crockadole - Tumblr blog

crockadole · 2 days ago

Text

CACKLING

came for smut, left laughing

The fucking lenny face gave me whiplash bro I HAVENT SEEN THAT BITCH IN YEARS

Tags: [wlw][mdni][tw: spiders][hints of prior canoodling][betrayal][maybe a bit of angst?][flashing][slight exhibitionism?][hatefuck, maybe][fingering][oral (f! rec)][rekindling][strap-on mention]

The air's just a bit warmer in the Arachnology Department than it is in the rest of the faculty building. There's a distinct scent of plants and almost the metallic smell of floor cleaner, mingling with the undertone of that soft, almost sweet scent that Natasha's come to associate with you.

Her heels click against the tiled floors, the white catching the glimmer of the overhead lighting, dimmed to perfection and she looks around at the various glass tanks, filled with various foliage and soils, all to make the little creepy crawlies comfortable.

She tries not to wince at the way fuzzy paws tap against the glass, eight distinct taps following one another.

And she focuses on the tiles instead.

Despite the fact that she doesn't really have a fear of spiders, this many make her uneasy. She can feel eyes. Far too many eyes, following her movements as she tries to navigate her way through the winding pathway.

"Viewing hours are closed." Your voice is bored, a monotonous hum as you continue to hold your hands in the little holes of a tank, gaze focused on the arachnid that creeps across your thickly gloved fingers. Magnifying glasses rest on the bridge of your nose.

"I am not here for viewing hours." Natasha's voice is quiet, her arms folded across her chest as she moves to stand just a bit closer, near one of the other tanks and she tries to ignore the way several jumping spiders come to stand near the glass, eyes peering up at her inquisitively.

You inhale sharply, eyes fluttering shut as you try to centre yourself, pulling your hands out of the tank-attached gloves, and you spin in your chair, hands laced in your lap.

Your expression isn't welcoming. Not in the slightest.

Doe eyes hardened and accompanied by furrowed brows, glossy lips pressed into a thin line and the way your jaw clenches makes her just a bit nervous. You've never looked at her that way before.

"What do you want?" Your question is blunt. Manicured nails tapping on your knuckles, and you stare at her. Hardened gaze unwavering.

"I don't want—"

"You always want something." You interrupt. "That's the thing with you people."

Her expression falls, indifference turning into something cold, and she takes a step forward, booted heels clicking against the tiles.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Spies. S.H.I.E.L.D agents. Gingers." You hum. "Take your pick."

You glance back towards the spider in the glass case, long, wiry legs carrying it along the soil-cluttered bottom before you stick your hands back into the gloves, wiggling your fingers.

And you hum, lips curling into a soft smile as it clambers into your palm.

And you coo. "Natalia," your voice is sweet, "the only one of your name that doesn't lie and trifle like a man."

And you glare at Natasha over your shoulder, before you trace your finger over the enlarged abdomen, tracing along that distinct red marking.

"You're being a child." She rolls her eyes, dragging one of the chairs, metal legs screeching as they're dragged along the floor before she drops into the seat, rather unceremoniously.

"I swear to God, I will throw this spider at you." You grit back.

"And I'll stab it." She retorts. "I'll stab your precious little Natalia and I'll make you eat her."

And your scowl deepens, before you're setting the arachnid on a leaf, and you slump in your seat.

"Just tell me what you want." You exhale. "I don't have the time for your long-winded bullshit of lies and cat shit."

"Cat shit?" She repeats, a dark, wine red brow raising at your words and she crosses her legs over one another.

"I can't say 'bullshit' twice." You answer with a huff. "It just sounds stupid, then."

Crimson painted lips form an 'o' shape, before she lets out a quiet hum, ice blue eyes glancing towards the various display cases before she meets your expression again.

And she lets out a breath.

"I'm here to apologize." Her accent is thick, something so velvety that it makes you nearly blind to the four years that you were just part of a deeply, undercover mission. "I shouldn't have... Dragged it on, for so long. I should've been honest, and I shouldn't have involved you in something I didn't need to."

And your lips press into a line, your nails digging into the flesh of your biceps as you fold your arms over one another.

"I'm sorry, kukolka." Natasha whispers softly. "Prostite menya?"

"I don't speak Russian, Natasha."

And she sighs. "I'm asking for your forgiveness." Her tongue brushes across those porcelain teeth, perfect, perfect. Incisors just a bit elongated and she purses her lips.

"Please."

And you hum, lips pursed almost pensively, your nails tapping against your lab coat before you sigh.

"You know," your shoulders go slack, "my therapist —yes, I go to therapy now, thank you for that— but, my therapist said that I need to... Practice letting go. Of anger, of regret, of all those... Negative emotions. You know?"

And you inhale sharply.

"But colour me a petty bitch, because I hold onto hate. I hold onto the fact that we dated for two years and were engaged for another two, and I hold onto the fact that you left me with a fucking note saying, 'goodbye, wish you well', like a fucking cunt. So, you know, I'm a hater." And your fingers lace.

"So, no, Natasha, if that's even your real name—"

"Why wouldn't it be my real name?"

"Because you're a pathological liar. You lie for a living. You have a lie-festyle." And your eyes narrow. "You lie. And I can't believe I let you water my plants."

Natasha doesn't know what stings more. The fact that that's not even a euphemism for the sex, or the fact that she actually watered your plants.

She spent sunny mornings in your arms, and chilly evenings bundled in your covers, watching you moisturize in the doorway of your en suite while you rambled about work. She spent Saturdays listening to you talk about spiders for hours, only for the words to die on your tongue once she tilted her head that specific way.

She's never seen 45° make someone so shy before and she'd abuse it every time, watching you get facts wrong about your literal passion just because of the way she'd watch you.

"You didn't have to do all of that, Natasha." Your voice is quiet. "I wasn't involved in your ridiculous fucking mission, in any way."

There's a tinge of pain in your voice, your brows furrowed and you don't meet her gaze.

She extends a booted leg, hooking her foot around the base of your chair before tugging you closer to her, and her hands cradle yours, and your eyes flicker to hers.

Glacial blue, framed by long, fluttery lashes, accompanied by the sharpest wing you've ever seen eyeliner make and she brings your hands to her lips, pressing kisses to your knuckles.

"How can I make it up to you, solnyshko?"

"You can't." You pull your hands back. "What you did hurt. You can't just fix it."

You swallow the lump in your throat.

"Can you leave now, please?" Your voice is soft. "It's feeding time."

⊹♡🕷️♡⊹

Your slippers shuffle against hardwood floors, brows bunched into a frown and your hands grip the edges of your fuzzy gown.

It's nearly 1AM.

Your expression's pulled into a frown at the sight of Natasha's face in the peephole, and you huff out a breath, unlocking your front door, arms folded over your chest as you glare up at her.

Those stupid heels always give her a few inches more.

"What—"

You're cut off by the rustle of her coat as she pulls it open, flashing you for a good long while.

Vibrant red hair falls flawlessly, bangs framing her face in that way that makes her look like a 50s Hollywood starlet, brilliant blue eyes staring at your expression, your gaze roving over her like you're taking screenshots with your mind.

The only thing Natasha's wearing other than that fucking coat, are those black, platform heels.

Alabaster flesh, sculpted like a fucking model. All leans muscles and perfect swells.

Nipples hardened by the nighttime breeze, her belly flat and toned, the dip of her waist is something that should be studied by the way it pulls your eyes.

Long legs, toned.

And you scoff. "I'm not a man! I'm not just gonna forgive you, because you're flashing me."

And you slam the door shut. Abruptly and loudly.

Natasha lets out a heavy breath, her hands braced on her hips, keeping the lapels of her coat spread and she glances up, towards where that pretty lantern above your front door dangles.

And you open the door back up, phone in hand, before you snap a picture.

And you suck your teeth.

"Do you have clothes in your car?" You fold your arms over your chest, the fabric of your ratty, and worn My Little Pony T-shirt. And Natasha shakes her head.

If there's one thing she knows she can bet on, it's that you're soft.

"You're leaving in the morning." You step out of the way, your jaw clenched at the way Natasha hangs up her coat on the coat rack, her heels clicking against the wooden floorboards and she moves towards your kitchen.

Your eyes follow the curve of your back, that delicious curve in her spine that you'd trace absentmindedly as she slept. The way her hips move, the curve of her peachy ass and the way the cold had rendered the pale flesh just a bit rosy.

Natasha looks around your kitchen, taking in the homey decorations before she opens up your fridge, taking one of the water bottles and she opens it.

Gaze fixed on yours as she brings it up to her lips.

"Are you gonna put your tits away, at any point?" You're trying to be steadfast in your words. That you're not easy. That you won't forgive her at the drop of a stupidly expensive coat.

But you are, in fact, no better than a man.

Eyes lowering to the way how her breasts sit so pretty, that it's unfair. You remember how perfectly those milky swells would spill out from between your fingers, warm to the touch and you tear your gaze away.

"It does not look like you want me to, malyshka." She hums quietly, before moving around the granite counter, setting down onto one of your sofas, legs crossed over one another but that doesn't stop you from catching a glimpse of glossy folds and you swallow hard.

"I'd prefer it." You grit back.

This isn't what you need right now. You had evening plans. Good plans.

Risk salmonella and eat cookie dough by the spoonful, while binging yet another home renovation show and allow your ego to gaslight you into thinking that, if you had that budget, you'd be able to do it better.

And top the night off with a leisurely bean-flick session and fall asleep watching 'Angels of Passion'.

"Do not stifle me, kukolka." She hums softly, pushing herself up before she comes to stand in front of you, and you catch that whiff of Prada and leather. It's a smell you'd never think you'd miss, but the feel of her warm palm, resting along the curve of your cheek...

It makes an ugly longing burn in your belly before your brain stifles it.

And you scowl.

"My love," her voice is soft, and that stupidly sexy accent makes your brain turn to mush, "let me atone. I can fix it, if you let me."

You suck your teeth.

You're not a whore. You're not a whore. You are NOT a whore. And yet—

"I don't want eye contact."

⊹♡🕷️♡⊹

When you said, 'no eye contact', you thought it'd be easy. Like, how you avoid eye contact in every social interaction ever, instead, choosing to focus on the spot between peoples' foreheads but right now?

All you want is to look down at Natasha.

To watch the way those slim, dextrous fingers disappear into your soaking cunt, silver rings and diamonds kissing your plush lips with each pump of her digits, fingertips pressing against that spot that you've never managed to reach yourself.

Your lips part, your chest heaving with a deep breath and your lashes flutter, eyes threatening to roll back in your head and your hand reaches out.

You refuse to look at her.

"What are you trying to touch, Stevie Wonder?" There's amusement in her voice, and you can hear the curl of your lips, and on instinct, you lift yourself onto your elbows, eyes narrowing at her despite the way your belly dips inward when she scissors her fingers.

You're slow. You don't look away quick enough, your eyes meet hers and you feel like the wind's knocked out of you.

Glacier blue just a bit darker, stormier, rimmed (⁠ ͡⁠°⁠ ͜⁠ʖ⁠ ͡⁠°⁠) by a deep, cerulean hue, flecks of silver around the iris and pupils blown wide as she watches you. And she swallows, her tongue brushing along her bottom lip.

And you feel all those buried feelings bubble up to the surface when she dips her head down between your supple thighs, pink tongue darting out and dragging between your glossy folds.

"Ho-holy shit..." Your voice is a panted breath, your hand moving to rest on the crown of her head, sinking your fingers in gingery strands and you drag your nails along her scalp. And she purrs.

And you're fucking gone.

Gone in the way she watches you like you're art, gone in the way her fingers curl and you soak her digits down to her knuckle and you're gone in the way her plush, pillowy lips wrap around your clit, suckling so sweetly.

"You taste so sweet, malyshka." She croons, lapping at the slick of your cunt and your thighs tremble.

You can't come up with a snarky retort about your personality still being salty, you can't even call her by her born name, Nata-liar. A play on Natalia.

You can only melt further into your mussy sheets, pushing silky tresses out of her face as she pushes you towards an orgasm that makes the stars behind your fluttering eyelids turn into supernovas.

Your thighs press against her ears and all you can hear is your whines, her muffled coos and praises, and the thrumming of your heart pounding right next to your tympanic membranes.

You try to piece yourself back together. You really do. She doesn't deserve to feel like she's shattered your world, but her tongue's so long. Dragging along your slick, burying her face between your thighs and she's already lacing her sodden fingers with yours.

Leisurely licking long strokes along your slit, from the bottom, all the way up, her gaze remaining fixed on yours. Like she wants to watch your walls crumble.

Like she wants you to fall in love all over again.

She lifts her head, stormy gaze fixed on your face, the lower half of her face glistening and she presses her lips against your thigh, before sinking her teeth into the flesh.

Sucking hard enough to leave a hickey in her wake.

Before she pulls away, tucking a crimson strand behind her ear, glinting piercings on display and she inhales the scent of your cunt, lashes fluttering and her cheeks turning rosy.

"I've got a strap-on in my car." She whispers softly, her accent seemingly thicker and it takes you a good couple of seconds before her words register.

"You have a strap but not a change of clothing?" Your voice cracks, you're breathless and your skin's tingly, electricity buzzing in your legs.

And she hums.

"Priorities, kukolka, priorities."