Fic Request for justabitoffun
Angry!Tasha for justabitoffun | Request post here | Contains mild spoilers
(ooc: Still don't know how it ended up where it did, but there you go.)
She had waited years to face him again. To get him alone. The Trickster had fled Asgard, had avoided Earth, but sooner or later he was bound to return. Bound to want to try and take over the ants one more time.
No one else had known that she was going after him, that she wanted to head him off without the team being involved. No back up and especially no Barton. She wasn’t risking him in this. She could pay later for going AWOL, but only after she shed some of Loki’s blood if not all of it. She wanted her pound of flesh.
They stood opposite each other and she could see a wariness in his eyes behind the smile. She’d snuck up on him once more. Surprised the god. And yet he was always going to believe he had the upper hand. That he would win.
And then that smug laughter came and Natasha’s lip curled back. She moved in fast, the knives coming out rather than the guns. She had replayed all the fights with Loki, all the confrontations. She had gotten his methods down and she understood that maybe there was no real way to beat him. She just wanted him to feel her wrath, to know that if there was ever a chink in his armour she was going to be there to exploit it.
She would stick the knife in and twist until she found out if it was possible to bleed an Asgardian to death. Only this would not be a metaphorical knife, not like his. Not like the way he’d used his words. Words would be too kind. Words would bounce off the Trickster. They were a tool he was familiar with, constantly armoured against.
But no matter how much she had improved, how many times she had managed to slice the edge of her knives across his skin the Widow was still the one to find his long, slender fingers around her throat. Still the one with her feet dangling in the air and the edges of her vision dancing with spots. Still the one who was about to be dropped off the edge of a building but instead he took a step back, and dropped her onto the roof instead before vanishing.
Natasha was left on her hands and needs, air burning in her throat and lungs as she continued to hate the man that could send her running to lick her wounds until their next encounter.
(ooc: Still don't know how it ended up where it did, but there you go.)
She had waited years to face him again. To get him alone. The Trickster had fled Asgard, had avoided Earth, but sooner or later he was bound to return. Bound to want to try and take over the ants one more time.
No one else had known that she was going after him, that she wanted to head him off without the team being involved. No back up and especially no Barton. She wasn’t risking him in this. She could pay later for going AWOL, but only after she shed some of Loki’s blood if not all of it. She wanted her pound of flesh.
They stood opposite each other and she could see a wariness in his eyes behind the smile. She’d snuck up on him once more. Surprised the god. And yet he was always going to believe he had the upper hand. That he would win.
And then that smug laughter came and Natasha’s lip curled back. She moved in fast, the knives coming out rather than the guns. She had replayed all the fights with Loki, all the confrontations. She had gotten his methods down and she understood that maybe there was no real way to beat him. She just wanted him to feel her wrath, to know that if there was ever a chink in his armour she was going to be there to exploit it.
She would stick the knife in and twist until she found out if it was possible to bleed an Asgardian to death. Only this would not be a metaphorical knife, not like his. Not like the way he’d used his words. Words would be too kind. Words would bounce off the Trickster. They were a tool he was familiar with, constantly armoured against.
But no matter how much she had improved, how many times she had managed to slice the edge of her knives across his skin the Widow was still the one to find his long, slender fingers around her throat. Still the one with her feet dangling in the air and the edges of her vision dancing with spots. Still the one who was about to be dropped off the edge of a building but instead he took a step back, and dropped her onto the roof instead before vanishing.
Natasha was left on her hands and needs, air burning in her throat and lungs as she continued to hate the man that could send her running to lick her wounds until their next encounter.