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angst / Fluff where Nata notices something that triggers reader or something that upset her . Reader would mask it but Natasha has seen that look in the red room . Maybe a mission gone bad or the target managed to hurt reader somehow
hands off
| natasha x reader | only pretty faces masterlist
summary: see above
warnings: violence, gore
a/n: heyyyyy ahah
You didn't mean it. You're sure you didn't. Because there wasn't supposed to be a body count, here of all places. But when you slip and the world tilts and all of a sudden he has you facedown in the carpet, you forget. He grabs your hair and pulls. You forget everything. Your mind blanks in terror, in wolfish rage. You twist under him like an eel and rocket upwards, body torquing. You slam your forehead into his nose. He howls and releases you and slumps sideways and though there are black spots dancing in your splintering vision, you have just enough presence of mind left to flounder a hand on the coffee table, to grab a paperweight and bring down in a perfect, practised arc. You split his skull with it, one hit. His temple artery sprays you with blood. He's dead before he hits the floor.
You're still crouching there, breathing heavily, when Nat finds you. She doesn't even spare the body a glance. She strides straight up to you and pulls you to your feet. You await the order to run, the tug on the wrist - but instead, she wraps her arms around you. You freeze in her hold, wide-eyed, elbows crammed against her chest.
"It's alright," she says.
"I killed him." Your voice is hoarse with exertion, a different part of you lingering on the surface like flotsam.
"It's alright."
"No. It isn't." There's a dead body on the floor. A realisation dawns. You care that you've killed him - even though it might have been you dead if you hadn't acted. A person is dead, and it's your fault, and this time it matters. Emotion catches up in an overwhelming wave. An unsteady, horrifying sob catches you unawares. You convulse in Natasha's arms.
She strokes your hair, a gentle soothing touch where the scalp stings. She smells awful, an identifiable sweat that you've known for years, that's comforting now.
"No," she agrees quietly. "It isn't." Her hand rubs circles on your spine.
"Let's get out of here," you say, numbly.
Natasha presses an absentminded kiss to your head. You know she's staring at the body, at the brains leaking out over the carpet. "Yeah," she says. She takes your hand and leads you out, rubbing away the blood with one gloved thumb.
a/n: MINORS PLS DNR, DNI etc. this is so lazy. no plot. no context haha
Your hands are at her waist. You can feel the shift of skin beneath the fabric of her dress, the well of her breaths beneath your palms, but you can't focus on anything but the press of her warm mouth to yours. You can smell her perfume. Her tongue against yours, the trace bitter taste of alcohol.
Natasha pulls away, pink, breathing steady. Her lipstick is smudged a little and she stares down at you with wide eyes. She grins.
You can't find it within yourself to do anything but stare at her. Natasha puts a thumb to your parted lips and wipes away a print of lipstick. She brushes an errant curl of hair away from your forehead.
"Fuck, you're good-looking," she says. So candid. The breathless way she says it. She kisses you again.
How did this happen? When you've been hanging by a stupid thread for months, trying desperately to cut yourself loose before she notices?
But in the back of your mind, you can hear yourself saying who cares? You kiss her back, let your fingers dig into her ribs a little, accept her parting lips greedily.
She shifts halfway through, the kiss edging into sloppy, and shoves herself up onto the couch and straddles your hips without pulling away.
"Nat," you say, even as you kiss her jaw, her cheek, the bare side of her throat without any tangible direction, just a desire to press your lips to her warm skin. You're drunk, and it's so easy to sink into it, the heat and coil of want in your chest.
But this isn't right. You force yourself to slow your kisses, even as her fingers curl tight in your hair. She's pressed against you. You nose along her covered shoulder. "Nat, you're drunk," you manage.
"Oh, who gives a fuck?" she says above you. Her hands migrate down the back of your neck, then brush up again over the close-shorn hair on the back of your head, sending a delicious shudder through your spine. "You're drunk, too." Incredibly, she laughs, and it hurts how much you love that sound. "And you want me."
"Am I such a bad liar?" you murmur. You slide your palms across her back, find the tail of the zipper and roll it between your fingers. You've got a rein on control right now, but there are probably single movements it would take to break you.
"It's easy to see when I'm looking for it," she says. Her nails dig in.
It occurs to you, through a haze of truly deadly arousal and champagne, that she just wants some fun. That you're just here for that, to give and then be thrown away.
It also occurs to you that you wouldn't really care.
You pull back the lip of her dress edge to kiss the place where her clavicle meets her shoulder. There's all that skin in your face, her gentle rising and falling chest, a flush falling from her cheeks past her collarbones, a dust of freckles chasing away under fabric that you long to follow to their end.
Natasha shifts in your lap, and you almost fucking lose it.
But a terror still seizes you, when you realise that this is Nat on your lap, rocking against you, hands in your hair. Nat of the half-grin and whispered jokes. A fear of cliff edges, of losing the way back.
"Natasha," you say, before you can abandon thought completely, "tell me we'll still be friends. Please."
She leans back and for a long, horrible moment, you're utterly sure that you've ruined everything. Stupid thing to say. Friends? For God's sake, you've been making out for the past five minutes. After pining after her like a sick dog for months.
She takes your face between her hands and tilts it up so you're looking her right in the eye. She must be more drunk than she was letting on - she's swaying above you, and her gaze doesn't track right. She skims her thumbs across the height of your cheekbones.
"Fuck-friends," she says. It takes you a delirious moment to realise she's hyphenated it. She grins again, and then it drops. "I've been waiting for you for months, idiot. You're really gonna say no?" Head tilted on one side. "You can if you want."
As if.
You lower your head, press your mouth to her sternum. You can smell her perfume, some rich, deep scent you can't put a name to. "Show me what you want," you say, and your voice reverberates deep through her chest. You feel the quick breath she takes in, and then she reaches around to peel one of your hands away from her back, trailing it down her chest and stomach to rest at her thigh.
"Be quick," she says. She leans down to press her lips to your ear. "We can leave, after." Those words put the drive in you, and you feel rather than see her head tip back as you ruck the skirt of her dress up, over her knees, tugging it free from under her legs.
Her thighs are wrought like marble with muscle, decorated with scars. Her arms loop around your neck. You tuck one hand beneath the leg closest to the edge of the couch and guide it further open, until she's balanced on your hold. Her skin is contoured and soft in equal parts beneath your palm, parts you want to map with your tongue but you can't so you press kisses to the swell of her breasts instead, thrumming with the urge to pull the dress off her shoulders.
Your other hand seeks between her legs and you cup her there and fuck, her underwear is warm and soaked through. Her hips roll down into your hand. Her breathing is only marginally more laboured. You get distracted, worrying teeth marks into the sides of her breasts and keeping up a gentle rolling pressure with your hand.
She tires of it quickly. Your name hacked like a gunshot into the air. Her fingers sliding beneath your collar and biting in a grip at the back of your neck. "Do not fucking tease me," she growls.
You try not to laugh - you succeed with a hiccup against her chest. "I'm not," you insist.
"Then stop being a little bitch and fuck me."
"Alright." You look back up at her as you pull her underwear to the side, just to see the look on her face when you slide two fingers through her folds.
Her eyes flutter and narrow, a very slight grin slurring her lips, teeth visible behind the pink. You must look a mess. Her lipstick is everywhere. You're still holding her gaze when you push a first finger inside her.
All at once, it's too much, too intimate, too warm - you're sharing air, tangled together.
But you've known her so long. You've loved her long enough.
"More," Natasha demands, never losing your gaze, though her eyelids dip and her mouth falls open in expectation.
Another finger. She's hot and wet, her thighs tense. You begin to fuck her, drawing in and out so slowly, so gently. She follows, hips rising and falling, grinding against you so your hand crushes between her cunt and your lap. She brings a hand to your jaw and digs her nails in, a crease screwing up at the top of her nose as she rides your fingers.
"More," she insists, the word a moan. It excites you, that she's fucking herself on your fingers where anyone could find you, that she doesn't care, that she wants it so badly.
You push your thumb over her clit and she twitches, grins with sharp canines. You quicken your pace, push into her harder and harder until it's relentless, unforgiving, until she's panting over your mouth, flushed.
She's enjoying herself. Not pushing herself to come, just revelling in the pleasure, in the push of your bodies against each other. She releases your face, surely leaving nail marks, and runs her hand down your neck, sliding apart your collar with two fingers.
The skin of her thigh is soft and you can dig your fingers in, feel the muscle working. You bend to kiss her neck, driving in and out of her, thumbing at her clit with a truly filthy abandon. She begins to make little noises in your ear, grunts and moans that you know are just for show, and they make you laugh like you know she wants them to, and you curl your fingers inside her-
-and she comes in your lap in silence, hips twitching. Her thighs snap around your hips like a bear trap. You don't think you ever been more turned on in your life, and then she collapses against you, still around you, and gives her hips one final, wistful buck.
You don't have it in you to be guilty about it now. Not when she comes so beautifully.
(Maybe a little. That she performs so much.)
"Christ," she says. Not breathing hard. She pulls back, and you can't help but gaze at her, at her curls coming loose from her updo, at the pink flush under her freckles, at her dress halfway down her shoulders. You're still inside her. You want to be inside her, fuck her with your body, not just your fingers. She sees the desire bloom in your eyes as you stare up at her. She can probably feel the hard-on against her ass, too. You pull your fingers out slowly, and consider sucking them clean. She'd like that.
Inexplicably, Nat straightens your collar. Another grin, lazy and sharp. "If you take me home right now," she says, and the corner of her mouth turns up further, "and you're really good, I might let you fuck me im the car."
Ten minutes ago you might have blacked out at that. Instead, you put your fingers to your mouth and lick her slick away from them. She watches you like an animal.
Around your fingers, you say, "I'll be good." And grin.
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
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Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
a/n: MINORS PLS DNR, DNI etc. this is so lazy. no plot. no context haha
Your hands are at her waist. You can feel the shift of skin beneath the fabric of her dress, the well of her breaths beneath your palms, but you can't focus on anything but the press of her warm mouth to yours. You can smell her perfume. Her tongue against yours, the trace bitter taste of alcohol.
Natasha pulls away, pink, breathing steady. Her lipstick is smudged a little and she stares down at you with wide eyes. She grins.
You can't find it within yourself to do anything but stare at her. Natasha puts a thumb to your parted lips and wipes away a print of lipstick. She brushes an errant curl of hair away from your forehead.
"Fuck, you're good-looking," she says. So candid. The breathless way she says it. She kisses you again.
How did this happen? When you've been hanging by a stupid thread for months, trying desperately to cut yourself loose before she notices?
But in the back of your mind, you can hear yourself saying who cares? You kiss her back, let your fingers dig into her ribs a little, accept her parting lips greedily.
She shifts halfway through, the kiss edging into sloppy, and shoves herself up onto the couch and straddles your hips without pulling away.
"Nat," you say, even as you kiss her jaw, her cheek, the bare side of her throat without any tangible direction, just a desire to press your lips to her warm skin. You're drunk, and it's so easy to sink into it, the heat and coil of want in your chest.
But this isn't right. You force yourself to slow your kisses, even as her fingers curl tight in your hair. She's pressed against you. You nose along her covered shoulder. "Nat, you're drunk," you manage.
"Oh, who gives a fuck?" she says above you. Her hands migrate down the back of your neck, then brush up again over the close-shorn hair on the back of your head, sending a delicious shudder through your spine. "You're drunk, too." Incredibly, she laughs, and it hurts how much you love that sound. "And you want me."
"Am I such a bad liar?" you murmur. You slide your palms across her back, find the tail of the zipper and roll it between your fingers. You've got a rein on control right now, but there are probably single movements it would take to break you.
"It's easy to see when I'm looking for it," she says. Her nails dig in.
It occurs to you, through a haze of truly deadly arousal and champagne, that she just wants some fun. That you're just here for that, to give and then be thrown away.
It also occurs to you that you wouldn't really care.
You pull back the lip of her dress edge to kiss the place where her clavicle meets her shoulder. There's all that skin in your face, her gentle rising and falling chest, a flush falling from her cheeks past her collarbones, a dust of freckles chasing away under fabric that you long to follow to their end.
Natasha shifts in your lap, and you almost fucking lose it.
But a terror still seizes you, when you realise that this is Nat on your lap, rocking against you, hands in your hair. Nat of the half-grin and whispered jokes. A fear of cliff edges, of losing the way back.
"Natasha," you say, before you can abandon thought completely, "tell me we'll still be friends. Please."
She leans back and for a long, horrible moment, you're utterly sure that you've ruined everything. Stupid thing to say. Friends? For God's sake, you've been making out for the past five minutes. After pining after her like a sick dog for months.
She takes your face between her hands and tilts it up so you're looking her right in the eye. She must be more drunk than she was letting on - she's swaying above you, and her gaze doesn't track right. She skims her thumbs across the height of your cheekbones.
"Fuck-friends," she says. It takes you a delirious moment to realise she's hyphenated it. She grins again, and then it drops. "I've been waiting for you for months, idiot. You're really gonna say no?" Head tilted on one side. "You can if you want."
As if.
You lower your head, press your mouth to her sternum. You can smell her perfume, some rich, deep scent you can't put a name to. "Show me what you want," you say, and your voice reverberates deep through her chest. You feel the quick breath she takes in, and then she reaches around to peel one of your hands away from her back, trailing it down her chest and stomach to rest at her thigh.
"Be quick," she says. She leans down to press her lips to your ear. "We can leave, after." Those words put the drive in you, and you feel rather than see her head tip back as you ruck the skirt of her dress up, over her knees, tugging it free from under her legs.
Her thighs are wrought like marble with muscle, decorated with scars. Her arms loop around your neck. You tuck one hand beneath the leg closest to the edge of the couch and guide it further open, until she's balanced on your hold. Her skin is contoured and soft in equal parts beneath your palm, parts you want to map with your tongue but you can't so you press kisses to the swell of her breasts instead, thrumming with the urge to pull the dress off her shoulders.
Your other hand seeks between her legs and you cup her there and fuck, her underwear is warm and soaked through. Her hips roll down into your hand. Her breathing is only marginally more laboured. You get distracted, worrying teeth marks into the sides of her breasts and keeping up a gentle rolling pressure with your hand.
She tires of it quickly. Your name hacked like a gunshot into the air. Her fingers sliding beneath your collar and biting in a grip at the back of your neck. "Do not fucking tease me," she growls.
You try not to laugh - you succeed with a hiccup against her chest. "I'm not," you insist.
"Then stop being a little bitch and fuck me."
"Alright." You look back up at her as you pull her underwear to the side, just to see the look on her face when you slide two fingers through her folds.
Her eyes flutter and narrow, a very slight grin slurring her lips, teeth visible behind the pink. You must look a mess. Her lipstick is everywhere. You're still holding her gaze when you push a first finger inside her.
All at once, it's too much, too intimate, too warm - you're sharing air, tangled together.
But you've known her so long. You've loved her long enough.
"More," Natasha demands, never losing your gaze, though her eyelids dip and her mouth falls open in expectation.
Another finger. She's hot and wet, her thighs tense. You begin to fuck her, drawing in and out so slowly, so gently. She follows, hips rising and falling, grinding against you so your hand crushes between her cunt and your lap. She brings a hand to your jaw and digs her nails in, a crease screwing up at the top of her nose as she rides your fingers.
"More," she insists, the word a moan. It excites you, that she's fucking herself on your fingers where anyone could find you, that she doesn't care, that she wants it so badly.
You push your thumb over her clit and she twitches, grins with sharp canines. You quicken your pace, push into her harder and harder until it's relentless, unforgiving, until she's panting over your mouth, flushed.
She's enjoying herself. Not pushing herself to come, just revelling in the pleasure, in the push of your bodies against each other. She releases your face, surely leaving nail marks, and runs her hand down your neck, sliding apart your collar with two fingers.
The skin of her thigh is soft and you can dig your fingers in, feel the muscle working. You bend to kiss her neck, driving in and out of her, thumbing at her clit with a truly filthy abandon. She begins to make little noises in your ear, grunts and moans that you know are just for show, and they make you laugh like you know she wants them to, and you curl your fingers inside her-
-and she comes in your lap in silence, hips twitching. Her thighs snap around your hips like a bear trap. You don't think you ever been more turned on in your life, and then she collapses against you, still around you, and gives her hips one final, wistful buck.
You don't have it in you to be guilty about it now. Not when she comes so beautifully.
(Maybe a little. That she performs so much.)
"Christ," she says. Not breathing hard. She pulls back, and you can't help but gaze at her, at her curls coming loose from her updo, at the pink flush under her freckles, at her dress halfway down her shoulders. You're still inside her. You want to be inside her, fuck her with your body, not just your fingers. She sees the desire bloom in your eyes as you stare up at her. She can probably feel the hard-on against her ass, too. You pull your fingers out slowly, and consider sucking them clean. She'd like that.
Inexplicably, Nat straightens your collar. Another grin, lazy and sharp. "If you take me home right now," she says, and the corner of her mouth turns up further, "and you're really good, I might let you fuck me im the car."
Ten minutes ago you might have blacked out at that. Instead, you put your fingers to your mouth and lick her slick away from them. She watches you like an animal.
Around your fingers, you say, "I'll be good." And grin.
Idk if you’re active anymore or if you even still write but you’re literally so talented and I hope you end up writing again because the way you tell a story is better than most books I’ve read and you just have a real grasp on human nature and emotion and character and everything you write just feels real and like it could actually happen or like idk it’s just really really good and even if you don’t write on here anymore, you should keep writing because it would be really sad to let that kind of artful honest talent go to waste. Seriously you write really beautifully
IM HERE AND I LOVE YOU AND IM ON THE FLOOR AND IM BAWLING
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality✓ Free Actions
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality✓ Free Actions
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
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