Bloom
masterlist
SHIELD agent!NR x SHIELD agent!r
Word count: 5.4k
Summary: With how everything pans out, you can’t quite bring yourself to regret your beyond embarrassingly horny actions since, in the end, they bring you Natasha.
18+
Author’s note: A sex pollen fic with feelings. Technically dubcon as that’s the nature of these sorts of fics, but reader has been wanting Natasha for forever, so the exposure is simply the impetus.
“Natasha, we can’t. You know this.”
“Why not?” Natasha asks softly.
“You know why.”
“But I don’t care,” she says, and her tone has turned firm. She’s pushing for something she’s well aware she can’t have.
You’re both pleading for different things.
Please stop pushing; please stop making this necessary separation harder.
Please stop pushing; please stop denying everything we are to each other.
You two have been avoiding your feelings for almost a year… or you’ve been avoiding your feelings, while Natasha has worn her heart on her sleeve for you, unwilling—or perhaps unable—to hide the fact that everything you are permeates her life, her world, her very being.
She simply can’t repress you. All the training—childhood, teenage, adult, never stopping—the habituation, none of it matters when it comes to you. Despite everything that everyone has worked to engrain in her, despite the deep-seated demand from both herself and others to put the job first, she’s never found herself capable of carrying through when you’re involved.
She wishes it wasn’t this way. She doesn’t believe it has to be this way.
“If we get found out, we’ll both lose our jobs,” you remind her as if she needs the reminder, as if the potential aftermath isn’t something that she loses sleep over every night but is still desperate for you to overlook just like she is.
She shakes her head. “It’s a bullshit rule.”
“But it’s a rule, nonetheless.”
“Am I not worth the risk? Am I not worth the fallout? The consequences?” She says your name in one last ditch effort to convince you that what the two of you have isn’t futile, that it’s worth the repercussions, that it’ll always be worth any repercussions that could be thrown your way.
You wish you could give her the answer she’s looking for.
The mission isn’t comfortable. No mission with Natasha has been comfortable since that conversation.
Unfortunately for you, the two of you are “tactically matched”, “synchronized”, “operationally compatible”. You work well together, always attuned with one another, able to read each other in ways no one else can. If that’s a testament to your past closeness, your past intimacy, you won’t admit it.
Tactically matched. That’s all this is.
The Quinjet ride is mostly quiet, the silence only broken by small, professional, detached comments where you discuss the operation at hand—nothing more—and Natasha is finding herself having trouble focusing, stealing glances at you through the corner of her eye. She’s been off her game, unable to get you out of her head despite the distance you’ve forced upon her, and now that you’re sitting across from her in the small cabin, reachable through a few short steps but refusing to speak more than what’s necessary, refusing to even make eye contact, she doesn’t know what to do.
How can she focus on anything but the silence from you?
You arrive at the HYDRA base you’re set to sneak into after only a few hours. Your assignment is to infiltrate and retrieve any and all data: paper documents, computerized files, archives, records, dossiers.
The lab you two first find yourself in is white. White walls, white floor, white, fluorescent lights that are too bright when you turn them on. It smells sterile, and Natasha’s nose scrunches up as she steps into the room.
It was too easy to break in. No guards, no patrols, no one standing watch outside the base or within the base or anywhere.
There’s a beaker on the table—singular beaker—filled with something you can’t identify. That should’ve been foreboding enough, but your hand reaches toward it to inspect it anyway.
“Don’t touch that,” Natasha reprimands without missing a beat, not even glancing your way but knowing you’re halfway to poking it.
You make a face but retract your hand, listening to the redhead who is indubitably right.
“I’m going to head to the servers, download anything I can. You sort through the physical files here. Grab whatever’s important.” She nods at the mountain of medical notes and experimental reports.
You sigh. You hate this part—scientific jargon galore—but agree, nonetheless, and Natasha walks out of the lab to find the control room.
It takes forever, in your biased opinion, but you eventually finish up sifting through everything, collecting what you consider important, and standing from where you were sitting amongst the files. You turn to quickly head out of the lab.
But you move too fast, too carelessly, and you knock over the beaker as you rush past it, the contents spilling out onto the counter and then splashing back up toward you. Your hand raises on instinct to block anything from fully hitting you.
Immediately, your palm begins tingling where the small drops of liquid made contact.
“Shit,” you say, far too casual for what just happened.
Natasha’s head shoots up in the other room. “What?” she calls out. You can hear the worry in her voice.
“Nothing,” you attempt, not wanting to concern her further.
You can imagine the way she’s probably closing her eyes in exasperation and taking a calming breath at your dismissal. “Try again,” she says flatly.
“I may have knocked over the beaker.”
There’s some shuffling from outside, and then Natasha appears, striding into the lab, servers and flash drive and data completely forgotten in lieu of getting to you. She gives you a long onceover. You don’t look hurt, at least, not visibly.
“Did it get on you?” she asks.
“Just a little,” you try again to brush it all off, but it doesn’t work.
“Are you feeling okay?”
You nod, ignoring the tingling. Natasha doesn’t need to know about that. She’s alarmed enough as is. “Perfectly fine. I swear, Natasha, I’m okay.”
Your reassurance doesn’t work.
“Let me see your hand.”
You hold it up for her. It certainly looks normal.
“You’re going straight to medical when we get back.”
“Natasha, I’m okay,” you tell her again, “I don’t need to go to medical.”
She just shakes her head, adamant about you getting checked over. “We don’t know what was in that beaker. You’re going to medical right when we land. Stop trying to get out of it.”
And you are okay. Sort of.
You easily sense that something’s off with you, with your body, but it’s manageable at first. It’s nothing to draw attention to, nothing to concern anyone with, and especially nothing to break your silence with Natasha about.
You unconvincingly chalk it up to lingering stress from the mission—the lack of defenses at the HYDRA base did throw the two of you for a loop—or maybe it’s dehydration, or perhaps a weird manifestation of exhaustion. Whatever. It’s definitely not the spill.
But as more time passes, more symptoms come.
Heat begins to flicker to life within you; contact with anything causes sparks to shoot out under your skin. Your head is filling with cotton, dizziness taking over, and it’s becoming harder and harder to concentrate on anything but the feeling of the seat underneath you, the scratch of the seatbelt across your chest, the rub of your pants as you move to get comfortable… incessantly.
The air is too warm, the jet too stuffy.
You all but fling yourself out of the cabin and flee once the wheels touch down on the tarmac, once the ramp opens, leaving Natasha to stare after you, concerned at your unusual behavior.
You may have been attempting to conceal it, but whether or not you like it, she still knows you. She heard the constant shifting that you were doing in your seat, the restlessness that’s remained with you no matter the position. She saw the bead of sweat drip down your brow despite the airconditioned cabin. Honestly, she could practically feel the heat that radiated off your flushed skin.
That beaker’s contents—whatever they were—are affecting you.
But she knows that you aren’t going to talk to her, that she’s probably the last person you want to go to with a problem such as this—oh, how things change—so she leaves you be, trusting you to take yourself to the medbay like she demanded.
Instead, you make a beeline for the dormitory, heading to your quarters, unlocking and swinging open your door only to slam it shut with too much force and lean heavily against the wood.
You’re panting for breath, and it’s not just from the sprint back to your room. Something is wrong.
Yet you once again tell yourself that it’s stress, dehydration, exhaustion—providing yourself with any excuse you can come up with that means it’s nothing significant.
But things just keep getting worse, the feelings and sensations keep intensifying. Your pupils are blown wide, every inch of your skin hot with need, and the throbbing of your pussy is unbearable. Your blood is boiling in your veins, the heat beginning to feel less like a flush and more like a burn, a molten brand.
Your mind is fuzzy, your thoughts muddled and slow and focused on one thing: you’re too empty.
You shake your head, trying to dislodge and distract yourself from the desperate need that’s building, the fire that’s spreading from between the apex of your thighs and up through the rest of your body.
And then there’s a moment of clarity that breaks through the haze of need to sink yourself down on a pair of fingers, to grind up into every thrust they graciously give you, to be thoroughly fucked. You’ve heard rumors of HYDRA experimenting with some new compound, some new chemical, some weaponized aphrodisiac agent. You didn’t think they were close to finishing the project yet, but given how you’re feeling right now? It has to be what you were exposed to.
You now recognize the clinical signs presenting in you, and realization slowly comes as to what the only cure is, what the “antidote” is.
Your clit is pulsing, your entire body—no longer just your palm—tingling, your blood rushing in your ears. It’s getting harder to think rationally as desire mounts.
Okay, you resolve yourself to handle this clinically. You need someone, anyone. You’ll just find the first willing person. You can head to the medbay, and they can help you source someone… and then you’ll never speak of what you’ve done again. You just need to go now before this gets worse.
You turn around to face your door, take a deep, shaky breath, your hand trembling on your doorknob, and open the door.
And then there’s Natasha—right there—her own hand raised to knock, having wanted to check on you and make sure you actually did go get checked over after your quick exit from the jet.
Your eyes widen as you see her before they drop down unconsciously, taking in her appearance: tight-fitting grey tank top, black sweats hanging loosely from her hips, arms on full display. You can’t stop yourself from fixating on her biceps, and you tangibly feel the way your arousal begins to pool in your underwear.
If you weren’t hot and bothered already, you certainly would be now.
And then horror fills you. No, no, please no. Not her, not her, anyone but her.
You know you can’t control yourself around her, not when you’re like this. You can barely control yourself around her in general.
You don’t want it to happen this way. You’ve been trying so hard to keep your distance, trying so hard to keep to the boundaries that you set… even while everything in you has been driving you to push yourself back into her strong arms, to have her hold you again in the way she used to, the way you’ve been dreaming of since you turned her down, but you’ve managed to hold firm to your decision. You won’t lose your job; you won’t let her lose her job over you.
But you want her—your body is begging for her—and you know it’s now a lost cause. Your vision tunnels on the redhead.
Desire starts to win out, the last bit of your restraint fraying, fading, dissolving as your mouth goes dry and black overtakes the color in your eyes.
Your hands move without hesitation, grabbing at Natasha, gently brushing your thumb along the curve of her waist, slowly pulling her closer and closer to you. She’s not quite against your body yet, and your skin is burning with the need to have more contact.
Natasha’s eyebrows raise. She doesn’t know what’s happening, what’s come over you, but this is what she’s been yearning for since you turned her down, since you put up your walls, and she’d never rebuff you, she’s never been able to. She may not understand, but you’re finally giving her what she’s been desperate for, finally allowing her to adore you outwardly the way she does, and she won’t question it. Her hands raise to hold you as well.
“What’s gotten into you?” she asks softly, hopefully.
Your response is immediate, shaky, honest. “Natasha,” you breathe out, “I want you.”
She lets out a disbelieving breath, almost a disbelieving but happy laugh. She feels giddy at the pleasant surprise of the situation, at your seeming change of heart.
“God, I’ve wanted you for so long,” you murmur, and you finally tug her until you’re fully touching, until your chests are flush and your hips are flush and your arms are wrapping themselves around her body. One hand settles on the small of her back to keep her against you.
You begin to gently nuzzle the skin beneath her jaw, nose brushing a line down her throat until you tilt your head so that your lips make contact next, pressing the lightest of kisses there.
Natasha shudders, still uncertain as to what’s changed but powerless to stop herself from responding. She wants this too—she’s been so desperate for this too—and now that it seems like you are finally willing to be hers, she’s helpless to stop it.
“I need you,” you say next.
And how is she to resist you?
She makes no move to hinder you as you drag her through your doorway and into your room.
Your lips find hers immediately.
Natasha lets out a noise of surprise at your eagerness but melts into the kiss quickly. She matches your enthusiasm, her tongue slipping out to try and push itself between your lips and gain entrance to your mouth, her own hunger growing in response to yours.
You don’t stall, pushing her toward your bed, roughly pulling on the collar of her shirt, indicating you want it off, before you can’t wait any longer for her to remove it and you begin yanking the hem up and over her head yourself. You need to get every article of clothing separating the two of you out of the way as quickly as possible.
Your own clothes feel like too much on your feverish skin, the fabrics’ gentle brushes against your body overwhelming and not enough at the same time. The seam of your pants rubs up against your clit in a delicious way, and you groan into the kiss at that simple touch.
Natasha takes the opportunity to sweep her tongue into your mouth, and one hand flies down at the same time to situate itself in between your legs, knowing what you need, what your noise was an unspoken plea for, providing you with even more friction. Another sound is drawn from you.
You’re shamelessly grinding against her, and you feel like you could come right then and there despite there not being any direct contact between your pussy and her fingers.
She smiles into your lips at your desperation. You’re falling apart already for her, and she can’t help but marvel in it, in the fact that she seems to have such an impact on you. She takes it as you being pent up from all the distance you constructed, from holding yourself back from her, and she’s not wrong, you are pent up, but there are other factors influencing you, making you feel as though you can’t breathe right without her touch.
She presses slightly firmer, and you gasp, head falling back, unable to continue kissing her as your hips continue their frantic rocking.
You’re so close, so incredibly close, and when Natasha murmurs her next words into the exposed column of your throat before grazing her teeth over the skin there…
“Come for me.”
You do, and you drown in pleasure, the feeling like nothing you’ve ever experienced before, your vision blurring around the edges as sensations burst through you, your body shaking uncontrollably. You feel weightless and heavy simultaneously; time seems to suspend itself while also speeding up. You can’t wrap your head around what’s happening, but you never want it to end.
You’re gasping, but despite your lack of regulated breath, despite your pussy still vibrating with oversensitivity, it’s not enough, and you recover quicker than Natasha expected given you just had what seemed like an intense orgasm. Your body feels like it’s scorching, and you need more.
“Again?” she asks, slightly surprised but willing to give you everything you need in this moment, willing to give you everything you need every moment after too.
You can only nod, your mouth parted in uneven inhales and exhales as you quickly begin shedding your clothes, needing Natasha to do the same. The cool air would possibly feel good on your overheated skin if you could focus on anything but your pussy aching for her fingers to plunge deep within and stretch you around them.
Once you’re both undressed, clothes scattered across the floor, you can’t even take a second to appreciate the view of the redhead.
You’ve been wanting this for ages, and there’s a second where guilt and regret and shame and humiliation bloom as you realize that your time with Natasha is going to be just this lust-induced thing where you are unable to savor her the way she deserves, but those emotions are quickly snuffed out when Natasha’s hands move to guide you how she wants you, bending you over the side of your bed.
“God, you’re so beautiful,” Natasha says softly, trying to take her time with you, take in the sight of you in the way you’re unable to reciprocate, but you need her now, and fragmented pleas for her to hurry up and fuck you already leave your mouth in a desperate bid for more.
You’re whimpering, pathetically grinding your pussy into the mattress, seeking any stimulation you can get on your clit, and you moan when Natasha’s bare body drapes over you, covering your own, her breasts pressed against your back. She begins mouthing at the skin of the back of your neck.
“Slow down,” she whispers against your nape, “Stay still. Relax. I’m going to take care of you. I’ll always take care of you.”
It would be a nice sentiment that you’d want to hold onto and remember the way her voice sounded when she said it forever if it didn’t delay her fingers’ insertion inside of you.
Your begs for her now come out slurred and broken as your need furthers, as your desire only increases to an overpowering amount.
“Natasha, please, please. I can’t- god, fuck.” You try to stay still—you really do—but your body gives off another weak hump against the bed without your permission as the heat in your core only builds. “I need you. Please, I need you. I need you inside.”
Your wetness is apparent, making your pussy glisten in the light, your clit swollen, your lips puffy, and Natasha licks her lips at the sight of you so desperate for her.
Her hand raises until it cups your core, just feeling the heat you’re giving off, and you rut against her palm instead of the mattress now. It’s still not enough; it feels like nothing will ever be enough.
“Shhh,” Natasha shushes you gently. “I’ll take care of you,” she says again, and then her fingers are entering you with no warning, no preamble, and your pussy, soaked and leaking, is beyond ready for her.
She picks up a fast pace from the beginning, fingers burying themselves in your hole repeatedly, curling, each drag of them against your walls triggering sparks of pleasure throughout your body. Your pussy accommodates her easily, greedily, the stretch a pleasant burn at first before it transitions into the satisfying feeling of finally being so thoroughly filled after the emptiness you felt for so long.
Your eyes roll back, your mouth opens as you pant, gasps and whines leaving you. You’re moaning with almost every thrust, and your head falls forward until your forehead is shoved into the mattress, your ass raising higher, your thighs spreading wider to allow her better access.
Natasha’s voice is low and syrupy as she speaks to you, the deep tone washing over you and feeling like a physical thing, sending a shiver down your spine as you your slick continues to gather on your inner thighs and drip down her fingers.
“Dekta, my dekta.”
“This is everything I’ve ever wanted.”
“Just look at you. You’re so perfect for me.”
Her words continue to envelop you, and you can’t tell if it’s her reverential tone or the fact that your body is finally getting what it needs that causes your pleasure to crest up and then fall again, your surroundings whiting out into pure euphoria, your thighs quivering, your pussy pulsating around her fingers as you let out one long cry of her name.
You hope it’s the former.
Natasha blankets herself over your form again as you come down, pressing affectionate kisses against your neck, your shoulders, your lower back, her adoration obvious, her love for you tangible, but you don’t have time to think about it.
The ache in your core had subsided briefly after you reached your peak, but it’s returning with a vengeance, in full force, heat flooding you once more.
“Another,” you breathe out, still recovering from the last orgasm but body begging for more, “Please, another.”
Natasha grins at your words and acquiesces without protest. Her hands are soft as she turns you over, this time positioning you fully on the bed, head laid on the pillow, careful to make sure you’re comfortable, treating you gently even though you want her to ruin you right now.
Her fingers make contact again, teasing your entrance, dipping in before slipping out multiple times.
Your hips rise at the sensation, trying to suck her in deeper as your pussy continues to leak.
She plays with you, drawing it out, not giving you what you truly need, and it’s only when she sees tears begin to bead at the corners of your eyes that her digits burrow themselves forcefully back into you.
Your back arches off the bed, and you cry out again, shaky and loud, unable to suppress the sound with the way it feels now that she’s buried back inside you.
You begin moving, and soon you’re fucking yourself on her fingers unabashedly.
Natasha just watches for a few moments, in awe at the sight of everything she’s dreamed of and prayed for for so long. You’re here with her now, truly with her… or so she thinks.
It doesn’t take long for your third orgasm to reach you, and the pleasure is overwhelming, your body already sensitive from the last two. Your pussy gushes, every muscle going tight before turning slack. It feels as though your body is going to give out, but you can still sense the way it craves the sensations Natasha is wringing out of you.
Despite your tiredness, multiple more orgasms follow until you physically can’t take any more. You lay there, boneless and sated, limp on the bed, still shaking with small aftershocks after being so thoroughly used. You’re exhausted; you can’t move, but the ache has finally seemed to come to a stop, and you can only weakly hope that the chemical has left your system after all that you just did.
You fall asleep quickly, without any talking, words evading you, and Natasha, unable to resist, still with the belief that your closeness was purposeful, a deliberate act on the feelings she knows you have for her but were never willing to act on before, curls herself around you and holds you through the night.
You wake up the next morning, and the first thing you realize, much to your relief, is that you’re lucid. The wild desperation to be touched, to be filled, from before is gone.
But with lucidity comes the memories of last night, the recognition of what you’ve done and who you’ve done it with. Overwhelming mortification follows.
You slept with Natasha.
Natasha fucked you. Over and over.
You begged her for it.
You turn in your bed and find Natasha still there, beginning to stir at your side, your movements gently rousing her from sleep. Her eyes flutter open.
“Good morning,” she murmurs, a contented smile appearing on her face, steady, not wavering. But as she registers your expression, the look of regret, she falters.
“Natasha,” you start, hesitant, uncertain, fucking terrified.
She says your name, soft, a question, a plea for you to not say the words she can see on the tip of your tongue.
“Natasha,” you repeat, “That- that never should have- fuck.”
Apprehension fills her. “What… what are you talking about?”
Desperate things begin tumbling from your lips: apologies, reasons, lies.
“I shouldn’t have ever done that, pushed you into that.”
“I’m so sorry. I’m so fucking sorry.”
“It was a mistake, a symptom. It wasn’t real. I promise, I didn’t mean it.”
Natasha’s face falls further—she suppresses a flinch—and she repeats her question. “What are you talking about?”
“The- fuck,” you repeat the curse before continuing, “The substance I got exposed to yesterday. It was HYDRA’s new experimental compound we have been hearing about, the aphrodisiac agent.”
Everything clicks into place, and everything breaks her heart.
Every word, every syllable, every letter that leaves your mouth. Natasha thought this was mutual; she thought you decided that, after all this time, she was worth more than any negative consequences that were inevitably going to come. She was willing to lose her job, to lose everything, if it meant that she gained you. She thought you felt the same.
She can’t respond.
It’s the kind of quiet that feels loud after everything that just happened: tangible, heavy, pervasive, invading the space and taking it over.
And then she’s extracting herself from your bed, swiftly finding and putting on her discarded clothing from last night, and exiting your room, closing the door with a soft click and finality.
You flop back onto your bed, and your regret regarding last night is quickly overcome by you regret regarding what you just said, the hurt on Natasha’s face stuck in your mind.
Whatever you just did, it feels permanent this time. Natasha was always there, always in the back of your head, always a person you could fall back on. She made it known that no matter how many times you pushed her away, how many times you refused her, that her feelings for you still clung and remained. Her longing looks, her fingers lingering a little too long when she passed off something to you, her desperation to keep you safe from harm on missions. She made her never wavering hope for change known.
You’re not sure you can recover from this.
You hardly see Natasha for weeks following that morning. There are no more partnered missions, no more debriefs involving the two of you, and the change in routine is confusing.
You may have been half avoiding Natasha all of this time, but that doesn’t mean you weren’t taking all that you could with her and savoring it, reveling in the short interactions that you’d allow yourself. But now you can’t even do that. You hear that she personally requested a new partner, that she refused working with you again.
What happened to tactically matched?
You rarely see her in the halls anymore, and when you do, she looks past you, her eyes refusing your imploring gaze. She passes you without a glance, leaving you standing there, dejected, cold.
You’ve tried talking, offering a friendly ‘hello’ that’s tinged with a desperate ‘please say something—anything—to me again’, but she brushes you off, acting as though she didn’t hear you even though you can see the way her mouth pulls tight at your attempts.
You deserve this.
You miss her.
You knock on her door, knowing that she’s inside her quarters, effectively trapping her within. You don’t think her want to avoid you would be enough to make her climb out her window, but at this point, it wouldn’t surprise you.
She opens the door, and immediately a guarded look appears on her face. She’s never looked at you with anything but fondness, softness, adoration. Even when serious, even when focused, you could always find them in her eyes.
“Could I… could I come in?”
“No,” she replies plainly, and you can visibly feel the way she doesn’t want to have this conversation… or perhaps any conversation with you.
You take a deep breath, biting your lip nervously. This isn’t exactly a talk to have in a public hallway, but if this is all she’ll give you, you’ll take it.
“I stepped down,” you say unsteadily, and that gets her attention, her aloof demeanor falling away for a fraction of a second as her brows furrow.
“What do you mean?” she asks, finally seeming at least slightly willing to engage with you. But it’s cautious, wary. She’s trying to protect her heart from hoping for something that you’ve proved time and time again that you’re never going to give her.
“I stepped down,” you repeat, “Transferred to a different department.”
“But-” she starts before cutting herself off, eyes narrowing in confusion.
“I talked to Fury,” you continue, voice soft, “My transfer makes it so…”
“Makes it so…” she presses. She needs to hear it, needs you to say it out loud.
“I want you.” It’s a murmur, just a breath, and although it echoes the words you said when you were infected, the words that came out as simply a means to an end, it’s different this time: sincere, genuine, everything laid out bare before her for her to see. “I choose you.”
Natasha almost doesn’t believe it. She’s not sure what could have prompted this. You’d been so resolute in your ways, so determined to keep her at arm’s length. “What changed?” she questions.
You practically break at her blatant uncertainty. You put that there, made her doubt what she is to you, her importance, her significance, her very place in your life. What can you say now? How can you make her believe you when all you’ve done before is push her away?
You steel your resolve, telling yourself that it doesn’t matter what’s occurred before now; it matters how you two end up. And that’s going to be with her heart safe in your hands, and yours finally wholly hers… if she’ll let it be.
“I just realized that the job doesn’t matter if you aren’t there; the job doesn’t matter if I don’t have you.”
“So, what does this mean?” Natasha asks, the hope she still isn’t sure she should have beginning to take over despite her trying to tamp it down.
“It means, I want you,” you repeat, “If you’ll have me.”
There’s still hesitation on her part. It’s silent for a few long moments. You think she’s going to turn you down.
But then: “You promise?” It’s quiet, weak, a question from someone who has been through this too many times before.
“I promise,” you tell her, the two words full of conviction and hopefully reassuring enough for her. “I’m yours for as long as you’ll have me… longer, if possible.”
