"I adore you." AO3/Fanfiction: AvianInk Prompt Status: Paused
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“Let’s dance, Banner,” she said abruptly, closing any distance between them with a gentle sway. She remained ever so slightly pressed to him, waiting as his hands hovered awkwardly in the air. Finally she gave a little smirk and grabbed them, locking them to her hips before resuming her earlier undulations. But this time they were on him, and he could smell her hypnotic perfume and finally knew how soft those luscious curves of her hips felt in his firm grasp. How the hell was he supposed to live without that feeling now?
Helpless to the bass and the fading light
Oh we were bound to get together
Bound to get together
“The music’s loud!” Bruce shouted near her ear, feeling some absurd need to make conversation.
“I like it!” Nat returned. “Let it drown everything else out!” She glided away from him but was back against him in a second, this time with her ass pressed to his front. He watched as she lifted his hand and placed it on her stomach, making sure they were locked together before she smiled blissfully, arms in the air, body swaying wildly and beautifully. Her head tilted back to view him in the corner of her eye, head resting back on his chest, and he could tell she was a little tipsy.
Did she have any idea what she was doing? Did it mean anything to her like it did to him? Or was she just being Black Widow? Bruce could feel the blood rushing humiliatingly southward, and he stiffened his jaw.
Mind over matter, Bruce. You can control it. You’ve had to control so much more.
Nat whipped around again, this time shimmying down his body, hand tracing the line of buttons on his shirt. She was kneeling eye level with the source of his embarrassment when she looked back up at him, daringly. It clicked— suddenly— the recognition of that look. It wasn’t just a hazy memory from some monstrous green fog this time; it was an unmistakable desire, clear to someone even as dimwitted as he was when it came to such things. It made him feel ten stories high, even as Banner.
Deep in her eyes
I think I see the future
I realize this is my last chance
Bruce brought his hands to her flawless cheeks, giving her a smile as he pressed harder, directing her upward. He secured her to him this time with arms wrapped fully around her, trying his best to match her earlier rhythm, though he certainly wasn’t as smooth. He was rewarded with a carefree grin spreading over her face.
“Banner can dance!” Thor announced with a hearty laugh, fist in the air. “Somewhat,” he added with a furrowed brow as Bruce locked his bent knees and began some whiskey-fueled arm movements vaguely reminiscent of Saturday Night Fever.
“Getting too confident there,” Nat warned Bruce with a soft laugh in his ear. “Where did you learn that move?”
“Made it up just for you, Romanoff,” Bruce returned. His fingertips dug into the satin at the point where that gorgeous ass met the top of her thigh. Her eyes were dark in the low light, and the bow of her mouth parted as she reacted to his intimate touch. She squirmed a little against him, and he knew she could feel how much he wanted her. His instinct was to back away, hoping she’d forget or think she imagined it. But then he thought to himself fuck it and only squeezed her closer. What was one song? Three minutes and eighteen seconds of pretending to be a normal guy…
Full Chapter on AO3...
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the
Organization for Transformative Works
Summary: As far as Natasha's aware, her plans for February 14th this year consist of running errands and lunch with her partner. Post-AoU, canon divergence in which Hulk did not sail off into the bowels of the cosmos.
Notes: You might be wondering why I'm posting a Valentine's Day fic in June. The answer is triple-pronged: (1) you all have been very patient, you deserve something light and sweet, (2) this is from a collection of unposted fics written 1-4 years ago that I decided to try and salvage instead of flinging into the bowels of the cosmos (where Bruce/Hulk didn't belong), and (3) because I want to, as Brucenat fans are always in need of more joy.
Preview
Preview continues under the cut.
Nestled between some corporate office building and a rival residential complex, the refuge of her apartment awaited her. The quaint cafe across the street bursted with bodies—more so than any cafe within walking distance of Central Park did on a typical day. A few couples and families gradually dispersed from the Jewish center on the corner. Cars congested the street, their drivers extra impatient today, judging by the incessant cacophony of horns.
With a bag of pharmaceutical supplies slung over her wrist and two sandwiches from one of the many nearby delis tucked under her arm, she retrieved her apartment keys with swift hands and escaped the restless city streets. As always, out of a perpetual distrust and skepticism of elevators, she took the stairs up to her unit’s floor.
At the apex of her ascent, she emerged into the hallway to a chilled breeze. Someone opened the hall’s one window again. Probably the neighbor prone to triggering the fire alarm with kitchen misadventures that happened whenever the woman plucked up the courage to try some recipe from Pinterest. It happened about every other week, complete with the woman thrusting the window open in a frenzy that included a frantic fanning of her door and miscellaneous shouts that alternated between apology and insistence on everyone carrying about with their day like normal, as if there wasn’t a tinnitus-inducing alarm screeching. Once the alarm stopped, her neighbor would retreat with a slam of her door and the hall window open, forgotten every time. It was a nuisance at most, but benign.
Today, despite it being the middle of February, the incoming air didn’t have the sharpened teeth of a New York winter; it was tamer. It was crisp; it felt like something she could snap into pieces and scatter like ashes or seeds. It felt like, smelled like the kind of air not found in an American metropolis. The keenness, gentled to ribbons as it filtered through the screen, compelled her to sidestep from the stairwell door for a moment in appreciation.
...
The prolonged moment passed like time underwater. Before she crossed the threshold for overstaying in the hallway amidst reverie, she tucked the thoughts away, pushed off the wall, and approached her place. Her key glided into the lock, and then she into her apartment.
Handle in hand, door halfway closed, Natasha froze.
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