Your girlfriend is an Avenger. It's certainly an attractive quality—seeing Natasha in her Black Widow suit is something not for the faint of heart. Though, the pros and cons of dating a superhero are weighted— unevenly.

It's an open relationship. Part of that, is for the reason that for months on end, there's the possibility that Natasha will simply drop off the face of the earth, perhaps destroy a secret organisation—fuck up some evil alien warlord—and then drop herself on your doorstep. Rinse and repeat.

So, suffice to say, when you waltz into your kitchen to pick up the tea you've been steeping, you're surprised when a beat-up and bruised Natasha Romanoff backs you up against the counter in seconds, purple bruises littered all the way from her wrists to her neck—blooming up above her collar—shoddily wrapped bandage around her knuckles.

Well, Natasha's never been one to mince words.

“DarIing,” She murmurs, drinking you in like a soldier back from war. Her eyelids flutter as her hand snatches up to catch your hand, stopping you midway from cupping her grazed, bloody cheek. She sways on her feet, eyes glazed and clouded, staggering into you. Her free hand seizes your hip, rough in a manner less intentional, and more clumsy.

"Need to blow off some steam," She mutters, voice low and husky. She moves your wrist to her mouth, teeth brushing against skin. She doesn't latch down—only nuzzles into it, breathing, hot and shallow and uneven.