widow, the watchful

My name is Natasha. Once upon a time, they called me the Black Widow. I've always been good at what I do, the very best. But when I was tasked with saving the world — I failed. We all did. And now we're paying the price. In the aftermath of the invasion, Loki rules Earth. Those who will kneel and serve are left in peace to go about their menial existence. Those who resist the new regime are punished, painfully, publicly. And we, the would-be defenders of the world — we're punished too. Privately. In all the ways Loki knows we hate. He promised he would take from us his retribution, and he has. In more ways than one. He is the god of Midgard, and we are his subjects. For better, or for worse. Once upon a time, they called me the Black Widow. But to protect the people that mean the most to me, I made a deal with the devil. I am Widow, the Watchful. Spymaster of Midgard. And at Loki's will, I serve.

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Snow

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[drabble] Deceptions (Loki/Natasha)

She's undercover and dressed to kill (or be killed, because the look is fairly the same) in a dress that clings in all the right places but bares the long, slim planes of her back, pale and broken only by the shallow dip that is the line of her spine. The material is a deep emerald, dotted with stones of the same color around the droped neckline the swings low to cup her breasts and tuck in tight beneath the, a bodice that hugged her middle before it gave way to loose, free fabric that swayed as she walked, billowed as she turned. She wore her hair up, because it makes a statment, because it matches the subtle aura of untouchable distance she's wearing, and it keeps all eyes on her - and all hands off.

Or maybe not all, because as she's waiting on the edges of the room, watching and being watched, there's something like the skim of slim, long fingered hands down the naked curve of her shoulder, something like the heat of a body against her exposed back. It could be her imagination - for half a moment she thinks it might be - but there's the scent too, of something forbidden; black magic and winter moonlight, something heady and warm and familiar in the way it slides under her guard, invades her senses. She hums a single, low note under breath and tips her head. Soft breath gusts over the vulnerable curve of her throat; lips brush the shell of her ear.

"I see now," he whispers against it, "why they call you the Black Widow." There's a low laugh, a barely-there thread of sound. "You hold them in thrall with so very little effort. I suspect they might even come willingly to their miserable deaths," he mused, "for the chance to be welcomed into your bed."

Her lips curled up at one corner in a humorless smile. "They never get that far," she murmured back, loud enough for his ears only, "But - they come willingly enough."

He makes a sound like a soft aah against the sweep of her jaw, his hands gliding down her sides to find the rounded curves of her hips, to fit them under his palms and pull her back against him, so that her body tucks itself against the shape of his.

It should terrify her, that they fit together like they were made to. But it doesn't.

His lips trace a kiss against the underside of her jaw and she tips her head back further on the stem of her neck, offering him access without a word, though she watches the rest of the room through the veil of her lashes.

Watches eyes darken and powerful men seethe.

"I see now," he murmurs, the words a soft vibration against her throat, "where I made my first error." His hands tightened on her hips, squeezed once, hard enough to bruise, before they gentled again, his thumbs carressing absently in a way that made her head go light.

Her words come out just as airy, albeit hushed, when she says, "Where did you go wrong?"

"With you," he breathes out, his head bowing as he takes short, brief bites out of the pale skin at her throat, eating at the spot where her pulse flutters beneath the flesh, treacherous and tell-tale. His smile, hidden against her skin, is anything but kind.

"Were it only that I had taken you, Natasha Romanoff - the world would be mine. And you, in all your deadly, deceptive beauty - you would be mine as well."

Her lashes dip over her eyes, veiling her gaze. "You took Clint. He has more heart than anyone I know." She sways under his hands, as if she means to move away - but his grip tightens at her hips and she stills. 

"If you couldn't win with him," she murmurs back, "You were never meant to."

"But you are the survivor of horrors Agent Romanoff, the consummate fighter." One hand slides from her hip, around her body, to splay over her flat abdomen. The warmth of that touch radiates through the material as his kisses tearned sharper, pink and scarlet blooming over her throat as she arches shallowly against him. 

"You have more heart than Barton ever will," he adds in the hush, "So much heart."

"You're mistaken," she bites out and her voice is possessed of more edge now, quiet but deadly. "I have no heart."

His laugh is not nearly as low as it was a moment ago, no - now it is louder, audible to anyone willing to hear it, dark and full of subdued amusement. And something else. 

"Lie to yourself if you like, Natasha, but remember--" His hands fall away from her and suddenly his heat is gone, but she stills hears his voice, sinking in like sweet, poisoned honey.

"--you cannot deceive the deceiver." 

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The Avengers Concept Art (part 1)

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The Avengers Concept Art (part 2)

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