cj:)

What happened to all the talk about dumping his ass? You finally broke up with the asshole they all hated and now they can’t help you pick up some stuff from his family home.

And fuck, you don’t want to see him but you really need the bathing suit you left at his parent’s place. It’s Carol’s birthday and you don’t want to be late for the party. 

Fine, whatever. You’re a big girl. You can do it.

Still, it takes you five minutes of sitting in the car before you gather the courage to drive there. Kate’s definitely overreacting, because it only takes you fifteen minutes to get there.

It’s a very nice house, in the outskirts of the city. There’s a terrace, a freakin home theater and a pool, which is why you left your bathing suit there last time.

You nudge your car door with your hip, removing your sunglasses to admire the view of the city from the hill.

You’re not going to miss your ex, but you are going to miss this view.

Before you have a chance to knock, though, someone steps out of the house and you stay glued to your spot, feeling like an intruder.

Natasha Romanoff, stepparent of he-who-shall-not-be-named, looks at you, a little startled.

You hesitate too.

Does she know? Did he tell her all the bullshit he pulled? Or just lied and made it out like you were some crazy woman?

“Hi, detka” she breaks the silence and your heart skips a beat.

Oh, my.

You’re going to miss that beautiful, raspy voice a lot more than you’re going to miss the view. 

“Hi, Mrs. Romanoff”

“Call me Natasha” she says with a smile and you nod.

“Even if I dumped your son?”

“Stepson” she makes the distinction as if it is something important. “And I’m… very sorry about the way he treated you. You deserve better”

“Thank you”

It was nice to hear it from someone as mature and grounded as Natasha. Truthfully, she had been wonderful to you throughout your relationship and you were worried she’d think you didn’t notice or weren’t grateful for her kindness.

“Of course. And if you ever need anything… I’m always here”

You have to stop yourself from swooning at her. Gosh, why can’t that idiot be half of the person Natasha is? Thoughtful, kind, caring. All qualities your ex lacked, and Natasha had too much of.

“I’m actually here because I left a bathing suit and I’m going to this party. I don’t know if I could just go look for it or you can look, if you’re not comfortable with me being inside your home…” you stutter.

“None of that. You are always welcomed” she says, reaching for your hand. You smile, and follow her inside. “You know the way to his room. Anything that’s yours, take it. No questions asked. He doesn’t deserve half the things you gave him, anyway”

“Uh, ok. Thanks Mrs…” 

“Detka”

“Thank you, Natasha” you correct yourself, going up the steps before she can catch your blush.

As usual, his room is a mess. Even if he doesn’t spend so much time here, because his mother and Natasha are divorced. Of course, Natasha always welcomed him, considered him family even if the only reason they were related was no longer “valid”. 

Thinking about Natasha is distracting you from your actual task, so you shake your head and open the drawers. The first thing you notice is a black thong that does not belong to you. But you already knew he was cheating.

At least you were clean. You got tested as soon as you found out he was sleeping around.

“Asshole” you mutter, closing the drawer and walking to the closet. There it is, your blue bikini, neatly folded at the top of a laundry basket that he probably didn’t do.

No, this must have been Natasha. There’s a knot in your stomach at the realisation that this is the last time you’ll see her. Part of you wants to stay longer, pretend you couldn’t find it… but no, that’s ridiculous. Natasha doesn’t care that you’ll never see each other again.

A text from Darcy snaps you out of your thoughts. It’s getting late and you’re sure the bathroom at Carol’s will be crowded, so you decide to change into the bathing suit here, and just put on your denim shorts and t-shirt over it.

For some stupid reason, you get completely naked, kicking your shorts to the side and bending down to get the bottom half of your bikini.

And then you hear the door opening. 

“Hey, did you… shit. Sorry”

Natasha slams the door shut and you stay in the same position, ashamed. 

She got a perfect view of your ass and probably a lot more than that, with you bending over, back to the door.

The bathroom is across the hall, why the fuck did you have to get changed here?

You get dressed so fast that your arms get stuck in your t-shirt. You need to get out of here and get drunk because you’ll never be able to look at Natasha in the eyes again.

As you get down the stairs, every step feels amplified by your shame. You don’t even know if you should say goodbye or just leave.

But that would be rude.

So, you put on your big girl pants (a decision that has proven to be disastrous so far) and walk up to her study. 

Seems like Natasha’s not the only one that doesn’t knock, because you come in without thinking of announcing yourself.

Natasha looks up, slightly alarmed and you avoid her eyes, blushing.

“Detka… I’m sorry. I thought you’d leave after… I should have knocked. I’m so sorry” 

“No, it’s fine. I should have changed in the bathroom. Stupid mistake” you chuckle, finally looking up. Natasha is frowning, and you walk up to her desk. “I should get going. It feels… weird to say goodbye to you. But I guess there’s no reason for us to meet again” 

“Well… yeah. I guess so” Natasha sighs.

If you only knew, ever since she heard you broke up with her stepson, she’s been desperate to find a reason to keep in touch.

Natasha was happy to hear that you finally found the courage to leave him. Even if she had certain affection for her stepson, she knew his mother had raised him to be entitled and selfish.

You deserved better.

She’s still thinking about her conflicting emotions, but you mistake her silence with annoyance. You look down, because you know if you keep staring into those green eyes, you won’t be able to leave.

“Oops, my shoelace” you notice, kneeling to tie it. Always happens when you put your shoes in a hurry. 

However, you completely forget about that when you get a look at Natasha under her desk. 

Particularly, at the erection that’s straining against her pants.

Fuck, fuck.

Your mouth waters at the simple thought of being on your knees for her.

But you can’t just…

Can you?

No, you need to approach this slowly. Casually. Maybe she’s just… very visual. She saw you naked and got hard. Big deal.

“You know…” you begin to say when you get back on your feet, Natasha looking at you intently, completely unaware that you caught her. “I always hoped some of your… traits would rub off on him. Maybe that’s why I stuck around for so long. I hoped he’d be as gentle and kind as you are”

“That’s… very nice of you. You deserve someone who values you. You’re amazing, detka” she says and you smile, looking around her study, moving towards the bookcase, glancing at some of the titles. 

“Yeah… I keep thinking I should date someone older” 

“Oh. Maybe. That doesn’t always guarantee that they’ll be more mature” she tries to joke.

“Would you?”

“Would I what?”

“Date someone younger” you throw the question in the air, looking at her. Natasha struggles to keep eye contact, unsure on how to reply.

Truthfully? Not until she met you.

But what kind of person would she be if she went after her stepson’s girlfriend?

“I don’t know. Depends”

“On what?” you say, relentless.

“On what kind of person they are. Their plans for the future”

“How well they look bent over?”

This is too much, and it’s taking too long. The image of Natasha’s dick against her pants has your panties soaked. 

She needs to fuck you now.

“I can explain”

“Ok. I’m listening” you stand next to her, and she looks up at you, confused. 

Her frown morphs into a shocked expression as you kneel and settle between her legs.

“You don’t have to…”

“Were you not looking at me the other day when I was at the pool?”

Natasha looks away, her face almost as red as her hair. She’s about to apologize when you place your hands on her thighs, and she’s sure her voice is gone.

“Honestly, I’m tired of pretending that I don’t want this. Because all this time, I was hoping, wishing that I could be with you”

The admission makes her gasp, but you’re too focused on the tent in her pants to say anything else. Your hand goes up, slowly, squeezing experimentally. Natasha almost jumps out of the chair and you smile, pleased.

“Are you sure?” she says, knowing that she won’t be able to stop herself if you keep touching her like that.

“I’ve never been more sure of anything in my entire life, Natasha”

With a sigh, she pushes your hands away and you’re confused for a second, but then she pulls her pants down to her knees, briefs going next as her cock springs free.

“Fuck” you say, almost passing out. It’s big and thick and pulsing, almost red, precum already leaking.

You need it in every one of your holes.

Before Natasha can ask if you’re sure (again), you lean forward, giving the tip a kitten lick. 

Natasha throws her head back, moaning. Your warm mouth envelopes her, inch by inch, until she hits the back of your throat and it is a miracle she doesn’t come on the spot.

For a few minutes, all that can be heard is Natasha’s labored breathing and the wet sounds of your mouth working to give her pleasure. As you break apart to catch your breath, Natasha’s eyes shoot open.

She wants to taste you. 

A primal need overcomes her as she looks at you, beautiful and wrecked from giving her what’s probably the best blowjob of her entire life.

“Come here” she says, stumbling as her pants are still on. She pushes you to stand up, and then makes you sit on her desk, as she throws everything on the surface to the floor.

“That’s hot” you say as she takes off her pants to move freely. She stands between your legs, and you spread them so she can settle.

“Can I taste you?” she asks, almost shyly, and you want to laugh, because her dick was fucking your mouth thirty seconds ago.

Instead of answering, you take her hand and slide it down your body, hovering over your cunt.

“I’m so fucking wet. You’re making me soaked, Natasha. So, yes, eat me out, bend me over and fuck me anyway you want. Just, please, please…”

You’re about to plead for her to touch you when her lips crash against yours, the kiss desperate and messy as she undoes the button of your shorts and you kick them off. 

“Fuck” Natasha sighs when she realises you weren’t kidding, your cunt glistening with arousal. She sits at the edge of her chair, your legs positioned over her shoulders. You’d feel too exposed if it was anyone else. But Natasha’s gently touching your legs, leaving a trail of kisses from your calf to your inner thigh.

“So beautiful” she mutters before diving right in. Her voraciousness takes your breath away, arms giving in as you lay completely flat on the desk, enjoying the way her mouth moves against your entrance.

“Fuck, Tasha” you moan, fingers threading through her locks as her tongue goes up and down your slit. “I’m going to…“

That’s all the warning you can give her, as a flow of arousal gushes out of you and drips down her chin. She continues to lick you, aware that you’re too far gone to do anything else than take it.

You’re still recovering, but the thought of having her inside you is what keeps you from slipping into a post orgasm haze. It takes you a great deal of effort, but you sit up, chest heaving as Natasha helps you. The sight of your arousal on her face makes you clench.

“I…”

“We should…” she says and your heart drops. Is she regretting this?

“Want to go to my bedroom? I just think… you’d be more comfortable. Unless…” she begins to stutter, but you pull her by her shirt, shuting her up with your lips.

“Yes. Please. I need you inside me, Tasha”

The way her breath hitches tells you this is something she wants too. You’re a mess of limbs and half discared clothes as you leave the study and go up the stairs, this time for a far better reason.

As you walk through the door, you realise you’d never been inside her bedroom before.

Why would you, anyway?

You both look kind of ridiculous, the top of your bodies covered in clothes while you stay naked from the waist down. So, you decide to take off the t-shirt and the top of the bikini, your nipples hard as you turn around.

And the way Natasha’s looking at you? It sends chills down your spine.

“Off” you pull her shirt, when she approaches you, and she smiles, lifting her shirt over her head. 

You knew she was ripped, you had seen a bit of her muscles when her shirt rode up. More than once, you had daydreamed about riding her abs until you came.

“See something you like?” she jokes and you laugh, hand going down to squeeze her dick.

“You definitely do. Still hard”

“Tease”

“You have no idea” you say, smiling as she kisses you once again, this time slower until you submit completely and let her set the pace. 

“Bed” is all she says when you break apart. 

A little too eagerly, you climb to her bed and she takes a second to admire the sight of your naked body waiting for her, legs slightly spread open.

Natasha had been dreaming about this for so long, so she takes her time enjoying the moment. Her hands squeeze your breasts and you let out a long sigh as her mouth sucks on the right nipple, her tongue circling the nub until it’s almost painfully hard. You don’t even notice when she bites down, unfazed at the possibility of a bruise.

Truthfully, she’s not sure she’ll last long once she’s inside you, especially if she goes raw. Unless…

“Condom?”

“Still on the pill” you say, impatient. “I wanna feel you”

The eagerness in your voice is enough to make her focus back. 

“Have to stretch you first” she says, kissing the spot behind your hear as she places one of her hands next to your head, the other circling your entrance. You moan, one of your hands going to squeeze her forearm. “Relax, baby”

And you do, you try to at least, but you’re so wet that you hardly think it’s necessary to stretch you out. So, you end up flipping Natasha on her back, the older woman letting out a yelp as you sink in her shaft with no warning.

“Fuck, you’re so big” you moan, staying still to get use to her size. “Fuck, fuck, fuck”

“Do you…?”

“Gimme a second, baby. Just… yeah, that’s it” you say after a moment, starting to move in a circular motion. Natasha’s hands fly to your hips, mouth open as she enjoys the way her cock is enveloped by your warm and wet cunt.

“Detka, you’re so good” she says as you start to ride her, the sound of skin slapping skin filling the room.

“Fuck me, Natasha. Your cock is so deep, fuck, come inside me, please” you say, overwhelmed by the pleasure you’re feeling. 

It’s Natasha’s turn to flip your positions. On your back, you spread your legs and allow her to fuck you into the mattress, going hard and fast and deep, her hot breath against your ear as you moan louder and louder, begging her to go faster.

“I’m close, baby. Are you close too?”

“Yes” you whine, finding it hard to even form a coherent thought.

“Where do you want me to come?”

“Inside, fill me up, please” you beg, and Natasha groans, picking up her pace. As your orgasm approaches, you clench around her and that’s all she needs to let go.

Natasha groans as she releases all her seed inside your cunt, and you’re surprised by the way she keeps going and going.

The thought of being bred by Natasha makes you clench and she moans, still too sensitive.

“Sorry” you giggle, embracing her sweaty body as she collapses on top of you. 

“You ok? Want some water?”

“Yeah. In a minute” you say, wanting to stay close to her for as long as possible.

“In a minute” Natasha echoes, smiling as she feels your heartbeat against her chest.

—

Darcy: Where are you?

Y/N: Gonna be real late.

"Oh fuck," Natasha whimpered into the quietness of your bedroom. Her hands gripped the loosened scarf atop your head, holding on for dear life, as she rode the waves of her impending orgasm. Her hips moved of their own accord, undulating in smooth, deft motions against your face.

A muffled, "Mmm," vibrated through her pussy as you ate her out with practiced ease. Your tongue swirled around her clit, teasing and torturing her for a few long moments before switching it up. You flattened your tongue, licking a broad stripe up her slit. Your nose pressed against her pelvis, your breath fanning over her as her tangy musk filled your senses. You'd been at this for a while now, and your chin was slick with her arousal, but you didn't mind. You loved the taste of her, the way her body responded to your touch.

You could feel her thighs trembling around your head, her muscles tensing as she got closer and closer to the edge. You knew her body almost as well as your own, knew exactly how to push her. You knew when she held her breath, seemingly unable to remember to breathe during the pleasure, and when she began to pant heavily, letting out little whimpers and moans that were music to your ears. She was close. So close. You could feel it in the way her walls fluttered against your tongue, in the way her hands tightened their grip on your hair. You gripped the back of her thigh, signaling for her to let out her moans and breathe.

You pushed her leg higher to her chest. Her body arched, a strangled gasp escaping her lips as you gave her clit a final, firm suck. Her walls clenched around your tongue, her hips bucking wildly as she came. You held on, riding out the storm of her orgasm, your tongue lapping at her folds as she shuddered and trembled above you. You could feel her juices flooding your mouth, and you swallowed greedily, wanting to taste every last drop of her release.

As the waves of pleasure subsided, Natasha collapsed into the pillows, her body limp and sated. She buried her face in your neck, her breath hot and ragged against your skin. You held her close, her hands stroking her back as she came down from her high. "That was... intense," she mumbled into your neck, her voice hoarse.

"You're welcome," you chuckled, pressing a kiss to her temple. You moved over to your side of the bed, not bothering to look for your underwear as you lay beside her. There was usually a routine to Natasha's satisfaction after sex. She would either fall into a deep and immediate slumber or spend a short, insignificant amount of time diving into whichever book was on her nightstand, the pages illuminated by a tiny reading lamp bought on Amazon.

You would wrap yourself around her, stroking her belly or hips, as you fell into your own period of bliss. This morning seemed to be a bit different. You were reconnecting, in every way possible, wondering how you'd gone without her for eight months. The past hour had been a blur of passionate embraces, kisses, and whispered words that had melted away the distance between you. You'd made love with an intensity that bordered on desperate, each touch and caress a silent promise to never let go again.

Natasha shifted in your arms, her body pliant and relaxed against yours. "You're thinking too loud," she murmured, her husky voice sending chills down your spine.

You chuckled, pressing a soft kiss to her shoulder. "Just trying to memorize every inch of you again. Making sure I haven't forgotten anything."

She turned in your embrace, her green eyes gleaming in the dim light of the bedroom. "I don't think you could ever forget." You sat up, moving to lie across her lap. Her fingers traced patterns on your chest, light as butterfly wings. "But tell me something," she added, her tone shifting slightly, "that you love about me."

You smiled, thinking for a moment. "Your laugh. The way it starts small, and then grows into this full, contagious thing that makes everything feel right in the world. Not to mention you don't laugh out loud often. So when it happens, you can't help but stop and listen. Then it makes me laugh."

Natasha's lips curved into a soft smile. "I missed that," she said, her fingers still tracing circles on your skin. "I missed being the one to make you laugh."

"You always have been," you replied, your voice earnest. "Even when you were being all serious and spy-like. I always want it to be you."

"Spy-like?" She questioned.

"Yes, spy-like," You nodded. "You know how you get."

"Which is vastly different from your lawyer persona?"

"It's not a persona," You rolled your eyes playfully. "It's actually who I am."

"Mhm," She hummed. "I like that suit."

"Which one?"

"All of them." Natasha weighed her options. "But there's a grey and pink one you wore. It's pretty low cut. Even for you."

You laughed. "Well, I'll wear it more often if it means I get that kind of reaction."

"Maybe just at home. I don't want anyone else seeing you in it."

Her possessiveness sent a thrill through you. "Jealous, Mrs. Romanoff?"

"Protective," She corrected, her hand sliding up to cup your cheek. "There's a difference."

You leaned into her touch, your eyes fluttering closed for a moment. When her lips met yours, you smiled into the kiss." I know," you said softly. "I feel the same way about you."

A comfortable silence fell between you. You could feel the tension of the past months melting away, replaced by a warm, contented peace. Natasha shifted again, her arm draped over your midsection, bringing you even closer. "Stay with me," she whispered.

"I'm not going anywhere," you promised, your arms tightening over hers. "In fact, I think I've especially been missing these." You shifted slightly to flick the metal jewelry in her nipple. "The last time we had sex." Natasha hissed as your finger squeezed gently this time. She was always so sensitive, and especially so since she'd gotten them pierced. "You wouldn't let me touch them." You hummed.

Natasha's breath hitched as your fingers toyed with the small metal barbell. Her back arched slightly, a silent invitation for more. "I was too sore," she managed to say, her voice strained with pleasure. It was that, amongst other things. "You've been patient."

"I have been," you agreed, leaning down to press a soft kiss against her breast, deliberately avoiding the sensitive peak. "But patience is overrated sometimes."

Your tongue traced a slow circle around her areola, feeling the texture change as her nipple hardened in anticipation. Natasha's fingers rested on your neck, pulling you closer. "Don't tease," she breathed out.

"I'm taking my time," You mumbled. "Think I can make you cum just by sucking them?" You glanced up at her.

Natasha's pupils dilated at your question, a slow smile spreading across her face. "You think you're that good?" she challenged, though her voice held a hint of excitement.

You raised an eyebrow, a confident smirk playing on your lips. "I know I am." Your thumb brushed over the metal barbell again, pulling another sharp inhale from her. "But we can find out for sure if you'd like."

Natasha's answer was a soft, breathy laugh that quickly turned into a gasp as your lips finally closed around her nipple. The metal was cool against your tongue, a strange and thrilling sensation. You could feel her heartbeat quicken under your touch, her body responding with an eagerness.

Your free hand slid down her stomach, fingers tracing the dip of her navel before continuing lower. Natasha spread her legs instinctively, a silent invitation that you were more than happy to accept.

"Patience is overrated," she echoed your earlier words, her fingers tightening in your hair as your fingers found the sensitive bundle of nerves between her legs. You circled it slowly, deliberately, matching the rhythm of your tongue on her breast.

Her hips began to move in time with your touch, her breath coming in short, sharp gasps. You removed your fingers, forcing her to keep her thighs open as you released her breast with a pop. You used the tip of your tongue to offer the lightest bit of pressure to her nipple.

"Ugh," She managed a sound that was almost more moan than speech.

"Keep them open," You ordered softly. When she hesitated, you flicked your tongue against the metal again. "Be a good girl for me. Let me see." She whined as her thighs trembled and she forced them open again.

The view of her, spread open and vulnerable before you, sent a jolt of desire through you. Her chest was flushed, the marks of your earlier passion already fading but still visible on her neck. Her breathing was ragged, anticipation written in every line of her body.

"Good girl," you praised, your voice low and intimate. The words seemed to resonate through her as they always did, a visible shiver running down her spine.

You lowered your head again, this time switching to her other breast. Your tongue explored the newly sensitive skin, learning the responses of her body all over again. Natasha arched into your touch, a soft moan escaping her lips.

Your other hand moved back between her legs, fingers exploring the wet heat of her. You circled her entrance slowly, feeling her body tremble with anticipation. Her hips tried to move, to take your fingers inside, but you kept your touch light and teasing.

"Please," she whispered, the word barely audible. "Don't torture me."

"I told you I want to try," You shook your head.

Natasha let out a soft laugh, her fingers still tangled in your hair. "You're insufferable," she said, though her voice held no real annoyance. "But I love you."

"Love you too," you replied, going back to worshiping her breasts. You started with light, open-mouthed kisses, your tongue tracing circles around her areola without touching the peak. Natasha's breath hitched, her hips lifting slightly off the bed in silent invitation. You ignored it, continuing your slow, deliberate exploration.

When you finally took her nipple into your mouth, your teeth scraped gently against the sensitive skin. Natasha gasped, her back arching off the bed. You could feel the hard metal of her piercing against your tongue, a strange and thrilling contrast to the softness of her skin. You sucked gently, increasing the pressure gradually until she was writhing beneath you, her hands gripping your shoulders.

"Ughhhhh fuck," She cried. Your other hand moved between her legs, not being able to help yourself, your fingers slid through her wet folds to find her clit. You circled it slowly, matching the rhythm of your mouth on her breast. Natasha's breath hitched, her hips moving in time with your touch.

"Oh," she gasped as your fingers pressed more firmly. "God, yes."

You could feel her getting close, her body tensing as she approached the edge. You increased the pressure on her clit, your teeth grazing her nipple again. That was all it took.

Natasha cried out as she came, her body arching off the bed. Her walls clenched around your fingers, her hips bucking wildly as waves of pleasure washed over her. You held on, riding out the storm of her orgasm, your fingers and mouth working in tandem to prolong her pleasure. As the waves subsided, Natasha practically curled into herself, not knowing whether she wanted to push you away or keep them open for more. You released her breast with a soft pop, moving up to capture her lips in a gentle kiss.

She deepened the kiss, her tongue exploring your mouth with renewed passion. "I love you," She breathed. You settled into your arms again. She began to reach for you, moving to reciprocate. You placed a hand over hers and brought it to your mouth to kiss. 

“I’m okay,” you said, kissing her knuckles. “I just wanted to take care of you.” 

As she huffed, she moved to reach into the nightstand. She pulled out a long black jewelry box. "I've been meaning to give this to you, but I couldn't find a good time." 

She held it out to you, hiding her smile at your suspicious look.

“What is this?” You shook the box. It sounded light yet expensive. Naasha didn’t do cheap.“My baby loves me.” You grinned. 

“I do,” She said softly. She kissed your lips again. “Open it.”

"The sex was that good, huh?" You joked as you ran your fingers along the opening.

Natasha didn't respond to your joke. She looked up at you, and for the first time, you could see the exhaustion etched around her eyes. "That and so much more." She replied. 

You opened the box slowly, your breath catching in your throat. Inside, nestled on a bed of red velvet, was a delicate silver necklace. At its center hung a small, intricately designed locket. It was beautiful, but it was the engraving on the front that made your heart skip a beat: a simple number (2007). The year you got together. 

"It's beautiful," you whispered, your fingers tracing the delicate design.

Natasha's shoulders seemed to relax at your reaction. "I had it made for you," she said softly. "A few months back. I was going to give it to you on our anniversary." She paused, her gaze dropping to the necklace. "I know it's late, but I wanted you to have it."

"It's perfect," you said, your voice thick with emotion. "Thank you. Put it on me." You sat up, not minding the sheets falling from your body.

Natasha helped you put it on, her fingers brushing against the back of your neck as she fastened the clasp. The silver was cool against your skin, the weight of the locket a constant, comforting presence against your chest. "Open it." She urged you.

"Oh, right," You grinned. You opened the locket, straining your neck only slightly, to see the tiny ultrasound picture inside. "Nat." You said softly. You dropped your hand to your lap. 

"I know it passed, but..." She said, referring to the anniversary of one of the saddest days in your entire life. The baby you'd lost. So many years ago. Too far away to actually still count, but always in your heart, wherever you looked at your other children. The miscarriage was always in the back of your mind. A quiet ache.

"This is... this is the best gift I've ever received," you managed to say, your voice choked with emotion. You closed the locket, pressing it against your chest. "Thank you. I love it. I love you."

You closed the space between you again, not so much this time for passion but more for the quiet closeness that she had been starved of. You didn't realize how emotional you'd feel after all this time. You certainly hadn't expected to feel it after a morning spent making love with your wife.

"Baby," Natasha whispered. She kissed your shoulder, adjusting your position against the headboard, and pulling you tighter against her. "I'm here."

There was something about Natasha that always understood how you felt. She knew when you were happy. When you were angry, especially when you would break. You'd been together for so long. So many years. You'd had more birthdays and anniversaries together than you could count. You'd made a family together. She'd nearly died countless times. You had nearly died then, too. She'd disappeared for a month on a mission she was never supposed to speak of and returned covered in burns and soot. You'd had your hearts broken and healed, and then broken again. But you always, always came back to each other.

"I was so scared," you admitted, your voice barely a whisper. The vulnerability in your tone surprised even you. You were supposed to be the strong one, the rock in the storm of her life. But in this moment, with her arms around you and the memory of your loss fresh in your mind, you felt anything but strong.

"I know," Natasha said softly, her fingers stroking your hair. "Me too." She didn't try to shush you or tell you that everything was going to be okay. She just held you. "You can talk about him. To me."

"After all this time, you're still sure they were a boy," You chuckled, wiping at your tears. Natasha snorted. She tended to be right about those things. "I just... I still think about it. About him. About what he would be like. What would they be like together?"

"We both do," she replied, her fingers tracing the shape of the locket through your skin. "Every day."

"I didn't get to hold him," You frowned. "Or see his tiny face in the ultrasounds. I know I should be grateful. We have our babies. Times five." You laughed. "It's just that I don't know... It's an ache that I don't know how to soothe."

"I wish I could've made it stop," she said quietly. "I wish I could have taken the pain away from you."

"You did," You assured her. "You were there."

You lay there for a long time, just holding each other. It was a wound that had never fully healed, a scar that throbbed with a dull pain on days like this. But it was also a reminder of what you had overcome, of the strength you had found in each other.

"I love you," you said finally, breaking the silence.

"I love you too," Natasha replied, her lips pressing a soft kiss to your forehead. "More than you know."

You shifted slightly, your head resting on her shoulder. "Remember when we first started trying?" you asked, a small smile playing on your lips. "You were so serious about it. You had charts and schedules and vitamins."

Natasha laughed. "I was a spy on a mission," she said, her eyes twinkling with amusement. "I was determined to put a baby in you."

"That you were," You nodded. "Can you imagine us with seven? We're already falling apart as is."

"I would have been a very tired mother," she admitted, her fingers tracing patterns on your back. "But I think we would have managed."

"We always manage," You said, your voice soft with affection.

Natasha's expression softened, her eyes meeting yours with a tenderness that made your heart ache. "We do," she agreed. "Because we have each other."

You leaned in and kissed her, a soft, lingering kiss. When you finally pulled apart, you were both breathless. "That's the last of the sad stuff," You said, your forehead resting against hers. "I don't want to cry anymore today."

"Good," she replied, her thumb stroking your cheek. "I have plans for us today, and none of them involve tears."

You raised an eyebrow, a playful smirk tugging at your lips. "Oh, really? And what kind of plans might those be?"

Natasha grinned mischievously. "Well, our youngest daughter's tenth birthday is tomorrow. So we have to get planning. And we have a counseling appointment at ten.” 

“Oh, don’t remind me.” You sighed. “Can’t we just skip it?”

“You really want to?” She asked. 

“No, we can take it on.” You nodded. “Think we can sleep a little longer?”

“I’m betting on it,” Natasha got comfortable in teh sheets. “But I would like some of the cheesecake you made last night.”

“That was the bomb,” You nodded. “Oh, and maybe a bit of ice cream?”

“At six in the morning?” 

“Oh, that’s where you draw the line?” You shook your head. You stood up, stretching along th bed before finding your panties. You pulled them on and then the oversized t-shirt. You began to pad out of the room, opening and unlocking the door, only to find Luke lying in front of it. He was curled into a fetal position, one thumb in his mouth, and the other hand gripping Midnight’s fur softly. 

The dog raised her head at you before lowering it again. 

“Tash,” You sighed. “You have a child out here.” 

You knelt, feeling Luke’s skin for any signs of a high temperature, before tapping him gently. “Luke, buddy.” You said softly. 

As if he weren’t asleep at all, his eyes fluttered open. 

“Mommy?” He questioned. 

“Hey, baby, what are you doing out here?”

Luke sat up slowly, Midnight moving with him. "My jacket."

"You were sleeping outside our door because of your jacket?" Natasha asked from behind you. She had the decency to wear more clothes. 

Luke looked at her. Then at you.

Then back at her.

Luke shook his head. "I couldn't sleep."

"Bad dream?" Natasha asked.

Another shake.

"Then what?"

Luke picked at a loose thread on his pajama pants. Finally, in a voice so small it almost broke your heart, he admitted, "I wanted to cuddle."

Neither of you said anything.

Luke immediately looked embarrassed. Then his little lip poked out. “I can’t find my red jacket.”

Natsaha closed her eyes, mentally slapping herself for forgetting. “Your red jacket is in the hamper. I completely forgot to start the laundry.”

“I knocked, but you didn’t answer,” He said. “So Midnight and I went to sleep right here.”

You didn’t want to question how long he’d been outside your door. You prided yourself on being discreet, especially with your bedroom being tucked off in a hallway behind the kitchen. 

The two of you had been so wrapped up in each other that neither of you had heard him.

"Oh, baby."

Before Natasha could move, you reached forward and scooped him up. At five years old, he was getting heavier every day, but he immediately wrapped himself around you like a koala. You carried him to the kitchen and set him on the counter. You made quick work of washing your hands before grabbing him again. You glanced at Natasha, and she was on it, grabbing two water bottles and a chocolate milk box from the fridge. 

You sat on the couch, propping your feet against the ottoman, as Luke lay against your chest. 

“I don’t wanna go to school,” He said. Again, you and Natasha shared a smile. 

“Well, you need to go to school to learn,” You reminded him. “Today’s Friday anyway.”

“I already know stuff,” He mumbled. 

“Well, how will your grandpa drop you off if you don’t go?”

“Deda’s dropping me off?” His eyes lit up thinking about his morning ritual whenever he went to school with Alexei. It usually involved some sugary breakfast. 

You groaned. “There it is.”

“There what is?” He asked innocently.

“The betrayal,” Natasha said dryly. “Your mommy and I spend ten minutes comforting you, and all it takes is one mention of Alexei, and suddenly we're chopped liver.”

“I don't know what chopped liver is.”

“You don't need to,” Natasha muttered.

Luke snuggled deeper into your chest, a sleepy grin appearing on his face.

“Can we get donuts?”

“No,” both of you answered immediately.

“See?” Natasha pointed. “Your grandfather is a bad influence.”

“He lets me get the chocolate ones.”

“Exactly.”

Luke considered this. “I think that means he's nice.”

You laughed as Natasha rolled her eyes. “Your deda is incapable of telling children no.”

“That is not true,” Alexei's voice boomed from the kitchen.

All three of you turned. When had he gotten there?

He stood there with a coffee mug in one hand and what appeared to be three strips of bacon in the other. “You gave James ice cream before soccer practice.”

“That was strategic.” You defended. “The kid needed motivation without being overindulged.”

“It was vanilla.”

“Exactly. Vanilla is not exciting enough to affect athletic performance.”

“That's not how sugar works,” Natasha sighed.

Alexei waved a dismissive hand before turning his attention to Luke. “You are coming with me this morning?”

Luke sat up immediately. “Yes.”

“Then we should leave early.”

“Why?”

Alexei looked around dramatically before leaning closer.“For reasons.”

Luke gasped. “What reasons?”

“Secret reasons.”

You watched Luke's entire body vibrate with excitement. He lifted from your lap and bounced. 

Natasha buried her face in her hands. “You're taking him for pancakes.”

“No.”

“Alexei.”

“No.”

“You absolutely are.”

Alexei smiled. Luke smiled—the exact same smile. And suddenly you understood why neither of them could be trusted.

Luke looked up at you. “Can I go?”

You pretended to think about it. “Hmmm.”

“Mommy.”

“Hmmm.”

“Please.”

“You know,” you said thoughtfully, “I think school might be very difficult today if someone is full of pancakes.”

“Mommy.”

“Maybe impossible.”

“Mommy.”

You finally laughed and kissed the top of his head.

“You can go.”

“Come on,” Luke rounded the couch to pull his grandfather toward the stairs. “You can help me find clothes, but not my red jacket. Mama forgot it in the laundry.”

Natasha groaned. 

“Sure, maybe I can help your mom find clothes next,” Alexei mumbled as he followed Luke to the second floor. 

“I have clothes on,” You shook your head. 

“That t-shirt isn’t covering much,” Natasha slapped your thigh playfully. 

—-----------------

Dr. Aris’s office felt different this time around. The air felt breathable; it hadn’t felt like that last week when you’d come in. It was crazy to think that it had truly only been a short time between sessions. You felt as if you were healed. You’d spent more time with your wife this week than you had in months. You’d talked. You’d been scared straight, so to speak. 

“So, ladies, how has it been?” She asked, looking up from her notepad. 

“Good,” Natasha asked. 

“Actually, good,” You agreed. 

Dr. Aris smiled slightly. "That's wonderful to hear." Her smile lingered for a moment before she asked, "What was different?"

"We've been spending more time together," Natasha finally said.

"Intentionally," you added.

Dr. Aris nodded. "And what does that look like?"

You thought about the laundry room. The late-night conversations. The card game. The questions. 

"We've been talking more," you said.

"A lot more," Natasha added. “Your homework has helped.”

"That's great." Dr. Aris made a note. "And how has that felt?"

Natasha laughed softly. "Weird."

You laughed too. "Terrifying."

"Terrifying?" Dr. Aris repeated.

You rubbed the back of your neck. "I think I came in here last time expecting some grand explanation for why we got here. Something dramatic. A smoking gun." You shrugged. “There’s really no true rhyme or reason. Well, just one, I’m thinking. We got busy," you continued. "Then we got tired. Then we got hurt.”

Dr. Aris looked between you. "You know what's fascinating?"

Neither of you answered.

"You both entered the first session convinced the other person had withdrawn first."

The realization hung in the air.

"You thought Natasha stopped wanting you." She pointed toward you. "And Natasha thought you stopped wanting her. A lot of couples come into the practice with their egos, fears, and everything under the sun." Now she sat back. "Neither of you was actually rejecting one another. You were protecting yourselves from rejection." She looked down at her notes again. “How has communication changed?”

“With the homework you assigned,” You said. “Finding something you enjoyed with your partner during the day. I don’t think we’ve ever sat down and explicitly said it?” You looked to Natasha. “No,” She shook her head. “We’ve had moments here and there. Long conversations but never a simple ‘I enjoyed this moment with you here in this time.’” She paused. “At least not in a long while.”

“And why do you think that is?”

“Hmm,” Natasha thought long and hard. “We’re just too busy most days. There’s always something that needs taking care of. Something always needs to be done, and it’s understandable. We chose this life.” 

Dr. Aris nodded, though not in complete agreement.

"Busy is certainly part of it," she said. "But I see couples with ten children who still find ways to connect. I see couples with demanding careers who still find ways to connect. So I don't think busyness is the whole answer."

You needed her to elaborate a bit more. 

"Busy is often the circumstance," she continued. "The question is what happened underneath it."

Natasha's brow furrowed. Dr. Aris looked toward you. "Let's say Natasha comes home from teaching her classes. The kids are loud. Dinner needs to be made. There's laundry. A million things competing for attention. In that moment, what keeps you from turning to her and saying, ‘I liked hearing your laugh today'?"

The answer felt embarrassingly simple.

"It feels silly."

Natasha looked over at you.

You shrugged. "It does. It feels obvious. We know we love each other. We know we enjoy each other. So why say it all the time?"

Dr. Aris smiled."Ah."

The sound made you immediately suspicious."What?"

"That's a very long-married answer."

Natasha laughed despite herself. "It is?"

"It is." Dr. Aris crossed one leg over the other. "Early in relationships, we narrate everything. We tell each other every thought. Every observation. Every feeling. If we don’t, we’re convinced the other person is not that into us. Maybe they’re seeing someone else, or maybe they’re just an idiot." She gestured between the two of you."Then we become comfortable. Comfort is good. Comfortable is safe. But eventually, many couples start assuming."

You found yourself looking at Natasha. She'd gone strangely still.

"I think," she began slowly. "I think I stopped saying things because I thought if I had to ask for them, they didn't count."

Dr. Aris nodded immediately. "Now that's interesting."

Natasha looked down at her hands. "If I told her I needed more affection, then she was only doing it because I asked. If I told her I wanted more time together, then she was only doing it because I asked. It felt pathetic."

Your heart sank. "Nat."

"I'm being honest."

"No, I know." You rubbed your palms together. "I just didn't know that."

"Because I never said it."

Dr. Aris let the silence settle. "And you?" she asked, turning toward you.

You took a breath. "I think I stopped asking because I was afraid of hearing no."

Natasha's head immediately snapped toward you. "What?"

"Every time you were tired. Every time you rolled over. Every time you said maybe tomorrow. It wasn't your fault. You were exhausted. But after a while..." You shrugged. "I stopped wanting to find out."

The realization crossed Natasha's face in real time.  Dr. Aris finally broke the silence. "See, now we're getting somewhere. Y/n, I know you said a pain point for both of you is your work. Why do you think that is?”

You pushed the sleeves of your cardigan up to your elbows. “I used to say I don’t know. I work in corporate law now. Nine to five. Paid Time Off. Workable caseload. Ideally, this is what I was running from when I quit as ADA in New York.”

"You quit because of the workload?"

"Partly." You nodded. "We were getting around to adopting Luke. Natasha hadn't retired yet. One of us needed to be home with them."

"And that was a mutual decision?"

"Completely."

Dr. Aris nodded. "And what did you think you were gaining?"

"Time." You said. "Time with my family. Time with my wife. We were living in New York. The kids had no privacy. The house felt too small. Everything felt cramped."

"And did you get those things?"

You hesitated."Some of them."

Dr. Aris waited.

"I think the version of me who left New York would be surprised."

"In what way?"

You laughed softly. "A lot of ways."

"Pick one."

You looked down at your hands."How far apart we got."

Natasha looked at you.

"I stopped telling her things about my life. The birth control. Getting my nails done with Leslie. Little things."

You shook your head."I can take accountability for that. I should've told her. I just... didn't."

"And why didn't you?"

You frowned.

Because for the first time, you weren't sure. Finally, you sighed."It was easier not to have the conversations. I feel like I'm in this constant cycle of pushing myself too hard at work, burning out, and then coming back to... nothing."

"What does 'nothing' mean?" Dr. Aris asked.

You opened your mouth. Then closed it again."I don't know." There was a long pause. "Cara leaving for college was a new adjustment."

Natasha's gaze softened."I didn't realize how much that affected you."

"I didn't either."

You rubbed your palms together. "Then I'd come home and..." You laughed humorlessly. "I truly don't know."

Dr. Aris leaned forward slightly."When you say you came home to nothing, do you mean an empty house?"

You shook your head. "No. I think I felt empty. It wasn't just Cara leaving. It wasn't just work. I felt this overwhelming emptiness. Like, I didn't know how to connect anymore."

Your eyes drifted toward Natasha. "We fight. We have sex. We make up." You shrugged. "That was the cycle for a while. I mean, when was the last time we took a vacation together?"

Natasha let out a breath."I thought this would be the season where we found each other again."

You looked over. She was staring at her hands.

"The kids got older. They needed us less. We finally had more time. "A sad smile crossed her face."And every time I looked up, you were working." She immediately shook her head. "That sounds unfair."

"No," Dr. Aris said gently. "It sounds honest."

Natasha sighed. "I didn't tell her I missed her."

"Why not?"

The question hung there. Eventually, Natasha shrugged.

"Because I wanted her to want it too. I didn't want to ask my wife to spend time with me."

Dr. Aris nodded slowly. "So y/n stopped asking because she was afraid of rejection." She looked toward Natasha."And you stopped asking because you thought asking would make it less meaningful."

Neither of you argued. Because neither of you could. Dr. Aris glanced at the clock.

"We're almost out of time.” She closed her notebook."The good news?" For the first time all hour, she smiled. "Neither of you seems particularly interested in staying distant."

That earned a laugh from Natasha. "No."

"No," you agreed.

"Good." Dr. Aris stood. "Then this week, I don't want either of you trying to fix the marriage."

You immediately frowned. "That's literally why we're here."

Dr. Aris laughed. "I know." She gathered her things.

"For homework, Natasha, I want one direct request a day."

Natasha groaned.

"No hints. No, hoping she'll figure it out." Then she looked at you. "And y/n, I want you to hear the request you're being given. Not the criticism you think is hiding underneath it." You winced.

Fair. 

“Also, take some time for yourself, y/n. No work. No kids. No wife. Just one hour to yourself.” Dr. Aris opened the office door. "Most couples think marriages struggle because of the big conversations they aren't having." She paused. "In my experience, it's usually the little ones."

It was a hard mission for Natasha.

No, it wasn’t just a hard mission; it’s been multiple. Over and over. Back to back.

She’s exhausted, and despite having just returned from one, she’s sure that tomorrow, she’ll be summoned for another. It seems like there’s just crisis after crisis these days. Infiltrate this organization, retrieve that intelligence data, handle and escort yet another asset across country lines… and do so through whatever means necessary.

She collapses onto the common room sofa, leaning back against the cushions, eyes slipping shut.

It’s late. No one else is up. She just needs one moment to…

Natasha’s disturbed by the sound of footsteps entering the room. Her eyes reopen tiredly to find you gazing at her, confused and concerned. Well, no one else was supposed to be up.

“Rough mission?” you ask her.

She sighs. She doesn’t want to get into it.

You understand her exhale; you don’t push. “I couldn’t sleep. I was just coming to grab a glass of water. I’ll be out of the space shortly.”

“It’s alright,” she murmurs, and she’s not sure she wants to—she’s had quite the past 72 hours—but it’s you, and she’ll always be soft for you. “Anything in particular keeping you up?” she questions.

You hum. “Not sure,” you reply, “Anxiety, probably. Stress, maybe.”

Natasha gets that. “Wanna sit?”

“Sure.” You’re surprised at the offer—Natasha really looks like she’d prefer to be alone—but you accept anyway, unwilling to turn down the opportunity to spend time with her. You make your way into the kitchen, grabbing a glass and filling it with some water before walking into the common room and settling on the couch beside the redhead, a comfortable amount of space between you two, perhaps a larger amount of space than usual for two friends.

Natasha’s not one for closeness, for intimacy, and she’s made that abundantly clear time and time again. It’s not uncomfortable, being this far from her, but you wonder what it would be like if she ever let you close the distance.

Her eyes fall closed once more, and silence blankets the both of you.

She looks so small right now. You want to offer something—anything—to comfort her, to soothe and alleviate whatever shadows from her mission may still be clinging to her.

But you don’t know what to do. She doesn’t want to talk, and she’s always rejected physical contact before: Steve’s friendly pats on the back, Wanda’s hugs, your casual linking of arms as you walk side by side.

But tonight, she looks so small, so worn out. You can’t help but try, and you’re willing to admit that you could use some closeness as well.

“Do you maybe… want to come here?” you ask hesitantly, certain that she’s going to reject your offer, but your arms open to welcome her on the off chance she chooses to accept.

And although she doesn’t answer right away, doesn’t even answer with certainty, to your shock, the redhead nods.

Maybe she senses that you need this, maybe it’s just for you, but she’s giving you it anyway.

It doesn’t take long.

Natasha’s head is pressed against your chest as she lets herself just be amazed by the steady sound of your heartbeat beneath her ear. Your arm is draped over her waist, keeping her flush against you, as you gently swipe your thumb back and forth across her hip. Your legs are tangled with hers as you two lounge together on the sofa, something on the TV playing quietly in the background, barely paid attention to by her in favor of reveling in your presence instead.

She’s trembling, everything within her at war. She’s never truly let herself get this near to someone else, and her instincts are both screaming at her to push you away and begging her to tug you even closer. Her nerves are on fire, every part of her body humming at the feeling of being in touch with another, and although lingering unease still swirls in her stomach, there’s also a sense of comfort that comes from being against you.

Everything is new, unfamiliar, and addicting.

She begins melting with each passing moment, relaxing into your hold, her tension unfurling as she surrenders to the sensation of just being held. Her own hands rise to settle around you, to grip at your shirt, the fabric clutched between her fingertips, and a soft sound escapes her, unbidden, as she nestles as if burrowing into your chest.

But it’s not enough. She needs to be closer.

So, Natasha situates herself more firmly against you, curling into you further, trying to gain even more physical contact. Her body moves without her thinking, acting on its own, shifting until she’s then fully on top of you, straddling you, her face soon back to being buried deeply into the crook of your neck, her nose nuzzling the curve of it, brushing the delicate skin there.

You suck in a surprised breath at the sudden change in positions, not having expected Natasha to make such a move. She’s been letting you take the lead, letting you guide her through all these new and hopefully gratifying feelings, but now, here she is, zero space between your hips and hers, her face tucked into you so close that you can feel every warm breath of hers on your throat.

Your hands instinctively grab onto her hips, trying to steady her, to settle her—you can feel the tremors in her body—and Natasha whimpers as the heat from your palms practically sears through her leggings.

You can sense the change, but you don’t understand it.

She grinds down lightly, testing without knowing it, and whimpers again at the ever so slight friction she receives. Her eyes flutter shut.

Your brows furrow at her neediness, but it’s not just neediness; it’s longing. Something is stirring within her, unlocking, making itself known, and you wonder…

You’re not sure you have a right to ask, not sure you have a right to know, but the way she’s acting right now—desperate, wanting, like she’s never felt the touch of someone who was touching her to simply worship her—makes you think. “Have you ever…” you trail off.

“What?” Natasha asks breathily, eyes opening to look at you, trying to focus on your face and your words despite her hips still lightly grinding into your own. She can’t stop them.

“Have you ever…” you try again before rephasing, “Has anyone ever made you come before?”

She stiffens in your arms, and you know you’ve said the wrong thing. You’ve made so much progress with her tonight, gotten her to open up to you, to trust you, to let you touch her. You don’t want that to go away, but she does try to pull away, to sit up and move out of your arms, to remove herself from the vulnerable position she’s put herself in.

Your grip on her tightens minutely, attempting to keep her close, fingers resuming trailing soothing patterns along her as if that will get her to stay despite your misstep.

Neither of you two speak. You’re too worried about ruining what was already a fragile moment, and Natasha, she’s embarrassed, ashamed, not sure what she’s supposed to say in the face of the question that she is taking as an accusation.

She’s Natasha Romanoff, the Black Widow, known for using her body to get what she needs, known for seduction and sex and lust from others, and yet here she is, about to admit that she’s never been touched in a way that’s fulfilled her before.

“No,” she finally murmurs, quietly, almost inaudible, “It’s always just been a job. It’s always just been about the other person. I’ve never-”

You’re still silent, letting the new knowledge of how Natasha’s only ever been used sink in. You remember how her body moved against your own of its own accord, remember the whimper she made in response to her grinding. She needs this. You make a decision.

“Let me do this for you,” you murmur, pulling her upwards onto your stomach instead of your hips, beginning to mouth gently at the curve of her neck. You can feel her body still rigid in your arms, and although you don’t know if you should, you decide to press your luck, your tongue slipping out to hotly slide along her jawline. “Let me show you what real pleasure is. Let me show you how it’s supposed to feel.” Your words are said against her skin, and it makes her shiver with want.

Natasha’s eyes drift shut again, and for a moment, just like earlier when you offered her your touch, you think that she’s going to decline, that she’s going to roughly shove herself off of you and tell you to fuck off and never talk to her again, but then she breathes out a small “please”, and it’s all the permission you need.

You can already feel her pulsing along the muscles of your abdomen, so you waste no time. Your fingers slip beneath the waistband of her pants and underwear, dipping themselves into her folds, just feeling her wetness, taking in her heat, and Natasha shudders. It’s not the first time she’s been touched there, but it’s the first time it hasn’t felt like it was for somebody else.

You watch her expression soften as she surrenders to the sensations, and you soften as well.

“I’m going to show you just how good it can feel, just how good you deserve to feel,” you whisper to her, and Natasha’s body yields further, falling limp against you as she prepares herself to simply let herself feel and enjoy it this time.

It’s not a mission, not an assignment, not something that has to be done. This is a choice that she gets to make for herself.

“Tell me what you want. Anything you want, it’s yours,” you tell her as you start to circle her clit, just light circles before pressing down on the sensitive bundle of nerves more firmly, drawing a long whine from the redhead.

You continue teasing her, moving down to her entrance to gather more of her slick before returning to her clit, tapping lightly, swiping across it, using your two fingers to brush and skim and stroke with varying pressures.

For a while, Natasha is speechless, driven into an overwhelmed quiet by your ministrations, but her body aches, her pussy aches, and she needs you to fill her.

“Inside,” she finally gasps out, hips starting to rock up to try and get your fingers to slip into her hole, to delve into her and explore.

You immediately comply, your fingers swiftly entering her. You want to give her whatever it is that she needs. Tonight’s about her.

Natasha’s eyes roll back. She’s felt something similar to this before, felt the fullness and the stretch, but her pussy has never wanted to hold someone within, her pussy has never been desperate for more, her pussy has never throbbed for another person.

You drag your fingers out only to shove them back in, curling them to try and find the spot that the redhead needs, and a whine escapes her again.

Your eyes snap up to look at her face when she makes the noise.

“Right there?” you ask softly, and she nods, her head bobbing up and down multiple times.

“Right there,” she affirms, tone hoarse, voice shaky. Her hips are rolling to meet your every thrust, her body lighting up under your touch. Her hands grip at your shoulders as if that will stabilize herself as you continue pumping into her, and despite her thoughts scattering as the world blurs around the edges, she can’t help but think about one thing: she wants to kiss you.

One of her hands moves to tangle in your hair, to try and draw you closer, to try and pull your head toward hers so she can at first graze her lips against yours. It’s not that she hasn’t kissed anyone—she has many times before—but tonight feels different, this feels different, you feel different.

You acquiesce for a moment, dipping yourself forward until you realize what her goal is, and then you’re pulling away. Although there’s a smile on your face, it’s resigned.

You think she doesn’t know what she’s doing.

Natasha whines for a third time, but this time, it’s out of petulance at being rejected, and she tries to tug your face back to hers again.

You speed up your motions to distract her from her current fixation on your lips, and Natasha’s body arches as you succeed. Despite your movements being restricted by her leggings, you’re quickly taking her up to the edge that she’s always heard contains nothing but pleasure, the pressure building fast and hot inside of her.

And then… it releases. It’s nothing like she’s ever experienced before. She wasn’t aware it could feel like this.

Natasha’s reveling, savoring, basking in the feeling that follows an orgasm—a real orgasm—but… it wasn’t just an orgasm. It was an orgasm given to her by you.

She’s almost recovered after a minute or so, her chest still rising and falling unsteadily, her heartbeat still thumping rapidly in her chest, and she falls back onto her side on the sofa to look at you, her eyes soft. You look so beautiful in front of her. Her hand comes up to frame your face, and you lean into the touch, smiling at the affectionate gesture.

Now’s the moment, right? You didn’t kiss her during the act, but that didn’t mean anything. You were busy; you were preoccupied.

“Can I kiss you now?” Natasha asks hopefully, gaze not leaving your face.

Everything about this moment is tender, the haze of all that has transpired still hanging over the two of you and throughout the room… or maybe just over her.

You pull away from her hand, and your eyes turn… not guarded, but acceptant of the belief you already have.

When you respond, your tone is still gentle, so gentle, but it makes the redhead flinch anyway. “Natasha,” you murmur, and she knows you’re going to reject her again before you even continue. “You’ve never had this before, never felt like this before. I know you needed this, and I’m happy to have given it to you, but don’t fool yourself into thinking that you want me.”

Natasha’s heart breaks. After all this, you think she doesn’t want you?

When she doesn’t respond, you take her silence for confusion. “Don’t confuse your body’s need with what you want,” you explain more.

“No, no, that’s not-” Natasha breaks off, “I do want you. I do.”

You look at her with a mix of disbelief and sympathy, and it kills her. She doesn’t want your pity; she wants your trust.

“You think I would’ve let just anyone touch me?”

You open your mouth to respond, but she cuts you off.

“You think I would’ve let just anyone fuck me?”

“You’ve never-”

“It doesn’t matter that I’ve never been with someone like this before, I want you.”

“You’re just touch starved-” you protest.

“I’m able to tell the difference between touch starvation and feelings. You believe me. You have to believe me.”

She can tell by the look in your eyes that you don’t.

“Every other time, it’s always been for a job, with a goal in mind, but this time, it was a choice. I got to choose. Please don’t demean that; please don’t take that away from me.”

“Natasha,” you try one more time.

“After all that, don’t you… don’t you choose me too?”

The town car arrived exactly on time. During the entire ride across the city, you couldn't sit still. Your legs bounced. You kept smoothing down your simple black hoodie and leggings, wondering if you should have dressed up more. Inside, you felt like a schoolgirl with a crush, nervous, thrilled, and a little dazed. This powerful, gorgeous woman wanted you again. At 5 AM. The memory of her thick cock stretching you open, her green eyes locked on yours, and the way she'd growled "good girl" kept replaying in your head, making you press your thighs together. The driver, a tall old man, spent the past few minutes humming to some popular song that had been playing on the radio while occasionally checking his rear view mirror. Maybe this was ridiculous. Were you really just about to go to a woman's apartment at 5 AM just because she fucked you good? Well, yes.

The car pulled up to Natasha's building which was a sleek, ultra-modern skyscraper made of glass and dark steel that screamed old money and power. Before you could even process it, the door opened and the driver held his hand out, waiting for you to accept it.

"Thank you." You mumbled softly before he escorted you inside. It was quiet inside the building, but you knew soon enough the hustle and bustle of 6 AM would come soon.

The lobby was visible through the towering floor-to-ceiling windows. Marble floors that gleamed under crystal chandeliers, minimalist leather seating, and massive abstract art pieces on the walls. It looked less like an apartment building and more like a private museum for the obscenely wealthy. You stepped inside, the cool air hitting your skin. The reception desk was a long, polished black marble counter. Behind it stood a tall, impeccably dressed blonde woman in her late 20s, sharp cheekbones, designer blouse, and an expression of practiced superiority. Her name tag read "Elena."

She looked you up and down slowly, taking in your casual hoodie, leggings, and the faint scent of club smoke still clinging to your curls. Her lips curled into a condescending smirk.

"May I help you?" she asked, tone dripping with fake politeness.

"This is a private residence. Deliveries and guests need prior approval." You straightened your shoulders, weight shifting to your other leg.

"I'm here to see Natasha Romanoff. She's expecting me." Elena let out a soft, disbelieving laugh. She checked her tablet, then looked back at you with open disdain.

"Miss Romanoff didn't mention any guests tonight. Especially not..." Her eyes flicked over you again.

"...Someone like you. Are you sure you have the right building, sweetheart?" The condescension was thick. Jealousy mixed with classist venom. It was clear this woman had been trying to get Natasha's attention for a while, and the idea of some random (curvy, beautiful and clearly not from their world) girl showing up at 5 AM offended her deeply.

Before you could respond, the private elevator dinged. Natasha stepped out like she owned the entire damn city. She was wearing a black silk robe loosely tied over what looked like grey sweatpants and a tank top, silver-streaked auburn hair tousled from sleep, or maybe lack of it, and those sharp green eyes immediately locked onto you with raw hunger. The robe did little to hide the heavy bulge already forming between her legs.

Elena straightened instantly, her voice turning sugary.

"Miss Romanoff, I was just telling this young woman that you-"Natasha didn't even glance at her. She crossed the lobby in long, confident strides, slid a possessive arm around your waist, and pulled you flush against her body. Her hand gripped your hip hard enough to bruise as she leaned down and kissed you . It was deep, claiming, and completely unconcerned about the audience. You melted instantly, a soft whimper escaping into her mouth.

When Natasha finally pulled back, she kept her arm locked around you and looked at Elena with cool indifference.

"She's with me." Natasha said, voice low and authoritative.

"Always. Don't question her again." Elena's face flushed with embarrassment and jealousy, but she nodded stiffly.

"Of course, Miss Romanoff." Natasha didn't wait for more. She guided you toward the elevator with a firm hand on your lower back, almost possessive. As the doors closed, she pressed you against the mirrored wall, lips brushing your ear.

"I've been hard for hours thinking about you," she growled.

"Couldn't sleep. Needed to feel this pretty warm pussy again." You shivered, grinning giddily against her neck as the elevator rose.

The mean receptionist was already forgotten.

All that mattered was the way Natasha Romanoff couldn't wait until morning to have you again.

The elevator ride up was thick with tension.

Natasha kept you pressed against the mirrored wall, one hand gripping your hip possessively while the other tilted your chin up for another deep, hungry kiss. Her silk robe had slipped open slightly, and you could feel the heavy, hard length of her cock pressing against your thigh through the thin fabric of her sweats.

"I've been thinking about this tight little pussy since you left." she murmured against your lips, accent thicker with want.

"Couldn't even sleep properly." You shivered, heart racing with that same giddy, nervous excitement from the car ride.

This powerful woman, this older woman,  had summoned you at 5 AM because she needed you.

The elevator doors opened directly into the penthouse. Your breath caught. You'd never seen anything like it. The space was massive and breathtaking. Floor-to-ceiling windows wrapped around the entire living area, offering a panoramic view of the glittering city skyline that made you feel like you were floating above the world. The lighting was low and warm,  soft recessed lights and the glow of the city beyond.

Everything screamed quiet, expensive luxury.

Sleek modern furniture in deep charcoal and cream tones filled the open-plan space. A massive sectional that looked like it could seat twenty dominated the living area. In one corner stood a glossy black grand piano. A fully stocked bar with crystal glassware and expensive bottles glowed under subtle lighting. The floors were dark polished hardwood that felt cool under your sneakers.

It smelled like her , woody cologne, faint whiskey, and something undeniably powerful. Natasha watched your reaction with dark satisfaction, her hand never leaving your lower back as she guided you inside.

"First time seeing it properly." she said, voice low.

"What do you think?" You stepped further in, eyes wide, turning slowly to take it all in.

"It's... insane. Beautiful. Like something out of a movie." You let out a soft, disbelieving laugh.

"I feel like I shouldn't even be standing here in sneakers." Natasha's lips curved into a predatory smile. She closed the distance, sliding her arms around your waist from behind and pulling your back flush against her front. You could feel her hard cock pressing insistently against your ass.

"You belong here." she murmured, lips brushing your ear.

"I wanted you back the second you left. Couldn't stop thinking about how good you felt riding me. How pretty you looked with my cock buried inside you. The breathless sound you made just as you were about to cum, fuck. I want to hear it again." You whimpered softly, already wet. The contrast between the overwhelming luxury surrounding you and the raw hunger in her voice made your head spin.

Natasha didn't give you long to admire the view. She turned you around, picked you up like you weighed nothing, and carried you over to the huge sectional. She sat down and pulled you astride her lap, hands immediately sliding under your hoodie to grip your bare waist.

"Take this off." She ordered, already tugging the fabric upward. You obeyed quickly, pulling the hoodie over your head. Your full breasts spilled free, you hadn't worn a bra.

Natasha groaned at the sight, leaning in to suck one dark nipple into her mouth while her hands squeezed your ass.

"You're just so fucking perfect," she growled against your skin.

"This body has been driving me crazy for too many fucking days." You rocked against the thick bulge in her sweatpants, moaning softly. The city lights sparkled behind you through the massive windows as Natasha freed her heavy cock and pushed your leggings and panties to the side.

She didn't tease this time.She lined up and pulled you down onto her in one smooth, deep thrust, burying every thick inch inside you.You gasped sharply, head falling back as the stretch burned so good. Natasha's lips parted, eyes trained on those pink lips of yours. Her thumb pushed your bottom lip down, your tongue coming out to lick the digit. You maintained eye contact while you sucked her thumb and you could see the way Natasha swallowed thickly before she trailed that same thumb down your stomach, to your clit.

Natasha then gripped your hips tightly and started guiding you to ride her, deep and steady bounces that made your breasts jiggle and your ass ripple like water.

"Look at me." She commanded. You did. Those intense green eyes stayed locked on yours as she fucked up into you, the wet sounds of your pussy taking her cock filling the luxurious penthouse.

This was only your second time with her, but it already felt dangerously addictive.

And as Natasha pulled you down harder, growling "Good girl" while the city watched silently through the windows, you realized something thrilling:

You were already in deep.

—-

You woke up slowly, wrapped in the softest sheets you'd ever felt. The first thing you noticed was the warmth. A solid, strong body pressed against your back, one heavy arm draped possessively over your waist. The second was the view. Floor-to-ceiling windows let in soft morning light, painting the entire penthouse in golden hues. The city stretched out endlessly below, making you feel like you were floating in the sky.

You were in Natasha's bed. Memories from a few hours ago flooded back. Natasha fucking you on the sectional, then carrying you to bed and taking you again. So much slower, and so fucking deep, until you were shaking and moaning her name. Until you could feel her in your stomach, just hitting that spongy spot that made you see stars over and over again. She fucked you so good, you went silent, mouth opened in an "o" shape.

"Don't you dare look away. I want to see you." She whispered, telling you how she wanted to see you fall apart. You came so hard that moment, thigh lifting slightly while you let out a choked gasp. You'd fallen asleep with her still buried inside you.

Now, Natasha was awake. You could feel her watching you. Her fingers traced lazy patterns on your bare stomach, occasionally brushing the underside of your breast. Her thick cock was already half-hard, resting against the curve of your ass.

"Morning, gorgeous." she murmured, voice husky with sleep and that faint accent. She pressed a slow kiss to the back of your neck.

"Sleep well?" You turned in her arms to face her, suddenly shy under the bright morning light. Natasha looked devastating, her silver-streaked auburn hair messy, sharp green eyes soft with satisfaction, pale skin marked with a few faint scratches you'd left on her shoulders last night and earlier that morning.

"I... yeah." You whispered, a giddy little smile tugging at your lips.

"This bed is ridiculous. Everything here is ridiculous." Natasha chuckled lowly and pulled you closer, hooking one of your thick thighs over her hip. Her hand slid down to squeeze your ass possessively.

"You look good in my bed." she said, eyes roaming over your dark skin against her white sheets.

"I could get used to waking up to this." Your heart did a little flip. This was only your second night together, but the way she looked at you...like she didn't want you to leave, it made butterflies erupt in your stomach again.

Natasha leaned in and kissed you, slow and deep. The kiss quickly grew heated. Her hand slipped between your thighs, finding you already wet for her again.

"You're just so greedy huh?" she teased against your lips, sliding two fingers inside you easily. "Even after I fucked you twice last night, your pussy, she just gets so wet." You moaned softly, rocking against her hand and pulling it closer to guide her movements.

"Can't help it... you feel too good." Natasha rolled you onto your back and settled between your spread thighs. She pushed inside you in one smooth thrust, groaning at the tight heat. This time it was lazy morning sex , deep and slow rolls of her hips, eyes locked on yours the entire time.

"Fuck, you take me so well." She breathed, forehead pressed to yours.

"This pretty wet pussy was made for my cock."

You wrapped your legs around her waist, nails digging into her back as she fucked you steadily. The morning light illuminated every detail. The way her silver hair caught the sun, the flex of muscle in her shoulders, the intense focus in her green eyes as she watched you fall apart. When you came, it was soft and shuddering, a quiet moan of her name leaving your lips. Natasha followed right after, burying herself deep and filling you with warm cum as she groaned against your neck.

She stayed inside you afterward, holding you close while the city woke up far below.

"I want you to stay longer today." she said quietly, brushing curls from your face.

"Cancel whatever you had planned. Let me feed you breakfast. Then maybe fuck you in the shower." You laughed breathlessly, still floating from the orgasm.

"You're not tired of me yet?" Natasha's expression turned serious. She cupped your cheek, thumb stroking your skin.

"Not even close," she murmured.

"I told you, I don't do this, inviting someone back the very next night. But with you... I can't seem to stop." Your heart swelled with that giddy, dangerous feeling again. You were falling fast. Too fast.

But lying here in her bed, full of her cum, wrapped in her arms while the morning sun warmed your skin... you couldn't find it in yourself to care.

"I'll stay, just cause you promised me pancakes." You whispered, leaning up to kiss her.

Natasha smiled against your lips. Slow, satisfied, and just a little possessive. Her arms wrapped around you, rough calloused digits tracing your back.

"Good girl."

—-

You left Natasha's penthouse around 11 AM.

She'd tried to convince you to stay longer by offering breakfast in bed (which you gladly took) and another round in the shower (messy, long, steamy and no not from the hot water). Natasha even suggested you cancel your plans for the entire day. But you needed a moment to breathe. Your body was deliciously sore, your mind was spinning, and you still smelled like her cologne and sex.

The town car dropped you off at your modest apartment building. The contrast was almost comical, going from a sky-high glass palace with marble floors and city views to your small one bedroom with creaky floors and a kitchen that barely fit two people. You kicked off your converse, collapsed onto your couch, and stared at the ceiling for a solid five minutes, replaying everything. Then you grabbed your phone and opened your messages with Anna.

You two had a strict "no TMI" policy. Nothing was off-limits.

You

Girl. I need you to sit down. I just left someone's penthouse. Like... 5 minutes ago.

Anna's typing bubble popped up instantly.

Anna

BITCH WHAT. Who??? You better not be talking about some random club guy. Spill RIGHT NOW.

You bit your lip, grinning as you typed, still feeling that giddy, floaty feeling in your chest.

You

Her name is Natasha. She's kind of a Silver fox. Late 40s/early 50s. Rich as hell. Like... stupid rich.

You paused for a moment, grinning like some teenager.

You

She has a penthouse that looks like it belongs in a movie. Floor to ceiling windows, grand piano, the whole thing. I felt like I didn't even belong there in my sneakers. I kinda met her at that gig you gave me and well we talked but nothing happened.

Anna

Hello!!?? That was a while ago

You

I'm not done. So then, a few weeks later I saw her at the club and she was watching me. She paid like a lot of money for me to dance for her. But the two weeks after that, she came back and asked for a full night performance and I guess we kind of fucked.

Your cheeks began to heat up from the memories. You even kicked your legs like some lovesick teenager.

Anna

Kinda??? And then what?! Don't leave me hanging.

You

We fucked okay. Anna, the dick is LIFE CHANGING. Thick, curved, she knows exactly how to use it. I rode her on her couch the first night. She fucked me twice more before I left this morning. I can literally still feel her inside me rn.

You sent a string of flushed-face emojis.

Anna

HOLD TF UP. You went home with a rich white woman. A WHOLE DAY AGO and you're just now telling me???

You

I was busy.

Anna

Well know I know why. Details. Measurements if possible. Is she a top? Does she eat pussy? I need the full report!!!

You laughed out loud in your quiet apartment, cheeks burning as you typed back.

You

She's a top. Very much a top. She ate me out like she was starving. Made me come so hard my back arched off the bed for a long moment. And she's so possessive but in this hot, controlled way. Woke me up this morning by pulling me on top of her and fucking me slow while staring into my eyes. Told me she couldn't stop thinking about me and wanted me to stay longer.

Anna

Woah

You

Anna... I'm scared of how much I already like her. Like, stupid giddy. I was smiling the whole car ride home like some idiot

Anna

Babe. This sounds like danger. Rich older woman who fucks like a god and lives in a sky palace? Red flags but also... live your best life??? But be careful. Make sure she's not just playing games. Also send pics of the penthouse next time if you can 😂

You smiled, hugging a pillow to your chest.

For the first time, you had someone in your life who felt bigger than just a client or a one-night stand. And telling Anna about it made it feel real.

You

I'll be careful. But... I think I'm gonna see her again. Soon.

Anna

Of course you are. Just don't fall too fast, babe. Keep me updated on that silver fox dick tho.

You put your phone down, still grinning like a fool. Even back in your small apartment, surrounded by your normal life, you could still feel Natasha's hands on your body and hear her whispering "good girl" in your ear.

And you knew that this was only the beginning.

—-

Natasha Romanoff didn't do this. She didn't just invite women back to her penthouse the very next night. She didn't text at 4 AM because she couldn't stop thinking about someone or how they sounded when they laughed. And she certainly didn't spend the entire morning after watching her sleep with a stupid, soft smile on her face. Yet here she was. Still thinking about you.

After you left, Natasha stood at the floor-to-ceiling windows, coffee in hand, staring out at the city. She was now wearing only her silk robe, your scent, coconut, vanilla, and sex was still clinging to her skin. She couldn't stop replaying it. The way you'd looked riding her on the couch that first night. The surprised, breathless sounds you made when she filled you. How your right thigh lifted when you came. The shy but glowing smile on your face when you woke up in her bed this morning. Natasha was in trouble.

Her phone buzzed. A group chat.

Carol

Brunch? I'm in town for 48 hours.

Wanda

I'm free. Natasha, you better not be working.

Natasha sighed and typed back.

Natasha

My place. 1 PM.

Two hours later, Carol Danvers and Wanda Maximoff were sprawled across her sectional like they owned it. Carol, blonde and athletic in jeans and a leather jacket, was nursing a mimosa. Wanda, with her soft red hair and knowing green eyes, was curled up with a cup of tea.

They both noticed something was off immediately.

"Well you're glowing." Wanda said, tilting her head with a small smirk.

"And you have that 'I got laid and it was good' look. Spill." Natasha leaned against the kitchen island, arms crossed.

"It's nothing." Carol barked out a laugh.

"Bullshit. You never invite us over last minute unless something's up. Who is she?" Natasha was quiet for a moment, then sighed.

"Her name is... y/n" she said, the name feeling intimate on her tongue.

"Shes young and so beautiful. Curves that should be illegal. She was waitressing at the Harrington event a couple of weeks ago. Some assholes were being rude to her. I shut it down... and then.."Wanda's eyebrows rose.

"You took a waitress home didn't you?"

"No!" Natasha frowned.

"That night we were at the club."

"What club?"

"The time Rio lost the bet and we went to the strip club, I saw her again. She's a dancer."

Carol grinned.

"You fucked the stripper didn't you?" Natasha shot her a look.

"How did you-"

"Because you have that 'I can't stop thinking about her' face," Carol said, pointing.

"The same face you get when you're closing a deal you're obsessed with. Except this time it's a person." Wanda had placed her drink down, her attention was now solely focused on the redhead.

"You guys had sex?"

"Yes."

"With the stripper?"

"Wanda she's more than just a stripper." Natasha murmured after taking a sip from her wine glass.

"And you like her?" Wanda asked and Natasha paused before nodding.

"Fuck. I think I do." Wanda leaned forward, more gentle.

"You like her." She repeated, softer this time.

Natasha ran a hand through her silver-streaked hair.

"I do." She  admitted quietly.

"More than I should after two nights. She's... different. She's got this fire. She's just..."

"Indescribable." Carol finished and Natasha nodded.

Wanda's expression softened with understanding.

"Sounds like you're falling, Nat." Natasha didn't deny it. She just stared out the window, a small, rare smile tugging at her lips.

"She makes me feel... greedy. Like I want all of her time. All of her attention. I want to spoil her. Protect her from the assholes at that club." She let out a breath.

"It's only been two nights and I'm already thinking about when I can see her again."

Carol clapped her on the shoulder.

"Then stop overthinking and go get your girl. You deserve something real for once." Wanda nodded.

"Just be careful. Don't scare her off with the full Romanoff intensity too fast." Natasha chuckled, but her mind was already drifting back to you, wondering what you were doing right now, if you were sore, if you were thinking about her too.

She was falling. And for the first time in years, she wasn't sure she wanted to stop. Age be damned.

—-

You were lying in bed, freshly showered, wearing nothing but an oversized t-shirt. Your body was still tender. Your thighs sore, pussy faintly throbbing from how thoroughly Natasha had fucked you that morning. Every time you moved, you felt the ghost of her thick cock stretching you open. Your phone lit up.

Natasha

Tell me you're still thinking about me.

You bit your lip hard, a rush of heat flooding between your legs

You

How could I not? I can still feel you inside me.

Natasha

Good. I've been hard for the last hour just remembering how you looked riding me this morning. That pretty puffy pussy taking every inch. The way your thighs just kept lifting every time you came.

You squirmed on the bed, pressing your thighs together.

You

You're dangerous. I'm literally wet again just reading this.

Natasha

Send me a picture.

Your heart raced, heart slamming against your ribs . You hesitated for half a second, then angled your phone down. You pulled your shirt up, spread your thighs, and took a quick photo , showing your slick, puffy pussy still slightly swollen from earlier. Fuck it.

You sent it.

Natasha

Fuck. Look at that pretty pussy. Still leaking my cum? I should've kept you in my bed all day. Should've fucked you until you couldn't walk.

You

I'm sore but I want more. You ruined me for anyone else already.

Natasha

That's the plan.

You let out a shaky breath, fingers hovering over the keyboard as heat pooled low in your belly.

You

You're really trying to make me touch myself tonight, huh?

Natasha

Shouldn't have to try. You're already soaked just from texting me. Tell me the truth, are you touching that pretty pussy right now?

Your hand had already slipped between your thighs without you realizing. You bit your lip harder and typed with one hand.

You

...Yes.

You paused before continuing.

You

I'm so wet. Can't stop thinking about how deep you were this morning.

Natasha

Show me.

Another picture request. Your heart hammered as you spread your legs wider, angled the camera, and snapped a new photo,  this one showing two of your fingers glistening with your slick, your swollen clit peeking out.  You sent it.

Natasha

Fuck, look at you. You're such a needy little thing. Playing with that pussy while thinking about my cock. I want you to fuck yourself with those fingers and pretend it's me stretching you open.

You moaned softly in the quiet of your room and pushed two fingers inside yourself, eyes fluttering shut as you imagined her thick length instead.

You

Feels so good but not enough... I need you. Want you to bend me over and fuck me until I can't walk straight.

Natasha

Careful, beautiful. Keep talking like that and I'll come over there right now and ruin you all over again.

You

And what if I want that?

Natasha

Oh baby, I want those thighs shaking while I pound you. Want to hear you moan my name until your voice gives out.

You were breathing harder now, fingers moving faster as you read her messages.

You

Please... I'm so close. Tell me what you'd do to me.

Natasha

I'd pin you down on your back, spread those thick thighs wide, and slam every inch into you. I'd fuck you hard and deep until that pretty wet pussy is creaming all over my cock. And then I'd flip you over and fill you up while you're still shaking for me.

That pushed you over the edge. You came with a choked moan, thighs trembling, fingers buried deep as your pussy clenched and pulsed. You snapped one last blurry, post-orgasm picture, your fingers shiny and your pussy visibly wet and twitching , and you sent it.

Natasha

Jesus Christ.

She typed for a moment before the bubbles disappeared. Then they reappeared.

Natasha

Good girl. Such a perfect, messy little slut for me. I'm so fucking hard right now. Tomorrow night. After your shift. My car will be waiting.

Natasha

And you'd better not be wearing any panties.

You smiled breathlessly, still coming down from your high.

You

Yes, ma'am. I can't wait.

Natasha

Get some rest, beautiful. You're going to need it.

You locked your phone and stared at the ceiling, heart racing and a stupid grin on your face.

This woman was going to be the death of you.

And you were already counting down the hours until you saw her again.

—-

The club was packed, but the second you spotted her in the VIP booth, everything else faded.

Natasha sat like she owned the place — legs spread, black suit tailored perfectly to her powerful frame, silver-streaked auburn hair catching the lights. Her green eyes were locked on you with intense, burning focus. She wasn't smiling. She was watching every move you made like a predator.  So you danced for her.

Every roll of your hips, every arch of your back, every slow, filthy grind against the pole, it was all for her. You caught her gaze during a deep dip, biting your lip as you rolled your body back up. Natasha's jaw clenched. Her hand tightened around her glass. You winked before moving again.

By the end of your set you were soaked and buzzing. You grabbed the last of the money before walking off to the empty dressing rooms. You barely had time to step into your dressing room before the door opened behind you.

Natasha stepped in, locked the door, and had you pinned against the vanity in seconds. Her mouth crashed into yours, hungry, possessive, and almost angry.

"You danced like a fucking tease." She growled against your lips, hands already yanking your emerald bikini top down.

"Shaking that perfect ass for them. Letting every worthless man in here stare at what's mine."

You moaned into the kiss, grinding against the very obvious bulge in her slacks. When she pulled back for air, you looked up at her, breathing hard, and took her wrist.

"Yours?" you challenged, voice breathy but defiant. You guided her hand down your body, pushing it under the waistband of your tiny bikini bottoms until her fingers pressed against your dripping, swollen pussy.

"Yours?" you repeated, guiding two of her fingers to rub slow, firm circles over your clit.

"You sure about that already old woman?Natasha's eyes flashed with dark heat. She pushed both fingers deep inside you without warning, curling them hard as she pressed you back against the vanity.

"Yes," she snarled, fucking you roughly with her fingers.

"This pussy is dripping for me. Not for them. Mine." You gasped, head falling back as she pumped her fingers fast and deep, thumb rubbing your clit. Your thigh started to lift and tremble against her hip as pleasure built fast.

Natasha hooked her arm under your thigh, holding it up higher so she could watch it shake while she finger-fucked you.

"That's it," she growled.

Look at this pretty thigh trembling for me. Your body already knows who it belongs to. Your pussy knows where home is too."

You came hard with a broken cry, pussy gushing around her fingers, thigh shaking violently in her grip. Natasha kept working you through it, then pulled her fingers out and spun you around.

She bent you over the vanity, freed her thick cock, and slammed into you in one brutal thrust.

You cried out, gripping the edge as she immediately started pounding you hard from behind.

The mirror showed everything. Your breasts bouncing, Natasha's face dark with lust as she watched her cock disappear inside you over and over.

"Say it." She demanded, one hand fisting your curls, the other slapping your ass hard.

"Tell me who this pussy belongs to."

"Yours." You moaned, voice breaking.

"It's yours, Nat-" She thrust deeper.

"Who's? I didn't get that." Another rough thrust.

"It's yours Nat." She fucked you harder, deeper, until you came again with a silent scream, thighs shaking uncontrollably. Natasha buried herself to the hilt and came with a low groan, flooding you with thick, hot cum.

She stayed inside you for a long moment, both of you panting. Then she leaned down, kissing the back of your neck almost tenderly while still buried deep.

"Mine."  She whispered and you smiled breathlessly.

"Yours."

“If we put Thor’s hammer on some sort of tray,” Clint continues, gesturing with both hands to illustrate the concept, “and then pick up the tray…technically that counts as lifting the hammer, right?”

Natasha hums thoughtfully, tilting her head in exaggerated contemplation.

“Hmm,” she says slowly. “Interesting point.”

Clint brightens immediately.

“But,” Natasha adds, her green eyes glinting with amusement as she turns to him, “would it be you who’s worthy…or the tray?”

Clint opens his mouth and then pauses. His brows slowly knit together as he processes the loophole she just introduced.

Natasha watches him rub his chin in concentration, a small, amused huff leaving her nose. She shifts her weight slightly against the counter, enjoying the rare moment of downtime.

It’s peaceful, which is exactly why she doesn’t notice the footsteps approaching before a pair of arms suddenly slips around her waist from behind.

The action comes with a familiar ease as the warm body settle lightly against her back. Before she can turn, a chin rests comfortably on her shoulder.

“I know who’s worthy,” you murmur, your voice low as your words brush against the shell of her ear.

Natasha’s smirk appears instantly. She tilts her head just enough to glance at you from the corner of her eye, one brow arching in amusement.

“Do you now?” she asks, playing along.

You nod, a confident little grin spreading across your face.

“Mmmhmm.”

Your arms remain loosely wrapped around her waist, casual and unapologetic. One of your hands slips beneath the hem of her shirt, fingertips lightly brushing the skin at her side.

“And she’s pretty cute too,” you add offhandedly. “Especially when she wishes me luck before I leave for my mission.”

Natasha snorts softly under her breath.

“And if I don’t?”

“Then we’re going to have a problem,” you warn in playful threat.

Natasha simply raises her brow, unmoved by your words.

When it’s clear she’s not budging, you tilt your head and respond with an exaggerated pout, batting your eyelashes at her with ridiculous enthusiasm.

“Come on,” you say dramatically. “Don’t leave me hanging, Romanoff.”

Natasha chuckles at your antics, shaking her head. Still, she turns within your arms until she’s facing you. Her hands rise to your face, cupping it with easy familiarity as her thumbs brush gently across your cheeks.

For a moment, the playful noise of the room fades into the background.

“Good luck on your mission,” Natasha says softly.

Your smile appears instantly, but then—

Flick.

Her finger taps your forehead.

“Hey—!” you protest, instantly bringing your hands up to soothe the spot.

Natasha’s lips curl into a small, teasing smirk.

“Don’t do anything reckless,” she adds.

You respond with an exaggerated pout.

Before you can retaliate, the calm kitchen atmosphere is abruptly interrupted as FRIDAY’s voice echoes through the room, calling your name.

“Mr. Stark has requested me to inform you that if you are not in the hangar bay in the next sixty seconds, he will leave without you.”

A beat passes before she continues.

“Fifty-eight…fifty-seven…fifty-six…”

You roll your eyes and sigh.

“Alright, guess I’m going now.”

You back away, already heading toward the doors, though you pause long enough to point a warning finger at Natasha.

“This isn’t over,” you tell her with mock seriousness. “I’m getting back at you when I return.”

Natasha leans casually against the counter again, folding her arms.

“Sure you will,” she replies, entirely unconvinced.

You point at her again as if issuing a formal threat. Then you disappear through the doors.

Natasha watches them slide shut behind you before a quiet chuckle escapes her.

When she turns back around, she finds Clint staring at her with a raised brow. It’s the look he gets when he thinks he’s figured something out.

Natasha narrows her eyes.

“What’s with your face?”

Clint leans forward slightly against the counter, folding his arms.

“So,” he says carefully, “are you two together now?”

Natasha’s expression immediately flattens. 

“No,” she says, her tone firm. “You already know what kind of relationship I have with her.”

Clint waves his hand vaguely.

“Right, right. The whole casual friends-with-benefits situationship.”

He points toward the door you just exited through.

“However…”

Natasha already doesn’t like where this is going.

“…that just now seemed a bit on the coupley side of things.”

Natasha rolls her eyes at his ridiculous observation. 

“It was a hug, Clint.”

“Uh-huh.”

Clint nods thoughtfully.

“I mean,” he continues, “Laura hugs me like that all the time.”

Natasha gives him an unimpressed stare at his comparison. What you did just now is not the same thing.

“It’s just a hug,” she insists.

“Sure,” Clint says with a shrug. Then he tilts his head slightly. “But have you seen her hug anyone else like that?”

Natasha opens her mouth, but then she pauses. Her eyes narrow slightly as she thinks about it.

Because…no. Not really.

You’re friendly. You joke with everyone. You throw your arms around someone’s shoulders sometimes during celebrations or victories.

But that kind of hug?

Arms around the waist. Chin on the shoulder. Body pressed against hers.

That was different. You don’t usually do affectionate stuff like that outside the bedroom.

Still, Natasha quickly pushes the thought aside.

You and she spent last night together. Maybe it was just leftover affection from that.

Post-sex warmth. Nothing unusual. Nothing meaningful.

Except, for some reason, the thought of you hugging someone else like that causes a strange irritation in her chest.

Natasha frowns faintly at the feeling. Then she shakes her head, brushing the thought away.

“You’re overanalyzing,” she says firmly. “It meant nothing.”

Clint raises both hands in surrender.

“If you say so.”

His expression, however, clearly says he doesn’t believe her. Still, he’s learned not to push Natasha when she uses that tone.

Instead, he nods toward the counter again.

“So,” Clint says casually, returning to the earlier debate, “picking up the tray with Thor’s hammer on top?”

Natasha smirks again.

“Doesn’t make you worthy.”

Clint sighs dramatically.

“Damn.”

~~~~~~~ ⧗ ~~~~~~~

The room is quiet.

Not the brittle, suffocating silence that sometimes settles over the Compound after a mission. Not the kind that presses in from all sides and demands to be filled.

This one is softer. Almost fragile. The kind that lingers in the aftermath of something warm.

Natasha lies awake on her back, eyes fixed on the ceiling above her.

Sleep refuses to come.

It hovers just out of reach, close enough that she can feel it pulling at her, but never quite close enough to take hold.

Beside her, your body is warm. You’re tucked into her side beneath the sheets, your presence a steady, grounding weight against her. Your arm rests loosely around her waist, fingers curled just slightly against her stomach like you’d fallen asleep mid-thought.

Your breathing is slow and even. Soft against her skin. 

You usually aren’t here this long.

Most nights follow a pattern—one that neither of you ever bothered to name, but both of you understand perfectly. It starts the same. You come together, lose yourselves for a while, share a few quiet moments afterward. Sometimes, a conversation drifts lazily between nothing and everything. A few smirks, maybe a teasing remark.

And then you leave.

Always before it lingers too long. Always before it can become something else.

But tonight is different.

You had just gotten back from a mission, longer than usual, rougher by the look of it. Natasha had seen it in the way your shoulders carried tension, in the way your movements were just a fraction slower than normal. And so, the moment you stepped off the jet, she had taken you into her arms and pulled you straight into her room.

Instinct. Habit. Maybe something else.

Clothes hadn’t lasted long. They never do.

But afterward, after a momentary respite of just losing yourselves in each other, instead of leaving, you had just curled into her side, exhaled once, and fallen asleep almost instantly, like your body had finally given out the moment it felt safe enough to.

And Natasha had let you stay.

Slowly, her gaze shifts, and she looks down at you.

Your face is half-hidden against her collarbone, your hair slightly disheveled, messy in that way that comes from both sleep and everything that came before it.

For a long moment, she simply watches you.

There’s something unguarded about you like this. Something softer than the version of you she usually sees—the one who jokes, who fights, who moves through the world with sharp edges and practiced confidence. This version of you seems like it’s reserved for her eyes only.

And Natasha doesn’t know what to do with that. 

Inevitably, her mind drifts. Back to the kitchen. The hug. Clint’s words.

Her chest tightens slightly at the memory, the feeling subtle but persistent. Annoyingly so. And with it comes the thought she had pushed down at the time.

Did it mean anything?

“You’re thinking really loud,” you mumble against her skin. The words are rough with sleep, barely formed, but they cut cleanly through her thoughts.

Natasha blinks, startled, her gaze snapping back down to you.

Your eyes are only half-open, unfocused, like you’re hovering somewhere between awake and asleep.

“You’re awake?” she murmurs quietly.

“Barely,” you grumble.

You shift slightly, adjusting your position so your chin rests more comfortably against her shoulder. Your arm wraps firmly around her waist in an absent, instinctive movement.

Natasha’s gaze flickers downward to your hand, resting against her stomach. Then back to your face.

“What was with that hug before you left?” she asks quietly.

You lift your head just enough to look at her properly, blinking like you’re trying to piece together what she’s talking about.

“What hug?”

“The one in the kitchen,” she clarifies. “Before your mission.”

Your brows draw together slightly.

“What about it?”

Natasha shifts onto her side, propping her head up with one hand so she can see you properly. The movement creates a small distance between you, just enough for her to notice.

“I don’t know,” she says slowly. “Clint was saying some things, and it just seemed…”

She trails off, searching.

“…intimate.”

The word lingers between you.

You go still for a second, thinking.

“Oh.” 

It’s quiet. Almost too casual. But something changes.

Without seeming to realize it, your arm slips away from around her waist. It’s subtle. But the absence is immediate.

The space you leave behind feels colder than it should.

Natasha hates how quickly she notices.

You run a hand through your hair, still looking thoughtful.

“I guess I didn’t really think about it,” you admit. “It just sort of happened.”

Natasha nods faintly. That’s what she expected. Clint had been reading into it. Overanalyzing, like he always does. The hug didn’t mean anything.

It was just—

Nothing.

For some reason, that revelation doesn’t bring the relief she thought it would.

You sit up with a quiet stretch, a tired yawn slipping past your lips. The sheets fall away from you as you move, revealing the tank top and underwear you must’ve pulled on at some point.

Natasha’s eyes track the motion automatically. She remembers exactly how those clothes had ended up on the floor earlier.

The urgency. The heat. The way neither of you had slowed down long enough to think.

Now, you stand beside the bed, scanning the floor for the rest of your clothes.

The contrast is jarring.

Natasha stays quiet, watching as you dress—pulling your shirt back on, stepping into your pants, smoothing each fold as if putting yourself back together piece by piece.

When you finish, you turn toward her again. You lower yourself onto the mattress beside her, leaning in. Your hand lifts to her chin, gently guiding her eyes back to yours.

Then your lips press softly against hers.

Natasha responds without hesitation. Her hand slides up to the back of your neck, fingers curling lightly into your hair as she kisses you back.

For a brief moment, the thought crosses her mind.

Pull you down. Keep you here. Start it all over again. Lose herself in something easier than this feeling sitting in her chest.

But before she can act on it, you pull away.

“Sorry about that,” you murmur, your voice still close enough that she can feel the words against her lips. “I’ll try not to do anything like that again.”

Natasha’s brows knit slightly. She tilts her head upward, chasing your mouth for another brief kiss.

“It didn’t bother me,” she says quietly.

You smile, soft and small.

But when she leans in again, you pull back. Just enough to be out of reach. Her hand lingers in the air where you had been.

“But you’re right,” you continue gently. “That kind of thing’s too intimate.”

Your expression softens further.

“At least when we’re not hooking up.”

The words settle heavily in the quiet room.

“We agreed this was casual,” you remind her.

Natasha nods slowly. She remembers how this all started. Months ago, at one of Tony’s infamous parties. Too much music. Too much alcohol. Too many people packed into the living room.

The night had blurred into laughter, dancing, and eventually, one very impulsive decision. 

The morning after had been awkward. Not because either of you regretted it, but because you both understood exactly what it could become.

And what that would mean.

In this line of work, relationships don’t come easy.

They come with risk. With distance. With the constant possibility of loss.

Neither of you had ever been particularly successful at making relationships work in the past. Neither of you had ever been good at holding onto something like that.

So Natasha made it simple.

No expectations. No attachments. Just something to take the edge off between missions. Something steady in the middle of chaos.

And it has worked so far. 

You lean down again, pressing one last, gentle kiss to her lips.

“Let’s not blur the boundaries, Natasha,” you say softly. Then you pull away. You slide off the bed, your movements quiet as you head toward the door.

“Sweet dreams.”

The door clicks shut behind you, and the room falls silent again.

Natasha exhales slowly, her head sinking back against the pillow. Relief settles over her. Or something like it.

The misunderstanding is gone.

Everything is exactly what it’s supposed to be.

What you have is casual. Simple. Safe. It’s better this way.

She repeats it to herself as she closes her eyes.

Again. And again. And again.

Eventually, sleep begins to take her.

But no matter how many times she repeats it, it doesn’t quite erase the faint, persistent ache in her chest.

~~~~~~~ ⧗ ~~~~~~~

Natasha takes a slow, measured sip from her glass, letting the burn of the liquor settle before she swallows. To anyone else in the crowded living room, she looks perfectly at ease, just leaning casually against the bar at one of Tony Stark’s increasingly extravagant parties.

The room is alive with movement and sound. Music pulses through hidden speakers, low and rhythmic, blending with the hum of overlapping conversations. Laughter erupts from every corner. Glasses clink in celebration of yet another successful mission. The Avengers are relaxed, off-duty, and untouchable for the night.

Everything appears normal.

But if anyone cared to look closely, they would notice the cracks beneath her surface.

The subtle tension in her posture. The way her fingers tighten almost imperceptibly around the stem of her glass. The faint clench of her jaw.

And most telling of all, the fact that Natasha’s gaze hasn’t shifted in several minutes.

She isn’t watching the party. She’s watching you.

When you told her you would avoid doing things like the hug, the things that blurred lines, it hadn’t seemed like a big deal at the time. A new boundary drawn, respected without argument.

At first, Natasha thought she wouldn’t even notice the difference.

But she had been wrong.

It started small.

A movie night in the common room.

Where you used to drop onto the couch beside her without hesitation, your shoulder pressed comfortably against hers, your presence warm and familiar. Sometimes you would lean into her without thinking, your head resting briefly against her arm as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

Now, you sit on the opposite end. A pillow placed neatly between you two, creating a quiet, deliberate space.

Then in the gym.

After sparring, when both of you were catching your breath, Natasha had paused in front of you, expecting, without thinking, that same absentminded gesture where your hand fixes a loose strand of hair behind her ear as you made some teasing remark about her fighting skills.

But this time, you passed right by her, reaching behind her instead and grabbing your towel and water bottle without so much as grazing her skin.

Even during mission briefings, the difference was impossible to ignore.

You used to lean over her shoulder to read the screen, your presence close behind her. She could feel your warmth at her back, your breath near her ear as you murmured observations only she could hear.

Now, you stood at the table with your own tablet.

Still beside her but never close.

Always careful. Always just far enough away.

Natasha swirls the amber liquid in her glass, watching the way it catches the light.

So this is what you meant. This is the new boundary.

And she had agreed to it.  

So why does it feel like something is missing? Why does the absence of those touches that “meant nothing” feel so…loud?

Her gaze sharpens slightly.

And more importantly, why are you giving them to someone else?

Natasha’s jaw tightens at the sight.

Across the room, you’re laughing. There’s a looseness to your movements, a little more relaxed, your smile a little brighter. Tony’s been generous with the drinks tonight, and it shows. You’re not out of control. Just…lighter.

Your arm is draped casually around Carol Danvers’ shoulders as the two of you talk, the two of you caught in your own bubble of conversation.

Carol laughs, her head tipping back at something you say. And you laugh with her. Then, without hesitation, your arms slip around her from behind, pulling her into a playful hug.

Natasha’s grip tightens around her glass.

It should mean nothing. It is nothing.

Just like how it is for her.

But to her irritation, the hug lingers. Your arms don’t drop right away from the other woman.

Carol nudges you with her elbow and says something in response, prompting you to lean closer so you can hear her over the music. You lean in a little too much, your face drifting into her space with an ease that feels overly familiar.

A sudden, sharp heat twists in Natasha’s chest.

Before she fully registers her own reaction, she downs the rest of her drink in a single motion. The glass meets the counter with a quiet yet decisive sound.

Then she moves.

Natasha crosses the room with clear intent, weaving through groups of people without slowing.

You’re still smiling when she reaches you, still caught mid-laugh as you turn to greet her.

“Hey—”

Her hand closes firmly around your wrist as she pulls you away from the other woman. You look at her in surprise, but you do not resist as she leads you through the crowd.

Behind her, Carol calls out, her tone light and amused.

“Hey, Romanoff, what’s the rush?”

Natasha does not respond or look back. She continues forward, guiding you toward the hallway.

You glance over your shoulder, your smile lingering.

“I’ll catch up with you later, Danvers!” you call.

The promise sharpens Natasha’s irritation. Within moments, she pulls you into her room.

The door closes behind you with a quiet click, and the atmosphere shifts immediately.

You move first. Your arms slide around her neck as you pull her into a deep kiss.

Natasha responds without hesitation. Her hands grip the front of your shirt, fingers curling into the fabric as she kisses you back.

There is nothing gentle about it. The kiss is intense and consuming as she steps forward, erasing the space between you until your back meets the door with a soft impact.

She barely notices. All she feels is the heat building inside her.

For a brief moment, an image flashes through her mind of you standing with Carol, your arms around her, leaning in without hesitation.

The feeling tightens inside her, and Natasha presses into the kiss with greater intensity.

Her hand slides to the back of your neck, holding you in place as though anchoring you exactly where she wants you. Where she feels she needs you.

Mine.

The thought hits her before she can stop it. She resents it immediately, hating how natural it feels and how good it sounds.

Because the truth is, you do not belong to her. You never have. That was always the agreement.

When she pulls back, it is only for a brief breath. Her eyes move over your face, taking in your flushed cheeks, your softened expression, and the way you are looking at her, completely unaware of the conflict inside her.

“Hey, what’s wr—”

She silences you with another forceful kiss.

Your words dissolve into a soft sound against her lips.

Her hands rise to cup your face, drawing you closer as though she fears you might slip away if she lets go.

“Natasha…” you murmur.

The sound of her name on your lips sends a dull ache through her chest.

Still, she continues to kiss you. Again and again, her lips lingering briefly before moving to the corner of your mouth, your jaw, your cheek, and then back again. The rhythm becomes restless and searching, almost desperate, as though she is trying to remind both of you of something unspoken.

Eventually, your hands move to her waist and pull her closer.

The contact draws a quiet breath from her.

Your touch feels exactly the same as it always has, and she hates how much she has missed it.

Your fingers trace along her sides and slip beneath the hem of her shirt. The warmth of your touch against her skin sends a shiver through her.

But the sensation is complicated.

Even as she leans into it, something inside her aches. This is the only time you touch her like this now, hidden away behind closed doors.

Outside of this space, there is distance. No casual contact, no easy closeness, and no quiet affection shared without thought.

Yet tonight, Carol received that version of you.

The realization sharpens the ache. For a moment, Natasha allows herself to sink back into the kiss, into the feeling of you, into the illusion of being chosen.

But the thought does not fade.

Only here. Only like this.

Abruptly, Natasha pulls away. Her hand catches your wrist, stopping your movement beneath her shirt.

She shakes her head.

“I can’t do this.”

The words feel as though they tear something open inside her.

You blink at her, confusion crossing your face. Your head tilts slightly as you try to understand, and then your expression softens.

“Are you worried about the drinks?” you ask gently. “I’m fine. I only had a few.”

She shakes her head again and steps back, creating distance between you.

“No,” she says quietly, gesturing between you. “I can’t do this with you anymore.”

The words settle heavily in the space between you.

Your hands lift slightly, as if you intend to reach for her, but you stop yourself at the last second and let them fall back.

For a moment, you simply look at her. Then something in your expression shifts. Your arms fold loosely, your fingers gripping your sleeves.

“Oh.”

The sound is soft, almost lost, but the way your shoulders drop afterward makes her chest tighten painfully.

You look hurt, though you try not to show it.

Every instinct in Natasha urges her to move, to close the distance, to pull you back and say something that will erase that look from your face.

But she remains still.

What right does she have?

She agreed to something simple and uncomplicated.

Yet standing here, watching you try to act as though this does not matter, she finally faces the truth she has been avoiding.

She does not want something simple. She does not want something casual.

She wants you.

Not just in this room or within some boundary. She wants you openly and completely.

The realization arrives all at once, clear and undeniable, and entirely unhelpful.

Because the words still refuse to come.

You offer her a small smile that doesn’t reach your eyes.

“If that’s what you want, Natasha,” you say softly.

Her throat tightens as she tries to respond, but no words follow.

You nod once and turn toward the door. The quiet click as it closes behind you echoes through the room.

Natasha remains where she is long after you have gone, her chest tight and aching.

Only now does she understand why.

~~~~~~~ ⧗ ~~~~~~~

Natasha exhales slowly, releasing a quiet sigh as she leans her hip against the kitchen counter. One hand remains loosely wrapped around a ceramic mug whose warmth has long since faded, yet she makes no effort to refill it.

She is waiting, though she cannot fully define what she expects. Perhaps she is waiting for the coffee machine to finish, for the silence to shift, or for something deeper that she cannot quite name.

The steady drip of coffee fills the otherwise empty room.

It reminds her of how things were only weeks ago, before everything changed and before words were spoken that cannot be taken back.

Sunlight stretches across the polished countertops, catching along the edges of steel and glass. Somewhere within the walls, the faint hum of the tower’s systems continues, a constant reminder that life is still moving forward.

However, she doesn’t feel as though she is moving with it.

Her thoughts wander without restraint, circling back to that previous night. Every word, every glance, and every moment she wishes she could change plays repeatedly in her mind.

A dull ache settles in her chest, familiar and unwelcome. Despite how hard she tried to ignore it, it never truly fades, instead lingering with quiet persistence.

She closes her eyes briefly, hoping for relief, but nothing changes.

The sound of footsteps echoes faintly from the hallway. The rhythm is steady and unmistakable.

Natasha’s attention sharpens immediately, her body reacting before her thoughts fully catch up. She glances over her shoulder and straightens as soon as she sees you standing in the doorway.

You appear just as surprised to find her there.

For a moment, neither of you moves. The space between you feels heavier than it should, weighed down by everything that was said. The silence stretches, pressing in from every direction.

Eventually, you offer a small smile. It is soft and genuine, familiar in a way that causes something in her chest to tighten.

But you do not step closer.

Instead, you remain where you are, leaning casually against the doorframe as though an invisible boundary separates you. The distance itself is not large, but it is undeniable.

And Natasha notices it immediately. 

You clear your throat, the sound quiet but enough to break the tension.

“I am heading out for another mission today,” you say, your voice careful and measured. Your head tilts slightly, a habit she knows well, one that always made her smile without effort. “Wish me luck?”

The words are the same as always. The tone, the phrasing, and the moment itself are all familiar.

Everything surrounding them, however, is different.

There is space between you now, a deliberate distance that marks the line she has drawn.

Natasha swallows, her throat suddenly dry.

She understands what this moment means.

You are trying in your own way. You are trying to show her that things are still manageable between you, that you respect her decision, and that you can stand here and speak with her as though nothing has truly been lost.

Her fingers tighten slightly around the mug before she sets it down with a soft clink.

“Good luck,” she says quietly.

The words feel small and inadequate, but they are all she can manage.

Your smile lifts just a fraction more, and relief flickers across your expression. It is as though you expected resistance and are grateful not to find it. You nod once.

“Thanks, Natasha.”

Just like that, you accept it. You seem satisfied with that small offering, with the careful and restrained version of whatever exists between you now. You push away from the doorway and begin to turn, ready to leave things exactly as they are.

That is what breaks her composure.

It is the ease with which you accept the distance without question.

Something twists sharply in Natasha’s chest. In that instant, with startling clarity, she realizes she cannot continue like this. She cannot stand there pretending that polite smiles and quiet farewells are enough.

Her body moves before the thought fully settles.

“Wait.”

The word is soft, barely above a breath, but it stops you immediately.

You pause mid-step and glance back over your shoulder, confusion flickering across your face.

Natasha is already moving. She crosses the kitchen quickly, her steps decisive as she closes the space between you before doubt can interfere.

Before you can react, her hands rise, warm and steady as they cup your face.

Then she kisses you.

There is no hesitation, no restraint, no careful distance. There is only her, choosing you.

A soft, startled sound escapes you, muffled against her lips. For a brief moment, you freeze, caught off guard as you try to process what is happening.

Then instinct takes over.

Your hands find her waist and pull her closer as you return the kiss.

In that instant, everything falls back into place. The warmth, the familiarity, and the connection that never truly disappeared all return at once.

Natasha leans into you and deepens the kiss, pouring weeks of restraint, frustration, and unspoken emotion into it. Her grip tightens slightly, as though anchoring herself, as though afraid this moment might slip away again.

Your hold mirrors hers, firm and certain.

When she finally pulls back, both of you are breathing unevenly. She rests her forehead against yours, her thumbs brushing softly over your cheeks as she steadies herself in the moment.

“Don’t do anything reckless,” she murmurs.

The words are familiar, but their meaning has changed. This time, they carry everything she left unsaid before.

Your eyes open slowly as you study her face, and when your expression softens, Natasha knows that you understand.

This was not an accident or a lapse in judgment. It was a deliberate choice.

Before you can respond, FRIDAY’s voice cuts through the moment as she calls your name.

“Mr. Stark has requested that I inform you that if you are not in the hangar bay in the next sixty seconds, he will—”

“FRIDAY,” you interrupt calmly, “I got it.”

You do not look away from Natasha.

There is a brief pause.

“…Understood.”

Silence settles again, softer now.

Your hands remain at her waist, your fingers idly tugging at the edge of her top.

“So,” you say carefully, a hint of teasing in your voice, “are we establishing new boundaries?”

The question sounds light and joking, but Natasha knows what you’re really asking. You’re trying to understand what she is offering.

Natasha exhales sharply, her nose wrinkling slightly in slight irritation at the word.

“Yeah, new boundaries,” she mutters.

Your brow lifts slightly.

“And they are...?”

She rolls her eyes, though there is no real sharpness in the gesture. When she looks back at you, her expression is completely unguarded.

“Whatever lets me love you.”

The honesty is blunt and unfiltered in a way that’s entirely her.

For a moment, you simply stare at her in surprise. Then your smile spreads slowly, bright and certain. Your hands shift, slipping just beneath the hem of her shirt as your fingertips brush against her warm skin.

Natasha relaxes at the contact. Her eyes flutter closed, and a quiet sigh escapes her as relief washes over her.

The distance is gone.

Your arms wrap fully around her, pulling her into a tight embrace.

She melts into you instantly, burying her face against your shoulder as though it is the most natural place for her to be, as though she is finally allowed to rest there.

For a moment, neither of you moves.

Then, softly near your ear, Natasha speaks with quiet curiosity.

“That hug in the kitchen the other day…?”

You hum softly in response, waiting for her to finish.

“…Did it mean something?”

After a brief hesitation, you nod gently against her temple.

“Yeah,” you admit gently. “It did.”

Her arms tighten around you. And for a few seconds, the world narrows to just this moment, to the two of you standing in the quiet kitchen, holding onto something that never truly left.

“Forty-eight…forty-seven…forty-six…” FRIDAY'S voice counts softly in the background.

You groan quietly and pull back just enough to look at her, offering a reluctant, almost apologetic expression.

“This is not over,” you say with mock seriousness. You lean in and press a brief kiss to her lips before whispering, “I am going to tell you exactly how I feel when I get back.”

You begin to turn, but Natasha catches your arm and pulls you back against her. She arches a brow, a playful smirk forming on her lips.

“You honestly think I’m going to let you leave now?”

She leans closer to your face, close enough to steal your focus again.

Your grin returns instantly.

“Oh?”

Your arms slide around her waist once more, drawing her tightly against you.

“Are you planning to hold me here with you forever, Romanoff?”

Amusement flashes in her eyes.

“Maybe,” Natasha says, her smile widening. “Unless there is another boundary you would like to set.”

You rest your forehead gently against hers, a soft laugh escaping before you answer.

“No,” you murmur quietly. “That actually sounds perfect to me.”

~~~~~~~ ⧗ ~~~~~~~

When the small package you’d been impatiently waiting for for the past few days arrives at your door, you’re immediately grabbing at it and bringing it inside, eager to open up the box and give what you bought a try.

And try it you do.

Over and over.

Constantly.

But can anyone blame you? With your wife gone on a two-month long mission, all you have is the memory of her hands on your body, of her tongue trailing across your skin, of her fingers sliding through your slicked up folds… you’re beyond frustrated at this point. After a month and a half of your own hands and fingers, it just isn’t enough for you anymore. Even the vibrator hidden in your bedside drawer is lacking these days. Obviously, you had to figure out something else to satisfy the ever-burning need Natasha's absence has left you with.

So, you decided to try something new.

You ordered a dildo.

Bright red in color and thick—it’s girth something you were intimidated by at first—but the reviews were good, better than good, with countless of them detailing how the orgasms received were some of the best.

And although nothing will ever beat Natasha, the reviews certainly didn’t exaggerate.

You’ve leaked through the sheets, the silicone toy buried deep within you as you move it with a desperate, clawing urgency to bring yourself to your release. You certainly don’t hear the front door opening in the midst of your position.

You don’t hear Natasha’s call of your name, or her setting her stuff down on the counter. You don’t hear her footsteps come closer as the confused woman makes her way to the bedroom after your lack of an answer, having heard some noises coming from within.

As she gets near, the sounds become clearer, making themselves known as moans—your moans.

Because, in your head, it’s not you fucking you. It’s Natasha.

It’s Natasha’s whose hand is holding the toy, and she’s murmuring sweet praises in your ear as she plunges it into your wanting hole repeatedly. Her free hand is running up and down your stomach before settling on one of your breasts, kneading at the soft flesh and then pinching at your nipple.

With those thoughts, those images—your imagination running wild… Natasha’s fingers, Natasha’s mouth, Natasha’s presence—you fall apart, completely unaware that your wife has returned home.

But your post-orgasm bliss is cut short.

“Having fun without me?” Natasha asks, one eyebrow raised as she watches you breathing heavily, trying to settle yourself from your climax.

You jolt, eyes shooting open as you realize that you’re no longer alone, finding your wife looking down at you with a small smirk on her face as you lay sprawled across the bed, your body bare and sweaty, your face still feeling overheated and flushed, the toy still situated between your walls. She must’ve witnessed everything.

And you must be quite the sight right now.

“Natasha,” you manage to get out, “You’re- you’re home early.”

“Managed to retrieve the intel quicker than expected,” she says easily before circling the conversation back to the elephant in the room, “But hey, don’t let me interrupt.”

You gently pull the toy out from its position inside you, unable to suppress a shudder at the feeling of its removal, your core clenching down on it unconsciously.

“You know, I wasn’t expecting to have been replaced while I was gone,” Natasha comments playfully.

You scoff at that. “Oh, shut up. I’d hardly call this ‘replacing’ you.”

Her smirk widens, and her voice turns low and raspy as she gazes at you hungrily. You clearly missed her given the way you just came apart calling out her name. “Did you imagine it was me using it on you?” she asks even though she doesn’t need the confirmation.

You nod, mouth going dry at the look in her eyes. “Every time,” you breathe out honestly.

Natasha’s eyes flick back to silicone lying beside you after your answer, now fixated on the object that’s still glistening with your arousal after its use, and you wonder if she was just as pent up as you were during the time apart… except, unlike you, she didn’t have the luxury of ordering something new to experiment with. You wonder if that means she’s still pent up.

“Do you… do you want to try it?” you ask, not entirely sure what she’s going to think, but when her lips part slightly at the offer, when her tongue pokes out to quickly swipe at them, you feel a sudden rush of excitement at the possibility that she’ll say yes.

“Can I use it on you?” you speak up again when she doesn’t give you any response.

Her eyes dart up to meet yours at that question, dark, pupils blown, and she hesitates for only a second more before giving you a jerky nod.

Natasha gasps as you begin sinking the toy into her, her entire body tensing, but despite the slight burn, her hips rise off the mattress instinctually as if trying to get it to push in faster, deeper, further.

Your other hand moves to press on her hip, forcing her back down onto the bed, holding her still, and you pause.

“You okay?” you ask, gaze lifting from where you were watching her pussy open for you to her face, searching her expression.

Her eyes are closed, her brows pinched, and she’s letting out short, quick puffs of breath.

“I’m good,” she says before biting down on her lip, “Just… it’s big.”

You huff out a small laugh. “I know,” you agree, remembering your first time trying out the size, the intense press of it against your walls, the way it felt like more than anything else ever has, hitting a spot inside of you that usually remained out of reach.

“I’ll stop for a sec. Just let me know when I can continue,” you murmur.

Natasha’s silent, trying to focus on breathing, on relaxing, but after a few long moments, she nods her head and her hips begin trying to wriggle in your grasp, her body seeking more. “Keep going,” she requests, her voice almost a whine.

You acquiesce immediately, slowly resuming pushing in, still carefully looking for any signs of discomfort from your wife. You find none, and the slow give of her body soon leads to the silicone being fully situated within her.

Her back is arched as you fill her completely, as she’s stretched out in a way she’s never experienced before.

“Holy fuck,” she groans, the curse long and drawn out.

Another light chuckle leaves you at her reaction. “That was a good ‘holy fuck’, I hope?” you question.

“Yes,” she sighs, “It’s so good. I’m so full.”

Your already aching pussy begins to throb more at her words, and your body shivers. You may have already come tonight, but you’re definitely going to need Natasha to touch you again after this.

“You can move,” she says, hips shifting under your hand, “And let go of me. Please.”

Your hand gently rubs against her hip bone twice before you release her, allowing her to move as she wants, and you start gently pumping the toy in and out of her hole.

Natasha’s reaction to the increased motion is instantaneous, her hips starting to roll, and she makes a surprised noise. She may have adjusted to the size, the fill, but movement is a whole different thing, and her body is alight with the feeling.

You want to go faster, to shove the toy into her insistently, to fuck her, but you remain steady, patiently waiting for her permission.

It doesn’t take long, her body’s desperation mounting quickly as your leisurely thrusts do nothing but tease.

“More,” Natasha moans out.

“What do you need?” you ask softly, still wanting to take it slow, to build her up gradually, to let her grow accustomed to the new sensations. “Faster? Harder?”

She just nods her head, struggling to respond, overwhelmed by feeling of the toy inside her for the first time. “Faster, harder, both. I don’t know. Just more.”

“I’ve got you,” you soothe at her jumbled reply, and then you’re picking up the pace, increasing your force, beginning to fuck into her how you’ve been wanting.

You’ve been imagining using the toy on Natasha since purchasing it. There’s something about getting a front row seat to all of your wife’s reactions and responses that you will never tire of. You may have seen her come undone numerous times before, may have been the cause of her coming undone numerous times before, but you’re always going to want to witness it again and again.

Natasha’s moans and sounds of pleasure are nonstop, falling from her mouth with every thrust, her body lurching from the force, her breasts bouncing rhythmically. In and out, in and out, the squelching from your wife’s pussy only increases as her juices drip down the silicone shaft.

It hasn’t been long, but you can tell that she’s already close, the newly discovered feeling of being stuffed bringing her to her peak quickly. Every shift of her hips, every breath she takes, reminds her of the relentless weight and stretch of the toy inside her.

One of her hands shoots down to her clit—she swears that the bundle of nerves is physically vibrating with need—and she lets out a choked cry when her fingers make contact, beginning to rub tight and frantic circles.

Your own breathing picks up, your own chest heaving, as you watch your wife pleasure herself, attempt to hurriedly get herself to the edge and over it, and you angle the toy to catch the spot that you know makes her fall apart when you’re using your fingers.

Another cry leaves Natasha, this time louder, higher pitched, as the silicone makes tireless contact with her walls.

“Don’t stop,” Natasha rasps out, voice strained, begging as she grinds down needily. She throws her head from side to side, her body twisting against the sheets, writhing on the mattress as it feels like pleasure is surrounding her. It’s almost too much to handle, but she doesn’t want it to stop.

She’s wound tight; she’s about to snap.

“Fuck, fuck,” Natasha gets out between pants, and then her fingers’ ministrations on her clit turn irregular and sloppy as her climax nears. You feel her impending release before it hits, her walls clamping down harshly, making it difficult for you to continue thrusting.

She says your name when coming, echoing how you said hers earlier in the night, the word stretched out of shape, and then she breathes out soft whimpers as the coiled tension turns to overpowering ecstasy that rushes through her body. With each press in of the toy, sparks of pleasure feel like they’re bursting through her veins.

You soften to slow strokes to bring her down gently, wanting to help her through her orgasm.

When her shaking finally subsides, when it looks as though her body can’t handle anything further, you fully stop your motions, and you wait there silently for her to regain her bearings, eyes taking in the gorgeous, perfect, worn-out woman before you. To this day, you still can’t believe you get to call her your wife.

It takes almost a full minute before Natasha speaks.

“That… was something else,” she says, still panting for breath.

“It sure seemed like you enjoyed yourself,” you reply playfully.

Your giggles resounded down the hall despite your door being closed. Honestly, you weren’t aware of how loud you were laughing with a heavy headset on as you watched TikTok trends along with your audience. Yes, audience.

Turned out that you could actually live off from social media, a bittersweet decision that Natasha watched you take with her jaw tight and a tighter smile because the idea of you exposing yourself for the world to judge triggered her more than she wanted to admit, but the idea of keeping you safe inside the most guarded building in the world instead of you actively commuting to work every day helped her sleep at night.

It started with silly trends that slowly moved to livestreams on Twitch. You built a solid community that clearly loved giving you ideas to mess with the hottest super-spy on earth. The same community that kept you company during the nights Natasha was away on a mission and you swore the building turned colder without her presence.

Sadly, that night was one of those nights.

But after five years of being Natasha’s girlfriend, the tension felt bearable, or at least you got very good at hiding it with loud laughter, a good wine and the category of just chatting under your stream.

“Do you guys think I could pull this off?” you asked softly, the chat moving fast despite being in slow mode. You squinted as you took a sip and snorted when an alert went off.

BigOnyxxx donated 1000bits. Natasha would propose on spot if you called her your wife. She’s your biggest simp and I’ve been around here long enough to spot them instantly xDD

“Onyx! Thank you for the bits and I promise I won’t tell my super deadly assassin girlfriend you called her a simp in front of fifty-thousand people” you smiled softly as you tried to read the chat once again. You giggled at some comments you managed to catch “Oh! Guys, guys, I think I know which one, but should we do it live?” you blurted out, your fingers already tapping in the search bar and wiggling your eyebrows as you looked at the camera with a mischievous smile “Do we see the vision?”

And while you kept chatting, your girlfriend was landing at the compound and ready to spend the next forty-eight hours glued to you. Mission had gone well, if she could label it as such after someone else almost fucked it up.

She made it to the living area; most of the team was out on different missions or simply trying to do something different for a change. And Natasha never comprehended the need to mingle with the rest of the world, not when her whole life revolved saving or destroying the world. Then, you walked into her life and now she couldn’t remember the last time she wasn’t counting minutes down to get back to you.

However, her smile started to fade away when she heard your laughter. Not because she hated the sound of it, she loved it. It was because she knew what that meant, and her whole body started to prepare for the world to see the deadliest assassin turn into the softest puppy under your arms. Again.

Ever since you blew up — or as you would call it ‘go viral’ — the world started to like her better, and she wasn’t so sure she liked that.

She didn’t have an option, anyway.

The redhead inhaled sharply when her hand grabbed the doorknob of her room. When she opened the door, the first thing that wrapped her was your scent. Vanilla still lingered in the air mixed with lavender oil that you probably set in the diffusor. The room was slightly dark, illuminated only by those LED lights you tricked Natasha into installing, and the light that came from your gaming setup that Tony gifted and pretended they were things he meant to throw away.

Chat started to go frenetic when she started to show in the frame. Donation after donation started to come through and you looked at the screen with confused eyes. And despite the word ‘BEHIND’ appearing repeatedly, you simply rolled your eyes.

“For the last time, the place isn’t haunted!” you huffed and bit your lip “I asked Wanda to check”

Natasha moved your headset carefully and whispered in your ear “And how on earth would Wanda know that?”

Clips were made the moment you flinched, your soul leaving your body was truly caught in 4K, and Natasha’s chuckle made it feel like visiting the gates of heaven. At the first gasp of air, your hand tried to smack Natasha’s thigh and failed in the process when calloused fingers wrapped around your wrist.

You looked up with flushed cheeks and found a smirking redhead looking at you, a terrifying image for many but the sweetest for you.

“And you didn’t want to take self-defense class” Natasha said casually, leaning down to be at your level and you felt the air getting knocked out of your lungs when your eyes fell on plumped lips making you lick yours “Breathe”

You did as told, because your girlfriend’s voice always managed to cut through any fog. And then you grunted “That is mean, Romanoff! Do you always have to walk in stealth mode?”

“I don’t know any other way” she shrugged nonchalantly and kissed your forehead as you winced “Say your goodbyes, I need my girlfriend”

Your lips parted, probably to follow instructions when you look back at the camera. However, the chat kept going wild as they sent donations after donations trying to convince you to follow your plan through.

You bit your lower lip, your hand shaky over the mouse as you toyed with the idea despite already knowing the answer. And Natasha watched first-handedly the way your whole demeanor changed into something more playful and mischievous.

“Can you wait a few more minutes? We actually were waiting for an album that’s about to drop, right guys?” you briefly looked at the camera and then back at your girlfriend that scoffed, rolling her eyes.

“They can’t even talk to you” Natasha added and you giggled.

“Okay, dino, there’s a chat over here” you pointed out one of the screens and Natasha squinted, her head dizzy instantly at the movement “See? They are saying yes”

“There’s no way you can read that” the redhead huffed and you shrugged, a sweet smile already tugging your lips that always melted Natasha’s heart “Fine, I’ll go take a quick shower”

You hummed, the smile faltering slightly at the thought of your plan not working out but now you had to keep up the charade. And it wasn’t until you heard her close the bathroom door that you exhaled loudly and laughed in disbelief.

“Do you guys think she will notice that the album was released two years ago?” you giggled softly as you read the chat “Hey, it’s a white lie. You are making it sound weird, guys. I promise I always come clean after, but I think you will owe me a big time for this one”

You kept chatting with your audience, switching from your headset to the speakers to look casual. And despite you wearing your confident smile and giggling, your leg was bouncing nervously under the table as it always did whenever you were about to mess with Natasha.

It was true that you always came clean and apologized. And deep-down Natasha loved it, because she always knew when you were lying, yet she always chose to watch you go along with it. The aftermath was always delicious for both, but it always made you nervous.

As the time passed and the water kept running, you felt the way the idea started to sit wrongly over your shoulders. Recording Natasha’s reactions in private gave you the room to edit the most intimate parts of your interactions, but doing it live was a risky move that could leave you both terribly exposed to the world.

However, before you could call it off, you heard the movement in the bathroom and your hand moved instantly to the mouse. The first song in the album started to fill the room seconds before your girlfriend came out of the bathroom as she dried her hair with a towel.

“Is that the album?” Natasha asked, her body out of the frame as she sat at the edge of the bed. You hummed; your eyes focused on her arms as they flexed with every movement she made “Have I heard this artist before?”

You cleared your throat and forced yourself to look away, squeezing your legs together subtly “Yeah, I’ve sneaked a song or two in your workout playlist”

“You will have to be more specific, sweetheart. You do that all the time” she pointed out and you chuckled.

The chat kept mentioning how the whole thing only worked if they could see Natasha, and you inhaled sharply before turning your chair to face her. The redhead tilted her head with suspicion as you moved your fingers nervously over your lap.

“Care to join us? The world wants a raw review from the Black Widow herself” you asked softly and Natasha hummed, leaning back with her palms pressed on the bed and her legs slightly spread. You almost moaned but forced yourself to focus “Please?”

“I know how those reviews with you end” she said softly and you whined “It’s like you love getting in trouble on purpose. Oh, wait! You do. You admitted to it when I had...”

“Just listen to the damn album, Romanoff” you cut her off, your face on fire by the implication of her statement. Natasha chuckled and walked towards you “Such a good girlfriend”

She rolled her eyes playfully and you sat up just to end up sitting in her lap “You owe me for this”

“I always do. Now, sh”

The first song ended and you paused, giving yourself one last chance to call it off once again as you commented on the song and watched your girlfriend try to follow you when giving hers.

One of her hands sneaked under your sweatshirt and you shivered at the cold contact, your body already leaning closer as she rested her chin over your shoulder and pecked your cheek.

You giggled as you read the chat, people filling it with ‘aw's and soft comments about the not-so-intimidating super spy “Gays, be cool. Nat is like any other human being” your girlfriend hummed, brushing her nose against your cheek as her eyelids felt heavy “Next one is called Lunch. Ready?”

Natasha hummed again, half listening as her hand moved smoothly over your abdomen. The redhead buried her nose in your hair and pulled you closer, forgetting for a moment there were thousands of people watching her as she tried to merge her body with yours.

Then, her movements stopped when the lyrics reached her ears. Her mind took a few seconds to make sense of them as the song poured through the speakers and her hand tensed over your abdomen, making your heart skip a beat with anticipation.

“Start it over, please” Natasha asked softly and you hummed, starting over the song as you sent a wink to the camera. The beat came first and Natasha tapped her foot but stopped almost instantly when the first verse came “Wait, wait, did she say she could eat that girl for lunch?”

“Yeah, baby, it’s legal now” you chuckled, turning to look at her and she rolled her eyes “I know I would eat you for lunch, though” you said cheerfully but it didn’t take you long to squeeze your legs when her eyes darkened “Wait”

“When you say it like that, she does have a point. You are a whole meal” Natasha replied loudly enough for the audience to hear, but when her lips brushed the shell of your ear and her other hand squeezed your thigh, you already knew she was about to ruin you “Say your goodbyes, sweet thing, daddy needs you right now”

“N-Natasha” you stuttered, licking your lips nervously as her hand moved closer to your inner thigh. Your hands moved to the stream dashboard, making sure her hand was out view but even when you realized no one could see her, your cheeks blushed “Did you like the song?”

The redhead scoffed, leaning back against the chair, but both of her hands grabbed your thighs and forced them open, making you squeak. You tried to focus on the chat, a live audience that remained ignorant of your girlfriend’s hand movements or the way you were trying to play it cool as though she didn’t just give you a very clear instruction.

“Sure, great rhythm and the lyrics feel...” she moved her leg, making your clothed cunt land on her thigh and you gasped “Accurate. You do taste like you are the one”

Your head started spinning with her words, even more so when she started bouncing her leg with you on top of it as if you weighed nothing. You leaned forward, your hands grabbing the edge of your desk as you tried to hold onto the last strand of sanity in your body to not let the audience think that few seconds of a song turned on your girlfriend enough.

“T-Tasha!” you blurted out the moment her hands moved to your hips and pinned you down. You looked over your shoulder, and she shrugged nonchalantly while wearing a sweet smirk. A smirk that told you it was your call “Guys, we are leaving now. Natasha is really tired...” the redhead laughed out loud behind you, and you whimpered when her hands squeezed your hips when you focused too long on the chat “Yeah, whatever, bye guys, I’ll see you...” Natasha hovered your hand over the mouse, clicking impatiently to end the stream and soon her body was pinning you against the desk “You are like a horny teenager, Tasha!”

“Oh, please! As if you weren’t setting me up for this” the redhead chuckled with her lips on your neck and her hips jerked behind you “Missed you, detka”

Her hand snaked between your thighs, and you moaned when she grabbed your pussy as her teeth sank on your neck “Missed you too, d-daddy”

Natasha chuckled, turning you around to capture your lips with hers in one of those slow and devastating kisses that always made your knees buckle. You whimpered when one of her hands wrapped around your neck and her teeth caught your lower lip. Her tongue swirled inside your mouth, coaxing a moan out that only gave her more room as her teeth clashed against yours, and you sat on the desk with your legs wrapping around her hips and pulled her closer.

“Bed” you murmured against her lips and she hummed.

However, just when she started to carry you towards the bed, Natasha stopped and placed you down. You gave her a confused look, but her grin only widened as you caught the playful twinkle in her eyes.

“Put the song on repeat, I will fuck you to it” your lips parted as blood concentrated in your cheeks, but she only tilted her head to the side and raised a brow “Go”

You moved fast, your hands shaking and clumsy when trying to move. You clicked desperately, grunting when it didn’t work, and you moved the mouse until you saw the cursor on the main screen and played the song.

You stumbled when getting back to your girlfriend, making her giggle as your arms wrapped around her neck, and you pulled her in for a kiss. Your fingers tangled with red wet hair; Natasha’s hands grabbed your waist and your feet danced together as your girlfriend guided you towards the bed without breaking the kiss.

A gasp left your lips when she threw you on the bed, your hand managing to tug her shirt and pull Natasha along. Her lips moved to your jaw then your throat, darting her tongue out to outline it as a moan clawed its way out of your lips.

“You and your incessant need to be chronically online” Natasha said softly against your collarbone as her fingers worked skillfully to unbutton your blouse. You arched your body when her tongue moved to the valley of your boobs and your girlfriend smirked “But you drag me to it when you want this, thinking you can fool me or overpower me” she pushed the bra to the side and you moaned when she started to suck on your nipple.

“I really need you right now” you whined, trying to look down to her as Natasha squeezed your boobs and you bucked your hips up “Please”

Her lips popped, and she grinned when looking at you, opening fully your blouse and running her finger down your abdomen, electrifying your skin with a simple touch.

“But you made me wait, didn’t you? For views and likes, and it makes me wonder if you would let them watch this” you moaned as she unbuttoned your jeans, her eyes snapping up incredulously. Her hands got rid of your jeans with slight help from you, but her eyes kept assessing you and then she laughed “Oh god, you actually would let them watch”

“N-No... Th-that's not...” you stuttered, jerking your body up just in time to watch your girlfriend bury her nose in your cunt, just above the wet patch in your underwear “Natasha”

Natasha inhaled your scent; her mouth watering as an animalistic sound made its way out of her throat. You mewled when she licked over your underwear, your hips bucking up and your pussy leaking. The redhead kept licking your covered cunt, your underwear getting more than ruined but maybe not as much as you with your chin up in the air as your girlfriend’s hand pinning down your hips.

“Natasha, please” you breathed out, trying to focus as you looked at her again and she only growled “Nat...” she growled again and you whined “Daddy, please!”

Your girlfriend hummed approvingly, placing a chaste kiss over your clit before looking at you. Even under the LED lights barely illuminating the room, you could see — feel was probably more accurate — Natasha's hungry eyes over you, darker and dangerously assessing you.

“Just admit it” she purred, her thumb circling your clit over your underwear making you whimper “Admit you would love it if they watched this — watched you unravel under my touch” she pressed her thumb and you mewled as your body fell completely over the mattress, your hands grabbing a pillow to anchor yourself as you buried half your face in one of your arms “You are just making it worse, detka” she pressed even more as she placed a kiss on your abdomen “Admit it” she licked and sucked your skin “Admit you would love to film a sex tape and post it like the little slut that you...”

“Yes, yes. I would love it” you cried out, your body burning with need “Just please, daddy...” Natasha’s hands ripped a hole in your underwear. You sent her a terrified look before her mouth latched onto your clit “Oh fuck, daddy!”

Your eyes rolled back with your mouth hanging loosely, one hand tugging her hair and the other one grabbing the pillow above you when her tongue travelled over your slit.

Natasha shushed your whine when her lips moved to your inner thighs, sucking gently on your skin and gaining a loud moan. Then, she sucked your labia softly, then your clit, then she dragged her tongue all the way down to your hole and a scream ripped out of your throat when she pushed it inside.

Your girlfriend was always proud of her skills in bed, and god... Natasha had the right to be proud. But she was more than determined to give you the best oral sex ever to that damn song you pushed her to listen.

And if Natasha could, she would bury her safe in that pretty pussy of yours. Her chin was covered with your slick and her spit, her fingers digging deeper into your thighs the more you moaned loudly and ground your hips desperately against her face.

“I need your... fuck... fingers, p-please" you whimpered as your girlfriend clicked her tongue and two of her fingers teased your entrance “Please!”

“This is what you want?” she spat her fingers and pushed them inside of you, watching the way your eyes rolled back, and your moans filled the room “Come on, put on a show as if they were watching” her fingers curled inside you and her free hand slapped your pussy, making you mewl loudly “Look at you, slut, all worked up to the idea of having an audience that watches me own this pussy. It’s mine, isn’t it?”

Natasha’s words hit in all the right ways, but it was getting hard to focus with her fingers pumping inside your pussy and feeling your slick dripping down. So, your always impatient girlfriend slapped your pussy again and you opened your eyes.

“Yes, yes. It’s yours, daddy. I’m yours!” you cried out and Natasha clicked her tongue again, catching a last glimpse of your flushed state before going back to eat you out “God, I missed that tongue so much” Natasha growled approvingly, her fingers pumping faster as she sucked your clit and your fingers tugged her hair harder “Yes, daddy, right there... don’t stop, please”

Your girlfriend swirled her tongue, squelching sounds joined your desperate moans and head started to spin, with your body stiffening as you felt your orgasm approaching. Natasha noticed it too, your pussy clenching deliciously and encouraging her to go faster. You ground your hips as your whole body focused on that delicious edge that you were trying to reach and let yourself fall.

Your legs clasped around your girlfriend’s head; the song suddenly was louder, and your moans were matching it. Natasha grunted as her lungs burned, but she kept going as she watched you unravel beautifully.

“Oh, shit, shit. Don’t stop, daddy, never stop. Fuck, fuck, I’m about to...” the redhead managed to nod, and you whined with your face buried in your pillow and your body squirming desperately as your girlfriend tried to anchor you.

Your body started to relax, freeing Natasha from being trapped between your legs as she kept licking softly and teasingly your slit to help you ride down your high. Your eyes fluttered open; your vision blurred, and with those black dots tainting it.

After taking a deep breath and despite your hammering heart, you managed to tap Natasha’s head, and she reluctantly stopped. Her body hovered yours and her hair fell above your face. Your hand caressed her cheek, and you scrunched your nose.

“You are covered in me” you whispered, running a finger over her chin and Natasha caught it, sucking and licking it clean. A satisfied hummed followed after she popped her lips around your finger and you moaned “Shit”

“Such a filthy mouth, detka. We need to do something about it” she purred before kissing you.

Her body weigh felt comfortable over you as she kissed you roughly, desperately, with her arms trapping you and one of her legs in the middle of yours. Then, the kiss turned sweeter as she moved to your chin and your cheeks. Finally, Natasha brushed her nose against yours and watched you intently as you opened your eyes.

“Ready to go again, baby?” Natasha cooed and your cheeks blushed when she tucked a strand of hair behind your ear “I’m not done with you”

You nodded because words would fail you. And Natasha hummed approvingly before going back to attack your neck and make a mess of you.

And while Natasha devoured you, the internet was going wild because you failed to notice you accidentally went live when trying to play the song. They didn’t see, but they heard every delicious word and moan you both poured, and that was more than enough for them to imagine the rest.

Natasha would definitely kill you once she found out. 

And you would do it again, anyway.

———

Let it, you think. Maybe then I’ll have an excuse to skip work.

“Long day doll?” Bucky’s standing at the stove—long hair tucked behind his ears, soft grey henley stretched across his broad chest, wooden spoon in hand as he stirs the pasta sauce. You could almost cry as the smell drifts over to you — garlic and butter and something sweet. The smell of home.

“Mhm, m’so tired,” you grumble, frowning softly before flopping onto the couch where Nat was sprawled out—TV playing in the background.

She lets out a small oomph when your weight drops onto her before adjusting herself to tuck you between her legs and kisses your temple.

“Hi baby,” she mumbles against your hair.

You let out a sigh in response.

“What’s wrong?”

You shrug, shutting your eyes as you nuzzle your face into the crook of Nat’s shoulder, breathing her in like her scent is what you’d been waiting for all day—coconut and vanilla and something so inherently Nat, it makes your chest ache.

Nat gently combs through your hair, fingertips brushing the skin of your neck and you curl into her further.

“Need us to take care of you baby?”

You look up slightly, eyes meeting hers — your heart swelling at the sheer amount of love you can see there.

You nod firmly, pouting up at her and she chuckles before kissing you. You sigh into her mouth as her lips part against yours, whining when she pulls back and moves you off her chest.

“Yeah? Need us to turn all that noise off for you?” She brushes a piece of your hair behind your ear.

“Please.”

“Bucky?” She calls out to him.

“Yeah?” He turns away from the stove, spoon in hand, raising an eyebrow in question.

“Can you take her to bed? Needs us to take care of her.”

The air thickens at Nat’s words and you swear you can feel the way Bucky’s breath hitches.

“Course.”

Your stomach flips in anticipation, breath quickening as Bucky moves over to you, soft smirk already playing at his lips—big hands sliding under your knees and waist, lifting you like you weigh nothing at all.

You tuck your head against his shoulder, wrapping your arms around his neck, relishing in the feel of his lips pressed to your forehead as he places you down onto the bed with a quick peck. You let out a soft whimper when he withdraws his touch—mind already going into that soft space where you need nothing but closeness.

Bucky turns to kiss Nat, tilting her chin up towards him, smiling against her lips.

“You get her undressed. I’ll just finish off dinner.” He smiles back at you before leaving the room—bare feet padding against the wooden floor quickly—eager to get back to you.

You’re already breathing heavily when Nat climbs over you, her fingers trailing down your sides, settling at the waistband of your slacks.

“Want me to take these off?” Her voice is velvet in your ear. It sends a shiver down your spine and your body arches up into her, answering her like it knows this is where home is.

“Please,” you breathe out, body twitching in anticipation as her fingers work the button, slowly pulling down the zip before hooking her fingers into the sides and pulling them down, lifting your hips slightly with a whispered ‘Up.’

Her fingers glide along the smooth skin of your thighs and Nat hums in appreciation at the sight of your bare legs, placing a kiss to each ankle as she pulls your socks off.

Her touch is gentle—fingers wrapped firmly around your ankles. The mere suggestion of restraint sends heat licking up your spine, breath growing even heavier as her thumbs press into the arches of your feet, rubbing slow deep circles and you sigh at the relief.

You shift a little on the mattress and feel the wire of your bra dig into your sore ribs.

“Nat,” you whine her name soft and sweet, tugging at your shirt to signal to her.

She places one last kiss to your ankle before moving up your body.

“I’ve got you baby, s’okay, just relax.” She kisses the pout off your face, hands already spread across the expanse of your ribs, before moving to the clasp under your shirt and unhooking it.

You sigh, deep and heavy and full of relief and Nat can’t help the smile that comes to her face, placing kisses along your belly as she pulls your shirt off, careful to not let it tangle around your hair, keeping your body pressed as close to hers as possible.

“That better?” She asks as you shrug your bra off.

“Mhm.” You’re so soft and pliant underneath her, body arched up into hers—wearing nothing but your blush pink thong, pressing your cheek into her hand, eyes half-lidded.

“God, you’re gonna kill me.” Nat kisses your sternum, lips dragging heat across your skin down to your navel before resting at your hip.

“Nat,” you whine, hands threading through her hair as she kisses the wet spot forming on your panties.

“Mm, should we wait for Buck?” She murmurs against the soft cotton, nose pressing into the fabric, savouring the sweet smell of your arousal, hands massaging the flesh of your ass before pinning your hips to stop your squirming.

You whine unintelligibly, not knowing yourself what you want.

Just more.

More touch.

More closeness.

More of her.

Nat sits back, taking off the loose shirt she’d been wearing—one of Bucky’s.

Your eyes land on the soft curves of her breasts, falling perfectly in front of you, nipples already hard. You reach for her, hand moving to her back and trailing your fingers down her spine before pressing your thumb into her nipple.

“Baby—” Nat gasps, leaning into your touch as your thigh pushes up between her bare legs.

Nat’s eyes go dark, pinning your hips to the bed with one hand, using the other to pin your wrists above your head. You gasp at the sudden shift and Nat swallows it—lips meeting yours, tongue slipping into your mouth as she pushes her thigh up to meet your throbbing cunt.

You moan into her mouth, grinding your pussy onto her leg as much as you can with your hips still pinned. Your chest arches up into her, the feel of her nipples against yours almost too much to bear.

Nat practically growls at the soft sounds you let out into her mouth, moving to swirl her tongue around one of your nipples, fingers twisting the other, tugging and pulling. You gasp, pleasure shooting through you so fast, it’s almost embarrassing.

You whine her name, writhing under her touch as she continues to suck, letting it go with a slick pop before moving to the other.

You’re so wrapped up in each other, you barely notice Bucky enter the room—his cock twitching at the sight of his two girls in nothing but their panties, already writhing and wet.

“Fuck—” Bucky murmurs appreciatively, arms crossed over his chest as he watches Nat pull your panties off.

She turns at the sound of Bucky’s voice, smirking before moving to make space for him. Your chest rises and falls quickly as your back arches off the bed, breasts bouncing softly when you shift.

Bucky’s lips part at the sight, eyes locked on your chest before looking up at you—your hair slightly mussed, eyes wide and wanting and lips already kiss-bitten and wet. Your hands are still pinned above your head by Nat, legs bent at the knee and spread wide, pussy glistening and clenching around nothing.

You look like all his dirty dreams and the rest of his life wrapped in one and the thought does something indescribable to him. He pushes himself off the wall, walking over to you and you feel the desire roll off him in waves.

Bucky’s hand cradles the side of your face, warm and steady—holding you in place when his lips find yours. He kisses you hard, desperate, guiding your mouth along his, tongue slipping past your lips. Your wrists twitch against Nat’s grip, wanting nothing more than to run your hands through his hair.

He pulls back with a soft bite of your lower lip before letting it go. He has to shut his eyes at the sound of your soft whimper. The sound runs down his spine, going straight to his dick. Nat finally lets go of your wrists, moving down your body to settle between your legs.

Her arms hook around your thighs, pulling you to her mouth. You let out a gasp at the sudden movement. Bucky comes to sit up against the headboard, shifting your head gently into his lap. He brushes your hair out of your face before tracing his fingers down to your lips.

“Open.”

You obey instantly, parting your lips and looking up at him through your eyelashes and Bucky has to bite the inside of his cheek to stop himself from picking you up, putting you on all fours and fucking the soul out of you. Wants to see those pretty eyes roll back when he pulls your head back to look at him.

His cock hardens at the thought, heat rushing downwards and spreading through his lungs, making his breath hitch in his throat.

Oh the sight of your lips wrapped around his fingers so pretty. You moan as you suck, taking a third finger now, whining when Natasha’s tongue breaches your opening, pushing inside. Your thighs threaten to close around her head before she pushes them open further.

“Look at you, always need something in that pretty mouth of yours, don’t you?”

Bucky’s hand brushes your hair out of your face, pressing down onto your tongue with his fingers.

You nod slightly, sucking harder with a muffled moan as Nat’s mouth closes around your clit. Your hand flies to her head, fingers curling into her hair and you don’t know if you’re trying to push her away or pull her in closer.

Bucky pulls his fingers out of your mouth with a wet pop and you whine at the loss, writhing under Nat’s tongue, holding onto Bucky’s hand to ground yourself.

“Shh, relax baby, gonna give this pretty mouth my cock now.” His thumb traces your bottom lip and you try sucking it into your mouth, eyes rolling back as Nat’s tongue works your soaked cunt.

“Greedy girl,” Bucky chuckles.

“Mm— Bucky pleaseee,” you whine, breaking off into a loud moan when Nat’s mouth closes around your clit once more, sucking hard. Your back arches off the bed at the overwhelming pleasure, hand twisting into the fabric of Bucky’s sweatpants, head leaning back until your nose is brushing against the hard outline of him.

You tug at his pants almost absentmindedly, eyes slipping shut, hips rolling against Nat’s face as her tongue moves slow and filthy against you. Her fingers dig into the skin of your thighs, not hard enough to bruise, but enough to feel pinned—completely hers.

“Taste so good baby…so sweet,” Nat mumbles into your thighs.

Your eyes are still shut, lips parted around a gasp when you feel the tip of Bucky’s cock press against your mouth, pre-cum spreading against your lips. Your eyes open lazily—soft and wanting as you look up at him, shirt and pants discarded on the floor and you open your mouth to take him.

“There you go baby, that’s it.” He feeds his cock slowly into your mouth, just the first couple of inches and you suck softly, tongue swirling around the tip, moaning at the heavy weight of him in your mouth, warm and leaking against your tongue.

The angle is overwhelming, filthy. Your head resting on his thigh, his metal hand brushing your hair back gently like he doesn’t have his cock pressed between your lips. His big body looms over you and he could so easily ruin you—fuck your face until you’re crying and sputtering against him.

But he doesn’t.

He just lets you suck and taste him like it’s more for you than for him.

You gasp around his length when Nat pushes two fingers inside you. Bucky takes the opportunity to push himself slightly further into your waiting mouth, groaning at the wet, warm feel. Your tongue drags against the underside of him and he grunts, pushing your head down further. You gag slightly, tears pricking your eyes, determinded to take all of him, throat relaxing around his cock, nose pressing into him, moaning at the heady smell of him, the brush of coarse hair.

The weight of him in your mouth, the ache in your jaw, the overwhelming pleasure building between your legs, pussy clenching around Nat’s fingers, stomach coiling tight—all mixes together until your mind goes completely blank and you come. Hard.

“That’s it baby, come.” Nat murmurs into your pussy, tongue continuing her slow strokes against you while your hips buck up against her face, riding out your orgasm, muffled whines leaving you, spit dripping out around Bucky’s cock.

Bucky pulls out of your mouth and you whine, mouth chasing his length like it’s the only thing keeping you tethered to the earth.

You’re still coming down from your orgasm, hips rolling, soft gasps leaving your lips, body going soft and limp against the mattress. Bucky’s between your legs before you even know what’s happening—thick fingers stretching you out, tongue flicking against your throbbing clit.

“Needed to taste you, sweet girl.” Bucky kisses along your folds, tongue laving over you as his fingers continue fucking into you. You’re writhing, head tilting left and right as your clit throbs against his lips. The sounds leaving you are obscene—whining, moaning, Bucky’s name leaving your lips in soft pleas as his fingers rub against that spot deep inside you relentlessly. His fingers are longer than Nat’s—thicker.

Tears slip down your temples as you feel your orgasm build too fast—too strong. You cum again, this time more violently than the first, pulling at Bucky’s hair, mouth open in a soundless O as your hips rut against his face.

Bucky doesn’t stop, moaning into your pussy at the taste of you, sucking your overstimulated clit into his mouth until you’re kicking your legs, squirming on the bed as you try to move away, hips locked in place by his big hands.

“I can’t— I can’t— please, s’too much— can’t—”

Bucky’s hand wraps around your ankle, holding you in place, tongue dipping inside you as you writhe, whining for him to please please wait. He knows your limits, knows you’ll say stop if you need him to stop, knows that when you kick and squirm and tell him to wait, you want him to push past what you think you can handle, want him and Nat to overwhelm your senses until the overstimulation melts into something else, until your brain goes soft and quiet and completely pliant.

Nat’s mouth is on yours before you can make another sound, hands pinning your waist to the bed, slowing your movements to get away from Bucky’s tongue.

She pulls away suddenly, lips spit-slick and swollen, tasting of you. Her fingers dip into your slick where Bucky’s mouth is before pulling them out and pressing into your mouth before you can protest, letting you suck and taste yourself.

Her other hand cards through your hair, rubbing gentle circles into the base of your neck and you soften, melting into the bed, letting the throbbing overstimulation turn soft, taking whatever they both give you, sucking gently on Nat’s fingers.

“Doing so good for us baby. So good.”

You melt further at the praise, another orgasm building as Bucky’s tongue moves in fast circles over your clit. You come—hard, body convulsing under their combined touch.

“That’s it sweet girl, I’ve got you.”

He pulls back finally, wiping his chin with the back of his hand, eyes blown wide with want, cock leaking thick and heavy against his stomach. Your mouth waters around Nat’s fingers, already aching to have him in your mouth again.

“Look at you, got my fingers in your mouth and you still need more, still need Bucky’s cock to suck on?”

You nod helplessly, tears dripping down your temples, wetting your hair.

Bucky’s on his knees between your legs, stroking his thick cock in his hand, groaning at the sight of you spread beneath him—pussy glistening and puffy, nipples perked, lips swollen around Nat’s fingers.

Nat moves to wrap her hand around him, tight strokes that have him groaning, before taking him into her mouth—lips wrapping around his thick, flushed length, hollowing her cheeks as she moves her mouth up and down his length.

You whine around Nat’s fingers, pushing your knee up to Bucky’s leg to get his attention. Your legs are still shaking from your orgasms. He looks over at you, smirking at the furrow between your brows as he pushes himself further into Nat’s mouth, hand twisting into her hair.

“Bucky—” Your voice is muffled, spit dripping down Nat’s fingers before Bucky pulls her hand free, taking your face in one big hand, the other still guiding Nat’s head up and down his cock.

“What’s wrong doll? You need my cock?” His tone is mocking, squishing your cheeks slightly in his metal hand.

“Yes Bucky please, please need your cock.” Your hands reach for him fruitlessly as Nat continues to bob her head up and down his length before finally releasing it with a wet pop, smirking down at you.

“All yours baby, mommy just wanted a little taste.”

She lies back next to you, smirking and pushing your hair out of your face, kissing the tears that had dripped down your cheeks and you nuzzle into her, eyes fluttering shut.

Bucky’s flipping you over before you know what’s happening, sliding a thick pillow under your hips to angle yourself for him. You gasp, scrambling slightly before settling into the position, moaning at the feel of Bucky’s blunt head nudging between your oversensitive folds.

Your wriggle your hips slightly to get comfortable, loving when Bucky takes you like this.

“You comfortable baby? Need another pillow?”

You try to answer, voice leaving you in a desperate moan as his cock pushes in just slightly, coating himself in your slick.

“Words, doll.”

“I— yes, m’good, just please—”

Bucky pushes in then, stretching you around his thick length, the burn sweet and intense as he pushes further and further. You always forget how big he is, how much it takes to adjust to his size.

“You just lie there baby doll, let daddy take care of you, gonna fuck all the thoughts out of that pretty head.”

Your thoughts are already gone—mind blissfully blank, thinking of nothing other than the stretch and drag of him inside you. The way he fills you so completely.

He’s only just started, hands pressing into your hips, spreading you wide for him, the pillow angling your body so that he hits that soft spot inside you that has you reeling, seeing stars behind your eyes, breathless moans leaving your lips every time his thick head nudges against it.

You’re already close, your pussy still sensitive from your earlier orgasms.

“Fuck doll you feel so— fuck— so good— so good around my cock.” Bucky’s voice is wrecked, groaning at the sounds of your wet pussy sucking him in, the sounds of his skin meeting yours.

“Bucky, fuck please— m’so close—” You trail off, pretty little ‘uh-uh’s’ leaving your lips before Nat’s lips meet yours in a hungry kiss. You can’t take it, the feel of Nat’s hands pulling at your nipples, roaming your body, stroking through your hair as she kisses you stupid. Bucky’s cock fucking you higher and higher onto the bed until he pulls you back to him with a growl.

“I’m— oh— Buckyyy.” Your head falls limp, pleasure building so fast, you feel your vision go white, eyes rolling back until you can’t feel them anymore, nerve endings sparking so hard you might just give out completely.

Nat’s fingers press into the sides of your neck, whispering against your ear.

“Just relax for us baby, let go.”

You do then— you feel your body transcend, going completely limp against the sheets, mind going blank in a way it only does for Bucky and Nat, relaxing until the pleasure feels like it’s a part of you.

You’re so pliant now, quiet, mouth open soundlessly, eyes slipping shut, feeling yourself dragged deeper and deeper under until you feel like you might be asleep—pleasure still hitting in fast bursts, but your body registers it like a dream, reacting to it with no input from you. You feel your pussy clench around Bucky’s thick length, can hear his voice far away, like you’re underwater.

Bucky’s dragging your hips up to meet him. You feel hands and lips drag over your body, not sure whose they are. Your stomach goes tight before relaxing completely and you gush, squirting wet and hot and endless around Bucky’s cock, soaking the sheets beneath you.

“Holy shit baby, you just squirted, fuck— fuck—” Bucky fucks you through your orgasm, your release still gushing out of you, his voice coming back into focus, now aware of Nat’s hands on your body. You sob through it, Nat shushing you and kissing your tears.

“There she is. So good baby, such a good girl for us, just a little more, a little bit more.”

You’re shaking your head, soft sobs leaving your lips at the feel of Bucky’s cock still dragging through you, legs shaking around him, the pillow beneath you embarrassingly soaked.

“Just one more, you can do it, one more for us.”

You sob, nodding, leaning into Nat’s touch as she wipes your tears, kissing you soft and slow.

You don’t even feel your next orgasm build, it hits you fast and hard, liquid gushing out of you once more and you melt against the bed, the slick sounds mixed with Bucky’s grunts filling your ears.

“Fuck baby, that’s it, gonna fill you up now. Just a little more, doing so good.”

He thrusts in twice more, and you feel him swell inside you, stretching you impossibly further before he cums inside you, hot spurts filling you over and over, his thrusts slowing, hands gripping your hips, holding you to him as the last of his cum spills out.

Bucky presses himself to your back before rolling onto his side, pulling you with him, his cock still heavy inside of you. He presses himself closer, letting you feel every bit of warm skin pressed to you.

“We’ve got you, we’ve got you.” Nat presses herself to your front, kissing your wet cheeks, stroking your hair until your eyes finally flutter open, a small soft smile playing at your lips.

“There she is. You okay sweetheart?” Nat’s voice is laced with concern, never having seen you lose it that completely.

You nod gently, nuzzling back into Bucky’s warmth, his comforting scent that brings you back down to earth.

“So good.” You mumble, eyes fluttering closed with a smile.

Bucky pulls out then, shushing you gently when you whine at the loss.

You’re half asleep as they move you around gently, cleaning you and lifting you slightly to change the soaked sheets. You barely register their movements, letting yourself be moved side to side. They never once leave you on your own, skin pressed to yours, lips peppering kisses down your sweaty back.

You lie there, spread against the sheets, leg hooked over Bucky’s thigh, head resting on his chest. His arm wraps around you, pulling you impossibly closer. Nat’s leg is tangled with yours, head resting on your shoulder as her fingers trail up and down your back, pressing gentle kisses to the skin there.

Bucky’s lips are pressed to your temple, metal fingers pushing the strands of hair falling into your face. His thumb presses into your cheek gently, stroking the warmth there. You nuzzle into his chest—steady and warm beneath your cheek and your eyes flutter closed.

You’ve never felt so safe.

So loved.

So completely taken care of.

“Sleep baby, we’ve got you.”

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You sit down and watch your girlfriend smile at a reporter like she doesn't know how you take your coffee.

On screen, someone asks about her personal life a journalist in the third row, young, eager, pen already moving. 

The public has always been curious about the lives behind the suits, Agent. Romanoff. Is there anyone special?

You don't mean to hold your breath.

Natasha's smile doesn't waver. It never does. That's the thing about her, the smile is a tool, honed and precise, and it gives nothing away.

"No one. I think the work speaks for itself," she says, easy, practiced. "I'd rather keep the focus there."

The journalist nods. The room moves on.

You set your glass down on the coffee table very carefully and watch the rest of it in silence every question, every answer, every moment where you scan her face for something and find nothing. She is so good at nothing. That's the thing that gets you. Not the words. The nothing.

By the time Natasha gets home you've watched the clip four times. You don't know why you do it to yourself. Some stubborn, aching part of you keeps looking for a flicker some hal second where something crosses her face that says yes, there's someone. yes, it costs me something.

There isn't. There never is.

You're on the bedroom windowsill when you hear her key in the lock.

"Hey." Her voice from the hallway, still pulling off her jacket. "Traffic was—" She appears in the doorway. Stops. She reads the room the way she reads everything, instantly, completely, and with an accuracy that used to feel like magic until you understood it was just her, paying closer attention than anyone else ever had. "What's wrong."

"Nothing."

"Y/n."

"I said nothing, Nat."

She crosses the room and sits on the edge of the bed, still in her press clothes, blazer on, collar open now at the throat. She looks tired around the eyes in a way the cameras never catch and part of you, the stupid, soft part wants to go to her just because of that. Just because she's tired and she's here and she's yours, except right now she doesn't feel like yours, she feels like something on loan that the world could call back at any moment and she'd hand herself right over without blinking.

"You watched it," she says.

"It was on."

She exhales slowly through her nose. "How many times."

You don't answer, which is its own answer. You watch something move through her expression, not quite guilt, not quite pain. Gone before you can name it.

"Come here," she says quietly.

"I'm fine where I am."

"Detka—"

"Don't." The word comes out softer than you mean it to and somehow that makes it worse. You look back out at the city. "Don't do the voice."

"What voice."

"The one that makes me feel like everything's okay when it's not." You press your cheek against the cold glass of the window. "I'm not — I don't want to be managed right now. I just want—" You stop. You don't know how to finish that sentence. You want something you don't know how to ask for. You want to matter in a way that shows.

She doesn't push. For a long moment the room is just quiet, just the low hum of the city and the sound of both of you breathing.

Then she says "Tell me."

And you look at her, and her eyes are on you with that particular quality of attention she only gives you, not the sharp tactical focus, not the measured professionalism, but something steadier and more frightening than either of those things, and your chest goes tight.

"I'm just tired," you say carefully, "of pretending."

"I know."

"I don't think you do." You slide off the windowsill, and you don't mean to start walking but you do, out of the bedroom, down the hall, because you need somewhere to put yourself and you need it not to be three feet from her while she looks at you like that. "I spend every day out there acting like I don't know you the way I know you. I run into your teammates in the lobby and I'm just — nobody. I'm just some girl you nod at." Your voice is climbing and you hate it, hate how much of you is right there at the surface. "And then I come home and I turn on the TV and I watch you stand there and tell a room full of people that there's no one—"

You hear her follow you. Of course she follows.

"—and you don't even flinch. You don't even—" You turn around in the middle of the living room. "Is it easy? Be honest with me. Because from out here it looks easy."

Something cracks in her face. Just slightly. Just enough.

"No," she says. "It is not easy."

"It looks like it is."

"I know what it looks like." Her voice is tight in a way you rarely hear, controlled the way something gets when it's working very hard to stay controlled. "I know exactly what it looks like from the outside, and I'm telling you — Y/n, I am telling you — that what you see on that screen is not what is happening inside me."

"Then show me what's happening inside you." Your voice breaks on the last word. Just a little. Just enough to humiliate you. You look away. "Because right now I need something, Nat. I need — I look at you up there and I need to know I'm not—" You stop. Breathe. "I need to know I'm not nothing."

"Don't say that." Her voice is sharp now, fast, like the words got out ahead of the composure. "Don't you dare say that."

"Then give me something to hold onto."

The apartment is quiet.

You turn back toward the bedroom because if you stand here one more second in the middle of the living room with your heart this close to the surface you're going to say something you can't unsay.

"Y/n."

Panic. That's what's in her voice stripped clean, unmistakable. Not the controlled urgency she uses in the field. Not the professional edge. Actual panic, low and rough, like something has come loose in her chest.

You slow.

"Don't walk away from me." Her footsteps are quick behind you. "Please. I'm — please don't walk away."

You stop.

She reaches you in the hallway and before you can turn around her hand finds your wrist, not grabbing, not restraining, just holding. Like she needs the contact to believe you're still there.

"Look at me," she says. Low. Rough. "Baby, look at me."

Slowly, you turn.

She looks undone. That's the only word for it. Not the composed woman from the press conference, not the Avenger, not the version of Natasha Romanoff that the world gets. Just her, standing in her own hallway with her blazer slightly wrinkled and her eyes very green and very serious, and something close to fear written all over her face.

You have never seen her look at you quite like this.

You don't say anything. You're not sure you could.

"I need to explain something to you," she says quietly. "And I need you to let me explain it before you decide what it means. Can you do that?"

You nod. Barely.

She exhales. Her hand is still around your wrist. She turns it gently, carefully, and laces her fingers through yours, and then she guides you the few remaining steps down the hallway until your back meets the wall. Not rough. Not urgent. Deliberate. Like she needs you exactly here, exactly still, exactly close enough that she can see your face.

She braces one hand against the wall beside your head and looks at you.

"I want you to think about what my life looks like," she says. "Not what you see on the news. What it actually looks like. The people I've put away. The people who know my name and would do anything — anything — to get to me." Her jaw tightens. "I have enemies that most people don't have nightmares dark enough to dream up. I have a list of people who would consider it a victory just to know someone matters to me."

Your throat is tight. You already know where this is going and it doesn't make it easier to hear.

"The second your name is attached to mine," she continues, low and even, "you are on every one of those lists. You become leverage. You become a target. And I—" She stops. Her hand on the wall curls into a fist. "I have trained for every scenario. I have a contingency for everything. I have walked into situations that should have killed me and walked back out because I knew exactly what I was doing." She looks at you, and what's in her eyes right now is something enormous and unguarded. "I do not have a contingency for losing you. That is not something I can train for. That is not something I survive."

Your eyes sting. You look down.

You feel her breath change.

Her free hand comes up slowly, slowly, like she's afraid a sudden movement will shatter something, and her fingers find your chin. Light. The barest touch. She tips it up, trying to bring your gaze back to hers, and when you resist she doesn't force it. She just holds you there, patient, gentle in the way Natasha is only ever gentle when no one else is watching.

"Hey," she murmurs. "Look at me, detka."

You keep your eyes down. If you look at her right now you're going to lose whatever is left of your composure and you are hanging onto it by the thinnest thread.

A beat. She swallows hard.

"Y/n." Her voice is soft but there's an ache in it. Her thumb traces lightly along your jaw. "I need your eyes. Please." She tilts your chin a fraction more, coaxing, careful. "Give them to me."

Something in that undoes you.

You look up.

She exhales like she's been holding her breath since you stopped meeting her gaze. Her eyes move over your face, searching, cataloguing, the way she does when she's making sure something she cares about is still intact.

"There you are," she breathes.

Your chest aches.

"Do you want to know what I think about," she says, voice barely above a murmur now, "during those press conferences? During the briefings, the meetings, every single moment I have to stand up there and perform?" Her thumb traces slow along your cheekbone. "You. I think about you. I think about the way you look in the morning before you've said anything. I think about the way you laugh when something actually catches you off guard. I think about coming home." She leans in slightly, closing the space between you by another inch. "I stand in front of those cameras and someone asks me if there's anyone and everything in me wants to say — yes. God, yes. There is someone. There is someone who is — " her voice drops further "— the only thing that feels like mine. The only thing that isn't about the work or the mission or what I owe the world." Her forehead nearly touches yours. "And then I think about what happens if the wrong person hears that. What happens if someone with a grudge and a long memory decides to find out who she is."

Your back is still against the wall. She is close, close enough that you can feel the warmth radiating off her, close enough that when she breathes you feel it.

"If anything," she says, and her voice has gone very quiet and very certain, the way it gets when she means something completely, "if anything touched you because of me — because I couldn't keep you out of it—" Her jaw tightens and she shakes her head once, slow. "That would be the thing that finally breaks me. I would not come back from that. Do you understand what I'm saying to you?"

You understand. You understand completely, and it doesn't make the ache go away, but it rearranges it, turns it into something that doesn't feel like rejection anymore, feels like the opposite of that, feels like being held so carefully that she won't even let the world see she's holding you.

You don't trust your voice. You nod.

"I know it's hard." She brings her other hand up to cup your face, both palms against your cheeks now, cradling, thumbs brushing the corners of your eyes where you're dangerously close to letting something spill. "I know what I'm asking of you. I know what it costs. And I need you to know that I see it— I see all of it — even when I can't say so in a room full of cameras. Even when I have to stand there and be nothing." Her eyes search yours. "You are not nothing. You are— Y/n, you are the most important thing."

A tear escapes. You can't stop it. She catches it with her thumb before it gets far, so automatic, so certain, like her hands already know you by heart.

"I love you," she says.

Two words. Simple. And the way she says them, quiet and unperformed, no armor around them, nothing careful about it, makes your knees go soft.

You look at her lips. You look back up at her eyes. You are trying to find your voice and it has completely abandoned you.

"I love you," you say. Barely a sound.

Something in her face shifts, something that was wound very tight comes loose. She lets out a slow breath and she almost smiles except it's softer than a smile, it's relief, it's the expression of someone who needed to hear that more than they knew.

She moves a fraction closer. "I love you," she says again. Quieter. Like it's only for this room, only for you, like she's been keeping it somewhere very private and she's finally letting it out.

You wet your lips. The air between you is barely anything at all now. "I love you." Breathless. Just breath.

Her eyes drop to your mouth. She tilts her head, just slightly. "I love—"

She kisses you.

It's not gentle for long. It starts that way, soft, slow, her lips against yours like a question and an answer at the same time, and then your hand finds the front of her blazer and you grab it, and she makes a low sound against your mouth and the gentleness is over.

Her hands slide from your face into your hair, cradling the back of your head, and she kisses you like she has been thinking about it all day, which, you now know, she has. Thoroughly. Like she's making a point. Like she is done, for tonight, with restraint.

Your back is still against the wall and she is pressed against you now and there is no space, no air, nothing careful or measured about any of it. She tastes like whatever she had on the drive home and she smells like her perfume fading into something warmer underneath and you have both hands in her blazer now and she is kissing you in a way that makes it very difficult to remember what you were even upset about twenty minutes ago.

Not because she's erased it. Because she's answered it. Thoroughly. Against a hallway wall, with both hands in your hair and her whole weight angled toward you like she can't close the distance fast enough.

You pull back just enough to breathe. Your foreheads fall together. Both of you are not quite steady.

"Baby," you manage.

"Detka," she says. Low, rough, slightly wrecked. Her hands slide down to your waist, grip there, firm and sure. 

She pulls back just enough to look at you, your face, flushed, your eyes, dark and whatever she sees there makes something shift in her expression. Intent. Certain. The particular focus of Natasha Romanoff when she has decided on something.

She leans down and kisses you again, slow this time, deliberate, thorough, and when she finally pulls back she hooks one arm under your knees and lifts you without a word, easy as breathing, like you weigh nothing, like she has been wanting to do this since she walked in the door and she is simply done waiting.

You make a sound against her shoulder. She turns toward the bedroom.

Your lips find her neck before she's even fully turned toward the hallway.

She inhales sharply, not the controlled kind, the real kind, the kind that comes from somewhere below all that composure and her grip on you tightens instinctively, fingers pressing into the back of your thighs.

"Detka." A warning. Low.

You ignore it. You press another kiss just below her jaw, slow, deliberate, and you feel her swallow.

She keeps walking. Barely.

You drag your lips up the column of her throat, and she tips her head just slightly, just enough, involuntary, the kind of thing her body does before her mind can stop it, and you smile against her skin because Natasha Romanoff just gave you that without meaning to.

"You're going to make me walk into a wall," she says.

"Maybe that's what I want."

She laughs, low and a little rough, and it rumbles through her chest against you. Then she turns her head and finds your jaw with her lips, still carrying you, unhurried, like your weight is nothing, like she has all the time in the world and she drags a slow kiss along the line of it, from the hinge up toward your ear, and your fingers curl into her shoulder.

"Nat—"

"Mm."

She mouths just below your ear and you actually shiver, full body, and her arms tighten around you like she felt it and liked it.

The bedroom doorway. She turns sideways to bring you both through it, still with her lips at your jaw, still completely unhurried, and the confidence of it, the fact that she is navigating a hallway in the dark while taking you apart, does something embarrassing to you.

She gets you through the door and then she's laying you down, slow, controlled, one arm still under you until your back meets the mattress, and she looks at you for just a moment before she follows you down.

Just a moment. Just long enough.

Her hair falls forward, loose now, that deep red catching the low light of the room, and she looks, devastating, that's the word, she always looks devastating but right now with her blazer slightly disheveled and her lips already a little swollen and her eyes on you like you are the only thing worth looking at in any room she has ever been in, devastating doesn't even cover it.

She kisses you before you can say anything.

Deep. Unhurried. One hand flat on the mattress beside your head, the other finding your waist, thumb pressing in like she needs to feel that you're real. You kiss her back and your hands find her hair and she makes a sound low in her throat that you feel more than hear and that sound does something to you, something immediate and irreversible.

Her lips drag from yours down to your jaw and you tip your head back automatically, giving her whatever she wants, and she takes it, mouths down the line of your throat, slow, no rush, like she's learning something. Like she's been thinking about this.

Her teeth graze lightly just below your pulse point.

Your back arches off the mattress.

She does it again, deliberate, and her hand at your waist slides up to hold you there, steady, like she knew you were going to do that and she was ready for it. Her lips close over the spot after and she stays there and your hands tighten in her hair and the sound that comes out of you is quiet and completely involuntary.

"Nat—"

"I have you," she murmurs against your throat.

You pull at her blazer. Both hands, shoving it back off her shoulders, and she shifts just enough to let it go without ever taking her mouth off you, it drops somewhere behind her and neither of you care even slightly.

Her lips move lower. Along your collarbone, slow and purposeful, and you feel her breathe you in, actually breathe you in, nose dragging along your skin, a long slow inhale like you are something she wants to hold in her lungs. Her lips follow. Pressing into your collarbone, your shoulder, the soft skin below it.

Your hands slide down to her shoulders, her back, feeling the lean muscle through her shirt, and she is so warm, she runs so warm, and she is pressed against you like there is no version of tonight where any space exists between you.

She pulls back just enough to look at you. Your shirt. Her eyes come up to yours, asking, and you sit up to meet her.

She takes the hem in her hands and draws it up slowly, slowly, watching your face the entire time, not the fabric, and when it's gone she drops it and just looks at you for a moment. One hand comes up and traces, featherlight, down from your collarbone to your ribs. Following the line of you like she's memorizing it. Like she has time for this, like she is going to take all the time she wants.

"You have no idea," she says quietly. Not quite to you. Almost to herself.

Then she lowers her head and her lips are on your collarbone and you feel her exhale there, warm and slow against your skin, and her hands are at your back and she draws you up, pulls you into her lap in one smooth motion and you go willingly, easily, hands finding her jaw, her shoulders, anywhere you can reach.

Her lips drag up your collarbone to the curve of your shoulder and she breathes you in again, deeper this time, and her grip at your back is firm and certain and you are in her lap with her mouth on your skin and her red hair falling around both of you like a curtain and you think distantly that you would let this woman ruin you completely.

She mouths back to your throat and her hands slide up your spine slow, deliberate, and when they reach your shoulders, she pulls you in closer still and you feel every point of contact between you, her hands warm on your back, your knees on either side of her, her lips finding yours again and kissing you slow and deep like she has nowhere else to be.

Your hands slide down to the hem of her shirt.

You lift it and she breaks the kiss for barely a second, just long enough for the fabric to clear her head, and then her mouth is back on yours like the interruption offended her personally.

You pull back, just slightly, just enough to look at her.

She looks back.

Her hand comes up and cups your face, palm against your cheek, thumb at the corner of your mouth and something in the gesture is so certain, so deliberate, that it makes your breath catch.

Her lips drag back to yours. Then to your chin. Then down, slowly, to underneath your jaw, and she mouths there with an unhurried focus that makes your eyes close.

The sound that comes out of you is quiet and unplanned.

She sighs against your skin low, satisfied, like she needed that, like she has been waiting all day to hear it. Her hands press you closer and her lips find the same spot again, asking for it again.

You give it to her.

Her lips curve against your throat like she's smiling, and her hands slide up your back, and you tip your head back and let her have whatever she wants. 

Natasha's fingers deftly unhook your bra with a subtle snap, the fabric loosening and falling away from your skin. Her hands slowly trail up your sides, leaving a trail of goosebumps in their wake. She pauses at the curve of your breasts, her thumbs brushing lightly against the undersides.

Your fingers slide up her back, tracing over the smooth skin until they find the clasp of her bra. You undo it with a practiced flick, the fabric going slack. 

Natasha exhales against your lips, smiling as she lets the straps slide off her shoulders, dropping the black lingerie beside you. Her bare chest presses flush against yours.

"Better?"

"Yes" you whisper, voice breathless against her lips. 

Your bare breasts press against hers, your nipples hardening at the sudden contact. You can feel Natasha's heart racing, her breath quickening as she runs her hands down your sides again, this time hooking her thumbs into the waistband of your panties 

She slowly slides your panties down, breaking the kiss just long enough to pull them off completely. 

Natasha throws them aside, her gaze lingering on your body with open appreciation before she captures your mouth again in a deep, claiming kiss.

You grind down against her lap, your wetness soaking through her slacks, and she groans deeply, your breathing comes out in shaky pants against her lips. 

Natasha pulls back just enough to look down between your bodies, watching you grind against the bulge in her lap.

"Fuck—"

Her voice drops lower. "You're soaked."

"It's your fault," you manage to gasp out, your voice trembling as you rock your hips harder against her. 

You bury your face in the crook of her neck, overwhelmed by how sensitive you feel. 

"You make me this way, baby..." You look down at where you're grinding against her, seeing the wet patch forming on her slacks. 

"Please..."

Natasha's eyes darken with lust as she feels your wetness spreading through her pants. 

She knows exactly what you're asking for without you having to spell it out. 

She shifts you in her lap so that you're straddling her more comfortably, giving you better access to grind against her. 

"Nat..."

"Shh..." She hushes you softly, one hand gripping your hip to guide your movements while the other tangles in your hair. You can feel her hardness pressing against your clit through the thin fabric of her pants, the friction making your legs tremble. "Ride me..."

You obey, rolling your hips against her in slow, deliberate circles that make her buck up into you. The wet sounds fill the room as your clit grinds against the thick outline in her pants.

"Natasha—" You whimper, fingers clawing at her shoulders. "I need more, please..."

She groans, reaching for her belt buckle.

The buckle clinks as she frantically undoes it, pushing down her slacks just enough to free herself. Her erection springs free, thick and hard, and presses directly against your bare pussy. 

Natasha groans, her head tilting back. "Fuck, that's—" She bites her lip, watching your wet folds glisten against her shaft.

You look down between your bodies, seeing how your swollen wet folds kiss along her length. 

The sight makes you whimper, and you start to rock your hips again, this time feeling the delicious slide of her against your most sensitive parts.

"Oh god..." You breathe, feeling a trickle of wetness drip down her length. 

Natasha wraps her hand around her base, guiding herself so that her tip catches on your entrance with every roll of your hips. 

She teases you like that for a moment, just the tip dipping in before sliding back out, until you're panting and shaking above her. 

"Natasha, please—"

"Please what, baby?" She teases, her voice rough. She lifts her hips to thrust up just an inch, just enough for the head of her cock to pop inside you before pulling back out. She repeats the motion, slowly working herself deeper with each pass. "You want it inside you?"

"Yes— fuck, yes," you beg, your walls clenching around just the tip. You don't just want it, you need it. You need her buried inside you so deep you forget your own name. 

Natasha grips your hips tighter, fingernails digging in, and then finally, finally, pushes up as you sink down.

You both moan loudly as she fills you completely in one smooth thrust. You're stretched so perfectly around her, taking every inch without resistance. Natasha's hands slide to your ass, squeezing and spreading you wider as she holds you down on her lap, seated fully inside you.

You start moving immediately, lifting and dropping yourself onto her, taking her deep over and over. 

Natasha's head falls back, eyes rolling slightly as she watches your breasts bounce with each movement. She meets your thrusts from below, hitting deeper spots inside you that make your vision blur.

"I love you—" She moans loudly, hips stuttering up into you as she says it, her green eyes half-lidded and hazy with pleasure. Her hands grip your ass tightly, guiding your movements. "Fuck, I love you so much..."

Hearing those words in her throaty moan sends a bolt of electricity straight to your core. 

You moan out, clenching tightly around her as you pick up your pace, riding her harder and faster. 

"Natasha...oh fuck, Natasha...I love you.."

Natasha's eyes flutter open, locking onto yours with an intense gaze filled with love and lust. She lifts her hips sharply to meet your thrusts, hitting that perfect spot inside you again. 

"I love you—" She moans again, louder this time, her voice breaking slightly.

She suddenly flips you both over, pinning you beneath her on the mattress without pulling out. She starts thrusting into you in long, deep strokes that make the bed creak. Her green eyes stay locked on yours, half lidded and hazy but never leaving your face.

Her hips snap against yours in a relentless rhythm, driving you into the mattress. Every thrust is punctuated by a low, broken moan from her lips, her green eyes swimming with emotion. 

"My girl..." She breathes out, pressing her forehead against yours. "You feel... so fucking good..." She buries herself deep, grinding her hips.

"I love you," You gasp out between moans, wrapping your legs around her waist to pull her closer. 

Your walls clench tightly around her every time she bottoms out, and you can tell she's getting closer, her thrusts are getting more erratic and desperate.

"Don't stop— please, don't stop—" You moan out as she hits that spot again, your back arching off the mattress. Your hands scramble for purchase on her shoulders, nails digging in. You're so close you can feel the pressure building, threatening to burst. "Natasha, I'm gonna—" Your voice cracks. "I'm gonna—"

"Cum for me," She groans, her voice strained as her thrusts become short, sharp jabs that hit deeper with each one. Her eyes are half lidded, mouth hanging open as she stares down at you with absolute adoration. "Let me feel you cum around me, baby..."

She grinds her pelvis down, pressing against your clit.

"Right there— right there—" You moan out, your body convulsing as your orgasm crashes over you. Your pussy clenches tightly around her, pulsing with each wave of pleasure. Natasha's eyes roll back slightly as she feels you coming undone around her cock.

"That's it, baby— fuck—" She groans, feeling your walls squeeze and flutter around her. 

She can't hold back anymore, slamming into you hard and fast until she's chasing her own release. With a broken cry of your name, she buries herself to the hilt and comes, spilling deep inside you.

You both collapse against each other, drenched in sweat and breathing hard. 

Natasha doesn't pull out, instead she just wraps her arms around you tightly, pressing lazy kisses to your jaw and neck. Her softening cock twitches inside you, and she lets out a shaky sigh.

"I love you," she murmurs again, softer this time, her green eyes finally closing.

"I love you too," you whisper, pressing a gentle kiss to her lips. You can feel her heart beating against yours, and you never want this moment to end. 

You're both completely spent, physically and emotionally, and you just want to lie here in her arms forever.

6 months later

You knock twice before you push the door open.

"Come in," she says, and her voice is in full work mode, clipped, focused, the tone she uses when she's three reports deep and running on coffee.

You smile before you've even fully stepped inside.

She looks up from her desk.

And her whole face changes.

It happens fast, the professional composure just dissolves, replaced by something warm and unguarded and entirely yours, and she's already standing, already moving around the desk before she's made a conscious decision to do it. Her heels click against the floor and she crosses the office and her hands find your face first, cupping your cheeks, pressing a kiss to your forehead like punctuation.

Then she steps back just slightly and her hands slide down, down your arms, to your waist, and then lower, settling soft and reverent against the curve of your belly.

She looks down.

Then back up at you.

"Hi," you say.

"Hi," she says. Her voice has gone completely soft. Nothing clipped about it now.

Her thumbs trace slow across the curve and she just, looks at you, the way she does when she thinks you're not paying attention, like you are something she still can't quite believe is real.

"What are you doing here?" Not a complaint. The opposite.

"Thought I'd visit." You tilt your head. "Your team said you forgot to eat lunch."

She opens her mouth.

"Again," you add.

She closes it.

"Natasha."

"I was in the middle of something."

"You're always in the middle of something." You reach up and straighten her collar, which doesn't need straightening, just because you can. "She's been kicking since noon by the way. I think she knows when you're being stubborn."

Something moves across her face, that specific expression she still doesn't know she makes, the one she gets every time you say she. Like it hits her fresh every time.

Her hands press a little warmer against your belly.

"Hi, malyshka," she murmurs, low, just for the two of you.

You watch Natasha Romanoff, spy, assassin, Avenger, talk softly to her unborn daughter in the middle of her office, and your chest fills up with something so large you almost can't contain it.

She looks up and catches you looking.

"Don't," she says.

"I'm not doing anything."

"You have the face."

"I don't have a face."

"You have the face you make when you're about to say something that makes me—" She stops. Her jaw shifts. "Don't."

You grin. "Natasha Romanoff is soft."

"I will revoke your visitor badge."

You laugh, and she tries to hold the stern expression and cannot, and she pulls you carefully in by your waist and presses her lips to your temple and stays there.

"Lunch," she says into your hair. "Then I have to finish the report."

"Lunch," you agree.

It's quiet in your dorm. The sun is shining in through the blinds, forming stripey shadows on the floor. You're both sweaty from the summer heat. Natasha's thrusting into you lazily, completely unhurried. You have nowhere to be.

Red fingernails scrape down her back. She moans, losing rhythm for a moment, and you laugh against her shoulder.

"You're doing that on purpose", she grits, hips snapping forward. "Wanna drag this out, huh?"

"I have all the time in the world", you moan. "What're you in a hurry for?"

She shakes her head. She's not in a hurry — god forbid — but she's not a fan of being put on the spot like this, either. Her hands are next to your head, fisting the bedsheets, and her thrusts become sharper.

Sweat glistens on both your stomachs. Your thighs are covered in precum and red marks. You wrap your fingers around the necklace dangling into your face and tug on it, knocking your mouths together.

You've been at this for over an hour. Natasha got done with practice, sat down in her car, and drove straight to your place. Five minutes later, you were both naked and entangled in your bed.

'Entangled' might be the wrong word. You're smushed together from head to toe, the bed too narrow to fit you both properly. But you make do.

You open your eyes when she shifts a bit, the angle suddenly different and much deeper. Her gaze locks onto your bodies, watching her thick length thrust in and out of you. Your breath stutters. 

"Oh, fuck", she mutters, eyebrows furrowed. She reaches to the side. "Wait, let me-"

Too dazed to speak, you watch her grab the phone she tossed aside earlier. It takes you a second, then it clicks. 

"Seriously?"

"If you saw what I'm seeing, you'd understand", she pants, trying to keep fucking you while unlocking her phone. 

"Wow", you tease, as out of breath as she is. "You really are obsessed. Tell me, what are you planning on doing with that?"

She lets out a laugh. The camera pans in between your bodies. Sweaty skin, parted thighs, the swollen head of her cock pushing against your clit before sinking back in. The microphone picks up every moan, every slick, squelching noise. 

"For my personal collection", she mumbles. She's still staring, fully entranced. "This is so fucking hot."

Minutes later, she cums hard inside you. You wrap your thighs around her hips, your own orgasm milking her dry. You don't make a move to get up when you're done.

Her face is buried against your neck. You're starting to catch your breath, and your fingers twitch towards the phone tucked in between your bodies. 

"The video", you demand. "I want to see it."

She sinks her teeth into your neck just enough to make you giggle. Her fingers blindly search for the phone, and once she's found it, she rolls off you. 

"I want to watch, too", she says. She pulls you into her side. "Volume up."

Two seconds into the video, you realize why she did this. It's shaky, slightly out of focus. The lighting is off, too. But the noises, and being able to watch her be inside you on screen — fuck you — make up for it. 

Your moans cut in. Trembling exhales, a creaking bed, and Natasha cursing quietly. A fresh gush of precum running down your thighs. 

A wave of heat coils in your stomach. Natasha exhales, her fingers curling into your stomach. 

"We're basically professionals", you mumble. "The quality is trash."

"It's only for us, anyway", she brushes off. "So who cares, really."

You shift, nodding, and watch her replay the video. 

Right. For your eyes only. 

. . .

It's hot out. You managed to grab the last table that's somewhat in the shade. There's seven of you, squeezed together around the round picnic table with half the food court's menu in between you. 

"You're late", you tell Natasha when she gets there. She grimaces, squeezing into the spot between you and Steve. 

"Took a nap after the gym and kept hitting snooze. Is this mine?"

She's ripping open the Panda Express container before you can confirm. You watch her shovel egg fried rice into her mouth, then you turn back around. Her arm is around your waist, Kate is telling you about something that happened during her seminar. A thumb hooks into the waistband of your skirt.

It's a slow day. After getting some studying in, you all met up to grab lunch. With finals done and having kicked off summer break, you don't have much to do — which is a very welcome change.

Natasha stuffs her mouth with the last spoonful of shrimp, then she reaches for her backpack. You watch her, chin resting in your open palm, eyes lazily tracing her arms and shoulders as she digs for something.

There's a slight sunburn on the back of her neck. Her baby hairs are curling in the humid July heat. She's wearing a jersey, one that now faintly smells of sweat and deodorant. You're almost fully distracted, the conversations between your friends having turned into mere background noise, when your attention shifts.

"What's that?"

"A camcorder." She grins, setting it down on the table. "Got it from a friend. Said he doesn't need it anymore, so..."

"A friend?", you question, reaching for the device. "Jesus, this thing's heavy."

"He needed it for one of his classes. Got it from his uncle, I think. But he passed that class, and he bought himself a new one now." She takes a few gulps of water and nods at the camera. "That's mine now. Let's try it."

You give her a look, but pick up the camcorder and snap open the LCD screen anyway. You're not sure what you're doing. You can't remember ever using anything other than your phone to record things. 

Wanda leans over immediately. She presses a few buttons, and suddenly, you're zooming into Clint's face.

"You've got ranch on your chin", you tell him. He blinks and, once he realizes what's going on, reaches for a napkin. "How old is this?"

"Not the newest", Natasha admits. "Not ancient, either. How's the quality?"

"Decent." You pan the camera lower, filming the mess on the table. "Not as good as my phone, though."

"I call bullshit", she says. Before you can protest, she swipes the camcorder from your hands. "See? And, oh, look at this-"

The camera pans at your face. You squint your eyes at the lens, looking at your reflection in it. Your hair is a bit tousled. Your makeup is still flawless, though.

"Perfect", Natasha concludes.

"Oh yeah?" You lean in and blow at the camera. "You sound surprised."

She glares at you when the lens gets all fogged up. She lowers the camera and cleans it with the hem of her jersey. You watch her, smiling at the disgruntled look on her face.

Neither of you are thinking it yet. It's innocent enough. The camcorder gets passed around the table, you start recording random stuff — people walking by, pigeons picking at fries and bits of lettuce, a flyer lying discarded on the ground. Tony gets up and almost moons everyone. 

After it's made a few rounds, it ends up back in Natasha's hands. You've all gotten up to go to the parking lot and drive back home. It's a Friday night, and you've all got plans; maybe a club or two, or finding a karaoke bar. If it were up to Natasha, though, your night would look very different.

"Perv", Clint says, watching her slowly point the camera lower. "You get that view all the time."

"Shut up", she mutters. You haven't noticed — you're a few steps ahead, talking to Wanda, hips swaying. Your skirt is short, your thighs are plush. 

Clint waits another second, then he knocks his elbow into her side. The camcorder shakes in her hand, the shot getting ruined. 

"Asshole!"

"Huh?" You turn around and raise your eyebrows at her. She shakes her head.

"I want a new best friend", she says, catching up to you and wrapping her arm around your shoulders. Her lips brush your ear. "You're sure about the night out-thing?"

You give her a wary look. She's trying to look innocent, but it's not working. You know her, and you know when there's an idea brewing in her head. Though, she's had this very idea before — stay home instead of joining the others and spend the night counting your orgasms. Preferably no clothes.

"Again? We can't ditch them every time."

"We went out for lunch with them", she argues. Her voice lowers into a mumble. "You said you'd let me eat off your-"

"That's off the table", you cut her off. "You're very demanding, you know."

She rolls her eyes, head nodding in defeat. She knows she is. She swears she's working on it.

You meet up at your dorm to leave together. Natasha shows up half an hour early, showered and dressed already — camcorder in hand. You stand in the doorway and raise your eyebrows at her, clutching the towel you've got wrapped around your body.

Water droplets glisten on flushed skin. She almost drops the camera.

"You're early", you say, finally getting on your tiptoes to kiss her. "Come in. I might need a few more minutes."

It's never 'a few more minutes' — about an hour sounds more realistic. Natasha doesn't complain, though. She slumps into your bed, the camcorder next to her, and watches you dig in a drawer.

The towel drops at some point. You slip into lace underwear. A matching bra, embroidered with her favorite hearts, follows. She shifts, trying to decide whether filming you right now would be appropriate...or whether you'd kick her out.

"You look amazing", she says in earnest. "New lipstick?"

"Mhm. Borrowed it from roomie." You're at your desk, legs crossed and eyes fixated on the little mirror you propped up in front of you. Natasha subtly grabs the camcorder. "You know, I was thinking. You have a basketball game next Saturday, and since it's all the way in New Jersey, we could get a hotel for the weekend. I know the others are all arriving a few hours before the game, but..."

Her brain drowns the rest of your words out. You're blotting your lips with a folded napkin. You're reaching for your blush, for mascara. She swears she can smell you from her spot on the bed. Vanilla, cherry, laundry detergent. 

And then, she's filming you. She zooms in on your face, letting the camera trail to your shoulders and down your half naked body.

"It'd be romantic", you say, looking at her — and straight into the camera. "Oh god. What's with you and that stupid thing?"

"Smile", she says, zooming out again. "I'll even tell you a knock knock joke."

You scoff at her. Whatever she's doing seems to work, though. You're smiling wide, giving her a challenging look through the lens of the camcorder.

"Oh, come on."

Natasha grins. Her mind is somewhere else. "Imagine how famous we'd be."

It takes you a second, then you remember. The amateur sex tape. The one minute long video that mainly consists of heavy breathing and your lower body, thighs spread, her cock slowly thrusting in and out of you. You shake your head to get rid of that memory.

"Right. Nothing gets people off like blurry, foggy videos and bad lighting." You get up and grab the two outfits you picked out. "White or blue?"

"Blue", she says absently. "It's a no?"

All you do is give her another look. She sighs, plugs the camcorder into the wall, and puts it on your nightstand. 

You end up leaving without it.

. . .

Uneven breathing, smudged lipstick and a sweaty jersey. 

You're pressed against the wall in the hallway, in the middle of your dormitory, where anyone could walk in on you at any given time. The pink cropped top you wore is stuffed into the pocket of Natasha's shorts. Your hand is in her boxers.

She opens the door without breaking the kiss. You both stumble in, shut the door again, immediately press up against it. Neither of you take notice of the camcorder on your nightstand yet.

"Fuck", she mutters, teeth scraping over your pulse point. "Swear you did that on purpose. Almost ripped his stupid bald head off."

"I wasn't-" You bite your lip and stifle a whine, "flirting. Just wanted to get a free drink out of it."

Natasha scoffs. You don't need free drinks. Not when she'll get you all the free drinks in the world. 

She rips open your shorts. You buck your hips, helping her tug them off. Her fingers find the front of your underwear and press against it, feeling wet heat through thin fabric. You moan, the doorknob digging into your lower back, and she pulls you away from the door.

It's almost completely dark in your dorm. The streetlights outside provide some light, though not much of it. You somehow make it into your bed, anyway.

"Roommate?", she asks, tossing her jersey aside. 

"At her boyfriend's", you say. She bends down to kiss you, and you hook your thumbs into her shorts. "We got all night."

She grins and kisses you again, deeper this time. Hands braced next to the pillow, slowly pushing you onto your back. Slick lips, kisses that turn more urgent, hands squeezing and grabbing. 

There's spit on your chins. It's messy. You reach between your bodies, trying to guide her into place, when she remembers something.

"Condom", she mumbles, lips on your jaw. "Wait."

Her hand blindly reaches to the side. Her fingers bump against something hard, knocking it over, and you both lift your heads to check. 

It's the camcorder, now lying on its side. Still plugged in, still charging, silent and waiting for that moment. A moment you weren't aware would ever come.

You give her a look. She glances at you, that one video replaying in her head. It's hasn't been that long since you took it, maybe a little over a week, and she's been replaying it again and again. 

You reach for the camcorder first. Natasha raises her eyebrows, lips twitching. 

"Look at that", she says. "Maybe I am a bad influence after all."

"It's just for fun", you dismiss. "We can always delete it, right?"

You both know you won't. The first video didn't make it anywhere but your hidden albums, either. The thought of making another one is thrilling — being seen, seeing each other. Watching closely instead of feeling. Reliving that feeling, too.

You turn the camcorder on and point it at her face. "Got any last words?"

"Way to ruin the mood."

"Sensitive", you smile. "We just put it there?"

The camcorder goes back to its spot on the nightstand. You have no idea what the angle, or the lighting look like — whether the mic will even do its job. At that moment, it doesn't matter. It's just for fun.

Natasha gives you one more look. You nod, she bites her lip, and then she's back to kissing you. Her hands smooth down your sides, parting your thighs. She sinks in deep.

It's not slow or lazy this time. Knowing that there's a camera on you keeps things urgent. The kiss is still sloppy, your lips spit slicked and swollen. Every moan feels louder. The room suddenly feels smaller. There's a little red light on the camcorder which signals that it's still recording. 

It should distract you. Somehow, it doesn't. Despite everything, you're only focused on Natasha. 

She cums in messy bursts, her hips stuttering. The moment you've cleaned up the mess between your thighs, you grab the camcorder and play the video. 

"This is insane", she says after the third replay. "We're hot. Babe, we're hot."

"I heard you the first time", you mumble. You're curled into her, cheek smushed against her chest. You pause the video. "Look how you're looking at me."

Natasha rolls her eyes, face flushing. "We'd be so popular", she adds. "Like, improve the quality a bit..."

"Oh yeah", you say sarcastically. "And then, what? Put it on the internet? Go viral?"

She shrugs, and you're not sure whether it's still a joke. "Sure."

"Be serious."

"You're telling me this wouldn't be a hit?"

It would be. You don't have to test that hypothesis to know. You'd go viral overnight — thousands of clicks, likes, comments. Thousands of people staring at the two of you, having sex in a way that'd have everyone wishing they were in your place. 

The thought is satisfying, enticing. It's reckless, too. You've done dumb things before, but this seems like a step you wouldn't be able to undo. 

"Of course it would be", you say, bright red nails raking up and down her abs. "It's still insane."

"In a good way."

"Right", you say. "Let's just post it, bad quality or not. I mean-"

You grab the camcorder and rewind to minute 8:45. Natasha's gripping the headrest, your fingernails are digging into her sides and drawing blood, and the weird lighting is a casting a shadow on her face that makes it look like she has a beard. 

"Mhm", she mumbles. She pauses at a different frame. "This, too. See the condom wrapper sticking to my hip?"

"Lots of room for improvement", you agree. "This is just embarrassing."

"Right. We'd have to put a lot more effort into it."

You both pause. You didn't notice it happen, but somewhere along the way, your jokes turned into curiosity. Suddenly, you're both too deep into the idea to ignore it.

. . .

A masquerade mask sits on your nightstand. You're twirling a lollipop between your fingers. Knee high socks and lingerie, the camcorder sitting on a tripod you snuck out of Wanda's dorm.

"The angle isn't right", you complain, sucking the lollipop into your mouth. "We'll look like amateurs."

"Babe", she says, straightening up and wiping her forehead. "We are amateurs. We can try and make it less obvious, but..."

You raise your eyebrows at her. She's been at this for half an hour now — hoodie sleeves pushed up and hair in a low bun, dragging furniture around and adjusting the desk lamp she pointed at your bed.

You're being useless. You're having candy and throwing commands at Natasha. Natasha calls it lazy, you call it foreplay. You're wet from just watching her play handyman and pretend to be all professional about this.

"The angle is important", you drawl. "You know that."

Her ears burn at the implication. "I do know that. Leave my angles alone."

You grin, sucking on the lollipop and scooting off the bed. She jerks when you run your hand down her back. 

"Don't be so nervous", you hum, voice soft like butter. "This was your idea, wasn't it? Don't chicken out now."

"I'm not nervous", she snaps. "Get your ass on the bed."

You tilt your head, pinch her chin and turn her head to face you. You study her, and she feels herself harden. She really doesn't know why you're naked already.

"You're yelling?"

She stares at you, shrinking a little. "Okay, fair. Please get on the bed."

It doesn't matter how tall she is — when you're pissed, she's scared. It's that simple. At first, she was worried about her teammates seeing her like this — how is someone over 6ft tall scared of someone half her size? —, but then she realized it's a universal experience. It doesn't stop them from making fun of her, though.

You roll your eyes and get back into position. A few minutes later, Natasha's convinced she found the right angle. The lighting seems good as well. The bed is clean, freshly made, and her biceps are still a little swollen from her workout earlier.

"Is it recording?"

She turns around, giving the camcorder a fleeting look. "Huh? Yeah, the red light is on."

"Isn't it supposed to blink?"

"No", she says, finally getting on the bed with you. "No. It's not. The camera is fine, let it be."

You smirk, grabbing the masquerade mask on the nightstand. Natasha watches you conceal your face with it. 

Neither of you want your identities revealed. You removed every poster that was taped to the wall next to your bed, bought masks, did everything in your power to not accidentally ruin your digital footprint. 

You lean in and kiss her, the rim of the mask pressing against her face. You taste like the cherry lollipop you tossed aside. 

Your tongue slips into her mouth. Her face is on video still — but you need foreplay, just like you needed the vodka shots you took earlier. Just for confidence. To make sure it'll go smoothly.

She leans back against the headrest, boxers tented already. You swing one leg over her lap to straddle her, hands reaching for the bottom of her hoodie, mouth still moving against hers. You tug it off and expose abs, biceps and a sports bra.

Then, you pull away. Natasha grabs the Ghostface mask next to her and slips it on. You're both faceless now, nameless too. 

"Ready?", you whisper, palming her through her boxers. Her hips buck, chasing your touch.

She nods, breathing heavy. No word comes out.

00:01:24

You ignore the camera. Don't look at it, don't think about it. Focus on what's in front of you. You reach into her boxers, sliding your hand down her length and watching her exhale shakily, then pull her cock out. 

She's flushed, tip leaking. She gets worked up fast, but this is a lot even for her. You move your hands in slow pumps, your touch way too gentle. You're both hyper aware of the camera, but — and that's the surprise — not in a bad way.

00:01:50

You're soaking wet. You're hot all over, too. Natasha's barely keeping herself from fucking your hand, so you squeeze at the base a few times, brush your thumb across the swollen head and let go. She watches you as you scoot up her thighs and arch your back. 

A moan rips from her throat. Your arms are around her neck, your pussy rubbing up against her erection. There's too much fabric separating you, but you start to grind just a little, and her head falls forward at the sensation. 

The mask is in the way. Nothing but a piece of plastic, but it's keeping her face from the one spot she thirsts after most. You exhale at the feeling of cold plastic pressing against warm skin and smooth your hands up her back, threading your fingers into her hair.

Her hands smooth up your sides, cupping your breasts. Calloused fingers swipe over your nipples, tugging on them until they're pebbled against the pads of her fingers. Your hips stutter at the feeling, but you don't lose rhythm. You can't — not in front of the camera.

00:02:36

You're still grinding against her when she puts her hands on your waist. You don't say a word. You can't expose your voices, either. But she guides you with light pressure, shifting and turning you around, making you straddle her lap reverse cowgirl style.

Natasha's both relieved and a little annoyed she can't share what she's seeing. The camera is only picking up your side profile — for now, Natasha's point of view remains a fantasy for your imaginary audience. A red thong, darker where it covers your pussy, and skin that's shimmering with body oil. She throbs painfully.

She runs her hands up your thighs, moving them to your ass and hooking her thumbs under the soaked fabric of your underwear. She finds your clit and presses against it, then her thumb slips into your pussy. A soft moan is picked up by the camcorder's mic. 

00:03:19

You're moving your hips, slowly fucking yourself on her thumb. You have no idea how you've lasted this long without having her inside you, but to Natasha, it seems like a miracle she hasn't splattered all over the bed yet.

The lights are a bit too bright. You notice it too late. You squint your eyes and lower your head, hips rolling and moans getting stuck in your throat. Natasha, starting to get impatient, makes your thong snap back against your skin. 

Then, the thin fabric rips. Something thicker replaces her thumb, the sticky tip barely pushing into your cunt. Your back is sweaty already, nerves and arousal turning into a lethal combination. You sink down on her cock.

00:03:45

For a moment, it's all soft moans, slow bouncing, getting adjusted to the stretch and the depth. Natasha's panting behind you. She loves, loves this view, but she mourns what she's missing out on — parted lips, covered in lipgloss and cherry-sweet sugar, eyes closing and eyebrows furrowed. 

You move your hips up and down, up and down. Her hands are on your thighs, guiding the rhythm. You're still dragging it out. She's trying not to cry against your back.

The bed creaks. The noises get slicker, louder, until the mic picks them up as well. Natasha's staring at the space between your legs, watching you fuck yourself on her length. The mask she's wearing is made of plastic, and soon enough, she feels her face flush and heat up like she's stuck inside an oven.

It doesn't manage to distract her, though. She grabs at your thighs greedily, fingers digging into soft flesh and leaving little marks. You fist the bedsheets underneath you and bite your lip to stop yourself from cursing at her out loud.

00:04:50

She's too close already. She's not sure what it is — the position, that she's been pent up all day, that you're recording this for god knows how many strangers on the internet. She's throbbing inside you, every bounce and thrust kicking her towards an edge that'll inevitably come.

You can tell she's struggling. You predicted it. Performing under pressure only works when she's playing basketball. 

So, of course, you slow down. You rotate your hips, grind down against her until the tip is rubbing against spots so deep you never felt them before. You're teasing, making it worse, and she's trying not to start an argument over it.

Her hips jerk up in a fruitless search for more. You laugh under your breath and sink back down, forcing her to keep her hips pinned to the mattress.

00:06:01

The camcorder is just in reach when Natasha leans over a little. She grabs it, fingers slipping, and points the lens at you. Your thighs are dripping, your back covered in a thin sheen of sweat. Muscles move under smooth skin. 

You're going faster now, bouncing up and down, riding her. You're leaning forward so much your face is almost buried against the bedsheets. That doesn't stifle your moans, though. They only spur Natasha on, and her hips stutter upwards.

You're both close now. Warmth has spread everywhere — you're fuzzy in the head, not thinking straight. You almost tell her you're close, but then you remember the camera. Natasha's trying to hold it steady, but her hands are shaking, and so is the camera.

The lens is fogged up just the slightest bit. Natasha doesn't think twice before grabbing the thong she ripped off you and using it to wipe it clean.

For a second, she sees the head of her cock, pink and swollen and covered in slickness. You sit down again until she's plunged deep inside.

You're going faster, and she's feeling it everywhere. The pressure in the tip, the precum that's spilling like a fountain. You clench around her, she thrusts up hard, and the coil of energy snaps for both of you.

00:06:59

Your moans mix, a mixture of heavy breathing and gasps drowning out the noise of slick skin against slick skin. You feel her unload herself deep inside you, your own orgasm milking her dry. Cum drips down your thighs, getting smeared all over her lower stomach.  

The camera is still in her hand, too. The footage has to be shaky — there's no way Natasha managed to keep it steady through an orgasm like this one — but neither of you care too much.

You look at her over your shoulder. She swallows, one hand on your waist.

. . .

"You're watching it again?"

Natasha doesn't look up from her laptop. She's sitting on the floor beside her bed, back against the wall, red hair curling at the ends. It's a hot day. She's not trying to make it any more bearable.

"We're at 50k", she mumbles. You hear a moan come from the laptop. "The comments are insane."

You hum, eyebrows raised, and drop your shoulder bag on her desk. An empty bottle falls over, but you ignore it for the sake of kneeling down next to Natasha. She angles the screen toward you.

More than a thousand comments already, more clicks than your university has students — you predicted it, but neither of you really thought it'd happen. We'd be so popular, Natasha said. Now you are.

You're not sure you like it. Most of the people in the comments are talking about how they'd love to be in your spot, or just be in between you. Thirsting for either of you, both of you. Some of them are downright deranged.

"That's gross", you state, scrolling further down. "What's the obsession with my ass?"

"Can't blame them."

"Keep that up and you won't get to see it again", you fire. Still, you feel something tingly in your stomach. "You were right. We are popular."

Natasha grins. She puts the laptop aside and grabs you, your aforementioned ass landing right in her lap and right where she wants it. Her calloused hand slips under your skirt to adjust your panties.

"I'm starting to think you're the obsessed one", you say. She hums and presses a few kisses to your shoulder.

"What gives it away?"

You give her a look. "Your boner."

A deep red blooms in her cheeks. She's still in her workout clothes — basketball shorts, loose hoodie, socks that aren't really white anymore. She's buzzing from an energy drink. She watched herself fuck you onscreen. Of course she's hard.

"I'll keep it in my pants", she says, wrapping her arms around you. "Just stay here."

"Sure", you say, eyebrows raised. You nod at her laptop. "About that..."

She tilts her head. You can sniff out her bad ideas before they pop up in her mind, and this time, it isn't any different. You sigh as the words leave her mouth.

"Wanna make another one?"

You've thought about it. Obviously you have. Each time you're having sex, recording yourselves, hooking up in her car, you think about it. It's been a week or two since you clicked post on the first one. It's been a success. You don't want to repeat it, though, and you definitely don't want it to be a habit.

"I think we're one and done", you say, poking your finger into her chest. "I don't like the things others comment about you."

"Oh", she drawls, smirking. "There it is. You're jealous."

"I could leave right now, Romanoff. Just try me."

"I'd rather not", she says. She pulls you closer, shifting you a little. Her face ends up against your collarbone. "I'm fine with one and done. Can't let the fame get to your head."

"You're one to talk."

Her face slowly moves lower, until it's buried between your tits. You wrap your arms around her head and scoff at the way her hands smooth up and down your thighs. Your porno was looping in her head until she got you into her lap. 

She gets you into her bed, too. You're in an oversized shirt of hers, bare thighs littered with hickeys and slick with spit. You can't see her, but you can feel her. 

It's summer, you're hot all over, the camcorder is charging on the nightstand next to you. Always in reach, always tempting you. You end up grabbing it a few times over the next months, but you never press record.

Natasha’s hands move to grip your waist, gently keeping you in place so she can pass you in the kitchen without bumping into you as she makes her way toward the coffee maker.

You don’t startle or stiffen. You know who the hands belong to. You’re familiar with their hold, with the feeling of their fingertips on you.

“Just me,” she murmurs anyway, voice soft in the early morning, giving you an affectionate squeeze before she lets go.

You turn, offering her a smile in greeting, one of your own hands raising to lightly brush along her back as she walks by.

This is the norm: Natasha’s touch on you, your touch on her. Her knee always manages to bump yours underneath the table during meals, your hand for some reason always reaches up to push a strand of fiery red hair behind her ear.

You’ve been best friends for years, the comfort you two feel with each other something that doesn’t come to many. It’s always felt different with Natasha than with anyone else. Easy, natural, innate.

Natasha is a constant, steadfast and dependable, loyal to a fault. No matter what happens, you know you’ll always have her.

“Are they…?” Steve asks one day, watching how Natasha’s arm is draped over your shoulders as you both sit much too close to one another for it to be platonic on the sofa, some forgotten show, you both prioritizing chatting, playing on the screen.

“Nope,” Wanda replies, the witch only ever getting more and more exasperated at the affectionate behavior that neither of you capitalize on with each day that passes.

“But-”

“I know,” she cuts him off.

That’s the end of it.

The party is well underway, and Natasha is pressed up against you constantly. She keeps telling herself that it’s just due to the crowd.

But regardless of her reason, you’re relishing in it, soaking up her hand against the small of your back leading you as you make your way through the ballroom, basking in the feeling of her shoulder grazing your own whenever you two stand side by side. Natasha’s eyes are on you tonight, her focus never straying, never distracted, never diverting, and you can almost trick yourself into thinking that she likes you as more than a friend too.

“May I have this dance?” Natasha asks a few hours into the party, smirk on her face, her hand extended toward you as an offer.

With the playful tone, you know that you can’t take the question seriously, can’t presume that she means it in any other way than just two friends dancing, but as usual, hope makes a home of your chest anyway.

You bite your lip shyly and nod, accepting her hand, fingers interlocking as Natasha gently tugs you toward the dance floor.

The song is slow, and when the hand not tangled with yours comes to settle on your waist, its warmth bleeding through the material of your dress, you curse the universe yet another time for making you have a crush on your best friend.

You’ve been cursing the universe a lot lately. Every time you notice your gaze lingering a second too long as Natasha peacefully reads in the armchair by the window, every time you find your voice softening when you shift from talking to someone else to talking to her, every time you realize that the reason you touched her was simply an aimless excuse.

Despite it all, despite you knowing you shouldn’t—you shouldn’t long for more, you shouldn’t pretend, you shouldn’t fantasize that this is real—you tuck your head into the crook of Natasha’s neck, resting your cheek against her collarbone as you sway to the music. Natasha suppresses a shiver at your warm breaths puffing along her skin.

You spend the rest of the night glued to her, one dance leading to another and then another. And still, once you finish dancing, your closeness isn’t severed. You both walk over to the couches, Natasha pulling you onto her lap, her arms wrapping around you as she holds you in a way that no one without further intent ever should.

You lean back into her without thinking about it, the movement second nature as touching Natasha has come to be, and you spend the rest of the party there. You’re curled into her body, snuggled into her chest, legs stretched out over her lap. At a certain point, you somehow manage to push yourself even closer, shifting until your head once again finds a way to be nuzzled under her chin.

“I think I’m going to turn in,” you tell the redhead after another couple of hours, words mumbled against her before pulling your head away to look up at her face. You don’t want to end the night, to remove yourself from her arms, but you’re growing tired, yawning constantly, and you have an early start to tomorrow. The party is slowly coming to an end anyway, the sea of people diminishing as many attendees are also electing to go home.

“Want me to walk you to your room?” Natasha asks, slackening her hold just a fraction, “Just so you don’t get lost.”

“I think I can manage to find my way to my bedroom,” you tease.

“For protection purposes then,” she playfully changes course… anything to prolong her time with you.

You roll your eyes at her new reason, but it’s a cover for the way warmth blooms within you at her seemingly wanting to you to stay. “I’ve got it,” you reassure, and for a moment—brief but unignorable—you consider pressing a kiss to the apple of her cheek in goodbye, you imagine what her skin would be like under your lips. The gesture feels right right now, the action feels like it’d be natural, but you force yourself to hold back, not wanting to cross any lines even though they’ve perhaps already been crossed too many times before.

“Alright,” Natasha replies, giving you the adoring smile that causes your traitorous heart to flip flop with the belief that maybe she feels the same, “I’ll see you tomorrow?”

“Bright and early for training,” you answer her, nodding.

Her hand comes up to cup your cheek. Damn her hands for always wanting to touch you. “Rest well,” Natasha murmurs.

You give her one last sweet smile of your own before walking away, dress trailing behind you with each step, Natasha watching your form as you go. She forcefully pushes down the longing for something more that always seems to come about with every look at you, refusing to acknowledge it as usual.

Only moments after you head down the hallway, rounding the corner toward the elevator, Wanda is at Natasha’s side.

She doesn’t ease into the topic. “You have to know how she feels about you.”

“What are you talking about?” Natash feigns ignorance, not glancing over at the witch, gaze still locked onto where you just disappeared.

“Natasha,” Wanda admonishes, well aware that she doesn’t need to elaborate.

Natasha closes her eyes as she sighs, mentally preparing for the conversation she’s always avoided, even with herself. “We’re friends, Wanda. Just friends.”

“Friends don’t look at each other the way she looks at you,” Wanda pauses for a moment before adding tentatively, “Or the way you look at her.”

Natasha stiffens at the implication.

“We’re friends,” she repeats more firmly, shutting down any potential of more from this exchange.

Wanda purses her lips, growing tired of Natasha’s stubbornness and of you doubting your significance to her. “If you aren’t going to let yourself have this, then you need to stop and let her move on.”

When Natasha doesn’t answer that, Wanda sighs as well and turns on her heel to return to what’s left of the party. There’s not much more to say to the obstinate redhead.

You’ve already made it back to your room, your dress half unzipped, when you realize that you forgot your phone at the party, having given it to Steve for safekeeping when you danced with Natasha.

You let out a tired exhale and rezip your dress, smoothing out the material before striding to your door. Your stare drifts to your heels that you hastily discarded upon your return, your feet aching at just the sight of them, and you elect to throw on a comfier pair of sneakers. The elevator ride to the ballroom is short, your fingers tapping out an anxious rhythm on your thigh as the number goes down. You get to see Natasha again.

But what you see, you never expected.

Your stomach drops, your entire being faltering when you enter the ballroom and witness Natasha speaking to another woman. They’re close—too close—and Natasha has that look in her eye. You know that look; you’re well-acquainted with it. But it’s always been pointed at you every time you’ve seen it previously. It’s what made you feel like there was something between you two, and even though you’ve told yourself not to, you’ve always taken it as hopeful evidence that she returns your affections.

The woman’s hand comes up to brush against Natasha’s arm, the action blatantly suggestive, and Natasha doesn’t stop her. If anything, the redhead’s smile widens.

You turn around and quickly flee the ballroom, phone forgotten.

Natasha’s smile does widen at the woman’s advances, flattered, but what you fail to see after taking off is Natasha gently removing her hand from her bicep, Natasha politely turning her down, Natasha unable to bring herself to view anyone the way she views you.

You don’t make it to training the next morning, and you can’t find it in yourself to give Natasha a heads up. You can’t look at the text chain, can’t bear to see her name on your phone followed by the heart emoji that Natasha insisted you add. You can’t stomach the contact photo of her smiling.

Everything feels different now, your friendship—because that’s what this has always been despite you hoping that it was more, right?—feels tainted by the fact that you saw her with another woman. Everything’s changed. Has she always been talking to others, and you just never knew? Were you never special? Never significant? Never notable in her eyes?

What hurts the most is that, in spite of it all, you can’t villainize her. It’s not her fault you fell, it’s not her fault she doesn’t reciprocate, and it’s not her fault she was flirting with someone else. She doesn’t owe you anything. It only makes sense that others would want her like you do. There’s simply no way someone could see the redhead and not be in awe of her. The marvel that is Natasha Romanoff is unmissable.

But they don’t want her like you do, not really. Because they don’t know her like you do. You want her… every bit of her that you’ve already been given and more.

But that doesn’t matter now. It’s been months of pushing it off, but you’re finally telling yourself that you need to move on. It’s finally time. Your affections toward her are no longer able to be sheltered; your body is no longer a safe place for them now that your mind swirls with the newfound knowledge that Natasha doesn’t feel the same. Having confirmation that your feelings are unrequited—no longer in limbo like before when you were able to foolishly play make-believe that you two might’ve had a future—you can no longer remain just friends. You know you aren’t strong enough to handle the indirect rejections and constant heartbreak.

Natasha waits for you in the gym, warming up for longer than necessary, stalling until your arrival. But you never show, and her confusion and worry only grow with each passing minute. You’ve never stood her up before.

Eventually she abandons the pretense of working out, grabbing her towel and water bottle and leaving the gym, ending the session early when, after over an hour, there’s still no sign of you. With a puzzled expression on her face, she heads to your room.

She knocks. You know it’s her. You don’t respond.

She calls your name through the door. You pretend you don’t hear.

“You didn’t show up for training,” Natasha says, tone hesitant in a way it’s never been with you, “I just wanted to check up on you…” She trails off. “I don’t know if maybe you’ve just slept in, or…” There’s another pause. “Just, if you can hear me, come find me later?”

It’s phrased as a question. Your lack of response, your lack of acknowledgement, is throwing her for a loop. You’ve never ignored her before. Maybe you really are just still asleep, but she can’t shake the feeling that something is off.

And the feeling only furthers as time goes on.

You don’t find her later that day, or the next day, or the next.

You’re avoiding her. Not obviously, not enough to be called out on it yet, but breakfasts are cut short, and you take a seat on the opposite side of the table. You no longer attend movie nights, always giving the excuse that you’re too tired to make it through a film. During training with the team, you two used to immediately make eye contact and silently communicate that you’d be sparring partners—as if anyone was going to try and come between the two of you anyway—but now you’ve been voluntarily pairing yourself up with Wanda. And worst of all, you won’t let her touch you anymore.

There are no more late-night talks, no more sleepovers, no more lunches at the nearby cafe together, and Natasha feels as though a part of her is lost. She’s never been unsure of where she stood with you; you’ve never rebuffed her like this. The void you’ve left with her is not one she could’ve prepared for, not one she ever thought she’d have to fill.

Natasha doesn’t know how it could get any worse, but it does.

She arrives back from a mission, her body aching, everything in her begging for her to lay down. All she wants to do is to curl up on your bed, to have you run your hands through her hair just like you used to, her head in your lap. But for some still unknown reason, she’s lost her right to do that now.

As she trudges through the halls, practically dragging her feet in exhaustion, she passes by the common room on her way to her quarters and freezes at what she hears.

You’re laughing—giggling—at something some man sitting next to you said, and you’re leaning against him.

It’s the first time Natasha’s seen you in days, and you’re cuddled up next to some man? She can’t hold her tongue. “Who’s this?” she asks bluntly, announcing her presence.

You glance over the back of the sofa, eyes widening in surprise as you notice the redhead standing in the entryway. “Natasha,” you exhale her name, your voice softening involuntarily. You mentally berate yourself for that even though you know it was an inevitability.

You almost feel sheepish, almost feel guilty, like you’re doing something you aren’t supposed to, like you’re betraying her, but then the memory of the night of the party flits through your head, and your resolve strengthens along with the despair that has been a constant ever since seeing her with another. “I didn’t know you had gotten back already.”

She wants to say that that’s because you no longer wait for her in the landing bay like you used to, that you’re no longer there to greet her when she returns, your hands tracing over her body carefully, thoroughly checking her for injuries, worry radiating off of you until you’re certain that she’s come home unharmed, before you pull her into you for a hug.

But she doesn’t.

Her gaze flicks toward the man, a silent question.

“Oh,” you start awkwardly before introducing him. He’s still too close to you; his arm is still around you. If anything, he tightens his grip as if he can sense the unspoken feelings and tension in the air.

“He’s my-” You can’t finish. The word ‘partner’ feels wrong in your mouth. It feels like it’s getting stuck in your teeth. It doesn’t taste sweet the way thought it would, the way you know it would if you were talking about Natasha instead of him. You try to push that thought away.

“I’m her partner.” the man supplies next to you, finishing your sentence. If he picks up on your hesitation, your reluctance, he doesn’t voice it, and you nod in uncomfortable confirmation.

“My partner,” you agree quietly, and Natasha’s feels something in her break.

Natasha doesn’t like him. She doesn’t know him, but she doesn’t like him.

She doesn’t like the way he compliments you and the way you smile bashfully back. She doesn’t like the kisses he peppers across your face and how you ask for more. And fuck, she doesn’t like that he is always at the Compound, always near you, always touching you, always in the room.

She can never get a second alone with you anymore… not that you’d let her get close these days anyway.

Still, she tries. Her hand still reaches out for you habitually when you walk by, intending on skimming across your shoulder; her body still craves yours. She just wants to know where she went wrong.

She misses you.

She doesn’t realize that you miss her too—more than anything—that everything with the man is an act, an ultimately unsuccessful attempt to keep yourself away from the redhead who you’ve convinced yourself doesn’t love you the way you love her. Because that’s what this is, isn’t it? It’s not a crush. It’s love.

Natasha brightens one afternoon when she sees you walking alone. For once, he’s not here.

“Hey, wait up a sec!” she calls out from down the hall, long steps quickly letting her catch up to you, her expression a hopeful smile that won out even over her nerves. This is it. This is when she finally gets to talk to you, to tell you how much she misses you, to tell you how she thinks brunch is way overdue and that you need to catch up, to tell you how watching you with him has been killing her.

Her hand raises to touch your arm as it would on any other day like before, but, to her dismay, you sidestep the gesture… because this isn’t any other day like before. Things have shifted between the two of you as much as she wishes they didn’t. She wonders if, by now, the distance is irreversible. She wonders if, at this point, telling you how she feels would even make a difference.

You give her a returning smile, but it comes off more like a grimace. She falters. You don’t want to see her. “Hey, I really have to go,” you answer her weakly, “I have a date. He’s- he’s probably already waiting for me.”

And then you’re rushing off without letting her respond, not looking back behind you.

Natasha just stands there, her hand still raised midair, and Wanda sees the whole thing.

Despite being happy for you, despite knowing that you deserve to move on, Wanda can’t help but feel sympathetic toward the woman who is standing there in front of her looking beyond heartbroken at your retreating figure.

“Natasha,” she says gently, walking over, her hand coming up to rest on Natasha’s shoulder, “You chose to turn a blind eye. It’s only fair that she moves on. You have to let her.”

Days pass; weeks pass. Your relationship with Natasha continues to dwindle. She becomes an observer of your life, an outsider, no longer welcome to the day to day. You don’t come to her with your highs and lows. She has to assume that means you’re going to him.

It’s agony, being without you, not having you as a pivotal piece of her life anymore. She thinks about you with him at night when you’d usually be with her in her room, the two of you watching your favorite show before you eventually fall asleep with your head resting on her shoulder. She checks her phone periodically to see if you’ve maybe texted her, the two of you usually constantly sending messages back and forth, jokes or banter or updates throughout the day. She waits and waits for any sign that you may be coming back to her, may remember that she’s still there, still present, still cares for you, but she never receives one, and the loneliness is ever growing, ever pervading.

Until there’s a knock on her door one night.

Natasha, annoyed with whoever is knocking at this late hour, interrupting her wallowing, yanks open her door, ready to reprimand whoever is on the other side, but her demeanor changes when she sees it’s you, her face shifting from irritation to concern.

You’re crying. Tears are trailing down your cheeks.

She says your name, soft in the way that’s still only reserved for you even if you no longer know it.

Your bottom lip wobbles at the familiar sound of her voice, and it takes you a second to find your own, but when you do… “He broke up with me,” you whisper, and you suck in an uneven breath when you voice it out loud.

Natasha’s world screeches to a halt at your statement. You just said that he broke up with you?

“What?” she asks, needing you to say it again… because it can’t be true. It can’t.

You just nod sadly, another tear dropping. They’re not even because the breakup happened. Sure, it was out of nowhere, jarring, but for some reason, you’re not particularly torn up about it, and that’s the worst part. Your feelings regarding it—or lack thereof—only further cement the fact that you’re not actually over the redhead standing in front of you. You’ve been desperately trying to move on, but this only proves that you haven’t even come close to succeeding despite your best efforts.

“Are you okay?” Natasha questions gently, prompting, trying to tell you that you can talk to her if you need to… or that you can simply take comfort in her presence like you used to. She hopes that you still do even though it’s been a while.

“Y-yeah,” you stutter out, words interrupted by shaky breaths, “Yeah, I’m- I’m fine. I think that’s the hard part.”

Natasha frowns at that. “What do you mean?”

“I guess- I guess I just never really liked him anyway.”

“What?” Hope flares within her even though maybe it shouldn’t.

You can’t answer.

Natasha says your name another time, imploring, almost begging, longing for one answer in particular.

“Natasha, I-” you break off, “I can’t do this with you anymore.”

“Do what?”

“Pretend. Hide. Dance around it.”

The hope flares brighter.

“I like you. I love you. I’ve tried so fucking hard to ignore it, to move on, to-” You shake your head, frustrated at your words, at the situation, at yourself. “Look, I just- I just need you to tell me that you don’t feel the same. Maybe then I can-”

Natasha’s hand makes its way to your face, palm warm against your cheek, the action halting you in the middle of your sentence.

You look up at her questioningly, nervously.

“Can I kiss you?” she breathes out.

Your mind goes blank. You’re positive you didn’t hear her right. You don’t respond.

“Can I kiss you?” Natasha repeats again, and she can’t help the desperation that’s seeping into her tone.

Then you nod, slowly, dumbly, as if you can’t believe that what’s about to happen is about to happen.

And Natasha’s lips are on yours.

It isn’t short; it isn’t a gentle brush of the lips. It’s charged, all of the longing and desire and pain that’s been coursing through her these past weeks, all of the longing and desire and need that’s been festering these past years, coming out in the kiss.

When you break apart for air, both of your eyes still closed, Natasha leans her forehead against yours for a few seconds. She tilts her head to affectionately nudge your nose with hers before pressing one more kiss, much softer this time, to the corner of your mouth.

“You look like you need to catch your breath,” Natasha says when she finally opens her eyes to gaze at you again.

“I think I do,” you say, because you’re definitely breathless after that.

“Me too,” Natasha murmurs, but she doesn’t give either of you another moment to do so, her hands grabbing at your shirt, your body, and pulling you into her room, the door slamming closed behind you when you’re pushed up against it.

Your back hits the wood, and her lips reattach to yours. You shudder not only at the feeling of her tongue tracing your bottom lip but also her touch back on you after being so long without it.

Natasha’s hands are teasingly trailing up and down your side before moving under your shirt. Her fingers skim along your bare skin, and you can’t help but moan, the redhead taking advantage of your parted lips, her tongue now meeting yours.

But then you’re abruptly pulling back for some reason. “Wait, wait, Natasha, that woman-”

She pauses in her ministrations, her brain taking a moment to catch up to your words, her mind hazy from getting lost in you. “What woman?” she asks hoarsely.

“That woman from the party-” you try again.

It clicks in her head. She doesn’t know how, but you saw. “That woman from the party meant nothing,” she reassures you quickly, willing to give you more, to give you as much as you need, but hoping that that’s enough, because, fuck, she wants her lips back on yours as soon as possible.

You search her face, trying to gauge her sincerity, and you only find her gaze steady and unwavering, filled with earnestness and dedication. Your mouth reconnects with hers, tongue immediately requesting entrance again as you resume the kiss where it was at.

You’re too preoccupied with kissing her that you don’t realize her hand is traveling down to your thigh until she’s tugging it up and hooking it around her waist. Natasha swears her own core is overheating when you become flush against her in this way. She can feel you pulsing with need against her leg.

“Is this okay?” she asks, needing your permission despite your seemingly blatant desire, needing you to confirm that you’re just as desperate for her as she is for you.

“Yes, yes. Natasha, please.” It comes out a whimper, a beg.

Natasha then hurriedly shoves up your shirt at your consent, impatiently dragging down your bra, your breasts spilling out of it, and she whines when she gets her first look at you. Your nipples are achingly hard from both the chill in the air and her kisses, and her body thrums with something hot and sharp and dangerous as she takes you in. Your hair is a mess, your body is trembling, your clothes are rumpled from her rough handling. You’re beautiful.

She wastes no more time, unzipping your jeans and shoving her hand into them. She needs to touch you. Now.

And you’re absolutely soaked.

Your hips jerk like you can’t control them, and you can’t, your body moving completely on its own, following instinct, needing any and all stimulation that Natasha is currently willing to provide, and she doesn’t hesitate to press the tip of her middle finger to your clit, beginning to leisurely circle it. Your eyes slip shut.

“Tell me,” Natasha demands, voice low, “Did you think of me when he touched you?”

“He-” you stop, gasping, both pleasure and embarrassment stealing your words, “He never-”

“He never, what?” Natasha asks, her finger slowing further.

“He never touched me,” you finally choke out, voice breathy from a mix of need and shame. You’re grateful that your eyes are closed because you don’t want to see the look of pity on her face.

Natasha only just manages to catch and prevent herself from reacting when you admit that he never touched you, never brought you pleasure, never fulfilled you the way deserve. It’s not pity. It’s surprise; it’s anger.

“Well, then he’s a fool,” she answers quietly, “Leaving you untouched like that, letting his hands go to waste when they could’ve been on you, letting his fingers go to waste when they could’ve been in you.”

You shudder at the tone of her voice, and your hips buck off the door another time, your body restless, aching. You can feel yourself dripping, stickiness coating your thighs, and you know the woman is front and center to every response and reaction she receives from your body. You know she can feel just how much you want her. “Please, Natasha. Please touch me.”

“I’m going to make you feel so good, detka,” Natasha promises. It’s a vow. She’s determined to make up for every moment that the man neglected you, to replace them with love, with adoration, with her. Her touch was always made for you, after all.

Her finger abandons your sensitive bundle of nerves, and you whine, but your whine quickly transitions into a loud cry of her name when she suddenly shoves two fingers into your hole, your pussy immediately clenching around her digits.

Natasha’s breath stutters as she hears you. She wants to memorize every sound that escapes; she wants to press her mouth to your throat and feel them directly from the source. But she can’t. She needs to watch you, needs to see the way your brows scrunch up in focus, needs to witness the expression on your face when your entire body vibrates with desperation.

“Your body is mine. Your sounds are all for me,” she growls, but it’s not just possessive, and that’s what gets you. It’s worshipful in a way you’ve never experienced from anyone before. You’ve always wished for Natasha to be the one to show you what devotion truly is, and now that it’s happening, it feels like a dream.

Because her touch isn’t just dominating. It’s reverential. And you feel another gush of wetness leak from your pussy in response to the delicate way she’s holding you juxtaposed with the insistent way she’s fucking you.

You nod in agreement, irregular inhales and exhales leaving you nonstop, unable to do anything but plead for more, because… she’s right. You’re hers; you’ve always been hers.

“Say it,” she commands softly.

Her fingers speed up as well as if to prove her point, pistoning in and out of you, her pace quick and relentless as she waits for you to respond.

She fucks the words right out of you.

“I’m yours,” you moan, voicing the sentiment you’ve always felt but kept inside, “I’m yours. I’m yours, Natasha. I’m yours.”

Your vision is blurring with pleasure, your body is shaking, your pussy throbbing, and when you come, your back against Natasha’s door, your pants hastily pulled down, her fingers still plunging into you, caressing your walls with each stroke, her free hand everywhere, she doesn’t stop.

She makes you come again and again, until your body simply cannot handle another climax, until you fall limp against her chest, too tired to keep your eyes open, your knees giving out and you being held up only by her arms.

You wake the next morning in Natasha’s bed, curled into her sheets comfortably just like you’ve been hundreds of times before. Her mattress feels familiar, her pillow under your head feels familiar, but her arm around your waist feels different this time around, protective and securing. She’s holding you as if you’re still hers even in the light of day.

You roll over until you’re facing Natasha, your eyes fixated on her face, calm, relaxed from sleep.

You’re silent as you study her.

And her eyes flutter open slowly to find you staring. You don’t say anything, just gazing up at the woman who has stolen your breath away, but Natasha doesn’t take it as a good sign.

Her hold on you loosens. She begins to pull her arm away. “Are you regretting it now that morning has arrived?” she asks quietly, regarding you closely, watching your face as if it will give her an answer.

Some days it's harder than others.

Tonight the compound is quiet in that particular Friday way, the kind of quiet that means everyone with somewhere to be has gone there. The common room holds the ghost of popcorn and cheap beer. Steve's shield is propped by the elevator like always. The lights are dimmed to that amber glow that makes everything feel warmer than it is.

You're cross legged on the couch in your SHIELD sweats, laptop open, mission report half finished and fully ignored, when you hear her.

Bare feet on hardwood. Unhurried.

You know her footsteps. You'd never admit that out loud.

Natasha appears in the doorway and your carefully maintained survival instincts do absolutely nothing useful.

She's in a grey fitted tank top, hair down, falling loose over her shoulders in that way she only allows when she thinks nobody important is watching. Her sweatpants sit low on her hips, charcoal, soft looking, the kind that have been washed a hundred times. The waistband of her underwear visible above them, a thin line of dark fabric against pale skin.

She looks relaxed.

Natasha Romanoff almost never looks relaxed.

Your laptop suddenly requires your complete attention.

"You're still here," she says. Not a question. She moves to the kitchen with that fluid economy of motion that makes everything she does look like it was choreographed, opens the fridge, considers it, closes it.

"Apparently," you say.

She reappears with two glasses of water. Sets one on the table in front of you without asking. Sits on the opposite end of the couch and pulls her feet up beneath her and it's so, normal. So unexpectedly domestic. Seven months and she still catches you off guard.

"Report?" She nods at your laptop.

"Mm."

"How's it going?"

"Terribly."

Her mouth curves. Just slightly. "Want help?"

You look at her over the screen. She's watching you with that expression you've spent seven months trying to decode, steady and unreadable on the surface and something else entirely underneath. Something that makes your pulse do things you've stopped pretending are professional.

"I think I've got it," you say.

"You've been on the same page for forty minutes," she says.

You close the laptop.

She doesn't move but something in her settles, like she was waiting for exactly that. Like this was always where the night was going.

The amber light catches the line of her collarbone. The low sit of those sweatpants. The way she's looking at you like you're the only interesting thing in the room.

Seven months of this. Seven months of almost.

"Natasha," you start.

"Don't," she says softly. Not unkind. Her eyes drop for just a moment, to her water glass, to her hands, before coming back up. "Not yet."

You don't know what that means. You're not sure she does either.

So you sit in the amber quiet and the almost and the seven months of unsaid things and you breathe through it the way you always do.

Until her eyes catch the hem of your sweatshirt.

It's ridden up. Just slightly. Just enough.

You don't notice until you see her go still.

Not the trained stillness she wears like armor. Something different. Something that moves across her face so fast you almost miss it, recognition, something sharp and dark and personal, before the mask clicks back into place.

Almost.

"Hey," she says. Quieter than before.

You look down.

Pull the hem down automatically. Old habit. Faster than thought.

Her jaw tightens.

"How long," she says. Not a question this time either. Her voice is careful the way a person is careful when they're holding something fragile.

"Nat—"

"How long have you had them."

The amber light feels different now. The quiet feels different. Seven months of almost and this, this quiet devastating question, is somehow what breaks it open.

You look at her for a long moment.

"A while," you say finally.

Her water glass gets set down very slowly. Very deliberately. The kind of deliberate that means her hands need something to do.

"How long is a while," she says.

And you realize, Natasha Romanoff, who has survived everything, who has never once looked rattled in seven months of you watching her, is rattled.

Her eyes haven't left the hem of your sweatshirt.

"Since before SHIELD," you say quietly.

Something moves across her face. That sharp dark recognition again, staying longer this time. Her throat moves.

"Can I—" She stops. Starts again. "Can I see."

The question costs her something. You can tell by the way she asks it, stripped of the usual control, almost careful, like she's not sure you'll say yes and isn't sure what she'll do if you don't.

You should say no.

You've never shown anyone.

You reach down and lift the hem of your sweatshirt anyway.

The amber light doesn't feel warm anymore.

It feels like a spotlight.

You hold the hem up and you don't look at her face because you can't, you've spent seven months being careful and brave in every way that counts and somehow THIS is the thing that makes you want to look away.

The scars run from your left hip upward. Pale and old and mapped across your skin like a language you never asked to learn. Some thin, almost delicate. Others wider, the kind that took time. The kind that had help.

You know what they look like. You stopped being surprised by them a long time ago.

You are not prepared for what Natasha does.

She doesn't speak.

She goes completely, utterly still, the kind of still that has nothing to do with training and everything to do with something hitting her somewhere unguarded. Her green eyes track slowly across your skin and you watch the mask she wears like a second skeleton, the one that survived the Red Room and HYDRA and everything the world threw at her, you watch it crack.

Just slightly. Just enough.

"Natasha."

She doesn't answer.

Her jaw is set. A muscle feathers there. Her hands, those precise lethal hands that you've watched take down men twice her size without breaking a sweat, are very carefully very still in her lap.

Too still.

Like she's making them be still.

"Hey," you say softly. "I'm okay."

That's what breaks it.

"You're—" She stops. Her voice comes out wrong, stripped of something, rougher than usual. She tries again. "These are old."

"Yes."

"How old."

You lower your sweatshirt slowly. She watches your hands do it and something flickers across her face, like she wants to stop you and doesn't let herself.

"I was nineteen," you say.

The sound she makes is so quiet you almost miss it. Not quite a breath. Not quite a word. Something in between that she clearly didn't mean to make.

She looks up at you.

And there it is, the thing underneath the mask, the thing seven months of carefully maintained professionalism has kept contained. It's not pity. You've seen pity and you would have shut this down immediately.

It's fury.

Quiet and cold and absolute, the kind that has nowhere to go because whatever made those marks is long gone and Natasha Romanoff is a woman who knows exactly what to do with a target and nothing at all about what to do without one.

"Who," she says.

One word. Flat. The temperature in the room drops approximately ten degrees.

"It doesn't matter anymore."

"It matters to me."

The words come out before she can stop them. You can tell by the way her expression shifts a fraction, surprise at herself, quickly buried. But not quickly enough.

Seven months and that's the most honest thing she's ever said to you.

Your chest does something complicated.

"Nat—"

"I'm not—" She exhales through her nose. Controlled. Trying to find her footing. "I'm not asking so I can do something about it. I know I can't." Her eyes drop to your sweatshirt again, to where the hem sits, and back up. "I just need to know you're — that they didn't—"

"I survived," you say quietly. "Obviously."

"That's not the same thing."

The words land softly and hit hard.

You look at her across the couch, the low sweatpants, the loose hair, the tank top that shows the ghost of old marks on her own skin that you've noticed and never asked about. Natasha Romanoff who doesn't do vulnerability sitting three feet away from you and vibrating with it anyway.

"No," you agree. "It's not the same thing."

Something shifts between you. The almost feeling that has lived in every room you've shared for seven months changes shape, becomes something more specific, more honest, more dangerous.

She moves before you register she's going to.

Not fast. Natasha does nothing without intention. She closes the distance on the couch slowly, giving you every opportunity to stop her, and stops with barely a foot between you.

This close she's, a lot.

The line of her jaw. The green of her eyes in the amber light. The way the tank top sits against her collarbones and the sweatpants sit against her hips and everything about her proximity is making it very difficult to remember why seven months of careful was a good idea.

"Can I," she says again. The same words as before but different now,  lower, more careful, more weighted with everything neither of you has said.

Your heart is doing something embarrassing.

"Can you what," you manage.

Her eyes drop to your sweatshirt.

Oh.

"Natasha—"

"You don't have to," she says immediately. "I just—" A pause. She looks almost frustrated with herself,  this woman who always knows what to say, who has talked her way out of rooms that would have ended anyone else. "Nobody should have to carry those alone."

Your throat tightens.

You've carried them alone for years. Longer than SHIELD. Longer than you care to count. You got good at it, at the long sleeves, the deflection, the matter of fact shrug when someone occasionally glimpsed something and asked.

Nobody has ever said that before.

You reach down. Lift the hem again.

Her breath shifts, barely, just a fraction, and then her hand comes up and she pauses with her fingers hovering just above your skin.

Asking without asking.

You nod.

Her fingertips make contact and the world goes very quiet.

She traces the edge of one scar so gently it almost undoes you, not like something broken, not like something to be pitied, just, carefully. Like you're something worth being careful with. Her touch is warm and certain and nothing like the hands that made these marks and everything in your chest pulls toward her like gravity.

"I know what did this," she says quietly. She doesn't look up. "I know the program."

Of course she does.

"Then you know I got out," you say.

"I know." Her thumb traces a longer scar slowly. "I know you did." Finally she looks up and this close, this close, her eyes are devastating. Green and steady and full of something that has been building for seven months and is done pretending it isn't there. "I just—"

She stops.

Her hand is still warm against your skin.

"What," you breathe.

"I just needed to see it for myself," she says softly. "That you're here. That you're—" She exhales. "Real."

The last of seven months dissolves. You close the remaining distance.

Not a crash, nothing about this has ever been loud. Just you leaning in slowly and her meeting you halfway and the first press of her lips against yours is so careful it makes your eyes sting.

She kisses you like you're something worth being careful with too.

Her hand is still against your skin. Her other comes up to your jaw, tilting, steadying, and the kiss deepens slowly, unhurriedly, like neither of you is going anywhere and both of you finally know it.

When you pull back just enough to breathe she stays close, forehead almost against yours, eyes still closed, her thumb still moving in that slow unconscious arc against your hip.

"Seven months," you say quietly.

"Seven months," she agrees. Her eyes open. This close they're everything. "I kept thinking you'd transfer. Request a different handler. Something."

"I kept thinking you'd stop looking at me like that," you say.

"Like what."

"Like I was the most interesting problem you'd ever had."

Something warm moves across her face, not quite a smile, more than a smile. "You are," she says simply.

Your hand finds the fabric of her tank top. Just holding. Just anchoring.

Her breath shifts again, that barely there change you're already learning to listen for. Her eyes drop to your mouth. Back up.

The amber light. The quiet compound. Seven months of almost finally becoming something else entirely.

Her hand moves from your hip, slowly, deliberately, and you feel the shift in her. The last wall. The thing she hasn't let anyone close enough to find.

She takes your hand.

Guides it.

"There's something," she says quietly. Carefully. Her eyes on yours, watching, waiting, ready to pull back at the first sign of anything other than, "something you should probably know. Before this goes anywhere."

Your fingers register warmth first. Then the soft worn fabric of her sweatpants. Then, as she guides your hand lower, slow and deliberate, watching your face the entire time, something else.

The outline is unmistakable.

Warm. Present. Real beneath the fabric in a way that rewrites every assumption you didn't even know you were carrying.

And then, beneath your touch, beneath that soft worn fabric, it hardens under your fingers and she makes a sound she clearly didn't plan and suddenly you understand exactly how much she wants you.

Your breath leaves you quietly.

Not in shock. Not in hesitation.

In want, sudden and certain and so overwhelming it surprises even you.

Your fingers don't pull back. If anything they, and you watch her watch you do it, press slightly closer. Learning. Deciding. Choosing her without a single word.

Her breath catches. The first uncontrolled sound she's made all night.

"Still okay?" she manages. Barely.

"More than," you say honestly.

She moves before you can breathe.

Her lips crash into yours, nothing like the careful first kiss, nothing like the gentle and deliberate. This is seven months of restraint snapping clean in half. Her hand comes up to your jaw, fingers pressing into your cheek, tilting you exactly where she wants you and kissing you like she's been thinking about it since the day you walked into her life and made careful feel impossible.

You kiss her back just as hard.

Your hand stays pressed against the front of her sweatpants,  and then, slowly, deliberately, you squeeze. Gentle. Curious. A question without words.

She groans into your mouth.

Low and involuntary and completely unplanned and you feel it vibrate against your lips and down your spine simultaneously.

Beneath your palm she's harder than before, unmistakably, undeniably, her body answering your touch before her mind can negotiate with it. Her hips shift forward almost imperceptibly. Toward your hand. Toward you. Wanting more pressure. Wanting you.

Like she can't help it.

Like you've dismantled seven months of iron control in one evening and she doesn't even want it back.

She breaks the kiss just enough to breathe, foreheads together, both of you unsteady, her fingers still curved around your jaw like she's not ready to let go.

"Bedroom," she says. Not a question. Not a suggestion. Just the only word that makes sense right now.

You look up at her, flushed, eyes dark, lips parted, and nod.

She takes your hand.

You follow her into the dark.

Her bedroom door barely closes behind you.

You hear the soft click of it and then her hands are on you, not desperate, never desperate with Natasha, always deliberate,  finding your waist through your sweatshirt and walking you backward until your shoulders meet the wall beside the door.

She looks at you in the dark.

The only light is the thin silver of moonlight through the curtains and it catches her eyes and the line of her jaw and the low sit of those sweatpants and she is, devastating. She has always been devastating. You've just spent seven months pretending not to notice.

"Hi," she says softly.

You almost laugh. "Hi."

Her hands slide under the hem of your sweatshirt, warm palms against your waist, fingers spread wide, unhurried, and she watches your face as she does it. Reading you. Learning you. Natasha Romanoff who reads every room she walks into is reading you and the attention is dizzying.

"Still okay?" she murmurs.

"You keep asking me that," you say.

"I'll keep asking," she says simply. "Until you tell me to stop."

Something warm moves through your chest.

"I'm okay," you tell her. "More than okay. I need you to know that."

Her jaw shifts. Something moves through her eyes, relief, want, something deeper that doesn't have a clean name yet. Her hands press slightly warmer against your skin.

Then she kisses you again.

Slower this time. Deeper. The crash of downstairs replaced by something that has more patience and more intention and somehow hits harder for it. Her lips move against yours like she's learning the shape of you and enjoying the process and has absolutely no plans to rush.

Your hands find her, the fabric of her tank top first, then the warmth of her sides beneath it, the lean muscle there, the way she inhales slightly when your fingers spread against her skin.

She's warm everywhere.

She pulls back from the kiss to find your jaw, your throat, her lips tracing down slowly, unhurried, and you tip your head back against the wall and just, breathe. Her hair falls forward against your collarbone. Her hands are still under your sweatshirt, thumbs tracing slow arcs against your hipbones, carefully avoiding the scars. Respectful without making it a thing.

That small deliberate care undoes you more than anything else.

"Natasha," you say. Her name feels different in your mouth now. Heavier. More honest.

"Mm." Against your throat.

"Bed," you manage.

She lifts her head. Her lips are slightly swollen and her hair is loose and her eyes are dark and she looks, undone. Natasha Romanoff undone. Because of you.

"Bossy," she says softly.

"You like it," you say.

The corner of her mouth pulls. "Insufferably," she agrees.

She takes your hand again and walks you backward toward the bed and the moonlight shifts across her as she moves, the tank top, the low sweatpants, the outline of her that your palm already knows, and your heart is so full it feels dangerous.

The back of your knees find the mattress.

She stops in front of you. Close. That particular quality of her attention fully on you, warm and precise and entirely yours right now.

Her hands find the hem of your sweatshirt.

"Can I," she says. Third time tonight. Same question. Different weight each time.

You reach down and help her.

The sweatshirt comes off and the moonlight finds your skin and you watch her eyes move, across your collarbone, your shoulders, down to your waist where the scars begin their map. She doesn't flinch. She doesn't make it a moment of sadness.

She just looks at you like you are something worth seeing.

All of you. Every part.

Her fingertips find your waist and she leans in and presses her lips, soft, deliberate, a thing that is not a kiss so much as a promise, to your shoulder.

Then she looks up at you.

"You're beautiful," she says quietly. Like it's just true. Like she's simply reporting a fact she's known for seven months and is done keeping to herself.

Your hands find the hem of her tank top.

"Your turn," you say softly.

She lets you.

You lift the fabric slowly, watching her eyes as you pull her tank top up and over her head. 

She's bare underneath, and your breath catches. 

Moonlight washes over her, taut stomach, the curve of her breasts, the faint scar near her ribs that you once asked about and she deflected. 

Tonight, there are no deflections.

Your palms slide over the smooth planes of her stomach, feeling the subtle give of muscle beneath skin. Her breath hitches, just slightly, barely there, but you feel it under your hands.

She watches you.

Not challenging. Not testing. Just... letting you look. Letting you touch. Letting you decide what happens next, because she asked, and you're still saying yes.

Your hands move higher, thumbs brushing the undersides of her breasts. Her nipples tighten in the cool air and she doesn't hide her reaction, doesn't arch into your touch or demand more. She just stays still, letting you explore, learning your pace.

You cup her breasts gently, testing their weight in your palms. 

Her skin is warm and soft under your fingers. She makes a small sound, almost a sigh, as you run your thumbs over her nipples lightly. Not pushing for more pressure or speed; just letting you set the rhythm.

You lean down and press a soft kiss to the curve of her left breast, then her right. No urgency. No desperate hunger. Just... affection. 

She tilts her head back, exposing her neck, trusting you to keep going at this gentle, unrushed. 

"Like this?" you ask softly, continuing to kiss her chest gently. Your voice is barely above a whisper, checking in without breaking the moment. 

She nods, her red hair sliding over her shoulders as she keeps her head tilted back. 

"More like that," she says quietly. "Just... like that."

You kiss a path down the center of her chest, following the faint line of freckles that disappear below her belly button. 

Your hands slide down to her hips, pulling her closer as you press a soft kiss just above her navel.

She runs her fingers through your hair encouragingly, silently begging for more.

"Lie down," you whisper, guiding her back onto the sheets. 

She complies without question, propping herself up on her elbows to watch you. You crawl between her legs, hooking your fingers into the waistband of her sweatpants and slowly pulling them down.

She lifts her hips to help you, the fabric sliding down her thighs and calves, leaving her in just a simple black cotton woman briefs.

You toss her sweatpants aside and take a moment to appreciate her, stretched out before you, vulnerable and trusting.

 You lean down, pressing open mouthed kisses to her stomach, her hips, her thighs. 

Your hands roam over her sides, her belly, her breasts.

You feel it pressing against the cotton of her briefs, a hard length you've been trying not to focus on until now. 

Your fingers trace along the edge of the fabric, looking up at her for permission. 

She nods once, breath hitching. 

You pull the briefs down, freeing her length, thick and leaking slightly at the tip.

"Fuck," you whisper, wrapping your hand around her. 

It's heavy in your palm, pulsing slightly as you stroke it gently. 

Natasha's eyes flutter closed, her head tilting back as she gives you permission and encouragement to keep going.

You lean down, pressing a soft kiss to the tip of her. 

She gasps, her hips jerking involuntarily. 

You take that as a good sign and do it again, then again, placing open mouthed kisses all along her length before taking her into your mouth.

Your lips stretch around her thick girth as you start to suck gently. 

Natasha's fingers tangle in your hair, not pulling or demanding, just holding onto you as you work your mouth up and down her shaft.

"Shit— that's—" she breathes out, hips trembling as she tries to stay still. Her thighs flex against your arms. "You don't have to, you know." 

You pull off just long enough to look up at her. "Said I was more than okay. Didn't I?"

"Mhm." She swallows hard, watching as you take her back into your mouth. 

Her jaw clenches slightly as pleasure washes over her features. 

You're not going fast, not deep, just gentle sucks and licks like you're taking your time.

One of her hands slides from your hair to cup your cheek, thumb stroking softly. 

"Tell me if you want to stop," she murmurs. "I mean it. No pressure."

You hum around her, making her groan. The vibration travels up her cock.

She watches you with heavy lidded eyes, her hips starting to move in small, gentle thrusts. 

"God, that feels good," she whispers. Her hand on your cheek tightens slightly as she tries to control herself. 

You take her deeper, relaxing your throat to accommodate her size.

Then you shift your position, your mouth still working her lazily while you hook your thumbs into your own sweatpants and push them down. 

Natasha's eyes lock on you as you slide them off and kick them away, leaving you in nothing but your scars and your confidence.

She moans louder, the sound vibrating through her body. 

"Fuck, you're—"

"Beautiful," she finishes, swallowing hard as her gaze travels down your naked body. 

Her hips buck up involuntarily into your mouth and you take it, not fighting the depth she pushes. Her cock hits the back of your throat and she pulls back immediately. "Sorry—that was—"

"Don't apologize," you say, pulling away just enough to speak. "Tell me you want."

"Want you on top of me," she says, her voice rough. 

She shifts on the bed, tugging you up her body as she makes space. Her cock still hard and leaking against her stomach. "Wanna watch your face while you ride me." 

She reaches for your wrist and guides your hand to her length, wrapping your fingers around her again.

You straddle her hips, positioning yourself over her cock. Your hand moves slowly at first, stroking her from base to tip. You watch her face, seeing the way her jaw clenches and her eyes darken with pleasure.

"Ready?" she asks breathlessly, her hands finding your hips. 

You nod, lifting yourself up and positioning her tip at your entrance. You're already wet, already aching for her. 

Slowly, you lower yourself onto her thickness, her cock stretching you open inch by inch. Her head falls back, a strangled groan ripping from her throat. 

"Holy fuck—"

You take your time, taking her in slowly until she's fully seated inside you. 

Your hands press against her stomach for support, feeling the muscles ripple under your touch.

She's huge inside you, filling you completely. 

You lift up slightly, just an inch or two, before sliding back down.

"Oh my god," she gasps, her fingers digging into your hips. Her eyes are rolled back slightly, her mouth hanging open as you start a slow, deliberate rhythm. "You feel— fuck, you feel so good."

You lean forward, bracing yourself on her chest as you start to move more steadily. 

Up and down. Finding a pace that lets you both feel everything.

"Just like that," she encourages, her voice thick with arousal. "Don't be quiet, baby. Wanna hear you."

Your moans fill the room as you ride her, taking her deep every time you sit back down on her cock.

"Ohhh— fuck," you gasp out, your nails scraping against her pecs as you pick up speed. 

Her length hits all the right places inside you, and you can hear the wet sounds of your bodies joining together. 

Natasha's hips start to move in counter-rhythm, meeting your downward strokes with upward thrusts. 

She's not taking over, just helping. Making it better.

"That's it— that's it right there," she groans, her eyes locking onto where you're connected. Watching her cock disappear into your body over and over again. 

One of her hands slides up to wrap around your throat gently, thumbs pressing against your jaw.

Your head falls back, neck exposed to her grip as your spine straightens.

The shift changes your angle completely, she hits deep inside you, grazing something that makes you moan out. 

"Fuck—" she hisses, her cock twitching inside you. "Do that again. Do that—"

You do, arching your back further as you sink down on her.

You suddenly collapse forward, your hair creating a curtain around her face as you grind your hips faster, chasing your own pleasure. 

She meets your movements with sharp upward thrusts, fucking up into you as her mouth crashes against yours.

The kiss is messy and desperate, her teeth catching your bottom lip just as you moan into her mouth. 

She groans loudly, the sound vibrating between you both.

"Don't stop," you pant against her lips, your hands gripping her shoulders tightly. "Please don't stop." 

She pants back, "I won't— fuck—" She punctuates each word with a sharp thrust upward, hitting that spot inside you that makes your eyes roll back. "—I won’t stop."

Her hands tighten on your hips, guiding your rhythm as yours. 

You're both gasping into each other's mouths now, kissing feverishly between breaths. "Close," she whispers against your lips, pulling you down to meet each upward thrust. "I can feel you— are you—" 

"Yes— fuck, yes," you whimper, grinding down harder.

She speeds up, her thrusts becoming harder, more desperate. Her grip on your hips bruises as she pounds up into you. 

"Come for me," she breathes into your mouth. "Please— I wanna feel you come around me." 

Your orgasm crashes over you first, your walls clenching tight around her as you cry out against her lips.

She moans loudly, her own release following immediately after, spilling inside you.

You can feel her cock pulse and throb as she empties herself into you, her hips stuttering as she rides out her own orgasm. She kisses you deeply, swallowing your cries as you tremble above her.

For a long moment, neither of you speak, just breathe against each other's lips.

Sweat slicks both your bodies, making your skin stick together in the most delicious way. 

She's trembling beneath you, chest heaving, red hair plastered to her temples. 

You're no better, caught in some sort of beautiful, exhausted heap on top of her, both of you glistening.

"Wow," is all she manages, her voice hoarse.

You nod weakly, lifting your head to look at her. 

Your hair is a mess, falling into your face, and there's a flush high on your cheeks. 

She looks just as wrecked, pupils blown wide, mouth swollen from kissing. 

You lean in to press a soft, gentle kiss to her lips before collapsing onto her chest, completely boneless.

She wraps her arms around you tightly, holding you close as your bodies cool down together.

Her fingers gently card through your sweaty hair while she presses soft kisses to the top of your head. The room is silent except for the sound of both of your heavy breathing slowly returning to normal.

You can feel her still hard inside you, but neither of you make a move to separate yet. 

It's comfortable like this, being connected, being close. Her hand trails down your back gently, tracing your spine. 

"That was... Jesus," she whispers into your hair.

You smile against her lips, the corners of your mouths curving into matching grins before she kisses you again, slow and deep this time. 

Then suddenly she's moving, flipping you onto your back without pulling out of you, settling between your legs. 

You gasp against her mouth as her tongue slides against yours, her body settling heavily on top of yours.

You kiss her deeper, your tongue meeting hers with equal fervor as she starts moving again, slow, deep thrusts that make you both moan into each other's mouths. 

She breaks the kiss only to pant against your lips directly, her forehead pressed to yours.

"Still so tight," she breathes against your mouth, her hips rolling in a way that makes you see stars. 

You moan, wrapping your legs around her waist to pull her deeper. She kisses you again, messy and desperate, her thrusts picking up speed. The bed creaks under your weight, adding to symphony of wet sounds and gasps.

She breaks the kiss to trail her lips down your jaw, sucking and biting as she fucks you harder.

You arch into her touch, hands gripping her back tightly. 

Her cock hits that spot inside you perfectly with each thrust, making you whimper and claw at her skin. 

"Right there," you gasp, your head falling back to give her better access to your neck. 

She takes advantage, sucking a bruise onto your throat as she pounds into you. 

The room fills with the sounds of your bodies meeting, and your moans echoing off the walls. She bites down on your pulse point, making you moan.

"Fuck, your voice," she groans against your neck, thrusting harder at the sound of your scream. "So loud when I hit this spot—" She does it again, making you moan out even louder.

"Yes—fuck, yes," she encourages, her voice strained. 

She lifts her head to watch your face as she hits that spot repeatedly. 

Your mouth falls open, eyes fluttering shut as you push your hips up to meet each thrust. She leans down to kiss you again, hard and possessive.

"You feel so good," she whispers against your lips, grabbing one of your legs and bending your knee to your chest to go even deeper. 

You moan out at the new angle, your head falling back as she hits your spot relentlessly. 

"Too good—" She kisses you again, biting your bottom lip.

"Natasha," you moan breathlessly, her name falling from your lips like a prayer. Her eyes roll back at the sound, her thrust nearly stumbling. 

"Fuck—" She catches herself, her grip on your bent knee tightening. "Say it again. Say my name."

"Natalia," you breathe, using her Russian name. Her whole body shudders on top of you.

"Fuck," she hisses, her rhythm completely falling apart as pleasure overwhelms her. She starts fucking you almost frantically now, needing to hear it again. "Again—please—"

"Natalia," you gasp, your hands gripping her shoulders. "Natalia, Natalia, Natalia—" Each repetition makes her moan louder, her cock twitching inside you.

She lifts her head, her green eyes, already half-lidded and glazed with lust. dropping to where your bodies connect. She watches herself sliding in and out of you, her breath catching at the sight. 

"So fucking beautiful," she groans, her hips stuttering. Her green eyes flicker back up to meet yours, dazed, obsessed, barely holding on.

Her full, heavy breasts sway with each thrust, yours bounce with the force of her movements, pressing against her chest when she leans down to kiss you again. 

Their softness molds against each other, nipples rubbing deliciously as she pounds into you. 

The sensation makes you both gasp into the kiss.

Your back arches sharply as she hits that spot perfectly again, your eyes rolling back in ecstasy.

Natasha watches the sight, your neck exposed, breasts heaving, lips parted in a silent scream.

Her hips stutter at the overwhelming view, cursing under her breath. "Fuck—"

Your hips buck up involuntarily, your walls gripping her cock as another wave crashes through you. 

Natasha's eyes widen, watching your body convulse beneath her. 

"Look at you— fuck—" She has to slow down, breathing heavily, not trusting herself to last if she keeps going at that pace. 

Your chest rises and falls rapidly, breasts bouncing lightly with each shaky breath.

She tries to hold back, but the sight of you coming undone is too much. 

With a choked moan and grunt, she loses control, her hips snapping forward as she buries herself deep inside you.

"Fuck— fuck—" she grunts against your throat, her whole body trembling as she comes hard.

Her hot cum spills into you again, filling you up as you both ride out your orgasms together. 

Her forehead drops to your shoulder, breath ragged and heavy, hips still twitching.

You lay there, panting, Natasha's weight heavy on top of you. Her soft breasts press against yours, and you can feel her heartbeat against your chest. 

She's still inside you, still hard despite having just come.

"I don't want to move," she murmurs against your collarbone, pressing lazy kisses to your sweaty skin. Her softening cock twitches inside you, her grip on your bent knee relaxing. 

You both just breathe, trading soft kisses between exhausted gasps. Her red hair falls around your face like a curtain, the scent of sex and sweat filling your senses.

After a long moment of just laying there, Natasha shifts slightly, her hips rolling without any real purpose other than to feel you around her. She kisses along your jawline.

"Mmm... I think I could stay like this forever," she murmurs, her voice muffled against your neck. Her hand drifts down to gently cup your ass, keeping you spread open for her as she stays buried inside you. Her other arm wraps tightly around your waist, holding you close.

You whisper it against the top of her head, your voice soft but full of meaning. "Seven months."

Her head lifts from your neck, green eyes meeting yours. A slow, genuine smile spreads across her face, tired, satisfied, but so warm. 

You drag yourself out of bed and tug on the first clothes within reach, grey sweatpants slung low on your hips and an oversized black hoodie that still smells faintly like the detergent from your last assignment. You don't bother tying your hair back. If they wanted polished, they should've scheduled you after noon.

The hallway is quiet when you step out. Too quiet. Then you turn the corner into the kitchen.

And there she is.

Natasha Romanoff stands at the counter, back half turn toward you. Black leggings cling to her long legs. A fitted tank top expose toned shoulders, pale skin, and the intricate braid falling neatly between her shoulder blades. She's barefoot. Relaxed.

She looks... unguarded.

Steam curls from the mug in her hand. She doesn't look at you when she speaks.

"You walk like you're casing the place," she says casually. "Relax. We're not under attack."

You freeze mid step.

"I always walk like this."

Now she turns. And there it is, that slow, knowing smirk youve learned for months. Green eyes sweep over you, unhurried. Taking inventory.

"Exactly."

Heat creeps up your neck. You shove your hands into your hoodie pocket.

"You're up early," you counter.

She lifts the mug, takes a sip. Her throat moves when she swallows. You shouldn't notice that.

"I don't sleep much," she replies. "You?"

"Depends who's making coffee."

Her brow arches slightly.

"Oh?"

You step closer, drawn in despite yourself. "Yeah. If it's Barton, I go back to bed."

A soft huff of laughter escapes her, low and real. Victory.

She turns back to the machine, pouring another cup without asking. You watch the way she moves. Efficient. Fluid. Every motion precise without looking mechanical. Even making coffee feels tactical in her hands.

She holds the mug out to you without turning. You take it. Your fingers brush.

It's brief. Accidental. Not accidental.

Her eyes flick down to where your hands meet. Neither of you pull away immediately.

"Careful," she murmurs. "You stare like that during missions too?"

You force a sip of coffee, even though it's too hot. "Maybe I'm assessing a threat."

She finally faces you fully now, leaning one hip against the counter. The braid slides over her shoulder as she tilts her head.

"And what's the verdict, Agent?"

You hold her gaze. You refuse to look away first.

"Undecided."

A slow step forward. She invades your space just enough to make it obvious. Not enough to cross a line.

Her voice drops slightly. "You should decide quickly."

"Why's that?"

Her eyes flick to your mouth for half a second.

"Because hesitation gets people hurt."

The air shifts. You swallow.

This is what everyone means when they talk about her. Not just lethal. Magnetic. Like standing too close to the edge of something high and dangerous.

You clear your throat. "You flirt with all the new recruits?"

"I don't flirt."

You laugh under your breath. "That's a lie." She smiles, not wide. Not soft. Just enough.

"Maybe I'm just curious."

"About?"

Her gaze drags down and back up again, slow enough to make your pulse kick. "The way you move."

Your brain short circuits. She straightens, taking another sip of her coffee like she didn't just destabilize your entire nervous system.

Footsteps echo faintly from down the hall, someone else waking up.

Natasha steps away first. Professional. Controlled. But as she passes you, her shoulder brushes yours. Intentional.

"Training at ten," she says lightly. "Try not to stare too much. It's distracting."

And then she's gone. You stand there, coffee in hand, heart racing.

You are absolutely doomed.

Later, the training room smells like rubber mats and metal. You're early. On purpose. If you're going to spar with Natasha Romanoff, you're not walking in cold.

You're wrapping your hands when the doors slide open behind you. You don't turn. You don't need to.

"You stretch before you try to take me down," she says smoothly, "or are you planning to rely on enthusiasm?"

You glance over your shoulder. Leggings. Different pair, dark grey. Tank top clings to her frame, braid tighter. Focused.

God help you.

"I don't need stretching," you reply. "I adapt."

She steps fully onto the mat. The doors shut behind her with a quiet hiss.

"Confidence," she hums. "I like that."

She circles you slowly. Not predatory. Evaluating. You force yourself not to track every step.

"Rule one," she says, slipping easily into instructor mode. "If you're distracted, you're dead."

"Good thing I'm not distracted."

She moves fast. You barely catch her wrist before she sweeps your leg. The impact of the mat hits your back, air rushing from your lungs.

And she's above you in a second. Knee pressing into your hip. Hand pinning your wrist above your head. The other braced near your shoulder.

Her hair falls slightly loose from the braid, a few red strands brushing her cheek.

You stare up at her. She's breathing evenly. You're not.

"Not distracted?" she murmurs.

You shift your hips sharply and twist. She anticipates it, but not fully. You hook her leg, roll, and suddenly she's the one on her back.

You don't waste the opening. You pin her wrists down. Straddle her hips.

Silence. The room feels smaller. Her chest rises beneath you. Controlled. But not unaffected.

"Well," she says calmly. "There you are."

Your grip tightens instinctively. "You talk too much," you mutter.

She tilts her head slightly against the mat.

"You're staring again."

"I'm assessing."

"Mm." A slow smirk curves her mouth. "Your assessments are very thorough."

Your thighs flex unconsciously to stabilize your position.

She notices. Of course she does.

Her knee shifts upward slightly against your side. Testing your balance. Testing you.

"You're stronger than you look," she says quietly.

"So are you."

Her gaze darkens just a fraction.

"Careful."

"Why?" you breathe.

Her hands flex in your grip.

"Because I haven't actually tried yet."

And then she moves. It's fluid. Controlled violence. She breaks one wrist free, twists, and uses your own weight against you. The world flips.

You hit the mat harder this time. She traps one of your legs between hers, forearm pressing just beneath your collarbone. Not enough to choke.

Enough to remind you she could.

You're breathless. She's closer than before. Her braid slides forward over her shoulder, brushing your chest.

"You hesitate," she says softly. "Right at the moment you should commit."

Your pulse is hammering now. Not from the fall.

"Maybe I like anticipation."

Her lips twitch.

"That's dangerous."

Her grip shifts slightly higher.

"You going to tap out?" she asks.

You look at her mouth.

"No."

The air thickens. Her eyes flick down. Just like in the kitchen.

Just like before.

For a split second, neither of you move. Then the training room doors hiss open.

"Am I interrupting something," Tony's voice drawls.

Natasha releases you instantly and rolls to her feet in one seamless motion. Professional. Untouchable.

You sit up slower, trying to steady your breathing.

"Training," Natasha replies evenly.

Tony looks between you both. Smirks.

"Uh-huh."

You stand. Natasha doesn't look at you as she adjusts her braid.

"Again," she says calmly. "From the top."

And when she finally meets your eyes......

There's a challenge there. Not instructor to recruit. Something else. You step back onto the mat. This time, you don't hesitate.

The showers are quieter than the training room.

Too quiet.

Steam clings to the air, curling along tile and glass. The compound's locker rooms are sleek and modern, frosted dividers, rainfall showerheads, metal benches that always feel colder than they look.

You thought you'd be alone. You're halfway through peeling off your tank when you hear it

The soft click of the door closing. You don't turn immediately. But you feel her.

"Didn't think you'd still be here," Natasha says casually.

Her voice sounds different in the steam. Lower. Closer.

You glance over your shoulder.

She's already untying her braid. Your stomach tightens.

"I like to cool down properly," you manage.

She hums. "Good habit."

You pull your shirt over your head, tossing it into your locker. Sweatpants follow. You're left in your briefs, hoodie discarded somewhere behind you.

You can feel her eyes. Not staring. Not obvious.

But aware.

You straighten slightly without meaning to. Instinct. Pride. And beneath that a flicker of tension.

She steps past you toward the row of showers, tugging her tank up and over her head in one smooth motion.

You look. Of course you look. Natasha Romanoff, an undeniable gorgeous woman.

Her back is sculpted muscle and pale skin, a faint scar trailing along her shoulder blade. The braid loosens fully as she sets the hair tie on the counter.

"Something you want to say?" she asks lightly.

You snap your gaze upward.

"No."

A pause. She glance at you then, not mocking. Not smug. Just studying.

You step toward the opposte shower, turning the water on. The spray hisses to life, steam rising thicker now. You step under it, letting heat soak into your shoulders.

You're aware of your body. Too aware.

The way the water runs down your chest. The weight between your thighs. The fact that proximity like this makes everything sharper, heavier.

You've never been shy. But this is Natasha. And she notices everything.

Her shower turns on beside yours. There's a divider. Frosted glass. Blurry outline only.

You tell yourself that's a relief.

"You did better today," she says over the water.

You close your eyes briefly. "You threw me twice."

"I threw you four times."

You huff a quiet laugh. "You were counting?"

"I always count."

The water muffles the space between you.

Your mind betrays you, imagining the curve of her shoulders under the spray. The way droplets would trace down her spine.

You shift slightly. And you freeze.

Because you realize If she stepped around that divider, she would see everything. Every reaction. Every truth. Your jaw tightens.

You've always carried yourself confidently. In missions. In fights. In beds you've left before dawn.

But this is different. Because you don't want her looking at you like a weapon.

You want.....

You exhale slowly.

The water shuts off beside you. Your heart stumbles. You hear the faint slide of glass. Then her voice. Closer than before.

"You're very quiet."

You open your eyes.

She's leaning lightly against the divider's edge, towel wrapped low around her. Damp red hair falling loose over her shoulders instead of braided. She's not staring down. She's looking at your face.

That's worse.

"Just thinking," you reply.

"About?"

You hesitate. There it is again. That split second.

She steps a little closer. Not invading. But close enough that steam curls between you instead of separating you.

"You hesitate," she murmurs.

You meet her eyes this time.

"Maybe I don't know how you see me."

That lands differently. Her expression shifts, subtle. Softer at the edges.

"I see you," she says simply.

Your throat tightens. Her gaze flicks downward, briefly, yes, but not with shock. Not with confusion. Not with judgment.

Just assessment. Appreciation. She meets your eyes again.

"You think I'm easily intimidated?"

"No."

"Good."

She reaches past you for another towel, her arm brushing lightly against your side. Bare skin against bare skin.

Deliberate. You feel it everywhere.

"You don't need to second guess yourself," she adds quietly.

There's something in her tone that isn't teasing. It's certain. She steps back, giving you space again. Not retreating, just allowing you air.

"Get dressed," she says lightly, composure sliding back into place. "Dinner in hour."

She walks away barefoot, towel secure, back straight.

And you watch. Because it's not just the way she looks. It's the way she moves. And now you know she sees you.

Dinner at the compound is never quiet.

Clint's arguing with Sam about something ridiculous. Tony's scrolling through his tablet while pretending he's not listening to everyone. Wanda's laughing softly at something Vision said under his breath.

You're seated halfway down the table. Natasha is across from you. Not beside you.

Across. You don't know if that's worse.

She's changed into black slacks and a dark long-sleeve fitted shirt. Hair loose now, falling in soft waves instead of a braid. She looks effortless. Controlled. Watching everything.

Including you. Every time you glance up, her eyes are already there.

You look away first. You're halfway through your food when it happens.

It's subtle at first.

Rhodey makes some offhand comment about medical evaluations for new recruits. Something about files. About "unusual classifications."

You stiffen. You already know where this is going.

Tony, not malicious but careless, glances up. "Yeah, Banner mentioned something biologically fascinating—"

"Tony," Natasha says evenly.

Too late.

Rhodey looks at you, brow raised, curiosity naked and unfiltered. "Wait. So it's true?"

The table quiets. You feel it. That shift. Eyes on you.

The word hangs unspoken but loud anyway.

Intersex.

You've dealt with worse. In locker rooms. In agencies. In whispers you pretended not to hear. You set your fork down carefully.

"It's not classified," you say evenly. "But it's also not a group discussion."

There's an awkward shuffle. Clint mutters something about changing the subject.

But Rhodey presses, not cruel, just ignorant.

"Didn't mean anything by it. Just didn't know how that works in— y'know. Field ops."

The silence stretches.

Your jaw tightens. Across the table, Natasha goes still.

Not tense. Still. The kind of still that comes before something breaks.

"It works," you reply flatly.

James shrugs. "Didn't say it didn't. Just— different, right?"

The word lands heavier than he intended.

Different.

You push your chair back. The scrape against the floor is louder than you mean it to be.

"I'm done," you say calmly.

No one stops you. No one except

"Y/n—"

Natasha's voice cuts clean through the room.

You don't look back. You don't want to see their faces. You don't want to measure pity against curiosity.

You make it halfway down the hall before you hear fast footsteps behind you.

"Hey."

You don't stop walking. Your door slides open at your approach. You step inside. It starts to close.

A hand catches it. Of course it does. Natasha slips through before it seals shut.

Silence fills the room. You don't face her.

You're standing near the window, arms crossed tight over your chest like you're bracing against something physical.

"I didn't need defending," you say quietly.

She doesn't respond right away. When she does, her voice isn't sharp.

It's controlled fury.

"He should have known better."

"It wasn't malicious."

"It doesn't have to be."

You turn then. Her eyes are darker than you've ever seen them. Not playful. Not teasing.

Protective.

"He reduced you to a biological footnote at a dinner table," she continues. "That is not acceptable."

You swallow. You're not used to this. You're used to handling it. To brushing it off. To owning it before someone else can weaponize it.

"I can handle myself," you say.

"I know."

She steps closer.

"That's not the point."

Your breath catches slightly. There's no teasing in her stance now. No sparring. No calculated smirks.

Just her.

"I see the way they look at you sometimes," she says. "Like they're trying to categorize you."

You hold her gaze.

"And you?"

She steps fully into your space. Close enough that you feel her warmth through your shirt.

"I look at you," she says quietly, "and I see someone who could take me down if I give them half a second."

Your heart stutters. Her hand lifts, slow enough that you could step back. You don't. Her fingers brush lightly against your jaw. Not possessive.

Certain.

"You are not something to be explained," she continues softly. "Or dissected. Or discussed."

Your composure cracks just slightly.

"You didn't have to get angry."

A faint, dangerous curve touches her mouth.

"I wasn't angry."

You raise an eyebrow. She exhales slowly.

"Fine. I was."

Her thumb traces lightly along your jawline before her hand drops.

"I don't like when people talk about what's mine."

The words land between you. Heavy. Neither of you move.

"Yours?" you repeat.

Her eyes flick dow, briefly, then back up.

"If you want me to be wrong," she says, voice lower now, "say it."

The room feels smaller. You step closer instead. Close enough that your chests nearly brush.

"You're not wrong."

That does it. Her control fractures just enough to see it. Her hand slides to your waist, testing. You don't pull away. She studies your face one last time. Making sure.

"You hesitate," she murmurs.

"Not this time."

You do exactly what your body's been screaming to do since you met.

You tower over her, the shift in height dynamics finally yours. Your hands come up to cup Natasha's face, thumbs pressing gently against those high cheekbones she's so proud of.

Her breath hitches. Just slightly. You can't help it. Your eyes drop to her lips. Full. Unsmirking. Her lips part slightly, like she's about to say something but can't remember how words work anymore.

You lean in slowly. Torturously slow. Giving her one final chance to pull back.

She doesn't. 

Her hands tighten on your waist, pulling you closer until your bodies press together. Clothed but electric.

Your thumbs brush her jaw as your head tilts.

Your noses brush. Your foreheads rest against each other. Her eyes flutter closed. She's barely breathing. The last inch between your mouths is agonizing. 

Then it disappears. Your lips meet softly. No teasing. No sparring. Just a gentle press of soft flesh against soft flesh.

It's a slow kiss. A soft kiss. A kiss meant to communicate a hundred different emotions that don't fit into words. 

Your fingers slide back into her hair, tilting her head slightly to deepen the kiss. Her hands slide up to your shoulders, holding on like she's afraid you'll disappear.

When you finally pull back, it's only an inch. Your foreheads still touching. Your breaths mingling. Her eyes open slowly, pupils dilated, lips slightly parted and kiss-swollen. 

She looks stunned. You look confident. You've never seen her look so unguarded before.

Natasha's control snaps like a rubber band stretched too far. Her lips are on you again, this time heated and desperate. She's kissing you like she's starving and you're the only meal that matters. 

Her hands slide from your shoulders to your neck, pulling you impossibly closer. You step forward, backing her against the wall near the window.

One hand moving to brace against it beside her head. The other remains tangled in her hair, controlling the angle of the kiss as you deepen it. Your bodies align perfectly, hips pressing together through layers of fabric that suddenly feel too thick.

She lets out a soft sound against your mouth, something between a gasp and a moan. 

Her legs part unconsciously, giving you room to step between them. Her fingers coil tighter in your hair, tugging just enough to make you hiss into her lips.

"About time," she breathes against your mouth.

She's never looked more uncomposed. And it's beautiful.

You smile against her lips before capturing them in another kiss. This one is messy, hungry, filled with month of built up tension finally breaking free. Your hand slides down from her hair to her waist, then lower, gripping her thigh and lifting it around your hip.

She wraps her leg around you eagerly, pulling you even closer. 

The new position makes her gasp when you grind against her deliberately. Her head falls back against the wall, exposing her neck to you. You take advantage, pressing open mouthed kisses there before sucking hard enough to leave a mark.

"Mark me," she whispers, and the request sounds more like a command than a plea. She wants proof, something visible that says she's yours. Her fingers find your belt loop, yanking you tighter against her. "Let them see."

You bite down on her pulse point, sucking bruises into her porcelain skin until you know she'll have to wear them to breakfast tomorrow.

She moans softly, her nails digging into your back through your shirt. 

The sound is muffled against your mouth as you kiss her again, swallowing the noise. Your hands roam freely now, one gripping her thigh, the other sliding under her ass to lift her up.

She wraps her legs around you instinctively, locking her ankles behind your back. You carry her like that, her arms around your neck, her lips on yours, over to the desk. 

You set her down on the edge, breaking the kiss just long enough to pull off your shirt.

She whimpers at the sight of your bare breasts, reaching out to trace the muscles she's seen flexing under shirts for months. 

You're more beautiful than she imagined, more defined, more scarred. She pulls you back between her thighs without warning, raking her nails down your abs.

You hiss at the sudden contact, your hips jerking forward into hers. 

She's wearing too many damn clothes. You start removing her shirt roughly even as she pulls you back for another kiss, her tongue invading your mouth with equal parts aggression and need. 

You break the kiss to pull her shirt over her head, tossing it aside. Your hands immediately go to her bra, unclipping it with practiced ease before throwing it away too. She arches her back, pressing her breasts against yours as you kiss her again, deeper and wetter this time.

Your bodies fit perfectly like this, breasts to breasts, hips aligned, her legs locked around your waist. 

You can feel how wet she is through her pants, and it makes you even more desperate to get them off. You grind against her deliberately letting her feel how hard you are, making her moan into your mouth.

"Off," she pants against your lips, yanking at your pants. "I need these off." She's never wanted anyone this badly, never been so instantly, desperately aroused.

You fumble with your own pants, adrenaline and lust making your usually steady hands clumsy.

She helps, shoving them and boxers down just enough to free you, and then her hands are on your cock, soft, fingers wrapping around the hardness they've fantasized about for months.

"Fuck," she whispers, looking down at you like you're a revelation.

Her thumb swipes across the tip, smearing the precum gathering there. 

You buck into her hand involuntarily, gripping the edge of the desk until your knuckles go white.

"Nat," you warn, your voice gravelly with need. "Don't—"

She ignores you, stroking you slowly, watching your face like she's memorizing every reaction.

"Look at you," she murmurs, voice thick with lust and something softer. Her grip tightens, thumb circling the head. "All that control. All that discipline. And here you are, shaking for me."

Your hips jerk forward, fucking her hand shallowly.

"You're so hard," she whispers, like it's the hottest thing she's ever seen.

Her words make you throb in her hand. 

She watches with fascination as a bead of precum forms at your tip, catching it with her thumb and spreading it down your length. She's touching you like you're something precious, something rare, and it's making your head spin.

"Please—" you start, but she cuts you off with a kiss, hand moving faster now.

Her tongue slides against yours, swallowing your moans as she jerks you off faster, rougher. Her other hand comes up to grab your jaw, holding you in place for the kiss as she works you with her hand. 

You're panting into her mouth, hips thrusting into her grip like they have a mind of their own.

"Nat," you gasp, breaking the kiss to bury your face in her neck. "Gonna—fuck, Natasha—" Your hand clamps down on her wrist, stopping her movements. You're right on the edge, thighs shaking, and the last thing you need is for her to keep touching you like that.

She makes a soft, knowing noise against your ear, her hand slowing to a stop. She doesn't release you, her fingers still wrapped tightly around your length. 

"Mm?" she hums, sounding far too pleased with herself for reducing you to this state.

You start kissing and sucking on her neck, leaving your own marks again as you work to get her pants off. 

She lifts her hips eagerly, helping you push them down along with her underwear. She's so wet that her thighs are shiny with it, and the sight makes your mouth water.

"Use your mouth," she demands breathlessly, spreading her legs wider for you.

You sink to your knees between them, pressing a kiss to the inside of her thigh before working your way closer to her center. She's glistening, swollen, and the smell of her arousal hits you like a drug. 

You run your tongue through her slit slowly, savoring her first desperate moan.

"Oh— fuck—" 

Her thighs tremble as you taste her, her hands immediately finding your hair. You wrap your arms around her legs to hold her in place, pressing her thighs open wider against the edge of the desk. Your tongue circles her clit once before dipping inside her, licking deep into her warmth.

She's tasting perfect, salty and sweet and entirely Natasha.

You eat her like you've been starving, your tongue thrusting in and out of her pussy in long, slow strokes. 

She gasps and whimpers above you, her hips wriggling against the desk as she tries to get closer to your mouth.

"There—right there," she chokes out when your tongue finds a particularly sensitive spot inside her. 

She pushes your head down with gentle pressure, her thighs trembling around your ears. 

You suck on that spot like it's a lifeline, your nose rubbing against her clit with each movement. She's getting wetter, her walls fluttering around your tongue. 

"I'm close—"

You pull back slightly, focusing your efforts on her clit. You flick the sensitive nub with the tip of your tongue before sucking it between your lips, humming against her. Her back arches off the desk, a high, thin moan escaping her as she comes undone.

Her thighs clamp around your head, trying to hold you there as she rides through her orgasm.

You lick gently through it, soothing her oversensitive clit with soft kisses as she trembles. 

When her legs finally loosen, she collapses back against the desk, chest heaving.

You stand up, your length throbbing painfully between your legs. Your lips are swollen, covered in her.

She looks at you like you hung the moon, her chest rising and falling rapidly. 

"Holy shit," she breathes, still trying to catch her breath.

Her eyes drop to your cock, standing hard and wet looking against your stomach, and her mouth waters. 

You move closer, pressing against her entrance. "Can I?"

"Please," she whimpers, wrapping her legs around your waist again. 

She's still sensitive from her orgasm, but the need to have you inside her is overwhelming. She reaches between you to line you up with her entrance, the tip pressing against her wet, lips.

You push inside her slowly, both of you groaning as your length is swallowed up by her tight heat. 

She's so wet that you slide in easily, but she's still tight enough to make your eyes roll back. You bottom out with a harsh breath, buried deep inside her against the desk.

"Oh my god," she gasps, arms and legs tightening around you. "You're so big." 

She shifts slightly, taking you even deeper, and you see stars. You've never felt this good inside someone before, never felt someone fit around you so perfectly.

You start moving slowly, pulling out until only the tip is inside her before sliding back in. 

She moans loudly, her hips lifting off the desk to meet your thrusts. You increase the pace gradually, her wet sounds filling the room along with the slap of skin on skin and the creaking of the desk.

You grunt with each thrust, the sound raw and guttural escaping your chest. Every time you bottom out inside her, a particularly rough groan tears from your throat like you can't help it.

You're losing yourself in the feeling of her wrapped around you, squeezing you so perfectly.

"Fuck, Natasha—"

Your hips snap faster, the desk shaking under you.

"Harder," she begs, her nails digging into your back. 

You oblige immediately, pounding into her with abandon now. She meets every thrust with her hips, crying out every time you hit that spot inside her that makes her see stars. "That's—it, just like that—"

Your grunts get louder, more desperate, as your orgasm builds.

She feels you thickening inside her, your thrusts becoming erratic and deep. 

She knows you're close. 

She lifts her legs higher on your waist, shifting the angle so that with each snap of your hips, your tip is hitting her g-spot perfectly. "Don't stop," she commands hoarsely.

"Fuck," you grunt repeatedly, your face buried in her neck as you chase your release. You're so deep inside her now that every movement sends tremors of pleasure through both of you.

Your thrusts turn choppy, desperate, chasing that peak. Your hand slips between your bodies to her clit, rubbing hard circles as you fuck into her deeper, faster.

Her whole body tenses around you, her inner walls clenching and fluttering. 

"Oh god Y/n, I'm—" She gasps sharply as you rub her clit in tight circles, her head falling back against the desk with a soft thud. 

Her orgasm hits her a second before yours does.

You come hard, groaning into her neck as your cock pulses inside her.

You thrust through your release, filling her completely with each snap of your hips. 

She throws her legs high around your waist again, taking everything you're giving her as she rides out her own orgasm. Her inner muscles grips your cock perfectly with each wave, both of you shaking violently from the force of it.

After what feels like an eternity, you both slowly come down from your highs. You stay buried inside her, your forehead resting on her shoulder as you both try to catch your breath. 

Your hips give a few lazy thrusts still, too sensitive for much more but unable to stop completely.

She runs her hands soothingly up and down your back, her thighs tightening and relaxing around your hips. 

"That was..." She trails off, clearly at a loss for words. Her body is still humming with pleasure, her inner muscles gently squeezing your semi-hard cock.

"You okay?" you whisper, pressing a soft kiss to her shoulder before carefully pulling out of her.

She whimpers at the loss, her thighs falling open. You moan at the sight of your cum dripping from her swollen, glistening pussy.

"Don't bother," she mumbles, catching your wrist when you reach for a tissue. "Let it stay."

You moan softly, pulling her limp body against your breasts instead. 

She fits perfectly against you, her cheek resting on your heart. 

The bedroom is a mess, papers scattered everywhere, the desk creaking suspiciously, but you couldn't care less. 

"You're trouble," you murmur, kissing the top of her head.

She laughs softly, wrapping her arms around your waist. 

"You have no idea," she replies, looking up at you with a mischievous smile. 

Her legs are still spread slightly, your release visible between them. She makes no move to close them, instead shifting comfortably against you.

You tilt your head, studying her. "And I get the feeling this won't be the last time." 

Your hand traces idle patterns on her back, your thumb brushing over her spine. The post orgasm haze is pleasant, making everything feel warm and soft.

She grins, unashamed.

You notice it months ago, how she schedules things late, how your name ends up next to hers on drills that don’t technically require a partner. Nobody says anything. Nobody needs to. The team jokes about it anyway.

Romanoff’s shadow. Romanoff’s favorite. Romanoff’s problem.

She never denies it.