Cover
Natasha Romanoff G!P x Fem Reader
18+
Smut Explicit
smut explicit 18+ Natasha G!P
You and natasha are sent in as a couple to work a weapons broker at an upscale gala. the cover is airtight. you're both professionals. you've done this before. The problem is you haven't done it with her. and natasha romanoff touching you like you're hers and whispering mission updates against your ear is a lot harder to be professional about than anyone briefed you on.
Written May 16, 2026 —May 18, 2026
---------------------------- You take longer in the bathroom than you mean to.
It's not nerves. You don't get nervous, or you do, and you've spent enough years training the evidence out of your body that the difference stopped mattering a long time ago. It's something else. Something quieter and more inconvenient than nerves, which is the fact that on the other side of this door is Natasha Romanoff, and tonight you have to stand next to her in a room full of people and pretend you're in love with her.
The pretending isn't the problem.
The problem is that you're starting to forget what the pretending feels like.
You check yourself in the mirror one last time. The dress is black, sleek, fitted, cut just low enough to be intentional. Your hair is done. Your earrings catch the light. You look, objectively, like a woman who has her life completely together, which is an excellent lie and you're grateful for it.
You open the door.
Natasha is at the vanity mirror across the room, fingers raised to her ear, working in an earring and she stops. Not gradually. Not the slow trailing off of someone distracted. She just stops, earring half in, hand suspended, and she looks at you in the mirror.
You watch her look at you.
It lasts three seconds. Maybe four. Long enough that you feel it move over you like something physical, her gaze, unhurried, taking in the dress and then up, your face, and then something happens in her expression that she almost immediately collects and puts away. Something that had no business being there on the face of a woman who is supposed to be a professional.
She finishes putting in the earring.
Looks back at the mirror. Adjusts it once though it didn't need adjusting.
"You're ready," she says. Not a question. Her voice is even and unbothered and tells you absolutely nothing.
"I'm ready," you confirm.
You don't smile. You do what you always do, you take it, fold it small, add it to the collection of things you keep about her that you don't examine too closely. The two hours on the extraction flight where she slept against your shoulder and you didn't move. The way she always knows where your hand is in a crowded room. The fact that she put your name in the request form for this op and told Fury it was because you were qualified, and Fury had looked at her for a moment too long before he agreed.
You're very good at collecting things and not examining them.
You cross the room to get your clutch off the bed.
That's when you see her dress properly, deep green, and devastating in the specific quiet way that Natasha does everything, not loud about it, just irrefutably true. It's doing something deeply unfair to her shoulders and you know for a fact she chose it and you know for a fact she knew exactly what it would do and you look at your clutch.
"You look good," you say, because you are a professional and professionals make neutral observations.
She glances at you in the mirror again. One corner of her mouth moves.
"I know," she says.
There it is. You almost laugh. Eight months of working next to the most self-possessed woman you've ever met and she can still catch you off guard with the sheer unbothered certainty of her. I know. No thank you, no deflection. Just the flat acknowledgment of fact from a woman who has never needed your confirmation and doesn't intend to start.
It should be annoying.
It is annoying.
It's also, and this is the part you don't examine, sort of the most attractive thing you've ever heard.
She picks up her clutch from the vanity. Inside it, you happen to know: one lipstick, one knife, one comm unit. Very Natasha.
"Let's go over parameters," she says, turning for the door.
"I know the parameters."
"Humor me."
You don't argue. Arguing with Natasha about mission prep is like arguing with weather, technically possible, completely pointless, and you'll end up doing what the weather wants anyway. You follow her out.
The car is a black SUV with tinted windows and Hill's voice already waiting in the earpiece when you climb in.
Natasha takes off her coat.
She crosses her legs and looks out the window.
You look out yours.
You get a two-minute debrief you already have memorized: Aldric Voss, weapons broker, mid-level but climbing. Known associates, exit points, your cover ID, a couple, eighteen months together, met through work, vague enough to be waterproof.
The city slides past in amber and dark. She's close enough that you can smell whatever she's wearing tonight, something warm, something that cost more than your first apartment, and you look at the window on your side very deliberately and think about the mission.
"You nervous?" she asks.
"No."
"You're doing the thing with your hands."
You look down. Your fingers are doing a slow press against your knee, one-two-three, one-two-three. Stress habit. You've had it since you were twenty-two and you've never successfully hidden it from her.
"I'm focused," you say.
"Mm." She's still looking out the window. "You need to be relaxed tonight. Couples are relaxed."
"I'm relaxed."
"Y/n."
"Natasha."
She finally looks at you and the city light through the window catches her eyes at an angle that's really unfair, is what it is. "I'm good at this," she says simply. "Cover. Persona. I've been doing it longer than you've been an agent. Just follow my lead and it'll read."
"I know you're good at it," you say. "That's not what I'm nervous about."
A beat. You realize half a second too late that you've said too muc, left the door open, and you watch her clock it, watch the small shift in her expression that means she filed it.
She doesn't push. She looks back out the window.
"Follow my lead," she says again, quieter.
You look back at yours.
One-two-three. One-two-three.
The gala is exactly what the briefing photos promised: too much money in one room, everyone dressed like they're auditioning for something, a string quartet earning their pay in the corner. The kind of event where the champagne is real and so is the danger and the two things coexist with a smoothness that always makes you feel slightly ill.
Natasha takes your arm at the door.
Just, takes it. Slides her hand into the crook of your elbow like she's done it a thousand times, which she hasn't, which your nervous system clocks immediately and thoroughly. Her grip is light. Her posture shifts, shoulders drop a fraction, chin lifts, the set of her mouth changes. She becomes someone softer. Someone with nothing to hide.
It's the most unsettling thing you've ever watched.
"Smile," she says from the side of her mouth, still looking forward. "We're happy."
"We're happy," you repeat, and smile, and hate that it doesn't feel entirely like acting.
You walk in.
The first twenty minutes are choreography.
You work the room the way you were trained, slow circuit, no urgency, let the crowd bring the target to you rather than hunting him directly. Natasha is extraordinary at this. You've worked with her before, field ops, extractions, twice in situations where both of you probably should have died and didn't purely out of stubbornness, but you've never watched her do this. The social work. The performance.
She laughs at something a man in a grey suit says and the laugh is perfect, warm, just shy of flattered, the exact sound of a woman who is charmed but not available. Her hand stays on your arm the whole time. Anchored there. When the man in the grey suit looks at you she angles slightly, just slightly, and the body language is so clean you almost don't catch it.
Almost.
She's pulling you in. Closing the gap between you without making it a thing, just leaning into your space until you're close enough that anyone looking would see a couple, would see someone who doesn't want distance between herself and her woman
You redirect your thoughts aggressively.
"Voss is at the bar," you say quietly, mouth barely moving.
"I know." Her fingers press briefly against your arm. "Don't look."
"I wasn't going to look."
"You were calculating an angle."
"That's not the same as—"
"He's not going anywhere. Relax."
You exhale slowly through your nose. Fine. Relaxed. You're the picture of a person enjoying a gala with someone they're absolutely not in love with, everything is completely normal.
A waiter passes with a tray. Natasha plucks two glasses off it without breaking the conversation she's half having with a woman in pearls and hands one back to you without looking, just, reaches back, finds your hand, presses the stem into it with the kind of easy intimacy that comes from time and attention and knowing someone.
You stare at the glass.
She knew where your hand was. She always knows where you are in a room, tactical awareness, you've told yourself, she's built that way, but that wasn't tactical. That was something else. That was the muscle memory of a person who reaches for someone because reaching for them is just what you do.
You drink the champagne. It's very good. It does nothing helpful.
Forty minutes in, she dances with you.
You'd like to say it was for the mission. You'd like to say Voss was watching or the angle required it or there was some clean operational reason that Natasha Romanoff took your hand and led you toward the floor without asking. Without explaining. Just a slight pressure at the small of your back and an expectation that you'd follow.
You followed.
If there was a reason, she doesn't share it.
She turns to face you and puts one hand at your waist and you put yours at her shoulder and you start to move and the thing is, the thing is, she's warm. You knew that in the abstract. You've been close to her before, in the field, in debrief rooms, once on a six hour extraction flight where she fell asleep against your shoulder and you stayed completely still for two hours because you didn't want to wake her. You know she's warm.
But her hand at your waist, steady and certain and not going anywhere, is a different kind of knowing entirely.
"Voss's contact is late," she says.
Her mouth is at your ear. Not quite touching, just close enough that her voice arrives before her breath does, low and even, meant only for you. A tactical update delivered at a register that does things to your concentration that are deeply inconvenient on an active op.
"How late?" you manage.
"Fifteen minutes." A pause. You turn with the music. Her grip at your waist tightens, not dramatically, just enough to guide, just enough to feel. "He's nervous. That's useful."
"Copy," you say, which is a completely normal thing to say and not at all the voice of someone whose higher functions are running at approximately forty percent.
She pulls back just far enough to look at you. Checks your face the way she checks everything, quickly, thoroughly, filing. Whatever she finds there she keeps to herself.
"You're doing well," she says.
"We established I'm good at this."
"I'm acknowledging it."
"Natasha Romanoff acknowledging someone else did something well." You let the pause breathe. "Should I be worried? Are you dying?"
Something moves across her face. Not quite a smile, she doesn't smile easily, and you've spent eight months learning to catch the things that happen instead. The slight softening. The fractional shift in her eyes.
"Focus," she says.
"I am focused."
"On the op."
"Obviously."
She exhales through her nose. You count that as a win.
You turn again with the music and that's when you feel it, the quality of her attention shifting. Still moving, still perfectly composed, but something underneath changes. A new kind of stillness. You keep your eyes on her and say nothing.
She sees him before she means to.
He's at the edge of the room, drink in hand, shoulders loose, the easy posture of a man who has never once in his life had to make himself smaller, and he is looking at you.
Not a threat. She'd already know. She's had the full room mapped since the moment you walked in together, every exit and variable catalogued and filed, and he is nobody. Soft hands. No tells. He is absolutely nobody and he is standing there looking at you in that dress with the specific expression of a man who has decided he'd like to do something about that, and something in Natasha's chest goes very, very still.
She keeps dancing.
Her hand stays at your waist. Her face stays composed. She gives him exactly three seconds of her peripheral vision and then she makes a decision, not consciously, not with any particular deliberation, she simply decides, and lets her eyes move.
She looks at him.
The full weight of it lands across the room like a hand around a throat. Her jaw sets, the line of it going sharp and certain beneath her skin. Her chin tilts up, barely, just the fraction of an inch that means she has assessed something and found it lacking. Her eyes, green and flat and depthless, the particular green of water that goes down further than you'd expect, settle on him with the unhurried patience of a woman who has never once needed to hurry.
Her brow lifts. One increment. The period at the end of a sentence that requires no words.
She has done this in dark rooms in six different countries. She has done this to men with weapons and men with power and men who thought they were untouchable, and every single one of them has made the correct decision. This man, with his soft hands and his expensive watch, is not going to be the exception.
But here is the thing, here is the thing she is fully, lucidly, uncomfortably aware of as she holds his gaze across a crowded room, this is not the same. This is not a threat assessment. This is not operational. There is no version of tonight's debrief where she writes down redirected civilian attention via sustained eye contact and means what she actually means, which is something rawer and more inconvenient than anything she'd put in a report.
She's mine.
Not performed. Not tactical. Just, true, in the quiet way that things are true when you stop arguing with them. True in the way that has been accumulating for eight months in the space between her professionalism and something she hasn't named yet and has no intention of naming tonight.
He looks away.
Good.
She looks back at you. You're watching her, you're always watching her, those eyes that take everything in like they're cataloguing her the same way she catalogues everything else, patient and thorough and giving nothing back. She doesn't know exactly what you saw. She knows you saw something.
She doesn't adjust her expression. She doesn't reach for an explanation.
Instead she moves.
Her arm slides around you, slow, smooth, the way she does everything, with the efficiency of someone who has decided and is simply following through, and her hand presses flat against the small of your back. Drawing you in. Closing whatever distance was left between your body and hers until there is very little of it, until you're held against her, encompassed by the line of her arms, her warmth wrapping around you with a completeness that has nothing to do with cover and everything to do with the thing she is not calling what it is.
She is aware she is doing this. She is fully, consciously aware.
She does it anyway.
Her red hair falls forward as she dips her head, one curtain of it brushing your cheek, warm and deliberate, the scent of it close enough to be a thing you'd remember, and she brings her mouth to your ear. Not touching. Just the proximity. Just her lips a breath away from your skin, close enough that the warmth of them would reach you, close enough that if she spoke it would arrive like a secret.
She doesn't speak.
She just stays there. Her jaw near your temple. Her lips at the curve of your ear. One hand flat at the small of your back and the other at your waist and her whole body a quiet wall between you and the rest of the room, between you and him, between you and anyone who might be under the impression that you are something available to be looked at without consequence.
She knows he's still watching. She can feel it, the way she feels everything she isn't looking at directly. And she knows, she knows, that what he sees right now is not a cover. Is not a performance. Is not two agents running a gala op in a city that doesn't care about either of them.
What he sees is a woman who has made something abundantly, irrevocably clear.
And she lets him see it.
She stays exactly where she is, lips at your ear, red hair falling soft between you, and she breathes out once, slow, controlled, the only concession she makes to the fact that her heart is doing something she would not put in a report, and lets the silence say everything she won't.
Then she straightens.
The red hair settles. Her hand moves back to your waist, one hand, appropriate, professional. Her face reassembles itself into something even and unreadable and composed, the mask back on so smoothly it would be invisible to anyone who didn't know where to look for the seams.
She is, she reminds herself, very good at this.
She is also, and this she acknowledges only briefly, only in the space between one breath and the next before she closes the door on it, completely aware that she stopped running cover a long time ago.
When she pulls back she's composed again. Completely. The mask is on and the op is running and her hand is at your waist and her expression gives you nothing.
Except.
You were watching. You caught the tail end of whatever that was, the quality of her gaze before it came back to you, the extra second at your ear where she said nothing at all. You've run enough ops to know what performing looks like. You know every tell of a woman pretending something is fine.
You say nothing. You add it to the collection, fold it careful and small, tuck it somewhere you won't examine until later, much later, when you're alone and she can't see you figuring her out.
Her hand at your waist does not move.
The man at the bar does not look back.
The music plays on, and you let yourself be held, and neither of you say a single word about any of it.
It's after the dance, during the slow drift back into the room, when she does the thing with the dress.
You've stopped near a tall window, good sightline to the bar, natural place to stand, and she's beside you, close, her arm just brushing yours. She glances down. Frowns, very slightly. Reaches out and adjusts something at your shoulder, a strap that had shifted maybe two millimeters out of place, and her fingers are careful and light and she's looking at what she's doing instead of at you.
"Just selling it," she says.
"Right," you say.
She smooths the strap once. Doesn't move her hand immediately.
"You know," you say, because apparently you've lost your self-preservation instincts somewhere between the car and the champagne, "most people don't have to remind themselves they're acting when they're acting."
Her hand stills.
"I don't know what that means," she says.
"Yeah you do."
She looks up. And this, this is the thing about Natasha, the thing that you have spent eight months carefully not examining, when she drops it, when the performance falls away and it's just her, just the actual her underneath all that careful control, she looks at you like you're the only solid thing in the room.
She looks at you like that now. Just for a second.
Then she looks back at the bar.
"Voss is moving," she says.
He is. You both straighten. The op reasserts itself, clean and welcome, something to do with your hands, a reason to be standing this close that has nothing to do with anything.
"Ready?" she asks.
"Always," you say.
She takes your arm again. You walk toward the bar. Her grip is just slightly tighter than before and you don't say anything about it and she doesn't either.
The system, holding.
For now.
It happens naturally, the way professional things do, Voss's contact finally arrives and the op requires coverage on two sides of the room at once. Natasha clocks it first, the way she clocks everything first, and she leans in close enough that her mouth brushes your ear when she speaks.
"Split up. You take the east side, draw out the associate by the column. I'll stay on Voss."
"Copy," you say.
She pulls back. Looks at you for just a half second longer than the mission requires.
Then you separate
You are focused, present, professional, and entirely on task, and you do not look for Natasha once.
What you do, approximately four minutes in, is hear her.
Her voice arrives in your earpiece low and warm and completely unhurried, the cover voice, the one that's softer than her real one, the one she puts on like a second skin, and she's talking to Voss.
"I've heard about your work in Vienna. My associate mentioned it actually, she has excellent taste."
A pause. Voss says something you don't catch.
"Oh, she's very selective." A small laugh, warm and practiced. "That's what I've always loved about her."
You become very focused on your associate's left cufflink.
Because that, the ease of it, the way she says loved like it costs her nothing, like it's just cover, like it's just words, is doing something to your concentration that you are not going to examine while you are actively on an op. You ask your associate a perfectly calibrated question about his employer's shipping routes and you do not think about Natasha Romanoff's voice saying that word in your ear.
You think about it for the next twenty minutes.
Across the room, Natasha finds you.
The first time is almost involuntary. She's mid-sentence with Voss, something charming, something that makes him laugh, the warm practiced ease of a woman who has made men feel interesting in four different languages, and her eyes move. Just for a second. Just long enough to find you across the crowd, to confirm you're there, to take in the easy angle of your shoulders and the way you've got the associate exactly where you want him.
She looks back at Voss.
Files it. Moves on.
Tells herself it was a tactical check.
The second time she's at the bar, waiting on a refresh, and the room has shifted enough that you're visible through a gap in the crowd. You're laughing at something the associate said, not a real laugh, she can tell the difference, she's always been able to tell the difference with you, and the line of your profile is caught in the warm overhead light and she watches for two seconds longer than any tactical check has ever required.
The bartender puts a glass in front of her.
She picks it up without looking at it.
The third time she's not even trying to justify it.
She's wrapped up a conversation, Voss circling back to the contact, the op running clean and smooth in the background the way good ops do, and she lets her eyes find you across the room because she wants to and she has apparently stopped arguing with herself about that.
You're there. Of course you're there. Working the room with that particular ease that she has spent eight months quietly cataloguing, the way you move through a crowd like you belong in it, the way you make people feel like the most interesting thing in the room without ever quite letting them have you.
She raises her glass and takes a slow sip.
And you look up.
Right at her.
Like you felt it. Like you knew.
She doesn't move. Doesn't adjust. Keeps the glass raised and her eyes on yours and lets the moment sit there between you, twenty feet of crowded room and a string quartet and the whole careful architecture of the last eight months, and she does not look away.
Neither do you.
Three seconds. Four. Five. Long enough that it stops being accidental on either side, long enough that something passes between you that has no tactical classification, long enough that she is aware, fully, uncomfortably, with complete clarity, that she is not performing anything right now.
Then someone steps between you, a body crossing the sight line, and the moment closes.
She lowers her glass.
Goes back to work.
Does not examine what just happened. Does not examine the fact that her pulse has done something she would not put in a report. Does not examine the way you looked at her like you already knew, like you've always known, like you've been waiting for her to stop pretending long enough to just
Voss moves toward his contact. She follows.
The fourth time she finds you she's already on her way back across the room, op nearly wrapped, Voss handled and filed. She's not looking for you. She doesn't have to look for you.
She just knows.
Her eyes find you through the crowd without searching, the way they always do, the way they have been doing all night, all eight months, if she's being honest, which she isn't, not yet, and you're there, exactly where she knew you'd be, and she lets herself watch you for just one unguarded moment before she schools her face and moves through the crowd toward you.
Her arm finds yours when she arrives. Slides in easy and warm, like it never left. Like this is simply where she ends up.
Because it is. That's the part she's been not examining. This is just where she ends up.
"Voss is clean," she says quietly. "Associate?"
"Account manager. Name and location. Hill's going to want it."
The corner of her mouth moves. Not a smile, the thing she does instead. "Good."
"I know," you say.
She glances at you sidelong. Something in your voice. Something dry and certain that catches in her chest the way you've always caught in her chest and she looks back at the room and says nothing about it.
The silence holds.
Then Voss moves.
Her eyes cut across the room. Mission, clean and immediate, the mask back in place between one breath and the next.
"He's going for the east exit," she says. "That's not on the brief."
"No," you say. "It isn't."
Her hand finds your arm. And you move, together, no words, no briefing, the kind of sync that only comes from time and attention and knowing someone down to the way they breathe in a tense room. Her hand steering slightly, you adjusting without being asked, cutting through the crowd like one thing, not two.
She has spent eight months telling herself that this, this particular feeling, this specific ease, is professionalism. Training. Field familiarity.
She is no longer telling herself that.
You reach the corridor just as Voss slips through the east exit.
Her hand tightens on your arm.
"Ready?" she murmurs.
You look at her. The mission in her eyes, and underneath it, still there, not put away, not this time, the other thing. The real thing. Looking right back at her.
"Always," you say.
And you go in.
The corridor is narrow and dim and smells like old carpet and money, the kind of back hallway that exists in every building like this, the one the staff uses, the one that connects the public rooms to the private ones, the one that Voss just slipped into with the quiet purposefulness of a man who doesn't want to be followed.
You follow him anyway. Natasha three steps behind you, silent.
Voss stops at a door near the end of the corridor. Produces a key card. Your hand moves to the comm unit, ready to relay to Hill. And that's when you hear it.
Not from the corridor. From the earpiece. A voice, young, female, clipped with the particular tension of someone trying very hard to sound calm "
This is Reyes, I have eyes on the asset, I'm moving to make contact—"
You and Natasha go still at exactly the same moment.
"Reyes, stand down." Hill's voice, sharp. "Do not make contact, I repeat—"
"I have a clear window, I'm taking it—"
"Agent Reyes, that is a direct order—"
And then another voice, male, younger, with the breathless energy of someone who has already made a decision "Cole in position, I've got the east side covered, Reyes go—"
"Cole, stand DOWN—"
You look at Natasha.
Natasha is already looking at the end of the corridor, where it opens back into the main gala room, and her expression is the specific expression of a woman who has just watched two people set something on fire and is calculating exactly how fast it's going to spread.
It spreads fast.
Through the corridor entrance you can see it unfold in real time, Reyes, young and dark-haired and moving with the misplaced confidence of someone who thought they saw an opening, crossing the room toward the SHIELD asset with all the subtlety of a person who has trained for six months and believes that is enough.
And Cole, flanking from the east side, doing exactly what a panicking rookie does when they realize too late that the plan is already wrong, overcorrecting, moving too fast, drawing the eye of every person in a thirty foot radius.
Voss hears it before he sees it.
Some shift in the room's atmosphere, the specific change in energy that a man who has survived this long learns to read, and he turns. Slowly. His eyes move to Reyes, to Cole, to the asset between them, and you watch the calculation happen behind his eyes, clean and fast and professional.
Then his eyes move to the corridor.
"Abort." Natasha's voice in the earpiece is flat and final. "Hill, we're pulling out."
"Confirmed, Romanoff. Reyes, Cole — you are blown, extract immediately—"
"Wait—" Reyes, realizing. "Wait, I can still—"
"You are done," Natasha says, and there is something in her voice that closes the conversation like a door being shut. "Both of you. Out."
She doesn't wait for the response.
She steps forward, in front of you, between you and the corridor entrance, between you and Voss's eyeline, and her hand closes around your arm.
"We're leaving," she says. Not loud. Not urgent. The tone of a woman who has already made every calculation and doesn't need to hurry because she's already three steps ahead of whatever happens next.
She steers you back down the corridor, away from Voss, away from Reyes and Cole and the mess they've made of the east room. Her hand is on your arm and her body is angled slightly in front of yours and she moves with the unhurried certainty of someone running a controlled exit, not a retreat.
It works because it always works. Because she's Natasha Romanoff and this is what she does.
You reach the side exit without a single person looking twice.
The car is waiting exactly where it should be. She opens the door and her hand is at your back and you're inside before you've finished processing what just happened and she slides in beside you and the door closes and the city starts moving past the windows.
She doesn't look at you.
In your earpiece Hill's voice comes through tight and clipped "intel is secure, cover held, Reyes and Cole are being extracted, debrief tomorrow oh-seven-hundred" and then the channel goes quiet and it's just the two of you and the city and twelve minutes of silence that has a specific weight to it.
You watch her in your peripheral vision. The straight line of her shoulders. The set of her jaw. Her hand on the inside door handle, gripping it in a way that has nothing to do with the car moving.
She doesn't look at you once.
Not for twelve minutes.
You don't say anything either. You think about the corridor, her stepping forward, placing herself between you and Voss's eyeline before you'd even registered the threat. The way it happened before it was a decision. The way she hasn't looked at you since.
You file it.
For now.
The hotel room door closes behind you.
You set your clutch on the nightstand. She sets hers on the vanity. You reach back to unclasp your earring and she moves to the window and looks out at the city and the silence in the room has weight to it now, the kind that accumulates over twelve minutes of nothing and lands all at once.
You take out the second earring.
"Reyes and Cole," you say. Neutral. Conversational.
"Yes," she says. Still at the window.
"First field op?"
"Second." A beat. "Which somehow makes it worse."
"The intel's still clean. Cover held. Hill has everything she needs."
"I know."
"So." You set the earrings down. "We're fine."
She turns from the window.
"You were out of position," she says.
You look at her. "I was exactly where you put me."
"When the contact arrived you should have pulled back to the secondary—"
"If I'd pulled back Voss would have had a clear corridor and we'd have lost him entirely—"
"That wasn't your call to make—"
"It absolutely was, I was the one standing there with eyes on—"
"We had protocols, Y/n—"
"Natasha." You face her fully. "It worked. All of it. The only thing that didn't work tonight was Reyes and Cole and that has nothing to do with me—"
"It could have." Her voice drops. Gets quieter. That's the tell, you know that by now, the way her volume decreases as the thing she's actually saying increases.
"If they'd moved thirty seconds earlier you would have been in that corridor without cover and Voss would have had eyes on you and I was—"
She stops.
You go still.
I was. The sentence trailing off into the room like smoke.
"You were what?" you ask. Quiet.
"Nothing." She looks back at the window. "Get some sleep. Debrief is—"
"Natasha."
"—oh-seven-hundred—"
"Natasha."
"Drop it."
"You were what." Not a question this time. Something steadier than a question.
A long pause. The city outside is indifferent and glittering and she stares at it like it owes her something.
"You stepped in front of me," you say. "In the corridor. Voss didn't even have eyes on us yet and you stepped in front of me."
Nothing.
"That wasn't tactical," you say. "That was—"
"I said drop it—"
"You were scared," you say. "You were scared and you won't say it and now you're standing at a window picking a fight about protocol because it's easier than—"
She turns.
And crosses the room.
And her hand finds the back of your neck, certain and warm and without a single moment of hesitation, fingers pressing up into your hair, and she kisses you.
Not soft. Not careful. Not the measured thing of a woman who is uncertain. This is eight months arriving all at once, her hand firm at the back of your neck like she's been waiting to put it there, like she decided somewhere between the window and here and didn't once stop to argue with herself about it.
You melt into it.
That's the only word for it, the argument dissolving out of your chest like it was never there, your hands finding her without instruction, your body making a decision your brain is still catching up to. You kiss her back and it's nothing like you imagined. It's better.
It's eight months of careful distance collapsing all at once and the specific relief of it moves through you like a current, warm and total, and you make a sound against her mouth that you don't plan and don't take back.
Her hand tightens at the back of your neck.
The kiss deepens, not gradually, not carefully, but with the particular certainty of two people who have been waiting too long and have simply stopped being careful. Her mouth is warm and deliberate and she kisses you the way she does everything, like she's already decided, like she knows exactly what she wants and the only thing that was ever stopping her was the thing neither of you were naming.
You give it back.
Your hand finds her jaw and you tilt into her, angle shifting, matching everything she's giving and then some, and you feel the small catch in her breath, feel the way her whole body reacts to it, the subtle arch toward you, the grip at the back of your neck going from certain to something that borders on desperate, and that undoes you a little. More than a little. You press closer, eliminate the last fraction of space between your bodies, and she makes a sound low in her throat that you are going to be thinking about for a very long time.
Her other hand finds your waist.
Pulls.
Like she's been wanting to do it all night, like every careful professional touch, every tactical adjustment, every time her hand found you and had to have a reason, was building to this, to her hands on you with no reason required, no cover to maintain, nothing to perform for anyone. Just want. Just her wanting you and not doing anything about it except pulling you closer and kissing you like the argument was foreplay and eight months was foreplay and the entire evening was foreplay and she is done, she is so done, being patient about this.
You walk her back. Or she walks you back, honestly you're not sure, it's collaborative, two people moving in the same direction with the same urgency, until something meets your back and you don't care what it is.
Her body is against yours and her mouth is on yours and her hand has moved from your jaw into your hair and the grip of it sends something down your spine that makes your breath stutter.
She pulls back.
Just enough to look at you.
Her lipstick is still perfect. Her red hair has come loose on one side, falling forward, and she doesn't fix it. Her eyes are dark and close and the mask isn't just gone it's nowhere, there's no trace of it, there's nothing between you and the real her, the actual her, the one she keeps underneath everything, and she's looking at you like she's been hungry for a long time and has finally decided to do something about it.
Her chest rises and falls. Once.
Her thumb traces the line of your jaw, slow, unhurried, like she's been wanting to do it for months and is taking her time now that no one can stop her, and her eyes follow the movement and come back to yours and what's in them makes your stomach drop in the best possible way.
movement and come back to yours and stay there.
The silence holds for exactly one more second.
Then her eyes drop. Your mouth. Back up. And when she speaks her voice is low and unhurried and completely certain, the voice of a woman who has made a decision and is done negotiating with herself about it.
"I want to take this dress off you," she says. "I've wanted to since I saw you walk out of that bathroom."
"Then take it off," you say.
She kisses you.
Deep and deliberate, her hand sliding from your jaw into your hair, and when she pulls back you're both breathing differently and her eyes are darker than they were a second ago.
"I've been thinking about what's underneath it," she says, low, right against your mouth. "All night."
Something pulls tight in your stomach. "All night," you repeat. "And you said nothing."
"I'm saying it now."
Her fingers find the zipper at your back, slow, deliberate, not rushing, like she wants you to feel every second of it, and you reach for her too, hands finding the fabric at her waist, pulling the green dress taut.
"You're not the only one," you say. "Who was thinking."
She pauses. Looks at you. Something shifts in her expression, darker, more interested, the look of a woman who has just been handed something she intends to do something about.
"No?" she says.
"No."
Her mouth curves. Not a smile, something better than a smile, something with teeth in it.
"Tell me," she says, and her fingers resume their work, and yours do too, and the green dress and the black dress and the whole long evening are all running out of time simultaneously.
You feel the zipper give. Her fingers trail the newly exposed skin of your back and you breathe out.
"I was thinking," you say, "about your mouth."
Her fingers pause.
"All night," you continue, steady, holding her gaze. "Every time you put it near my ear. Every time you smiled at something Voss said and I had to stand there and watch and do nothing about it."
She looks at you for a moment. Something shifts in her expression, darker, more focused, the look of a woman recalibrating.
"What about my mouth," she says. Low. Not a question, a pull.
"What I wanted it to do," you say. "Where I wanted it."
The silence lasts exactly one second.
Then her hands are moving again, more purposeful now, less patient,and she steps closer and her mouth finds your jaw, your throat, and she says against your skin: "Show me."
Your breath catches.
"Natasha—"
"Show me," she says again, quieter, right at your pulse point, and you feel her smile there. "Where."
Your hand finds her hair. Guides her. And she goes, willingly, without hesitation, like she's been waiting to be told, and the sound she makes when she gets there is
Her zipper gives completely under your other hand. The green dress falls.
She pulls back just long enough to look at you. Flushed, hair loose, eyes so dark they've swallowed the green entirely, and she looks at you like you are something she intends to take her time with.
"Bed," she says. One word. The voice that closes rooms.
You go.
The backs of your knees hit the mattress, and you go down without breaking eye contact.
The sheets are cool against your overheated skin, a sharp contrast to the way Natasha crawls over you, predatory and graceful. The green silk is a forgotten puddle on the floor, leaving her bare in the dim light, stunning and terrifyingly focused.
She settles between your legs, her hands planted on either side of your head, caging you in. Her hair falls around your faces like a curtain, blocking out everything but her. She's so close you can feel her breath against your lips, see the way her pupils swallow the green of her eyes.
You lift a hand, tracing the sharp curve of her jaw before your palm settles against her cheek. Her skin is impossibly soft, burning hot beneath your touch. She leans into it instantly, eyes fluttering shut for a fleeting second as her expression softens from predator to something much tenderer.
"You're so beautiful," you whisper, watching the admission shatter her composure.
With careful, deliberate movements, Natasha finishes unhooking your dress, sliding the fabric down your body to reveal your bare skin. Her eyes drink in the sight of you, her pupils dilating as she takes in every curve and detail.
She runs her hands over your newly exposed flesh, worshipping your form with her touch.
Her touch skims over your collarbone, down between your breasts, tracing the curve of your waist before her palms spread flat across your stomach.
A shuddering breath escapes her as she leans down, pressing her forehead to yours.
"Absolutely breathtaking," she murmurs against your lips, her voice thick with something far deeper than lust. Her thumbs brush your lower lip, gentle and reverent.
You surge forward, crashing your lips against hers in a deep, hungry kiss that steals the air from your lungs.
Mid-kiss, she captures your hand, guiding it down the front of her torso until she slips it firmly between her thighs. The sensation makes you gasp sharply against her mouth, you can feel exactly how hard she is for you, throbbing and desperate beneath your fingertips.
"Feel that?" she breathes against your mouth, hips shifting to press more firmly into your touch. "That's what you do to me. One look, one touch, and I'm harder than I've ever been in my life."
"God, Natasha..." You whisper, your voice shaking with desire. You can feel her length pulsing against your palm, and you can't help but squeeze gently, making her suck in a sharp breath. "You have no idea what you do to me."
She lets out a ragged moan, her forehead dropping heavily against your shoulder as your fingers tighten around her. "I think I have some idea," she pants, her hips bucking instinctively into your grip. "You're destroying my control, sweetheart. Every single inch of me is screaming for you."
"Then don't hold back," you murmur, your thumb tracing slow circles over the leaking tip, feeling her shudder and drip in your palm.
"Fuck," she groans, her composure finally shattering as she grinds herself desperately against your hand. "I want to fuck you so bad it hurts. I want to be deep inside you, feel you clench around me, hear you scream my name until you're hoarse." Her words come out in a heated rush, raw and unrestrained.
"God, yes," you whimper, your legs spreading wider as you imagine her thick length filling you completely. Your own arousal drips down your inner thighs, and you can feel yourself growing increasingly wet and needy. "Natasha, please," you beg, squeezing her hard length again. "Fuck me."
"Not yet," she grits out, wrenching her hips back just enough to escape your grasp. Before you can protest, she's moving down your body, kissing and biting at your skin until her face is level with your dripping core. Her eyes rolling back at the sight of you.
"Natasha," you gasp, lifting your head to look down at her.
Her expression is one of pure hunger, her gaze locked onto your glistening folds like a starving woman presented with a feast. Without a word, she leans in and drags her tongue through your wetness, tasting you deeply.
Your back bows instantly off the mattress, a sharp moan tearing from your throat as her tongue flattens against your clit. She eats you with a terrifying intensity, alternating between broad, heavy strokes and pinpoint flicks that make your toes curl.
Your hands fly to her hair, tangling in the red strands to anchor yourself against the overwhelming pleasure.
"Natasha, oh god."
"Mmm," she hums against you, the vibration sending shockwaves through your system.
She spreads your legs wider, burying her face deeper between your trembling thighs. Her hands grip your hips, lifting them slightly to change the angle and expose you even more to her merciless mouth.
You moan out, your thighs trembling as her tongue finds that perfect spot inside you and circles it relentlessly.
Pleasure builds like a storm behind your navel, your nails scraping against her scalp as you hold her tight against your soaking core.
"I'm close," you warn in a broken voice. "Natasha, I'm gonna—"
She doesn't slow down.
Your eyes roll back in your head as she sucks your clit into her mouth and flattens her tongue against it. You scream, your entire body convulsing as your orgasm hits you like a truck.
She swallows every drop of your arousal, lapping at your folds like a woman possessed.
Only when your trembling begins to subside does she pull back, her chin and lips glistening with your release. She crawls up your body, pressing her wet face into your neck with a satisfied groan.
"Still want me to fuck you?" she asks, her breath hot against your ear, her hard length dragging against your overstimulated folds.
"Yes," you whimper desperately.
Without hesitation, she slips between your thighs, her thick head pushing against your sensitive entrance. You spread wider, pulling your knees back to give her better access.
She grabs your legs, spreading them even wider and hooking them over her shoulders for leverage.
"Fuck," she groans, pushing in slowly despite her obvious desperation.
You're so wet and sensitive from your orgasm that she slips in easier than expected, but you're still tight enough to make her see stars.
Natasha's jaw tightens as she pulls out slowly, watching her wet, shiny length slide out of you. She pushes back in with equal slowness, her eyes fluttering at the incredible sensation of your tightness surrounding her. Out, then in, out...
"Natasha," you moan, your walls fluttering around her despite her agonizingly slow pace.
You grip the sheets, needing something more to anchor yourself as she rocks back and forth at this torturous rate.
"You're so tight," she grits out, her hips stuttering as she watches herself disappear inside you. "You feel so good," she admits, her voice strained with effort.
She pulls out almost completely before pushing back in, her eyes rolling back at how perfectly you squeeze her.
"Fuck," you whimper, your nails digging into her arms as she continues that slow, deep thrusting. Each withdrawal leaves you feeling empty, each push back in hits that perfect spot inside you.
"Natasha... please..." You're begging without even knowing what for....more speed? Deeper?
"Please what, sweetheart?" she whispers, her voice dangerously low as she leans down to nip at your bottom lip.
She pulls out slowly, her length sliding out until only the tip remains inside you. She holds still, teasing you with that shallow penetration.
"More," you pant, trying to lift your hips to take her back in. "Fuck, Natasha, give me more." You need her deeper, faster anything but this agonizing slow pace that's driving you mad.
"Deeper?" she asks softly, pushing back in slightly slower than before, watching as her length disappears into your tight heat. "Like this?" She pulls out again, leaving just the tip inside, making you whimper. "Or do you want it faster?"
"Yes, like that," you gasp, your head falling back against the pillow as she bottoms out inside you. "And faster, please Natasha, fuck me faster."
Your legs tighten around her waist, heels digging into her ass to encourage her.
With a low moan, Natasha starts moving faster, her hips snapping forward with more force. The slow torture is replaced by deep, quick thrusts that make the bed shake and your breasts bounce.
She hooks your legs higher over her shoulders, changing the angle to hit deeper inside you.
"Oh god, just like that!" you moan out, your back arching beautifully off the mattress as she hits that perfect spot inside you. The new angle is devastating, allowing her to plunge so deep you see stars with every thrust. "Don't stop, Natasha, please don't stop."
Natasha's composure finally shatters. Her head falls back, exposing the long, elegant line of her throat as a loud, broken moan tears from her lips. Her eyes roll back, lost in the overwhelming sensation of your heat gripping her tightly.
"Fuck—oh god, you feel so good," she pants breathlessly, her rhythm faltering slightly as pure pleasure washes over her.
She's reduced to incoherent moans and curses, her hips moving wildly as she loses herself in the feeling of being buried deep inside you. One hand grips your thigh tightly while the other reaches down to spread you wider, giving herself better access.
"Natasha..." You whimper her name like a prayer, your voice breaking on a high note as she hits that perfect spot inside you again.
Your hands fly to her bouncing breasts, squeezing the soft mounds desperately as pleasure overwhelms you both.
Natasha leans down, capturing your mouth in a messy, passionate kiss that steals your breath. You pant into each other's mouths, tongues tangling as she continues thrusting hard and deep.
The kiss is sloppy and needy, a perfect reflection of how desperately she's fucking you.
With a low groan, Natasha pulls out slowly, her wet length slipping free of your dripping core. You both watch, panting heavily, as she brings the tip to your mouth.
"Taste how wet you are," she pants, rubbing her slick head against your lips.
You open your mouth obediently, your tongue darting out to lick along the tip, tasting yourself mixed with her. Natasha moans, thrusting slightly deeper between your lips.
"Good girl... Suck," she commands breathlessly, gripping your hair. You wrap your lips around her and take her into your mouth, bobbing your head as she slowly thrusts down your throat.
Natasha's eyes roll back into her head as your mouth works her wet length, your tongue swirling around the tip while you suck eagerly.
A moan rips from her throat, her thighs trembling as pleasure rockets through her.
She grips your hair tighter, fucking your mouth with shallow, desperate strokes while her head falls back, completely lost to the sensation.
Her red hair falls wildly around her face and shoulders, green eyes squeezed shut as she rocks her hips forward, feeding you more of her length.
Your own hair is messy from her fingers, face flushed and dripping with saliva as you enthusiastically take her, cheeks hollowing out with each suck.
Natasha's large, round breasts bounce freely with each thrust into your mouth. Yours heave with every breath you take around her length.
Natasha's thick, veiny length glistens with a mix of spit and precum, stretching your lips wide as you suck her. Her green eyes are still rolled back, mouth open in a silent moan.
Your jaw works overtime, tongue flattened against her shaft while you bob your head eagerly, cheeks caving with each greedy suck as a string of saliva connects with each suck.
Natasha's green eyes flutter open, half-lidded and glassy with pleasure as she looks down at you. Her gaze is fixated on her length disappearing between your stretched lips, a low groan rumbling in her chest at the sight.
She watches, transfixed, as your mouth works her over eagerly, the wet sounds of your sucking filling the room.
With a pop, Natasha pulls her length out of your mouth, a string of saliva connecting your lips to the tip.
She drags the wet head down your between the valley of your breasts, coating each before moving lower.
She presses the tip against your clit, rubbing it in slow circles that make your whole body shudder.
"I need to come so bad..." Natasha moans, her voice trembling with desperation.
She rubs her wet tip against your clit, teasing you both mercilessly.
You respond by spreading your legs wider and arching your back, wordlessly begging for her to fill you again.
"Then fuck me," you whisper breathlessly, your hips lifting toward her.
Natasha groans, sinking her length deep inside you in one smooth thrust.
"Fuck—" she gasps, her forehead dropping to your shoulder as she starts moving, chasing her release with every deep stroke. Her pace quickens, chasing that edge.
Your eyes roll back, a desperate moan escaping your lips as you grip the sheets beneath you.
"I'm— I'm close," you gasp, your walls tightening around her in warning.
Natasha pushes deeper, her hand sliding between your bodies to find your clit, two fingers pressing against it as she thrusts harder.
"Come on my dick," she demands it, her fingers rubbing tight circles against your sensitive bud as she drives into you relentlessly.
The pressure snaps instantly, your back bowing off the mattress as a scream tears from your throat. Your vision whites out, your entire body shaking violently as you clamp down around her, dragging her over the edge with you.
"That's it, baby," she grits out, pounding you through it. "Fuck!"
Natasha's entire body goes rigid above you, her length pulsing deeply inside you as she comes with a strangled cry. Her hips stutter, losing rhythm as she spills into you, painting your tight walls white with her thick release.
Her head drops to your shoulder, teeth grazing your collarbone as aftershocks wrack through her.
A broken moan vibrates against your skin, her fingers still pressed to your clit as she rides out every pulse inside you.
"You feel— fuck— can't stop—" She's trembling, entire body locked in the aftermath, completely undone beneath her usually composed exterior.
"Natasha..." you moan softly, your hands sliding up her trembling arms to hold onto her as your own orgasm fades.
Your body feels like jelly, completely spent and utterly satisfied. You nuzzle into the side of her neck, placing gentle kisses along her jaw as she catches her breath against you.
Natasha presses lingering, open mouthed kisses against your collarbone, her lips trembling against your skin.
It's a reverent, grounding touch, the final release of months upon months of tightly wound control finally snapping. She holds you impossibly close, burying her face in the crook of your neck as if anchoring herself to reality.
"I've needed this," she whispers hoarsely, her voice thick with emotion. "Needed you—so fucking badly."
Her arms tighten around you practically painfully, 8 months of suppressed desire pouring out in every tender kiss she presses against your neck.
"You have no idea...How much I've craved your touch... your voice... your smile," she murmurs roughly, trailing kisses down to your chest. "Being with you—it's heaven. Pure, perfect heaven after so long in hell."
"I'm right here," you whisper softly, running your fingers through her hair gently. "I'm not going anywhere." You tilt your head up to press a tender kiss on her lips, pouring all of your love and dedication into it. "I've been waiting for you, too."
Natasha's eyes flutter shut at your words, a soft sigh escaping her lips as she leans into your touch. She presses her forehead against yours, her breath mingling with yours as she just... exists in the moment with you.
For the first time in a long time, she feels at peace. At home.
