The Woman In Booth Seven
Prompt: G!P Silver fox Natasha Romanoff x Stripper Reader.
Warnings: Smut Ahead. Minors and Men dni. Age Gap (Natasha is 53, Reader is 22) Unprotected sex (p in V), stripper activities while being naked.
Word Count: 5.5K Words.
It was a late October night. The kind of crisp New York night that makes everyone look richer than they are. The charity gala smelled like old money trying to pretend it was brand new. Multiple assortment of orchids flown in from Singapore, champagne older than most of the waitstaff and more expensive than your salaries put together, and the faint metallic tang of desperation beneath thousand dollar cologne. You’d been on your feet for six hours in heels that were quietly trying to murder you, smile plastered on, directing billionaires and their trophy dates to their tables.
You moved through it all in a borrowed black suit two sizes too stiff, bow tie choking you like a warning, balancing a silver tray of flutes while counting the minutes until you could trade the starched white button up shirt for body oil and eight inch pleasers back at Velvet Room where you actually belonged.
This is a favor, you should be grateful! You thought to yourself. An opportunity to get some extra cash even though it meant you'd get lingering eyes from older men while their trophy wives gave you glares. But it was all worth it since they were paying you double this specific evening. You handed another flute out, flinching when one of the ambassadors grabbed your arm too tight. But something in the air shifted after that.
You felt the way the crowd parted just enough for you to see the mysterious woman. Natasha Romanoff walked in. Alone. No entourage, no date on her arm, just a floor length black coat cinched at the waist and her silver hair swept into a low, elegant knot that showed off the sharp lines of her face.
Your lips parted in awe once you got a proper look at her. Her silver streaked red hair swept low into a bun, and when she took that coat off, her midnight blue velvet blazer cut sharp enough to draw blood, while her green eyes were already locked on you like she’d been waiting hours for you to walk into range.
The sound of heels clacking on the floor brought you out of the trance you'd been in. Her eyes lingered on your face for a few seconds before you redirected your attention to the couple behind you. And when you looked back to where she had been standing a couple of seconds ago, the woman was already gone.
___
An hour maybe two went by and you'd secretly been stealing glances at the older woman. You knew who she was, of course you did. Everyone knew who the woman was. Natasha Romanoff. Famous ex-assassin turned CEO of Romanoff Incorporation, how she build her company from nothing to something in her mid twenties. Everyone feared the woman. She practically ruled security world or whatever the hell she did. You weren't sure. All you know was that she was the kind of loaded that came from hardwork and sleepless nights. You found yourself captivated by her.
The woman was interesting sure, but what intrigued you even more was the fact that she came with no one and paid attention to no one. Women circled around her, men stared her down and even the host was too nervous to hold eye contact while talking to her. That alone made her seem even more powerful.
You were certain that you spent almost an hour ogling at her before one of the wives attending the event called for you.
"You. Do me a favor and get me a scotch on the rocks."
"I only hand flutes out ma'am, I don't-"
"Is your job not to satisfy me? Isn't that what you're getting paid for?" The woman tilted her head, and from afar you could already see the head waitress giving you a warning look. Obey then walk away.
"Right away." You turned your back to her, making your way to the main bar area before placing the tray down.
"Scotch on the rocks please." The bartender nodded, and you took the time to unfasten the tie that had been irritating you for the past three hours. At least you had a few more seconds to breathe.
The bartender handed you the drink, you accepted it with a polite smile before handing it over to the woman. Little did you know that Natasha had been watching you for quite a while now. She watched you intensely. How every single one of your movements were deliberate. How your posture was upright but not stiff, shoulders squared like you were used to being looked at. Natasha’s gaze followed you without permission.
She watched you stop at a table of four ladies. One of them, a housewife in diamonds and too much perfume, didn’t even look up. The woman who'd asked you for her drink.
"You spilled." The woman said sharply. Natasha’s eyes narrowed. She hadn’t seen any spill. All she'd seen was grace walking around a room filled with arrogant women and hungry men.
"I didn't." She heard the way you replied. Your voice calm, low. Polite. Too polite.
"Yes, you did." The woman snapped, waving a manicured hand toward the hem of her dress.
"Do you people ever pay attention?" You people.
Natasha felt the familiar, unwelcome spark of irritation crawl up her spine. You simply glanced down, then back up, jaw tightening for just a fraction of a secon and you apologized anyway. A small apology. Controlled. Professional.
Natasha clocked it all. The restraint, the way your fingers curled just slightly around the tray, the way you didn’t look at the woman again once turned away. She found you interesting. Very interesting.
Later that night, Natasha found you in the bathroom. You were fixing your jacket, then your hair before looking at through the mirror.
"Long night?" She asked, leaning against the pristine walls.
"You have no idea." You replied dryly. Why would she be talking to you? It didn't make any sense.
You thought that she was probably just being nice. Or maybe she needed something from you, but Natasha just stared, observed and took you in.
"You know, it's rude to stare." You mumbled while tucking a loose curl behind your ear.
"I know. But I just so happen to be appreciating the beauty in front of me."
"Smooth." You finally turned to look at her.
"Do you need something Ms Romanoff?" Natasha raises her brow in amusement.
"You know who I am?"
"Of course. Everyone does." She hums a low hum that sends something down your core.
You find yourself admiring the woman's features. The freckles across her nose, the small wrinkles just beneath her eyes, those perfectly shaped eyebrows and her eyes, christ her eyes. This women was the epitome of perfection, age be damned.
"Now I'm not the one staring." She teases, you huff out a laugh.
"I should get going." You gesture towards the door and she steps aside.
Once you leave the bathroom, after a long moment, Natasha is left with the scent of your perfume swirling around in her nose and your face engraved in her mind. You on the other hand finally let the breath you were apparently holding out. Something about Natasha made you feel hot and bothered. But you weren't here to hit women up, let alone a woman of her status.
You made your way back to the bar, grabbing the tray filled with new flutes before rounding your way around the gala room. But fate apparently wasn't done. Because a few minutes later, Natasha was in front of you, and without a word, you handed her a flute. She glanced down at you once again. Green eyes. Predator green.
"Thank you..." She read your name tag. "Kelly." You simply nodded, the sound of her voice rolling around the fake name sent some sort of thrill down your spine. You wondered how it would sound if she said your real name.
"You're welcome Ms Romanoff. Enjoy the rest of your evening." You walked away before she could reply, feeling her stare on your back the whole way to the kitchen.
___
VELVET ROOM, Friday night, 1:12 a.m.
Three weeks have gone by since you worked the night at the gala. But now, you were in the place you felt like you belonged. And yes, maybe it was contentious that you preferred this over waiting had and foot around other people, but the pay was exceptionally good, you worked flexible hours and well you were considered the best of the best in the club. "Considered" was hmyou being humble. You were the best.
The bassline was filthy, lights strobing crimson and indigo across your sweat slick skin. The main stage belonged to you tonight. Your stage name, Onyx written in neon colors on the screen and the crowd knew it and loved it.
You were drrssed nothing but a black diamond G-string, a silver sheer top and eight-inch Pleasers, your body oiled, curls pulled into a high ponytail that whipped when you spun. The pole was your spine, your lover, your throne. You climbed it upside down, legs split in a perfect V shape, back arched until your hair brushed the stage, then slid down slow enough to make grown men cry and thro hundred dollar bills your way.
Some tried to touch, some tried to pull the strings of your top but you brushed them off. Instead you made your way to a man, probably in his mid fifties, with a stack of hundreds in his palm. He gushed to his group of buddies when you pulled his tie forward. And although the feeling of his rough hand sliding down your ass made your insides spin in disgust, you brushed him off with a wink while he placed said stack in your palms.
It all amused yet kind of irked you, of course it did! How unsettling it was that a questionable amount of men sitting in this club were probably fathers, husbands, company owners, but who were you to judge when you were making more than others would make in a few hours. Money continued to rain, your stage name was chanted across the stage, even when you stepped aside to get some air and water.
When you were back on the stage, the routine started once again, money was tossed around while you mindlessly swirled and danced around the slick pole. You were mid routine, inverted crucifix, one handed, thighs gripping onto cold steel, when you finally felt it. A familiar stare. Heavy and unblinking.
You flipped upright, landed in a split that earned a roar from the floor, and finally let your gaze sweep towards the VIP booths. And there she was, Natasha Romanoff. Silver streaked hair, green eyes. Staring at you. At you.
Natasha was dressed in a similar velvet suit that she'd worn to the charity, soft and expensive. In her hand was an untouched drink, probably expensive bourbon. Next to her, were three other females who you assumed were to be her friends. They were too occupied with shoving bills into the waiters hands to really notice the sudden shift in Natasha's behavior. The rigid shoulders, how she stopped talking and replying to their murmurs, all because she was focused on one thing. You.
Her gaze made you swallow a non existent lump down your throat. You felt heat spreading all over your body like a wild fire spreading down a field. It's not that you felt embarrassed to see someone outside of your work life watching you parade half naked around a pole, no (though it rarely happened). But the way she was watching you, not just watching you for the fun of it, but really taking you in, observing you... It made you feel some type of way. Natasha didn't move, didn't blink, didn't show any emotion but she continued to stare at you like you were the only one in the room.
Eventually your set finished and the DJ shouted your name before the lights went black. That's when you made your way out of the room and into the locker rooms to change and maybe take a couple of seconds to breathe. A couple of girls scattered in and out, some refreshing their makeup, reapplying lip gloss, counting money, popping champagne while others were changing their clothes and the lucky ones were knocking off early.
You were about to change into a slick robe, ready to get a glass of water before your private dances but your boss, Anna, a carefree woman who'd stomp her foot on anyone who touched their girls inappropriately, walked into the locker room to stop you.
"No changing for you Onyx." You turned around with a small frown.
"What do you mean?"
"Velvet's asking for you."
"Who?" Anna cocked her head to the side, and that moment, behind the curtains your eyes met green ones.
Anna left, you covered your self in the thin robe before walking out of the room.
"You're not supposed to be here."
"Well hello to you too, Onyx." Her voice was low, amused and rough from disuse.
"You dropped something at the gala." Natasha held out the same black bow tie you’d worn that night three weeks ago. She must have lifted it from your tray when you weren’t looking. You took it slowly, fingers brushing her fingers on purpose this time.
"Keeping souvenirs now?"
"Only the interesting ones." Her gaze dragged down your barely covered body, then back up.
"You’re wasted on charity events, malyshka." A thrill shot through you at the Russian endearment.
"Could say the same thing about you standing in this club." You shot back and the woman laughed, a low genuine sound.
"I'm here because a friend of mine lost a bet. I never lose bets." She said.
"Good to know." You leaned in just enough for her to catch the scent of your body oil, a mixture of oud and vanilla. You then turned on your heels, ready to disappear but the woman stopped you.
"How much to get to see you longer?"
"I have scheduled private dances waiting for me Ms Romanoff." You cross your arms and the movement makes your cleavage pop out more. Natasha's eyes linger.
"I'll pay triple." You stutter out a response but nothing comes out.
"Of each." You let the silence stretch, then turned on your heel.
"Booth seven. Ten minutes. Bring your wallet and your manners."
You felt her watching you walk away again but this time in nothing but a robe and heels.
___
Booth seven was the biggest one, tucked in the far back corner where the music dulled to a low, syrupy throb and the lights were nothing but deep violet and slow moving spots. Velvet walls, a single chrome pole in the center, a low leather chaise that could fit two if they didn’t mind touching.
You stepped inside first, let the curtain fall closed behind you, and turned the dimmer until the room felt like the inside of a bruise. Natasha followed without a word, hands in her pockets, posture relaxed, but you could feel the tension rolling off her like heat.
You didn’t speak. You just let the robe slide off your shoulders and pool at your feet.
She inhaled, sharp and quiet, eyes tracking every inch of bare glowing skin now lit up for her alone. The diamond G-string, body chain dripping low across your hips, nipples already tight from the air and from knowing exactly who was watching.
"I prefer my clients to be seated while I work." You mumbled, she followed suite. You liked it quite a lot. How you were able to hold the reigns of the most powerful woman.
You pressed play on the room’s private system. Beyoncé's song, Dance For You, playing, slow, filthy, bass heavy enough to vibrate in the bones. Fitting for the moment.
Then you moved. Not the stage routine. No. This was different. Lethal in a quieter way. You wanted her to be hooked. You started with your back to her, rolling your hips in a slow figure eight that made the diamonds on your waist flash. One hand braced on the pole, you sank into a low squat, thighs wide, back arched until your ass nearly brushed the leather between her spread legs. You could hear her breathing change. You may as well give her a full show now. You thought to yourself.
Rising again, you spun, walked forward until your knees bumped hers. She didn’t move, didn’t reach, just watched with that predator stillness that made your pulse race. You straddled the air just above her lap, close enough that she could feel the heat coming off you, not close enough to touch. House rules for now. You rolled your body like a wave, breasts brushing a whisper from her lips, then away again. When you dropped low, grinding against nothing, your hands slid up your own torso, cupping yourself, thumbs flicking your nipples once, twice, just to watch her jaw flex. And it did.
Natasha’s hands curled into fists on her thighs. You turned again, planted your heels wide, and bent slow, slow, slow until your palms touched the floor and your ass was a perfect heart shape inches from her hips. You held it there, letting her look, letting her want. Then you rose just as slowly, letting your hair spill down your back like ink.
When you finally faced her again, you stepped in close, one knee sliding between hers on the chaise. You took her wrists and she let you, guided her hands to the armrests, and leaned in until your lips almost brushed the shell of her ear.
"No touching. " You whispered.
"Yet." A low growl rumbled in her chest.
You smiled, sank down until you were straddling one of her thighs, the muscle hard beneath her slacks. You rolled your hips once, slow, letting the thin strip of diamonds drag over her leg, letting her feel exactly how wet you already were. Her nostrils flared.
You rose again, turned your back to her, and lowered yourself into her lap properly this time, no barrier except that scrap of fabric and her iron control. Your gaze dropped lower towards the tent tucked beneath expensive fabric. You smirked.
You started a slow grind, spine liquid, ass rolling in deliberate circles, feeling her cock swell hard and thick beneath you in seconds. You didn’t speed up. You tortured her with the rhythm, rising until only the tip of you grazed her, then sinking down again, taking every inch of friction through her clothes. Natasha’s head fell back against the chaise, throat exposed, pulse hammering. You leaned forward, braced your hands on her knees, and rode her lap like you were fucking her right there, hips snapping, breasts bouncing, breath coming in soft moans you didn’t have to fake.
Her hands lifted an inch off the armrests, then froze. You reached back, caught her wrists again, pinned them gently but firmly.
"Be good." You murmured, voice velvet and steel. She laughed, low and wrecked.
"You’re evil." You rolled your hips one last time, hard, letting her feel your clit drag over the ridge of her cock through the layers between you, then rose smoothly to your feet. The song was ending. You stepped back, picked up your robe, slid it on but didn’t tie it.
Natasha sat there breathing like she’d run ten miles, pupils blown, lips parted. The front of her slacks was unmistakably ruined.
You leaned down, brushed your mouth against the corner of hers, barely a kiss.
"Next time..." You whispered.
"Bring cash. A lot of it. And maybe I’ll let those hands wander." You walked out first, hips swaying, leaving the curtain half-open so the hallway light striped across her flushed face and the very obvious problem in her lap. She was ruined. Absolutely ruined. In a way she hadn't been in decades. And you? You secretly thrived on it. And you knew she'd come back. Natasha was definitely going to be back.
___
It has almost been two weeks since you had last seen Natasha. At first you had hope. You hoped that maybe she'd show up, ask for another show, tell you how she desperately wanted you but that was all in your head. A week went by and still, nothing. You don't know why it bothered you so much. I mean yes the money that you got from her alone was an obscene amount but what was so special about her that you needed to see her again? Why were you still expecting her to waltz into the club and demand to watch you preform? She didn't need you and neither did you need her. Yeah. You didn't. Even though you still played with the bow tie that she'd handed you that night. But again, it was just a regular performance.
On the twelfth day, you've finally got the older woman out of your mind. Back to regulars, back to routine, back to normalcy.
But then, two nights later, Natasha waltzes into the club alone. No friends. No pretense. No velvet blazer this time. Just a black silk shirt, sleeves rolled high, top three buttons undone, and tailored trousers that did nothing to hide the long, hard line of her when she walked. She looked like sin with a platinum card.
She didn’t sit in VIP. She went straight to the floor manager, slid an envelope across the bar, and said a few words.
"Onyx. All night." The envelope was thick enough that the manager didn’t even blink. Anna just handed Natasha a brass keycard for the Champagne Room upstairs, the one that locks from the inside and has no cameras.
You were mid routine when security tapped your shoulder and whispered.
"You’re done on the floor. VIP wants you upstairs. Full buy out." Your heart began to beat rapidly. You knew who it was before you even turned around.
You took your time getting ready. Showered off the stage oil, let your skin air dry so you smelled like nothing but warm cocoa butter and you. Slipped into the tiniest black lace balconette and matching thong you owned, the kind that looked like it would fall apart if someone breathed on it wrong. Thigh high stockings with the seam up the back. No robe this time.
When you pushed open the door to the Champagne Room, Natasha was standing at the window, city glittering behind her, one hand in her pocket, the other wrapped around a glass of something dark. She turned when she heard the click of your heels. Her eyes went almost black.
"Lock the door." She said. You did. The room was bigger than most apartments. Low black leather sectional, mirrored walls, a smaller pole in the center, bottle of 1996 Cristal sweating in a bucket you knew she hadn’t touched.
You walked straight to her, stopped when your breasts brushed her chest.
"Hi." You said softly. Natasha set the glass down without looking. Both hands came up, slow enough that you could stop her if you wanted to. You didn't. Her thumbs traced your cheekbones, then slid into your hair, gripping just hard enough to tilt your head back.
"Hi." She echoed, voice gravel and smoke.
"What are you doing here?" You ask.
"I came to make good on what you said. Besides you were very bad that night malyshka.”
You smiled, let your tongue touch your bottom lip.
"You paid so much money for all night. You really wanna spend it scolding me?" Her laugh was low and dangerous. Her hands began to roam and you let her.
"Let me take you to dinner." She mumbles and you let out a soft surprised laugh.
"Did you book me to ask me out?" She hums.
"And what makes you think I'm single?"
"Well you're letting my hands sit on your ass."
"Letting people touch me this way is part of the job."
"Is looking at your clients like you want them to fuck you part of the job?" You open your mouth but nothing comes out.
"Bold huh?"
"I know what I want."
"And what do you want."
"You."
"You don't even know my real name."
"Niet, I don't. Tell me." You pause for a moment, and Natasha watches you, waiting not rushing.
"Y/n." You mumbled softly and she makes a pleased sound.
"Y/n." She repeats to herself.
"Beautiful." The older woman's hands have stopped roaming around, now just simply cupping your ass while the tent in her pants grazes against your bare skin. You find yourself leaning in slowly but she stops you.
"Dance for me first. I want to watch you with nothing in between." Her commend sends a pool of wetness down to your core. This woman was going to be the death of you. You hesitated for a moment but then you got up. You stepped back, unhooked your bra, let it fall. Then you hooked your thumbs in the thong and paused.
"Everything?" You asked. Her nod was sharp. Hungry. You stripped the rest off in one smooth motion, stepped out of the lace, and walked naked to the pole.
The song she’d chosen started. It was something slow and syrupy, all bass and breathy vocals. You gave her everything you’d held back downstairs.
Climbed upside down, thighs locked, back arched until your hair swept the floor. Slid down into a split that put your pussy on full display, glistening under the low lights. Rolled your hips in the air like you were riding her, fingers trailing between your legs just long enough to spread yourself open for her eyes only.
Natasha never moved from the window. Just watched, chest rising and falling, one hand now openly palming herself through her trousers. When the song ended you were breathing hard, skin shining with fresh sweat. You walked to her, took the hand that wasn’t stroking herself, and pulled her to the sectional.
"My turn." You whispered. You pushed her down, straddled her lap, and finally finally let your bare pussy settle over the thick ridge of her cock. You both groaned at the contact.
Her hands went to your hips immediately, fingers digging in.
"Tell me the rules tonight." She said, voice wrecked. You leaned in, licked a stripe up her throat, and bit her earlobe.
"No rules." You breathed.
"You paid for me. Take what you want." The sound she made was inhuman.
"Am I the only client who's seen you like this?" You nod your head and before you know it, your lips are pressed against hers.
In one motion she flipped you onto your back on the wide leather couch, mouth crashing into yours, cock grinding hard between your thighs. You reached down, frantic, fumbling with her belt. She helped, extremely impatient now, shoving trousers and briefs down just enough to free herself. Thick, flushed, already leaking at the tip.
You wrapped your hand around her, stroked once, twice, thumb swiping over the head. She shuddered, forehead dropping to yours.
"Condom?" She managed.
"Clean. On the pill. Want to feel you raw." She cursed in Russian, lined up, and pushed inside in one long, relentless thrust.
Your back arched clear off the couch.
She was big. Bigger than you’d guessed and the stretch burned perfectly. She didn’t give you time to adjust, just started fucking you in deep, punishing strokes, hips snapping, one hand braced beside your head, the other sliding between you to circle your clit.
"Fuck, look at you." She growled, watching herself disappear into your body over and over.
"Taking my cock like you were fucking made for it." You couldn’t answer. You simply wrapped your legs high around her waist, heels digging into her ass, urging her deeper. She gave it to you harder, faster, leather creaking beneath you, your moans echoing off the mirrors. When you came the first time it was sudden and blinding, pussy clenching so tight she had to fight to keep moving.
She didn’t stop. Flipped you over, pulled your hips up, slid back inside from behind and fucked you through the aftershocks until you were shaking, drooling into the cushion, coming again with a broken sob while throwing your ass back to meet her thrusts.
"Da, just like that!" Only then did she let herself go, burying deep, cock pulsing, spilling hot inside you with your name torn out of her throat like it hurt.
After, she didn’t pull out. Just folded over your back, arms wrapping around your waist, lips pressing open-mouthed kisses between your shoulder blades.
You stayed like that for a long minute, breathing together, her cock softening slowly inside you. Eventually she pulled out gently, turned you over, and kissed you slow and sweet and filthy.
Then she reached for her discarded jacket, pulled out a matte black card, and pressed it into your hand.
"My real number this time." She murmured against your lips.
"No games. Call me when you want to do this somewhere that isn’t a club. Somewhere I can keep you all weekend." You traced the edge of the card, smiling.
"I’ll think about it." You lied. She laughed, low and fond, and kissed you again. You both knew you’d be texting her before sunrise.
___
You're in your apartment now. It's almost four in the morning. You'd taken a bath to ease your tender muscles but apparently it did nothing to soothe the throb in between your legs. It felt taboo honestly. How you let the women conmand you to do such things. How she fucked you, held you, kissed you. You should feel embarrassed, ashamed even but you didn't. Did you regret it? Absolutely not. Would you let her do it again? Yes.
And that's how you find yourself pulling out that matte black card, and saving her name in your contacts. And then, you're texting her.
You
Still awake, old woman?
Natasha responds almost ten seconds later.
Natasha
Old woman who carried you and fucked you against the wall? Try again.
You
Still awake ma'am?
Natasha
Much better. Yes, I’m awake. I can still taste you on my tongue and I’m trying to decide if I’m pissed you left or proud you can still walk.
You
I'm at home now. My legs are questionable.
Pretty sure that I can still feel you inside of me.
Natasha
Jesus Christ.
You
Anyways, I was just checking to see if you had another girl on top of you or not.
Natasha
I’m in my kitchen drinking vodka out of a coffee mug and trying not to jerk off to the memory of how you looked when you came on my tongue.
So no. No other girl.
You
Smooth talker.
Natasha
Truth talker.
A minute goes by then the next text comes in from the woman.
Natasha
I want you to come over to my place.
You
Oh?
Natasha
Yes. I want you again. I can send a car in ten minutes.
You
Hm. No. Thirty minutes. I like making you wait.
Natasha
Dangerous game, malyshka.
You
I play to win. And also, you left bite marks all over my ass. My boss is gonna have questions.
Natasha
Tell her the truth. Tell her that I fucked you so good you forgot your own name for ten straight minutes.
You
Wow, cocky.
Natasha
You came so hard you squirted on a $9,000 couch. Think I’ve earned the right. And I don't sugarcoat anything.
You
Touché.
You
Hey nat?
Natasha
Yes, Y/n?
You
I don’t usually do this. Like… Like text the client after. Or let them cum inside me. Or let them carry me to the couch when I couldn’t walk. So if you’re about to ghost me, do it now. I’d rather know.
You watch impatiently as the three dots disappear then reappear once again. And then she finally sends the message.
Natasha
I don’t ghost. I also don’t usually pay six figures to lock a door and spend four hours finding every sound a woman can make. I don’t usually mark someone up like a teenager. And I definitely don’t usually sit here at four in the morning wondering what your real laugh sounds like when you’re not on the clock. So we’re both off the script.
You
Damn.
Natasha
Come over.
You
It’s almost sunrise, trying to kidnap me huh?
Natasha
No, and I know. Come watch it with me anyway. No money. No stage. Just you in one of my shirts, eating the pancakes I’m about to ruin, sitting on my countertop while I kiss the bruises I left on your thighs.
You
You’re making it really hard to keep my walls up, Ms Romanoff.
Natasha
Then stop trying. Let me see you. I'll send you a car.
You
Alright old woman, you win.
Natasha
Keep calling me that and I'll bend you over every surface of this penthouse.
You
Promise?
Natasha
You have my word.
You
Well then, I'll be on my way.
Natasha
Good girl.
Loved this. Hope you did too! Also attempting to crochet a black widow tote so that's fun!!!
