Ugghh I seriously need more bottom wandanat... Author do you have any recommendation 😫
My good friend @dirtyvulture has written quite a bit of bottom Nat content!
Otherwise I'm afraid I just stumble upon it, no wait I lied I'm fairly certain @summer2224 has some too (if I'm misremembering that I do apologize it's hard to keep my favorite authors straight sometimes)
Not sure if you've seen heated rivalry but im having a lot of thoughts about beefy!natasha x beefy!r competing in some sort of mainstream sport event (soccer/ rugby maybe).
The sexual tension just continues to rise as their teams face eachother in the national derbys. They playfully tease over text saying how they're gonna beat eachother asses, but really its each others asses they want.
Thave a clear and vivid image in my head. I can see Nat being the more dominant and teasing one and r just sitting there and doing everything that she asks and gets easily flustered by her texts right before an important game.
Sweaty showers and soaked hair in the locker room. Grey vest that shows their muscles off, that one another cant stop starting at. Intense eye contact. What can i say really. I have it all imagined.
Battle of beef/ enemies to lovers i say.
-🪴
Hi hi friend! I've been off and on here myself, but I'm glad to hear from you again 🥰
I have not willingly watched Heated Rivalry (lol) but I've seen lots of clips so I get the gist of it 👀
I actually had an idea for a cheerleading fic with Nat x R competing against each other and also wildly thirsting over each other but alas it never saw the light of day 🙃
Railing Nat in front of a mirror while she mocks you because you look like an animal in heat, but she can't speak properly because her moans keep interrupting her, and her voice is drowned out by the sound of skin slapping together and the wetness of her pussy dripping to the floor or staining the mirror with every thrust
"Look how well you're taking me," you grunt into Natasha's ear, thrusting into her so hard she rises to her tiptoes and her wetness leaks down the insides of her thighs.
One of your hands is wrapped around her throat, pulling her tightly against the front of your body, while the other takes her hand and directs it to touch the bulge of her stomach you make every time you push your whole length into her.
"Please, please, please," she moans, her chest heaving for air. "Ruin me," she begs.
Hey since New Years is close can you do one instead of partying with others Natasha and GP!Reader are fucking on the floor and Nat is edging R until the clock hits midnight and she finally allows R release? Only if you want to obviously
Just wrote something short for you all ❤️
While the rest of Avengers celebrating the coming new year with drinks and food, watching the ball drop in Time's Square from the top floor of the Avengers Tower, you and Natasha have excused yourselves from their party activities for a private one of your own.
"Oh fuck, Nat, I'm so close," you whimper, arching your hips up to push more of your length through Natasha's tightly-closed fist.
"It's not time yet," Natasha says, her eyes flitting to the alarm clock on your nightstand.
"I don't know if I'm gonna last," you reply, pumping your hips up and down. Your hands are underneath your butt, pinned to the floor in an effort to stop yourself from grabbing onto Natasha the longer she denies you release. You promised yourself you would never make that mistake again--Natasha had put a cock ring on you for two weeks and not allowed you to cum. And when she finally did, you came so hard you nearly passed out.
"You don't get to cum until I say you do," Natasha reminds you, removing her fist and you whine pathetically at the loss of contact.
"Okay, okay," you resign.
Natasha grabs the bottle of lube from the nightstand and squirts a big glob onto her hand. Your body tenses in anticipation as she reaches for your cock once more, sliding it effortlessly through her slicked-up hand. You moan and squirm at the stimulation, your cock throbbing stiffly and the tip darkening in color.
"Nat, please," you whimper again, not sure if you can hold back until midnight.
"Hold it," she demands, her focus turning to the clock.
"TEN! NINE!" you hear everyone outside your bedroom chanting along with the countdown. Natasha's hand moves faster on your cock, squeezing every time she gets to your tip.
"EIGHT! SEVEN!"
"Fuck, fuck, fuck," you pant, closing your eyes as you will yourself to stay in control.
"Almost there," Natasha says, her hand slowing down. A little dribble of pre-cum leaks out of your cock. She can't wait to have your throbbing length inside of her when she finally lets you release.
"THREE! TWO!"
Natasha suddenly stops stroking you and swings one leg over your waist. She's so wet that she sinks onto your cock effortlessly, taking you all the way to the hilt just as the fireworks outside explode and your co-workers scream and cheer in celebration of the new year.
Your hips buck as you empty your load in hard pulses that have your entire body shaking. Your back arches off the floor and you free your hands to grab onto Natasha's waist, holding to keep her balanced as you pump into her. Her velvet walls milk your cock for every drop of cum you have to offer, and when you're finally down, you sink back onto the floor, sweaty and spent.
"Happy New Year, baby," Natasha leans over to whisper in your ear.
The explosion shakes dust off the ceiling, raining grit over your hair as you kneel beside Alvarez, your knees digging into broken concrete. Sirens wail, gunfire cracks through the air like angry lightning. You block it out, your hands always move faster than your fear.
You’re built for this. You’re good at this. You’re needed.
You press gauze hard into Alvarez’s thigh. Blood coats your gloves.
And then-
“Y/n.”
Her voice slices into your comms. Sharp. Controlled. Furious. You don’t even have to ask who it is. The tone alone makes your spine snap straight.
“Y/n. Fall back. Now.”
You grit your teeth. “Romanoff, Alvarez is losing blood. He won’t last until evac.”
“You have ten seconds to move.”
You almost laugh -- stress laughter, the kind she hates. “I need thirty.”
“Ten.”
You ignore her and lean closer over Alvarez. “You hear that? Apparently I’ve got ten seconds before my commander kills me.”
“Don’t joke,” Natasha growls.
You should’ve expected it... she’s been on edge with you all week. Watching you too closely. Standing too near. Barking orders that sound more like panic when it’s you.
But you push it down. You finish taping the bandage, working fast.
Gunfire erupts nearby. You flinch, and that’s when Natasha slips into the cracks.
NATASHA POV
You’re alive because you don’t hesitate. You don’t think. You act.
But when it comes to her…. you think too much.
She’s a rookie, but not like the others. She’s sharp, steady, terrifyingly brilliant with her hands. And too soft. Too kind. Too willing to risk her neck for civilians and teammates alike.
Too important.
You see her kneeling there through the smoke, hair catching the firelight, trying to hold Alvarez together.
You want to scream. You want to drag her out by her collar. You want her far, far behind you, where bullets can’t find the softness you’ve grown addicted to looking at.
“Y/n,” you snarl into the comm, “fall. Back. Now.”
She ignores you.
Of course she does.
The building behind her gives a low groan. You could cross the distance in ten seconds. Maybe eight. But she looks so focused -- so good at her job it scares you.
You crush another guard under your boot, rage slipping into your blood.
If anything happens to her… If you lose sight of her….
You don’t know what you’d do.
YOUR POV
“Romanoff, Alvarez is stable,” you finally say. “I’m clear.”
Silence. Cold, empty silence.
You straighten slowly. “Natasha? Do you copy?”
Nothing. Your heart drops into your stomach.
“Natasha--”
A grunt. Low. Broken. Pained.
“NAT--Natasha, talk to me!”
You’re running before you feel your legs start moving. You don’t think. You don’t breathe. You sprint across broken ground, dodging fire, smoke burning your eyes.
You whip around a collapsed column and stop dead.
Natasha is half standing, half sliding down a cracked wall, hand clamped to her ribs where dark red spills down her suit. She’s breathing fast. Too fast.
She lifts her head at the sound of your boots screeching across concrete.
Her eyes flicker between relief and terror.
“Y/n,” she rasps, “I told you… to fall back…”
You drop to your knees so fast it echoes. “You’re bleeding.”
“It’s nothing.”
“It’s a gunshot, Natasha!”
She glares -- not at the pain. At you. “You shouldn’t be here.”
You unzip her tactical suit just enough to see the wound. She inhales sharply as your fingers skim her skin -- warm, flushed, too vulnerable.
“Sit down. Now.”
She sets her jaw. “I said I’m fine.”
“And I said sit down.”
A beat. Then she lowers herself, slow, stubborn, breathing through her teeth.
NATASHA POV
She’s touching you.
Her hands are gentle but sure, fingers warm as they peel the suit aside. You feel ridiculous heat roll through your stomach at the contact -- even now, even bleeding.
Her brows crease in worry. You hate that look. You want to be the one protecting. Not being tended like this.
Especially not by her.
You want to keep your eyes open but they sting. You want to tell her you kept her in your line of sight the entire mission -- that losing her for thirty seconds felt like drowning.
You want to tell her you care. Too much. Dangerously much.
But your mouth betrays you.
“You disobeyed orders.”
She scoffs softly. “And you got shot.”
Her hands press gauze to your skin -- and every nerve in your body jumps.
“Gentle…” you mutter before you can stop yourself.
She pauses. “I am being gentle.”
You want to kiss her. God, you want to kiss her.
YOUR POV
Natasha’s hand shoots up, gripping your wrist when the bandage stings. Her palm is warm and trembling. Romanoff doesn’t tremble.
Her eyes lock onto yours -- intense, molten, unreadable.
“Y/n…” she says, voice low like something’s breaking inside her.
You swallow. “Tell me what you need.”
Her jaw works. Her chest rises, falls, rises again too fast.
Finally, she whispers… “I need you.”
Your breath stops. Your heartbeat doesn’t -- it spikes so hard it hurts.
Natasha realizes what she said a second too late. You see the panic flash in her eyes, a rare and precious thing -- something no enemy has ever put there.
Without thinking, you cup her jaw. “Then I’m here.”
Her lashes flutter.
The battle fades. The sirens dim. It’s just her. Just you.
You tape the bandage tight and Natasha leans into your touch. Not enough to break her pride -- just enough to show she trusts you more than anyone else in the world.
“Help me up,” she breathes.
You slide an arm around her waist, lifting her gently. She grips your shoulder, fingers lingering far longer than necessary.
When she’s steady, she leans close -- too close -- her lips brushing your ear.
“If you ever run toward danger again instead of away from it…”
Her breath shivers against your skin.
“…I won’t yell at you over comms next time.”
A pause. Her lips nearly touch your cheek.
“I’ll pull you into the nearest empty room and show you exactly how angry you made me.”
Your knees give out -- she holds you up.
Her smirk is wicked. Even wounded.
“Let’s go, detka.”
“You’re not leaving my sight again.”
She says it like a threat. You hear it like a promise.
Med Bay -- Quinjet
The quinjet door seals behind you with a heavy pressurized hiss, shutting out the mission noise entirely.
Suddenly it’s just you and her -- Natasha Romanoff -- limping but defiant, blood drying along her ribs, eyes locked on you like you’re oxygen.
You guide her by the waist toward the private med bay bench, but she keeps you closer than necessary, fingers gripping your gear like she needs the reassurance of your body against hers.
She sits with a wince and breathes out shakily.
You reach for your med kit.
She reaches for you.
Her fingers hook into your vest, tugging you closer than any patient should. Her breath warms your throat.
“Don’t disappear from me like that again,” she whispers, voice shredded, not from pain -- from fear.
“I’m right here,” you murmur, brushing her hair off her forehead. “Let me take care of you.”
That gets her.
Her eyes flare -- protective, starving, vulnerable -- a combination she never shows anyone.
“Take this off,” you say softly, fingertips moving to the zipper of her suit once more.
She swallows -- hard.
Not because it hurts. But because you’re touching her.
Slowly, deliberately, you drag the zipper down. The suit parts. Heat spills out against your fingers.
Natasha’s breathing turns unsteady.
You tug the sleeves down her arms, sliding the fabric off her shoulders, revealing the black sports bra she wears on missions -- the one hugging her toned torso, sculpted stomach, every beautiful inch of her strength.
You don’t stare. You devour her with your eyes.
Natasha feels it. Her lips part. Her thighs press together instinctively.
“Y/n…” she murmurs, voice low, warning and wanting. “Focus.”
“I am,” you whisper, sinking to one knee in front of her, fingers ghosting over her abdomen. “Trust me.”
Your touch is careful on the bandage, but your palm slides along the warm, taut muscles of her waist before you apply pressure to the wound.
Natasha jolts -- not from pain.
From you. Your hands. Your closeness. Your breath on her skin.
“Y/n…” she warns again, weaker.
You look up. She’s already watching you.
Green eyes, blown wide. Chest rising too fast. Jaw tense from holding in something she can’t hide anymore.
“Does it hurt?” you whisper.
She shakes her head, cheeks flushing just slightly. “No.”
You press a little harder -- professional, controlled.
Natasha swallows again. Her head tips back. A quiet sound escapes her throat -- not a groan, not a gasp -- something in between.
You stand slowly, your fingers trailing up her stomach, her ribs, her sternum, until you’re cupping her jaw with one shaky hand.
“Breathe for me,” you whisper.
Her eyes flutter. Her lips part.
And then….Natasha grabs your waist with both hands and yanks you down onto her lap like something inside her snapped.
Your breath leaves your body in a rush.
“Natasha--”
She cuts you off with her mouth.
It’s not soft. It’s not careful. It’s everything she’s held back for weeks--poured into one breathtaking kiss.
Her hands slide up your back, pulling you tighter, deeper, closer, her fingers digging into your gear like she’s starving for you. Her injured side trembles but she doesn’t slow down -- she doesn’t care. She kisses you like she’ll die if she stops.
Your lips part and her tongue slips in, desperate, hungry, claiming every inch of your mouth.
A low, wounded moan slips from her chest -- not from the gunshot.
From you.
You break just enough to breathe, your forehead pressed to hers.
“Natasha,” you whisper, brushing your thumb over her cheek, “you’re hurt.”
“So?” she breathes, pulling you into another devastating kiss. “You’re here.”
You straddle her thighs fully -- and she drags you closer by your hips, nearly whimpering into your mouth at the feeling.
Her lips trail down your jaw, your throat, her breath hot and ragged.
“You ran to me,” she murmurs against your skin. “You could’ve died.”
“So could you.”
She bites your neck -- gentle, claiming -- then pulls back with a look that makes your knees weak even while sitting.
“You listen to me,” she whispers, thumb brushing your lower lip. “I’m not losing you. Not today. Not ever.”
You kiss her again -- slow this time, deep, reverent your hands cradling her face like she’s something breakable.
Her fingers slide under your shirt, gripping bare skin.
She groans at the contact.
“Detka…” her voice cracks, “don’t stop.”
You don’t. You kiss her until the quinjet feels too small to contain the heat between you.
Natasha ignores the pain, the wound, the blood she cares about one thing, one person, one touch…. You.
Together, tangled in the dark of the med bay, it doesn’t matter who’s hurt or who’s healing.
You’re hers. And she’s finally letting herself show it.
NATASHA POV OF THE KISS
You know you’re injured. You know you should sit still. You know you should let her finish patching you up.
But the second her hands slide up your stomach -- gentle, reverent, shaking -- something inside you just snaps.
You grab her waist with both hands and drag her onto your lap like you own her. Her breath stutters against your lips.
Then she kisses you back.
And God, it ruins you.
You’ve kissed before, in your life. You’ve kissed for covers, for manipulation, for distraction. But this this is the first time your body has ever felt like it was made for someone else’s hands.
Her lips are soft but confident, matching your hunger, deepening it, pushing you straight to the edge of something you’ve tried to bury.
You feel her fingers slide into your hair and your heart almost stops.
You kiss her harder. Slower. Deeper.
Every pull of her mouth against yours sends heat rolling under your skin. Your wound throbs, but you ignore it. Pain is background noise. She is the only thing in focus.
She breaks for breath for a split second and you chase her lips like someone starved.
Her gasp melts into your mouth when your tongue brushes hers, your fingers squeezing her waist, pulling her flush against you.
She’s trembling. You’re trembling.
You’ve never wanted anything so badly.
You don’t want to stop. You won’t stop. Not unless she makes you.
And she doesn’t. Her thighs bracketing yours, chest pressing into your sports bra, breath mixing with yours until you can’t tell where you end and she begins.
“Natasha,” she whispers, voice cracked open.
You’re done for. Completely undone.
You cup the back of her head and kiss her like you’re claiming her, like you’re begging her, like she’s oxygen and you’ve been drowning all mission.
Your injury? Irrelevant. Forgettable. A mosquito bite.
You’d take ten bullets if it meant you could keep kissing her like this.
Her lips part again. Your self control shatters.
“Detka…” you breathe into her mouth, “don’t ever leave my sight again.”
She kisses you for that -- harder, faster -- a moan slipping between both your mouths at the same time.
You don’t know who moves first.
You just know you’re standing. She’s clinging. Your mouth never leaves hers.
And the quinjet med bay is suddenly too damn small.
YOUR POV
You don’t remember the walk. You don’t remember the doors.
You only remember Natasha’s lips on yours, her hands gripping your back, your hair, your hips, like she’s terrified you’ll vanish if she stops touching you.
The quinjet shower room door slams shut behind you.
Her mouth is still on yours. You don’t let it leave for more than a breath.
She presses you back against the tiled wall, your hands sliding up her stomach, warm and toned under your palms. Every scar beneath your fingertips makes your chest ache in the best, deepest way.
“Natasha…” you whisper, brushing a thumb over a faint, half moon scar on her ribs. “You’re beautiful.”
She freezes.
Not because she disagrees. Because no one ever says it like that.
Not like it’s truth. Not like it matters to them. Not like they’re memorizing her.
You cup her jaw with both hands, and she leans into your touch -- just slightly -- like she’s never allowed herself that softness before.
The steam from the shower fills the air, fogging the glass, making the moment thick and intimate and unreal.
Natasha’s voice breaks. Actually breaks.
“Show me,” she whispers.
It wrecks you.
You reach behind her and tug the zipper the rest of the way down her suit.
It falls completely. Her sports bra and bare stomach exposed fully to you now -- sculpted, scarred, strong, gorgeous.
She steps forward.
Your lips crash together again, deeper this time, needy, greedy, entirely unrestrained.
Her hands slide under your shirt -- your turn to gasp -- and she smiles into the kiss, wicked and soft and starved all at once.
You’re both stumbling backwards now, still kissing, still clinging, still refusing to part.
You hit the counter. She presses into you. breast to breast. Heat to heat.
You manage between kisses, voice shaking “Your injury--”
“Is nothing,” she growls into your mouth, kissing you again. “You’re everything.”
Your brain burns. Your knees go weak.
Her fingers slip under the hem of your shirt, dragging it halfway up your ribs. Her lips trail down your throat, slow and devastating, tasting every inch.
You grip her shoulders, feeling the muscle flex under your palms, feeling the scars there too -- the ones she never lets people look at, let alone touch.
She isn’t hiding them from you. She’s letting you see her. All of her.
You breathe against her ear, “Natasha…I’ve wanted this for so long.”
Her breath stutters.
She pulls back just enough to look at you -- wet lips, flushed cheeks, pupils blown so wide they swallow the green.
Then she whispers the thing that shatters you completely “I’ve wanted you.”
Your lips crash again, teeth, heat, breath, want…
Your clothes are gone -- you don’t even remember lifting your arms. Her hands skim down your sides, warm and precise and hungry, rediscovering every inch like she’s memorizing you by touch alone.
You tug at her sports bra, the fabric damp against your fingers, and she exhales a low, broken sound when you slide it up and over her head. The garment hits the floor. Water droplets cling to her collarbones, her chest, the defined lines of her stomach.
Her scars glisten. And you look at her like she’s art.
Then she’s moving again. Fast.
In one breath, her hands slide to your thighs. In the next, she lifts you -- not gently, not carefully -- but with a strength that makes your stomach drop and your pulse explode. Your legs wrap around her waist automatically, instinctively, like your body knew exactly where to go.
Your bare breast presses against hers.
The exact kind of closeness you’ve dreamt about.
Hot water pours over the two of you, racing down her strong back, down your shoulders, between your bodies where neither of you is letting go.
She presses you into the slick tile, her forehead resting against yours, breath mixing with the steam.
“Look at me,” she whispers.
You do. God, you do.
Her gaze flicks down your body once, slow and reverent, like she’s been starved and someone finally put the meal in front of her. Her fingers trace your waist, your hips, the curve of your stomach, learning you with a hunger so controlled it’s almost more dangerous than losing control entirely.
“Beautiful,” she murmurs -- not like she’s paying you a compliment, but like she’s stating a fact that’s been torturing her for months.
Your hands slide up her back, over the ridges of muscle, over the softened line near her wound. She shivers not in pain, in want.
Natasha leans in, lips brushing your jaw, then your throat, then lower. Not enough. Not even close. Just enough to make your breath catch and your fingers curl into her hair.
She lifts you higher against the wall, her grip possessive, unshakable.
“I should stop,” she whispers into your skin.
You laugh softly, breathlessly. “Liar.”
Her mouth curves against your throat. Caught.
“Yeah,” she admits, kissing your collarbone. “I’m not stopping.”
Your hands frame her face and you kiss her again -- deep, slow, consuming. Her fingers tighten on your hips. She pulls you flush against her, the kind of closeness that makes your whole body spark.
The water runs hotter. Steam swirls thicker. Your breaths turn uneven. Natasha’s lips drag lower. Your fingers twist in her red hair. Her voice drops to something sinful against your skin, “Do you want this...tell me.”
You do -- not in words, but in the way you pull her mouth back to yours, in the way your legs tighten around her waist, in the way every inch of you presses to her like you’re both trying to dissolve into the other.
She answers without hesitation -- with her hands, her mouth, her body -- giving you exactly what you ask for.
NATASHA POV
You don’t give her everything. Not yet. You don’t trust yourself not to break.
But you give her what you’ve been starving to give.
Her legs wrapped around your waist. Her hands in your hair. Her breath hot against your mouth.
It’s not enough. It will never be enough. But it’s everything you’ve allowed yourself to imagine in the dark.
She kisses you again, and your knees almost buckle. The water surges hotter against your back, steam curling around both of you until it feels like you’re standing inside the center of a furnace.
You press her into the tile with your body, keeping her lifted, keeping her exactly where you need her. She fits perfectly, so perfectly it scares you.
Her chest rises against yours -- too fast, too reactive -- and the sound she makes when your lips trail down her throat nearly undoes you.
You swear under your breath, forehead dropping to her shoulder for a heartbeat, struggling to steady yourself.
You’ve fought armies with less effort than it takes to control yourself in this moment.
She whispers your name, soft and shaking, and it threads straight into your bloodstream.
You lift your head. You look at her. Really look.
Her hair wet, sticking to her jaw. Her lips red and swollen from your mouth. Her eyes -- God -- her eyes wide with want and trust and something you don’t deserve but can’t walk away from.
“Y/n,” you murmur, brushing your thumb over her cheek. Your voice is rough, too rough. “If you look at me like that…”
Her fingers slide along your ribs, so gentle you feel it everywhere.
“…I’m going to lose myself.”
She smiles -- barely -- then pulls you in by the back of your neck until your lips crash again. And that’s it. Your control fractures.
You kiss her with everything you’ve been holding back for months --every stare you forced yourself to look away from, every thought you buried beneath discipline and protocol.
Your hands roam her body like you’re memorizing it, tracing every curve, every line, learning her language through touch.
She arches into you, trusting you completely, and something inside you breaks open so violently you groan into her mouth.
Her body is warm against yours, slick with water and breath and want.
You trail your lips down her neck again, slower this time, lingering, savoring.
You don’t hurry. You don’t rush. You take your time.
Because she deserves that. Because you’ve wanted to take your time with her long before you ever admitted it to yourself.
Your hands slide to her hips -- strong, secure, protective -- holding her up, holding her steady, holding her like you’ll never let her fall.
She gasps your name again -- softer this time, almost pleading -- and you decide right then that no one will ever get to hear that sound from her except you.
You lift her slightly higher, pressing her back to the cool tile, keeping the balance between strength and gentleness like second nature.
You kiss her again. Slow. Deep. Consuming.
You don’t stop until she melts into you, until her fingers tremble in your hair, until every line of her body writes itself into yours.
The world outside the shower disappears entirely.
There is only her breath. Her body. Her skin under your palms. Her mouth opening for yours again and again.
You’re still bleeding. Still aching. Still injured.
But for the first time in years -- you don’t feel the pain.
You only feel her.
And you realize something with startling clarity....
You’d take the bullet again if it meant ending up right here.
Like this. With her. In your arms. Wanting you as desperately as you want her.
You press your forehead to hers, breathing hard, both of you shaking.
“Detka…” you whisper, lips brushing hers, voice wrecked.
She kisses you again -- slow, tender, claiming -- and the last piece of you that was holding back finally, finally falls.
Steam rolls across the shower floor as you lower her onto the floor tile --already breathless, her head tipping back, wet hair fanning out beneath her. Water pours over both of you in hot, relentless sheets, making her skin shine in dim, hazy light.
You hover over her, your drenched red hair dripping onto her chest, your bare body slick and hot from the shower.
Her breath catches--shaky, eager, involuntary.
You feel it. God, you feel it everywhere.
“Look at you…” you breathe, your lips brushing her jaw. “Lying here like this…”
Her back arches--slow and gorgeous--like her body is reaching for yours without thinking.
You swear under your breath, low, Russian first, then English, “Blyad’… fuck…” -- because not even your mother tongue is strong enough for this.
She gasps softly when your mouth trails down her throat. You nearly lose control.
“Do you hear yourself?” you murmur against her skin, kissing down the side of her neck. “You sound like that and expect me to think straight?”
Her fingers slip into your soaked red hair, tugging lightly.
Your breath shudders.
“Don’t stop,” she whispers.
You look up at her--green eyes dark, half lidded, fixed on her like she’s the only thing in the world worth seeing.
“Say it again,” you whisper.
“Natasha…”
The sound punches a groan out of your chest. You catch her mouth with yours--hot, needy, messy--kissing her like you’ve been starving for months.
She moans into your mouth. Your whole body jolts.
“Fuck…” you breathe against her lips. “Do that again.”
She kisses you harder.
Your hands roam her slick stomach, sliding up, then down again, tracing the water as it moves down her body.
She gasps in your mouth--sharp, breathy--and you instantly lower your mouth to the sound, kissing just under her breast, heat swirling everywhere between you.
“You feel so good,” she breathes.
Your control snaps.
You slide your hands down her slick sides, gripping her hips, guiding them toward yours with a low, unsteady exhale. Her thighs tighten around you instinctively, her body moving with yours before she can think or stop herself.
Her breath stutters when your hips meet wet core to wet core, heat aligning, pressure in exactly the right place.
She gasps, trembling. “Natasha--”
“Come here,” you rasp, pulling her even closer, guiding her until her hips settle perfectly against yours. “Right here… that’s it.”
Her body reacts like it’s been waiting for this exact alignment, her stomach tightening, her breath breaking against your mouth.
You shift beneath her, core sliding between hers, lifting just enough to press exactly where she needs you.
She whimpers.
God, that sound--It punches through your chest like lightning.
“Move,” you whisper, your voice barely a voice. “Take what you want.”
Her fingers dig into your shoulders, her body already rocking -- slow at first, searching for the rhythm -- and you help her, hands guiding her hips in a grinding, breath stealing slide against your thigh.
“Natasha--God--” she exhales, head falling back.
Water cascades down her breast as her body moves against yours, each press and drag sending heat coiling through your stomach. You lift your hip into her on the next roll, and she gasps your name so sharply your vision blurs.
“Fuck--” you choke out, gripping her waist. “Keep doing that.”
Her breath trembles arching even more, pressing her chest against yours, grinding harder now, faster, her thighs shaking around you. Her hips slide against yours in messy, wet, desperate rhythm, heat building between your bodies.
“You feel--” she breaks off on a moan, “-- so good.”
Your head falls back.
YOUR POV
“Natasha--” you gasp, grabbing her back, nails dragging down her slick skin.
She shudders, her lips brushing your jaw.
“Feel what you do to me,” she whispers, hips pressing into yours in one deliberate grind.
Your body arches again, a sound catching in your throat you didn’t mean to let out. She hears it. She answers with a low, desperate moan.
Her thigh presses tighter. Your hips lift into her instinctively.
“Oh my--Natasha--”
Her mouth finds your neck, kissing, biting lightly, sucking heat into your skin until you’re shaking under her. Your hips move again, finding rhythm against her thigh, her muscles flexing beneath you.
Her breath breaks.
“Don’t stop,” she murmurs against your throat. “Please--keep moving.”
You do. God, you do. Your hips grind up into hers, her body sliding over yours, her breast pressing against yours, her breath mixing with your own until you can’t tell who’s gasping louder.
“Natasha--please--”
Her hands slide under your hips, lifting them off the shower floor to meet her.
The pressure doubles. Your breath shatters.
Heat wraps around you like steam made solid.
Your stomach tightens--your breath stumbles--your thighs tremble around her waist
“Natasha--” your voice breaks completely, “don’t stop--don’t stop--”
Natasha POV
She’s shaking beneath you, gasping into your neck, her hips moving against your thigh in frantic, breathtaking rhythm.
Her sounds-- God, her sounds--
You’re done for.
“You’re beautiful like this,” you rasp, your forehead pressing to hers as she moves, “so fucking beautiful--”
Her nails drag down your back. You lose your breath.
“Natasha--”
“Let go,” you whisper against her mouth. “With me--let go--”
Her body tenses, her breath breaks, her hips press hard against you--and you both come apart in each others arms, trembling, gasping, her body arching off the shower floor as water pours over both of you.
You hold her through it--tight, steady, kissing her jaw, her cheek, her mouth, moaning her name against her shaking lips while you tremble through your peak.
She collapses against the tile floor, breathless and warm, your forehead dropping to hers with a whimper.
You kiss her again--slow, soft, holy.
“I want to feel you fall apart,” you whisper, tracing her shaking body, “every time.”
She exhales against your neck, melting into you, her heartbeat settling slowly beneath your hands.
The steam wraps around you both, warm and quiet, as you hold her close, letting the moment breathe--letting her breathe--your lips brushing her hair, your bodies still tangled in perfect, breathless closeness.
Hi, everyone! If any of you know, could you tell me why is Natasha unsearchable on c.ai? Like, I search her name and nothing shows up and past chats are moderated. Thank you!
Not my area of expertise, but maybe someone else from Club Beef has an answer?
