bakerstreet | Random Smut Prompts Meme

Random Smut Prompts Meme

Baby, I Want You

(Random Smut Prompts)

1. Post as your characters (List any preferences you have!).
2. Others go to RNG and roll 1-12 for a scenes then respond.
3. Feel free to make up your own scenes too!
4. Respect others' preferences!
5. Have fun!
01 † first time. Either you're literally a virgin or it's just the first time you've slept with this person. Either way, don't let any butterflies in your stomach stop you. 02 † while you were sleeping. Your lover looks so good right now, you can't even wait until they wake up to jump them. You decide to wake them up with a pleasant surprise. 03 † just an experimental game. This person isn't the type you'd normally sleep with either because of looks, personality, or gender, but you've decided to give them a try anyway. 04 † not my first choice. The person you're with right now is your absolute last choice, but they're there and they're willing to be used at least, maybe they're even letting you call them by your first choice name (willingly or not). 05 † need you back. You broke up, but that was a mistake. It's time to make things right and make love. 06 † tonight's the last night. Tonight is the last night you'll see each other for a long time, so make it count. 07 † meeting again. You've been separated for a long time because your partner had business or had to go underground running from the law (have fun, maybe you're sleeping with a ghost!) and now somehow you've wound up together again. Make it memorable. 08 † need you. You're desperate for the other, burning up for their touch. Neither of you can say no. 09 † rough. Whips, ropes, chains, or just good old fashioned angry sex. 10 † no is not an answer. Your partner isn't in the mood, but you are not going take no for an answer. 11 † break up. You're breaking up, but that doesn't mean you can't be together one last time for the road. 12 † accidents happen.You tried to make everything perfect tonight, but unfortunately it's all going wrong. Laugh it off or get upset, how will you react?

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Face down on the mattress, Wilee jumps up at the sound of a voice that should not be in the apartment, scrambling to his feet and staring at the woman in the doorway. He only had one drink, not nearly enough for him to be intoxicated to the point of imagining things. Still, he rubs at his eyes, wondering who she is, what she's doing here, why she's come and how in the hell she managed to get in.

Fuck. He should have never turned on the television in the first damn place.

Wilee narrows his eyes in the dim light, a dark room save for the quarter moon shining through the windows. It's now or never. "For what?"

"Questions. You can ask me anything you want to know. I may not be allowed to answer them all but... you can ask. I'll try." She stays hovering in the doorway, not entirely sure where she fits in here any more. This is Nicole's space. She'd have launched herself onto the bed hard enough to bounce him awake, laughing at his reaction and tucking herself under his arm. Somehow, hovering in doorways feels less invasive. Nicole never lingered long enough to claim the space between rooms, just all the spaces beyond.

"Who are you really? Why'd you lie? Why me? What the hell is your job? Why did you come here?" he instantly spits out one after the other, without a breath in between, face wrenched in an expression that's a combination of hurt, betrayal, and anger. Wilee's smart. And a smartass. He's going to use the most of these twenty minutes to sate his curiosity by leaving all the time for her to answer. Natasha owes him that much.

"Agent Romanoff, code name Black Widow. I lied because that's how I operate in the field, I assume fabricated lives in order to achieve the objective." Whatever the objective is, doesn't really matter. "Meeting you was a coincidence, but you provided a good cover story, you fell in love quickly, and you... fit Nicole's life. I'm a spy. I'm here because you didn't answer your phone, and then when you didn't answer your door I was-- worried. I picked the lock to check on you."

She hardly moves while she talks. She just stands there, staring at him, face surprisingly impassive. It's amazing how much a change of wardrobe and posture and a deep, pervasive loss can alter a person. "You still have nineteen minutes."

"How do I know if any of that shit you just said was true? You said yourself that you're a liar. A liar and somebody who just committed a B and E, by the way."

Wilee wants to believe her. His body language, the clenching and unclenching of his fists, the way he shifts his body weight from one foot to the other, it all shows how undecided he is about this woman only a few feet away.

"I didn't answer my phone or my door and you get worried? Really? What about how I felt when you didn't do that for me?" His words are losing their angry edge and melting into something that is spilling out faster than he can hold it all in. "I loved you." He still does. Not kicking her out right now is proof of that.

"I know," she says, softly, and if it's any consolation at all, she looks like she feels guilty. "Two weeks after I left you, I was in Athens. My handler had Nicole's number routed to his phone. I didn't know you called until today." The leftover instinct from her time spent as Nicole Riley tells her she should go to him, wind her arm around his waist and run her hand over his face. But as he's said, she's a liar and she's already hurt him.

"You don't know if it's true. No way for you to confirm it. You could call the police if you want. Or you could tell me to leave. These are your twenty minutes, I'll do what you tell me to." If he wants her to just go, she'll go. She's not really in any position to demand anything from him.

I'll do what you tell me to. The words ring in Wilee's ears and instantly all the anger, the frustration, the worry he's held deep inside for this Nicole is gone. Gone just like Nicole is. But in their place remains some sort of affection, a desire, that the guilt in Natasha's voice awakens.

And even though she's given him leeway to make a decision on what to do with her, Wilee gives into his own instinct and moves to close the space between them, hands digging onto her curls as he leans their foreheads together and takes a deep breath, still finds that he remembers her scent.

"Jesus... I don't even know your name," he breathes, dying to taste her mouth again even though it's the worst idea on Earth.

And still she doesn't move. She doesn't think that any of this is about her, not really. But even though she doesn't move to hold him, she doesn't pull away, either. "It's Natasha," she whispers, still not entirely sure what's going to happen, if he's going to tip toward sorrow or anger. Emotion makes people unpredictable, unreliable, she knows that better than anyone.

Natasha. Nicole. Well, they both have N in the beginning. That's as much as Wilee can say about that. Or he would, if he wasn't concentrating on the way her lips move when she answers him. No matter what moniker this woman goes under, her body still has him under a spell. Those full lips he could never keep to stop kissing, tugging on them playfully with his teeth.

And he just breaks at that second, moving his hands down to cup her jaw and tip her head up so he can press his mouth against hers. He needs to feel something, neither sorrow nor anger, but passion. It's a stupid move, something that could get him injured if what he saw her do on the news is any indication, but people only live once. He's okay with this risk.

She could kill him, but she's had enough of that. More than enough. Of everything. Clint is lying in an infirmary bed, Coulson is lying in the ground, and there's far more broken in Natasha than there could ever be in Wilee.

Her arms go around his waist automatically, and now she moves, walking him back into the room, invading Nicole's space. She lets go of him long enough to shrug out of her leather jacket, dropping it on the floor as they stumble toward the bed. She's broken his heart, but he still loves her, and she's going to use that to feel something.

Nicole's not here anymore to lay claim on a space. She had her chance and blew it. Wilee could also blow this, and in all honesty, he should. It's not what he needs to get involved in. But dear God, Wilee wants this woman in any form she'll give herself to him. He's undecided what to touch first, where to lay his hands, but he reminds himself that he's not a sixteen year old virgin again in a rush to the end.

This close to the bed makes it easy for him to turn so she hits the mattress first as he lays her down, back against the sheets, while one of his hands slides under the hem of her shirt and across her belly, lips still working at hers.

Natasha likes being in charge, but Nicole was always more willing to balance the give and take of control in bed. It's one of the ways they don't match up. The thing is, though, that they're not entirely different. The best lies have a kernel of truth at the heart of them, and so do the best aliases. Nicole is gone, but there's a part of her that was Natasha. In a very different world, in a very different life, Natasha could have grown up into that happy and free-spirited woman. It didn't happen, and she won't ever be that open and carefree given her past, but the 'what if' remains. It made it easier to slip into Nicole's skin and stay there, and now that Natasha is feeling so hollow, it makes it easy to want to fill the void with someone who's not all jagged edges and broken promises.

And right now, she's in enough pain and crushing herself under the weight of her guilt to want to pretend, just for a little while, to make someone happy instead of miserable. So she arches her back to let Wilee push her shirt up, raising her arms over her head so he can remove it. The faint scars she laughingly blamed on a clumsy childhood are still there, but now that he knows part of the truth, she doesn't imagine they look innocent any more.

He used to spend hours tracing his fingers along those scars, listening to her stories about how she'd got them, comparing his battle wounds against hers, but tonight, Wilee doesn't even pause to press a kiss to them. He doesn't want to think about the truth behind them. He doesn't want to think about how this could be construed as a pity fuck, how maybe Natasha's only doing it because she broke his heart and it's an easy salve to piece him back together. He just wants this one moment to feel like it used to, the safety he felt with a warm body pressed against him, tucked between sweet thighs.

With her shirt off and on the floor, he moves his lips down to her neck, back to the places he used to suck and nip, still expecting those little gasps of pleasure to slip out while he unbuckles her pants. His hands are quick and experienced at the action, but there's an undercurrent of neediness to Wilee's movements and it's a telltale sign that it's been more than just a few weeks since he's last had somebody else in this room with him.

Edited 2012-10-20 18:18 (UTC)

Natasha doesn't want to think about why she's here, either. She shouldn't be. Mission over, ties cut, it's protocol. But when his lips move over her neck, she sighs and moans, because that was real. Sex with Wilee was fun, and she let herself enjoy it, take it as one of the perks of the assignment. The same places that drew reactions from her then still draw reactions from her now, because even if the woman was a lie, the body was real.

She bends her legs, holding his hips with her thighs, the cool leather of her boots pressed against his calves. Short, clean nails scratch through his peach fuzz hair. None of the sparkly nail polish, chipped and mismatched, but they still move with the same gentle and even pressure. When he has her belt undone and her fly open, she lifts her hips off the bed so he can slide her tight jeans down over them.

Wilee groans against her throat when her fingers dig across his scalp, one of the few places he's sensitive. He spreads his hands against her thighs for a moment, pausing to calm himself down because between her hands and her thighs, he's forgetting to breathe. He won't let himself come undone this soon. He can't.

Those jeans are killing him as snug as they are and as good as she looks in them, Natasha looks a lot better without them. In fact, he sits back on his legs and watches her with a keen eye, taking in every inch of her body that's half-naked and on display in front of him.

"You're.." He wants to tell her she's still beautiful to him, damn sexy, still able to make him so hard that his pants feel like they're two sizes too small for him right now, but the words just don't come. They sound cheesy. He wants to show her anyway, first by caressing her downwards, between the valley of her breasts, across her bra and down her torso to the waistband of her panties, marking her to memory for when, not if, he loses her again.

There are so many ways to finish that sentence, and she's pretty sure she doesn't want to hear most of them, whether his intention is to be kind or cruel. So instead, she sits up, more forceful than he probably remembers, and pulls his mouth to hers with a hand on the back of his neck. Her other hand goes to unzip both of her boots, working them off her legs so they fall heavily to the floor.

"Take your clothes off," she demands, scooting away from him so that she can get her jeans down past her knees, kicking them away and then reaching for the hooks on her bra. She doesn't want to talk, doesn't want to hear how much he hates her or how much he loves her. She's not sure she can handle either one right now. She just wants skin against skin. She wants to forget the office space she still has to go back and pack up, and the boxes that will sit in storage indefinitely because there's no one to send them to.

That annoying voice in the back of his mind is telling him that Natasha just cemented the fact that this is indeed being done out of guilt. Another voice is telling Wilee that it's okay, though, because she took advantage of him so it's absolutely fine for him to take advantage of the opportunity she's practically handing him on a silver platter. Don't think too much of this and just fuck her. That's it. Enjoy the sex for what it is and move on.

With her being so forceful in a way Nicole never was, it's easy for Wilee to mentally detach himself and do what she says, methodically taking off his clothes and leaving them in a heap at the end of the bed. There's a box of condoms in his nightstand and he gets one out, tossing it onto the pillow with no amount of ceremony. Clearly, it's all just about the physical aspect now. Should he even bother with foreplay like he used to, tasting every inch of her body until she exploded in his mouth, cursing and shaking around him? The itch for that is still there, still evident in the way he licks his lips as she finishes undressing.

She doesn't wait for him to come to her, she goes up on her knees and closes the gap, holding his face in her hands and kissing him roughly. Because the rougher it is, the further she removes it from the tender way he used to worship her body, the faster he'll get over her. She's not what he wants any more, she's not soft and fragile and full of hope and kindness. She's a killer, she's a liar, she's a poison. And if she can make him hate her, if she can take that light of desire and affection out of his eyes, then she can save him from it. One person spared, one good deed, a drop in the bucket.

Maybe for her, a spy who has to make her living off lies and betrayal, it's easy, but Wilee's just a bike messenger with a wasted law degree and a soft heart. As fast as he cut himself off from her, he's right back in her trap, groaning into her mouth from somewhere deep inside his chest. He has it bad, so bad that he can learn to like things like this, the way they shouldn't be. The Avengers may be able to save the day, but this is one person that can't be saved. His hands are soft on her breasts, cupping them from underneath, a thumb gently brushing against her nipples until they stiffen under his touch.

They're black and white, ying and yang, rough and gentle. It's just not in him to push someone away.

It's killing her, so difficult to ignore, to detach from, to not want. She's miserable, for reasons that have nothing to do with Wilee, but the tenderness in his touch and the longing laced through the sounds he's making hit her in a place that she hates acknowledging, but can't get rid of. He spent so much time learning what made Nicole sigh and shake and gasp and scream, and the body is the same. The things that made her wet then still do it now. The way he touches her still makes her breath catch.

Her arms tighten around his neck, pulling him down with her as she lays back against the pillows, the condom sliding down and falling on her shoulder. It's a pity fuck, but she can't just pretend that his touch doesn't still make her heart beat faster. As much as she'd like to disconnect, she can't. Barton works at range, Natasha lives her life up close where it's messy and emotional and dangerous in more than one way.

As long as she reacts in the way he remembers her doing, Wilee can't disconnect again. No way, no how. He's not even going to try, pushing that voice in his head farther back where it goes silent. All he wants to hear is her, not his conscience. It's why he dips his head once she's comfortable, kissing his way down to her breasts until he slips a nipple between his lips and flicks his tongue against it only to stop and lick his way over to the other one, repeating the action. Wilee's excruciatingly slow about it, revering her breasts like they're royalty in their own right. Not worshiping the body in front of him, regardless of the name and life story, is an impossibility.

They stiffen in turn under his attentions, her body responding easily. Just because she uses sex as a tool and a weapon doesn't mean that she doesn't enjoy it, that what he's doing to her doesn't light a fire low in her stomach. It does, and it's the most she's felt in weeks. Clint's been sedated several times already, Natasha doesn't need it. She's numb in other ways.

Except that she's not. Not as safe and frozen over as she first thought, because his mouth and hands are sending heat tingling along her skin. "Wilee..." It slips past her lips before she can stop it, sighed in that quiet way of hers, of Nicole's. She arches her back, presses up against him, wanting.

A man not clouded by lust and love and emotions built for children would question which woman just called his name, but that man is nowhere to be found here. Instead, there's just a man who has no more control over his heart since he gave it away. Just a man who sinks his hand down between Natasha's legs, where he knows that wet heat resides, where he slides his fingers along slick flesh, into places where other parts of him want to be so badly.

He curls his fingers gently inside her, moving against every part he can reach, as deep as he can go, wanting to see her sobbing at the edge of pleasure when the heel of his hand ground against her clit.

She gasps again, hips surging up off the bed into his hand, fingers digging into his arms. Her nails leave little crescent marks in his skin, matching the sliver of moon casting soft shadows over their bodies, familiar valleys and peaks, all mapped out by questing fingers over and over again in another lifetime.

This isn't what's supposed to happen. This isn't what a pity lay looks like. She needs to pull it together, to detach and go cold, demand that he fuck her, leave no doubt that she's not who he thinks she is, not who he wants. But in the moment she's just repressed feeling, carefully banked rage turning to passion somewhere in her mind, the need to reclaim what's been lost. But she can't. Too much that's gone is never coming back.

"That's it..." he whispers without actually noticing he's said anything. Wilee's in a trance, staring up at her face, watching the way her mouth curves and opens and her brow wrinkles each time he shifts his hand a certain way. He's no longer in his own head. He's far too busy taking notes on what makes Natasha, not Nicole, tick.

That hunger from before is back and the next thing Wilee's doing is kissing his way down her stomach and across the mound of flesh that's between him and the most intimate area of Natasha. Her scent, a heady bouquet from an aroused woman, almost makes his head swim. He has just enough self-control left in him to lift his own hips off the bed, preventing himself from seeking friction on the sheets, before lapping up every bit of her he can get before she's gone.

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