Choose Me Too
masterlist
Soft bottom!NR x top!r
Word count: 2.7k
Summary: The presumed by everyone (including herself) touch-averse Black Widow needs physical contact like anybody else. It only took you to show that to her. Now, she just needs to convince you that touch starvation isn’t the driving force behind her want to kiss you.
The idea started from this request
18+
Author's note: Some smut with feelings.
Part 2
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 for her benefit—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 rephrasing, “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?”
It’s your turn to melt for the night, and your hand cups her cheek, fingers caressing her face as you finally lean in and give her what she’s been asking for.
