A/N: Happy (late) Halloween my loves! I wanted to do something spooky but was utterly uninspired, so have this short snip of me thirsting over Nat instead of doing my homework. Another reupload is coming soon, either a Steve or a StevexBuckyxReader...we shall see.
Word count: 1.7k
Warnings: Pure filth. All smut, some dirty talk, lots of violence. Probably don't read if you're religious. Or do. But we're gonna be talking about Satan. And sex. A lot of it. 18+ !!!!
It shouldn't get to you like this. The blood on her fingers, the crunch, the brutal pop of another man's spinal column breaking beneath her knee.
She shouldn't get to you like this.
It's bad. It's wrong. You know that. Every sweat soaked, sticky fingered, spit strung instance of her digging herself beneath your skin when she should be the furthest thing from it is not good for you. The job itself isn't good for you. It's the last thing you fucking need when Natasha Romanoff takes out another one of your targets without so much as breaking a sweat on her pretty porcelain skin. The throb between your thighs betrays all of your better senses, even when she smiles at you with a wild abandon that makes your stomach tight.
It's not the killing that does it. No, the killing still makes your stomach turn, even if your targets do crawl from between the scummy cracks of the Earth to plague whatever good parts are left of it. No. It's not that.
It's her. It's always her.
Her shifting body as she prowls, her stride as she hunts, the efficiency in which her elegant fingers unload the clip to slide another in place when she pounces.
It's her teeth, sharp and white against the crimson streak of her lips, glinting at you in the dark like blades. It's her dress, black as midnight or pitch, slung low on her shoulders and utterly unruffled despite the fact that she just incapacitated seven guards with a pistol and her bare hands. It's the way her hellcat grin turns sharp, smart, knowing as she calculates the heat in your cheeks and the tension in your thighs.
She's bound to be the death of you.
You're already gone when she says, "Alright back there?" Like she doesn't notice a thing.
She's the devil.
Your nod is lazy, stupid, completely unprofessional. Not at all the response of a trained assassin. Especially not one standing in a pooling puddle of blood at your feet, weeping from the wound your knife had left in a nearby chest.
You clear your throat, wiping your hands on your own silvery dress, splintered white in the moonlight, considerably less clean than hers. Your hands leave red skidding down the front like daggers."I'm fine."
Her nod is unconvincing. "Whatever you say, baby." She purrs as you cross the room on wobbly knees, avoiding the stab of her gaze as much as possible because you really don't need this right now.
It takes one broken window of the manor you're supposed to be infiltrating, two more dead guards, and a pocketed blood diamond before Natasha breaks. Although, breaks isn't really the right word.
Ambushes, more like. A streak of red fire and black gloves falling to the floor and her body is pushing yours to the wall with an unforgiving thud.
Her mouth is hot, hot against your neck as it slides wet and slick and messes with your head. Your shoulder blades dig into the canvas of an ornate painting of some billionaire who's mansion floor now harbors multiple dead bodies and two assassins.
YOU ARE READING
Marvel Oneshots
Fanfiction"love me like a verb, like constant evolution, like a growing thing." a book of angst, fluff, and pure uncut sin about everyone's favorite crime fighters. all characters derived from the MCU.
