignores anyone who tries to talk to her and rushes to find you, either going to your apartment or flying outside the building you work at and looking through the windows until she finds you. she only gets to rest when she sees you alive and well.

she gets pissed when she finds out krypto behaves like a normal dog around you. it's like he knows you're more fragile than her or clark, so he never jumps over your head or flies around your apartment breaking everything. she almost gets mad at him for all the times he broke her stuff and stepped on her when she was laying down.

the first time she told you she loves you was when she thought you were sleeping. you just looked so sweet resting on her chest and holding her hand with your eyes closed. she never thought she'd experience something like that again— the feeling of belonging somewhere and not wanting to run away.

“god.” she mumbles to herself, running her hand through your hair and kissing your forehead. “i just realized i actually i love you.”

but her heart stopped for a second when she noticed your heartbeat increasing, like you actually heard what she said.

she freezes when she hears you sleepily mumbling something that sounded a lot like “love you too.”

she loves having your fingers inside her mouth. it doesn't matter if she's fingering you or if she's being filled by your strap, she'll always grab your hand and suck on two of your fingers. it just makes sex 2x better for her!

when you cried during sex for the first time she was so worried, she held your face and asked if she was hurting you ☹️☹️ but when you told her it was because she felt too good, something clicked inside her head. the concerned expression on her face was quickly replaced by a smug smirk.

“oh, really??” she leans down to kiss your neck as she slides her red strap inside you again, getting a whimper from you. “can't believe i'm that great.”