need reader in their 20s trying to convince mckay they’re not too young and mckay being overwhelmed by guilt and reader is just trying to get to her to give in till she finally does and it leads to… car fucking perhaps?
Born Too Late
cassie mckay x f!nurse!reader
summary: it never even crossed your mind that you and your older coworker could be something more. that is until you kissed, leaving you hopelessly in love with cassie mckay. but cassie swears nothing can ever happen again— you’re too young.
warnings: 18+ fluff, smut, angst, age gap (reader is in her mid 20’s, cassie is 43), kissing, fingering (cassie!receiving), oral (r!receiving), patient assaults a nurse, possible medical inaccuracies, mama bear dana evans, happy ending
word count: 9.3k
a/n: i was originally planning on this being somewhere between 2-3k words, but my mind just kept going lol. as i got deeper into the story, a lot of the angst was inspired by waco texas by ethel cain. enjoy!♡
"Am I good to go, Dana?"
"Yeah, kid."
"Okay, sweet. You better leave too, Lena's got things covered." Your gaze drifts from Dana to the night shift charge nurse sitting across from where you and Dana are standing. "Right, Lena?"
"I think I got everything covered", Lena says. "Ever since y/n has started working here, you've been getting out earlier than you used to. She's a good one."
A small smile spreads across your face. "Ain't that the truth", Dana replies with a soft smirk. "I'll leave in a minute. Have a good night, kid."
"You too", you say before walking away.
Once you reach the lockers, you throw on the winter jacket you brought. You then gather all of your belongings.
As you pull out your bag from your locker, you hear someone else coming in. A familiar voice pipes up behind you. "Man, I am not looking forward to driving in this weather."
Slinging your bag over your shoulder, you turn around to find Cassie looking at you. "Me either."
Cassie walks over to her locker and punches in her code. "Winter is always so depressing, but it's always been somewhat comforting to me." You watch Cassie as she slides on her winter coat.
"Same", you look at the ground for a second, pondering, and then your eyes return to Cassie. "As stupid as it sounds, there definitely is something comforting about the darkness."
Cassie pulls her bag over her shoulder and closes her locker. "Yeah", she says, eyeing you thoughtfully. Cassie sucks in a breath and pulls her lips in a smile, her dimples showing. "Well, I'm going to head out."
You nod. "Same."
In silence, you and Cassie walk out of the hospital. The second you step outside, the cold winter air hits you. Shivering, you tuck your hands in your jacket pockets.
Both you and Cassie look both ways before crossing the street to the parking garage. As you're walking across the street, Cassie turns to you and breaks the silence. "Did you, uh, manage to get first floor parking today?"
You shake your head. "No, second floor. They really need to reserve more staff spots."
"Right?", Cassie exclaims.
You walk side by side with Cassie as you make your way up the parking garage stairs. After you make it to the second floor, you glance at Cassie. "I'm this way", you tell her, pointing to the right.
"I am too." The faintest smile tugs at her lips.
When you reach your car, you stop walking. Cassie's now a few feet ahead of you. "This is me."
Cassie looks forward and then back at you with an amused, hung smile. "No way, I'm right here", she says as she points to her blue car. There's only one car between your spaces.
You stand on your tiptoes and peek at her car. "I didn't know you had a blue car."
"Yup. My dad gifted it to me when I graduated medical school."
"That's so sweet", you say with a warm smile.
"I'm grateful to have a dad like him."
"Most dads are shit", you joke, but it comes out heavier than you intended.
Cassie stares at you, analyzing your expression. She awkwardly pulls her lips into a tight-lipped smile and rocks back and forth on her toes.
"Shit, sorry, I didn't mean for that to come across as a mood killer", you say as your gaze drops to the ground. "That wasn't supposed to make it seem like I was jealous or I was trauma dumping I swear, well, if you even took it that way—"
You stop talking when you feel two hands on your biceps. Surprised, you look up to find Cassie in front of you. How did you not realize she walked over to you?
With a small chuckle, Cassie shakes her head. "Honey, I didn't take it like that", she reassures you through an amused smile. "Just stop overthinking, okay?" Her eyebrows pulls together as she looks at you. She gives your biceps a gentle yet grounding squeeze.
"Sorry", you whisper.
"Stop apologizing", she replies, her voice lower and softer than before. Cassie's eyes drop down to your lips, gaping for a few seconds, and then she looks back up into your eyes.
Your breath hitches. All of a sudden you feel lightheaded. Without thinking, you lean in, your lips attaching themselves to hers.
Cassie squeezes your arms again and kisses you back. But only five seconds into the kiss, she pulls back and lets go of you.
Your brain short circuits, and you can't think of anything to say. Cassie seems to be in the same headspace.
You blink a few times and curl your hands into fists so you can dig your nails into your palms, pulling yourself out of whatever trance you were just in. "Oh my god. Shit. Sorry." You run your hands over your head. "I-I'm so sorry", you stammer.
You turn around, mentally kicking yourself for what you just did, but you unexpectedly hear Cassie rasp out, "Wait!" Before you even have time to think, Cassie grabs onto your wrist, pulling you back to her.
Her lips slam against yours. She lets go of your wrist and cups your face. Your arms wrap around her neck.
The kiss gets messy quickly. Cassie's tongue pushes into your mouth, tangling with yours. She then pulls back just enough to trap your lower lip with her teeth. Immediately after, her mouth is on yours again.
The tiniest whimper escapes you which she swallows with a small groan of her own. Cassie's hands move from your face to your waist, digging her nails into your hips.
BEEP!
Suddenly, you both jump apart. There's a car alarm going off the row over from where you and Cassie are parked. You look at her breathless, unsure of what to say.
Cassie lets out a shaky breath, and then pulls her keys from her jacket pocket. "Uh, I should go", she says, her voice barely above a whisper, and takes small steps backwards.
"Oh, um, yeah, yeah." You tug your bag's strap up your shoulder, needing something to hold onto. "Sorry", you murmur.
Cassie laughs, the tension in her expression leaving. "I told you to stop apologizing." She unlocks her car and opens the driver side door.
Chuckling, you grab your keys. "I want to apologize for that", you jest.
Still smiling, Cassie rolls her eyes playfully. "You better not."
You put your hands up in surrender. "Fine."
"Good." She looks at you for one more moment, and then tears her gaze from you to her car. "I'm gonna go now. Goodnight."
"Goodnight", you say back, barely loud enough for Cassie to hear.
"Drive safe", she tells you before getting in her car.
"You too", you mumble more so to yourself as you unlock your car.
By the time you start the car and place your bag on the passenger seat, Cassie's already backing out. For someone who just mentioned road safety, she sure was driving fast for a parking garage.
Sighing, you drop your head to the steering wheel. Did that really just happen? Did you really just kiss Cassie? As in your coworker Cassie? The one who has a son and is almost twice your age?
And yet, you wished you could go back in time to that moment. To that kiss. That perfect kiss Cassie McKay gave you.
Before that night, you never saw Cassie as more than friends. Yeah, you always found her pretty, but the thought of Cassie being your girlfriend or simply hooking up with her had never crossed your mind. But now? You're addicted to her.
An hour after you got home Cassie texted you saying she's the one who needs to apologize. There's a line she crossed that can't be ignored again. She asked you to just forget about it.
But you couldn't. So since then you would flirt with her at work every now and then. Text her a picture of yourself when you had a fun outfit. Touch her in a way that affectionate friends would.
It wasn't enough though. You needed more. You needed her.
A month after your kiss, you pulled Cassie aside one evening after a shift to talk about it. It was clear she didn't want to even think about the kiss, let alone having a conversation about it with you. Still, you confessed to her that you wanted to kiss her again.
And for a moment it seemed like she was going to kiss you right then and there in the ambulance bay, but she didn't. Instead, Cassie told you it was a mistake. In her own words it was "highly inappropriate" and she's "disgusted by herself."
It hurt to hear her say that. You can still remember how your eyes stung as you held back tears. Miraculously, you were able to keep from crying. All you could muster out was a measly "okay."
The second you made it into you car you broke down. It took you almost 30 minutes before you could drive back home.
Now, that kiss with Cassie was a year ago. She's never brought it up since. At times it felt like a faint dream. Almost like a childhood movie you start doubting was real.
While you weren't heartbroken anymore — at least not as bad as before — you still gravitated towards her.
Dana noticed. She knew something changed.
Since your first day at PMTC, Dana took you under her wing. She's always been observant over everyone, but especially you. Which is why her mini lecture with you right now was not surprising in the slightest.
"When you're with a patient, your attention needs to be fully on them." Irritated, you sigh and cross your arms, looking at Dana as she continues. "You shouldn't be glancing across the ER, and you should never be staring at another doctor working a totally separate case. Your focus needs to be on your patients."
"Dana", you start, "I—"
She holds a hand up. "Save it, kid. You've been making eyes at McKay for months now, and it's starting to affect your work."
Your eyebrows draw together, confused. Cassie was not on your mind nearly as much as she was a year ago. "I'm fine, Dana. Maybe I've looked for", you lower your voice, "her once or twice, but it's because I'm going to consult her."
"Uh, huh", Dana says, not buying what you're saying. "Whether you're doing it every minute or once every day, you need to cut it out. I already told you that it's interfering with your ability to treat patients, and it's doing the same to her."
Your eyes widen. "What do you mean?"
"I'll pull McKay aside too. Whatever nonsense is going on between you two needs to stop or at the very least leave the workplace."
"Dana, there's nothing going on with us."
Dana takes her glasses off and rests a hand on her hip, side eyeing you. "I don't believe that's true, but if it is, you still need to find a way to treat patients the way they deserve."
A pang of guilt hits you. Have you been doing a bad job lately?
Of course, Dana seems to notice you second guessing yourself. "Kid, you're a great nurse." She places a hand on your shoulder. "But if you want it to stay that way, you need to cut out whatever bullshit you and Cassie got going on. Capiche?"
You draw in a breath and nod. "Got it."
She gives your shoulder two taps before walking away.
"Fifty dollars says those girls keep making eyes at each other", Princess whispers in Tagalog to Perlah as you look over a chart. You were completely oblivious that they even heard your conversation with Dana.
"Bitch, that five dollars would go down the drain. Of course they're going to continue to stare", Perlah says back to Princess. They look at each other and then start laughing at the situation as you walk away to attend to a patient.
There was only an hour left in your shift as you sat beside Perlah at the nurse's station. After your conversation with Dana, you avoided Cassie as best as you could. Out of sight out of mind, right?
Perlah glances at the board above you, and then turns towards you. "Sweetie, there's a seven year old girl waiting to get her cast off in South 19 if you're up for it."
"Hm?", you murmur as your head jerks to the right where Perlah is. "Oh, um, yeah, I can do that", you say, forcing a smile.
You stand up and grab the patient's chart. Grace Fisher. Left arm cast removal. Simple enough.
You head over to South 19, softly humming a tune to yourself. But when you open the curtain, you freeze.
Cassie.
She turns and her sparkling blue eyes find yours. "I, uh..." You draw in a breath and will yourself to look away. With a smile you introduce yourself to the girl, Grace and her mother.
After you greet them, Cassie walks over to you. She lowers her voice so only you can hear her. "Robby asked me to take care of this real quick. He's trying to clear out as many patients as possible before night shift gets here."
Without looking at her, you nod. "I can do it if you need to get back to your other patients."
Cassie points to a tray behind her. "I already have the stuff. I was explaining to Grace how a cast saw works before you came in."
Still facing forward, avoiding eye contact with Cassie, you shrug. "Guess you don't need me then", you mutter somewhat bitterly.
Cassie's voice softens automatically. "No, no, you can stay. I mean if you want to."
You take a few seconds to think, only making this interaction more awkward than it already is. A weary breath escapes you as you finally face Cassie. "Okay."
"Do you want to do it? I've noticed you've been doing desk work most of the day."
Was Dana right? Was Cassie watching you?
"I'll do it. Thanks, Cass", you say before walking over to grab the cast saw. You don't see the smile that lights up Cassie's face as you call her "Cass."
You grab a stool and sit beside Grace. "Dr. McKay here already explained to you how this works, right?"
Grace nods, clearly nervous. Her mom grabs her daughter's free hand. "She did", Mrs. Fisher tells you.
"Okay, great", you say in your softest voice. "Do you have any questions before we start?" Grace shakes her head. "When your cast is off do you want to pick out some stickers?" you ask as you lean in. "I know where all the good stickers are hidden."
Grace smiles shyly. "Okay."
"You're so brave. I'm going to start on the count of three. All you're going to hear is some buzzing, okay?" Grace nods, more assertive this time. "Ready? 1, 2, 3", you say, starting to remove the cast.
Even though Cassie is just a few feet away from you, you focus on the patient in front of you. Cassie however, can't take her eyes off of you. She doesn't even realize she's smiling as she watches you chat with Grace, helping the anxious kid become more comfortable.
"All done", you tell Grace. "How does it feel?"
"Awesome", she says with a big smile. "Can I get stickers now?"
You chuckle. "Of course, sweetie. I'll be right back, I'm gonna go grab them now."
You stand and head out of the room, Cassie follows you. "You were really good with Grace", she says.
"Thanks."
"You've always been good at soothing kids."
"I was an anxious child, so that probably helps."
"The best doctors and nurses apply their own experiences to their work."
"Like you", you murmur without a second thought.
Cassie blushes slightly, but you don't catch it. "And you."
You fight a smile as you walk into the nurse's station to the drawer where Perlah and Princess keep stickers and grab a few sheets. When you turn around Cassie is right in front of you.
"Oh, sorry", she says, stepping aside.
"It's okay", you assure her as you walk back to South 19 to give Grace some stickers. Cassie follows you in silence.
When you reach the room, Cassie walks ahead of you and pulls open the curtain. "After you", she says while holding a hand out.
"Why thank you Dr. McKay." You can't fight back the smile creeping up. Wow, that's the first genuine smile you've had all day. Huh.
"My amazing nurse here has some stickers for you to chose from, sweetheart", Cassie says to Grace.
You hand the stickers sheet you have over to Grace and let her pick a few. She ends up choosing a mermaid, a princess, and a cat. "Good choices", you tell Grace with a wink. Then you look over to her mom. "You guys are all good to go."
"Thank you both", Mrs. Fisher says.
"It was our pleasure", Cassie says with a kind smile.
You look at Grace and put up a hand. She gives you a high five with a big grin on her face. "You were so brave", you tell her.
Cassie opens the curtain, and Mrs. Fisher and Grace step through. She points up ahead to the left. "The exit is just this way. Would you like one of us to walk you guys out?"
"No, you've done enough already."
"Okay", Cassie says. "Have a good night."
As they leave you start walking to the break room, in desperate need of a cup of coffee. "Hey, wait up", Cassie calls out to you. Once she's caught up with you, she takes a deep breath. "Can we talk after our shift?"
You come to a halt and hesitantly turn towards her. "About what?"
"Just... stuff."
Your brows pull together. "That's very descriptive", you say before resuming walking.
"I just don't want to get into it right now. I don't want to stress you out or distract you."
You open the break room door and see Langdon pouring himself a cup of coffee. Hushed, you mutter to Cassie, "well you kind of already are."
"Lucky for you guys, I just made another pot", Langdon says as he walks out.
"My savior", you call out over your shoulder.
Once Langdon is gone, Cassie continues. "It's nothing to worry about. Just go about the rest of your shift like usual, okay?"
The rich, earthy aroma of the freshly brewed coffee fills your nose as you pour yourself a cup. "I'll try."
"Meet me by the lockers when we're off the clock?"
You turn towards Cassie and lean against the counter. For the first time since this morning you really take in Cassie. Her hair is all messy and falling out. Her lips are a little dry. She looks tired. But still gorgeous. So damn gorgeous.
Nodding, you take a sip of your coffee. "Mm, will do."
"Okay, great." Cassie gives you a small smile that reveals her dimples as she reaches forward and places her hand on your arm. Her touch is so warm and tender. "See you then", Cassie says before pulling away and leaving the break room.
You're left alone, coffee in hand with the heat of Cassie's touch lingering on your arm. Despite Cassie saying the reason why she wants to talk to you isn't bad, you're still nervous. You wanted your shift to be over now and you wanted your shift to last forever at the same time.
You check your phone. 7:12pm.
Nervously, you bite the inside of your cheek as you lean against your locker. You've been waiting for Cassie for five minutes now. She was likely still wrapping up everything she needs to so she can leave and night shift can take over.
Five more minutes pass. You pull your water bottle out of your bag and take a sip. Right now you were wishing it was vodka.
You close your eyes and lean against your locker, taking a few deep breaths.
"Tired?"
Startled, you open your eyes. Cassie's opening her locker.
"Yeah, a little bit."
"Here." You watch as Cassie pulls something out of her locker. "It's a protein bar. You've been downing coffee all day, you need something to eat."
As you take it from her, your fingers touch, lingering longer than necessary before you pull away. "Thanks." You open the wrapper and take a bite. It's peanut butter and chocolate— your favorite.
Cassie throws on a jacket, grabs her bag, and closes her locker. Then, she turns to you. "Walk with me?"
Your mouth is full with a bite of the snack Cassie gave you, so you just nod. She walks to the exit with you at her side. Before you leave the building, you toss the protein bar wrapper in the trash by the door.
"Are you, uh, doing anything after you get home?"
You have a bite in your mouth, chewy and delicious. Before you respond you bring a hand over your mouth. "No, nothing."
"Same."
Cassie doesn't say anything else after that. An awkward silence brews, tension growing.
You take the last bite of the protein bar and put your hands in your pockets. After you finish chewing you look at Cassie. Her eyes are on the street in front of you two.
"Cassie?"
"Yeah?"
A shaky breath leaves you. "What did you want to talk about?"
Cassie nods, knowing she can't put it off any longer. "Well, um, Dana talked to you today, right?"
You and Cassie walk into the parking garage. "Yup, just like she does everyday." Cassie tilts her head at you.
"You know what I m—"
"Where are you parked?"
"Oh, uh, just down this way", Cassie says, pointing at the back of the parking garage.
"I'm on the opposite side."
"Okay." She slides her hands in her jacket pockets. "I'll walk you."
You nod, leading the way.
Cassie says your name, her tone laced with seriousness yet it's still gentle. "Dana talked to you today about me, correct?"
"Correct", you confirm under your breath.
You hear Cassie let out an exasperated breath from behind you. "I just want to make sure we're on the same page."
"The same page about what?"
"That nothing's going on."
Scoffing, you shake your head. "I'm aware."
"Okay, then why is Dana telling me you're always looking at me?"
Stopping in your tracks, you turn around so you're facing Cassie. "Me? What about you?"
She crosses her arms and sighs. "Look, Dana's already on my ass for this. She thinks you're not as focused as you should be. I wanted to ask you if there's anything you want to tell me."
"Like what?" you bite out.
"I don't know, that's why I'm asking you!"
You huff out a laugh. "Fine. Do you want the truth?"
Cassie takes a step closer to you. "Yes."
Your eyes scan hers for a couple moments, making sure you should confess. "Fine. Ever since you kissed me, I haven't been able to get you out of my head. We only talked about it once and all you said was it was gross and inappropriate. Like what the fuck? You never even asked me how I felt. You just stated it was a mistake."
Cassie takes a deep breath like she's thinking over her words carefully. "Because it was a mistake. It shouldn't have happened, and I'm ashamed. Besides, you kissed me first!"
"You— you", you gester at her, "you kissed me. Yeah, I kissed you, but for a second and then I apologized and walked away." You point your finger at her, clearly upset and angry. "You pulled me back. You kissed me again. You were the one who wanted more."
Cassie closes her eyes and pinches the bridge of her nose. "And I apologized for that. I told you, it shouldn't have happened— I shouldn't have done that."
"So I'm just a mistake to you?" You can feel tears starting to pool in your eyes, but you force them back.
"You're not a mistake, but what I did to you was."
"What you did? You literally just told me that I kissed you first!"
"Yeah, but it was my responsibility to end it, not pull you back to me."
"Why?" You cross your arms. "Because I'm your coworker?"
"Yes... and you're too young."
You blink a few times, taken aback. Your brows pinch together, confused. Did Cassie feel guilty?
"I'm disgusted by myself because I wanted to kiss you and I wanted more", she admits, her voice shaky.
"I wanted more too, Cassie. You could've told me—"
"That's exactly why I didn't! We can't be together, it's just not right."
"Because I'm younger than you?"
"Because you're so much younger than me. Jesus Christ, I could be your mother!"
It's getting harder to fight back the tears forming. "So... all of this is about your guilt?"
"Oh my god", Cassie says while shaking her head. She looks down at the ground for a few seconds before looking back up at you, her eyes finding yours. "It's wrong", she whispers, her voice breaking. "I hate myself for kissing you."
A single tear slides down your cheek. Cassie looks like she's about to cry as she watches you.
"I never meant to hurt you."
"But you did", you muster out, another tear falling. Cassie tilts her head in a way that looks like she wants to absorb your pain.
"I'm sorry", she whispers.
You inhale deeply, centering yourself, and then wipe away the tears stained on your cheeks. "I'm sorry too. I'm sorry that I kissed you. I'm sorry that I've burdened you. And I'm sorry I've made you hate yourself. If I could I would transfer that hate onto me. I would rather you hate me than hate yourself. So I'm fucking sorry."
Without waiting for a response, you spin around and walk towards your car. You hear Cassie calling out your name, her voice breaking slightly, which makes tears spill again.
When you reach your car, you get in as quickly as possible. As soon as the door is shut, you start sobbing. In an attempt to ground yourself, you place a hand over your chest and tap.
You just wanted this feeling to go away. Why did Cassie have to pull you into that damn conversation? How were you supposed to go to work now and face her?
Your eyes start to sting as you keep crying. You know they'll be red and puffy in the morning. Maybe you'll just call out of work tomorrow.
If only you hadn't kissed her that day. All of this could've been avoided. But you did. And there's no going back.
"I'll go grab Mohan for you, Dana."
"Thanks, kid."
"No problem." You leave the central nurse's station and head over to north wing of the ED where Samira is.
It had been three weeks since the blow up with Cassie. You ended up calling out sick for the next three shifts you had. Cassie called out the following two days, returning just a day before you, although, you never knew about it.
Dana did, however, and knew something had happened. She never pushed either of you to talk about it, only leaving little hints here and there. Both you and Cassie never took the bait.
As best as you could, you tried to avoid working the same shifts as Cassie. Luckily, Cassie's schedule is pretty set in stone since she works around Harrison. Even so, she still works a lot— just like you.
When you did work together, you went out of your way to avoid her. If someone assigned you on a case with her, you passed it off to someone else. If she was in the break room, you weren't. If she was talking to someone you needed to talk to, you just waited no matter how long.
Avoiding Cassie took such a toll on you that you ended up working night shifts every now and then. It fucked up your sleep schedule to go back and forth, but you couldn't fully commit to only working nights. Switching between night and day shifts to avoid Cassie was worth losing sleep over.
Today you were not on night shift. You were working the day and so was Cassie. So far you've been doing a pretty good job of not seeing her.
You round the corner and enter room two, where Samira should be. But when you open the door it's just a patient. Before you leave to go search for her, you decide to make sure this patient doesn't need anything.
You introduce yourself and grab his chart. Tommy Krill. A 30 year old white man who passed out in a bar due to dehydration. His brother brought him drunk and and high off of MDMA a little over an hour ago.
"Mr. Krill how are you feeling?" you ask as you walk over to his bed. He's groggy, he likely just barely woke up a few minutes ago. "Do you know where you—"
All of a sudden a fist hits your chest and you stumble back, not fully processing what's happening. Mr. Krill frantically pulls out the IV he's hooked up to and all of the monitors that are connected to him. He looks over to you. You're running out of the room.
He chases after you. "Hulahoop!" you yell out, "hulahoop!"
Jesse's at your side in the blink of an eye and steps between you and the man chasing after you. Donnie is there just a few seconds later, helping to restrain the patient.
"That bitch was trying to kill me!", Mr. Krill shouts over and over.
You lean against the wall of pedes, breathing heavily, adrenaline coursing through your veins. Your eyes are on the floor as you try to focus on your feet.
Faintly, you can hear someone calling your name. Multiple somebodies.
When you look up you see Robby and Dana rushing towards you.
"What the fuck happened?" Dana asks angrily.
"The patient in 6 attacked me."
Dana grabs your arm gently, her thumb rubbing soothing circles on your forearm. Her touch is a contrast to the anger in her face. It looks like Dana's about to kill someone.
Robby does his best to examine you while you stand there. "Are you hurt?" he asks.
"No, I'm fine. He did punch my chest, but I'm okay."
"That motherfucker", Dana mutters furiously.
"I just need a few minutes and then I'll be good to go back to work. I don't need a—"
"What the fuck? Are you okay, what happened?"
Out of nowhere, Cassie's now at your side. Concern and fear are written all over her face.
"No, no, I'm fine."
"You still need an examine", Robby tells you. "It's protocall. You can get back to work after if you want." His gaze meets yours, and he gives you a small nod. "I'm going to go pop in and check the son of a bitch who hit you."
"He hit you?!"
"Cassie, I'm fine."
"He punched her in her chest", Dana tells Cassie, her voice laced with rage. "Can you examine her? I'm going to call the police."
"Yeah, of course", Cassie says. She places a hand on your shoulder. "Come on."
Pushing off the wall, you rub your eyes. "I'm telling you I'm fine. Let's just make this as quick as possible."
Cassie nods, still clearly worried. She reluctantly takes her hand off of you. "South 16 is open", she says, her voice soft.
You don't say anything, you just walk over there. Now that the adrenaline is leaving your body, you feel a small ache under your boobs on the left side of your ribs.
Once you reach room 16, Cassie holds the door open for you. For a second you glance at her, but quickly look away after you make eye contact.
"Sit on the bed", she instructs you gently.
"Cassie—"
"Now", she says more firmly but still soft.
"Goddammit", you whisper to yourself as you sit on the edge of the bed.
Cassie untangles the stethoscope she has around her neck. You sit up straight as she comes closer, knowing the drill. "Any pain?" she asks as she puts the stethoscope over your heart.
"No", you lie.
"Take a deep breath for me."
You do as she says. Cassie then moves the stethoscope to the other side of your chest before checking your back.
"Your breathing is good."
"I could've told you that", you mutter.
Cassie places her stethoscope back around her neck, her hands gripping the ends as she looks at you. "Are you going to tell me where it hurts?"
"I told you I'm fine", you grumble, your gaze on your feet.
Cassie sighs and takes a step closer to you. "I'm gonna have to check for injury now."
"Fine."
Her eyes remain on you, just standing there before proceeding. Cassie places her right hand under your right breast. "Any pain?"
"No."
Cassie moves her hand to the left, lightly pressing. She touches a spot that makes you wince. You do your best to hide the hiss that started to slip out.
Crossing her arms, Cassie takes a step back. She says your name in a commanding tone that you know comes from concern. Reluctantly, you look up at her. "Let me see."
This is the first time since the parking garage that you've really looked at Cassie. She looks more tired than usual, like she hasn't been getting enough sleep.
"I'm fine", you say as you pull up your scrub top. "See?"
Cassie comes closer to you and crotches down slightly so that she can better see where you're hurting. Gently, Cassie presses down on that same spot.
Trying to hide a reaction, you take in a deep breath. But Cassie sees right through you.
She lingers, her hand resting on your side before she pulls back. "There's light bruising. It'll probably get a little darker, but not anything too bad."
"I told you I'm—"
"Fine, I know", Cassie cuts you off. You can't help the smile that wants to come out as she finishes your sentence.
Cassie notices you're fighting a smile which makes her smile.
You tug down your scrub top and look up at Cassie. "Thanks for examining me."
She nods with a small smile that shows her dimples. Then, she leans back on her heels. As Cassie's weight shifts to her toes, she puts her hands in her scrub pockets. "So, um... that guy really punched you?"
"Just my luck."
A small chuckle escapes Cassie. "At least you're okay." Then, she shakes her head in disbelief. "God, what an asshole."
"You could say that about all men", you half joke. "At least he doesn't hit that hard."
"Still hard enough to leave a bruise."
"I've been hurt worse."
Fuck, you didn't mean for that to come out the way it did. The tension in the room grows, but your eyes don't leave Cassie's.
"Uh... I mean physically. N-not emotionally."
"It's okay."
"Sorry", you say, almost a whisper.
"I told you to stop apologizing."
You raise your eyebrows, somewhat playfully.
"You're making me want to apologize for apologizing."
Cassie can't help but laugh which makes you do too. The air feels lighter. Happier. Right.
But as soon as your laughter fades, and you're left looking at one another, it feels heavier again.
"I mean it though. Seriously, don't ever apologize to me." Your head tilts slightly, trying to figure out what Cassie means. "You have nothing to be sorry for, and that includes apologizing for 'burdening me' because you aren't a burden."
Your heart stops. For a moment you forget how to breathe.
"You shouldn't have apologized for 'making me hate myself' because that's on me. Not you. It never was." With a bated breath, Cassie shifts her weight to her other foot and crosses her arms. "And you shouldn't have apologized for kissing me."
Like a deer in headlights, you are frozen. If you move, maybe you'll cry. You don't know what to say anyways. So you just sit there. Taking Cassie in. Her blue eyes seem dimmer, replaced by pain.
"I'm the one who's sorry. I'm sorry that you keep changing shifts because of me. I'm sorry for ever making you feel like you did something wrong because you didn't. I'm sorry I didn't ask you what you need, I just assumed I knew what was best. And I'm so fucking sorry for hurting you."
Cassie steps forward and grabs your right hand from below. You look down as she puts her other hand on top of yours. You're scared to look back up because you know if you look at Cassie you'll break.
"I never ever wanted to hurt you. I've missed seeing you around the ED. Way more than I thought I would." Cassie keeps one hand on yours while the other leaves and finds your chin. "Can you... look at me?"
You feel the nervousness in her voice because it's the same feeling flowing through you. Cassie tilts your chin just a little bit— not wanting to push you, but encourage you.
Your eyes shut as you lift your head up. Slowly, you open your eyes. Cassie's are staring down at you tenderly with a hint of vulnerability.
"What if...", Cassie looks away, the words she's trying to say are difficult for her to get out. "What if you find someone younger? That you like better?"
It feels like a piece of glass just cut your heart. You give her hand a comforting squeeze and place your other hand over hers. "Cass... that won't happen."
"How do you know for sure?", Cassie whispers, her voice trembling.
"Because as long as I know you, I know there won't ever be someone as kind or caring or beautiful." A salty tear falls down your cheek. "Cassie", your voice falters. "Um... look at me? Please?"
She does. She's met with a warm smile. Your warm smile.
Cassie sees the tear on your cheek and instinctively brings her hand to your face. She cups your cheek and her thumb gently brushes over your tear, erasing it. "Can, uh..." Cassie pauses, swallowing before continuing, "Is it alright if I kiss you?"
Right away, you nod. Without wasting any time, Cassie leans down and presses her lips against yours.
Your arms wrap around her neck while hers find your waist, sliding to your lower back. The kiss isn't messy, but it isn't soft either. All of the things you've been feeling for each other pour out into the kiss.
There's a knock at the door.
"Jesus", you mutter, startled. Cassie pulls back, but leaves her hands on your waist. She looks over her shoulder, and you peek around her.
Dana.
"I was just checking to see how, uh", Dana nods at you, "you're doin'."
"Oh, fine. I-I'm fine."
"I'm glad", she replies with a smug smirk. "The cops will be here within the next half hour for a statement." You nod. "Finish up in here and get back to work."
"Got it, Dana. We'll be out in a minute", Cassie says.
Dana looks at you, then Cassie, back at you, and then Cassie again, still smiling, before she leaves.
Cassie turns back to you, her face flushed. You giggle, finding it cute which makes her laugh.
She leans in and gives you a soft, promising kiss. When she pulls back her face seems lighter than it had been in a while.
"We have to get back to work", Cassie says as her hands reluctantly leave your hips.
"Yeah", you murmur. Slowly, you stand up. Cassie offers her hand to steady you which you don't need, but you take anyways.
"After work can we talk? A good talk, I promise."
With a chuckle, you nod. "Yes."
Cassie cups your face and gives you a doting forehead kiss. "Come on", she whispers.
You and Cassie leave the room and try to go about the rest of your shift like everything's normal. But both of you are smiley— way more than usual, especially in the last three weeks.
For someone who just got assaulted, you sure were visibly happy, unable to stop beaming.
"Cassie", you moan as she pushes you against her car, her lips attached to your neck. Your hands are exploring Cassie's back, and hers are caressing your sides up and down.
"Pocket", she mumbles against your jaw. "My keys are in my right pocket."
Cassie trails her kisses up to your mouth, devouring you as your hands find her scrub pants. You squeeze her ass before diving into her pocket to pull out her keys.
Panting, you pull back and hold up the keys in between you two. Cassie's eyes are filled with lust, reflecting yours. She takes the keys from you and unlocks her car. "Give me your bag", she orders.
Quickly, you slide your bag off of your shoulder and hand it to Cassie. She takes a step to the right and opens the passenger side door. Swiftly, she then throws her bag on the floor and yours on the passenger seat before looking back at you.
"Um... do you want to go in the back?" Cassie asks you nervously, her confidence faltering.
Right away, you spin around and open the back door of her car and climb in. Cassie follows behind you. Once she's in, she closes the door and you throw yourself at her.
Your arms wrap around Cassie's neck and you kiss her hard. Her head rests against the side window, and her hands find your hips. You moan when her tongue tangles with yours, deep and needy.
Slowly, Cassie pushes off the car door and leans forward into you. She keeps one hand on your hip, her grip tight, and the other finds the back of your head. Cassie pulls you to her as close as possible, your kiss deepening even further. She then lowers you onto your back, her lips never leaving yours.
Cassie's mouth trails down your neck, sucking a mark on the right side. She mumbles your name against your skin, which makes you moan.
Cassie gives your neck a few soft kisses over the spot she was just sucking, and then pulls back to look at you. "I don't usually do this. But I haven't gotten laid in years and I like you so much. Sorry if the car is uncomfortable. If you want to stop let—"
You plow your lips against hers, cutting her off which elicits a moan from her. Your hands are on the back of her neck, pushing her into you. You pull back just to put your mouth on her jaw, giving her wet, sloppy kisses.
Just enough so you can speak, you pull back in between kisses. "It's kind of hot", you say, smirking against your skin. "I've always wanted to try car sex. Guess I never found the right person."
"Until now", Cassie says as one of her hands trails down your chest — making sure to avoid where that patient punched you — to your stomach until she reaches the end of your scrub top. She places a hand underneath the grey fabric onto your stomach while you nibble on her neck.
You tug at the hem of Cassie's scrubs. "Can I take this off?"
Immediately Cassie nods, her hands leave you as she rushes to take her top off, you helping. After her scrub top is discarded, she leans down to capture your lips.
While Cassie maps out the inside of your mouth with her tongue, your hands find Cassie's back, and your fingers work on unhooking her bra.
After her bra comes undone, she shrugs it off. Cassie then scoots back and eagerly hikes up your scrub top along with the tank top you have underneath it. She kisses and licks your sensitive stomach, your breath hitching. Slowly, Cassie kisses her way up to your sternum. When she reaches your bra, she pulls back and fists the fabric of your top.
"Arms up."
You do as Cassie intructs. She swiftly discards your top, followed by your tank top. You arch your back so Cassie can unclasp your bra. She does so with ease, throwing it on the car floor.
Cassie admires you for a few moments. And then she dives down, putting her mouth on your right breast. As she sucks and licks your plump flesh there, you put your hands on the back of her neck.
Cassie trails fiery kisses to the other side of your chest, taking your hardened nipple into her mouth, softly biting. You let out a small moan. She keeps sucking and nibbling, and you take out Cassie's ponytail.
The second her hair is down, your grab a fist full, desperately needing something to hold onto. You direct Cassie back up to your face, kissing her hard.
Her hips roll into your lower half. A moan escapes Cassie which you devour instantly. You can tell she's growing more and more needy.
"Cassie", you murmur against her mouth.
"Hm?"
"Switch."
Cassie pulls back slightly, taking in your flushed face before she moves off of you. You sit up, moving out of the way so Cassie can lay down.
Once she's in your former spot, you hook your fingers in her scrub bottoms and look at her for permission. She nods, her face already red and sweaty. You pull down both her pants and underwear. When they hit her ankles she kicks them off along with her shoes.
As fast as you can, you kick your shoes off too. You then turn back to Cassie, her entrancing blue eyes on you. Your left knee is at Cassie's side on the backseat, and your other leg dangles off the seat, your right foot touching the floor.
You lean down, once again capturing her lips with yours. Cassie grips your hips tightly, pulling you to her. You trail your right hand down her chest, to her stomach, and then to her core.
Cassie gasps and her nails dig into your hips. Your fingers move down her already soaked slit. Still kissing Cassie, you slowly slide one finger inside of her.
A groan leaves Cassie's mouth and goes into yours. She pulls back from your kiss just enough to mewl, "God, baby."
Her words send a shiver down your spine. You put your middle finger inside her cunt, joining your pointer finger. Cassie's hips jerk forward involuntarily.
As you pump your fingers in and out, your thumb finds her clit, gently pressing against it. Cassie bucks up into your touch, moaning. She takes her mouth off of yours and leans up to kiss your neck.
You curl your fingers inside her in a way that makes Cassie whimper. Your thumb starts to draw circles over her clit. "Right there", she whines against your red, kissed out skin.
Your fingers work faster, and Cassie's hips chase your hand. She lets out several moans, the sound going straight to your core. You feel her clench around your fingers as she lets out a raspy groan.
Your hand slows down as Cassie comes down from her orgasm. She's slightly embarrassed at how fast she came undone, but you couldn't care less— if anything you find it hot.
Once Cassie's hips come to a stop, you pull out your fingers which are now drenched in her arousal. You pepper a few kisses on her jaw.
"Fuck", she murmurs. Cassie grabs the back of your head firmly but not rough, and puts your mouth on hers. She takes your lower lip between her teeth for a few seconds before releasing it. "I wanna taste you."
"Cassie", you whine.
She lifts you off of her, and then sits up. Without saying anything, Cassie looks at you, her eyes dark, and points at the backseat where she just was.
Right away, you lie back. Cassie urgently pulls down your pants. Once they're off she leans down and presses light kisses on your throbbing cunt through your underwear.
"Please, Cassie", you say through a moan.
She looks up at you, a smirk growing on her lips. "Look at you", she murmurs. "So fucking beautiful."
A needy whine leaves you. Cassie chuckles and hooks her finger in the waistband of your underwear, pulling them down. She grabs your right leg and places it over her left shoulder, and then puts her hand on the inside of your left thigh, pushing it out.
Cassie takes you in, all spread out and needy for her. When she looks into your eyes, they're clouded by desire, silently begging for Cassie to give you some kind of release.
Finally, she lowers herself down to you. Cassie presses kisses in between your thighs tantalizingly slow, making you squirm. When she finally reaches your center, her lips attach to your clit which makes you moan.
Cassie swirls her tongue around your bundle of nerves. Your hands move to her head, and you push her messy bangs to the side so you can better look at her.
You gasp as Cassie spreads your lips apart with her tongue. The needy whimpers that you let out spur her on. Cassie drags her tongue down to your opening, pushing in.
"Fuck, Cassie."
She hums, pleased, and keeps moving her tongue against your pussy. You can't help it as your hips jut forward, needing more.
Cassie looks up at you with half-lidded eyes. You let out a soft moan which makes Cassie groan into you, the vibrations only bringing you closer to the edge.
She comes up for a breath and licks her lips which almost makes you cum right then and there.
Cassie puts her mouth on your clit again. She sucks and bites, making you writhe beneath her.
Your hips roll into Cassie's face as she brings you closer and closer to the release you so desperately need. Her nails dig into your hips— you just know there's going to be marks tomorrow.
Cassie looks up at you as she continues to lap up every inch of your cunt. "Come for me, baby", she tells you in her soft doctor voice.
Your head throws back against the seat, and your eyelids flutter shut. Cassie's mouth pushes into you harder as you arch up into her. You let out a shaky moan and grip Cassie's hair so tight like you're trying to rip her hair out. Your orgasm washes over you, your legs shaking, and a single tear rolls down your cheek.
Cassie's mouth remains on you as she helps you ride out your thigh. Her grip on your hips slowly loosens. You lie under her with your eyes shut, catching your breath.
You feel a few gentle pecks on the inside of your thighs before Cassie sits up. She leans against the headrest of the seat on the right side and looks over to you.
Gently, Cassie grabs your wrist, pulling you up. "Come here", she murmurs.
Cassie pulls you onto her lap, her arms immediately wrapping around you. She places a long, tender kiss on the top of your head as your sweaty bodies connect.
"Sorry, I, uh... that wasn't really a talk", Cassie says.
You burst out in laughter, Cassie doing the same upon hearing your infectious laugh. It's music to her ears and hers is to yours.
You shrug. "I don't mind."
Still smiling, Cassie kisses your temple. "Do you want to maybe come over? No pressure", she says somewhat nervously. It only makes you smile, finding it cute. "We could, uh, well tomorrow after work you could grab your car. Oh, and we could stop and get takeout. If-if you want..."
Your head drops to Cassie's shoulder. "Cassie?"
"Yeah?" she asks, looking down at you.
You give her a soft kiss on her shoulder before resting your head against her again. "That's perfect."
It was a beautiful morning. The sun was shining. The birds were chirping. You had your favorite coffee in hand. And your girl at your side.
Maybe it was the Cassie haze you were still in that was clouding your vision, but it was such a perfect day.
As you and Cassie walk over to the hospital, you don't say anything, but every now and then you look at each other smiling and blushing. It takes everything in you to not hold her hand right now. The last thing either of you need are people gossiping about you guys.
When you make it into the hospital, you and Cassie drop your belongings off in your lockers, and then head into the ED.
Robby and a few other day shift staff members are gathered at the hub. Dana, Javadi, Santos, Whitaker, Perlah, and Princess were the only ones here yet.
You take a step away from Cassie, leaving a bigger gap as you both approach the rest of the group. You're greeted by smiles.
Dana steps forward and gives you a hug. Her hugs always feel like getting hugged by your mom when you were scared or upset as a child.
"How you feeling today?" she asks.
"I'm good, there's just a little bruising, but it doesn't hurt", you answer before taking a sip of your coffee.
"Yeah, right, it doesn't hurt", Cassie says with a scoff.
You side eye her and place your coffee on the desk next to you. "I'm fine."
"Holy shit", Javadi says, her eyes wide.
Confused, you look at her. "What?"
"Did the patient who assaulted you do that?" Javadi asks, concerned as she points at your neck.
Still confused, you pinch your brows together, and then attempt to look down to see what Javadi is pointing at.
Oh.
Your eyes shoot up. You rack your brain for what to say, but you can't think of anything.
"Hm", Dana says, examining the mark. "It's oddly mouth shaped." She smirks and looks at you and then Cassie, quick enough to not arouse suspicion.
"Oh, uh..." Everyone is looking at you confused. Everyone besides Santos who's trying to hide a smile, Dana who still has a smirk on her face, and Cassie.
Cassie who's trying so hard not to smile but failing. You glare at her. But that only makes it harder for Cassie to fight back a smile.
She grabs the nearest clipboard to her and raises it to her mouth as she stifles a laugh. You're still staring at her, but you can see in her eyes that she's smug— proud of the lovebite she marked you with.
Robby looks between you two a few times, and then claps his hand together. "Okay", he draws out. Robby turns to you. "You're not in pain, correct? All the... bruising is normal?"
"Uh, um, yeah", you stutter out.
"Then back to work people", he orders.
As people disperse, your eyes find Cassie's again. She's still fighting back laughter. You continue to glare at her, but slowly a smile creeps up on your face.
At the same time, you burst out in laughter.
Perlah and Princess turn to each other. In Tagalog, Princess murmurs to Perlah, "I would have fifty dollars in my pocket right now if you took me up on that bet from a few weeks ago."
Perlah shakes her head with a small smile. "Betting that two people who so clearly love each other will stop making eyes at each other is stupid."
Princess and Perlah turn to look at you and Cassie, and see you giggling with one another. You're in your own bubble. The only people on your radar are each other.
After weeks of tension and avoidance, this morning you're closer than ever before. Beaming and laughing at each other's side.
Most of your coworkers don't know what changed or just shrug it off. But the few that know? They're thrilled.
But it doesn't even come close to how estatic you and Cassie are.
𝘄𝗮𝗿𝗻𝗶𝗻𝗴𝘀: mean dom!cassie, strap usage, semi-public sex (car), fingering, mentions of oral sex, HANDS, finger sucking, hair pulling, vibrator use, edging, overstimulation, rough!cassie, degradation, spanking
Yes this is based off of the ethel song. Next question.
⋆ butch!cassie mckay who fucks you hard in the back of her beat up mercury, making you scream as her mouth and hands are everywhere all at once, making the car shake with her unrelenting stamina, fingers knuckle deep in your soaked pussy as she makes you beg for more / 'tell me what you want baby' / 'louder I can't hear you' / 'be a good girl and use your words for me'/ as she ploughs into you, the lewd sounds of your dripping arousal filling up the car
⋆ butch!cassie mckay who does indeed work with her hands, she loves the way the soft skin of your neck feels against her calloused fingers as your wear her hand like a necklace, watching the way you take her thumb into your mouth whilst grinding your dumb cunt against her thigh / 'so desperate for me' / 'don't you just love the taste of daddy's fingers' / 'such a fucking whore' / saying anything she can to make your more needy as your lips stay obediently wrapped around her digit
⋆ butch!cassie mckay who always has a cigarette between her teeth, blowing her smoke into your mouth as she dicks you down / 'that's it.. take it all' / and who knows what she's referring to.. you'll happily take anything she gives you
⋆ butch!cassie mckay who loves to punish you after you've acted out.. taking you rough and unrelenting over whatever surface is nearby, bending you over forward, holding onto your hair like a leash and she slams into your core full throttle, strap going in to the hilt every time whilst complaining about your behaviour / 'all you ever think about is my dick in you' / 'whoring around everywhere for everyone to see like some cheap slut' / 'only happy when your cunt is full of me' / she acts as if her strap really is an extension of her, the bullet vibe on the other side working overtime to get her off again and again whilst she continuously edges your orgasms, spanking you wherever she can reach, tits, ass, cunt, if you dare try to cum without her permission. She usually would let you cum after a few hours, but if she's feeling petty or if you've really annoyed her you will go days without so much as a single orgasm and if you dare try finish by yourself she'd overstimulate you until you passed out and then some
a/n: yes this is still natasha romanoff x reader, im just running out of good nat pictures to use 💔 i also want to go to italy now so there’s that
summary: family vacation in rome
warnings: smut (almost exclusively penetration, very brief handjob), exhibitionism, being horny in a church, mention of alcohol, brief mentions of breastfeeding, mild jealousy
word count: 10.6k
It's an idea you have while still half asleep and scrolling through your phone. Sweaty, nursing bra undone, your cheek smushed into a pillow. Natasha isn't doing better — she's sprawled out on her stomach next to you, her fingers brushing against Niko's toes as he nurses.
Maybe it's not the best idea. You're both basically out of money. Doing something like this with a five month old borders on deranged. You barely have your shit together when at home — in your own apartment, in a country where you understand the official language. You're sleep deprived and in no condition to make a decision like that. But multiple parts of you yearn to escape for at least a week or two.
"I wanna go to Italy", you mumble, turning around your phone. Natasha peeks at the screen with squinted eyes. "Look how pretty."
She closes her eyes again and huffs. "You're insane."
"No, I'm in need of a break." You put your phone aside and reach out to pinch her earlobe. She doesn't even have the energy to jolt up. Niko kept the two of you up all night long. "So are you."
"I'm fine", she says and yawns. You raise your eyebrows.
Natasha isn't fine. Finals combined with a teething baby (that also went through a growth spurt not too long ago) drained her. Juggling college and basketball are hard enough, but add a baby to the mix and it's near impossible to stay sane.
"Come on", you drawl, running your fingertips down her arm this time. "Just the three of us. We'll eat pizza."
Without a word, she grabs her own phone and slides her finger a couple times. When she shows you the screen, a picture of a pizza on DoorDash has appeared. You roll your eyes and shove her hand away.
"Pizza", she declares proudly. "Fifteen minute delivery. I'll get the Italian flag on Amazon and we're peachy."
The look you give her makes her recoil a little. Niko unlatches, gurgles, then happily spits up all over you. The next look is even more intimidating, so Natasha grabs her phone again to show you a kiddie pool.
She gets hit in the face with a pillow before she can utter her next words. Instead, a grunt comes out of her. It's not too different from the sound she made in a different situation last night.
"Hey!"
"No", you retort, awkwardly turning around to grab some wet wipes. Niko's on his back now, yawning and smiling at Natasha. "Forget it. You're not half-assing this."
She rubs her face, frowning. It's not like she doesn't want to go on vacation — part of her is just hesitant. You don't have the money to go, after all. Maybe if you ask your parents it'd be a different story, but she's already desperate to prove that she can provide for you on her own.
"It's a nice alternative", she mutters, tossing her phone aside. Niko immediately tries reaching for it with his chubby hands. "We could have a nice time here, as well."
"Maybe", you agree, focusing on the baby again. She might be right. You're trying to convince yourself she is. Traveling with an infant seems like a task you're not ready for.
That half hearted, slightly mopey response doesn't hold up long. Not even five hours later — Niko screaming, your neighbors blasting heavy metal music, the stroller protesting against being folded again — you both give each other a look.
You're crying. Natasha's in an undershirt full of spit up. There are dark rings under her eyes, curtesy of the baby's owl like sleeping habits. She doesn't remember the last time she wasn't pumped full of adrenaline and cortisol. Going on vacation with a baby won't be the most relaxing thing either, but she'd rather suffer in Italy than at home.
"So...Italy?"
"Thought you'd never ask", you mutter, grabbing the stroller again and exhaling when it finally complies.
. . .
Neither of you have much experience planning vacations. Natasha's family never traveled much, at least internationally, and with you, it's always been your parents who booked flights and hotels and sightseeing tours.
It ends up being a nonstop flight, which is good. The bad thing is that your plane departs half past midnight.
Traveling with a baby is hard enough as it is, but when you also have to try and keep said baby asleep until you've boarded the plane, it turns into a nightmare. You're both walking on tiptoes — silently getting changed, grabbing your stuff, then very gently scooping Niko out of his crib.
Natasha cradles him. He stirs. You freeze, holding the baby carrier like it's a bomb that's about to go off.
Niko lets out a grunt, then seems to calm down again. You let out a long breath and start putting the baby carrier on her.
"That was close", she mumbles, shifting him around so you can fasten the clasps. "We're geniuses. He'll sleep through the flight."
"Yes, keep telling yourself that." You brush your fingers over his red locks, then glance at Natasha again. "Ready?"
"Ready", she confirms.
At this hour, the airport is almost empty. Though still awake, JFK's evening rush has passed. It's quiet now, slower, with less chaos and more jet-lagged tourists. Outside, the air is sticky and humid from the New York summer heat. Inside, it's almost too cold from the A/C.
You're both somewhat calm. You still have over an hour before your flight departs, and though you're tired from barely sleeping at all, the sleepy atmosphere at the airport makes you feel right at home. What's also reassuring is that you somehow made it there without Niko waking up — but when you walk past a blinking vending machine, his eyes fly open.
"Undo it", Natasha hisses, desperately bouncing him. He lets out a shriek as he stares at the bright lights. "Shit."
"It'll be fine", you say. "Let's just go to check-in before he gets bored."
You hurry up. Halfway to check-in, Niko decides that being carried around isn't enough — being woken up in the middle of the night means entertainment, after all, so his chubby legs start kicking and his arms start flailing. Another screech, then a full blown scream.
When you finally make it to your gate, he's still screaming. You can't tell if it's delight or a temper tantrum, but you're not keen on finding out. Getting him back to sleep is the only thing you're trying to achieve.
"Can't we just sedate him?", Natasha asks right as you're boarding the plane. You've been getting long looks from other passengers ever since he started complaining loudly.
"He's five months old!"
"It's an eight hour flight."
You roll your eyes and squeeze past a family blocking the way. A boy, no older than a first grader, blinks at Niko before covering his ears. In response, your infant lets out something between a scream and a growl.
"Convinced?", Natasha asks, squeezing past the family and hurrying after you. "I have melatonin gummies."
"He doesn't even have teeth", you reply, stopping briefly. You grab her wrist and start dragging her along. "Can you hurry? I want to sit down."
Her mouth opens, then shuts when her eyes dart lower. You're in shorts and a hoodie, thighs bare and ass rounded under the baby blue fabric. Her brain malfunctions, so much so that she's able to ignore Niko's constant fussing, and her hand slackens in your grip. Even while stressed, you're giving her orders. It's sexy even though it shouldn't be.
The seats are somewhat comfortable. The moment you sit down, you take Niko and feed him the bottle you brought. Of course, he falls asleep two minutes into his meal, so you're left behind sweaty and with an almost full bottle of milk.
You give every passenger that walks past a mildly envious look. No crying kids, no sobbing babies, no problems. There are only three other children on board, and those are all either quiet or have been asleep ever since they got to the gate.
Natasha has different things to worry about. She shifts in her seat, looks at the little bathroom in the back, then subtly glances at you again. She's trying to calculate the size of the bathroom in her head.
You give her a look when you notice her staring. Niko's passed out now, so you're only slightly bouncing him in your arms to make sure he's deep asleep.
"What?", you ask her, eyebrows raised. She tilts her head. Her previously tired eyes have lit up a little.
"Want to relieve some tension?"
You frown and stop moving your arm for a moment. "Excuse me?"
Natasha nods at the bathroom in the back. "Y'know. Mile high club."
If you weren't exhausted and annoyed, you'd maybe say yes. Or you'd chew her out. She'd deserve it. But you're running on fumes, so the most you manage to do is slump into your seat and glare.
"You think you deserve to get laid?"
Natasha shrugs before nodding confidently. "I think I did well."
"You forgot the pacifiers", you deadpan. You had to run back upstairs right as the taxi arrived. He made you pay five extra bucks for that.
"I brought melatonin gummies."
"For you, not for him!" You knock your elbow into her side and huff, almost waking Niko again. Thanks to some miracle, he stays asleep. "Loser."
Natasha lets out a grunt, her cheeks flushing. Behind you, an older couple exchanges a look. Even the seniors look more rested than you do.
"You're mean", she mutters, her elbows on the armrests and her eyes staring at the seat in front of her now.
You wait a moment before sighing. "Don't sulk."
"I'm not."
Natasha is sulking. She doesn't stop for a full hour, either. Only when she passes out on your shoulder does she forget about it.
. . .
After an eight hour flight and a time difference of six hours, jet lag has hit two thirds of you like a brick square in the face. Only Niko — still chubby, still screeching, now teething as well — is fully awake and chipper.
The bus ride is the worst of your life, probably. Mainly because you're sleep deprived and sweaty, but also because you're hauling around two suitcases, a backpack that's bursting at the seams and a baby that hasn't slept in four hours.
You're squished together on the seats. Sweat runs down your neck. Niko, mouth sticky with milk, hiccups as he keeps staring at the child across the aisle from you. Unlike him, the toddler is asleep.
"That could be you", you mumble, licking your finger to wipe his chin. You glance at Natasha and frown. "Wake up."
No reaction, just a quiet snore. Her head has lolled against the window of the bus. You spot your bus stop at the next corner, so you pinch her thigh before awkwardly getting up.
"Ow! What are you-"
"Bus stop", you say, already squeezing past a bunch of people to get to the exit. "Grab the suitcases!"
The neighborhood you're in quickly makes you forget about the milk drying on your chest. Cobblestone streets, aged from the sun and uneven. It smells like herbs and fresh laundry. The air is thick with summer heat, the yellow of the buildings is fading and a cat slinks past your ankles.
Natasha eyes a fruit vendor down the street. Niko spots someone on the balcony above you and squeals before yawning.
"Pretty", you finally say, trying to peek into a bakery that's selling bomboloni. "Can we buy something?"
"Let's get the luggage upstairs first", Natasha says, glancing at you. There's a mild sunburn forming on her nose already. "Come on, before my arms give out."
You step into the Airbnb and stop. Natasha almost bumps into you from behind, which you don't notice. Instead, you stare at the space you just entered.
Natasha expects you to complain, for some reason. The apartment is small, lived-in, looks like it was furnished a decade ago by someone's nonna. The couch is worn and deep, the bookshelf messy. Sunlight is streaming in through the windows.
Instead of hearing a complaint, she watches you turn around and kiss her. She freezes for a moment, then sinks into the kiss. You press closer, both of you still sweaty from the bus ride. Your hands cup her face. You barely notice Niko grunting in protest when he's squished between you.
You pull away. An additional flush is covering Natasha's already reddened face.
"You like it?", she asks, dragging the suitcases in after you.
"Are you kidding? You fucked up the flight, but this is perfect." You try to open the door to the balcony, but it sticks. After tugging on it for a second or two, you shoot Natasha a helpless look and she comes running over.
"Glad you like it", she mutters, grunting as she uses her entire body weight to open the door. It finally flies open, letting in the smell of the basil growing in little pots. "Jesus. We'll need to fix the door."
"Bullshit. You're not changing a thing."
You step outside, cradling Niko who's still in the baby carrier, and look at the area surrounding you. Warm terracotta, fresh laundry hanging crisscross on clotheslines between balconies. A grandma is watering a dwarf lemon tree, and her grandson keeps holding his hand under the stream of water coming from the watering can.
You lean against the railing. Natasha, on the other hand, leans against your back. Her hands cup your sides.
"How sneaky can we be?"
"Now?", you deadpan. With so much as a couple words, she managed to ruin the peace you felt. "No."
"I didn't say now", she says defensively. You see her glance at Niko, who's still awake and wide eyed. "Later. When it's dark. It's nice here."
You glance at her over your shoulder. She smirks and presses a quick kiss to your lips, staining her own with the lipgloss you applied earlier. Her thumb slips into the waistband of your shorts. Suddenly, the urge to put the baby to sleep is almost too strong to ignore.
"Later", you cave. Niko grabs your top and yanks on it. "Someone's intervening."
"Told you", she says, stepping aside to let you back into the apartment. "Melatonin gummies. But you don't listen, do you?"
. . .
It takes you a few days to get used to everything. The jet lag hits like a ton of bricks — so much so that you sleep through the first day. Even Niko decides to have mercy, which you're thankful for. He almost sleeps through, only wakes up to nurse once. In your books, that's a win.
The second day seems more promising. With the baby changed and dozing on the couch, cheeks squished, you're able to sit in the kitchen and try the espresso your host left.
The space is tiny. Only two burners and a toaster, as well as a handful of old, mismatched mugs. Natasha sticks her head into the fridge to check for food, but only finds Parmesan and a couple tomatoes next to Niko's pumped milk bottles.
"Are you that warm?", you ask, lazily watching her basically climb into the fridge. She tries to straighten up and hits her head on one of the shelves inside it.
"Shit- no, I'm hungry."
You tilt your head, eyeing her. A sports bra and boxers — nothing special, but she's the one wearing it, so you shift in your seat. Maybe her balcony idea wasn't too bad. Unfortunately, you didn't get to that part as you'd been way too tired to even consider it.
You did consider it, technically. You'd crawled over Niko and plopped down on top of her. All you managed to do was straddle and kiss her, then you both knocked out with your lips still smushed together.
"Hungry for what?", you ask, raising your eyebrows. Natasha glances at you, then a way too cocky smirk forms on her face. "Don't give me that look."
"You started it", she protests. She turns around and rests her hands on the table, arms flexing and muscles bulging. You exhale quietly. "Come on, bella. Uhm...fai l'amore con me."
You groan at the accent and grab one of Niko's onesies to toss it at her. She grins and catches it, then leans over the table to kiss your forehead.
"That was disgusting", you complain. "Don't do that again."
"Be grateful I'm learning Italian for you", she replies, voice a mumble, and kisses your cheek. She only pulls away to step around the table and reach you.
Hands on your sides, under your shirt. Lips parted as she kisses you. Tugging you up, turning around, sitting down with the full intention of letting you ride her. Taking advantage of the silence, too. No crying for once, and no babbling either.
The silence is delicious. Only the fridge, probably two decades old, hums steadily. At 7am, the world outside is quiet and slow. You press against her boner and laugh quietly when she whines into your mouth.
Natasha removes your shirt. The offending piece of fabric ends up in some corner, immediately forgotten about, and her mouth ends up on your chest. If pregnancy made your boobs grow, breastfeeding made them double in size.
She smells body lotion and something sweet. You cup her face, tilt it up, and kiss her lips. The baby monitor lets out a sleepy noise that makes you both pause, though. One hand in her boxers, you look at her.
"The crucial five", she mumbles, making sure to breathe extra quietly.
You smile, but it's halfhearted. It's likely you'll be interrupted now, even if the crucial five — those five seconds during which it's almost guaranteed Niko will wake up — pass. But they do pass, and Niko quiets down again, so you exhale and squeeze gently. Natasha moans.
"Lucky me", she mumbles, latching onto soft skin again. She mouths at your chest and you start to lazily pump your hand, getting her so hard she's all flushed and aching. "Fuck. We need to hurry."
She's right. Niko should wake up soon. He never sleeps long after making sounds in his sleep like that. It makes things bit more stressful, but also adds a bit of a challenge. You get up and get the bottom half of your body naked.
Natasha eyes you greedily. Her hands land on the bottom of your thighs, scooping you up, and you sink right down onto her cock. Slightly out of practice due to your FOMO-baby that loves interrupting you, you nearly jump right up when she stretches you out.
"Hey!", you gasp, nails digging into her shoulders. "Careful there."
"I'm trying my best", she says defensively, but you can tell she doesn't mean it. Any opportunity to prove she's huge is welcome. "You can take it. Just slow down a bit. Get used to it again."
Testing how far you can go, you roll your hips in a deliberate manner. It aches just right, so you sink down further and muffle yourself by biting down on her earlobe. Her eyes widen, breaths stuttering and fingers buried in the skin of your plush thighs.
It's a quick one. She slams your hips down so you meet each thrust, fucking into you until you're babbling and sobbing. The early morning sunlight floods the room and dips you in a golden glow, heating up every inch of your skin.
Skin on skin friction, quiet grunting, the chair creaking and complaining. You grab her hand and press it against your lower belly, and when she feels her own outline, she unloads herself deep in your belly. You come seconds later, thighs wobbly and body sweating.
Slumping into her, your entire body relaxes for the first time in weeks. During the past two days, you've started to regret your decision to come here quite a bit. But now that you're here, sweaty and tangled up in a sweet little kitchen, you couldn't be happier.
Natasha hums and suckles a hickey into your collarbone. Her hands squeeze your ass. "You want more too?"
"Hmm", you mumble, a small smile on your lips. It quickly falters when Niko starts complaining loudly. "Doubt that'll happen, love."
"He's up?", she groans, slumping backwards. "Jesus."
"He slept well last night", you say, getting up from her lap and searching the kitchen floor for your underwear. "Of course he'll wake up earlier. Where did you put my clothes?"
Natasha lifts her head, eyebrows furrowed. Empty-handed, she mimics the little toss she made earlier, aiming directly at the balcony door, and realizes she managed to fling it right at the handle. Now your underwear is dangling there.
"Nice shot", you say drily, spotting the light grey piece of fabric after following her eyes. Finally dressed, you pad into the living room and get Niko from his pillow-enclosed space on the couch.
The rest of your day is just as slow. You take a bus to a smaller town by the sea, find a pizza place for lunch, spill tomato sauce on accident. Natasha's proud she remembered the extra top for you — you're still breastfeeding, and sometimes, when milk leaks, it's more comfortable for you to get changed.
Getting changed in public is a different kind of challenge, though. With no car or apartment to hide in, Natasha finds a public changing room close to the nearby beach and tugs you into it. You end up squeezed into a tight little space, all three of you, with the baby squawking and you sweating in the Italian heat.
Natasha's bouncing Niko, but her eyes are on you. Screw that it's a public space — if it weren't for the baby in her arms, her plans would look totally different.
"Need a hand?", she asks, eyes shamelessly roaming you as you take off your crop top.
"No", you say immediately. Niko glances at you and reaches out one hand, which you pat reassuringly before looking at the top Natasha brought. "Christ, was there anything with less cleavage?"
"It's warm here", she says. "You'll want plenty of air circulation."
"Yes, that's why you packed it. Just say you want my tits out."
"I do", she says bluntly. "They're nice. Niko and I both approve."
You glare at her, which shuts her up real quick. The top is tight and low cut, pushing up your cleavage in a way that has Natasha salivating. She steps closer, hand subtly trying to slide around your chest to cop a feel, but you quickly smack her fingers.
Niko cocks his head as well, giving Natasha a look that finally has her backing down.
"No?", she asks. You don't have to answer. "Alright, got it. Geez. Can't even admire you anymore."
You resist the urge to slap her. Instead, you put the sauce-stained top into a plastic bag, which you then stash in your purse. Once your hands are free, you put Niko on your hip and make your way outside.
He's a breastfed baby. You can't blame him. But right as you're walking down the street towards a gelateria, he grabs the neckline of your top and yanks on it in a way that has you silently thanking your nursing bra.
"Hey, we don't do that", you quickly say and take his hand in yours.
"Nice try", Natasha mutters under her breath. "See? He's on my side."
"You know, I'm not going anywhere with you anymore."
"That's a lie", she says, but secretly gets scared enough to hurry up a little and wrap her arm around your shoulders.
The gelateria is a small, cute family establishment. The chairs are mismatched and in different colors, one wall is covered in pictures drawn by kids and postcards, and the owner immediately starts chatting to Niko in Italian. Your son doesn't understand a word, and neither do you — except for bambino and ciao —, but Natasha glances at you.
"Paffuto", she repeats one of the words the older man said. "That's a funny word."
You smile, and the man finally decides to pay some attention to you as well. He gestures at the gelato in front of him and asks what you want to order.
"Uh, the raspberry", Natasha says. He nods and grabs a scoop. "In a cup, please."
"Pistachio for me", you say. "Do you have whipped cream?"
A few minutes later, you're huddled together in a bit of shade provided by a tree. Niko's sitting between Natasha's legs, leaning against her stomach, and stares up at the cup she keeps eating out of.
You notice her looking at you, and you know why. He's almost six months old, and he's been expressing interest in the food you're eating for weeks now.
"We can't", you say, then hesitantly add: "Can we?"
"It's raspberry", Natasha says, looking at Niko again. "It's not too different from baby food, is it?"
"It has sugar", you say, leaning against the tree trunk. Niko squeaks at the spoon when Natasha scoops up some more ice cream. "Maybe just a tiny bit?"
She basically jumps at the opportunity. It's just a tiny bit of gelato, only enough to let Niko have a taste — but the second the cold treat hits his taste buds, he shivers before squealing. Natasha beams like she just gave him the moon.
"He loves it", she says, smiling, and scoops up more gelato. Niko reaches for the cup, his dimpled little hands greedy for more, and nearly knocks it out of her grasp. "Okay, wait, no."
"Loves it too much", you say, frowning at the scene. Your baby hasn't even had his first solids yet. Though, now he has. "Nat, those are his first solids. His first solids were gelato. Oh fuck."
"It's fine", she dismisses. "It was just a little bit. Right, buddy? That was good, huh? Now remember, I'm the fun one here. If you ever need to pick-"
"Natasha."
"I'm kidding", she says, finishing her gelato. She tosses the cup into a nearby trash can — and makes the shot, obviously —, and scoops Niko up. He stares at her, but she's looking at you.
There's gelato right on the corner of your mouth. She doesn't bother mentioning it. Too big is the risk of you wiping it off yourself. Instead, she leans over and kisses the spot, her tongue briefly darting out. You let out a surprised noise, but don't pull away.
"Was that your tongue? Ew!"
Natasha gives you a pointed look. There's basically no spot on your body her tongue hasn't touched, yet you're making a scene. She gets up, biceps flexing as she pulls you off the ground, and shoots you that same grin that once sparked your interest in her. A spark that never died out.
"Come on." She tugs you closer and you look at her. Cheeks, mildly sunburnt, and green eyes shimmering with something shameless. "Let's get back to the apartment. I have something else in mind."
. . .
During your time in Rome, you almost get arrested twice. Oddly enough, both occasions can be blamed on your decision to go on a walk.
The first time it happens, it's late in the evening. The beach is quiet, peaceful, and you're pushing the stroller around and talking in soft, hushed voices. The air is warm, Niko's cheeks are rosy, Natasha's arm is firm around you. She's holding you like she's scared you'll slip away.
Water splashes against the shore, waves rolling and sea foam glistening. It's warm, and so is she. Your hand, resting on Natasha's side, slides lower. Your thumb hooks into the waistband of her favorite shorts.
The look you exchange says everything. She glances at the water again, her gaze pointed.
"We have no swimming suits", you remind her. She leans in and kisses your cheek. "It's, like, 11 o'clock. We can't take the baby, either."
"He's asleep", she tries to convince you. "We'll keep the stroller right next to the shore. As long as we stay close enough, it'll be fine."
The idea is too tempting. With a sigh, you agree, and Natasha immediately makes a beeline for the water. The stroller stays close to the shore, like she said. Your clothes end up in the little basket beneath it. Bodies bare, you run into the water and squeal when the cold envelops your legs.
"Cold!", she says, cursing, as she joins you. She's less of a coward — instead of taking half a year to wade into the water, she jumps right in. The only issue is that she grabs your wrist and makes you dive in with her.
More coldness, this time hugging your entire body like a tight, icy blanket. You gasp and reach for her, quickly tugging yourself closer to her body. Somehow, she feels warm.
"I thought this was supposed to be romantic!", you hiss, clutching her like a lifeline. She laughs and wraps her arms around you.
"I got you clinging to me all desperately", she teases, gripping the undersides of your thighs to hoist you up. Your legs wrap around her waist and you cup her face. "Can't imagine anything more romantic."
Being held by her like this, your upper body is exposed to both the now colder air and the eyes of anyone wandering the beach late at night. Luckily, you're alone — it's only Niko in your vicinity, snoring and asleep in his stroller.
"I can", you deadpan. Natasha softens, her head tipping forward so her lips can press against your collarbone. You exhale quietly. "It's nice out here."
"It is. Quiet, nobody around..." She brushes her lips against your neck before deliberately sucking a hickey into it. You swallow. "Y'know, we could check this one off our list."
First the positions, now the list of locations. Some public, some as secretive and hidden as it gets. You're not sure how it started, as usual, but you remember both of you sleep deprived and dizzy, climbing each other in an empty movie theater. Nobody can blame you — it'd been date night, one of your firsts since you had Niko, and the mere opportunity was something you couldn't miss.
The list is long now, mainly because Natasha insisted on adding all the locations from before you even started the list as well. You're certain she only wanted to be able to write 'lecture hall, full' down, but you haven't managed to make her admit it.
"Mediterranean sea, Italy", you predict the future entry into your sex log. "Skinny dipping."
"10 out of 10", she adds, letting you slide down her body just enough to make her head push into you. She's hard as a rock and you didn't notice. "Would repeat."
You let out a moan, forehead falling against her shoulder and a shiver running through you. You slide down her body like it's a fireman's pole, her cock slowly burying itself in you until you're full. You rock your hips against her and she curses.
It's a slippery affair. Her fingers dig into your thighs to keep you from slipping down too far, and your hands lock behind her neck. She ruts up into you, water splashing and sloshing, and curses when she steps on a rock.
"I'm bleeding", she gasps, stepping aside and angling her hips just right. All you can do is moan. "Fuck, I'm-"
The moment is cut short by someone blinding you. A flashlight, held in the calloused hand of a police officer, and a face partially concealed by shadows. You can make out a bushy mustache, though, as well as thick eyebrows.
You both react differently — you let out a high pitched scream, and Natasha plops down into the water so you're covered up to your necks.
The man starts barking at you in Italian. Close to tears, you shake Natasha's shoulder until she breaks out of her frozen state and starts rambling.
"No, sorry, we don't speak Italian- no italiano, sir-"
"Out of the water!", he says, his accent thick. "Now! Put the clothes on!"
You scramble out of the water, cursing and cussing and way too naked. The officer tosses a blanket at you, which you use to wrap yourself up, and Niko's crying in his stroller. The light and yelling startled him.
"Bambino", the officer says, mellowed by your son's fussing. "Non sono spaventoso, prometto."
Niko, chubby face teary and fists balled, pouts up at the officer. The man makes a face at him that's supposed to calm him down, but instead of achieving that, your baby only starts sobbing harder.
Unlike Natasha, you don't even bother getting dressed. She's already in her boxers and shirt, while the only thing covering you is the blanket. You scoop Niko into your arms and kiss his cheek.
The police officer side eyes you. Natasha steps in front of him, making him look at her instead. He sighs and lowers the flashlight.
"No swimming at night", he says sternly, pointing at a sign. Below a pictogram of a person swimming, it says 06:00-22:00. Natasha just stares at it, and the officer sighs. "22:00 is ten at night, American. It's too late to swim. Go home. Baby needs sleep."
Through some miracle, he lets you go. No arrest, no fine, nothing — just two soaked idiots, the squelching of wet shoes and a fussy baby.
Back at the apartment, you get Niko settled before hopping into the small bathtub together. Natasha washes your hair, kisses your shoulder, and before you know it, you're making up for the interruption earlier.
You barely managed to save yourself from the Italian police once. The second time, things get even more complicated.
It's a warm day in Rome. You just left one of the markets, where you tried figs and a bunch of cheese Natasha selected randomly; now, you're making your way through the city and toward one of the nearby churches.
"It's pretty", you say, looking at pictures of it. "Not sure what we're supposed to do there, though."
"Look at it?", Natasha suggests, her voice a little strained. She's had a hard morning — literally. She woke up with a boner, got rid of it in the shower (without you), but has been fighting her body's glorious idea to bring it back to life ever since. She blames the dress you're wearing.
"Yeah, definitely didn't think of that, genius." You turn and smile at her, eyes squinted due to the sun shining straight at you, and Natasha swallows. "You better behave in there."
You're blissfully oblivious. Natasha's barely hanging on. The church appears in front of you, and Natasha keeps trying to think of things that turn her off. The only issue is that other scenarios — you, mostly, in positions she's sure aren't appropriate for a place of worship — keep popping up in between.
Or maybe they are. It's not too far off. Natasha's aware that she's trying to justify her lewd thoughts, though, so she bites her tongue and keeps walking.
Inside, it's beautiful. A gilded wooden ceiling, floor mosaics and marble floors, huge columns. Even Niko, formerly half asleep but now wide eyed, is staring at his surroundings.
The place is packed, too. You squeeze past a group of Swiss tourists and walk through one of the stately golden arches. The ceiling above you looks golden, too, but Natasha's barely looked at it at all so far. Instead, she's cursing the fact that she suggested you pack this particular dress.
It's not that tight, but it hugs your body just right. Truthfully, she's not sure whether you're even allowed to walk into a church looking this sinful, and a couple others — an elderly woman especially — seem to agree. The look you get from her is enough for Natasha to jump forward and block the woman's view.
"Old shrew", she mutters. Niko spits out his pacifier as he hiccups. "You like it?"
"It's so pretty", you mumble, still in awe. Behind you, Natasha's trying her hardest to conceal her bottom half with the diaper bag hanging from the handle of the stroller. You only notice when you turn to glance at Niko, who's babbling. "What's with your face?"
Natasha's head snaps up. "Huh?"
"It's weird", you say. "Is it your stomach? I heard figs can-"
"No", she quickly interrupts you. "I'm fine. Don't worry about me."
You will worry about her, and it won't take long, either. You're walking side by side. Then, at some point, you're just a step or two in front of her again. Natasha's eyes dart down again, running along the curves of your body and the length of your legs, and her face blooms with color.
Noticing she's fallen behind, you stop and wait for her. The second she's next to you again, you reach for her hand and she almost explodes.
It's an innocent touch, no question. But your palm is all hot and sweaty from the heat, and for some reason, that's exactly the kind of turn-on Natasha does not need in that moment.
The back of your neck is moist, too. You stop for a second to tie your hair up — it really is hot in here — and Natasha feels like she's about to die on the spot.
"You're killing me", she hisses quietly. Surprised, you turn around to face her.
"What are you talking about?"
"I'm this close to having to go into confessional", she mutters, her grip on the stroller's handle tightening. You give her a confused look. "Just keep walking."
"What-" You stop abruptly, just long enough to get a glimpse of what she means. You exhale to stop yourself from laughing. "Oh. You can't be helped, can you?"
Natasha narrows her eyes and stops in her tracks. Niko, enjoying being pushed around, lets out an offended grunt. Neither of you notice that, though, as your focus has shifted elsewhere.
"It's not funny. You're going to get me kicked out."
"Me?" You roll your eyes and keep walking, your hand grabbing hers again. Cheeks aflame, she curses quietly. "This is on you, horndog. Can't even keep it in your pants for a few hours."
"Can we leave?", she pleads. You've made it into the far inside of the church. There are multiple groups of people around you — mostly tourists, as well as a few people that are sitting in the rows and praying silently. Nobody's paying attention to her, but she feels like they are.
You sigh. You've made it through most of the church anyway, seen enough of it to call it a day, too. Niko's grumpy and hungry, Natasha looks like she's about to go up into flames. You're the only one holding your dumb little family together, so you nod at the exit and turn back around.
Outside, it's sweltering. Natasha's still sweating. She puts on her sunglasses and exhales quietly when you point out a shop that sells bracelets and postcards and little souvenirs. Before she can even think about recovering from whatever happened in the church just minutes ago, you're dragging her into the small shop.
With the stroller, there's barely space to move. Niko's right next to a rotating display with name bracelets hanging from it. They're bright, colorful, dangling slightly due to Natasha brushing against them while walking. His five month old brain immediately becomes fixated on them, and before she can stop him, he's grabbed a fistful of bracelets.
"Shit", Natasha curses. She quickly leans in to try and peel his fingers off the jewelry. "No, let go. None of those have your name on them. You're too young. How are you this strong, Jesus Christ-"
You glance at them and frown. "Hey, don't let him touch that."
"I'm trying my best", she mutters. Niko screams when she finally loosens his fist. "Okay, fine. Yell at me all you want."
"Is there one that says 'Niko'?"
Natasha gives you a hectic look. She's unbuckled the baby and scooped him up to try to get him calmed down. She glances at the different bracelets.
"Uh...Nicholas...Nicolò...no. Sorry."
You pout briefly, but turn back around to look at notebooks in different designs. Natasha's trying her best to juggle a squirmy baby and her own frazzled nerves. In need of a break, you said when suggesting this trip. This doesn't seem like a break — it seems like a surefire way to lose it completely.
When Niko's bored, he'll do anything to change that. The minute Natasha feels like she can breathe again (and stare at you as you try on rings and twist them idly), the mini-shoplifter in her arms lunges and gets his hands on his next target. A stack of fridge magnets, falling to the floor and making the owner of the shop alert.
In the end, you buy two of the magnets and a few pieces of jewelry. Niko nods off the second you're back outside.
More gelato. Another stop, this time at a little stand that sells delicacies like fresh prosciutto and olive oil. You buy some lemonade for Natasha, who looks like she's about to pass out, and she downs it all in one go.
Walking back down the street, you count the coins in your palm. Natasha eyes you — sunburns on your cheeks, hair curling at the ends, lipstick freshly applied. She lets out a soft breath when you drop a coin, but when you bend over, she falters.
During the past few hours, she's cursed that dress way too many times. But now that you're bent over, it's ridden up and exposed more of your thighs. The image of them around her head last night pops up in her head.
A quick glance at the stroller. The baby's asleep. You're clueless. Before you know what's going on, she's got her hand around yours as she tugs you into an alleyway.
Your back against the wall, you stare at her. There's not much thinking involved — the baby is safe and sound, stroller covered with a burp cloth, you're partially hidden by shadows and a trash can, and Natasha's only thinking with her dick at this point. It's been hours, after all, and she's not known for her self-restraint.
You glance at the street. Even from here, you can see people walking down the street. "Really?"
"I'll be so quick", she immediately swears, grabbing one of your thighs and hoisting it up around her side. "Nobody will notice."
It sounds impossible because it is. In that moment, you're not being rational either, though. You just tilt your head at her, trying to bite back a grin, and she takes that as a yes.
Her tongue tastes like lemonade when she kisses you. Her hands are frantic, grabbing and squeezing at soft flesh, and her boner presses right against you. You're out of breath quickly, giggling quietly when she tugs down her shorts just enough to free herself. You bunch up your dress around your waist and tug her closer.
She doesn't bother pulling down your underwear. Instead, she nudges the fabric aside before guiding herself in. Once buried deep inside you, she moans and lets her face drop against your neck.
Sex in a public alleyway is anything but romantic. It's hurried, messy, with the cold brick wall against your butt and Natasha stifling moans as to not let the residents of the buildings around you hear. Thighs sticky, kisses so uncoordinated you keep missing each other's lips, Natasha slipping and nearly thrusting against your leg.
It's a myth that breastfeeding women are unable to get pregnant, but it's a myth you still believe in, and in that moment, you're glad you do. She's hitting it raw, the tip nudging that sweet spot just right, and the lack of unnecessary fumbling for a condom definitely makes the situation a little better.
"I'm gonna cum in you", she mumbles against your neck, still fucking into you pathetically. "I'm close."
You let out a breathless laugh. "Good thing I can't get pregnant right now."
Natasha whimpers, her thumb rubbing your hip. Your back arches, tingles travel from your head to your toes and back — and suddenly, right as the orgasm is about to hit, yet another flashlight brightens up the alleyway.
Dick still inside you, Natasha freezes. Your thighs are wet. Your mouths are smudged with lipstick. A cop is staring at you, silent and in disbelief. Before you can react, he starts cussing at you to cover up. You quickly tug down your dress right as she pulls out and fumbles with her shorts.
"Dang tourists", he barks. "You don't have a hotel room or what? This is a public space! Atti osceni in luogo pubblico, ever heard of that?"
Natasha, ears crimson, scratches her neck. You try apologizing in bad Italian — "sorry, uh, scusa, we just...I'm sorry" — but the police office doesn't want to hear any of it. It's not even noon, he has about eight hours of his shift left, and he just saw something he'd rather delete from his memory.
"Public space!", he repeats, pulling out a pad. Natasha's eyes widen, and you smooth out your dress and try not to laugh. "Names and ID. Now. You're getting a fine. Dio mi, con un bambino qui...vergogna!"
"What?", she asks dumbly.
"Names and ID!", he repeats, scowling. She finally hands him her passport, and then just stands there as the cop writes her name on a ticket. Public indecency — that's the official charge. "100 euros. You have 30 days to pay, go to a post office and do it there. Here's the address. Don't do this again, hear me?"
"Of course", Natasha mumbles, voice slightly higher than usual. She accepts the fine notice and nods awkwardly when he gives you a dismissive wave. "Thank you, bye."
"Bye", he mutters. Walking away, you hear him curse under his breath.
The moment he's gone, you turn to Natasha and grin. She averts her eyes, guilty and more embarrassed than she thought she'd be. Despite the little incident on the beach a few days ago, she didn't think you'd get caught this time.
"Nobody will notice", you mock. Niko, previously napping in his stroller, lets out a wail. He's hungry. "Great plan, Romanoff."
"Oh, shush", she mutters, running her hand through her hair. You lift the burp cloth that was covering the stroller and unbuckle Niko to grab him. "We gotta go home."
You slide the strap of your dress off your shoulder and let Niko latch on. Natasha glances at you — completely accidentally, she swears — and then suddenly whips around to grab the stroller.
You didn't get arrested. You got way too close twice, though.
. . .
Nothing seems to be going according to plan.
The stroller won’t open. When it finally budges, Niko gets so offended at the idea of not being carried anymore that he starts screaming. Natasha, sweaty at 8am, blinks before caving and picking him back up. He doesn’t like that, either, so she promptly turns around and puts him in your arms.
"Seriously?"
"He loves you more", she deadpans, grabbing the bag full of beach supplies you packed. "Come on, we gotta be there before the sun gets too strong."
Going to the beach this early in the morning was your idea. Natasha didn’t love the thought of getting up at 6am just to go splash around in the water with strangers watching her, but you want Niko to dip his feet in at least once before you leave.
You get a taxi this time. The first one doesn’t show up, the second leaves you waiting for way longer than you’d planned. Once finally dropped off at a shop close to the beach, you grab the stroller and walk the last few feet. Niko’s calmed down now — he’s sitting in the comfort of his stroller’s sun shade, a little plastic rake in his hands. Natasha’s trodding along next to you, carrying both a cooler and a pop up beach tent.
Despite your genius idea to get there early, the beach is slowly getting crowded already. Natasha sprints to the last spot left in the shade, just barely claiming the spot before an elderly couple can. Neither look too happy, but when she starts waving at them to move along, they do.
You join her. The stroller struggles with being pushed on the sand. “Did you just start a fight?”
"I saved our asses", she says, opening the pop up tent and nearly hitting herself in the face. "Crap."
"Ever the graceful one."
She glares, but Niko’s full on belly laughing, so she can’t keep the scowl on for too long. "Got the sunscreen?", she asks.
You hold up the sunscreen bottle and she hums. What follows is a battle — first with Natasha, who didn’t think she’d be included when you reminded her of the importance of sunscreen, and then with Niko. Both are dramatic in their own way, but at least Niko has an excuse.
"He’s a baby", you say, kneeling behind Natasha and spreading the sunscreen over her shoulders. "What’s wrong with you?"
She flinches at your cold, wet palms sliding over her back. "It's sticky, Y/N. It feels gross."
"Trust me, your skin peeling because of a sunburn feels worse. Now help me with Niko."
After fighting a squirmy baby for a good ten minutes, you've finally made it. Natasha goes to pick him up, but he's so slippery he just slips right out of her hands again. He huffs, she snorts, and you stand to the side with the baby floatie in your hands.
She does manage to pick him up eventually. You walk over warm sand and approach the water, where a few people are swimming already. One foot sinking into the water, you realize it's at least somewhat warmer than it was a couple nights ago.
"It's fine", you say. Natasha hesitates, then steps in after you. "You think he'll like it?"
"One way to find out", she mumbles, slowly walking in deeper.
First, the water touches Niko's toes — he lifts his feet and looks down, puzzled by the sudden sensation. Then, it fully envelopes his legs. His head whips around and he stares at you. When the water brushes his stomach, he lets out a sudden cry.
Natasha quickly holds him up so the water isn't touching him anymore. You sigh and wade closer.
"Okay, Simba. Come here."
You try again and gently lower him into the water. There's a moment of silence and contemplation, during which he just watches the water lap at him — but it's followed by a 'nope', and this time, it includes tears and pouting.
"Dammit", you curse. Natasha frowns. "Take turns?"
"Seriously?", she complains. She's been looking forward to seeing you in a bikini again all day. Now that you're finally close to her, smooth skin and soft curves exposed, you're about to be forced back into the pop up tent. "I'll go with you."
"No", you say, cradling him. "Stay here, enjoy the water. I’ll go after you."
Natasha wants to stop you, but doesn’t. Instead, she watches you leave, more of your body being revealed inch by inch as you make your way back to the shore. Wet skin glistens in the early morning sun, and she bites her tongue and sinks deeper into the water to adjust her swim shorts.
You’re back in the tent, where you lay Niko down on a towel and dry his feet with it. He kicks and smiles, much happier now, but you’re back to being stuck on the shore, so you’re less enthusiastic. You kiss his cheek and hand him a toy so he can entertain himself, but your focus wavers.
You look back at Natasha, who’s swimming now. Biceps flex when she pulls her arms to her chest, then sweeps them out and forward again. Her hair is soaked at the ends, strands sticking to her temples, and her face is focused.
You roll your eyes and plop down onto your back. Niko, grabbing his rubber duck with one hand and his foot with the other, rolls onto his side and squeaks. You glance at him and smile.
"You’re lucky you’re cute", you mumble. He reaches for your hand when you tickle his chin. "You see what I’m giving up for you?"
Natasha emerges from the water ten minutes later. You’re propped up on your forearms by now, Niko sleepy and yawning. When you see her walk out of the water, it’s like a thirst trap created just for you. Her abs are on full display, water dripping everywhere, hair slicked back.
You eye her shamelessly. You’re not the only one, though, which you realize when you hear two women on the towels next to your tent whispering and giggling. They’re speaking in Italian, so you don’t understand a word, but it’s pretty obvious what they’re talking about. One glance at them shows that they’re staring as hard as you are.
The jealousy hits you like a truck. You jump up from the towel without thinking and immediately make your way over to her. Natasha’s confused at first, but when you wrap a towel around her shoulders to tug her closer, it slowly clicks. You’re not even trying to hide it — you smooth your hands down her chest, kiss her jaw, step close enough so there’s not a breath of air between you.
You’re on a public beach, and you’re staking your claim on her like she’s some kind of prize. It’s not like she minds, though. In fact, she goes from confused and just-happy-to-be-here to fully cocky within seconds.
"What’s this?", she teases, wrapping her arms around you. "My girl’s worried?"
You roll your eyes and get on your tiptoes to peck her lips. "Just making sure."
"Making sure that…?"
You tilt your head and press your thumb against her bottom lip. Like a switch flipped, her brain empties itself out and she falters immediately.
"Nothing important, baby. You hungry? I’ll make you breakfast."
Back in the tent, you throw together sloppy sandwiches using ingredients you bought at a small store nearby. It starts as sandwiches — but when you're done, it quickly devolves into a lazy make out session.
Natasha puts her paper plate aside to tug you closer. Your lipstick is smudged, there are crumbs on your thighs, but she can't say she cares. Her hair is still wet, dripping on you when she tucks you against her chest. Her lips press against yours, and once you're too out of breath to think straight, she lowers her head to mouth at your neck instead.
You only stop when Niko wakes up from his nap. Natasha squeezes your hip before getting up to scoop the baby into her arms. Most of your beach trip didn't go according to plan, but at least one thing did.
. . .
"It won't work", Natasha tells you. She's in socks and slippers, only wearing boxers and an undershirt. Niko's in her arms, facing you, chewing on his hand and beaming whenever you look at him. "He's not stupid. He saw you with me."
"You're just scared", you reply. You're in front of the mirror, applying perfume. The shirt you threw on is oversized, reaching the middle of your thighs and basically serving as a dress. "Men are so easy. I'll wink twice and it'll be done. No big deal."
Scared — unfortunately, that hits the nail on the head. Your plan is to flirt with the guy living in the apartment across from yours. As it turns out, he's friends with the guy who owns the little artisanal shop down the street. There's been a big sign in the front ever since you arrived ('Limoncello Artigianale, Vincitore del Premio 2015'), and it sparked your interest the moment you translated it.
The store happens to be out of limoncello at the moment, but Natasha casually mentioned how most shop owners will keep a couple bottles for family and friends. Now, your mission is to get a bottle by charming up the man across the street.
All of that for a bottle of limoncello. Of course, you can't drink the liquor now. You're breastfeeding. But you'd love to take a bottle back home and try it once you can.
"It's just limoncello", Natasha says, bouncing the baby. "We can find it in the States. I mean, New York is basically Italy."
"Say that to a local and you'll get shot", you say, slowly putting lipstick on. Behind you, Natasha almost short-circuits. "Come on, it'll be fun. I need to see whether I'm out of practice. You've always been easy, maybe he'll be a challenge."
"Gross."
You pause, looking at her through the mirror. She tightens her jaw in an attempt to seem unbothered, but Niko hiccuping and spitting up a little ruins it. Kicking his feet, he smiles widely.
"If you're not comfortable, I won't do it", you say, putting the cap of the lipstick back on. "I'm sure we can find it somewhere else, too."
She grumbles, shifting Niko in her arms. "It won't be vincitore."
"No", you agree. "It won't be artisanal either, I'm guessing. Think this is worth it?"
Natasha hesitates, briefly glancing at the door leading out to the balcony. You know what she's thinking, even if she refuses to say it — she'll watch and make sure the guy doesn't step over any lines. Knowing her, she'll probably keep a bottle of water close to pour over his head if he does.
"You deserve the stupid limoncello", she mutters. "Least you should get for the shit you've gone through. I saw your nipples, like, bleed once."
You grimace. Niko'd been about two weeks old and cluster feeding, which meant no breaks for you. The sudden bleeding — something you'd been unfamiliar with at the time — scared you both so much that Natasha took you to the hospital at 2am.
"Don't remind me", you say, turning around to face her. Now, Niko is truly thrilled. He starts bouncing and kicking his feet, his smiles extra bright. You smile back and cup his face to kiss his forehead. "Don't get me pregnant again, either. I'm done here."
She rolls her eyes, but doesn't argue. It's not like she's jumping at the opportunity to knock you up again, either. Not when your firstborn can't even crawl yet.
"Fine", she says. "You still want that limoncello?"
"Yeah, I do." You grab your perfume and spritz some on your wrists, then rub it on your neck. "Wish me luck."
The moment the door to the apartment has closed, Natasha hurries to the balcony. She steps out into the warmth of the morning, still cradling Niko, and watches you as you walk across the street.
Your neighbor is in his kitchen, with the window open and a smell of braised beef wafting from it. When you step closer, he pauses. The wooden spoon in his hand is dripping with sauce as he leans out the window.
Natasha can barely make out your conversation. Niko babbling and making noises doesn't help in any way, either. She exhales and steps a bit closer to the railing.
"...really does smell wonderful. I'll need a recipe, I'm not nearly as good at cooking as you are."
"It's easy", he says, smiling at you. "I'll write down the recipe. Is important you cook for two hours or more."
You hum, playing dumb, and wrap a strand of your hair around your finger. Natasha scowls — that same trick has worked wonders on her way too many times.
"Two hours or more? My, that's a lot." You tilt your head and smile, batting your eyelashes. His smile widens. "You must be great at cooking."
He tries to wave it off, but seconds later, Natasha watches him hold the wooden spoon out of the window again — this time, there's braised beef on it for you to try. At least you visibly hesitate before getting on your tiptoes and trying it. She rolls her eyes, her fingers twitching against Niko's back. He squeals down at you.
You keep going for five more minutes before finally getting to the point. Thank god — Natasha was close to storming downstairs and tugging the guy out of the window by his neck.
"By the way, you don't maybe know whether the owner of that little shop over there still has limoncello? It's supposed to be the best, and I really wanted to take some home for my friends. I know it's a bit out of the blue, but-"
"Limoncello?", he repeats. He turns around and, when he appears again, shows you a bottle of it. "This one? You could've asked first thing! I have too many bottles. Pazzo, he is."
You stare at him. Upstairs on the balcony, Natasha drops the bottle of milk she was about to feed Niko. It was all for nothing — you charmed an Italian guy, and it turned out to be unnecessary. Forcing a smile, you grab the limoncello and thank him.
To stop Natasha from sulking too much, you make your way into the apartment and immediately suggest a lunch date. It's the least you can do to distract her from the fact you probably made your neighbor develop a mini crush on you.
Again, you have pizza. Also again, you spill sauce — this time on Niko, who's in your lap, and then make him cry by daring to nurse him under a blanket. Later, when you're about to make your way back to the apartment to pack for your flight the next day, the stroller won't unfold. You feel phantom stares and start sobbing. Natasha, sweaty and stressed, tries her best to fix the situation.
"Told you", she says, accidentally slamming the stroller against the pavement, "should've stuck with DoorDash."
Somehow, it works. You start giggling through the tears, so much so that even Niko gives you a slightly puzzled look. Eventually, you do make it back to the apartment. At night, you spend your last few hours in Italy on the balcony, a bottle of nonalcoholic wine between you.
The baby is finally asleep. You're wearing the infamous little dress again. Natasha leans over the table to kiss you, hands braced on the flat surface of the plastic table. Down the road, you hear kids yell as they play soccer.
"We'll have to come back", she mumbles after pulling away. "Someday. When Niko's old enough to actually swim."
"He hated it", you add. You managed to go swimming with the baby twice — he screamed his head off both times, cutting your time in the water short and making you take turns with swimming. "Poor thing."
"Poor thing indeed", she agrees. Then, her lips tug into a small smile. "But I loved it. That bikini you were wearing..."
"Stop", you quickly say, smiling as well. "We don't have time. We still need to pack, you didn't even fold all your clothes yet."
"We have time", she insists. Grabbing your hand, she tugs you up from the chair. Her hands end up on your waist. Your chest flush with hers, she leans in to kiss your nose. "I got my priorities straight, babe."
You give her a pointed look, but she ignores it. Instead, she fully wraps her arms around you and leans in. She kisses you again, and this time it's more like a flurry of kisses, affection so overwhelming it melts your resolve to start packing.
You stay on the balcony, kissing like teenagers and giggling like the nonalcoholic wine you had actually got you tipsy.
You don't make it back into the apartment before 3am. Sleepy and smiley, you pack suitcases. You pass out in your clothes, body halfway thrown over Natasha's.
The next morning, you almost miss your flight — and she still insists that it was worth it.
summary — there are a few things natasha has to see to before you and her can make the great escape to norway
warning(s) — established relationship, black widow film semi-canon, emotional exhaustion, brief angsty vibes, the accords, dom/sub dynamics, soft?hard?daddy? (all of the above?) dom!natasha, domestic banter, essentially negotiation ensues, humiliation kink, size kink, makeout session, fingers in hair, hair pulling, lip biting, spit play, thumb sucking, previous knife play, admittedly just freak behavior, undressing, neck kisses, shaving, every kind of teasing, gentle reassurance, manhandling, threat of spanking, clit slapping, nipple stimulation, clit licking, cum play?, cum tasting, bathtub sex, slow fingering, begging, moaning, soft orgasm, aftercare, cuddling, kissing, showering, talks of hair braiding, morning after vibes, hand holding, packing, public play, free use kink at large, biting, exhibitionism, clothed grinding + groping, strap-on usage, dirty talk, elements of cnc, thigh fucking, clit stimulation (nat!receiving), just the tip, delayed orgasm, choking, mutual orgasm, praise kink, pet names, men/minors dni
authors note — so… i’ve never written anything like this and i cannot even be sure how i thought of this so... enjoy? would love to hear your thoughts and comments!
It’s not the best place you’ve stayed, but you’re leaving tomorrow morning before the sun even breaks across the sky regardless, so you try not to focus too much on the cobwebs toward the far corner of the room tapered across the ceiling like nonchalantly acknowledged decorations, or the draft that blows in from beneath the door and fights the heating system that you’ve had cranked up to seventy-nine degrees since the very moment Natasha had turned the deadbolt behind her that morning. It’s not the best place you’ve stayed. Not by a long shot. There have been cleaner apartments, warmer trailers, more thoughtfully decorated shacks that you’d slept in across the larger United States up until this point, but you’re choosing to see this situation as an opportunity for reflection rather than what it actually is; a devious and emotionally devastating rerooting of your lives by force from the elected government officials who see your girlfriend as a weapon and yourself as a necessary casualty in their crusade — though it feels more like a manhunt.
It’s not the nicest place you’ve stayed during the last two months of constant moving and continuous planning for something larger, but if you think about the cobwebs instead of the fact that Natsaha’s out securing the very last of the fabricated documents you need to maintain a low profile life outside of the states and everything you’ve ever known, it at least keeps you comfortable in bed beneath thin blankets, not pacing the creaky floors sick with nauseating worry and unease. For the first time, cobwebs are a nicer alternative than facing your reality.
You’ve been trying not to glance at the analog clock that’s propped up on the nightstand by a waterlogged bible, but your eyes shift toward it regardless of your intentions. She’s late. Natasha Romanoff, a woman who had once been allergic to tardiness, now drowns in her own timelines and overlapping escape routes. The last two months have been draining for you, exhausting in a way you hadn’t previously had a fundamental understanding of, but this is the adrenaline that she’d been carved from with razor blades, and the comfortability she exudes even still rattles you as you sit alone in the bed. It’s a cute little bungalow, but she’d promised to be home before nine. The cover of darkness adds a layer of protection to her already masked identity, but the last parade around town that she’d let herself get lost in had led to three different whispers of a Black Widow sighting, and a fourth just won’t do before you can slip away into the advantage of international waters.
Across the room your bags are packed. Two backpacks that couldn’t have appeared more different when you’d first come into possession of them now dulled by the elements and violence you’d been barely escaping since the accords had dismantled everything you’d finally found peace in. The deadbolt giggles, and then the latch turns. Two quick knocks tap the center of the door before panic can swell in your already tight throat, Natasha’s fingers always faster than your mind can anticipate in every setting. She breaks into the room with a strictness in her stare that sets alarm bells off in your head too quickly. She’s four minutes late. It makes no sense to you. Nothing insignificant would’ve deterred her from the objective at hand, but something imminent would’ve postponed her arrival much later. The darkness in her pupils unnerves you more as silence emphasizes your empty hands. You have no cards to play right now, no insight, no clue what could’ve happened or what will happen.
“You’re late.” You find yourself saying instead, because you have to say something, but there’s nothing left to say when the last four months have consisted of nothing but talking. So much talking. You’re tired of it now, something you once never thought could happen with Natasha. Your voice is brittle. Even in your dryness toward her, your voice can’t hide the nervousness you feel that she can’t comprehend. She knows you have valid reasons to be nervous, but it had been a long time since she’d been allowed to feel with every aspect of her being, and this is a life she’d never wanted to tangle you into so intricately, so she struggles to meet you at a level that’s not dismissive or overly suffocating.
“I want control.” She says instead of answering the unspoken question in your statement. Your brain stops for a moment as it considers the depth of her statement. It’s been weeks since you’d last released any kind of tension; outside of the nights you find Natasha out of bed and outside hitting a tree with wrapped knuckles, but at least she’d stopped emptying her barrel into tin targets as an immediate response to the nightmares. Avoiding sex hadn’t been either of your objectives, you either didn’t have the time, the space, or the desire since you’d left the east side of the country and came west, but it still feels like something you hadn’t even considered as it turns in your brain. The last last time she’d touched you, really touched you for more than just ten minutes at a time, there’d been nothing but exhaustion in your muffled moans and panting. It was, in all blatant terms, a quickie that might’ve left you more unsatisfied than satisfied, but you’re reserved to agree. Something could happen. It feels like that’s what you should be waiting for instead of a night of intimacy the government doesn’t think you deserve.
“We leave early tomorrow.” Your eyebrows furrow and Natasha takes two steps closer, her own expression beginning to mirror yours as she drags her eyes over the visible portion of your body. Your hands sit in your lap patiently, but your thumb rubs your knuckle raw as it works perfect tiny circles into your skin. Your cheeks are pale, lacking their usual color as the curtains remain drawn.
“So you need to sleep good.” She reasons, walking nearer until her thighs hit the end of the bed, her hands encouraging you closer as they wait in front of her toned frame calloused palms up. You comply with a huff that feels heavy in your chest, twisting your body until the blankets slip off of your thighs down to your ankles, out of the way enough to get your body upright and situated on your knees that are littered with scars from chain link fences and rocks — a visual reminder of the last two months you didn’t ask for. Her thumbs are cold as they brace your cheeks first, her palms slowly easing down onto the flush apples of your cheeks until they’re squished between her touch not too much, but enough to draw her focus down to your cupid's bow.
“I don’t think its practical to be fucked-out in the middle of our international escape.” Her hands have an addicting hold on your brain function, but they’re too cold to pull you beneath her fully how she wants, and an amused fire burns in her eyes as her nose squints and she twitches just slightly with a repressed laugh.
Her tongue clicks against her teeth before she speaks, a whimsical essence to her stare that hasn’t existed in weeks now as she lets herself forget about visas and falsified birth certificates and the likelihood of dying before you can even find peace again. “I don’t think it’s necessary for you to be thinking about the logistics of anything at all.” She teases, knowing how much you resent her throwing your words back at you near verbatim even if it is in jest.
“Natasha, I’m serious!” You pull away with a laugh, batting at her chest with hands that always appear so tiny when they’re up against her. She’s thinned out since you fled New York, bulked up and toned thoroughly sure, but her face is slimmer now. Hollow around her cheeks and bony in her nose. Still, she manages to make you feel tiny just by the confidence she exudes. “Tell me what took you so long first.” You throw out your only card to play with a resigned sigh.
“I bought razors.” She answers you simply, nodding toward the bag on the floor by the door that you hadn’t even seen her drop as she came inside. It takes a minute for your brain to come up with a reason for why she could’ve even possibly needed to go out of her way to purchase razors before it dawns on you and your body melts into the bed, all resistance evaporating into the air to be replaced by a pitiful state of submission Natasha hadn’t seen in many moons.
“No.” Your voice is whiny, high pitched and soft in a way that tells her she’s won this fight your brain just hasn’t caught up to your body yet. “Why does it even matter if I shave?!”
“Because you’re supposed to get your period in the next three days and we have more pads left than tampons and you get grumpy when the ad—“
“Why do you pay so much attention to the most random things about me!” Your face flushes, eyes wide with mortification that turns your bones hot and fuzzy. You know that she knows this about you, you know this about yourself, but nobody had ever felt it necessary to speak it aloud, and you’d never previously considered how much you appreciated that before.
She doesn’t so much as flinch at your outburst, only raising an unimpressed eyebrow at your interruption as it happens before she continues the moment your mouth closes. “—hesive gets caught in your hair. And. I want control.”
“Can I at least do it?” You plead, eyes squinted, glassy with arousal that pools in your panties and slowly rises to a boil in your belly, but there’s time before it bubbles over, not yet unbearable beneath your skin as your mind sinks into the subconscious state of submitting. When there’s expectations instead of options, things are just easier, but your hands have not been forced yet. The door to independence and resistance hasn’t been fully closed on you yet. Harsh white lighting still shines brightly through the crack in the door that Natasha watches through with a sick smile. You still don’t even realize that you beg for it every time. Maybe not with your words directly, but with your body, with your willful resistance that really just begs for harshness and direction. You know the answer is no, but she hasn’t said it and you want to hear it. You want it laid down upon your skin like a burning hot rod ready to brand you.
“No.” She shakes her head, her eyes questioning as her head tilts. “It’s my body, isn’t it? My pussy between those legs?” She doesn’t need to touch you for you to feel the implication of those words. Your thighs twitch as pleasure shoots off in your core, your eyes pinching shut as you exhale through your lips
“Yes.” It’s a quick nod of your head that satisfies her, not the titleless whisper that falls off your lips quietly and pathetically. She’s taught you better than to answer her so halfmindedly, but there’s time to remind you.
“Then you let me take care of it.” The finality in her voice seals your coffin for the night indefinitely, but Natasha’s not done reminding you how effortlessly she can get your body to fold. She’s not done abusing the power she still has left beneath her fingertips. “Kiss me. Come up here and kiss me, baby.” She nods her head, reminds you of how high her frame hovers over yours when you're situated like this, all folded into yourself on the bed while she stands, dressed in tactile clothes with more knives than you’re aware of tucked into the waistbands and pockets of her outfit.
Her lips are rough when yours first brush against them, your hands braced on her toned belly as you lean your weight against her body and sit up on your shins, the very tops of your knees hanging off the bed yet stationed between her strong thighs. The aquaphor you’d been sharing since Texas had been lost somewhere between scaling the rusted picket fence and jump starting a black camaro, but your lips haven’t fared the same fate as hers. Somehow, your lips are still cushiony and soft as they settle between Natasha’s, but she hadn’t expected anything less. Not from someone so perfect, so angelic and sweet.
Her tongue is probably the only warm thing about her body right now as it breaks through her lips and swipes across your bottom lip that maintains suction around hers. Your hands hold her belly, but hers make their way up to your hair as your head turns to let her tongue in to wander. You don’t need to be shown how she likes you anymore, you just fall into place, knowing the pleasure that follows. A whine climbs your throat as she tangles her fingers into the hair nearest your scalp, tugging only slightly as if to edge the accumulated tension from how often you’ve had it swept up into a ponytail.
Natasha moans when you brazenly — with all of the control you have left in your body — suckle on her tongue that scrapes across yours, and in a moment that's too quick for you to process but slower in reality, her fingers pull at your hair hard enough to shock you, regaining control of the kiss that you’ve nearly derailed. Her teeth bite your bottom lip as she pulls away too soon, cheeks flushed and lips swollen as a string of saliva follows her glistening mouth.
“Cheeky girl.” She hums, admiring the way you lick your lips clean of her taste without being told to clean yourself up. Her thumb comes to help what you can't reach with your tongue, swiping away the wetness beneath your lip before she feeds it back to you with a heavy pressure on the center of your tongue that gags you. She lets you have a moment of bliss only after the tears dissipate from your waterline, your cheeks hallowing around her thumb as you suck with a drunken gleam in your eyes that’s intoxicating.
“Please.” You lean in, begging for another chance to kiss her that deeply again, but Natasha shakes her head, pulling a knife from the cuff of her suit. It stirs something inside of you that you hadn’t thought about before, knowing she’d just been so soft with you, and yet a knife that she’d definitely killed someone with was being kept so close to your face.
“You like that one.” Natasha tracks your eye, a smirk pulling at her lips as she continues to undress haphazardly, like its not ruining her panties to watch you sweat with excitement over a weapon she’s plunged into many. “The one I used to cut your panties off in Venice.”
”Oh.” You shift on the bed, pressing your thighs together as you get lost in the memory of that night and the uncountable amount of orgasms you’d experienced all throughout the hotel room.
Natasha hums with a glint in her eyes, setting the last knife down on the nightstand before she nods toward the bathroom. “Don’t run the tub yet, just get a towel for your back and one for me and wait for me.” She leans in close to peck your lips once before she taps your thigh, directing you away with a pointedness in her green stare.
There’s a lightness in your head that hasn’t felt so attainable in a while, and when you get up off the bed you’re aware of the tingling in your legs that comes from not only the position you’d occupied, but the eager anticipation that drags you out to sea and strands you in an ice cold current, but you can’t focus on any one thing in specific despite the running list of things you realize and notice all at once as you move through the room on autopilot you didn’t even know you were aware of. It doesn’t really feel like time is moving at all around you as you grab two towels from the linen closet on the wall in the bathroom and spin around to analyze the tub, but evidently it is because one moment you’re all alone, two white towels beneath your arm, and your gaze set upon the bathtub with butterfly wings going crazy in your belly, and the next there’s arms tugging at the hem of your t-shirt, cold knuckles dragging along your skin as your wordlessly undressed.
Natasha’s warm breath leaves a trail of goosebumps up your neck as she kisses you softly, easing your right arm out of the hole in your shirt before the left, ensuring the towels never touch the floor in the process, and that the cold you face is only temporary as her kisses bloom warmth beneath your skin. She takes the towels from you and sets them on the counter once the t-shirt is on the floor and out of tripping zones for all parties, easing your shorts and underwear down your thighs in one fluid motion next. She taps your thigh to step out, cooing softly in your ear when you shiver.
The bath doesn’t take long to draw once she reaches over to fix the plug and get the hot water running, but she leaves you standing naked beside the bathtub for longer than necessary just to keep you antsy in anticipation for something that you’re not even fond of, enjoying the sight of your bare body as she stands fully clothed in a suit that had once put so much authority onto her name. There’s so much about this situation that drives her crazy and releases the nerves she’s never learned how to express. If she let you pick, you wouldn’t be doing this. And it's not even that she likes it, it’s that you let her. You don’t like it, and it makes you feel small, and exposed, and vulnerable, but you trust her, and in moments when she can’t even find the strength to trust her gut, that counts for more than the world itself.
“Step in, baby girl.” She coaxes gently, certain that the goosebumps accumulating on your spine are only half from arousal and definitely from nerves. She breathes deeply, her shoulders dropping before they roll back to square as she helps you over the wall of the tub and into the just-right water that sloshes mid-shin. “Too warm?” She asks quietly, knowing you’re a better gauge of temperature than she could ever be. So long as her body gets clean, the means of showering has never mattered much to Natasha Romanoff, even in freedom, even in adulthood.
“No.” You shake your head, wrapping your arms around your body as half of you warms up a considerable amount in only moments. Natasha tuts, reaching out to tap her hand against your wrist, shaking her head as she begins to work the zipper of her tactile suit down her body, letting it pool in a heap of wrinkles after it is pulled from her hips. “Mmm.” The water sloshes as you whine and shake your body in protest to her silent command, yet your body obeys the direction and forces your arms to drop to your sides within the same moment, further amusing Natasha who leaves her sports bra on as she climbs into the tub behind you. “Please!” She pays you no mind, which might turn you on even more, as she reaches back to the counter and pulls the two towels you grabbed near.
“Sit down on the edge, legs on the sides.” She hums, not fussed by your accumulating blush as you stand still in front of her. “Come on, sweet girl, I’m not going to tell you again.” The gentle coaxing is backed by a strongness in her stare that has you moving, sloshing through the water, sinking onto the ledge of the tub where a towel is draped behind your back until you’re situated enough to even consider putting your legs up. “Heels on the ledge, baby.”
“Please.” Your cheeks burn with shame as you shake your head, not sure what it is about this particular setting that makes your belly burn so fiercely, but it reduces you to whimpers and whines just to think about. It’s not the feeling you don’t like, which is part of why you don’t put up that hard of a fight. The feeling won’t feel the same without the build-up.
“Don’t make me do it, detka.” Natasha warns, already sinking onto her knees as she reaches for the bag still on the floor outside of the tub. You hadn’t seen her bring it in, hadn’t seen her come inside the small bathroom at all, but there it is and here she is and this is happening whether you want it to or not unless you say the one word you’re not even thinking about using; the word you like to forget you have, even though Natasha hates when you phrase it that way.
There’s no hiding your glistening core when your heels find their place on the thin ledge of the bathtub you know is clean only because she’d soaked a blood soaked hoodie in bleach within it hours before she’d left for your fake papers. It takes effort to keep them there with your body so stiff against the wall, and Natasha tuts and shakes her head as she recognizes you trying your best to keep your thighs as close together as they can be.
“I told you I wasn’t going to ask again.” She grits between a locked jaw as her hands drop the shaving cream and disposable razor she’d been grabbing with and instead settle on your knees, forcing them apart until one hits the shower curtain and the other rests against the wall. Your butt slips off the edge at the aggression just the slightest bit, engaging your core and thrusting your hips upward just enough to satisfy Natasha who hums at the unblocked sight of your throbbing clit she hasn’t even touched yet. “Keep them open or we can revisit how much you hate a spanked and shaved pussy.”
”No.” You shake your head dazedly, your lips pouting as you look down at Natasha between your thighs. She situates herself between your legs, moving closer to your core until the tops of your thighs rest some of your weight on hers, the tension in your engaged core dissipating slightly, but not all the way. Part of Natasha wants you fucked out and pliant tomorrow because she knows that otherwise, your nerves will derail the whole thing, but the other part just wants you to feel so unbelievably good.
“So keep them open and I won't have to do that.” She amends, grabbing the shaving cream again. She cups a handful of water, letting it fall over your core as she pulls the plastic off the top of the can with her teeth, spitting it over the side of her tub with infuriating attractiveness. “Good girl.” She hums when your thighs shake, trembling as you fight the urge to close them as water falls so perfectly overtop of your understimulated and aching clit.
“Ready baby?” She asks, nozzle of the car stationed over your pelvis. You shake your head, a mumbled no falling off your lips in the last second she’s giving you to back out before damage is done, but when you don’t say your safe word and your eyes pointedly avoid hers in shame that feels so nice in your belly, she hums with acceptance of the submission she’s being shown so perfectly. “Oh well.” She mocks sympathy as she lays the first squirt of cream on your maintained patch of hair that she’s only tackling to assert control. There’s no reason for this, and yet here you find yourselves anyway.
The razor drags across your skin smoothly, and while you hate the process, you admit she gives you a cleaner shave than you can manage most of the time. Not to say this happens often, but it's definitely one of the quicker ways that Natasha feels she’s regained complete control. It almost tickles as she takes on the insides of your thighs, but all amusement you’re even considering allowing yourself to feel dissipates when her fingers pull your lips apart, her fingertips prodding at your weeping entrance before they travel up to your clit.
Natasha taps the pulsating bud with two fingertips tauntingly, laughing in amusement as your hips cant and your hands grapple to grab at anything they can find, migrating to your chest to grab and pinch at your nipples that offer release. She doesn’t offer you a hand to grab onto, doesn’t remind you of the bar that’s mounted to the side of the wall right within reach, she watches as you grope and fondle yourself to find any kind of solid ground to channel the sensations she’s causing you into.
“Such a pretty pussy. You’re so needy, my love. So needy this little clit is just dancing for some attention.” Natasha leans in close to lap at your clit with the softest kitten-like stroke. Your hips jump upwards, desperate to chase the pressure she’d barely even given you, but her hands keep you still before you can buck shaving cream all over her chin and cheeks. “Shh, stop. You’re the only one who needs to be messy right now.”
Your head gets thrown back sometime between the comment and her fingers trailing down your labia like she’s admiring a painting while trying to add her own creative touch in the process. She pulls her fingers away only after she swipes across your opening again with featherlight pressure, rubbing her fingers together and holding them up to her face to admire. She pulls them apart obscenely, chuckling softly at it pearls and slips down her fingers, too much to keep under control with such carelessness. She hums in displeasure as it slides down toward her palm as she holds her hand up still inspecting, her tongue jutting out to lick her digits clean before it can fall to waste into the water, only adding to the tightness in your belly as you clench around nothing.
You can’t watch as she goes back to shaving you bald, can’t think as you drown in the sensations that she’s forcing you to feel with no release or relent. “Clenching around nothing, baby.” Natasha comments, unable to help herself after watching your walls contract for the third time in only a handful of seconds, her thumb pulling the top of your cunt taut, your clit fully exposed as she collects the last remaining bit of hair and shaving cream on the edge of the razor. “Leaky pussy can’t even handle me just touching it. That’s all I’m doing baby, just touching you and you’re dripping. String of wetness all the way down to the water, you know that? Know you’re dripping all over me and I can just tell how tight that little cunt is by looking at it?” She wipes the razor on the towel she has draped over the side of the tub, your hair and shaving cream smeared all over half of it, but then she grabs it, balls it up until the clean side’s all that’s exposed, and brings it down between your legs where she knows sensitivity has increased tenfold.
“Daddy!” You gasp, the final straw breaking as you jerk your hips, trying both to get away from the friction and to chase it. “Please! Please please please!” It’s a breathy mantra that you lose track of as quickly as you’d found it, your voice trailing off as you shake your head, not sure what you’re begging for or what you want or where you’re going from here.
“All this wetness.” Natasha continues to drone on about your arousal, unbothered by your fierce blush, or your growing desire that's starting to become too much in your bones. “Look at it. Look at how slutty that little pussy is. Just for me.”
Your eyes glance at the towel for only a moment, but there’s no denying the smear of clear glossy wetness that dampens and dirties it. She tosses it aside without care, pulling your thighs until more of your weight rests on her.
“But it’s not your fault is it, baby girl? Can’t help that you get so wet. Daddy trained you, huh? It’s all Daddy’s fault you're a wet, needy little girl, isn’t it?” Natasha feigns a coo as she trails her fingers against your mound, down your clit, towards your entrance. She’s soft, but not teasing this time. There’s no slight pressure followed by nothingness this time. Her fingers, three of them, sink into your core with some resistance, but the tightness of your walls is no comparison to her determination or the arousal coating her fingers. ”That’s right, that’s it. Oh, it’s not gonna take my girl any time to cum, is it? Oh no, no, you’re already clenching on my fingers. Oh, do you need to cum pretty girl? Yeah you do, yeah you do. Daddy knows your body, Daddy knows. Come on, cum for me, malysh. All over my fingers, make a mess. Shh, shh, there you go, there you go, sweet girl.” Natasha coos softly, easing her fingers out of your sensitive and stretched walls the second you show the first sign of being through and past your orgasm. She pulls you off the ledge entirely, down into her lap as she sinks into the water that needs to be drained and washed away, but for the moment, she stays, your chests flush together for the first time in a while. “Haven’t cum that hard in a while, huh? Just need a minute to get that pretty head on right again?” Natasha asks when you melt against her and remain a slumped blob, not a sound or a single hum coming from your chest as your eyelashes flutter against her neck as you thoughtlessly stare at her skin. “That’s okay, baby love. You did so good for more. Now I have a nice smooth baby to play with, huh?” She teases slightly, but you let her, inhaling through your nose and exhaling through your mouth as you melt contently into her. “Yeah, just keep breathing, sweetheart. Nice deep breaths for me.”
She doesn’t mean to rush you, but you’ve tested the patience of the water you sit in, and the temperature is becoming unwelcoming as waves slosh into your sides and shoulders as you slowly sink lower and lower into the tide.
“Gimmie a kiss, baby.” Natasha directs, grabbing your chin with her fingers and guiding your face up toward the light, forcing your eyes to focus on something other than the freckles that vary in darkness across her chest. You comply, albeit loosely, your lips resting against hers much to Natasha’s amusement as she presses hard into you before pulling away. “We’re gonna shower now, baby.” She rocks you slightly, if only to make sure your limbs are able to react and support your weight sufficiently when she eventually makes you stand.
“No.” You shake your head, looping your arms around her as you find your voice quietly. Natasha laughs, scoffing slightly benath her breath as she considers how it’s possible to have you so fucked out and pliant, and yet your first coherent utterance post-orgasm is still an act of petulant defiance agaisnt her authority. She doesn’t know how you can manage it so effortlessly, but she knows you aren’t even meaning to do it, which only amuses her further.
“Yeah, baby. We’re going to shower, and you’re going to go put some jammies on and wait for me in bed, and then how about I braid this mane of yours so we don’t even have to bother with it tomorrow morning. Let ya sleep in a little bit, hm? That sound like a good plan for a good girl?” She questions you sweetly, patiently, brushing her hand through your hair that's tangled from the wetness and tousling it’s experienced.
You nod, blinking your eyes just the slightest bit faster as your head doesn’t swim so terribly thick anymore. “Okay, so then it's time to get up.” Natasha nods encouragingly, helping you to your feet in the water that's slightly disgusting to look down at. She undoes the drain, turning the shower water back on hot and turning to face the brunt of the assault as the water warms back up to an acceptable and welcoming temperature.
She doesn’t let you think about anything for too long or too deeply, guiding you through the motions of showering, drying off, and getting to bed for the night. The next morning brings the same tender fate of care and affection, her thoughtful consideration sparing you no second or reason to wander off to the list of possibilities and outcomes that you could potentially face on your great escape to Norway where the real adventuring would begin. You wouldn’t have to pretend to find joy and comfort in cobwebs and dingy showers there, you’d be able to relax a little bit, at least until Natasha got a better idea of how to fix everything.
Fixing everything and the accords never crossed your mind once as she guided you through the docking station with a tight grip on your hand, keeping you beneath a current of control that was dissimilar to the ocean beneath you so drastically. The ocean churned and protested beneath the heavy metal of the ship as Natasha slid her cellphone and yours over the railing, dressed in a grey sweat seat that she’d lifted from a continent store on the corner only an hour ago. The bulge in her pants doesn’t go unnoticed, in fact, it's the only thing you’ve been thinking about as she manages the talking and the scamming.
The ship horn blows louder than you anticipated, but Natasha takes it as an excuse to pull you between her body and the railing, letting her strong arms provide a shield from the reverberations of sound all around you and the wind that tries to force its way into your bones. It's cold, too cold, but it's less confined out here. There’s scaffolding and metal hunks you can’t name that conceal identification, and with weather keeps away a majority of the people sharing the experience with you.
You can finally breathe when the ferry begins to leave the port, pulling away from the shore with no government order to stop immediately, but Natsha doesn’t take a breath for two entire minutes as she watches the coastline get farther and farther away through her peripheral vision. She stays still, eerily so, as she lets herself feel nervousness through the control she’s still grappling to maintain as an outlet. It’s a confusing mix of emotions, but she feels it full until she doesn’t want to anymore, turning her attention to you fully, entirely and truly fully, for the first time in a long time, her face nuzzling into your neck as she bites down on your collarbone.
Your hips jump in startled shock, grinding back against the bulge in her pants that swings with her body every time the waves jostle her frame. Her arms provide more than just decoration around you, Natasha knowing with certainty that if she were to let you go, you’d tumble over within seconds with the force building beneath the both of your feet from the winter waves.
She doesn’t comment on the movement of your hips as you manually mimic the unconscious sway that had created a point of contact between your body and the silicone extension of hers. The warmth from her chest radiates through your being as she leans closer, sandwiching you between the cold metal railing and the strength of her body as she turned to take your earlobe between her teeth, her tongue licking to smooth the ache away from your mind as she silently took advantage of your body.
”Anybody could see.” She mutters after a moment, reminding you of where you are and the bodies that you’re surrounded by for the foreseeable future. The warning barely sits on the surface of your skin for a moment, brushed off just as easily as the wind rolls over the apples of your cheeks with a harshness that chaps them.
“N-Nothings happening.” Natasha doesn’t expect the response that comes falling off of your lips with a shaky softness; some of the only words you’d spoken that morning at all. She laughs softly, muffling the sound in the pocket of your neck to keep from drawing attention to yourselves, feeling like she can breathe again for the first time as she zeroes her focus in on you. She’d used that line one too many times it seems, because now even in the half-drunk state that you maintain, you’re using her manipulation against her.
“No? Nothing’s happening, baby? We’re gonna play that game?” Natasha coos, brushing strands of hair away from your jawline that she peppers kisses into seconds later, selfishly seeking ounces of your warmth wherever she can find it
”Play that game.” You nod desperately, pussy clenching around nothing as you press up onto your tippy toes, trying to get the head of the strap-on to sit against your entrance through the layers of clothing that keep you separated.
”Good thing I picked this hoodie then, hm?” Natasha rips the waistband of your pants down faster than you can register the intention of the question, your fleece lined leggings bunching right beneath the curve of your ass with the black panties she’d insisted on being the choice for today. “Covers your ass.” She fills you in while pulling the waistband of her sweatpants down just enough to finagle the head shape of the strap overtop of them, her boxers bulging around the thick, girthy shape and length.
Three fingers last night. She’d done it for a reason. Not that you’re thinking enough about last night to realize the connection. You haven’t brought the strap out since before everything had gone down between Steve and Tony. You didn’t even know she had one with her until she’d off handedly mentioned it being at the bottom of a bag last week. It’s the big one, the one she’d worked for months to be able to fuck you with at random.
She doesn’t free the strap-on from its cotton confines, letting the arousal between your legs saturate it. The sensitivity you’d experienced last night hadn’t dissipated yet, nor would it until the hair around your clit grew back, and Natasha hums, soaking up the sounds and twitches of your body that only spread warmth throughout her from the very center of her being.
You whine when it becomes too much and not enough of anything at all, but her hands only grab your hips harder, pulling you against her strap and rocking the base back into her clit by doing so. She groans, dropping her face back into your shoulder as she works the strap between your thighs harder, faster, wishing she could feel how the cotton saturates until its wet, sodden and ruined from arousal she’d surely satisfied last night, but her little sluts insatiable at best sometimes, and she’d be lying if she said she hadn’t been baiting it this entire time.
“Awfully fucking wet, baby.” She grunts against your neck, the warmth from her words sending shivers and shockwaves down your frozen spine. You shake your head wildly, but you know that you are, it doesn’t matter though. Your cheeks burn, flushed from heat and wind. “No? Oh, but I think you are. Mmm, let me just- Fuck.” Natasha pulls your panties aside and over the bulge in her boxers, the pressure driving the both of you insane but its short lived as she stills to change things, slipping the strap through the slot in her boxers but still refusing to put it inside, just ramming your sensitive throbbing clit over and over. “Fuck, I need to feel you.” Natasha mumbles, your head shaking again, a mumble falling off your lips that's inaudible but easy enough to fill in. “Shh, baby. Just the tip, just need to feel you a little bit. Just a little bit of this pussy.” It’s agony to pay when she slips only the head of the strap into you, splitting you open wide and staying there for a moment as she relieves the pressure on her clit, not wanting to cum just yet despite holding out for so long.
”Please.” You plead, rocking your hips back onto the strap as best as you can, but Natasha has the height advantage, and as fast as you move to get back up on your tippy-toes, her hand comes up to hold the base of your throat, not teasing, yet, just resting over the edge of your sweatshirt that you’d once wished was a full winter jacket. Not now. Now, sweat rolls off of you in pearls that dry quickly from the wind, goosebumps replaced with shivers of anticipation.
“Please?” Natahsa mimics, rocking her hips shallowly into you as her hands keep you still where she wants you. “Please what, baby? Please keep fuckign me with just the tip of your cock, or please fuck me deep until I can feel it for days? Which one is it, hm? What’s it going to be? Like this? Or do you want me, fuck, or do you want me deeper?” Natasha slams her hips into you hard, unforgivingly so, her hand dropping from your throat to sit over your bladder, pressing down with a cruel mess that has you writhing between her chest and the metal railing. “Do you want me here? In your belly?”
”Please!” Natasha will never get tired of hearing all the different ways she can get you to say it, but she concedes with your pleads before you can ask again in a different way, ramming you full with long, deep thrusts that have little speed built behind them, but enough strength to ensure bruises on your hips from the railing come morning time. “Hold it baby, just for a minute. Fuck, just so that I can get there too. Come on, be good. Be a good girl for me, fuck fuck fuck.” Natasha’s thrusts turn frantic quickly, but there needs to be no rhythm in place to secure your orgasm, your body tumbling over the edge the second permission falls from her lips cut short by a moan as na orgasm bursts through her body and yours in tandem.
A giggle tears through your chest in the aftermath of the orgasm, no real reason for the laughter but no reason to shove it all away either. Natasha laughs with you fondly, turning your head with her finger eventually to kiss you sweetly and deeply.
”We did it.” She whispers against your lips, her breath warm and welcomed across your face as she blocks it from the wind for the first time in too long. “The first step at least.”
Your in no state to weigh in on the standings of your safety and progress in the plan, and Natasha knows that, she doesn’t expect an answer, but she has to say it anyway for it to be real. You smile, nodding your head because you can recognize how significant this moment is to the both of you right now, but the only echo in your head right now is getting every inch of your body inside and on top of you at the same time, so deeply infatuated with her entire makeup that seconds pass slower, just a vortex of emptiness beside you and her tangled together and mangled.
”We’ve gotta stay out here a little bit longer, baby.” She breaks it to you eventually, her forehead resting against yours in a moment of gentle affection she would never want another soul to witness. You’re hers. She fought too hard to find you to let just anybody have the sweetest parts of you.
“It’s cold.” You whine softly, finding your voice, though not your body, still relying on her to keep the both of you standing on the deck.
”I know it’s cold, but people are still finding their spaces in there. Once it settles down a little bit we can go catch a couple hours of sleep and warmth, okay? You can be my brave girl for a little while longer, yeah?” You nod against her chest, too tired and cold to form words, not that Natasha’s ever required them from you. She’d live in silence before she found someone else. “This isn’t what I wanted for us, you know.” She says sparingly, despite both of you knowing that never in a million years had she pictured this for you even in her worst nightmare.
“I choose you.” You remind her simply, but it has the same effect as an entire monologue would’ve. Natasha nods, taking in another deep breath before she melts, resting her chin against your shoulder as she lets the both of you sway, being carried away into freedom for the first time in too long.
a/n: love love love this song by halsey; i still have a bunch of requests to finish but i wrote this first because it has literally been 4 months since i last wrote something that wasn’t a request lol
summary: you run away with nat; friends to lovers, mutual pining, friends that can’t admit they’re more than just that, kinda friends with benefits but unspoken
warnings: smut (mostly r receiving, fingering), mild exhibitionism, alcohol, cheating-but-not-really, very brief mentions of blood
word count: 9.4k
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Let's get away for a week, you told her. Or a month. Just to breathe.
Maybe you meant forever. Looking at the world outside — highway signs, bright lights, a handful of cars filled with tired travelers — you're starting to feel like you did.
It's not a feasible idea. You can't just stay on the road and never go back. Maybe soon, you won't want to do that, either. It's only been a few hours, after all. Peace isn't eternal, not even when it tastes like cold coffee and leftover diner pancakes. Yet, you're convinced you could hold onto this long enough to make it worth something.
Natasha's behind the wheel. She has been for the entire ride so far. She'll probably let you drive at some point, but as of right now, she's insistent on being the one who drives you around.
You don't have a real destination. You'll want to get to a motel soon — it's past midnight, nearing 1 am —, but you're still stuck on the highway. All the exits lead to smaller towns and unfamiliar neighborhoods, and your best bet is to wait for a larger city to pop up so you can be sure you'll find a place to sleep.
Neither of you is tired, anyway. Natasha's balancing an almost empty cup of gas station coffee between her knees, and you're making an improvised dinner by mixing tuna pouches with ready to eat rice.
"Smells like cat food", she comments, drumming her fingers against the steering wheel.
"It's good, I swear." You grab hot sauce and squirt some into the plastic container, then you close and shake it. "Where's the next city?"
She checks the navigation system on the dashboard, her eyebrows furrowed slightly. "Around 9 miles."
"That's not a lot." You look out the window again and spot a sign that announces a nearby riverfront. "Hey, want to take a quick detour?"
Natasha hesitates, her eyes briefly sweeping over your face. Truth be told, she doesn't know why she agreed to this. It'd been a rash idea, thrown into the room like any other topic of conversation you've had so far. You'd both been tired and inebriated — not so much for you to be unaware of yourself and your surroundings, but enough for your walls to drop.
Your legs had been thrown over her lap. She'd stared at the ceiling instead of at your face, even if she'd rather done the latter.
Maybe she shouldn't have agreed. She has no idea what either of you are doing — you keep tiptoeing around, hiding in rooms you know nobody will enter. She'd kill for the chance to kiss you and not be seen, not be judged.
Being friends is more complicated than she ever thought it could be. Nobody understands. You don't, either, and neither does she.
Your suggested 'detour' is the Susquehanna River in Harrisburg. Coincidentally, Harrisburg has more than enough motels for you to have your pick. That moment where you end up in a room together might come sooner than Natasha had anticipated, but she might just have to make peace with the fact that it will happen.
You turn your head again. Bright eyes, lit by the signs and lights outside, stare right at her. She forces a smile.
"Sure. A detour sounds nice."
"Just so we can eat", you promise. You eye the contents of the plastic container again. "Or try to eat. This looks gross, we should've just picked up something from a diner."
"Too late", she says briskly, taking an exit. "Cat food it is."
A week or a month, just to breathe — that's what you said. It's been less than six hours now, and Natasha feels like she's never held her breath more in her life.
She parks the car close to the riverfront. You're outside before she can even unbuckle herself, so she just sits and stares, stunned, before finally getting a move on.
It's a colder night. Aprils in Pennsylvania are transitional — winter lingers, spring arrives but hesitates. The state comes alive, flowers bloom, but it's also rainy sometimes. Nights tend to be chilly, and tonight isn't an exception. Good thing you brought hoodies and jackets.
"Zip up the front", Natasha calls, grabbing her own hoodie. You're by the river already, plastic containers and wooden utensils in hand. She grabs two water bottles and locks the car. "What are you doing?"
"Testing the waters", you reply, toeing off your shoes. "Think I could climb over the wall?"
"Get your ass back here, Y/L/N."
You shoot her a grin, but comply. The concrete wall does suggest swimming — or even just dipping your feet in — is unwanted here. You grab your shoes and pad to a nearby bench instead.
Natasha joins you, wordlessly handing you a water bottle. You sit down with your legs crossed and take a sip. She makes a point of not looking at you too much, even if the wind is messing up your hair and dusting your cheeks pink.
"Cat food", you agree after taking a bite of the rice-tuna-concoction. "It's good, though."
"Better than the slob I dish up", she concedes, taking another bite. "Spicy. Did you put hot sauce?"
"Yeah", you hum through a mouthful of food. "What, does the Black Widow not tolerate spice?"
"I'm Russian", she deadpans.
You smile at her and knock your knees together. She puts her hand on yours, initially trying to stop you — but it stays resting on your knee out of a different reason.
You finish your food quickly. Once you've tossed the trash away, you linger on the bench like you're trying to avoid continuing your search for a motel.
It's quiet for twenty minutes. The bushes behind you rustle, Natasha's ears perk up, and she's suddenly up and about with her hand around your wrist.
You want to protest. You really do. But you know why she's doing it, and if she feels unsafe — or scared you might be unsafe here — you'd rather let her lead the way.
Inside the car, it's silent. She turned off the radio right after it automatically started playing music. You silently debate on grabbing your earbuds, but you decide against it.
The motel you pick is a standard one. Neon letters on a building that's not too unlike a grey block. A couple cars are parked in the front, as well as a run down truck. Someone left a stroller in front of their door.
Wrapping your arms around your upper body to shield yourself from the cold, you walk to the building. Natasha introduced you to self-check in's years ago, and it's the only way you've been booking motel rooms ever since.
"109", she mutters, scanning the doors. "Up there, first floor. Got the code?"
"Right here", you confirm, untucking your arm to show your phone. She quickly covers the screen with her hand. "Sorry."
Natasha raises her eyebrows at you, then she turns around and enters the code into the device next to the door. It clicks, so she turns the doorknob and lets you in.
Inside, it smells like old laundry and cigarettes. Someone left Chinese takeout boxes on the nightstand. If you're not mistaken, there's a condom wrapper on the floor.
You exchange a look, then you shrug and drop off your duffle bag. Two beds, an ancient TV, a bathroom you're scared to check out — you love every inch of it.
"Five star experience", you comment, plopping down on the bed. Natasha hesitates, then sits down on the very edge. "The mattress is hard."
"It's thin."
"It's a bed. I feel like that's enough." You roll over and glance at her, smiling. "Hey, it's our anniversary."
Natasha, caught off guard, only manages to stare. Her brain starts rattling, desperately trying to find out what the hell you're talking about.
She doesn't know. You sense her panic and laugh quietly. Not because it's funny, but because you're starting to question why you brought it up.
"Today, we met exactly 8 years ago", you finally explain. "That's my lucky number."
"Wow", she mumbles, turning away with her lips twitching. "That's gotta be a sign."
"Haha", you reply drily. You sit up and lean back on your hands. "How do we celebrate?"
She blinks at you. Before she can think again, she's getting up from the bed and approaching the door. You're confused until you remember the vending machine with the little liquor bottles outside.
Vodka, cans of coke, an attempt at making a party blower by using paper and an old straw. Too tired and tipsy to think, you pass out in her bed — yours long forgotten.
. . .
Water's running. Something rustles. Outside, a loud car horn goes off and startles you.
The door to the bathroom opens right as you sit up. You're still sleepy — eyes squinted, hair tousled, cheek full of red pressure lines from the pillow. Natasha, on the other hand, just came out of the shower.
There's a white towel wrapped around her body. Noting else covers her skin, which is still dripping with water. She's toweling her hair dry and staring right at you.
"Morning", she finally says, forcing herself to turn away. "Shower's free."
"It's past nine already", you say, scooting out of bed. "Why didn't you wake me?"
Natasha pauses, one hand holding a hairbrush. The answer is simple — she couldn't. Your cheek was smushed against the pillow, pink with sleep. Your breath was even and slow. She laid in front of you for minutes, facing you, noses just inches apart, before deciding to let you rest.
"It's a long drive today", she dismisses. "Speaking of, go shower. We're leaving soon."
Going to bed drunk at 4am had its impacts. You're tired, dark rings under your eyes, yawning more than talking. Even though you showered, your hoodie smells like Natasha.
She's still the one who's driving. You left too late, at least in your opinion, so now you feel like you need to make up for the time lost. She's not talking much, driving faster than yesterday, constantly checking the navigation system.
You're staring out the window when your phone buzzes. You hesitate before reaching for it, feeling Natasha glance at you a few times, like she's double checking.
"Is it...?"
"Yeah", you say, staring at the text. "She, uhm-"
"You don't have to tell me", she cuts you off. "It's alright."
"She doesn't need to know", you add, looking at Natasha. "We're just, you know. It's not like that.”
"Right", she mumbles. You swallow, the words on the tip of your tongue, but you don't speak them.
It isn't like that. Natasha's not the other person — if anything, the girl that just texted is. Having dinner together doesn't equal a relationship. A couple kisses don't equal a relationship, either. Neither does sex. If that were the case, you'd have to question what you and Natasha are.
You shift in your seat, then nod at her. "You said you went out with that girl from accounting? The one with the piercing?"
"Once. There won't be another date."
"Oh", you say quietly. "Why?"
"Because", she snaps, "there just won't be."
That's enough to make you go silent. You've made it back to the highway by now, and it's jammed. It's Friday, so that doesn't surprise you too much. Many families like to spend their weekend going on a small trip.
You glance at the radio, which is still silent. You don't ask before reaching out to turn it on. First there's static noise, then music starts playing. It's a 90's pop song.
"Kiss me", you mumble. Natasha curses as the cat swerves slightly. "What? That's the song."
"Yeah, I got that", she mutters, voice thick. She rubs her eyes. "Hey, you want coffee?"
You give her a confused look, but she's already taking the exit to a gas station.
Car in park. One seatbelt unbuckled. The door slams shut, and you're left behind while Natasha walks up to the gas station in quick, almost hurried steps. Her frame, gray hoodie and red hair included, disappears through the glass door.
You wait 16 seconds. You count them. You get up without thinking and hurry into the gas station.
Inside, it's empty aside from the cashier behind the register. Empty aisles of candy and magazines, fridges full of drinks, a menu listing the prices for coffee and teas. The fan in the corner rattles quietly, a fly buzzes past your ear. You swat at it and turn around.
Natasha's nowhere to be found. You look around, hesitate, then spot the hallway that leads to the bathrooms.
The cashier doesn't even look up from his phone. You walk to the bathroom.
The door is locked. You can hear someone, though — water is running, something rustles — so you lift your knuckles to knock against the wooden door. As soon as your hand gets close enough, the door swings open on its own.
Natasha stares right back at you. Her face tells you nothing. She's become a master at locking things away, and she'll do that even when she's with you. You've learnt not to take it personally.
"Hey", you finally say. "You...?"
"We can leave again", she says, her eyes briefly flickering across your face. "Want a coffee or no?"
"Sure."
Five minutes later, you're back on the road. The coffee is steaming hot, burning the tip of your tongue when you take a sip. Natasha frowns, glancing at you, and then reaches into the cooler in the backseat.
A water bottle lands in your lap. It's cold enough to soothe the burn when you drink some.
. . .
Your next stop doesn't happen before midnight. You carry your duffel bags and the cooler into your motel room — this time, you splurged and picked a more expensive one with higher ratings. The walls are clean, the A/C works and hums softly, the beds are comfortable. No mold anywhere, either.
Natasha and you have been exchanging little looks the entire day, even if you haven't been talking much at all. Ever since you got that text message, you've felt like you're stuck in a pressure cooker. Something will boil over — you just don't know what, or when.
You pick a movie to watch. You're both on your respective beds. Something happens in the movie, and you laugh a bit too loud.
Eyes meet. Laughter falters. You stare at her for a moment, contemplating, before slowly moving off the bed. You kneel on hers instead, knees sinking into the soft mattress. Natasha watches. She's not going to stop you.
It's happened before, exactly like it's happening now. The silence is unbearable. There are no sparks — it's more like a low buzzing, flooding you and making it unable for you to think until it stops.
There aren't many ways to achieve that. Your only option — or so you tell yourself — is to swing one leg over her lap and straddle her. Her hands come to settle on your waist immediately, and you cup her face.
This is why you left. From the moment you thought of this roadtrip, you knew why you wanted to leave. What you have isn't an affair. It's not a relationship. It's situationship hell at best, confused friends at worst. But her tongue slowly pushes into your mouth, letting you taste the chewing gum she's been regularly stocking up on for years now, and all the issues and problems are forgotten about.
Your breathing gets heavier with each second. She palms at your sides, runs her hands under your shirt to feel for the smooth, warm skin she's memorized. One hand cups the mound of your breast, making you stifle a moan. The kiss gets sloppier, less restrained. The movie is merely background noise.
At some point, your back hits the mattress. Her hand dips between your legs. By the time you're done, the movie has finished and some weird tv show is playing. You, however, are only focused on the woman on top of you.
She swallows, both of you out of breath. Her fingers wiggle inside of you, then she pulls out. "Nice movie."
"I enjoyed it", you add, shifting slightly. "Wonder if there's a sequel."
Natasha smiles, and it's genuine for the first time since you got the text message. She rolls off you, hair messy and skin flushed, and stretches out her arm when you curl up against her side. You bury your face against her chest and she kisses your hair.
"You good?"
"Just tired", you admit. For the first time since leaving New York, she let you drive. You didn't drive a lot — just a couple hours total — but you're beat. "I don't know how you do this."
"Years of practice", she mumbles. Her lips stay pressed to your hair. "You can sleep if you want."
"Hm", you hum, eyes closed already. "Where are we going tomorrow?"
"Asheville. Not too long a drive." She pauses, and when she continues, her voice is quieter. "I was thinking we stop there for a few days. North Carolina is pretty, we could explore the area a bit. See something else than just the road."
This entire time, all you've been thinking about is getting from point A to point B. Being quick and not wasting time is nice — but slowing down sounds even nicer. Even if it is for only a day or two. All it'll mean is more time with each other. And that's exactly why you went on this trip in the first place, isn't it?
You don't hesitate to say yes. Natasha hugs you closer to her chest, her breath finally evening out. She was scared of this being over too quickly. The sooner you go back to New York City, the sooner she'll have to share you again.
You don't leave before noon, mainly because you slept in (and woke up to the sound of someone banging on your door). You make a pit stop at a diner before getting on the highway again. Full of pancakes and hot chocolate, you sit down in the car and buckle up.
"Let's play a game", you suggest, stretching out. Natasha's behind the wheel again. A 'Spanish for Beginners' audiobook is playing. It's only useful for you — Natasha's fluent already. "I spy?"
She gives you a doubtful look, but you recognize the amusement in it. "Isn't that for kids?"
"It's a popular pastime for all age groups."
She hums, lips twitching. "Don't hold it against me, but no."
"Boring", you tease, but don't keep pushing. You lean back, arms behind your head, and stare out the window. The audiobook keeps playing.
They're standard phrases. You recognize some of them. Natasha understands all of them. It gets boring. You doze off.
The speakers rustle slightly as the lady says: 'te amo — I love you.'
For a second, you both go quiet. You're wide awake all of a sudden. The scenery seems to be flying by, forests and landscapes turning into one green blur. Your heartbeat is a little too quick, but you clear your throat to force yourself to focus on something else.
"Music?", you finally ask. Natasha nods weakly. "Sure."
One of the more popular radio stations starts playing. Again, it's background noise. You're not really listening.
Both of you wonder whether you should've been the ones to say those words.
. . .
It's silent in the stairwell of the hotel. The walls are cracked, there are spiderwebs everywhere, someone spilled beer and left it.
It reminds you of something. You'd been in a similar situation — alone, in some old building, not really doing much besides existing. Only that it'd been right after a mission, so you were covered in blood and gashes. Dust had gotten into your eyes, and for some reason, everything smelled like smoke.
Natasha was sitting next to you. Her breathing had been uneven. When you rested your head on her shoulder, her exhale turned shaky.
A bullet had grazed your ear. Not enough to do serious damage, but a patch of skin got ripped off. A bandaid was enough to fix it, but she kept staring at it like it was about to be your death sentence.
You still remember that kiss. It'd been the first of many — and it ended up tasting like blood and dirt. You'd washed your mouths out with water afterwards, but you still snuck into her room that same night. Having sex with someone you consider a friend isn't the best idea, but you followed through with it anyway.
To this day, you argue it can all be platonic. Even the sex, even the messy kiss you shared next to the vending machine earlier.
You'd been so out of breath you nearly dropped your soda. You've never felt this infatuated, but you're trying not to think about that too hard. Ignoring the confusing things is the way to go whenever you don't know what exit to take, or when you're unsure whether switching lanes would make things go faster or just end you up in a bigger mess.
Your lips are still swollen. Hers are smudged with your lipstick. You nudge her and she gives you a tight smile, silently offering you her beer.
"You think we'll get kicked out?", you ask after taking a sip.
Natasha's lips twitch. "For what?"
"Oh, I don't know." You shrug, your voice turning quieter, more secretive. "Inappropriate behavior next to an assortment of drinks and snacks?"
She snorts, but looks away again. Exhaling, she grabs the beer bottle from you and drains it. Alcohol is a terrible idea. It only increases the chances of you ending up in the same bed again.
"If they didn't like that", she murmurs, looking at you, "they definitely won't like what I'm thinking about right now."
Your interest grows immediately, but you try to conceal it. Instead, you turn slightly and lean back against the railing of the stairs, cold metal rods pressing against your back. One leg stretches out across the step you're sitting on, and Natasha lets you rest it on her lap.
It's 3am. You're not sure how you ended up here — it all started with being unable to sleep, tossing and turning in your beds and muttering complaints. Natasha was happy to listen to them, but after a while, it got boring.
She got up at some point and dragged you out of bed. Only clad in sweatpants and hoodies, you walked around the neighborhood until your legs got tired. Then, the kiss by the vending machine in the lobby, which you didn't realize was supervised by a security guard. The second you noticed him standing by the reception, you tugged her through the nearest door you could find.
You ended up in the stairwell, drinks in hand and cheeks flushed. Now you're still sitting there, more awake than ever. You can't imagine getting another minute of sleep tonight.
"I'm sure they have cameras set up somewhere", you mumble, trying to distract yourself. "So maybe not. Don't want you on the cover of a newspaper."
"Think we'd make the headlines?"
"Stop", you say, but can't hide the smile on your face. "They'd never let you live that down."
"No", she agrees, smiling back at you. Her hand squeezes your ankle, her eyes roam your face. She swallows. "You're so far away."
"I'm right here."
"Still too far", she argues quietly. You stare at her, exhaling quietly, then you move your leg from her lap.
Maybe it is too far. You scoot closer until your side is right against hers, until your body heat seeps through her clothes.
You look at her, lifting your chin slightly. Natasha tries to hide her smile, but fails. She's not one backs down from a challenge.
Her hand cups your jaw. Plush lips press against yours. You taste the alcohol on her tongue and smell the body wash the hotel put in the shower for you.
She pushes you up against the railing. Your hand blindly feels for the step above the one you're sitting one, and you grab it. Her tongue traces your teeth, making your heart pound harder, and her free hand slips under your hoodie.
The stairwell is empty, thankfully. It allows her to shift you around until you're almost on your back. The waistband of your sweatpants ends up around your thighs, Natasha between them. Heavy breathing is the only sound that fills the space as her fingers nudge your panties aside.
Your back arches slightly as she slowly thrusts into you. The kiss breaks for a moment, lips brushing, before you cup the back of her head to pull her back in. Fingers threaded into her red hair, you close your eyes and kiss her harder.
The metal rods of the railing press against your head. Your back is tense in the effort to keep you at least somewhat upright. You clench around her fingers when she starts pumping them into you like she's trying to beat her own best.
You understand why she's in a hurry. You're in a public space, in the middle of the night. You've lit a spark, but instead of slowing down now, you're throwing yourself into the flames.
Natasha's never consistent. She'll go from having sex on a staircase to quieting down for days. There's a little warning light in her head that sometimes goes off. It reminds her that no matter what this is, what you and her are — it can't last. It won't.
You'd tell her she can't know that. Maybe you'd confess, if something was different. You're not sure what would need to change for you to get the necessary courage to do this, but it probably doesn't matter. What you have is platonic, and everything about it is, too. The sex, the kisses, the feeling of you slowly losing yourself in her.
Her fingers move faster. She dips her head to kiss your collarbone through the fabric of your hoodie. Her nose bumps against your throat, she kisses your neck and your jaw. When she looks up at you, your breathing stutters and you come around her fingers.
The way back to your shared hotel room is silent. Arms crossed, you give her a wordless nod when she holds the door open for you. You step inside first, glancing at your bed to find the pillow she'd tossed at you earlier.
By the time you turn around again — it couldn't have been more than ten seconds —, Natasha's disappeared into the bathroom. She doesn't come back until you're asleep.
Or rather, pretended to fall asleep. You still feel her against your back when she lies down next to you.
. . .
You leave Asheville two days later. Tennessee is next on your schedule — either you'll go to Nashville, or one of the surrounding cities. You're not sure yet. All you know is that you're starting to regret making a plan. You never needed a map for this. No map could prepare you for it, anyway.
You're tired. Natasha's quiet. It's unsettling, but not unfamiliar.
She hasn't talked much since that moment in the stairwell. She hasn't kissed you once. Not on the lips, not on the cheek or forehead. She'll hand you your coffee in the morning, or remind you to grab your jacket, but that's it. You didn't do anything wrong, but you also didn't do anything right.
Your phone buzzes with the occasional text message sometimes. It's the mystery girl Natasha's yet to meet. Though if she had a choice, she'd keep her as far away as possible.
"That's her?", she asks, voice biting, when your phone buzzes again. She's trying her hardest not to swerve right into traffic.
"No", you mumble. Her grip on the steering wheel loosens immediately. "Just Steve. Said a parcel got dropped off. He put it on my desk."
"Right. Good."
"You don't have to be jealous."
Natasha, feeling the words hit her square in the face, goes silent. She stares at cars in front like they're painfully interesting, even though she has more than enough knowledge about driving a car without looking at the road. It's easier than to confront you.
"Stop pulling stuff out of your ass", she finally mutters. "I'm not jealous. We're friends. You're allowed to date people."
"You're not fooling anyone, you know."
"I'm not trying to fool you", she retorts, voice rising slowly. "It's just fucked up to make things up, Y/N. You've said it yourself, we're friends. I didn't think you'd drag me on a roadtrip to make me believe something else."
Your mouth opens, then shuts when she takes an exit. You've been on the road for no more than half an hour.
"What the hell are you doing?"
"I need to get out of the car", she says, cursing when she nearly drives straight into a couple walking to their truck. "Get out of the way!"
You stay quiet. Even if you still feel like you're right — like she is jealous, because you are too, and because it wouldn't be fair if she wasn't and you were —, you don't dare bring it up again.
It's unspoken, silent. It always has been. It's an affair of the worst kind because of that. And even if it isn't an affair by definition, you secretly insist on calling it one. Going on an entire roadtrip, just to be alone for a while, proves that.
Natasha walks straight into a diner. You follow after her, carefully watching her pick a table.
It's in the middle of the room, right next to a table with a woman your age. A pretty woman, nonetheless. You roll your eyes without meaning to.
She drops off her backpack and sits down. You sit across from her, defeated, and subtly ogle your neighbor. Red lipstick, little mole next to the corner of her mouth, eyes dark and focused on the book in front of her. You ignore the urge to call her a poser — no one reads in a diner because they actually want to read.
"Just coffee?", you ask, trying to speak quietly as to not let the other woman hear. "Or do you want breakfast?"
"Up to you", Natasha mumbles, staring at the menu. When a waitress walks up, however, she shoots her a smile that makes your stomach twist. "Good morning. What do you recommend?"
The waitress smiles back, all white teeth and eyes that look way too alive for someone working in a roadside diner. She's almost prettier than the woman next to you. Realizing that, technically, Natasha could have her pick here makes you sick.
She lists off the specials and recommends something called a pancake platter. You're not listening, though. When it's your turn to order, you mutter the word 'toast' and reach for your phone to distract yourself.
"That was rude", Natasha says. You don't look up until she's snatched the phone from you.
"Hey!"
"You were rude", she repeats, handing you back your phone. "She was being nice."
"So were you", you say bitingly. "Really nice. Maybe you want to go ask her whether she's free after her shift?"
Natasha raises her eyebrows. You let out a breath and lean back, your hand resting on your phone. You snapped, and you have no idea why.
"I can't", she finally says. "We're on a tight schedule."
You stare at her, almost daring her to say more. Your heart is pounding, your palms are hot and sweaty. The whirring of the ceiling fan is driving you crazy, just like the kid rambling a couple tables away.
"That's what's stopping you?", you ask, shifting. "Good to know."
"You know damn well, Y/N."
You want to respond — you really do — but your phone buzzes. You flip it around and glance at the screen only to see the exact reason why Natasha is acting like this. Another message from her, the 'mystery girl' as Natasha's named her.
Suddenly, it's silent at your table. You put your phone into your backpack and apologize to the waitress when she comes to pour your coffee.
Breakfast is just as silent. Natasha doesn't flirt with the waitress anymore — not even in that friendly, polite way. She pays for the food, leaves a tip, then puts her hand on the small of your back as you exit the diner.
An hour later, you stop at a gas station. Her excuse is that she needs to fill up on gas, even though you can tell it's still more than three quarters full. When she realizes her mistake, she starts the car again and parks it behind the small building.
You end up having sex in the backseat. The latter half of the drive to Nashville is as silent as the first one was.
. . .
You're used to the nightlife in New York City — the bars, the rooftop lounges, the hidden speakeasies. Halal carts, late night diners, short dresses. Natasha trying not to start something with the guy staring at you. Your lipstick, smudged across her mouth. Your high heels, in her hand as you're walking home together. It's crowded, competitive, soft between the cracks.
Nashville is different. You've heard about the honky-tonk bars, the patio bars, the shows in smaller venues. It's slower-paced, driven by music and, in the summer, the Tennessee heat. It's more intimate as well, with less anonymity, so touching — or even fighting — feels riskier. But the moment you step onto the balcony and look outside, you want to escape from the tension between you and Natasha.
"I'm going out", you finally say, hands still on the railing of the balcony.
Behind you, Natasha pauses. She just grabbed the bread you bought to make PB&J's. Apparently, your plans of staying in and watching tv in silence have changed. She's not surprised. Even after your hookup next to the gas station, the atmosphere between you didn't change — it still hasn't. You're barely talking.
"You're sure?", she asks, hesitating.
"Yeah. Looks fun enough. I've never been to Nashville, so..." You shrug and go back inside, closing the door again. "Might be a nice opportunity to get to know it a little. Music City, you know."
"You're not that into music."
"Still seems fun", you reply, crouching next to your suitcase. Natasha watches you dig out the one dress you brought. It's a sundress, one of her favorites. "Did I bring my heels?"
"Don't know", she mumbles, leaning against the wall with her hands tucked into her pockets. Her eyes stay glued to your back. "Is it even safe around here?"
"Perfectly safe. I've got my phone, if anything happens-"
"It better not."
"Nothing will happen", you say, frowning at your suitcase. "I didn't bring my heels, did I."
Natasha sighs, the bread still clutched in her hand. She hesitates for another moment, then she nods and turns around. She drops the bread on the small tv stand and sits on the bed.
"Have fun", she mumbles, kicking off her boots. "Don't forget the souvenirs. Maybe you'll find something."
You hum. So far, you've bought some souvenirs in every bigger city you've stopped in so far. They'll end up being gifts for the team — the one you abandoned so you could be alone together.
The door closes behind you. Natasha lasts almost a full hour before she ends up in the same place as you.
It's a honky-tonk bar — crowded, noisy, sweaty, with a live band playing country covers. People are dancing and drinking, and Natasha, in combat boots and an old sweater, feels completely out of place.
She doesn't know where to look first. She turns around, spots someone wearing a dress that's too similar to yours. She turns again, bumps into a guy with a cowboy hat. Finally, she elbows her way through the crowd and reaches the bar.
The room is dipped in red and purple lights. So are you, and so is the woman next to you.
You're both drinking whiskey sours. The woman is tilting her head and smiling like she's genuinely interested in what you're saying. Maybe she is, even if you're slurring your words already. You never held your liquor well.
She's the opposite of Natasha. Soft spoken, gentle looking. Her hand on your waist, loose but keeping you close. It's impossible to tell whether this has crossed the line of just being friendly, but maybe that doesn't matter.
You're still talking, mouth curling into a small smile every now and then. You put on lipgloss, and Natasha suddenly worries that she won't be the one to kiss it off tonight.
Before she can think again, she's making her way toward you, still using her elbows and hands to keep people out of the way. Some younger guy seems to recognize her — she hears him yell 'Black Widow', feels how he puts a cowboy hat on her head —, but she ignores him. Instead, she puts her arm around your shoulders before you could even realize it's her.
The woman is stunned, her hand twitching before she lets go of your waist. You, on the other hand, are both furious and shocked.
"What the fuck?"
"I'm sorry, who are-"
"Does it matter?", Natasha says, eyebrows furrowed. You scoff at her. "She's with me. Move on."
She lifts her hands and gets up, throwing you a confused look before she leaves. Natasha stays glued to the spot, her arm firm around your shoulders. You're tipsy, but not drunk enough to not get mad.
"What are you doing here?", you ask, slurring just enough to let her notice. She frowns.
"Are you drunk?"
"No!"
Just like that, she leans in and smells your breath. Her face twists slightly, and she grabs the whiskey sour in your hand to slide it away from you. You groan and slump into her dramatically.
"Asshole", you complain. "Why are you even here? What about the peanut butter?"
Natasha glances at you, trying not to seem too confused. "Excuse me?"
"The peanut butter, jerk." You shove her away and get up, stumbling but not tripping. Natasha grabs your wrist to stabilize you. "Stay away from me!"
PB&J. Now it clicks. She scoffs, crossing her arms and giving you a quick once-over. "You're the one who left", she reminds you."
"You didn't want to join", you hiss back, turning around. The same dude that put the cowboy hat on Natasha's head almost walks straight into you. "Don't blame me."
"You never asked if I wanted to join", she retorts, then gestures at the bar. "Is that why you came here? To flirt with other women?"
"Never asked? You're a grown ass woman, why do I need to ask?"
The man from earlier seems to appear from nowhere. "Hey, can I get an autograph real quick-"
"No!", you both snap at him. He points at the cowboy hat on Natasha's head — originally his, now in the possession of a Russian superhero —, then lets out a defeated sigh. He disappears as quickly as he appeared, and Natasha corners you between the bar and a wall.
She doesn't know what she's doing, or what she's even supposed to say. Hours ago, she denied being jealous of whatever girl you've been seeing. She can't admit it now, can she?
But she also can't watch you get hit on anymore. Not by strangers, not by friends who like you, not by anyone. She's sick and she's tired, and she knows that if she doesn't get some distance, it'll never stop hurting.
"I'm leaving", she says, the words leaving her mouth too quickly. They taste bitter. "I'm going home. I'm fucking sick of this, Y/N."
Your eyes widen. You feel your heart beat faster, thumping against your ribs like a panicked bunny. "What the hell are you talking about?"
"Us! This! You can't tell me you actually like this, Y/N. I feel like I'm going insane, and you're not helping!"
"And now you're leaving me?", you hiss, eyes glaring up at her. They're teary, she realizes. You're tipsy and about to sob in a honky-tonk bar. "Fuck you. Genuinely."
"No, I..." She falters and shakes her head. The cowboy hat is too big on her, so it almost slides off her head. She quickly grabs it to adjust it. "I don't know. But I can't stay."
"Then don't!", you yell over the loud music. "Go back to New York! Hell if I care!"
"Fuck New York!", she yells back. Around her, people cheer at that. "Oh, you shut up!"
"No, fuck you!", you hiss, the tears spilling at last. Natasha stops in her tracks. "You can leave. Tonight. Just fucking leave."
"Y/N-"
"No!" You push her away, hands shaking, and slip away from her. She exhales in one short, desperate breath. "No, I'm going back to the hotel. You'll fucking pack your stupid bag and leave!"
Suddenly, you're gone. The bar is still crowded, people dancing and drinking everywhere, but she's lost sight of you. The panic sets in quickly — you're drunk (tipsy, to be fair, but that's bad enough for Natasha), alone in a foreign city, not capable of defending yourself.
Natasha doesn't hurry. She runs. She doesn't have to, since you've barely made it outside by the time she reaches you, but she does.
She walks you back to the hotel. The tears keep spilling, noiselessly, but you clutch her arm right up until you're in front of your hotel room. Only then do you let go.
Natasha doesn't leave. She puts the cowboy hat aside, goes downstairs to grab you a bottle of water from the vending machine, makes the promised PB&J's.
You fall asleep on her chest. You don't go back to New York the next morning. Instead, you go back on the road. You don't follow a map, though. You've learned there's no point in it.
. . .
Welcome to Louisiana.
You stare at the sign, half asleep after waking up from a long, way too deep nap. Your head hurts, everything is spinning, every taillight seems ten times brighter. It smells like cold coffee. You're pretty sure the entire car smells like that now, though.
Natasha's behind the wheel. She's staring at the road, desperate to not look at you too much. It hasn't been the same between you since what happened in Nashville, and she can't blame either of you. Things happened. Mistakes were made. She said stuff she didn't mean.
Of course she wouldn't have left. Not even if you'd slept with someone right in front of her eyes. She was just angry, and that feeling had clawed its way to her very core.
"Baton Rouge coming up soon", she says, voice quiet. She's not sure if you're about to fall asleep again. "Want to look for a motel?"
"No", you mumble. You sound sleepy enough for her to give in. "No motel."
"You're sure?" Natasha hesitates and glances at you. Eyes closing, head against the window, clearly not thinking straight — or at all. "Your choice, love."
"I hate motels."
She smiles at that, drumming her fingers against the steering wheel. She hates motels, too. At the same time, she loves them. She's never felt free in sleeping with you before — until you made it to your first motel together. Then, she warmed up to the feeling of not having to hide.
That's a lie. She's still hiding, but now it's from you.
"Fair enough. I'll keep driving."
Natasha keeps her promise. She drives through multiple small towns, through Baton Rouge. She passes motels and hotels, diners and bars.
You're asleep in the passenger seat. You wake up when she stops at a gas station.
"We're running low on gas", she says, getting out of the car. "Changed your mind about the motel?"
"No." You pause and glance at the time. 3:31am. "Keep driving?"
Natasha hesitates, already holding the fuel nozzle. Truth be told, she's tired. It's late at night. She's scared of getting stopped by a cop.
"I don't know..."
"Just a few more miles."
She caves. You keep driving for another half hour. Then, you stop in a small neighborhood.
It's too late for a motel. You climb into the backseat, dazed and clingy, and lie down together all squished up. You both smell like each other. You've coined a new smell together, traces of your perfume mixed into her favorite lotion.
You look up when her hand touches your face. All it takes is a smile in the dim light of the street lights, and you're cupping her face and kissing her.
Clothes come off. You don't care about the neighborhood you're in, or the homes surrounding you. The windows fog up, and you ignore it happening. Instead, you straddle her thigh. Hands braced on the window behind her, you start to grind, pushing your knee against her own center in the process. She's soaked within less than a minute.
"Fuck", she pants, exhausted and out of breath and about to ruin the backseat. She's doesn't like receiving touch, usually — but it's different now. "I won't last long."
"Me neither." You grind again, and you rubbing against her thigh all dripping creates a wet squelching sound. You let out something between a moan and a whine. "I'm sorry."
She grabs your thigh and curses, making you apply more pressure with your knee.
"For what?", she struggles to speak. She curses low against your mouth. There's no air left between you. "Don't be sorry. I screwed up."
"No, you-" Your lower belly tightens, white heat flooding you. Your thighs tremble as the relief of the orgasm hits you. Moaning, you let your head fall toward. "Not your fault. I...should've told you."
Natasha wants to ask: 'tell me what?' Instead, she suppresses the cry building up in her throat. She comes right after you, her own body shaking.
You fall asleep on the backseat, half naked, your clothes strewn all over the car. It's 9am, rain is pouring from the sky, and a curious old grandma peeks into the car before quickly stepping back and shaking her head.
Natasha looks up, tired and confused. When she realizes where you are — and in what state you are — she lets out a curse.
"We slept in."
"Yeah, we..." You pause and look at her.
The words you said yesterday still hang in the air. Neither of you addressed them — not properly.
She clears her throat. "You okay?"
"Fine. We should go."
She smiles sadly and sits up, quickly kissing your cheek. "Last stop. Ready to go back to New York?"
You aren't. Neither is she. It feels like your time together is coming to an end — which is obviously not true, but it still feels like that's the case. Soon enough, you'll be back to sneaking into (and out of) rooms, hooking up in the pitch black of your room, going on dates with other people.
You grab your sweatpants and put them on. Natasha rests her upper body on her forearms and watches you.
White bra, hickeys, soft skin. The outline of her necklace left an imprint on your cheek. Your hair is tousled, and her heart is so full it aches.
You're almost in Shreveport. You decide to drive the last 60-something miles. With each minute, the downpour gets worse. The rain is blocking Natasha's view almost entirely, but she's desperate to at least find a place where you can freshen up before it gets too bad to keep driving.
It's one of those southern rainstorms. You can't see the road, can't see anything except blurry lights. You rub your eyes and glance at Natasha as she pulls off under a tiny gas station awning.
"No more driving?"
"We'll crash the car", she says matter-of-factly. "Let's just get something to eat. We might be stuck here for a while."
Two full hours. That's how long you have to wait before the weather finally has some mercy on you. By the time you watch the rain slow down and the sky clear up, you're sitting under the awning on the side of the building, two coffee cups between you.
You're holding her hand. You're not sure when you grabbed it, or why you pulled it into your lap, but you've been playing with her fingers for a while now. You twist the ring on her thumb.
"It's stopped", you say, glancing at her. She smiles faintly. "Baton Rouge now?"
"Yeah. Come on."
The last half hour of the drive is probably the worst part. It's way too quiet, but in a way that makes you sick. You can't imagine going back to New York. You had your issues here, but they weren't nearly as bad as the ones back home.
Unfortunately, you do eventually reach Baton Rouge. You never planned on driving the whole way back, so the car gets picked up by someone else. You take a flight home.
Things go back to how they were.
. . .
The issue is — no matter how hard you try, or how much you stay away, how desperately you try to distract yourself — nothing goes back to how it was.
You thought it did. You thought you could go back into an unchanged, safe yet disappointing world. But that's not how it works.
Five hours. That's when you're on your way to Natasha's room. That's when Steve rounds the corner, right as you're slipping into her room.
It's midnight. He pauses, and so do you. Inside her room, it's silent and dark.
"It's alright", he says, speaking slow. "Go do what you need to do."
"It's not what it looks like", you scramble to say. He smiles faintly. "I swear, Rogers."
Whether you like it or not, Steve knows why you left. He's had this assumption for a while — ever since he saw you kiss in the garage, late at night, when you thought nobody would be around anymore. There was no real proof of it being anything more than a fling, or a 'friends with benefits situation' (as Clint called it), but he could tell there was something. All he was waiting for was the sparks turning into flames.
Maybe the flames have died down. Maybe all that's left now are glowing embers. He better make sure you use this chance before they die, too.
"Go", he just says. You hesitate. "Come on. Don't let her wait."
You don't. The door closes. You end up in her bed, just the way it should be. You sleep better than you ever did in any of the motel and hotel rooms.
It's sex. It's making out in her car. It's canceling dates and regretting the ones you do go to. You start wishing you could get back into your car and drive forever. Life is easier when it's all one big road, never ending and far less complicated.
You wake up way too early. It's comfy in her room — white linen bedsheets, the scent of her perfume, the suitcase from your trip still fully packed and standing in a corner. If you wanted to, you could leave again right now.
You try to close your eyes again. Getting some more sleep sounds worth it. The sun's barely out, and Natasha is curled into you like a sleepy cat. Her nose bumps against your cheek, and her eyes open when your phone buzzes.
Mystery girl. She hasn't texted in days. Natasha feels herself go numb.
"You should reply", she says, voice quiet. You barely glance at the message — 'you back home? x' — before putting your phone further away from you. "Don't do that."
"Don't do what?"
"Don't ignore her."
You stare at her, sleepy and almost mad that she'd say this. You thought there was no need to say the quiet part out loud anymore — not after the roadtrip. Apparently, Natasha's choosing to be oblivious.
She just looks at you, her eyes giving everything away. The jealousy is still there, but so is that stubborn streak that's making her keep it in.
"I don't owe her an answer", you say, sitting up. She follows in suit. "I'll block her."
"That's mean", she says.
Do it, she thinks. She chastises herself for that thought.
"You're not getting it, are you?", you hiss. Natasha scoffs, her eyes roaming your face while her jaw stays clenched. "I don't want to hook up with you, Nat. I'm fucking tired of it."
"Right", she says bitterly. "Then what do you want? Because I think not even you know."
"I do know", you bite back, grabbing the blanket and pulling it over your bare chest. Did you have sex last night? Maybe. It's all a blur. But you've been naked without having slept with each other before. "You're just pretending it's not obvious. Why the hell do you think I dragged you on that stupid roadtrip?"
Natasha furrows her eyebrows. She's somewhere between thinking about what you said and focusing on not looking at your boobs.
"You never needed a reason to do dumb shit, Y/N." She pauses. "No wonder you keep ending up in my bed. You're hopeless."
At that point, you know you have to say it. Natasha will keep playing clueless until you do — she will not be the one to say the quiet part out loud.
For a while, you both knew more than the other. Every look had a purpose. Now, you both know too much and too little, and neither of you wants to be the one to let the other one know.
You do it, anyway.
"You're stupid", you say, scrambling out of bed. You find your sweatpants and kick your foot through one of the leg openings. "Nobody would put up with this. I love you, and it fucking sucks, but I do even though you're stupid, and even though I- what's wrong with these pants, Jesus Christ-"
"Y/N-"
You look up and snap. "What?"
Natasha doesn't say anything. She scoots closer to the edge of the bed and wraps her arm around your middle. She kisses your chest and pulls you into her lap. You freeze for a moment, but then sink into her.
You stare at her. She tries to smile, fails, then sighs and presses a kiss to your neck just to hide from you. You thread your fingers into her hair and tug ever so gently.
"You could've just told me. There was no need for...whatever that was."
"That's it?" You huff and slap her shoulder. "Can't even say it back?"
Natasha looks up again. She smiles, this time with more sincerity, and reaches for something on her nightstand.
It's the cowboy hat. She puts it right on your head.
"I love you", she says slowly, testing the waters. "Didn't think I'd have to say it, you know. I'll try to be more obvious."
"Good idea", you mumble, touching the hat on your head. Your heart is pumping furiously. "Could've told me too, by the way. Would've saved me a bunch of dates. And money."
Natasha hums. She tilts her head up — a silent invitation — and you press a quick kiss to her mouth.
"Could've saved us a roadtrip, too."
You giggle and shake your head. "No. That was crucial."
"Mhm?" She smiles at your laugh. "Want to go again?"
"We just got home."
"Not a no", she points out, squeezing your middle. "I almost miss it. It's weird."
You make a face. Though you loved the experience — being with her all the time, no interruptions, no responsibilities —, you're happy to be back to mold-free bathrooms and quality mattresses.
"I could do without the bad coffee, though."
"That was gross", Natasha agrees. "Didn't love the food, either. But honestly, who cares. It was fun."
"Yeah", you hum. "It was."
She nods, her eyes zeroing in on the hat you're still wearing. Cowboy hat — very fitting for a very different reason. She tries to hide the way the corners of her mouth twitch, but you catch her in the act.
"What's with the look on your face?"
"Oh, nothing." She pinches the brim of the hat and tips it slightly, just enough to cover your eyes. "Suits you."
You laugh quietly, but roll your hips against hers unconsciously. "Yeah? It does?"
"It does. Almost too much."
You end up keeping the cowboy hat. You wear it the next time you have sex, too.
a/n: listened to juno in the car and had this idea 😋
summary: based on the song by sabrina carpenter (you babytrap nat); g!p nat, college!au, natasha's kind of a fuckboy
warnings: contains quite a bit of smut (hence the 18+ tag), babytrapping (= mildly toxic relationship?), buff athlete nat because that’s a warning in itself
word count: 11k (i fear it’s gotten impossible for me to write anything under 5k words lol)
Initiating public sex in front of your friends should never be a good idea.
When you're as bored as you are right now, though, that opinion quickly begins to waver.
Hand under your shirt, your head on her shoulder. The movie you're watching is one you haven't seen before. Teen pregnancy, Michael Cera, indie soundtracks, yawn. You sigh, first quietly, then a little louder.
Natasha's nose brushes against your temple. Her hand travels higher up, fingers grazing your bra.
"Not a fan?", she mumbles. You lean into her, feeling her bicep against your shoulder. "We can ditch them."
"No." It's been a while since you last had time to spend with your friends. It's also been a while since you didn't sneak off early to fuck each other brainless. "Let's stay", you say, turning your head. "At least so we can see whether they actually fall for each other."
"No offense, but who would fall for that guy? Even I would look better in those shorts."
"Don't disrespect Michael", you mumble, smiling. "Also, you'd need bigger ones to fit everything, babe."
In front of you, Clint rolls his eyes. He lets out the longest sigh known to man and turns his head, his expression lacking any amusement whatsoever. He should be used to this kind of behavior, but to be fair, he just wants one night where your shameless PDA doesn't ruin everything.
"Alright", he says. "One more comment like that and-"
"God, you're a prude." She throws her empty red solo cup at him and he jumps up. "Chill."
He directs one last warning glare at you both, then he plops back down onto the floor. As soon as he's distracted again — drinking beer, talking to his girlfriend — she pulls you closer. Your hand finds her lower stomach, gently pressing against it.
Her breath hits your ear when she exhales, hot and slow. Your hand moves a little lower. Not too far, just enough to flirt with the limit. Her fingers curl into the soft skin of your stomach.
She doesn't say anything, though. Your fingertips dance over the fabric of her sweatpants. They graze the bulge there, prominent even when she's not hard, before finally cupping it. A sharp breath escapes her.
Still, she doesn't stop you. Her eyes stay glued to the screen, where Juno is currently giving birth. The way she's staring makes it seem like she's actually invested in what's happening, but you know the truth. One wrong move, and she'll either embarrass herself — or ruin her pants.
Or both. Most likely both.
You already look irresistible enough, wearing that sinfully short skirt. With your legs tucked under your butt and your vanilla perfume clouding her senses, your hand on her cock can only lead to a disaster.
"Y/N", she whispers through gritted teeth. You palm her crotch and feel her harden.
"Mhm?" You lean in and press your lips to her jaw. Red lipstick stains her skin. It's a sight so satisfying that you keep trailing kisses across her cheek.
Natasha closes her eyes. A noise, muffled and quiet, gets stuck in her throat. You scoff and move your hand to wrap your fingers around her length, only the fabric of her clothes separating you.
"What is it?", you ask, giving a few testing strokes. She shakes her head and you finally hear that soft whimper you'd been waiting for. "Aw, poor baby. All worked up."
In front of you, Steve mumbles something. He gets up, but before he can turn around and catch Natasha and you in this compromising situation, you move and quickly sit on her lap.
Bad idea. This might be worse than the almost-handjob you were about to give her.
Steve doesn't notice anything, but you do. Her head falls forward to lean against your shoulder, her hands grip your waist. You shift and grind against her boner, feeling her tip rub against the wet patch on your panties. At least your skirt hides everything.
You rub against her with more insistence, eyes closing. Her cock, though still clothed, fits perfectly between your folds. If you try hard enough, you can pretend she's inside of you.
"Fuck", she moans. You reach behind you to squeeze her, squeeze any part of her you can reach. "Fuck, I'll come."
Clint pauses, then slowly turns his head. You go completely still, eyes fixed on the tv and your hands folded in your lap. He knows you better than to believe this little act you're putting on, though.
You're surprised he doesn't drag you out by your collars, but you get sent back to your dorms anyway.
"Idiot", you say, grabbing the front of her letter jacket. You pull her into a deep kiss, her hands roaming your body. Salt and butter, sugar and green apple. The snacks of the evening created an addictive taste, and you silently thank Clint for not getting garlic knots again.
"You started it", she pants, trailing her lips down your neck. Your back hits the wall of the dormitory, her hard-on pressing against your hip. Her hand disappears under your skirt and palms your crotch, feeling the soaked fabric of your panties. You're dripping down your thighs. "And I'll end it. Fuck."
You moan, the sound a little too obvious. It's quiet outside, apart from the occasional hum of car engines in the distance. Due to it being a Tuesday night, there are no parties. Most people are either in their dorms or pulling an all-nighter in the library. If anyone's got their window open, they'll hear you.
Natasha sinks her teeth into your shoulder. You cry out, a little louder, and she shushes you by nudging your panties aside with her fingers.
"Quiet", she mumbles, voice gentle like a praise. "Quiet for me, baby."
You writhe when she pushes two fingers into you. They slip in easily, your folds slick with wet heat, and immediately begin thrusting into you. You buck your hips to meet her movements, but she pulls out before you can even get started.
"Hey", you protest, ignoring the fact that she's already got her arm wrapped around you. Fingers in her mouth to lick off excess moisture, she pulls you toward the entrance. "Nat, I'm horny."
"Where's your roommate again?"
"Huh?" You frown, then lightly slap her chest. "Right! Good call."
She laughs quietly, the sound rough and strained, and walks up the stairs. Her hand moves to dip under your skirt. She gropes your ass, kneading the flesh. "I seriously don't know how you got into college, baby."
"Wow. Here I was, considering head tonight, and you made me change my mind."
"Oh, please." She pushes open the door and walks you to the bed. As soon as she's seated, you straddle her and wrap your arms around her neck. Her hands are under your shirt before you can even kiss her. Her tongue brushes against the seam of your lips and you open your mouth.
You grind against her boner, which only makes the ache between your legs worse. Natasha breaks the kiss to tug off your top. Her eyes dart a little lower, zeroing in on your chest. Full breasts, spilling out of a lacy bra with tiny hearts embroidered in it.
Her face sinks to bury itself between your boobs. You feel wet kisses on your skin.
"Taste so good."
"Nat."
"So soft."
"Nat."
She huffs, but doesn't look up. Her hands move your hips, making you rub against her cock. The crotch of her sweatpants is stained with a little wet patch. "What?"
"I want you to fuck me, not make out with my breasts all night long."
You feel the heat of her cheeks. Smirking faintly, you run your hand into her hair.
"Screw you."
"I'm trying." You twist a strand of her hair around your finger and tug. "Come on. I thought of a new position we could try."
That manages to make her look up, though she seems skeptic. It's almost like a game you've been playing — who can come up with the wildest position? Anything counts, as long as it leads to at least one of you having an orgasm.
"You better not disappoint this time", she says and kisses your jaw. Her hands splay out on your ass, fingertips brushing under the fabric of your panties. "That last one was a letdown."
You hum. You have to agree with her here — sidesaddle riding doesn't work no matter how you interpret it, apparently.
"This one's good", you say, getting off her lap. She groans.
"We could pause the game", she pleads, making puppy dog eyes at you. It's a fun game, sure, but sometimes, she wants to see your face while she fucks you. "Just tonight."
You tilt your head at her, eyebrows raised in silent approval for her to keep going.
"I'll let you top", Natasha adds. That's enough for you to be sold.
. . .
When you wake up, it's because of someone knocking on the door.
At first, you don't notice it. Too tight is sleep's grip on you, too warm is your bed. You're curled into Natasha, her arms wrapped around you and holding you close. But then they knock again, more insistently this time, and you sigh.
You squint to block out the sun and get up, stepping over the empty ramen cups you discarded on the floor after a late-night craving. Behind you, Natasha mutters something and rolls over. You slip into a loose shirt and open the door.
Randy, your resident advisor, pauses when he sees you. Messy hair, a thin shirt that barely reaches your thighs, your neck littered with marks. You raise your eyebrows at him.
"Yes?", you drawl. He opens his mouth, then closes it again. His freckled face flushes pink and he coughs. "Come on, I don't have all morning."
"There, uhm- there was a noise complaint", he says, fingers drumming against the clipboard he for some reason always carries around. "From one of the other students."
You give him a blank stare. "Okay?"
"No, not okay. Look, I don't care what you do in your free time, but maybe keep it down? The walls are quite thin, and the excessive noise, uh..." He sighs, eyes flitting down your body again. He shifts awkwardly, clipboard angled a bit, and you realize that he's trying to conceal a certain problem he's run into.
If the situation was different, you'd be irritated. But watching Randy, the 30-something guy who started working here two years ago, stumble over his own words and stutter like a nervous first grader, is too amusing to genuinely get pissed.
You lean against the doorframe, arms crossed. "Deep breaths, honey. Don't faint on me."
He tries to glare at you, but fails miserably. "Y/N, I'm being serious. Others want to sleep."
"Yeah, yeah." You wave your hand dismissively. "I'll tell Nat."
Behind you, Natasha groans into your pillow. "Tell them to mind their own business", she mutters, voice rough with sleep. "Or move the fuck out."
He briefly peeks into the room, then directs his attention toward you again. You give him a challenging look.
"Nat", he repeats. The way he says her name does manage to irritate you now. You know what others think of her. You also know they're not entirely wrong. "Oh, yeah, fine. Good."
"Good", you repeat, stepping back with one hand on the doorknob. "Oh, and Randy? I know you've been getting, like, zero action lately, but I just woke up. Not even you can be that desperate. Maybe touch some grass?"
He lets out a choked sound. Before he can say anything, you wave two fingers at him and close the door.
"Buh-bye!", you call, just before the door snaps in. You twirl around and spot Natasha, still half asleep and sprawled out on your bed. Her red hair is loose for once, messy and soft, and you ignore the urge to get back into bed with her.
She hums, stretching like a cat, all lazy smiles and toned arms. An admittedly enticing sight. "Got rid of him?"
"Oh yeah." You run your hand along her arm. "I kinda feel bad for the guy."
"Don't. He's a creep." She puts her hand on the back of your thigh, tugging on it. If you didn't know better, you'd think she's scared you'll just slip away. "Feel bad for me. The abandoned girlfriend."
You huff, not budging. You'd love to go back to bed, but you have other things to do.
"Classes", you remind her, turning away. You take off your shirt and she groans. "Shower, too." Your panties follow. This time, she lets out a full blown moan.
You turn around and give her an unimpressed (albeit slightly amused) look. "And that is why we got a noise complaint."
"Come on", she whines. "Not even professors like their own classes. You can afford ten more minutes, baby. I won't even make you put on your clothes again."
"You say that like it's supposed to benefit me."
"It benefits both of us." Natasha grunts and finally sits up, slouching. Her arms are crossed over her lap as her eyes travel up and down your body. It takes you a second to realize why.
She tilts her head, cheeks pink. The expression on her face is both guilty and hopeful, like she's weighing her odds. A productive day or a few more minutes — maybe hours, if she plays her cards right — in bed with her?
Her chances aren't looking too bad.
"You can't be serious", you deadpan. Of course, she is.
"I'll be quick."
"You're never quick!"
"You can't blame me for that", she retorts. "God, how am I supposed to keep my hands off you for the next few hours?"
"Next few 'hours'? Babe, you have practice today. Plus, I wanted to go shopping."
Natasha flops onto her back dramatically. It gives you a full view of her body, head to toe, with her not-so-little problem included. You bite the inside of your cheek frustratedly as you realize she's chipping away at your resolve.
"Practice isn't that important", she mutters, her forearms covering her eyes.
"Babe, you're team captain", you say, turning around. Focus on something else, anything else. If you cave, you will definitely be late. Or, worst case scenario, you won't leave your dorm before lunchtime — again. "Just...take a cold shower. I'll see you tonight."
She mutters something about 'showers being a scam' under her breath, then finally gets up. You watch her gather her stuff and get dressed, but you keep her letter jacket clutched to your chest. She raises her eyebrows and reaches out her hand.
"No."
"That's mine."
"Nope."
Natasha rolls her eyes, but ultimately just kisses you before slipping into her shoes. She can't help it — she's weak for you.
"I'll get you back for this", she says, then the door falls shut behind her.
. . .
The basketball circles the hoop once, twice, leaving everyone on the edge of their seats.
One leg crossed over the other, you lean forward. Red lips part slightly, manicured nails dig into the thin skin of your knee. All eyes are on the ball, which wobbles — but then it slips off and bounces away. You groan and toss your head back.
"Come on, Romanoff!", someone next to you shouts.
"Damn it", you curse. You go to her games all the time, and usually, you enjoy it. Watching her miss a shot, however, is not the most pleasant part of the experience.
Natasha runs her hand over her hair, clearly frustrated. She's been off her shooting game today, and she doesn't know why. She's not doing anything different.
You watch her trail backwards, bouncing on her heels and her eyes locked on the hoop. When she hears her team's complaints, she turns around. She yells at a teammate, then at a player from the opposite team, before the coach calls for a timeout.
She jogs to the bench, snatches her water bottle, and tips her head back to take a swig. Baby hairs stick to her sweaty temples, the veins on her arms popping. You lean forward.
"Nat!"
She looks up, eyebrows furrowed and jaw clenched. Then she realizes it's you and, just like that, her scowl softens. She glances at her team to check if anyone's watching her before approaching you. You're in the first row, right next to the home team's bench, so all she has to do is lean on the barrier separating the seats from the court.
"Hey", she says.
"'Hey'? Are you kidding me? What the hell was up with that shot?"
Natasha frowns and huffs. "Alright, I don't need a lecture right now. So unless you want to kiss me for good luck-"
A girl from her team — one you don't know too well — nudges her. Natasha barely glances at her, but it's enough for you to lean forward and tug at her ear.
"What the fuck!"
"I'm serious! You missed by, like, half a mile."
The glare she gives you is deadly, but you deserve it. You are being a little unfair. For good reason, though: whenever you're there to berate her, she suddenly starts playing much better. It's like magic. She needs a healthy dose of bullying from you for her performance to be at its peak.
"Alright", she snaps. "Be my guest. Suit up and try, if you think you'll do better."
"Oh, no." You reach up and brush your fingers along her jaw before resting them under her chin. "You're the best, aren't you? So show me that's true, and I'll reward you. But losers don't get a reward."
"You drive a hard bargain", she mutters. You smile innocently and tap her bottom lip. "Fine. Fine, I'll...do better, I guess."
"That's my girl", you purr and, with a light push against her mouth, send her back to her team.
The game continues.
Before halftime, Natasha's team was trailing 34-37, but after some strong defense and a layup, the score is tied again. That is, until the opposing team hits a couple of shots.
You're agitated, but confident. At least you're pretty sure you are.
Most of her games are like this. Her team needs to be slightly behind for her to be able to give it her all. You convince yourself it won't be different this time, either.
Eyes zeroed in on Natasha, you watch her every move. How she dribbles the ball, weaves through the defenders, loses the ball again. The game is a close one. They're playing against one of the better teams this time, and it shows.
It's a back and forth between the teams. The opposing team gets a small lead, which is quickly lost thanks to another shot. During the last minute, they're tied again. Teams are trading baskets, but you don't know whether you should stay positive.
For a while, it looks bad. Time is running out. Then, in a split second, Natasha is open at the top of the arc. The pass is fast, almost too high, but she catches it. Your breathing stops for a moment and you barely manage to restrain yourself from jumping up from your seat.
Five seconds left. The team's are neck-and-neck. Natasha has the ball.
Three seconds left. She makes her move, stepping back for a three-pointer. She rises, muscles coiled, and lets the ball fly.
One second left. After cutting through the air and briefly hitting the hoop, the ball swishes through the net.
66-64. The buzzer sounds. Her team has won.
You're on your feet before you realize it, yelling along with the audience. Natasha's team crashes into her the second she's back on the ground, but she only lets them slap her back and punch her arms for a few seconds before she weaves through the small crowd.
You hop over the barricade and into her arms, not caring about the fact she's all sweaty. Her lips press against your neck, her hand rubs up and down your back. She spins you around.
"You did it!"
"Because of you."
"That shot was amazing. More of that, please."
Natasha laughs, low and rough and exhausted, and tips her head back to look up at you. You smile and kiss her. She tastes like salt and Gatorade.
"Still the best?", she teases after pulling away. The soles of your sneakers make a quiet thudding sound against the vinyl floor.
"Always", you promise, pecking her lips once more. Natasha smirks and tugs off her jersey to hand it to you. With the fabric gone, she's almost naked. Only a sports bra and shorts cover her body. You earn a few stares from the opposing team, who isn't used to your little ritual, but you don't notice. It's a nice view, so you'd be an idiot to look at anyone but her.
You put on the jersey and let her pull you into her side again. She kisses you, slow and unhurried, while leading you back toward her team.
It's a last minute decision from the team to go to a bar together. Natasha takes a quick shower before you leave, now wearing something more comfortable. Getting her to dress up is a losing battle, so you don't even try this time. Plus, there's something distinctly attractive about the grey sweatpants she's sporting (or rather, what she's sporting inside the grey sweatpants).
You stay glued to her side pretty much all night. You're in her lap, her arm firmly holding you in place. The bass makes the ground vibrate and the alcohol is clouding your senses, but it's still early enough for you to be somewhat aware of reality.
You lean your cheek against her temple, then turn your head to brush your lips against her skin. She hums and squeezes your thigh, but her attention wavers. Two girls approach her, both of them around your age and probably fellow students.
Natasha glances at them, eyebrows raised. You cup her nape and brush your thumb against her hairline.
The girls smile, a little too brightly, and start talking about the basketball game. They're shameless — even with you, wearing Natasha's jersey and sitting on her lap, they're still going on and on about the game and the shots she made.
With every word that leaves their glossy pink lips, Natasha's focus on you slips more and more. Her hand on your thigh loosens. Her gaze, first flickering between you and the others, starts to linger on them. Her lips curve into that confident little smile you know too well.
You roll your eyes and scoot off her lap. If she has to do this, you don't want to be present. You excuse yourself and go to the restroom, where you freshen up. More lipstick, more perfume. You lift the front of Natasha's jersey and take a whiff to see whether it smells. It's not horrible, but noticeable enough, so you decide to change into the top you brought.
When you return to the bar, Natasha has leaned over to the girls. Arms crossed on the bar's counter, a lazy smirk on her face. The post-game glow is on full display. She tilts her head and mumbles something. It takes you a moment to realize she's flirting.
The girls are delighted. Giggling, shrugging, leaning forward as well. Their expressions indicate they clearly believe at least one of them has a shot. You understand why — Natasha, even after getting into a relationship with you, never quite got rid of her fuckboy-image —, but that doesn't mean you're not furious.
You want to compose yourself, you really do. You're pretty sure this isn't what it looks like, anyway. Fingernails digging into your palms, you watch them for another moment. Then, Natasha subtly bites her lip in that way that first drew you to her, and you've had enough.
You're next to her within seconds, your hand wrapping around her wrist. She lets out a grunt as you drag her away, leaving the two girls speechless and mildly annoyed.
"Have you lost your mind?", she complains, finally finding her voice again. You're already halfway into a bathroom stall.
"Have you?", you snap, pushing her inside and slamming the door shut. Natasha pauses, her eyes traveling up and down your body. The top, almost translucent and leaving little to the imagination, has her more than a little distracted. "My face is up here, you bastard."
"What? Hey!" She frowns. "What happened? What'd I do?"
There's a significant height difference between her and you, but it's not like that ever bothered you. You shove her against the wall, your eyes blazing. Her first instinct is to step forward — she's taller, all shoulders and muscle —, but she can tell you're pissed. Once she realizes she's fucked up, she lifts her hands and almost shrinks under your glare.
"Are you playing dumb? Don't play dumb!"
"What are you even- I was talking to them! They asked about the game!"
"You were flirting!"
Natasha scoffs, her cheeks a nervous-rosy pink. It'd look cute if you weren't about to slam her head through the plastic wall of the stall.
"I wasn't 'flirting'", she argues. "I was talking to them."
"No", you retort. "You were flirting. I could tell. They had that glittery look in their eyes stupid bitches get when you're close to them."
She blinks, caught off-guard, and her head tilts. The word you used is one you usually stay away from. The second you start cussing out other girls? Okay, now she knows you're mad mad.
"Baby", she says slowly, "I swear we were just talking. Nothing else. I don't give a fuck about anyone but you, and you know it."
"Right." You let out a bitter laugh. The sound makes her stomach tighten. "That's good to hear. Maybe it'd be believable if you hadn't tried to-"
The door of the bathroom stall next to yours opening cuts you off. You pause and turn when you hear the quiet pattering sound. Toilet paper rips. The person flushes. Then, shuffling of feet. It takes unbelievably long, and you let out a long sigh.
"Can you hurry?", you finally bark, and the person drops their purse. Natasha pinches the bridge of her nose.
"Sorry!", they say, their voice a squeak, and leave the stall. Water runs, more paper towels, then the door falls shut. You turn to Natasha again, whose ears are as pink as her cheeks.
You raise your eyebrows, as if daring her to say something. Her mouth opens, then closes, and she rubs the back of her neck.
"Okay", she says. "Maybe it was flirting, in a way. I didn't mean to, though."
Your fingers tighten on the front of her zip hoodie. Her eyes widen in silent panic.
"You can't flirt without meaning to flirt!"
"You totally can", she says, her back thudding against the wall once more. "Can you stop that?! Jesus, you're scary."
That last bit is mumbled, but you hear it anyway. It's enough to make you laugh — a sound that slips out unintentionally — but you quickly shake your head.
"I can be way scarier, you know. This is nothing."
"I totally believe that", she says, frowning petulantly. "You're turning into a tiny terror."
Despite your anger, your lips twitch again. Your grasp on her hoodie loosens, your scowl softens the tiniest bit. It's enough for Natasha, who first tried to gauge your mood for a few seconds, to take a leap of faith.
"The sexiest tiny terror", she adds, pulling you closer. You sigh. "My tiny terror. Why would I want anyone else when I have you?"
"This feels like manipulation, babe."
Her eyes light up — babe. She's getting somewhere.
"It's not", she promises, kissing your forehead. Her hands roam your sides, your hips, and slip under your top. "I'm being serious. Scout's honor."
"You're so full of shit."
Natasha grins and keeps kissing your face. Your cheeks, your eyebrows, the corner of your mouth. Unfortunately, each press of her lips against your skin softens you further. You'll probably just have to accept she's an expert at buttering you up.
"Come on now", she mumbles, her mouth against your ear. You giggle quietly when her tongue briefly flicks against your earlobe. "You know you love me."
"I must've done something terrible in my past life to deserve this."
She hums, her hands palming your sides. You exhale and lean into her, willing yourself to not give in — and failing. Her lips brush against your neck, sucking a hickey into the sensitive skin, and a shiver rolls up your spine.
Without really noticing, you press closer. Natasha's fingers find the clasp of your bra and swiftly unhook it.
"Hey", you protest, trying to bat her hand away. She buries her face against your neck, but doesn't budge. Her hand slides around to your front. "I can't believe I put up with you."
"Me neither", she mumbles, smirking faintly. "I'm a lucky idiot."
"Well, that's true."
Natasha kisses your neck, then your shoulder. Her hands push up your top and reveal your skin inch by inch. Your breath stutters when, suddenly, the roles are reversed and you feel your back against the wall.
Your hands come up to tangle in her hair. She grips your thighs and mouths at your neck.
"You're not forgiven, you know."
"Sure."
Her teeth sink into your neck. You barely manage to speak.
"I mean it."
Underwear around your ankles, you help her tug her sweatpants down. She struggles with the condom, but once the piece of plastic is wrapped around her cock snugly, she holds your hips in place and buries herself inside you. No time to adjust — she sets a fast pace.
The back of your head hits the wall and you let out a moan. Natasha keeps rutting into you, moaning breathily, your hands in her hair and her hands gripping your ass. She stuffs you up to the brim, cock pulsing and twitching, and pounds into you relentlessly.
Right as you're just about to tumble over the edge, the bathroom door opens again. You feel a moan rise up in your throat and quickly slap your own hand over your mouth, stifling the sound. Natasha laughs breathlessly, but then whines against your neck.
Whoever entered seems oblivious. They're on the phone, talking rapidly, while water flows in the background. You hear the clinking of stilettos on tiles and then smell a faint waft of some overly sweet perfume.
This whole situation usually wouldn't pose much of an issue. You're close enough, and you know from experience that you can keep quiet when needed. But Natasha, being who she is, slows down. Her grip on you loosens, her movements are drawn-out. Your thighs tremble and you groan against your own palm.
"I'll kill you."
"Ssh, baby", she mumbles, dragging her lips along your jaw. Her hips meet yours, again and again and again, but she's going too slow to really achieve anything. "Don't get us caught."
Every deliberate roll of her hips sends shockwaves of pleasure through you. You whimper and bite down on your palm harder, meeting her movements with your hips. The pressure increases, and so does the need to push Natasha to go faster. Your thighs clench around her, but all she does is smile against your neck. You rock against her hips, desperate for more.
"Fuck you", you hiss, but the words die on your tongue when she picks up the pace. She ruts into you, urging you closer to the edge while you wrestle with the impulse to shout her name.
"I love you", she says, each word punctuated by a soft grunt. The bathroom door falls shut, and you finally get coaxed into that sweet high of mindless oblivion.
. . .
The sun is long gone, replaced by the milky light of the moon that's seeping into the library.
Natasha called it a 'study-session', hoping it'd turn into something else entirely. But exams are coming up, and as much as you'd like to hide in the encyclopedia aisle and hook up again, you'd rather she passes.
You're sitting on the table in front of her, with her head in your lap, as you test her knowledge on the subject. Sports Law — something you've only gotten familiar with since dating her.
"That's wrong", you say, running your fingers through her hair. "It's title IX of the education amendments of 1972. You should know that, babe."
She groans and turns her head, burying her face between your thighs. You smile faintly and drum your fingers against her scalp.
"Who cares? I'll pass, anyway. I always do."
"I want you to ace this one, though."
"Pipe dream."
"Nat."
Another groan. She pushes up the fabric of your shirt and shifts, her lips brushing against your lower abdomen. You bite back a soft sound of pleasure.
Not now. You have other things to focus on. But god, her hands start massaging your thighs, and her lips feel warm and plush, and the library seems empty enough. Heat pools in your lower belly and you quickly shove her off you.
"No", say, voice strained. "Study. Now."
"You're boring", Natasha mutters, grabbing the book and skimming the pages. "I know all of this. It's easy."
"You got four questions wrong", you counter, glancing at the screen of her phone when it buzzes. Her wallpaper flashes on the screen — a picture of you, only wrapped into silky bedsheets, with kiss marks on your shoulders and your hair a mess. But that's not what catches your attention. It's the message that just popped up.
A girl named Tara.
Natasha lifts her head and peeks at her phone. You snatch it before she can reach for it.
"Who's that?", you prompt.
"A girl from Sports Economics", she says, sitting up. She tries to grab the phone, but you hold it out of her reach. "Babe."
"Why's she texting you at midnight?"
"Not sure", she replies, irritated, and tries to grab it again. Her fingertips brush against the edge of the phone. "I could tell you if you'd let me read the damn text."
"She always texts you this late?", you ask, glancing up at the phone.
A simple message — hey, you awake? :) — but still unexpected enough to annoy you. You squint and try to look at her profile picture.
"Hold on, is that the girl who said hi to you in the cafeteria the other day? The one with the pink eyeshadow?"
"Yeah", she says, her arm dropping in defeat. "Tara. Like I said, I know her from Econ."
"It's midnight", you mutter, bringing the phone back down. Before Natasha can protest, you've used her face to unlock the phone and opened the chat. Natasha rolls her eyes and huffs, so you pinch her bottom lip. "You should tell her to find some new makeup. I thought she was fighting for her life against allergies."
"You're mean."
"Her makeup sucks."
"Doesn't make it any less mean", she argues, resting her head on your lap again. She sighs, eyes closing, and waits for you to finish whatever you're doing. "Still scrolling?"
"It's a long chat", you mutter, thumb swiping over the screen. Luckily, the messages seem innocent enough. At least Natasha's do. "She wants you."
"I'm pretty sure she's straight."
"Nat", you say, putting her phone aside. "Straight girls want you, too."
She looks up, smirking. You flick her forehead.
"Ow!"
You narrow your eyes at her, watching her rub the spot you flicked. "You're enjoying this."
"I am", she says bluntly. "You're going on and on about some girl I really don't care about."
"She cares about you", you argue. "In the past, that seemed to be enough."
Natasha scoffs and sits up, leaning back in her chair. She studies you for a moment, her arms crossed over her chest, then sighs. Her legs stretch out under the table.
"Exactly", she finally says. "In the past. Not now, not last week, but when it didn't matter."
"I feel like some things don't stop mattering."
"Like my love for you", she flirts. You kick her side and she lets out a quiet 'oof'. "What'd I do to deserve that, huh?!"
"You can't flirt your way out of everything, you know!"
"I'm not flirting my way out", she protests, looping her arms around your waist and tugging you closer. You sigh, thighs snugly wrapped around her torso. "I love you. Nothing can change that."
"No?" You give her a skeptical look. She just shakes her head and leans in, pressing a few kisses to your chest.
"No", she mumbles. "I love you. Period. Now stop worrying."
You stare at her as she nuzzles and kisses your chest, slowly moving upwards. Her thoughts are somewhere else already, whereas you're still stuck. Tara, the girls at the bar, the stares Natasha gets all day long. Your worries, fears, and how easily she can dismiss them. How, when you're mad, she manages to worm her way out of just about everything.
Smooth words and soft touches are her specialty. She uses them like a tool, which can be hot, but also incredibly frustrating. You know why it's so easy for her — because she knows you'll stay. You won't leave. She claims that the same thing is true for her, but maybe she'll need to prove that.
The thought creeps in slowly, dangerously. It's nothing more than a small, fleeting idea at first, but the longer you watch her, the more drawn to it you become.
Natasha says she's yours. She says there's nothing to worry about. You'd love to know whether she actually means that.
She loves you, after all. Logically, she'd love a tiny version of you just as much.
"Hey", you mumble, eyes focused on her. She pauses, lips pressed to your jaw. "You seem distracted."
"Can't help it. I'll need a different study-buddy to be able to concentrate on anything but you."
"Oh yeah?" You glance at the clock hanging on the wall across from you. Almost 1am. "It's late, you know. We might as well leave."
She hums against your skin and looks up. "Your dorm's still empty?"
"Mhm", you say before you're able to reconsider this whole plan. "We got the whole room to ourselves."
"Well then", she says, getting up and pecking your lips, "what are we waiting for? Let's go."
The hallway is as empty as the library was. Natasha presses you against the wall, caging you in between a corner and her body, and kisses you. Hands bunch up your shirt, feel heated skin. You wrap your arms around her neck and hum into the kiss.
Her hand dips into the back pocket of your jeans. She fishes out the key to your dorm, then leads you down the hallway. One arm wrapped around your waist, she unlocks the door using her free hand.
Bodies tumble onto the mattress together. Breathy laughter, stripping of clothes, bare skin on bare skin. Natasha turns, opens the drawer of the nightstand next to you to look for condoms, but you tug her on top you again. She doesn't resist and kisses you, lips moving and messing up your makeup.
You feel her nestled inside of you, every vein and throb noticeable. She grabs and angles your thigh for deeper access, her moans mingling with yours. Lipstick marks smudged on her cheek, hickeys on your chest. The bed frame hits the wall with every thrust, muffled thuds filling the air.
Her hand finds your lower belly, pressing down on it. Natasha feels her own outline through the soft skin and groans quietly. Teeth nip at your neck, her hips meeting yours a few more times. Then, the anticipated release and the relief that comes with it.
Warmth pools deep inside of you. It drips down your thighs, staining the bedsheets, but all you manage to do is turn your head and bury your face in her neck. Your fingers brush against your stomach, and the full acceptance of what might happen starts to set in.
. . .
Weeks have passed. Late spring has turned into something resembling an early summer.
A little '+' confirms it.
You're alone when you take it. It's quite early, not even 6am, but you got woken up by someone yelling in the hallway. The test was right next to you, lying on your nightstand like a bad omen, then you finally grabbed it and got up.
Taking it wasn't hard, but checking the result is. You stare at the test in your hand, your brain too tired and sleepy to process everything. Leaning against the wall of your dorm's bathroom, you try to let reality sink in. It doesn't feel real. Not yet, at least.
Knowing it is real helps, though. You put the test aside and exhale, fingers drumming against the tiled wall behind you. Your thoughts are more of a mess than you thought they'd be.
It was a heat-of-the-moment, impulsive decision. It was also incredibly stupid. Yet you're here, eyes glued to the ceiling, and find yourself regretting nothing at all. At this point, not even the thought of her reaction scares you.
She said she loved you. All you're doing is putting that love to the test. Nothing wrong with that, right?
Bullshit. You know you've fucked up.
You meet her after class, as you agreed on earlier that morning. She seems calm, happy, completely oblivious to what secret you're (literally) carrying with you. Hands on your waist, she pecks your lips, then she grabs your backpack and slings it over her shoulder.
It's a warm afternoon, so you head to the mall. You grab a few things you need — new pajamas, some shampoo, a water bottle to replace the one you lost. Natasha tosses a pack of condoms into the shopping cart and you barely stop yourself from reacting too obviously.
On your way out, you pass a store that exclusively sells baby-related items. Strollers, onesies, highchairs. You avert your eyes and stay close to Natasha's side.
Late evening. You're back on Clint's couch, passing around pizza and trying to decide on a movie. Clint complains about Laura's last pick — Juno — which, apparently, most of you didn't like too much.
Natasha pulls your legs over her lap, lightly massaging your shin. She's only in a white tank top that leaves her shoulders and arms on full display. You'd be distracted if you weren't worrying about other things already.
"I wasn't a fan, either", she says, glancing at Clint. "But I did like what it led to."
"Right. I swear to everything that's holy, if you start something like that again-"
"Seriously, calm down." She raises her eyebrows. "Keep ranting like that and poor Laura will think you're going celibate."
He rolls his eyes and slumps into the couch, one hand swatting at her. She laughs and bats him away. When she glances at you, she notices how quiet you are, and nudges you.
"You're unusually non-hyper verbal, baby."
"I'm good", you say, stretching. "Just...bored."
You're not bored. You're far from bored. But you needed an excuse. However, Natasha takes it the wrong way, and a tiny smirk tugs at the corners of her mouth.
"Yeah?", she says, running her hand higher. First it touches your knee, then it brushes under the hem of your dress. "Bathroom's empty. Maybe we'll even make it into the bedroom. I heard Mr. Prude over there got a new mattress."
"Romanoff, I will-"
"Shush." She raises her eyebrows at him before leaning closer to you. Her breath fans your cheek, her voice is a raspy murmur. "If you want us to ditch them, just tell me. I'll get us outta here."
"I'm fine", you assure her. "Just get me a beer."
Natasha nods and turns, grabbing a can from the ice bucket they prepared. She cracks it open right as you realize you probably shouldn't drink it.
"Actually", you stammer, "I'm good. None for me. Thank you."
She raises her eyebrows, but doesn't comment on it. Shrugging, she takes a sip.
"Sure", she says. "I can get you a coke?"
"No, thanks." You shake your head and sink into the cushions, trying to keep the heat from your face. It's difficult, though, and it only gets worse when a character in whatever movie you're watching (truthfully, you aren't paying much attention) is revealed to be pregnant.
You rub your neck, throwing glances at Natasha every now and then. She's still oblivious. Then, she catches you staring, and her head tilts in silent question. You pause before getting up and dragging her along.
"What...?"
"Not in my bed!", Clint shouts.
"We're not having sex!", you yell back, slamming the door to his bedroom shut.
"We're not?"
You turn toward Natasha. "No", you say, awkwardly crossing your arms. "We're not."
"Shame", she says, smirking, and pushes her hands into the pockets of her sweatpants. She studies you for a moment and her smirk softens. "You alright?"
"I'm fine", you lie. "We need to talk, though."
Her smirk disappears entirely. She frowns, her gaze steady and attentive. Alright, you think. You're mine now. Have fun finding out about it.
"Talk?", she says, leaning against the closet. "About what, baby? Did you do something?"
"Uhm..."
"You did?" She grins faintly. "Wow. Didn't expect that to ever happen. How bad is it?"
"It's not funny", you say, plucking at the strap of your dress. "You won't be grinning like that once I tell you."
"Don't underestimate me", she teases, hands slipping out of her pockets to rest on your arms. "Anything can be funny, if you're looking at it the right way."
"Oh yeah?" You pause. "How funny is us being in this for the long haul?"
"Not very funny, honestly. I wouldn't mind, though."
"Mhm." You tilt your head. Your heart beats faster and faster, but at this point, you have to say it. "Good to know."
"It is?" Natasha hums and pulls you closer, her lips brushing against your nose. "Want to make it official, or why's that?"
"I mean, having a baby is pretty official."
The second those words leave your lips, Natasha freezes. First, she just stares at you. Her hands drop to her sides. She takes a step back, then another, her eyebrows furrowed and confusion etched into her face.
The gears in her head start turning. She tries recalling whether you've been using protection, but then her brain fails her, and she exhales sharply. Silence lingers, heavy and uncomfortable, before she finally blurts out.
"We're what?"
"I'm pregnant", you say. "Took a test. It's positive."
"You...I..." She rakes her hand through her hair, her eyes squeezed shut for a moment. Another step backwards, and her back collides with the wall. "We were careful."
"Oh, no." You watch her, growing more worried. "We weren't. Not that night after the library."
Natasha looks at you. Her brain eventually catches up.
"Oh, fuck", she curses. "Fuck. Y/N!"
"What?"
"What do you mean, 'what'?!"
"Can you calm down?" You tilt your head. "You said you're in it for the long haul, no?"
"You can't be serious!"
"Uhh, guys?"
You whip around. The door is still shut, but Clint is standing behind it.
"What?", you call, irritated.
"Look, no idea what the hell is going on in there, but if you need help..."
"No help. We're fine."
"Are we?", Natasha hisses. You look at her.
"Oh, relax", you say, rolling your eyes. "You'll live."
She lets out a panicked wheeze and scrubs her hand down her face. You're being too calm, too nonchalant, whereas she feels like she's about to have a dozen panic attacks at once. She's not one to let herself get tied down. At least, that's what she always told herself. You may have changed that belief, but old habits die hard.
"I can't have a kid now! I- I have practice, I have games!" Then, as if the thought just hit her: "This is like a teen pregnancy."
"You're in college."
"Same thing!"
"Absolutely not the same thing", you argue, stepping closer. "Look, it won't be easy, but it could be worse. I mean, you love me — now imagine how much you'll love a tinier, cuter version of me."
She shoots you a glare, her breathing still uneven and rapid. "Don't think you can get much tinier."
"Oh, fuck you."
"Absolutely not", she mutters. "Pretty sure that's what got me into this mess."
"You're saying I should've gotten railed by someone else?"
Another glare. This one shuts you up. Natasha turns, looks out the mirror, glances at the striped bedsheets and the painting on the wall. Finally, she looks at you.
"I shouldn't even ask, since you seem perfectly fine", she mutters, crossing her arms. "But what about you? You okay? I mean..."
"I'm fine", you say, more quietly now. She nods and looks away again. You step closer and cup her face, standing on your tiptoes to litter small kisses across her cheeks and forehead. With every touch, her panic softens into mild anxiety. Then, at last, her arms wrap around your waist.
You look at her. Natasha exhales sharply, like she's trying to make peace with it all. She doesn't smile, but her fingertips graze your lower belly.
"If we're doing this", she mumbles stubbornly, "I get to teach them basketball."
"Fine."
"They get a jersey. A tiny one. With my number on it."
You sigh. "Sure."
"Also, no more junk food. The baby eats what you eat."
You scoff, squishing her face. She gives you another halfhearted glare.
"I will end you", you say, squeezing again. She shakes her head and tries to pull away from your grasp. "I mean it! What's life without fries?"
"Depressing", she says, hands sliding to your front and then back to your waist. "But healthier for whatever is growing inside you."
Your expression turns deadpan. "It's a baby."
"Show me an ultrasound first."
"You know what, maybe I did make this up."
..."Excuse me?!"
"I'm kidding!"
"No", she protests. "Now I want to see a doctor's note."
You let out a long exhale and pull her closer, your face against her neck. You press a kiss to her pulse point to keep yourself from slapping her. Sometimes, you wonder whether she's annoying intentionally.
But then, she softens. Her arms wrap around you, muscles enveloping you in safety and warmth, and her lips press kisses to your hair. Her heartbeat against your ear, her scent everywhere around you, you feel yourself melt a little.
"If this is real", she says, shushing you before you can interfere, "I'll do my best, alright? I'm not good at sticking around. I know that. But you have made me stick around, and I'm sure the baby will only make me stick around longer."
"'Longer'", you mumble, voice muffled, "better mean forever in this case."
"I said what I said."
"Romanoff."
She laughs, still shaking a little, and tightens her hold on you. Her nose is buried in your hair.
"We're also finding an apartment", she murmurs. "The dorm's too small. Can't fit a crib in there."
"Obviously."
"And we're not telling the others. Not yet."
You hum, hands sliding under her top and feeling the muscles on her back. Her skin is warm and smooth, making you press closer to her. She groans softly.
"No?", you ask, drawing shapes on her lower back.
"No. Not until I don't feel like passing out just thinking about it."
You laugh, fingertips pressing into her skin. You look up at her and smile. The smile you get in return is a bit strained, but her hands come up to cup your face. You lean in and kiss her.
First, it's soft and slow. Her thumbs brush over your cheeks. A quiet hum comes from her throat.
Then, you're walking backwards. You feel the mattress against your legs. You pull away and raise your eyebrows.
"Now?"
"Cut me some slack. I need to relieve stress."
You huff, but she's got you on your back before you can say anything else. Your hands fumble with her hair, releasing it from the loose bun, and watch the red strands come free. She hums and kisses your shoulder.
Her hand dips under your dress, traveling upwards until her fingers reach your stomach. She touches it, tentatively, before fumbling with your underwear. You let out a sound of approval, head dropping onto the mattress.
"This baby better not change anything", Natasha says, bunching up your dress around your waist.
"Change what?", you ask lazily.
"This. Us." She leans down and kisses your thigh. "You know what I mean."
"I truly don't."
She palms herself through her sweatpants, her eyes shooting you an unimpressed look. "You can't be that dense. Jesus Christ, my child is going to be a moron."
You scoff and flick her shoulder, but there's a faint smirk on your face. This is good. This is safe, familiar. "Can't believe I let you knock me up."
Natasha smiles. For a split second, her fingers twitch against your lower stomach before she focuses on pulling your underwear down. As if on instinct, she reaches for the condom in the pocket of her sweatpants, but then pauses. She glances at you. A look is exchanged, and you both start laughing.
It's slow, this time. Slow and lazy, unhurried. Your earlier 'fight' scared Clint off, so he doesn't even interrupt you. Neither of you is sure what's coming next, but in that moment, it doesn't matter.
. . .
By the way Natasha is staring at the screen, you'd think she's seeing an alien.
Truthfully, it might be one. You're not sure. All you know is that the white blob does not resemble a human in the slightest.
You glance at the ob-gyn, who seems unfazed. She keeps moving the transducer over your gel-slicked stomach, making the image on the screen waver. Finally, she stops and hits a button. The image freezes.
You squint at the screen. A blob. A vaguely human-shaped blob, maybe, but still a blob.
"There's the baby."
You look at Natasha. She raises her eyebrows, seeming helpless. Where?, she mouths.
The doctor is used to this. She doesn't even need to ask you anything to zoom in and point again, but it only helps minimally.
"Oh, yeah", Natasha finally lies. "I see it."
"Yeah", you add, trying to avoid the ob-gyn's eyes. "It's cute."
The woman sees right through you. She smiles faintly and prints the picture for you, then she wipes your stomach down with a few paper towels. "It's fine if you don't see it", she says, throwing the towels away. "Most parents don't. Babies do look a bit deformed in the beginning."
"But it's healthy?", Natasha asks.
"Completely healthy. Don't you worry." She smiles and tugs off her nitrile gloves. "I'll be back in a minute, alright? Feel free to look at the image and play 'Where's Waldo.'"
You hum noncommittally and glance at the ultrasound picture. Still a blob.
Natasha's fingers twitch against her knee and she shifts. All of this is becoming way too real way too soon.
"It's gonna come out looking like a real person, right?", she mumbles, frowning.
"You're kidding."
"Sorry, but it looks like something you'd see under a microscope."
You grab the first thing you find — your cardigan, bunched into a ball — and toss it at her. She catches it and spreads it out over your legs.
"Nice one", she says drily. "Come on, you can't tell me that looks like a baby."
You roll your eyes and glance at the picture again, fingers brushing over the glossy surface. She's right. It doesn't even resemble something supposedly alive, let alone a human being. But it is a human being, according to the doctor, and that's all you need to know.
"Maybe it's taking its time getting cute."
"That'll take a while."
"I hate you."
. . .
Nobody knows. Not yet. But hiding it is getting harder with every day.
Basketballs bounce, shoes squeak, the air smells of sweat and gym air. You watch the ball be thrown in your direction and you catch it, then toss it aside.
It was a flirty text that led you here. You were in bed, drunk on sunlight and half-asleep, when your phone buzzed. The picture you got was one you couldn't complain about — Natasha, in front of a mirror, only wearing boxers (just slightly tugged down to reveal an additional sliver of skin) and a bra. A picture taken in the locker room of the gym, right before practice. It was enough to get you semi-conscious and shoo you out of bed.
Practice is over now, so you walk onto the court. Natasha wraps her arms around you and kisses your cheek, her hand sneakily moving to your stomach — still pretty flat, but your shirt hides the tiniest of bumps.
"You did good", you say, smiling, and cup her face. The heat is making the ends of her hair curl, and strands of baby hair stick to her sweaty temples. You scrunch your nose, brushing a damp strand of hair off her forehead. "Really good. But that last shot was...meh."
"Criticizing me?" She scoffs and presses her lips to yours. Around you, her teammates talk and grab their stuff before heading to the showers. "A little more support would be appreciated, you know."
"This is me supporting you", you point out, walking her out of the gym. "What else do you want me to do, huh? Cheer? Fetch some water?"
"I wouldn't say no to seeing you in a cheerleading uniform."
You scoff, your hands wrapping around her lower arm as you lead her across campus. Only a handful of students passes you — it's summer, and most people are either visiting their families or vacationing. Not you and Natasha, though. You're spending your free time looking for an apartment.
"You'll have to wait around 6 more months for that." You pause, quickly re-calculating. "I think. My brain isn't working the way it's supposed to."
"Nothing new", she mumbles, shooting you a smirk when you jab your elbow into her side. "Kidding, kidding."
She squeezes your waist and leads you to the campus parking lot. She's still in her jersey, all sweaty from practice, but you have an appointment for an apartment viewing soon. Actually, you've got a whole list of apartments you want to look at. Natasha is taking apartment-hunting very seriously.
Too seriously, you're starting to think. Suddenly, not only the size of the apartment and the neighborhood where it's located are important, but also a bunch of things that are, in your humble opinion, simply not relevant.
"This next one has a basketball court nearby", she says, adjusting your seatbelt for you. "Good for early practice, you know. For the kid."
You raise your eyebrows. "For our fetus?"
"Hey, never too early."
You keep your thoughts on that matter to yourself.
At the apartment, the landlord shows you around. Kitchen, living room, bathroom, two bedrooms. Everything seems to be going fine. Despite still being in a sweaty jersey, Natasha manages to make a good impression. Then, he dares ask about your current family situation. That's when the usually so composed woman starts stuttering.
"Well, engaged. I guess. I mean, not yet, but in a way. Uh...fuck. Y/N?"
You glance at her, frowning. "Engaged? Where's the ring, then?"
Natasha looks at you. The panic in her eyes almost makes you laugh.
"Are you engaged or are you not?", the landlord asks. "It's fine if you aren't. Not that important, really."
"We're not", you say. "One day, though. Or so I hope."
"Yeah, yeah", Natasha says, still stressing. "One day."
A few more apartments you look at are enough to wear you out. You collapse onto the bed in your dorm, face buried in your pillow and one leg hanging over the edge. Natasha sits next to you and squeezes your butt, smiling.
"Hey", you mutter, voice muffled.
"Hey yourself", she teases. Her hand travels lower, tickling the inner part of your thighs. You squirm and she laughs quietly. "Tired?"
"Exhausted."
"Can't blame you for that, baby." She leans in, pressing a kiss to the sliver of skin between your shirt and shorts. "Want me to order dinner?"
You glance at her, eyes lighting up with hope. "Pizza?"
"We said no junk food."
"You said no junk food."
"Think about the baby", she says, tugging at your shorts. "Mhm, you could take these off."
You snort and kick at her blindly. You manage to hit her in the ribs. She lets out a grunt and pinches your butt cheek. You roll over, one cheek reddened from the pillow, and give her a challenging look. "Ouch! Come on, I'm growing your kid. Least you can do is get me a pizza."
Her fingers trail up your spine. Before you know it, she's lying behind you with her front against your back. Pressed together from head to toe, not an inch of space separates you.
She kisses the back of your neck. Her hand rests on your stomach, rubbing gently. "You're right", she mumbles. "You've trapped me. Pizza it is."
The words trapped me make your cheeks go warm. You snuggle into her and ignore the guilt and satisfaction warring inside you. This is something she'll find out about one day. Maybe. But right now, you're too happy in your little bubble to make it pop.
"I want garlic bread, too."
"So demanding." She hums and dips her hand into the front of your shorts. Her bulge presses against your butt. "How hungry are you, exactly?"
You whine softly. With the pregnancy making your body overly sensitive, every little touch sends sparks of want through you. Heat pools in your lower belly and you shift, grinding against her. She hums, her fingers tugging at the waistband of your shorts. White lace is revealed, and she moans.
"Really hungry, actually", you mumble, squirming. "But I'm willing to wait."
"Thank god", she says, peppering your shoulder with kisses. "I was considering jerking off in the bathroom otherwise."
"Gross."
"Love you too."
Natasha somehow manages to place the order. It's difficult, though, especially when you roll over. One leg hooked over her waist, she whines and rocks her hips against yours pathetically. You laugh and then moan, feeling her hard-on nudge all the right spots.
You bury your face in her neck and place kisses until her entire neck is covered in lipstick. Finally, she tosses her phone aside. You both ignore the sound of your roommate's lamp crashing to the ground and instead focus on each other.
. . .
Natasha was never one to get easily distracted by an audience.
Now that there's a tiny viewer in the stands, though, that has changed.
Niko is barely old enough to stay awake for longer than two hours, but that doesn't mean he can't go to his mom's basketball games and watch. One hand wrapped around your finger and earmuffs that look way too big on him, he's undeniably the star of the stands.
You thought he'd be a tiny you. As it turned out, Natasha's genes are a little too stubborn for that. His eyes are still baby-blue, but the redness of his hair is unmistakable. Paired with the matching jersey he's sporting, you feel like you're carrying a much smaller version of her around.
You ignore the looks and the delighted whispers. As always, your focus is on Natasha. That's something that, even now that you have a baby, never changed. It's her game. She's the important one here.
You watch her dribble the ball as she scans the court. Focus unwavering, she dodges a defender and leaves them stunned. With one leap, she soars into the air and lets the ball swish through the net.
Not too long ago, you would've jumped up and cheered. But you don't want to jostle the baby too much, so you settle for clapping awkwardly while holding Niko in one arm.
Natasha turns, eyes glistening, and spots you in the crowd. You take Niko's hand and make him wave at her. Her smile only widens.
Minutes later, the buzzer sounds. Another victory.
Natasha comes rushing to the stands before anyone can even attempt to congratulate her. She helps you over the barricade, then takes off her jersey to hand it to you. The piece of fabric is swapped for the baby, who clings to her like a little koala.
"Did you see that?", she asks, breathless, and pats Niko's back when he starts fussing. "What a shot!"
You nod, laughing, and kiss her cheek. Sweaty as always. And, also as always, you don't find it in you to care.
"I did", you say, putting on her jersey. "Much better than in that first halftime, babe."
"Yeah?" She looks at the baby. He's still fussy, one hand grasping at her shoulder. "What about you, bud? You like it?"
"Didn't even cry once", you say, brushing your fingers over his tuft of hair. "Which is a miracle."
"It definitely is."
You linger by the barricade, talking and smiling, exchanging quick kisses. Natasha's teammates approach you to ask whether you want to go out and celebrate, but you decline. They leave, buzzing with joy, only for a few girls to introduce themselves to Natasha.
This time, all they get is a brief smile. She kisses Niko's cheek and leads you away from the court, away from the crowds, away from the noise.
"Not gonna stay and talk a bit more?", you tease. It's surprising, how much has changed. Her habit to flirt excessively seems to be gone. It's something you're thankful for — having to fight her about that was tiring.
Natasha shakes her head. You walk through a hallway, sneakers squeaking on the floor, and turn a corner. The locker room is empty when you enter it.
"Nah", she says, sitting down on a bench. She gently takes the earmuffs off Niko's head and watches him yawn. "I'd rather get home. He looks tired."
"He is, yeah."
"You're tired, too", she points out. You tilt your head and smile faintly.
"And here I thought I applied enough makeup."
"Don't worry, you're gorgeous. But you also look tired."
No point in denying that. Niko is merely four months old, and he's far from sleeping through the night. In addition, Natasha is unable to get up most nights, since practice and the games are demanding. She tries her best to juggle college, basketball, and an infant.
"Fine", you admit. "He kept me up all night. But I'm okay, I swear."
"You're sure?"
"Positive. I'd look more put together, but you try applying lipstick while holding a squirming baby."
Natasha laughs and reaches up to take your hand. You're on her lap before you know it, nestled against Niko. She kisses your shoulder.
"You look put together", she assures you. "Tired, but put together."
You smile and lean into her. Her arm is strong around your waist, biceps swollen and veins popping, and you turn your head to kiss her cheek.
"All for you", you mumble. Then, you tap Niko's nose. "This' all for you, too."
"Oh, I know." Natasha nuzzles her face against your shoulder. "Lucky me. Lucky you. We're all lucky."
a/n: someone asked about this and honestly thank you so much for doing that, i love the idea and have been obsessing over it for weeks now. hope this does the first part justice (also i couldn’t figure out which filter i used on the first fic’s header and now this one pisses me off bc it looks different 😔)
also, i’m totally in love with this dynamic. i might keep writing oneshots about these two specifically because damn 😭 i can’t let them go
summary: college!au, fuckboy!nat and reader trying to get her to commit
warnings: smut, tipsy sex, implied dubcon (very brief, not between reader and nat), exhibitionism, unprotected sex, cheating but not really, vomiting (mentioned)—not sure if there’s anything else, but lmk if you find something so i can add it
word count: 18.5k (ik it’s long and i apologize for that but i promise it’s worth it if i may say so myself)
The basketball hits you in the back of your head.
It's not the most painful thing to ever happen to you, but the impact is enough to make you stumble. A dull ache shoots through your skull and you turn around, glaring at whoever the offender is.
Red hair, basketball jersey, hands lifted in silent apology before you can even say anything. Natasha's been walking behind you for about five minutes now and, unbeknownst to you, she's been staring a little too much. Staring hard.
Short white skirt, baby pink lacy top, high heels — it's enough to make her lose her train of thought. Paired with the sun framing your body, the sight is lethal.
It's also enough to make her forget about Clint. Once he'd realized she's staring, he knocked the ball out of her hands and sent it flying.
All she wanted to do was check out whoever's walking in front of her. Suddenly, she has to deal with an angry, no less gorgeous girl staring her down.
Her thoughts falter. Her witty self is gone. All that remains is a mushy brain and the urge to somehow turn things around.
"Say something", you demand, rubbing the sore spot on the back of your head.
"...His fault, not mine."
You tilt your head, briefly glancing at her jersey. Natasha Romanoff — you know her. Not intimately, just in passing. You exchanged names once, during Welcome Week. You’ve seen her in bars, been to some of her basketball games. Usually, she's tangled up with some other girl.
Natasha picks up the ball again. She holds it out to you, almost like a peace offering. Your lips twitch and you lower your hand from your head.
"You ever play?", she asks.
You snort. "I don't think my high heels are gym approved."
"High heels or not, I think you'd look pretty good on the court." She leans in, voice dropping to a murmur. "Or against the lockers. Pick your poison."
Next to her, Clint rolls his eyes. He's seen her do this way too many times before. Find a girl, flirt with her, take her home. Then, complain about a hangover and a phone that's getting blown up with messages and voicemails. All it leads to is another girl who got ghosted by Natasha Romanoff.
You raise your eyebrows, unimpressed. You're familiar enough with her reputation and, truthfully, you like to protect your peace. No need for more drama, right?
But the sweat glistens on her biceps — she must've finished basketball practice not too long ago. Loose strands of red hair curl in the moist heat. Green eyes twinkle. You look away, at the parking lot stretching out next to you. Painfully uninteresting, but you're trying to keep your thoughts from wandering into dangerous territory.
"You're going to the cafeteria?", you ask, finally glancing at her again. Pull yourself together.
"Mhm", she says, tossing the ball into the air and catching it with one hand. "You, too?"
"No." You tilt your head, smiling sweetly. You step back and lift your hand, waving. "Have fun!"
You turn and walk towards the main entrance, skirt swishing and heels clicking against the pavement.
All Natasha can do is stare, eyebrows raised. The basketball drops and rolls away, causing Clint to curse and chase after it, but she's still staring. Only when he returns and punches her arm does she turn around.
"What?"
"You’re not serious."
"Oh, come on. That was harmless."
"That?" He wheezes, tucking the ball under his arm. "With you, it's never harmless."
Natasha lets out a dismissive sound, but her eyes have tracked you again. She's used to girls falling into her lap, not them walking away without so much as glancing back at her.
Nothing about this is, or will be, harmless.
. . .
Natasha's not the type to spend her Fridays studying, but she has no choice. That is, if the prospect of studying includes running into someone who seems to be avoiding her.
The lighting inside the library is dim. Pages rustle, keyboards click, people murmur softly. It smells like old books and the coffee you brought along in your thermos.
On the table in front of you, you've got a real setup — laptop, books, some notes, a few pens. You're distracted, which is good. You don't notice the people entering the library, don't notice the students making a little too much noise. This way, you can study more efficiently.
You also don't notice when Natasha walks in, but she notices you. All it takes is one glance in your direction, and suddenly, she's on her way to your table.
She slides into the seat across from you and stretches out. Her legs bump into yours. When you look up, she grins faintly and crosses her arms behind her head.
"You lost?", you mumble, directing your attention toward the laptop in front of you again.
"I'm right where I want to be."
"Doubt that."
Natasha steals one of your pens and twirls it between her fingers. She stays quiet for a moment, watching you, taking you in. Oversized sweater, off-shoulder. Lacy bralette peeking out from underneath. Hair half-up, slightly messy, and a delicate necklace around your neck.
You look up and your eyes meet. You tilt your head.
"Looks like you're staying."
"Am I not allowed to?"
"As long as you left your basketball at home", you say, reaching for a marker, "it's fine."
"I told you that wasn't me", she points out, stealing the marker from you. She flicks off the cap and draws a crescent on one of your notes. You look up, eyebrows raised and lips pressed together to keep them from twitching. She shrugs. "Matches your necklace."
"I almost got a concussion", you say, grabbing the marker again. "And you were right behind me. So I'll assume it was you."
"That's odd", she says. "Girls usually don't get concussions when I'm behind them."
You scoff, tucking some hair behind your ear. Natasha hums and leans in, arms crossed on top of the table. Her eyes are a deeper green now, courtesy of the dimmer light inside the library, but they shimmer just as much.
You shake your head and shift in your chair, fingers tapping against the book in front of you. "You're here to study or piss me off?"
"A bit of both. Multitasking, you know." She tilts her chair slightly, balancing it on its back two legs, making herself comfortable.
You're still not sure what she wants from you, but you have your assumptions. You know who she is. Everyone does. Star athlete, newest captain of the university's basketball team, current record holder of hooking up with the most girls. At least that's what everyone says about her.
You're certain they have a point, though. You're witnessing it with your own eyes. Natasha Romanoff is a flirt, a fuckboy, and you're her latest victim.
"I'm here to study", you point out.
"I can see that."
"And you...?"
"Keeping you company."
"Who's saying I want company?"
Natasha shrugs. "You haven't made me leave yet."
You sigh, conceding, then lower your eyes again. You skim the vocabulary list of French in front of you. If you'd paid more attention last semester, you maybe wouldn't be struggling as much now.
Natasha leans in, glancing at the vocabulary as well. Se doucher, s'habiller, être d'accord — she glances at you, at the slightly bored look on your face, and taps your arm with a pen. You look at her.
"Ton français est déjà pas mal", she whispers, "mais j'aimerais bien entendre comment tu gémis dans cette langue."
You feel the heat rise to your cheeks before you can stop it.
There's no way she just asked you to moan in French.
"You're way too fucking bold for your own good."
"Yeah?" She hums, getting up from her chair. She walks around the table and you turn your head to keep her eyes on her, but suddenly, her mouth is right next to your ear. "I've found that it works."
You look up, slowly, until your eyes are boring into hers. Her mouth is inches away from yours, heat radiating from her plush lips. Then, your eyes dart lower. You stare at them.
She notices. Of course she does.
A smirk forms on her face. Small, barely noticeable, but irresistible. It convinces you that maybe two can play this game.
"Alors", you mumble, "fais-moi gémir."
Natasha pauses, surprise crossing her features. But then you're packing up — stacking books and papers, putting your laptop into your backpack — and she almost puts her hand on your arm.
"You were being serious?"
"Hm?" You look up, head tilted and glossy lips shimmering. You shake your head. "Oh, no. I'm going home."
"This is the second time you're doing this."
You sling the backpack over your shoulder and glance at her. "Pretty sure it's not the last time, either."
She shifts on her feet, jaw clenched and hands tucked into the pockets of her sweatpants. Before you can leave, she quickly steps in front of you.
"There's this party", she says. "Next week. Pietro's place. Perfect spot for you to reject me a third time."
"Pietro?", you ask, raising your eyebrows.
"One of the Maximoff twins."
"Right." You nod. "Sounds lame."
"It won't be", she insists. "Just...come by. Have a beer. Maybe you know a few French party tricks?"
You exhale, trying to stop yourself from smiling. It's a lost cause, though, and the way your face seems to soften gives Natasha whiplash.
"We'll see", you say, brushing past her. "Guess you'll just have to keep an eye out for me."
"Okay", she mumbles.
You pause, arms wrapped around the books you're holding to your chest. You look at her one last time, then you step out of the library.
. . .
A steep staircase and dim lighting don't pair well.
One hand sliding along the railing attached to the wall to keep yourself from falling, you're slowly making your way down the stairs and into the basement. As soon as you've stepped inside, the stench hits you.
Air thick with smoke, smelling like vodka and sweat. Weed and cheap perfumes, pizza and something not unlike the sourness of vomit. You scrunch up your nose and glance at your friends.
Everything is exactly how you expected it would be. Neon LED strips, worn couches, a dying potted plant in the corner. The bass from the speakers is rattling the walls. Someone's rolling a joint on the coffee table.
In your tiny corset top and silk skirt, you definitely feel a little out of place. Then, you spot her.
Grey hoodie with the sleeves rolled up, basketball shorts, a bottle of beer in her hand. She laughs at something Clint says, then tips back her head to take a sip. As she's moving her lips from the bottle's mouth, she quirks her eyes in your direction.
What comes next seems to be the longest hour of your life.
60 minutes of tiptoeing around each other, of glancing across the room, of trying to distract yourself. You're tense, you both are, you're tipsy, and every time you try to focus on something else it fails horribly — which is exactly why a game of 'spin the bottle' is both a blessing and a curse. Looking at the expression on Carol's face, though, you feel like Natasha may have meddled in this.
You gather on the couches. You sit on the armrest, one leg crossed over the other, and watch Natasha as she sits down on the floor right across from you.
The bottle spins a few times, but you barely pay any attention. That is, until it's your turn.
You spin the bottle. You watch it almost land on Natasha, but then it stops too soon. Before you know it, you're kissing one of Clint's friends.
You're tipsy enough to not care too much, but Natasha's lips form a thin line. She lifts her bottle to her mouth and takes a swig.
The game continues. More kisses, some resembling pecks and others turning into full make out-sessions.
Suddenly, it's your turn again. You spin the bottle, watch it closely — and it lands on Natasha.
First, there's a beat of silence. Someone whistles. Heart racing, you clear your throat and put aside your drink. You get up, approach her, and end up in her lap. Her hands come up to rest on your waist.
"Not rejecting me this time?", she murmurs, looking at your mouth. Your lipgloss has been tempting her all night.
"Third time's a charm", you reply, running your hands along her jaw and up into her hair. Silky red locks, smooth between your fingers.
Natasha exhales quietly. She leans in, closing the distance and pressing her lips to yours.
It's controlled at first. Nothing but a firm press of lips. Beer and weed, lipgloss and strawberries.
Bass that's making the floor thrum. Warm hands and plush lips. You feel her heat against you. Natasha, dazed and undone, pulls you closer until your body is flush with hers.
Her hands sneak higher, fingertips grazing the hem of your top. Your fingers curl into the fabric of her hoodie. Your lips part, and so do hers, and her grip on your sides tightens.
Your thighs are snug around her middle. Her hands move lower, to the part beneath your ass, and grasp at the soft flesh there.
Suddenly, it's desperate. You're tipsy enough to be bold, so you deepen the kiss further and further. Natasha goes along with it, because why shouldn't she? — This is what's she's been wanting for weeks at this point.
At some point, you're forced to remember you aren't alone. You pull away, breathless and flushed, need growing inside your buzzing body. Natasha stares back at you, breathing heavily, her shorts uncomfortably tight. You see a muscle in her jaw tick.
Swollen lips tingle, kiss bitten and slick with her taste. Her fingers twitch against your sides, the suppressed urge to get up and drag you away apparent.
There's no need to say it out loud. You both know you're getting out of there, and you're doing it together.
You get off her lap and sit back down in your spot. She keeps looking at you, her knees tucked against her chest to hide the issue the kiss left her with.
You last five minutes. You shift, glance at her, let your eyes sweep over your friends. Having decided you're done waiting, you get up and disappear in the hallway. Natasha's eyes track you down, then she scrambles off the floor and shoves her beer into Clint's hands.
"Don't wait up", she says, already chasing after your retreating figure.
You glance over your shoulder as you're going up the stairs. Sure enough, Natasha's following close behind.
You start pushing open doors. Bathroom? Occupied. Living room? No way. Anyone could walk in on you.
One of the bedrooms is empty. Judging by the looks of it, it belongs to Pietro. Messy desk, unmade bed, empty bottles on the nightstand. At this point, though, you really don't care.
You hear the door close and turn around. A few seconds later, you're tangled up with her. Hands roam your body impatiently, lips move in sync with yours. You try to walk her backwards, maybe push her against the wall, but she hoists you up by your thighs and carries you to the bed.
You're too tipsy to consider whether this can end well, but you're also horny enough that you wouldn't worry even if you were sober.
Natasha is almost sober — two bottles of beer don't have much of an impact on her at this point —, but she doesn't care, either. You've been on her mind for weeks. You've been that dirty little fantasy she jerked off to, that one girl that somehow managed to catch her attention in a room full of others. This is something she needs.
She spins around and sits down with you in her lap. You pull away for a second, only to tug at her hoodie. She peels it off, revealing a fitted tank underneath. Muscles taut, chest rising and falling rapidly. Her hands reach for your corset top, fumbling with the stubborn fabric.
"Fucking- how do you get this off?"
"Try being less rough", you mumble, smiling, and use your finger to tip her chin up. You kiss her. Her tongue sweeps past your lips.
The corset top comes off, and Natasha moves you onto your back. She tugs down her shorts just enough to get what she wants.
All it takes is one look at her, and you instantly realize this will hurt. You knew she's big — you felt it sitting on her lap. But looking at her now, hard as a rock and flushed and pulsing, your tipsy brain starts to grasp that making her fit will be a challenge.
"You'll be fine", she promises, having noticed you staring. She rolls on a condom and crawls on top of you. Her lips meet yours and she guides herself into place.
You moan into her mouth. Her hips roll against yours, easing it into you inch by inch. It stretches you out. You're soaked, but getting her fully inside you still proves to be difficult.
She keeps her eyes glued to your face, watching every little reaction as she buries herself in your swollen cunt. Your thighs wrap around her waist, trembling, and she bottoms out.
"Doing so good", she pants. She pulls away to bury her face against your neck. She starts moving her hips, fucking her throbbing cock into you. You mewl and whine, manicured nails raking down her muscular back. "Wanted this for so long."
"Yeah?" You moan, nails digging into her skin. Your hips rock against hers. The bed shakes underneath you.
Gripping your waist tightly, she pulls out and thrusts back into you. It's enough to knock the air out of your lungs.
"Yeah", she grunts, placing open-mouthed kisses along your neck. "Wanted you so bad."
Your eyes flutter shut. You lift your hips, meeting each of her thrusts. The orgasm builds up, and you come around her cock.
In the morning, you're up first. Sunlight is filtering through the curtains, the air smells like sex and sweat.
You roll over and see Natasha, still asleep and one arm behind her head. The other is tucked under your body. Once the fog in your head has cleared up, you realize you've just added yourself to her list of disposable one night stands.
'Not that serious.' That's the words she says whenever she's questioned about her hookup habits. Now you're part of that, as well.
You sit up slightly and pause. When she stays asleep, you slip out from underneath the covers and pad through the room. You grab your skirt, your underwear, and put your clothes on.
"Y/N?", she mutters, rubbing her eyes. You look at her as you stand there, slipping your high heel on. "You leaving?"
"It's not that serious, right?", you say.
You grab your purse and Natasha leans on her elbow, studying you. In the early morning light, with your hair messy and your lipstick smudged, you look even more tempting. If she was different, she'd beg you to stay. She'd try to make more mornings like this one happen. Maybe she'd even see if there could be more than sex to this.
But that's not who she is, or at least that's what she tells herself. Still, she clears her throat and shrugs, almost awkwardly.
"Not staying for breakfast?"
"Not today", you say, hand on the doorknob. "See you around?"
"Sure", she mumbles. The door falls shut behind you. Any chance at getting you back into bed with her is gone — for now, at least.
Natasha exhales slowly and sinks into the mattress again. She stares at the ceiling, jaw clenched and one hand fisting the bedsheets. She doesn't know why she's so frustrated. You said it yourself: 'not that serious'. Nothing is ever serious with Natasha.
After a few minutes of silent sulking, she decides it's the lack of sleep that's got her acting like this.
. . .
Natasha doesn't chase.
She tells herself that multiple times — usually when you make fun of her for getting clingy, or soft. When she asks for your number, when she starts texting you late at night. When the hookups become more frequent.
It's still just sex, but something more begins to build. Friendship, affection. Something that feels like love but can't be — or that's what you both tell yourselves.
When you get a text one evening, you expect it to be another booty call. You've been hooking up for a while now, and not a day goes by where you don't see each other.
It's not an invitation to come have sex, though. You look at your phone and raise your eyebrows.
Natasha: please tell me you
know how to take
care of a kitten — 8.37 pm
Natasha: Y/N im
begging you — 8.38 pm
*image attached*
You: what the fuck — 8.40 pm
Natasha: COME OVER — 8.40 pm
The sight you get when walking into her dorm is ridiculous in the best way possible. Natasha — all muscles and basketball shorts — and a little kitten clawing at her hoodie.
It turns out that Natasha, leaving the court after practice, heard something meow pathetically. At first, she wanted to leave — it was pouring rain, and she was tired, and truthfully, she can't take in every stray she runs into.
Then, she saw the kitten. Tiny, partially hidden in a bush, its fur soaked. It meowed again.
She tried to walk away. A few minutes later, she was stuffing the tiny thing into the kangaroo pocket of her hoodie.
"Aw, so cute", you coo, sitting down next to her. "I guess the kitten's cute, too."
She shoots you a glare, but the effect is destroyed by the little feline trying to catch one of her drawstrings. "You could try helping."
"No fun in that." You reach for Natasha's hands and start adjusting them. That little bit of contact is enough to send heat into her cheeks. "It's still wet. You need to dry it."
"I tried! It bit me."
"Yes, yes", you mumble, grabbing a random towel and silently praying it isn't full of sweat or other gnarly bodily fluids. "It fits in your palm, but it's so scary."
"It has knives for hands."
You dry the kitten off together. Once that's done, you show her how to hold it. But then, it knocks.
"Randy here", someone calls. Your resident advisor.
"Wait, let me-"
"No!" Natasha, panicking, grabs the kitten. All you can do is stare, stunned, as she yanks down her hoodie to stuff it inside. The poor creature lets out a pitiful mew, and your eyes widen in horror.
"Natasha!", you hiss.
"Shut up!" She grips the front of her hoodie when the kitten meows again, as if she can physically will it into silence.
You give her a bewildered look. Then, you remember.
Randy hates cats for multiple reasons. Mild allergies, bad encounters when he was a kid, general lack of fondness toward other living beings. Pets aren't allowed in the dorms, either way — but he'll even shoo the strays away. He's awkward, but he's not a pushover. If he finds out about this, he'll rat you out.
Another knock. More impatient this time.
"Uh, guys? It's Randy! Open up?"
"A minute", you call back, smoothing down your hair. Natasha is wrestling with the kitten inside her hoodie. She winces when it buries its claws in her chest.
Cheeks flushed and expression somewhat schooled, you make it to the door and open it. Randy stares at you. Clearly, he expected someone else.
"You", he says.
"Me."
"This is Romanoff's dorm, though."
You step aside just enough for him to catch a glimpse of her. You glance over your shoulder as well. When you see her flushed face and the wiggling hoodie prison, you quickly block his view again.
"What do you need?"
Behind you, you hear a muffled mew.
"Just wanted to pop by", he says, looking over your shoulder again. You cross your arms and lean against the doorframe, chin lifted in silent defiance.
"We're studying", you lie. "So please leave?"
Another mew. Natasha is fidgeting, trying to keep the kitten and her hoodie in place. She could swear she's never sweated this much in her entire life. Her fingers shake as she gently adjusts the kitten.
This is the first time everything between you begins to feel different. You're not sure what it is — the absurdity of hiding a kitten? The panicked looks she keeps shooting at you? Her softer side, so unlike what she's shown you so far? —, but you feel yourself slipping into a dangerous situation.
Falling in love with Natasha can't end well.
Randy frowns and shifts, his head tilting. You scoot to the side, silently cursing his nosiness.
"I got a test tomorrow, Randy."
"Yes, just-"
"No", you say firmly, heart thundering with a mix of anxiety and thrill. He sighs. "Whatever it is, just come by tomorrow. I'm sure we'll run into each other again."
He gives you one last skeptical look, then steps back. You shut the door and turn around only to see Natasha barely holding back laughter. She's still shaking, the kitten finally pushing its head through the neckline of her hoodie. A tiny paw presses against her collarbone and your stomach flips.
Not the cocky athlete. Not the shameless flirt. Just a girl in her dorm, a girl you're starting to like more and more, freaking out over a kitten.
You cross the room before you know it. Hands cupping her face, heart rabbiting with exhilaration, you lean in and kiss her deeply.
It's the first crack that appears in your just friends-facade.
. . .
Most people expect the casual stuff to be less complicated than actual relationships.
In many cases, that's true. In others, it absolutely isn't.
The emotional intimacy is there, but there's no commitment. Neither of you has the right to get jealous, but it happens anyway. There are expectations, but there are no labels. Either of you could walk out at any given moment.
It's thrilling. It's terrifying. It makes every hookup, every kiss, feel like something worth chasing.
Then, you fight. Usually, it's nothing serious, but it sucks anyway. It creates this odd push-and-pull, this combination of cursing each other out only to end up in bed together. It leads to jealousy plays and spikes of irritation, sleepless nights and desperate text messages resulting from being lonely and horny.
This time, it started when Natasha flirted with someone at a bar. You were there with a couple of friends, and when you turned around to order another cocktail, a girl had approached her. Suddenly, you caught her flirting shamelessly.
It wasn't what made you fly off the handle, though. The nudes in her phone, hours after you'd had sex in her dorm, were.
Not that serious, she said. We're just hooking up. Casual, you know. I wasn't even interested in her.
You kept yelling, anyway. She glared at you, but it wasn't too intimidating. You know she's scared of you, for some reason, so you kept bawling her out. The night ended with you blocking her.
Almost a week later, you're still ignoring her. You're pissed, and it'll stay like that until she apologizes, so you keep her number blocked and your bed empty.
Wanda is the one who drags you to a sorority party. Mainly because she likes one of the girls there, but also because she thinks you need to get out of your dorm and find a rebound. Plus, the theme is 'movie characters', and she can't miss that.
The word rebound makes you frown, though.
"It wouldn't be a rebound", you tell her. "We never dated. No wounds I need to distract myself from."
"Y/N, honey, that girl always leaves a wound."
Maybe she has a point. Trusting her judgment, you end up going to that party. You step into the room, and the first person who looks at you is none other than Natasha.
She sees your costume and forgets how to function. A green, short dress, shimmering wings on your back, makeup flawless. Ballet flats with pompons on the toes.
Tinkerbell. Short and sweet — very on point.
Her thoughts are a mess. No way. She did this on purpose. To ruin my night. What if I ruin her, instead?
Fuck, I need to sit down.
Her hand tightens around the beer bottle. Her jaw clenches as she grinds her molars.
But you? You're barely paying attention to her. You're smiling already, talking to Wanda about everything and anything — some concert, the kitten she took in — while Natasha is losing her mind. You're sipping drinks, chatting with people, laughing.
You step closer to some guy in a Joker-costume. He leans in, mumbling, and you giggle. He reaches out to tuck some hair behind your ear.
It's barely something, but Natasha feels like she's witnessing a war crime.
She downs one more shot, her brain fuzzy, and then gets up. You feel her hand on your back, pushing you away from the guy. You're too surprised to react properly.
"She's not interested", she snaps when he tries to stop her.
"Since when do you speak for me?"
"Shut up", she mutters, wrapping her arm around your waist.
You stare at her, frowning. Is she drunk?
Maybe. Not necessarily. She could be completely sober and still act like an idiot.
"I was hoping I wouldn't have to talk to you tonight, you know."
"Sure", she grunts. "That's why you're dressed like this. To piss me off."
You stop and tear yourself away from her embrace. She pauses, blinking.
"Not everything I do is for you!", you snap. "And I'm tired of you acting like it is!"
"Then why are you dressed like that?", she barks.
You glare at her, your back against the wall. She's walked you into some hallway — secluded, dark, but close enough to the party so you can still hear the music. The ground is vibrating, shaking beneath Natasha's feet, and her head spins with a mixture of anger and want.
Your costume isn't helping. The short dress, the sparkling material, the smooth skin of your thighs. Now she's not only drunk and pissed, but can also feel herself harden and twitch in her camo pants.
"Are you kidding? I'm dressed like this because I look good!"
"Obviously", she retorts, stepping forward. The dog tag around her neck dangles in front of you, her alcohol-warm breath fanning your mouth. "You always do."
Her hand comes up to press against the wall beside your head. You look up at her, expression forcibly blank. She leans in closer, breathing heavily. Her lips almost touch yours, but you push your hand against her chest.
"You're drunk", you say.
"I'd want you even if I was sober."
"You don't get to say that", you hiss. "Not after what you did."
"And what did you do?", she says, fingers curling and fist pressing harder against the wall. "I saw you, you know. With that clown over there. What do you even want from him?"
You stare at her, both of you out of breath. Something about this situation is turning you on — how close she is, how she smells like that one cologne you love on her. How you're alone, bodies inches apart. How her hips twitch, and her eyes both search and avoid yours. How, despite it all, she's actually jealous.
"It's just casual, right?", you murmur.
Natasha furrows her eyebrows. Her lips curl into a faint smirk. "That's something you worry about?"
"No."
"Liar."
You shove her. She stumbles closer anyway, grabbing your face and kissing you.
Teeth clash, bodies intertwine against the wall. Your hands grasp at the material of her tank top. Your back hits the wall, again and again, and her hands move to fumble with your dress. She bunches it up around your hips, her fingers quickly finding the front of your lace panties. She groans when she feels how wet you are.
"Who'd you wear these for?", she pants against your neck.
Your hips buckle into her touch, chasing friction. She rubs against you through the thin fabric. You moan and Natasha sees stars.
"Fuck- fuck, Nat-"
"Stop talking", she gasps, pulling you into another kiss. Her fingers nudge past the fabric and slide against slick heat. She works you open, filling the hallway with quiet squelching sounds.
Her fingers fuck into you. You moan, back arching, and reach between you to fumble with the zipper of her pants. You yank the fabric down enough to let her cock spring free. Pink-tipped and veins throbbing, oozing precum.
Natasha's breathing stutters when she feels your hand around her cock. You stroke her, slowly at first, and her head drops against your shoulder. Her fingers are still inside of you, but the movements become more irregular.
"Shit", she whines, burying her face against your neck. You smear precum down her length, lubricating it. Her fingers curl inside you and you almost let go.
She pulls away and tears her pants down. Not willing to waste any time, she squeezes your thighs together and pushes her cock between them. She fucks herself with your plush thighs, the shaft just barely grazing your clit, precum making your skin slick.
Beads of sweat roll down her temple. You stare at her, equally lightheaded and mesmerized.
Finally, she hikes up your thigh and aligns herself with you. She thrusts in, deep, and both of you moan.
Wet, hot, tight. Natasha's losing her mind.
"Tinkerbell, huh?", she pants, snapping her hips forward.
"Yeah", you moan, meeting each of her thrusts. She laughs roughly, pressing her lips to your neck. "Bet you've never fucked a fairy before."
"Can't say I've had the pleasure." She grunts against your neck, then lifts her mouth to your ear. The coil in your stomach tightens. "Wanna cum inside you."
Not thinking straight, you nod frantically. You grab the chain around her neck, keeping her close. Her cock throbs hotly inside you, and your clit is so swollen that it hurts each time her skin rubs against it.
She couldn't stop if she wanted to. She's so deep, so close, chasing it, and your soft moans and whines aren't making it any easier for her, either. Hot spurts of cum shoot into you, your own orgasm milking out every drop as your walls tighten around her.
Natasha sags against you, spent. Her cock twitches inside of you, a white and sticky fluid dripping down your thighs, and you exhale shakily. The noises from the party — muffled music, voices, the bass — takes you back to reality. Back to the dark hallway, the fight, the fact you just had sex without even considering you could be walked in on.
You're sticky, overstimulated. Dizziness is setting in. The music thumps, but it's nothing compared to your pounding heart. Natasha breathes against your neck, her arms still keeping you trapped against the wall, and you finally push her away.
"You still need to apologize."
"I just made you come", she says.
"You really think that's a smart answer right now?"
"No, but-", she says, but you shove her off and the words die on her tongue. She frowns, opening her mouth again, but then it shuts when she sees her cum drip down your thighs. She stares, her half-erect cock twitching once more.
"Don't even think about it", you say, glaring and straighten your dress. "Apologize, or I'm leaving."
"There's nothing to apologize for", she says after a few seconds of silence. She pulls up her boxers and cargo pants and zips up again. "We're not official."
Just like that, you regret everything that happened in the past ten minutes. You regret ever getting to know the feeling of her finishing inside you, of ever thinking things could change. You regret thinking you could be the odd one out, the one who makes her change.
You don't say anything. You step back, using your hands to remove most of the cum sticking to your thighs, and walk away.
Natasha's heart races as she watches your figure disappear. She doesn't chase. And yet, she runs after you.
She catches your wrist just as you're about to leave the house. She spins you around and pulls you into her arms, kissing you.
You want to shove her away. You want to let this go. You should let it go.
An hour later, you unblock her number.
. . .
Popcorn, soda and a horror movie at a flashback cinema.
It was Natasha's idea. She was the one who came up with it, thinking it'd be nice to see you squirm. Maybe you'd clutch her arm, hide your face against her shoulder, make her feel needed. Though, she obviously couldn't tell you that.
You couldn't say no, even if a part of your brain kept telling you to. Two hours, spent in a dark room, hearts racing and bodies too close to ignore the heat burning between you.
You were right. It is dark, and intimate, and you notice her stretch and put her arm around your shoulders. You roll your eyes. Way too cliche.
Her breath fans your ear. Her thumb slips under the shoulder strap of your top. She teases the skin there, listening closely to see if you'll react in any way.
You don't. But then, her free hand pushes up the hem of your top to touch your stomach. Fingers travel higher, graze the lacy bra, and then dip underneath the fabric.
In front of you, you watch Krueger kill Glen. A Nightmare on Elm Street — a classic, one that'd probably leave you with at least a week worth of sleepless nights, but you're barely able to focus.
Natasha cups your breast. Her thumb rolls over the nipple, flicking it, tugging at it, until it's pebbled against her touch.
Then, you feel her mouth on your neck. Her tongue darts out and licks a stripe over your throat.
Your thighs press together in a hopeless attempt at keeping the wetness at bay, but it's no use. You shift in your seat, hoping no one will notice.
On-screen, it's a bloodbath. Between your legs, it's like a dam broke.
"Scared yet?", she mumbles, twisting and rolling the bud until it's raw and almost painfully sensitive.
"Watch the damn movie", you hiss through gritted teeth.
"I've watched it twice", she says dismissively.
You'd ask why she picked it. You don't have to, though. It's obvious — she did it so she could feel you up under the cover of darkness.
You don't fully understand why. You could do this in either of your dorms. You'd have more privacy, more time. You wouldn't risk being caught and getting banned from this cinema.
It's a nice cinema, though. The speakers are loud enough to cover up the moans that escape you.
Your hands grasp the armrests, nails digging into soft fabric. Natasha keeps trailing kisses all over your neck, wet and open-mouthed, and your hips shift desperately.
Fingers curl. You're trying to keep yourself from grabbing her stupid hand and pushing it between your legs yourself.
In the end, you don't have to do that. Her hand comes up from underneath your shirt again. You feel it inside your panties.
Your thighs spread just a little bit. Just enough to allow her fingers to gather wetness before thrusting into you. Your hips nearly jerk off the seat.
She thumbs your clit. Her fingers piston into you, setting a fast, relentless pace.
"Got plans for spring break?", she mumbles, like she isn't fucking you stupid inside a movie theater right now. Like her fingers aren't drenched with your slick. Like she isn't about to rip through her own sweatpants.
You almost laugh, but then her fingers curl just right. You whine, hand jerking and knocking over your popcorn. Natasha gives a breathless chuckle against your neck.
"Taking that as a 'no'", she muses, voice a whisper, and pulls out only to thrust back in. Your hips buckle. "How's Miami sound, baby?"
"Fuck."
"You a fan?", she mumbles. "All our friends are going. Tony said he'd get us a surprise."
Your vision blurs. Your lower belly tightens, heat shooting into it. The pleasure builds up, relentless and overwhelming, and your hips wiggle in the seat.
People are being murdered brutally on-screen. Blood, screams, booming speakers.
The real horror? She pulls out.
The emptiness hits you suddenly. You gasp quietly, feeling the pleasure shift into an aching, throbbing sensation. For a moment, you consider shoving your hand between your legs just to get it over with.
"I'll fucking kill you", you hiss, grabbing her slick hand. "Finish that."
"I'm not a fan of exhibitionism."
"Want to end up like that guy on the screen?"
She snorts quietly and sinks back into her seat, not making a move to help you out.
You shift, again and again, the movement giving you some much needed friction. But it's not nearly enough, and before you know it, your hand is pushing past your underwear.
Natasha watches, wide-eyed, as your hand starts to move. Something about it makes blood shoot into her lower half.
"Jesus Christ", she practically moans, her hand flying down to press against the bulge in her sweatpants.
She watches you squirm in your seat, soaking your own fingers because she left you desperate. Your hips roll up into your hand, chasing that high, and when it finally comes, the noises that escape you are enough to make thick ropes of milky cum shoot into Natasha's boxers.
She wasn't even touched properly. Watching you was enough.
The aftermath is a mess. Both of you wrecked, panting, her boxers drenched and your thighs sticky.
You feel her warm breath against your ear.
"So, Miami?"
. . .
The entire campus — no, the entire city — knows Tony Stark is extra.
Still, you don't expect him to pull up with an entire bus the day you're going to Miami for spring break.
"It's like The Magic School Bus", you say.
Natasha's got her arm around your shoulders. You're both leaning against the wall in front of your dorms, the early morning sun blinding you. You lift your hand to protect your eyes.
The people around you, groggy from waking up at 6am, are rubbing their faces. Oversized hoodies and disposable coffee cups galore, none of you too sure whether this is worth it. It feels more like a school trip than spring break.
"Would love to see him in a Mrs. Frizzle getup", she mumbles.
Clint, standing in front of you, snickers. He's got his arms around his girlfriend. You eye his outfit, which consists of a Hawaii shirt and khaki shorts, and are silently glad Natasha decided to go with something less obnoxious.
Steve grunts as he closes the luggage compartment. A total of 15 people are going to Miami, and he had to haul every suitcase and duffel bag into the bus.
"Done? Took you long enough", Tony says, arms crossed. He nods at the bus. "Come on."
"20 hours", Natasha mutters, walking into the bus with you. You find two seats in the middle and sit down. "I'm going to lose it."
"They're taking turns driving. You can literally sleep the whole way there. You'll be fine."
She grunts and plops into the space next to the window. You sit down and she pulls you closer, hand slipping under your top and resting on your stomach. Smooth, warm skin, her fingers drawing circles.
Your friends are staring. You know they are. It's not everyday that they see Natasha cozying up with someone like this.
A 20-hour bus ride is long enough already, but time really starts to drag when you're spending it next to the person you can never quite figure out.
Hour 1. You talk, quietly, and share earbuds.
Hour 2. Tony apparently managed to find one of the few buses nearby that have a/c. You shiver, Natasha notices, and suddenly, you're wearing her hoodie. You breathe in her scent.
Hour 4. Bored and tired, you both stretch out your legs and accidentally nudge each other. She doesn't pull back, it turns into a mindless little game of footsies, and your feet tangle.
Hour 5. You fall asleep. You didn't mean for that to happen — but she's warm against you, and her hoodie's soft, and a sip of the vodka she brought along knocked you right out.
Hour 7. You wake up, slowly, to find out the seat next to yours is empty.
"Where's Nat?", you ask sleepily.
"Taking a leak", Clint calls from the driver's seat. Wanda turns toward you, a knowing look on her face. You roll your eyes.
A minute later, she's back. She slides into the seat next to you, arm immediately resting over the backrests of the seats, and hands you a little flower. You twirl it between your fingers, studying it, and Natasha gets that dreaded warm feeling in her stomach again.
"Hope this didn't hurt your credit score."
"Be grateful."
"I am."
Her lips press against your cheek before she can stop herself. Everyone stares, and Natasha mutters something about you 'just having fun.' Her words sting.
Hour 9. Golden hour. The playlist is slower, the bus quieter. Her fingers tap an absentminded rhythm against your thigh.
Hour 14. Sleep-deprived and travel-weary, the idiocy is hitting you at full force.
Natasha pulls you into her lap, hands roaming your middle. You curl into her, grinning stupidly. She smiles against your neck and drags her lips higher up, kissing your earlobe. Her tongue darts out, just barely touching the shell of your ear. You laugh, and the others stir in their sleep.
You both freeze for a moment. When everyone stays quiet, she shifts you in her lap until her mouth can press against yours.
Hour 19. You're two hours away from your destination. You're way too honest and tired to keep the walls up. Hands intertwine, breaths mingle. You're sprawled out on the seats, squished together, but you don't mind.
"You ever think about leaving?"
"Leaving?", you murmur.
"Yeah. Just leaving. No plans, no destination. No...bullshit."
You're not sure why she's asking you, of all people.
Hour 21. You finally arrive at the hotel. You each have separate rooms, but it's 5am, and you're exhausted and needy, and Natasha ends up in your bed. Head on her chest, you fall asleep.
. . .
Just friends, you've told the others. Just having fun, you know.
Friends — but you're not kidding anyone.
You spent the first day in Miami sleeping. In your hotel room, on the balcony, and now, on the beach. You're on a lounger, a beach umbrella protecting you from the UV rays. Her face is planted between your boobs, her hand resting on your ass with her fingers under the fabric of your bikini.
You're not alone. Your friends are everywhere around you, either napping or suntanning, drinking cocktails or swimming. You're not sure whether this is what spring break is supposed to be like, but it's nice. Peaceful, slow, quiet.
Natasha grunts in her sleep, nodding her head to push her face further into the plush heat of your body. Your arms wrap around her head.
So much to do, so many things to see — yet it still feels like she'd rather be wrapped around you than anything else.
You see Tony return with a bag of food. Your hand trails down her spine, an attempt to gently coax her into wakefulness.
"What?", she mutters, fingers curling.
"Stark brought cheeseburgers."
"Don't care. Let me sleep."
"I'm hungry."
Natasha looks up, eyes bleary. You smile faintly when you notice the light sunburn on her cheeks.
"I want food", you add.
She stares at you, eyebrows furrowed. Then she sighs and sits up, raking one hand through her hair. It's curled at the ends from the saltwater, with little grains of sand in it. She gets up like going to grab you some food is the most obvious thing to do.
You lean back, watching her. You're so lost in thoughts that you almost don't notice Daisy poking your side. Your head turns.
"What?"
"Her? Really?"
You shift, looking away again. "What about her?"
She shrugs, but silently, she immediately comes up with an entire list of reasons. At the top — the fact that Natasha's slept with basically every girl on campus and hasn't had a relationship last longer than a week so far. It's happened to her as well, but there's no way she'll tell you that.
"Nothing", she says evasively. "She's just got this whole...dumb and poetic-thing going on. Like, she has no clue what the fuck she's saying, but it sounds good anyway."
Natasha, crouched down in front of the greasy paper bag, grabs two burgers. Your head lolls to the side and you almost sigh when she looks up and puts her jawline on full display. It's too easy to want her, even if you maybe shouldn't.
"She's not dumb", you say, glancing at Daisy again. You hesitate. "But she's not poetic either. I mean, that sex joke she made yesterday?"
"You laughed, though."
"Huh?"
"You laughed", she repeats. You give her a deadpan look. "Seriously. You laugh at all her jokes."
You scoff, shaking your head. Internally, though, you're wondering whether she's right.
You watch Natasha return, two burgers and a soda in her hands. You scoot forward and she plops down behind you, letting you sit between her legs. Daisy doesn't say anything, but the look on her face is telling enough.
. . .
Logs and branches in various stages of burning, smoke curling into the air, sparks drifting upward. Embers glow, stars sparkle mirthfully, tequila burns your throat.
You're sitting on blankets, feet buried in the sand, and watch the bonfire. Natasha's next to you, roasting marshmallows and sipping tequila. You nudge her when she puts the bottle a little too close to the fire.
"Careful there."
"I am", she mumbles, looking at you. Her eyes roam all over your face, drinking in every feature. She has no idea how mesmerized she looks. She has no idea how helpless she looks. She's tipsy, and she's warm, and she's in love. The thought would scare her, but her brain isn't capable of much more than staring at you and keeping her awake.
If she had to choose between the two, she'd pick the former.
People are dancing, swaying around the bonfire. Music is playing on portable speakers. Her hand finds yours. Suddenly, you're stumbling through the sand.
"Hey, my marshmallow!"
"Screw that", she says, turning to pull you in close. There's that stupid little smile on her face, the one that makes you gravitate towards her. She leans in, hot breath fanning your lips. You tilt your head.
Hands smooth down your sides, the fabric of your bodycon dress silky under her palms. She leans in, nose almost touching yours.
"Bet you wanna", she mumbles, drunk and testing her limits. You roll your eyes, but don't pull away. "Don't give me that look."
"What look?"
"Like this is funny."
"It is funny", you say. Her hands grip your waist, pulling you even closer. "You're ridiculous."
She scoffs, hands sliding down your sides. Hooking her thumbs under the hem of your dress, she starts bunching it up around your thighs. You swat at her hand.
"Not here", you say, glancing at your friends. Another knowing look from Wanda. You flip her off.
Natasha doesn't respond. Her head dips into the crook of your neck, peppering the perfumed skin with kisses. Wet, warm, worshipping. She's smitten and drunk and hard, and the ocean is right nearby, and if she tries enough...
"No."
She groans, her fingertips digging into your thighs. She presses against you, already straining against the fabric of her shorts.
"They're not even watching."
"They are", you insist. "You're the one who keeps telling them we're friends, anyway. So let's not go overboard."
Another noise of disapproval. She's drunk, and you're soft and warm, and she'd probably fuck you right here in the sand if given the opportunity.
Also, enough guys have been staring at you all night. She wants to give them something to stare.
You pull back and cup her face. You look right into her eyes. Her heart skips a beat. She's a goner.
Now everyone is staring. This time, neither of you notices.
(Because even drunk, she knows it's you.)
. . .
It's rare that you and Natasha part during that week in Miami, but it does happen.
She's at the bar, you're in your hotel room. She's ordering drinks, you're making sure your hair looks nice. She's chatting up some girl, you're twisting and turning in front of the mirror to see every angle of your body.
Natasha doesn't even know how it started. All she remembers is waking up alone, the memories of last night fresh in her mind.
A beach concert. You, in front of her, complaining about not being able to see. In hindsight, she knows you must've been exaggerating; in that moment, however, she didn't care. She grabbed you and hoisted you onto her shoulders.
People stared. Her shoulders felt like the top of the world. When you slid down, she didn't let go.
A few hours later, at 4 in the morning. You, tipsy, in her lap. Strong arms wrapped around your middle. A heart that beat a little too fast.
It's overcompensation. She's desperate to prove to herself that what she has with you still isn't anything serious, but she knows that's ridiculous. Looking at the girl in front of her — tiny bikini, full lips, messy eyebrows — she feels nothing. Just months ago, she would've done everything in her power to get her to sleep with her.
Now? Static. Boredom. Emptiness. It's frustrating and it's terrifying.
The girl leans in. She brushes her fingers along Natasha's bicep, down to her forearm and to her wrist.
Natasha swallows, trying to focus. Much to her dismay, she can't remember a single trick. She feels like she doesn't even know how to flirt anymore.
Then, you walk past. Black strapless bikini, a net wrap around your waist, tan lines on your shoulders. You walk past, barely noticing them, but Natasha jumps up and pretty much dumps the girl she was talking to.
You don't pay her any attention. It only makes things worse.
You round a corner, and Natasha puts her hands on your waist. You turn your head to look at her.
"I thought you had somewhere else to be."
Her thoughts falter. Then, she shakes her head.
"Nowhere else", she promises, kissing the back of your neck. "Where you going?"
"The pool", you say, adjusting the tote bag you've got slung over your shoulder. You weave through the crowds of half-naked people.
An hour later, you're both in the water. You haven't forgotten about her flirting at the bar, but she has. The second you walked by, that other girl was off her mind.
You're in the water, a drink in your hand and Natasha standing behind you with one arm circled around your waist. Her fingers slip under the strap of your bikini top, and she pulls at it to let it snap back. You glare at her, but she just smirks.
You're surrounded by your friends. Wanda is sitting on the edge of the saltwater pool, a cocktail in hand. Clint is snoring on one of the loungers. Sam jumps in headfirst, making Wanda squeal when she gets splashed with water.
Natasha leans in, lips against your wet shoulder. Water glistens on your skin. Hours pass, and the sun dips lower. Everything is washed in orange and gold. You're facing her now, arms wrapped around her middle. She runs her hand up your back and gently tugs at the clasp of your bikini, but this time, she doesn't let it snap. She just holds it.
You're staring. You both are. She's in way too deep.
The group asks whether you want to go to some club. You agree and go back to the hotel the change.
It's just the two of you now, hands brushing and skin sun-kissed, barely clothed. You both prefer this, but neither of you says it out loud. You step into the elevator, only in swimwear and with your hair damp and smelling like saltwater. Natasha so close, skin still damp from the pool.
The numbers on the panel tick. She watches your reflection in the elevator's mirror. You catch her eye and tilt your head. She pushes her hands into the pockets of her swimming trunks and looks away.
"You okay?"
"Fine", she mumbles. She's not one to get scared easily, but she's terrified.
You hum, unconvinced, but don't press further. It dings, the elevator doors slide open, and you step out. Natasha trails after you, noticing way too much. The strap of your tote bag sliding off your shoulder shouldn't be important. The water drops rolling down your spine shouldn't be important.
You shouldn't be important. This started as a fantasy, a hookup. Nothing that should've lasted more than a night or two. And yet, here she is. Not walking past your hotel room to get to her own, but stepping in right after you.
Inside, it's cool from the air-conditioning. Natasha plops down on your bed, hands tucked under her head and legs stretched out. She watches you as you dry your hair with a towel, and your eyes meet. It's quiet, way too quiet, and you clear your throat.
"We're leaving in ten", you remind her.
"We have to?", she asks. You glance at her, already in front of the mirror and changing into a dress. She swallows.
"You told them we'd go."
"Changed my mind."
"Well, I didn't." You adjust the straps of your bra. "What, you want to miss out on a night in Miami?"
"We have other nights."
You slip into a dress, but internally, you've slammed your foot down on the brakes. Natasha shifts on the bed, turning her head to look at the ceiling instead. You watch her through the mirror, something inside you twisting. You're not sure you want to leave, either.
"You okay?", you ask quietly.
Her head lolls to the side. "I'm good."
You hesitate. "We don't have to go, you know."
"It's fine. We said we would."
"I mean it." You pad to the bed and sit down beside her. She rolls onto her side, her hand trailing over crisp white bedsheets and coming up to rest on your thigh. "We'll order room service."
"No more cheeseburgers", she says.
You smile faintly. Tony has been in charge of getting everyone food a few times too many.
"No", you say, brushing some hair away from her face. "Anything else."
She hums. She glances at your face, then averts her eyes. Her head tips forward and her lips press against your knee. You reach out absentmindedly, running your fingers through her damp hair.
"Don't tell me you're tired", you mumble, smiling.
"Not tired enough", she says. She tugs at the hem of your dress. "So we're not going?"
You sigh. "Apparently not. Why?"
"May as well take this off."
You laugh, swatting at her hand. It's no use, though — she grabs you, pulls you down with her, keeps you trapped with her arms. You squirm.
"That's the real reason, huh?!"
"Maybe", she concedes, grinning. She kisses you, her hands moving to bunch up the fabric of your dress around your thighs. Hands roam bare skin, slowly, memorizing it. She pulls away and presses her lips to your shoulder, then her eyes drift.
For a moment, she just stares.
You nudge her.
"Natasha."
She blinks, meeting your eyes. Right — keep moving.
You're not used to her being this slow. Hands seem to move in slow motion. Lips drag across skin. Her nose brushes against yours.
The dress comes off and is tossed aside. You roll on top of her, feeling how warm and damp from the pool she still is.
"I should've gotten you a towel", you mumble, cupping her face. "You'll get a cold, with the a/c on."
Natasha just smiles. She tucks you against her body, forehead leaning against yours, and reaches into her swimming trunks. Hand around her length, she lazily palms herself before starting to pump herself to full mast. Not that much is missing, anyway.
"I'll be fine", she replies.
Her lips brush against your forehead. She keeps her hand around herself, but doesn't rush it. Her movements are lazy, unhurried. For the first time ever, you feel like your time isn't limited. It's a nice feeling. Maybe you'll let yourself get used to it.
She tugs off the swimming trunks, the fabric clinging to her skin. Finally, she rolls on a condom. Nudges your thighs apart, moves one to rest over her hip.
"Come here", she mumbles, one hand cupping the back of your head. "Let me feel you."
The head of her cock taps against your entrance, teasing you. You do have all the time in the world.
A breathless little moan escapes you. Her skin is cool from the a/c, with an undercurrent of heat beneath it. You press closer, making her strokes deeper. Her hips roll into yours, her arm stays wrapped around your waist. You meet every thrust, eyes slipping closed.
"Fuck", you breathe.
"You're good, baby."
Defined abs flex with every roll of her hips. You tug her closer, even deeper, and she grips your hip in an effort to stop herself from rutting into you mindlessly.
Your hand slips between your bodies. Your thumb finds your clit, swollen already, and circles it. Breathless little sounds escape you.
Natasha moans. She kisses you, traces your spine with her thumb, gently presses you down into the mattress. It's lazy, soft, and you've found a steady rhythm that works for you.
You're slick with arousal, but pulling out and rocking back in is still a challenge for her. Natasha grabs your thigh and pushes your knee to your chest, opening you up more. You whine and break the kiss, mouths inches away as you both breathe heavily.
"Not gonna last long at this rate."
"We got all night", she pants, thrusting her throbbing tip against something deep — so deep it makes it your hips stutter. "You got plenty of time to last long."
She's in so deep she barely has to pull back. She just grinds in deeper, cursing under her breath whenever you clench around her. Her cock is swollen, aching and twitching, and she can feel herself get closer to the edge as well.
Your hips jerk off the mattress when she rotates them with her hands. She laugh, voice rough, and kisses your throat.
"Yeah?"
You nod, clutching her biceps. "Right there-"
"You got it, baby. You got me."
Another roll of her hips. The pleasure builds, making all your nerve endings tingle with the approaching orgasm.
Breathy pants against your neck. A hand maps out your side, your thigh. Groans in response to whimpers, the sun outside disappearing from the horizon. A hotel room, darkened by the lack of sun and cold from the air conditioning.
The heat increases. She starts pounding into you, her nose nuzzling your neck. More kisses.
"I'm close."
"Me too."
"Wanna cum in you."
Your mind jumps back to the first time you did that. Back at the sorority party, after you'd had that fight. You remember the feeling, and a part of you craves it, but you also know you got incredibly lucky back then.
"Don't want to be a mom yet", you say, words punctured by little grunts.
Natasha whines at the mere thought. She loses rhythm before you do, her thrusts becoming sloppy and desperate.
She comes first — hard. You feel the way the condom swells when she spills into it. You feel her throb, feel the continuous twitching against your walls. It pushes you over the edge as well.
Thighs trembling and hips rutting, you moan. Natasha catches your mouth, swallowing every sound, and keeps rolling her hips until you stop.
Her hips twitch. She's wrecked, but there's no way she's pulling out. She kisses your collarbone instead, dazed and spent.
"Nat", you mumble, aftershocks coursing through you. "I'm full."
"Fuck", she pants. Her head drops forward and her forehead comes to rest on your shoulder. "Feel so good."
"Better than the club."
"Agreed."
You spend hours like this. Intertwined on your bed, in the shower, over the table. When you finally decide to call it a day, Natasha's too tired to think properly.
Her face is tucked against your side. Her hand is on the inside of your thigh. She nudges your ribs with her nose.
Two words make everything better and worse.
"You're different."
. . .
Things go both up- and downhill. Sometimes, everything seems perfect. She kisses you in front of others, tipsy and clingy. She sleeps in your bed. She washes the salt out of your hair and kisses the underside of your thighs.
Red lipstick on her shirt colors, her nails painted with your favorite nail polish. Risky snaps and smelling like your perfume. Secretive kisses, messy kisses that end in spit-slicked lips, smiling into kisses before pulling away just to hear you whine.
She loves every second. Every second of it terrifies her, but she loves it.
She doesn't know why she ends up ruining it.
There's something that feels way too serious about waking up under you every morning. About how defensive she gets. How she uses sunscreen to draw shapes on your back. Your friends teasing her isn't helping, either.
It's harmless at first. It hurts, but it's harmless.
She disappears at a party. You have no idea where she goes, or what she's doing. When she returns, she doesn't tell you anything.
She's always been touchy, and that hasn't changed. Her hand ends up on someone's thigh. Her arm rests over someone's shoulder. You try your best to ignore it.
Then, the text messages. They light up her screen at night, flashing names you don't recognize. Natasha grabs her phone and flips it over. You scoot away from her.
She ignores the people who text her, but she doesn't tell them to stop, and she doesn't block them, either.
During another party, she's without you. It's rare that this happens, and she knows it. But the others know it, too.
"Single again?", Tony asks, handing her a vodka shot. She rolls her eyes but doesn't respond, instead knocking back the shot. "Where's your girl?"
She rubs her eyes. They're tearing up from the alcohol. "Seriously, shut up."
"No, I mean it. Where's Y/N?"
"Maybe they broke up", someone adds unhelpfully.
"Can't break up if you were never dating in the first place."
"Were you dating? I mean, with your track record..."
Natasha averts her eyes, jaw tense. She leans against the wall and starts counting the cigarette butts on the ground. But she's panicking, and she doesn't get far.
"Come on", Clint says, nudging her. He has no idea just how much damage his words are about to cause. "You can tell us, you know. We'd love to know if someone finally got you to dip your toes in the monogamy-pond."
She has two options.
One: admit she's all in with you.
(Not happening. She hasn't even been able to admit that to you, or herself.)
Two: prove that nothing's changed.
(How the fuck is she supposed to manage that?)
Natasha drags a hand down her face. She feels hot all over, her cheeks tingling, her fingers numb. She steps away. They all start talking at the same time, a chorus of we weren't being serious and come on and take a joke, man.
She edges past a small group of men and bumps into some girl. Natasha barely pays her any attention, but the girl's eyes linger. She watches her slide onto a barstool and order a shot from the bartender.
She downs a shot, then another. The girl watches her for a while, then she sits down next to her. Natasha glances at her, barely reacting.
Sun-kissed skin, glowing. Wavy blonde hair. Red dress, barely-there and accenting every curve. Exactly the kind of girl she used to go for.
Glossy lips tug into a smile. She touches her bicep and runs her fingers down to her forearm.
"Alone here?", she asks quietly. Her head tilts. Natasha curses silently when the simple mannerism reminds her of you.
"Nobody else around me, is there?"
"I suppose not." The girl leans in. Her breath is sweet and fruity, with notes of alcohol woven into it. "Oh. But now there is."
Natasha smiles reluctantly. The girl is flirting, and she's about to let it happen. This is her opportunity to prove she's still herself, prove that nothing's too serious yet.
Too many shots. Too much alcohol, even for Natasha. She's not someone who likes to feed into stereotypes, but she's Russian, and she's been drinking for way too long. She can hold her alcohol — still, she ends up drunk and with some girl in her lap.
Natasha doesn't even know her name. She comes up with the genius idea to call her Blondie.
More alcohol. Suddenly, she feels unfamiliar lips press against hers. Ignoring the nauseating feeling of guilt in her stomach, she kisses her back harder. Her tongue gets sucked into the girl's mouth, hands squeeze and roam her biceps.
"Wanna get out of here?"
Natasha, drunk but still able to think, hesitates. Blondie cups her jaw.
"Getting shy on me?", she teases. That hits her right where it shouldn't.
They get up. They stumble to the hotel. They burst into the room.
Lips clash, hands unbuckle a belt. She hardens slightly, but it's nowhere close to what you manage to do to her. Blondie starts peppering her jaw with kisses, and her hand dips under the waistband of her boxers. Natasha's head is spinning, drowning in panic and vodka.
She wants to tell herself this doesn't mean anything. That this just proves she's still herself. But she knows the truth.
She feels her hand around her half-erect cock. She grabs her wrist.
"Wait", she says, swallowing. "I don't-"
The girl pouts. "I thought you wanted this."
Natasha shakes her head. Does she want this? No. Does she know what she wants, though? She's not sure.
She looks away. The girl starts moving her hand inside her boxers. Natasha's stomach turns.
The door clicks open.
For a moment, all you can do is stare. You don't even process it at first. It's too surreal. Natasha wouldn't do this. She's known for sleeping around, but those last few months couldn't have been in vain.
And yet, the air smells like alcohol and sweat. Natasha and some girl are half-naked, and they're clearly in the middle of something you don't want to know about. Hand still in her boxers, wrapped around her, touching what you had in your mouth just hours ago.
Your heart stops, then slams against your ribs. First, you feel nothing — then it's just pure anger. The other girl glances at you, lazily, and you'd love to do some serious damage with that chair to your right.
Natasha, immediately sobering up, curses and pushes the girl away. You're out of the door already, storming down the hallway. You hear footsteps behind you, and you change your mind about taking the elevator. Instead, you take a turn and rush down the stairs.
"Y/N, wait! Fuck-"
You shake your head, running faster. She's close behind.
You make it into the lobby. Natasha's running, shoving people aside. Her heart is racing, and for the first time ever, she feels like she truly fucked up.
She's done similar stuff before. Slept with girls only to ignore them literal hours after, ghost people, lie and cheat and hurt the ones around her. It feels different now. Worse.
Finally, she makes it. She reaches for your wrist, fingertips grazing your skin, but you whip around and pull away.
"Don't fucking touch me!"
"Please, please just listen-"
"Listen? I'm supposed to listen? Go on then, explain!"
Natasha stops in her tracks. She starts babbling, face flushed and hands shaking. You're still in the lobby, and people are looking at you weird, but you block them out. You block everything out, everything except the hot, boiling feeling of disappointment in your veins.
You knew it from the beginning — falling in love with Natasha can't end well. Here you are now, four months later, and you realize just how right you were.
"Look, I- I regret this, okay?", she says, desperately, pathetically. "I didn't want it to happen. I just- I drank, I drank too much, and she was right there, and I was terrified-"
You let out a bitter, hurt laugh. "Oh, you regret it? Well, that changes things. I'm sorry for assuming."
"No, baby, I mean it", she says, eyes pleading, and grabs your hand. You draw back as if singed by her touch. "Please."
"No", you say. You can feel the moisture forming in your eyes, the tears way too close. "No. Seriously. Fuck you."
"Y/N..."
"You're so full of yourself", you spit, stepping back. She steps forward again, but you rebuff her attempt once more. "You really think you're worth any of this? That any sane person will keep playing this game for you?"
Her face falls. She shakes her head, trying to pretend like your words didn't cut to the bone.
"You're not worth it", you say. "You're not worth any of it."
Natasha has to agree. All she can do is watch as you leave.
. . .
You ignore her. You block her. You stay away from her.
And still, somehow, she's everywhere.
On campus, at parties, outside the library. In basketball shorts and hoodies, an iced tea or black coffee in hand. Apologies lay on her tongue, ready and waiting to be served to you, but you're not in the mood to listen to any of them.
Natasha knows she's being pathetic. She's gone from 'the girl who doesn't chase' to 'the girl who's sadder to look at than a blind puppy'. She used to get any girl she wanted, no matter who, but now, the one girl she likes can't even bear to look at her.
She's aware you don't want to hear it, but she keeps trying, anyway. In the hallways, when you're on the way to class (you start regretting ever telling her where your seminars take place), in the cafeteria (which you start to avoid going to), in the parking lot.
"Can we talk?"
"No."
"I'm sorry."
"I don't care."
"Y/N, please."
You whip around. "Can you quit that?!"
Natasha freezes, hands lifted. Your chest twists at the sight — almost half a year ago, not too far away from where you're standing right now. A basketball and a girl that was a little too cocky. If you'd known, would you've still taken that same route? Or would you have taken a detour?
"I'm sorry", she repeats, more quietly. "I don't know what to say. I don't know how to make it better. But I miss you, and I'm sorry, and..."
And what?, she thinks. And please take me back? And I've never been this miserable over anyone before? And I love you?
She still can't say any of it out loud. She just rubs the back of her neck and shifts on her feet.
You stare at her, waiting, not saying a word. You're letting her sweat because she deserves it. You're letting her hope that you might forgive her.
Then, you turn around. You leave abruptly, not even bothering to give her the satisfaction of a response. Natasha stands there, staring, before finally reacting.
"It wasn't that serious, anyway!"
You flinch. Just barely, but she notices anyway, and her blood runs cold. She can't fathom why she'd even say that — all of this is her fault.
You leave. Again.
. . .
It's midnight when something hits your window.
You're in bed, not doing much. Staring at the ceiling, scrolling through whatever social media app your finger clicks on first, trying to somehow fall asleep.
It's quiet, aside from the rain outside. It's been storming for hours at this point, but the heavy downpour has turned into a slightly gentler hissing.
Then, a thump against your window disrupts the near-silence.
You sit up with a start to look at it. Faint cracks have appeared in the glass, forming a suspiciously circular shape. You hesitate for a second — god knows who's throwing shit at your dorm window in the middle of the night. This is New York, after all. Tons of crazy people running around, even on campus. Maybe it'd be safer not to check.
Then, it hits you. You blink, slowly, before getting up and padding to the window. You open it and look down only to find out it's Natasha. She's standing there, basketball in hand and bottom lip briefly tugged between her teeth, her clothes and hair soaked from the rain.
"Can we talk?", she pleads.
You stare at her. You step back and close the window.
The second you're back on your bed, Natasha exhales in frustration. She's panicking, rubbing her face and clenching her jaw. She has to do this, though. She has to get you to talk to her.
She lifts her hands and aims again. The ball flies through the air and slams against the window again — this time, too hard.
Glass shatters, a basketball shooting straight into your room. You stare at it in disbelief, too shocked to react, before finally jumping up. You grab the first thing you find, which is a half-empty vodka bottle, and step in front of the window to hurl it at her.
Her eyes widen and she barely dodges it. It shatters on the pavement, clear liquid spraying.
"What the fuck is wrong with you?!", you yell, grabbing the next object. Another bottle, this time a plastic one. She curses when it hits her shoulder.
"Y/N, please-"
"No!" You search your desk frantically. You grab one of your old French books. Natasha jumps aside.
"Jesus Christ! Can we not make this a pattern?"
"Oh, you're sick of patterns?", you yell. You see a pair of scissors and immediately know what to do. You return to the window, basketball and scissors in hand, and her jaw slackens. "That's funny!"
"Wait", she says, scrubbing her hand down her face. "That thing's damn expensive."
You glare at her, breathing heavily. "That's your priority right now?"
"I'm not saying that, but I do care about it-"
The blade stabs into the rubber. Air hisses. The ball deflates in your hands, and you toss it in front of her feet. Natasha winces.
"That was a limited edition, babe."
"I don't fucking care!"
Natasha looks up. For the first time all night, you feel something close to guilt. She's drenched, defeated, water dripping from her hair and down her face. Her hoodie is completely soaked, and her expression is absolutely wrecked. She's so unlike the cocky girl that hit on you not too long ago that she's almost unrecognizable.
In that moment, you hate her. Still, she's looking at you like you're the only thing that matters.
"Tell me how to fix it", she pleads. "Just tell me what to do."
You glare at her, still out of breath. The anger is making your blood boil, hotly and thickly.
"Get your ass upstairs", you hiss. "NOW."
Natasha looks like she just short-circuited. She's frozen in place, blinking up at you through the rain, water drops catching in her eyelashes. Slowly, she grabs her deflated basketball and starts moving to the front door of the building.
Wet sneakers squeak, her steps heavy. She walks up the stairs and finds your dorm — stickers on the door, ranging from Strawberry Shortcake and Tinkerbell to a lipstick kiss print and a heart with the words 'try me' inside. She hesitates before knocking.
The door opens. She slips into your room, clutching that stupid shell of a ball like it'll save her. You slam the door shut.
Your room is too you. She used to love it, in a way. Pink blankets, vanilla candles, lipstick marks left on your desk from that time she had you bent over it.
She turns around and her thoughts falter. A flimsy blue babydoll dress, lacy and short. Your thighs are on full display, distracting her a little too much.
Why did you have to wear this? How is she going to focus?
"And?", you prompt.
"Uh...", she says dumbly. She's staring, and she's not able to stop. "I, uhm..."
Natasha's soaking wet, freezing and humiliated. She came here to patch things up with you. And now, her biggest problem is that she wants to bury her face between your thighs.
It's too late when she drags her gaze back up. You've caught her staring.
"You've got to be fucking kidding me! You're still thinking with your dick?!"
"No, I-"
Her back thuds against the wall and she winces, but no complaints come from her. She's aware that she deserves this, so she doesn't fight back.
You shove her, again and again, letting her body hit the wall. She's bigger than you, towering over you, strong enough to grab you and haul you across the room. Yet, you've got the upper hand.
"Say something, you coward!"
You need her to react at this point. You need the silence to stop, need her to do anything else but stand there and take your rage like a kicked puppy.
Silence. Barely a reaction. You fist the front of her soaked hoodie and shake her. Your heart is thumping against your chest.
"You had a ton to say when you were hitting on me!", you shout. "Now you'll just stand there?"
She nods weakly. It's enough to make your chest burn as the desperation flares again. She can't be that indifferent.
Tears burn in your eyes, hot and stinging. You continue to shove her, keeping this one-sided fight alive. Because that's what it is — one-sided. It has to be when your counterpart is acting like a damn vegetable.
"Fucking fight me, Natasha!"
An order, or a plea. You're not sure.
She stares at you, gaze trailing to your lips. She shouldn't be thinking about kissing you, or about taking off your dress and letting it slip to the floor. She should stay rational. If she does something dumb, she's done for. She—
"So we're not hooking up, I guess."
Oh.
Eyes wide, heart stopping for just a split second. Oh, she's dead.
If you were mad before, you're livid now. You slam her against the wall, making her let out an 'oof' for the first time since this started. It's not just a spat, it's a full blown fight. The worst one you'd ever have, if you think about it.
Your fists thunder against her chest, then you grip her hoodie again.
"I'll kill you, you fucking bastard!"
The back of her head hits the wall. She grunts, finally grabbing your wrists. But her grip is as gentle as possible, considering you immediately try to break free from her grasp.
"Hey", she says, out of breath and pleading. "I wasn't thinking. I'm sorry."
"Seems to be a common theme with you!", you hiss, tears gathering in your eyes. "Fuck- let go!"
"Only if we talk!"
"Let go!"
She shakes her head. You struggle against her grip, twisting your wrists and kicking and fighting, then the tears break free. You sob, the noises tainted with frustration, and thrash against her.
"I hate you", you sob out. The words hit her right in the chest, like gunshots and needles all at once. "You led me on for half a year, and for what?"
"I wasn't leading you on", she promises, desperate to fix things. But god, it's hard to fix something you think has already shattered. "Please believe me. I just- fuck, I'm bad at this."
You shake your head, breathless and sobbing and furious, and slam your arms against her. "Stop talking! Fuck, just- just-"
Natasha's heart is beating so fast she thinks it'll jump right through her chest. Not a good idea. She's pretty positive that if that happened, you'd grab and squish it until it bursts like a balloon.
"Please hear me out", she begs. "Just for a moment. Fuck, Y/N, I- I-"
You sob, fists managing to hit her chest once more.
"You what?"
"I love you."
You freeze. There aren't many things you're certain of when it comes to her. Everything feels like an illusion, like something that could change tomorrow.
What you are sure of, though, is that she's never said these three words to anyone.
The question now, though, is whether this is an illusion as well. Whether she's trying to find a way out of this by telling you another lie.
"You think I believe anything you say?", you sob, the tears coming harder.
"I mean it", she says, squeezing your wrists and rubbing her thumb across your skin. Her eyes search your face frantically, trying to see if you'll listen for at least a second. "I love you, and it's fucking terrifying, but I do, I love you, and- fuck, I'm not used to this."
You shake your head, unwilling to let her words cut too deep. But they do, they cut, and not only to the bone but through the bone.
"If you loved me, you wouldn't have done that. You wouldn't have slept with someone else, you- you wouldn't have made me stay just friends."
She decides not to comment that, technically, she was about to sleep with someone but didn't go through with it. You're not hitting her anymore, but if she dared voicing that thought, you'd probably straight-up murder her just like you did her poor basketball.
"Because I'm not used to any of this", she says, voice quieter. "I've never been in an actual relationship, Y/N. I don't do that. I sleep with girls and move on. I don't- I don't just fall in love. But I fell in love with you, and I'm too fucking stupid to act right."
You stare at her, breathing heavily and swallowing. She sounds sincere. You feel like an idiot for thinking that, but fuck, she sounds like she means it. And that is the worst part.
You're certain this might end up killing you eventually. But your lips press against hers just as suddenly as she appeared in your life.
You kiss her. Hard, desperate, furious. Natasha, stunned, hesitates before putting her hands on your waist. You cup her face, grabbing it, and tug her closer.
Your lips slam against hers, again and again. You walk backwards. Natasha, confused and hardening amid all of this chaos, follows obediently.
You suck on her tongue. She exhales, shuddering against you. Her hands tighten around your waist.
You push your hand into her shorts. She pauses, startled.
"Fuck me", you say. "Do something right."
"Y/N, you-" Natasha cuts herself off, breathing heavily. Then she's all over you, pushing you down on the bed, kissing and sucking on your neck, teeth scraping against skin. Hands under her damp hoodie, nails raking down her back and drawing blood. Her breath stutters, her face is pressed against your neck.
She wants to fix this, fix whatever's left of you. Return to what you had and make it better this time.
She kisses down your throat and reaches your chest. Latching onto your breast through the thin fabric of your dress, her hands push your legs apart.
Lacy underwear comes off. Her fingers are cold against your slick heat, making them slide in easily. She sucks on your boob, leaving a wet stain on the delicate fabric. Your back arches.
You grind against her, head thrown back. "Not like this", you pant. "Get on the bed."
"What?"
"You heard me." You sit up, grabbing the front of her hoodie. "Come on, asshole."
Natasha doesn't let anyone boss her around. But it's you, and she's done enough damage, so she scoots off you and lays down. You lean over her, your hair creating a curtain around your faces, and kiss her. Your hands trail down her front, right to her shorts. You pull them down just enough to be able to straddle her cock, easing it into you and stretching you out.
You roll your hips against hers, the tears having dried on your cheeks. You stare down at her, both of you out of breath, and fist the damp fabric of her hoodie.
The bed creaks beneath you. Cold gusts of wind enter the room through the broken window. She feels the same — throbbing, filling you entirely, her hips thrusting off the bed — but something's off.
You push the feeling aside and bob up and down, moaning quietly, your breasts bouncing with every movement. Natasha watches you, both mesmerized and worried. The fight was intense. You were sobbing, thrashing — for good reason. But now, you're riding her like a you've forgotten about everything.
She opens her mouth, wanting to say something. You grip her hoodie tighter.
"Don't."
"Y/N, are you-"
"Don't make it worse."
She keeps her mouth shut. She grips your waist instead, fucks up into you, letting you take what you need.
Is this what you need?
It used to be. You're not sure anymore.
A few more thrusts. Natasha thumbs your clit. Watches you fall apart for a second time that night. Comes when you do. You ride it out, pulsing around her, feeling her hot seed spill into you. Three, four spurts, heavy and filling you up.
You shudder, thighs sticky, and lift your hips to make her pull out. Coldness surrounds what was once enveloped in tight heat. Natasha wishes she could make you sit back down, but she's not in the position to ask for anything anymore.
You roll off her and lay down on your back. Shoulder to shoulder, your feet right next to the middle of her calves. You're right next to each other, but there may has well have been hundreds of miles between you.
She hesitates before glancing at you. Your eyes are staring up at the ceiling, face blank, distant.
Her fingers brush your hand. You don't pull away. She intertwines them with yours.
"Nat?"
Your voice startles her, makes her breath hitch. She closes her eyes. "Yeah?"
"You should go."
Despite having anticipated this, her heart drops. It takes her a bit to get out of her frozen state and sit up. Part of her thinks like she'll never feel this again, so she just sits there for a moment.
The various shades of lipstick on your nightstand. The high heels next to your closet. The fucking shards on the floor.
You, in bed, refusing to look at her.
She gets to her feet and falters. This can't be it, but this is it. At least that's what it feels like.
Natasha leaves her deflated basketball where she left it, right near the door. She puts her hand on the doorknob, twists it, and steps out.
This isn't it. It can't be. She'll make sure of that. But for now, all she can do is leave you alone for once.
You look up when you feel her linger. She's watching you, her body already half-concealed by the door. Then, her mouth opens.
"It was serious", she mumbles. "It never wasn't."
The door shuts.
. . .
You and Natasha ending up in the same place is a coincidence.
You were just trying to distract yourself, and Natasha got dragged here by Stark. Clint would kill him if he knew — he's been trying to keep her away from basically every girl in existence. Tony, on the other hand, believes she just needs to get laid.
She's told him that that's the last thing she needs. That that's what got her into this mess. But he doesn't listen. He's very convinced she just needs to 'act like herself again.'
"That one."
"No."
He turns, then points the mouth of his beer bottle at a girl with blue hair. "That one. Dyed hair, meaning she's probably unstable, meaning-"
She kicks his ankle. "Stop being a pig."
He whips around, looking offended. It's a show, though. It always is. "Excuse me? May I remind you of that girl in sophomore year? When you made up that story because she-"
"Okay, okay. Got it, I'm a hypocrite. Now stop trying to hook me up!"
He smiles, eyes sweeping across the room as he tries to find another victim. "You're sure? Give me five and I'll find someone with daddy issues."
Natasha sighs, knocking back a tequila shot. It burns, but not in a pleasant way. Whatever bar Tony dragged her into — the alcohol they serve is cheap, the lights flicker, and it smells like something rotten. But, according to him, it's the least pricey one in the area. Which shouldn't be an issue, considering he's rich and likes to splurge, but for some reason, he enjoys the low quality booze more.
He keeps pointing out various girls. 'Insecure. I can tell by the way she adjusts her dress.' 'Got dumped. Look how she keeps checking her phone.' 'Hey, a slut. Your soulmate!'
She almost rams her elbow into his side. Then, she spots you.
It's been almost two weeks since that night in your dorm. Two weeks of little to no sleep, of resisting the urge to apologize again, of regretting every tiny thing that happened since that night in Miami.
You haven't been doing better. You've been trying to move on, but it's hard. Moving on from someone who feels like home is like trying to move mountains.
There you are now, sipping cocktails and listening to some guy go on and on about something. He's been buying you drink after drink, and truthfully, you've been going along. Getting drunk isn't the worst thing you can think of in that moment.
Natasha blinks and rubs her eyes. Her heart is beating faster, rabbiting in her chest like it's trying to escape and run toward you.
"Oh. Oh, no. Not again."
She turns, frowning. "What?"
Tony gestures in your direction. "Haven't you done enough?"
"Okay, man."
"Seriously. Better find a new heart to rip apart."
She grits her teeth, clutching the shot glass in her hand. You're still oblivious about her being in the same room as you. Although, you seem to be oblivious about pretty much everything else, too.
She's seen the look on your face a bunch of times before. Too many times to not realize. You're drunk.
And the guy next to you? Still talking, still flirting, still pushing drinks in your direction. Still hovering.
You sway. He touches your side, right where your ribcage is, and tries to pull you aside. Natasha snaps.
Shoving her way through the crowd, she's by your side before Tony can tear away his eyes from some strawberry blonde girl. She moves next to you, wrapping her arm around your shoulders and essentially nudging the guy's hand off.
"What the fuck, dude?"
"Take a hike", she barks. "Can't you see she's drunk?"
He scoffs. "She's only had, like, a couple drinks."
"She looks like she's about to pass out!"
"Nat?"
She glances at you, startled and worried. "Hey, baby. You good?"
You look at her lazily, eyes squinted and head spinning. "You're here."
"Yeah", she murmurs, softening.
Whoever that guy was — it takes one look at the two of you to realize that his little plan won't work out. He clenches his jaw and walks off, fuming silently. He'd fight her if he didn't recognize her face. Of course it's Romanoff.
"I'm dizzy."
"Let me get you out of here", she says, looking for your jacket. It's not even May yet, and the nights are cold. She finds it and tries to get you to put it on. When that doesn't work, she wraps it around your shoulders. "Still can't hold your alcohol, I see."
"Fuck you", you mutter. But you're drunk and safe and warm, and for once, you don't mean what you said.
Natasha rolls her eyes and helps you up. She turns around, and thats all it takes — you trip and crash into the bar, knocking over a glass of wine.
"Hey!"
"Oh, hush", Natasha says, shooting a glare at the upset girl and steadying you. "That shit's cheap as hell, anyway."
"Burns, too", you add, grasping the front of her letter jacket.
She smiles faintly, your arm over her shoulders, and leads you outside. She has to bend over a little since she's taller, but she doesn't really care.
The night is cold, and the way to your dorm is longer than it should be. When she's on her own, it takes two minutes. With a drunk you by her side, however, it takes fifteen.
You stumble. You curse her out. You throw up into a hedge.
Going up the stairs is easy. Getting you into your dorm, however, is not. You're on the floor, one hand grasping the metal rods of the railing behind you, and ignore Natasha's attempts to coax you into your room.
"Get inside."
"No."
"Y/N."
"I'm tired."
"Your bed is right there."
Eventually, she just grabs you and hoists you over her shoulder.
Pajamas, water, bed. She sits down, hesitates before tucking you in. You stare at her, still not sobered up.
Wet eyelashes — did you cry? She didn't see you cry —, oversized shirt, smudged lipstick. A mess if she's ever seen one, and you're usually so put together.
"You should sleep", she starts. Your eyes flutter shut. "You need anything, before I leave?"
"You know damn well", you mumble, face half-buried in your pillow. She swallows.
"Painkillers?", she asks, ignoring what you said. "For the hangover. A bucket, maybe?"
"Don't do that."
Natasha exhales, slowly. She rubs the back of her neck and glances at your window. At least that's fixed now. Everything else still seems to be in shambles. Even if she tried to pick the shards up, they'd cut delicate skin and draw blood.
"What?", she asks reluctantly. Absolutely no part of her wants to know the answer, yet she can't help but ask.
"Don't act like you care."
She opens her mouth, but you've passed out already. Guilt churns in her stomach, but there's no way to get rid of it. She can't apologize — you're asleep. And even if you weren't, you probably wouldn't listen.
No apologies, then. Instead, she cleans up after you. Puts aside your dress, your high heels. Orders coconut water and bananas from some local convenience store that delivers this late at night (good for hangovers, apparently, at least according to the internet) and tucks you in.
. . .
There's no trace from her when you wake up. Just a note next to some groceries, saying: good for your hangover.
It takes you a moment to remember last night. You're disoriented, hungover, and the entire room seems to be spinning. Once the memories have fought their way through the mess in your head, you freeze. Everything seems to go silent, even the birds and cars outside.
A guy, putting his hands on you. Alcohol. Natasha. At the bar, in the street, in your dorm. Touching you without actually touching you.
Now, she's gone. No trace from her, except for a random stalk of bananas and a bottle of coconut water.
You stare at it, unsure. You unscrew the bottle and take a sip. Not bad.
Wiping your mouth with the back of your hand, you grab your phone to check it. No message from her, but Daisy sent you a picture of a flyer for the basketball game later that night.
Daisy: you coming? — 8.21am
You: forget it — 8.59am
Daisy: not a question anymore.
you're coming to the game — 9.00am
You: im really not — 9.00am
Daisy: school spirit or something
like that. you can't avoid her for the
rest of the semester — 9.01am
Unfortunately, she has a point. You fight it at first, but you know you have to go. Not for Natasha. Not so you can fix what's broken (though 'broken' is one hell of an understatement at this point).
You'll go. You'll watch. You'll leave. Maybe that'll help you leave things behind.
When you enter the university's gymnasium, you feel her friends' eyes on you. Not too long ago, your friend groups had mixed and mingled — Carol and Wanda, Sam and Daisy, Tony and Bruce. Now, they barely talk. Neither of you made them take sides, but it happened anyway. Everyone else seemed to split when you broke up, too. Though, it wasn't really a breakup.
You slip through small crowds of people, following Wanda and Daisy to a row of empty seats. It's loud already, with some pre-game playlist playing and everyone talking loudly. People throw popcorn, yell, laugh. It's rare that you feel out of place, but this time, you do.
"You really dolled yourself up", Daisy says, handing you a coke. "Is that lace?"
You glance down, realizing the neckline of your top is a little too low. You quickly adjust it. "I threw on the first thing I saw."
"Uh-huh."
"I can still leave", you hiss. She smiles and nudges you.
"Not yet", she mumbles, right as the teams walk onto the court. You follow her gaze and feel your heart speed up. "There we go."
Natasha. In her jersey, hair pulled back into a low bun, green eyes flickering across the stands nervously. It doesn't take long until she spots you. You both freeze, and the entire gymnasium may as well have noticed.
Nobody noticed, of course, except for Daisy and Wanda. They're all caught up in themselves. To you, it still feels like they did, because nobody else matters in that moment. It's you and her, and everything else is a blur.
Daisy doesn't dare say anything. She saw the look on your face, and she's not risking anything. Because even if she knows your relationship with Natasha was a whirlwind — it was still the most genuine thing she'd seen you get involved in.
Natasha averts her eyes. Knowing you still came here is both the worst and best thing in the world.
Carol, also on the team, noticed this little moment between you. She pats her back and tells her to come warm up.
The game starts. Natasha's team wins possession.
You stay in your seat, watching her. She's playing aggressive today, you can see that. Scoring hoops, pushing past defenders, blocking shots.
She's on top of her game today, and you refuse to acknowledge why.
Then, she runs across the court. She gets fouled, hard, and slips. You jump up right when she slams onto the court, a low thud echoing through the suddenly silent hall. But she bounces up like it's nothing.
"You looked worried there."
"She fell", you mumble, arms crossed over your chest. Daisy raises her eyebrows, but says nothing.
Halftime. Natasha's team is slightly behind, with the other team leading at 30-32. She makes her way to the bench and grabs her water bottle. She looks distracted at first, absentminded, but then she finds your face in the stands and you realize what exactly is distracting her.
Maybe it should've been obvious. Maybe part of you doesn't want to believe it, though.
You hold her gaze for longer than necessary. Daisy goes silent next to you, Wanda tilts her head curiously. You finally lower your eyes and fidget with the seam of your skirt.
The second half begins, and Natasha's team catches up as quickly as it loses the lead again.
You're actually frustrated for her. You watch the way her jaw tightens, how she briefly rubs her eyebrows, how she rolls her shoulders. It's a tough game, and even worse?: something's at stake. She's got something to prove.
She's getting more aggressive as the seconds pass, even forces a foul. When someone throws a cheap elbow while she's guarding someone and the referee doesn't call it, she loses it.
Your eyes widen as she gets in the referees face, snapping at him and gesturing with one hand. He tries to calm her down, but it seems futile. There are multiple things stressing her out, and there's only so much she can take. Your stomach twists at the sight, because despite everything that happened, her frustration still seems to be yours.
Eventually, she backs off and jogs back onto the court. Looking up, she searches for you. You nod, tentatively and your heart pounding, and she lowers her head and exhales.
One minute left before the game ends. The score is tied.
It's electric now — the players are sprinting, the ball is a blur. Natasha runs, dribbles, hesitates. She finds your face in the crowd, glancing at you for just a fraction of a second, and then jumps and swishes it through the net.
The gym erupts, the buzzer sounds. She doesn't hear any of it.
Her team is celebrating, and so are the people in the stands. Someone shakes and opens a bottle of beer to spray others with it, everyone is yelling, the cheers are so loud you feel like your eardrums are in genuine danger.
Natasha isn't celebrating. She's walking towards the stands, nervously wiping her hands on her shorts.
Whether this is a good idea or not, she doesn't know. But it's too late now. She's right there, right in front of you, only a row of people separating you from her. Out of breath, sweaty, adrenaline crashing. You stare at her, unsure, and watch her grab the bottom of her jersey.
She pulls it over her head and tosses it in your direction. You don't catch it — it hits your chest and falls into your lap.
You look at her, hesitating. Is she being serious?
She is. She stands there, staring at you, still trying to catch her breath. It's an impossible task, with the way you're looking at her.
Swallowing, she turns around. Daisy nudges you, and you finally grip the stupid jersey. It's still warm, smelling like sweat and cologne.
Natasha walks away, soles squeaking quietly on vinyl ground. She glances at you over her shoulder, briefly, but it's enough.
She looks away. You jump up.
You shove people aside and hop down the rows in front of you, reaching the court. You're practically sprinting at this point, desperate to reach her before she gets to the locker room.
You grab her, spin her around, kiss her so hard she almost stumbles. She groans, but it shifts into a soft whimper. She drops the bottle she was holding and grips your waist.
Around you, people are still cheering, still celebrating. But this is the real victory.
You deepen the kiss, drag your fingers through the damp baby hairs at the back of her neck. Her lips are salty, addictive, her body thrumming against yours.
Natasha tastes something sweet, fizzy, matching the way her stomach tingles. You're here, choosing her in front of everyone, and god, it feels good.
Time slows down. She inhales against your lips, sharply, her fingers digging into your skin. You get on your tiptoes, allowing her to stand a bit straighter. You pull away just enough to take a breath, and she makes a quiet noise of protest.
By the time you part, your lips are swollen and slick. Natasha's looking at you like you hung the damn moon, like you're the reason her heart is slamming against her ribs. Which you kind of are.
"You- I-"
You manage a smile, your fingers still playing with her baby hairs. How often does she get nervous? Once in a blue moon.
"You did good", you mumble, studying her. She swallows thickly. "Finally."
"I'm so sorry", she mumbles, wrapping her arms around you and pulling you against her. Your feet leave the ground. "I'm so fucking sorry. Fuck. It was all a mistake. I..."
You don't let her finish. You kiss her, again and again, until the tension slowly disappears from her shoulders. She pulls away and buries her face in your neck. It's not the basketball game that's leaving her shaking — it's you.
"You're a moron."
"Mhm." Her lips press against your shoulder.
"An idiot. An absolute buffoon."
"That's fair."
You pull away again, still clutching her jersey in your hand. Natasha gives it a quick little nod, and it looks so ridiculously shy you can't help but laugh.
"Say it", you tease, cupping her cheek. She frowns. "Come on. You're a big girl, aren't you?"
A deep breath in, then out. Her eyes sweep across your surroundings, making sure no one's listening.
"Put that on", she finally mumbles. "It's yours now. I'm yours."
You press another kiss to her cheek, then step away and put on her jersey. Your jersey, actually. Sweaty and damp, smelling like her.
Natasha smiles softly. She fidgets, shifts, then grabs your hand.
"We never had an actual first date, you know."
You hum. She's right. You hooked up, and then continued hooking up. There was never anything that even resembled an official date.
"What're you saying?"
"You, me." She squeezes your hand. "Maybe a nice restaurant? Or takeout? We can have a picnic. I don't know, I don't usually do this."
You want to say no at first. Not because you don't want to, but because the after game-celebration is in full swing. The entire team is talking about going to a bar.
But then you realize that Natasha hasn't spared them a single glance since the buzzer announced the end of the game. She's been here, with you, looking at you, asking you out on a date.
The fuckboy athlete who keeps everyone at an arm's length, now actually taking something seriously.
a/n: couldn’t stop thinking about this so…also yes ive used that picture in the middle before, it’s so difficult finding good pictures that match sns nat 💔 yes thats permission for you to send me any pictures you think might fit her; this is a bit shorter but it’s just smut so i shall be forgiven i think
summary: idk basically pure smut, nat and you make a porno…this is the dumbest summary ive ever written
warnings: porn with plot, smut (penetration/p in v, VERY brief oral r receiving), creampie, sextapes. i might’ve missed something, it’s almost midnight so can’t promise anything
word count: 5.4k
Neither of you plan on recording this — it just happens.
It's quiet in your dorm. The sun is shining in through the blinds, forming stripey shadows on the floor. You're both sweaty from the summer heat. Natasha's thrusting into you lazily, completely unhurried. You have nowhere to be.
Red fingernails scrape down her back. She moans, losing rhythm for a moment, and you laugh against her shoulder.
"You're doing that on purpose", she grits, hips snapping forward. "Wanna drag this out, huh?"
"I have all the time in the world", you moan. "What're you in a hurry for?"
She shakes her head. She's not in a hurry — god forbid — but she's not a fan of being put on the spot like this, either. Her hands are next to your head, fisting the bedsheets, and her thrusts become sharper.
Sweat glistens on both your stomachs. Your thighs are covered in precum and red marks. You wrap your fingers around the necklace dangling into your face and tug on it, knocking your mouths together.
You've been at this for over an hour. Natasha got done with practice, sat down in her car, and drove straight to your place. Five minutes later, you were both naked and entangled in your bed.
'Entangled' might be the wrong word. You're smushed together from head to toe, the bed too narrow to fit you both properly. But you make do.
You open your eyes when she shifts a bit, the angle suddenly different and much deeper. Her gaze locks onto your bodies, watching her thick length thrust in and out of you. Your breath stutters.
"Oh, fuck", she mutters, eyebrows furrowed. She reaches to the side. "Wait, let me-"
Too dazed to speak, you watch her grab the phone she tossed aside earlier. It takes you a second, then it clicks.
"Seriously?"
"If you saw what I'm seeing, you'd understand", she pants, trying to keep fucking you while unlocking her phone.
"Wow", you tease, as out of breath as she is. "You really are obsessed. Tell me, what are you planning on doing with that?"
She lets out a laugh. The camera pans in between your bodies. Sweaty skin, parted thighs, the swollen head of her cock pushing against your clit before sinking back in. The microphone picks up every moan, every slick, squelching noise.
"For my personal collection", she mumbles. She's still staring, fully entranced. "This is so fucking hot."
Minutes later, she cums hard inside you. You wrap your thighs around her hips, your own orgasm milking her dry. You don't make a move to get up when you're done.
Her face is buried against your neck. You're starting to catch your breath, and your fingers twitch towards the phone tucked in between your bodies.
"The video", you demand. "I want to see it."
She sinks her teeth into your neck just enough to make you giggle. Her fingers blindly search for the phone, and once she's found it, she rolls off you.
"I want to watch, too", she says. She pulls you into her side. "Volume up."
Two seconds into the video, you realize why she did this. It's shaky, slightly out of focus. The lighting is off, too. But the noises, and being able to watch her be inside you on screen — fuck you — make up for it.
Your moans cut in. Trembling exhales, a creaking bed, and Natasha cursing quietly. A fresh gush of precum running down your thighs.
A wave of heat coils in your stomach. Natasha exhales, her fingers curling into your stomach.
"We're basically professionals", you mumble. "The quality is trash."
"It's only for us, anyway", she brushes off. "So who cares, really."
You shift, nodding, and watch her replay the video.
Right. For your eyes only.
. . .
It's hot out. You managed to grab the last table that's somewhat in the shade. There's seven of you, squeezed together around the round picnic table with half the food court's menu in between you.
"You're late", you tell Natasha when she gets there. She grimaces, squeezing into the spot between you and Steve.
"Took a nap after the gym and kept hitting snooze. Is this mine?"
She's ripping open the Panda Express container before you can confirm. You watch her shovel egg fried rice into her mouth, then you turn back around. Her arm is around your waist, Kate is telling you about something that happened during her seminar. A thumb hooks into the waistband of your skirt.
It's a slow day. After getting some studying in, you all met up to grab lunch. With finals done and having kicked off summer break, you don't have much to do — which is a very welcome change.
Natasha stuffs her mouth with the last spoonful of shrimp, then she reaches for her backpack. You watch her, chin resting in your open palm, eyes lazily tracing her arms and shoulders as she digs for something.
There's a slight sunburn on the back of her neck. Her baby hairs are curling in the humid July heat. She's wearing a jersey, one that now faintly smells of sweat and deodorant. You're almost fully distracted, the conversations between your friends having turned into mere background noise, when your attention shifts.
"What's that?"
"A camcorder." She grins, setting it down on the table. "Got it from a friend. Said he doesn't need it anymore, so..."
"A friend?", you question, reaching for the device. "Jesus, this thing's heavy."
"He needed it for one of his classes. Got it from his uncle, I think. But he passed that class, and he bought himself a new one now." She takes a few gulps of water and nods at the camera. "That's mine now. Let's try it."
You give her a look, but pick up the camcorder and snap open the LCD screen anyway. You're not sure what you're doing. You can't remember ever using anything other than your phone to record things.
Wanda leans over immediately. She presses a few buttons, and suddenly, you're zooming into Clint's face.
"You've got ranch on your chin", you tell him. He blinks and, once he realizes what's going on, reaches for a napkin. "How old is this?"
"Not the newest", Natasha admits. "Not ancient, either. How's the quality?"
"Decent." You pan the camera lower, filming the mess on the table. "Not as good as my phone, though."
"I call bullshit", she says. Before you can protest, she swipes the camcorder from your hands. "See? And, oh, look at this-"
The camera pans at your face. You squint your eyes at the lens, looking at your reflection in it. Your hair is a bit tousled. Your makeup is still flawless, though.
"Perfect", Natasha concludes.
"Oh yeah?" You lean in and blow at the camera. "You sound surprised."
She glares at you when the lens gets all fogged up. She lowers the camera and cleans it with the hem of her jersey. You watch her, smiling at the disgruntled look on her face.
Neither of you are thinking it yet. It's innocent enough. The camcorder gets passed around the table, you start recording random stuff — people walking by, pigeons picking at fries and bits of lettuce, a flyer lying discarded on the ground. Tony gets up and almost moons everyone.
After it's made a few rounds, it ends up back in Natasha's hands. You've all gotten up to go to the parking lot and drive back home. It's a Friday night, and you've all got plans; maybe a club or two, or finding a karaoke bar. If it were up to Natasha, though, your night would look very different.
"Perv", Clint says, watching her slowly point the camera lower. "You get that view all the time."
"Shut up", she mutters. You haven't noticed — you're a few steps ahead, talking to Wanda, hips swaying. Your skirt is short, your thighs are plush.
Clint waits another second, then he knocks his elbow into her side. The camcorder shakes in her hand, the shot getting ruined.
"Asshole!"
"Huh?" You turn around and raise your eyebrows at her. She shakes her head.
"I want a new best friend", she says, catching up to you and wrapping her arm around your shoulders. Her lips brush your ear. "You're sure about the night out-thing?"
You give her a wary look. She's trying to look innocent, but it's not working. You know her, and you know when there's an idea brewing in her head. Though, she's had this very idea before — stay home instead of joining the others and spend the night counting your orgasms. Preferably no clothes.
"Again? We can't ditch them every time."
"We went out for lunch with them", she argues. Her voice lowers into a mumble. "You said you'd let me eat off your-"
"That's off the table", you cut her off. "You're very demanding, you know."
She rolls her eyes, head nodding in defeat. She knows she is. She swears she's working on it.
You meet up at your dorm to leave together. Natasha shows up half an hour early, showered and dressed already — camcorder in hand. You stand in the doorway and raise your eyebrows at her, clutching the towel you've got wrapped around your body.
Water droplets glisten on flushed skin. She almost drops the camera.
"You're early", you say, finally getting on your tiptoes to kiss her. "Come in. I might need a few more minutes."
It's never 'a few more minutes' — about an hour sounds more realistic. Natasha doesn't complain, though. She slumps into your bed, the camcorder next to her, and watches you dig in a drawer.
The towel drops at some point. You slip into lace underwear. A matching bra, embroidered with her favorite hearts, follows. She shifts, trying to decide whether filming you right now would be appropriate...or whether you'd kick her out.
"You look amazing", she says in earnest. "New lipstick?"
"Mhm. Borrowed it from roomie." You're at your desk, legs crossed and eyes fixated on the little mirror you propped up in front of you. Natasha subtly grabs the camcorder. "You know, I was thinking. You have a basketball game next Saturday, and since it's all the way in New Jersey, we could get a hotel for the weekend. I know the others are all arriving a few hours before the game, but..."
Her brain drowns the rest of your words out. You're blotting your lips with a folded napkin. You're reaching for your blush, for mascara. She swears she can smell you from her spot on the bed. Vanilla, cherry, laundry detergent.
And then, she's filming you. She zooms in on your face, letting the camera trail to your shoulders and down your half naked body.
"It'd be romantic", you say, looking at her — and straight into the camera. "Oh god. What's with you and that stupid thing?"
"Smile", she says, zooming out again. "I'll even tell you a knock knock joke."
You scoff at her. Whatever she's doing seems to work, though. You're smiling wide, giving her a challenging look through the lens of the camcorder.
"Oh, come on."
Natasha grins. Her mind is somewhere else. "Imagine how famous we'd be."
It takes you a second, then you remember. The amateur sex tape. The one minute long video that mainly consists of heavy breathing and your lower body, thighs spread, her cock slowly thrusting in and out of you. You shake your head to get rid of that memory.
"Right. Nothing gets people off like blurry, foggy videos and bad lighting." You get up and grab the two outfits you picked out. "White or blue?"
"Blue", she says absently. "It's a no?"
All you do is give her another look. She sighs, plugs the camcorder into the wall, and puts it on your nightstand.
You end up leaving without it.
. . .
Uneven breathing, smudged lipstick and a sweaty jersey.
You're pressed against the wall in the hallway, in the middle of your dormitory, where anyone could walk in on you at any given time. The pink cropped top you wore is stuffed into the pocket of Natasha's shorts. Your hand is in her boxers.
She opens the door without breaking the kiss. You both stumble in, shut the door again, immediately press up against it. Neither of you take notice of the camcorder on your nightstand yet.
"Fuck", she mutters, teeth scraping over your pulse point. "Swear you did that on purpose. Almost ripped his stupid bald head off."
"I wasn't-" You bite your lip and stifle a whine, "flirting. Just wanted to get a free drink out of it."
Natasha scoffs. You don't need free drinks. Not when she'll get you all the free drinks in the world.
She rips open your shorts. You buck your hips, helping her tug them off. Her fingers find the front of your underwear and press against it, feeling wet heat through thin fabric. You moan, the doorknob digging into your lower back, and she pulls you away from the door.
It's almost completely dark in your dorm. The streetlights outside provide some light, though not much of it. You somehow make it into your bed, anyway.
"Roommate?", she asks, tossing her jersey aside.
"At her boyfriend's", you say. She bends down to kiss you, and you hook your thumbs into her shorts. "We got all night."
She grins and kisses you again, deeper this time. Hands braced next to the pillow, slowly pushing you onto your back. Slick lips, kisses that turn more urgent, hands squeezing and grabbing.
There's spit on your chins. It's messy. You reach between your bodies, trying to guide her into place, when she remembers something.
"Condom", she mumbles, lips on your jaw. "Wait."
Her hand blindly reaches to the side. Her fingers bump against something hard, knocking it over, and you both lift your heads to check.
It's the camcorder, now lying on its side. Still plugged in, still charging, silent and waiting for that moment. A moment you weren't aware would ever come.
You give her a look. She glances at you, that one video replaying in her head. It's hasn't been that long since you took it, maybe a little over a week, and she's been replaying it again and again.
You reach for the camcorder first. Natasha raises her eyebrows, lips twitching.
"Look at that", she says. "Maybe I am a bad influence after all."
"It's just for fun", you dismiss. "We can always delete it, right?"
You both know you won't. The first video didn't make it anywhere but your hidden albums, either. The thought of making another one is thrilling — being seen, seeing each other. Watching closely instead of feeling. Reliving that feeling, too.
You turn the camcorder on and point it at her face. "Got any last words?"
"Way to ruin the mood."
"Sensitive", you smile. "We just put it there?"
The camcorder goes back to its spot on the nightstand. You have no idea what the angle, or the lighting look like — whether the mic will even do its job. At that moment, it doesn't matter. It's just for fun.
Natasha gives you one more look. You nod, she bites her lip, and then she's back to kissing you. Her hands smooth down your sides, parting your thighs. She sinks in deep.
It's not slow or lazy this time. Knowing that there's a camera on you keeps things urgent. The kiss is still sloppy, your lips spit slicked and swollen. Every moan feels louder. The room suddenly feels smaller. There's a little red light on the camcorder which signals that it's still recording.
It should distract you. Somehow, it doesn't. Despite everything, you're only focused on Natasha.
She cums in messy bursts, her hips stuttering. The moment you've cleaned up the mess between your thighs, you grab the camcorder and play the video.
"This is insane", she says after the third replay. "We're hot. Babe, we're hot."
"I heard you the first time", you mumble. You're curled into her, cheek smushed against her chest. You pause the video. "Look how you're looking at me."
Natasha rolls her eyes, face flushing. "We'd be so popular", she adds. "Like, improve the quality a bit..."
"Oh yeah", you say sarcastically. "And then, what? Put it on the internet? Go viral?"
She shrugs, and you're not sure whether it's still a joke. "Sure."
"Be serious."
"You're telling me this wouldn't be a hit?"
It would be. You don't have to test that hypothesis to know. You'd go viral overnight — thousands of clicks, likes, comments. Thousands of people staring at the two of you, having sex in a way that'd have everyone wishing they were in your place.
The thought is satisfying, enticing. It's reckless, too. You've done dumb things before, but this seems like a step you wouldn't be able to undo.
"Of course it would be", you say, bright red nails raking up and down her abs. "It's still insane."
"In a good way."
"Right", you say. "Let's just post it, bad quality or not. I mean-"
You grab the camcorder and rewind to minute 8:45. Natasha's gripping the headrest, your fingernails are digging into her sides and drawing blood, and the weird lighting is a casting a shadow on her face that makes it look like she has a beard.
"Mhm", she mumbles. She pauses at a different frame. "This, too. See the condom wrapper sticking to my hip?"
"Lots of room for improvement", you agree. "This is just embarrassing."
"Right. We'd have to put a lot more effort into it."
You both pause. You didn't notice it happen, but somewhere along the way, your jokes turned into curiosity. Suddenly, you're both too deep into the idea to ignore it.
. . .
A masquerade mask sits on your nightstand. You're twirling a lollipop between your fingers. Knee high socks and lingerie, the camcorder sitting on a tripod you snuck out of Wanda's dorm.
"The angle isn't right", you complain, sucking the lollipop into your mouth. "We'll look like amateurs."
"Babe", she says, straightening up and wiping her forehead. "We are amateurs. We can try and make it less obvious, but..."
You raise your eyebrows at her. She's been at this for half an hour now — hoodie sleeves pushed up and hair in a low bun, dragging furniture around and adjusting the desk lamp she pointed at your bed.
You're being useless. You're having candy and throwing commands at Natasha. Natasha calls it lazy, you call it foreplay. You're wet from just watching her play handyman and pretend to be all professional about this.
"The angle is important", you drawl. "You know that."
Her ears burn at the implication. "I do know that. Leave my angles alone."
You grin, sucking on the lollipop and scooting off the bed. She jerks when you run your hand down her back.
"Don't be so nervous", you hum, voice soft like butter. "This was your idea, wasn't it? Don't chicken out now."
"I'm not nervous", she snaps. "Get your ass on the bed."
You tilt your head, pinch her chin and turn her head to face you. You study her, and she feels herself harden. She really doesn't know why you're naked already.
"You're yelling?"
She stares at you, shrinking a little. "Okay, fair. Please get on the bed."
It doesn't matter how tall she is — when you're pissed, she's scared. It's that simple. At first, she was worried about her teammates seeing her like this — how is someone over 6ft tall scared of someone half her size? —, but then she realized it's a universal experience. It doesn't stop them from making fun of her, though.
You roll your eyes and get back into position. A few minutes later, Natasha's convinced she found the right angle. The lighting seems good as well. The bed is clean, freshly made, and her biceps are still a little swollen from her workout earlier.
"Is it recording?"
She turns around, giving the camcorder a fleeting look. "Huh? Yeah, the red light is on."
"Isn't it supposed to blink?"
"No", she says, finally getting on the bed with you. "No. It's not. The camera is fine, let it be."
You smirk, grabbing the masquerade mask on the nightstand. Natasha watches you conceal your face with it.
Neither of you want your identities revealed. You removed every poster that was taped to the wall next to your bed, bought masks, did everything in your power to not accidentally ruin your digital footprint.
You lean in and kiss her, the rim of the mask pressing against her face. You taste like the cherry lollipop you tossed aside.
Your tongue slips into her mouth. Her face is on video still — but you need foreplay, just like you needed the vodka shots you took earlier. Just for confidence. To make sure it'll go smoothly.
She leans back against the headrest, boxers tented already. You swing one leg over her lap to straddle her, hands reaching for the bottom of her hoodie, mouth still moving against hers. You tug it off and expose abs, biceps and a sports bra.
Then, you pull away. Natasha grabs the Ghostface mask next to her and slips it on. You're both faceless now, nameless too.
"Ready?", you whisper, palming her through her boxers. Her hips buck, chasing your touch.
She nods, breathing heavy. No word comes out.
00:01:24
You ignore the camera. Don't look at it, don't think about it. Focus on what's in front of you. You reach into her boxers, sliding your hand down her length and watching her exhale shakily, then pull her cock out.
She's flushed, tip leaking. She gets worked up fast, but this is a lot even for her. You move your hands in slow pumps, your touch way too gentle. You're both hyper aware of the camera, but — and that's the surprise — not in a bad way.
00:01:50
You're soaking wet. You're hot all over, too. Natasha's barely keeping herself from fucking your hand, so you squeeze at the base a few times, brush your thumb across the swollen head and let go. She watches you as you scoot up her thighs and arch your back.
A moan rips from her throat. Your arms are around her neck, your pussy rubbing up against her erection. There's too much fabric separating you, but you start to grind just a little, and her head falls forward at the sensation.
The mask is in the way. Nothing but a piece of plastic, but it's keeping her face from the one spot she thirsts after most. You exhale at the feeling of cold plastic pressing against warm skin and smooth your hands up her back, threading your fingers into her hair.
Her hands smooth up your sides, cupping your breasts. Calloused fingers swipe over your nipples, tugging on them until they're pebbled against the pads of her fingers. Your hips stutter at the feeling, but you don't lose rhythm. You can't — not in front of the camera.
00:02:36
You're still grinding against her when she puts her hands on your waist. You don't say a word. You can't expose your voices, either. But she guides you with light pressure, shifting and turning you around, making you straddle her lap reverse cowgirl style.
Natasha's both relieved and a little annoyed she can't share what she's seeing. The camera is only picking up your side profile — for now, Natasha's point of view remains a fantasy for your imaginary audience. A red thong, darker where it covers your pussy, and skin that's shimmering with body oil. She throbs painfully.
She runs her hands up your thighs, moving them to your ass and hooking her thumbs under the soaked fabric of your underwear. She finds your clit and presses against it, then her thumb slips into your pussy. A soft moan is picked up by the camcorder's mic.
00:03:19
You're moving your hips, slowly fucking yourself on her thumb. You have no idea how you've lasted this long without having her inside you, but to Natasha, it seems like a miracle she hasn't splattered all over the bed yet.
The lights are a bit too bright. You notice it too late. You squint your eyes and lower your head, hips rolling and moans getting stuck in your throat. Natasha, starting to get impatient, makes your thong snap back against your skin.
Then, the thin fabric rips. Something thicker replaces her thumb, the sticky tip barely pushing into your cunt. Your back is sweaty already, nerves and arousal turning into a lethal combination. You sink down on her cock.
00:03:45
For a moment, it's all soft moans, slow bouncing, getting adjusted to the stretch and the depth. Natasha's panting behind you. She loves, loves this view, but she mourns what she's missing out on — parted lips, covered in lipgloss and cherry-sweet sugar, eyes closing and eyebrows furrowed.
You move your hips up and down, up and down. Her hands are on your thighs, guiding the rhythm. You're still dragging it out. She's trying not to cry against your back.
The bed creaks. The noises get slicker, louder, until the mic picks them up as well. Natasha's staring at the space between your legs, watching you fuck yourself on her length. The mask she's wearing is made of plastic, and soon enough, she feels her face flush and heat up like she's stuck inside an oven.
It doesn't manage to distract her, though. She grabs at your thighs greedily, fingers digging into soft flesh and leaving little marks. You fist the bedsheets underneath you and bite your lip to stop yourself from cursing at her out loud.
00:04:50
She's too close already. She's not sure what it is — the position, that she's been pent up all day, that you're recording this for god knows how many strangers on the internet. She's throbbing inside you, every bounce and thrust kicking her towards an edge that'll inevitably come.
You can tell she's struggling. You predicted it. Performing under pressure only works when she's playing basketball.
So, of course, you slow down. You rotate your hips, grind down against her until the tip is rubbing against spots so deep you never felt them before. You're teasing, making it worse, and she's trying not to start an argument over it.
Her hips jerk up in a fruitless search for more. You laugh under your breath and sink back down, forcing her to keep her hips pinned to the mattress.
00:06:01
The camcorder is just in reach when Natasha leans over a little. She grabs it, fingers slipping, and points the lens at you. Your thighs are dripping, your back covered in a thin sheen of sweat. Muscles move under smooth skin.
You're going faster now, bouncing up and down, riding her. You're leaning forward so much your face is almost buried against the bedsheets. That doesn't stifle your moans, though. They only spur Natasha on, and her hips stutter upwards.
You're both close now. Warmth has spread everywhere — you're fuzzy in the head, not thinking straight. You almost tell her you're close, but then you remember the camera. Natasha's trying to hold it steady, but her hands are shaking, and so is the camera.
The lens is fogged up just the slightest bit. Natasha doesn't think twice before grabbing the thong she ripped off you and using it to wipe it clean.
For a second, she sees the head of her cock, pink and swollen and covered in slickness. You sit down again until she's plunged deep inside.
You're going faster, and she's feeling it everywhere. The pressure in the tip, the precum that's spilling like a fountain. You clench around her, she thrusts up hard, and the coil of energy snaps for both of you.
00:06:59
Your moans mix, a mixture of heavy breathing and gasps drowning out the noise of slick skin against slick skin. You feel her unload herself deep inside you, your own orgasm milking her dry. Cum drips down your thighs, getting smeared all over her lower stomach.
The camera is still in her hand, too. The footage has to be shaky — there's no way Natasha managed to keep it steady through an orgasm like this one — but neither of you care too much.
You look at her over your shoulder. She swallows, one hand on your waist.
. . .
"You're watching it again?"
Natasha doesn't look up from her laptop. She's sitting on the floor beside her bed, back against the wall, red hair curling at the ends. It's a hot day. She's not trying to make it any more bearable.
"We're at 50k", she mumbles. You hear a moan come from the laptop. "The comments are insane."
You hum, eyebrows raised, and drop your shoulder bag on her desk. An empty bottle falls over, but you ignore it for the sake of kneeling down next to Natasha. She angles the screen toward you.
More than a thousand comments already, more clicks than your university has students — you predicted it, but neither of you really thought it'd happen. We'd be so popular, Natasha said. Now you are.
You're not sure you like it. Most of the people in the comments are talking about how they'd love to be in your spot, or just be in between you. Thirsting for either of you, both of you. Some of them are downright deranged.
"That's gross", you state, scrolling further down. "What's the obsession with my ass?"
"Can't blame them."
"Keep that up and you won't get to see it again", you fire. Still, you feel something tingly in your stomach. "You were right. We are popular."
Natasha grins. She puts the laptop aside and grabs you, your aforementioned ass landing right in her lap and right where she wants it. Her calloused hand slips under your skirt to adjust your panties.
"I'm starting to think you're the obsessed one", you say. She hums and presses a few kisses to your shoulder.
"What gives it away?"
You give her a look. "Your boner."
A deep red blooms in her cheeks. She's still in her workout clothes — basketball shorts, loose hoodie, socks that aren't really white anymore. She's buzzing from an energy drink. She watched herself fuck you onscreen. Of course she's hard.
"I'll keep it in my pants", she says, wrapping her arms around you. "Just stay here."
"Sure", you say, eyebrows raised. You nod at her laptop. "About that..."
She tilts her head. You can sniff out her bad ideas before they pop up in her mind, and this time, it isn't any different. You sigh as the words leave her mouth.
"Wanna make another one?"
You've thought about it. Obviously you have. Each time you're having sex, recording yourselves, hooking up in her car, you think about it. It's been a week or two since you clicked post on the first one. It's been a success. You don't want to repeat it, though, and you definitely don't want it to be a habit.
"I think we're one and done", you say, poking your finger into her chest. "I don't like the things others comment about you."
"Oh", she drawls, smirking. "There it is. You're jealous."
"I could leave right now, Romanoff. Just try me."
"I'd rather not", she says. She pulls you closer, shifting you a little. Her face ends up against your collarbone. "I'm fine with one and done. Can't let the fame get to your head."
"You're one to talk."
Her face slowly moves lower, until it's buried between your tits. You wrap your arms around her head and scoff at the way her hands smooth up and down your thighs. Your porno was looping in her head until she got you into her lap.
She gets you into her bed, too. You're in an oversized shirt of hers, bare thighs littered with hickeys and slick with spit. You can't see her, but you can feel her.
It's summer, you're hot all over, the camcorder is charging on the nightstand next to you. Always in reach, always tempting you. You end up grabbing it a few times over the next months, but you never press record.
a/n: based on this request 🫶 sorry it took so long. might not be my best, uni is sucking all brain power out of me
summary: you’re ovulating and everything natasha does gets you horny. lots of smut, lots of fluff, tried to include a plot but honestly idk if i succeeded
warnings: smut duh (penetration/p in v, masturbation, oral nat receiving), slight exhibitionism because i can’t escape that tag, reader being disgusting, sweat kink?, slight dumbification, nudes slash they’re filthy
word count: 8k
Having Natasha leave is bad enough. Having her leave while you’re desperate enough to hump a pillow, though, is even worse.
Ovulation hit you like a freight train. One moment, you were pureeing vegetables and organizing your makeup drawer, the next, you were in the bathroom and trying to get Natasha to fuck you in the shower.
She did. It took you four minutes to orgasm. Judging by the look on her face, you thought you'd won — maybe she'd stay home with you instead of going to class — but it didn't work.
"I have class, I can't stay", she explains, rubbing her hair dry with a towel. "We have to prepare a presentation. Clint will kill me if he has to do all the work again."
You're not listening. Your vision has zeroed in on her biceps, smooth from lotion and flexing with every move, with drops of water dripping from her hair and beading on her skin. The ache between your legs had disappeared post-sex, but now, it's coming back doubled in intensity.
She's still talking. You only notice when she repeats your name a few times.
"What?", you snap. Natasha stares at you.
"Are you okay?"
You shift in place, your thighs crossed and pressed together firmly. Your thoughts are absolute filth — you feel like even Natasha would give you an apprehensive look if she could read them.
"You could stay home", you say, giving it another try. "We'd have all day. Think about the things I'd do to you, babe. I'll do whatever, just say the word."
"My seminars", she says, her face desperate. You've walked up to palm her butt and nuzzle her shoulder. "Y/N, I swear it won't take long. Don't make me walk in there all hard."
You glance at the front of her sweatpants. It's working — they're starting to tent. Another minute or two, and you'll have won her over. Your teeth sink into her muscular shoulder and she almost jolts away from you.
"God, when did you become so...boring and responsible?"
She glares at you, slightly out of breath now. If she'd known you'd be like this, she would've snuck out early. She's never been good at resisting the things that tempt her, and with the level of temptation she's enduring right now, her spot in heaven should be secured.
This isn't heaven, though. Heaven would be staying home and dragging you right back to bed. Thankfully, Niko's cry of discomfort and outrage over being left alone distracts you.
He started sniffling Monday morning. By bedtime, he'd developed a fever and a runny nose. He's been a red-cheeked, snotty mess ever since, and though he's gotten better, you'll definitely have to stay home with him another day or two.
"That's your cue", she says, quickly grabbing her duffel bag. "Bye, love you!"
Your head whips around. "Nat, I swear to god I'll kill you-"
The door falls shut, anyway. You stare at it, angry and defeated, before giving up and making your way to Niko's nursery.
Your sick baby distracts you, even if only for about an hour. Then he passes out, and you're back to square one.
You glance at the clock — two more hours until she comes back. You, despite everything, feel yourself slip back into that annoying feeling of desperation. You stare at the black tv screen, cross your legs, shift.
There's friction between your legs. You remember Natasha during her basketball practice yesterday and close your eyes without meaning to. That’s how low you’ve fallen — you’re wet at the thought of her.
You reach for your phone in a just as absentminded manner. You contemplate for a second, then you open your gallery and scroll to find that one hidden album you treat like a little gold mine.
You haven't added anything new in weeks. Back then, before Niko and baby responsibilities, you used to send these back and forth every day. Some solo, others not. Looking back, filming yourself with your hand between your legs or your mouth trailing kisses down her dick might've been one of the dumber ideas you've had — but now, you're grateful. The material ranges from makeouts to riding her in locker rooms.
Video one cuts in. It's Natasha, alone in a hotel room and propping her phone up against a pillow. Her hair is sweaty and curling at the ends, and she's still wearing her jersey. Her shorts are visibly tight.
You don't take your eyes off the screen once. Her breaths get heavier as she pulls out, already flushed and leaking. Her hand wraps around the base and she adjusts herself a little. Then, she's jerking herself off.
The video ends with red cheeks, a moan and ropes of cum spilling on her fist and jersey. You exhale quietly and swipe to the next one. The need between your thighs is getting worse.
'Still filming?', you suddenly ask on-video. You're sleepy and content, but there's tension to your voice.
'Mhm', Natasha mumbles back. 'You're pretty like this.'
You can't see her. The camera is zoomed in on you, straddling her toned stomach. Her abs are slick, you're only wearing a bra. Natasha's lazily thumbing your clit.
A quiet sigh, sleepy laughter. She slips two fingers in without warning, and the video cuts off mid-moan.
One more, you tell yourself. Just one. But your hand is creeping under your waistband already.
You swipe past dick pics and videos of yourself. When you catch a glimpse of your old dorm, you pause.
It's you, bent over the desk with Natasha behind you. Your face is smushed against the desk. She's gripping your hips, cursing and moaning as she thrusts into you. It's slow and deep, all sinfully slick noises and quiet whining. Her abs flex, you clench, and her head drops forward.
Face buried against your back, she keeps going. One hand finds its way to your front, rubbing your clit, and you fall apart. The desk shakes with those last few, irregular thrusts. Something white and sticky drips down your thighs.
You didn't think it could get worse, and you proved yourself wrong. The panties you're wearing are soaked, so much so that you can feel it against your inner thigh. You shift, moan at that little bit of friction, and finally let your hand slip past the waistband of your shorts.
Hot dampness coats your fingers. The relief is almost instant. You roll your shoulders and lean back, fingers working between your legs and thoughts spiraling.
No matter how much you try and pretend it's Natasha inside of you, it's not the same. The size, the feeling, that aching first moment after she pushes the head into you. And no matter how deep you press your knuckles, you can't imitate that sensation of being filled to the brim.
It's not your proudest moment. Heady and too needy to think, you grab your phone and open the camera.
Natasha's in the middle of class. Pen between her teeth, eyes staring at the blackboard as her professor tries to explain some foreign concept she can only imagine of grasping yet. Her phone buzzes, and she reaches for it absently.
Looking at her phone is mistake number one. Mistake number two is opening the video you sent her.
It's short, shaky, muffled. She watches your fingers disappear inside of you and feels her entire body light up like a wildfire. Then, the moans cut through, and she nearly tosses her phone.
"Ms. Romanoff?", her professor asks. She looks up, stammering.
"Yeah, uh, mhm? What's up?"
"Do you feel like sharing something with the class?"
She quickly shakes her head. If anyone saw you masturbating on video, she'd probably have to murder them and hide the body. This is no exception. Clint, sitting next to her, gives her a look that makes her slam her knee against his.
"Sorry", she finally mumbles. "Didn't mean to interrupt."
The professor nods and turns back around. He continues with the class, recommends a few books that explain the mentioned concept in depth, and she opens her phone with shaky fingers.
Another message. This time, it's a picture taken from a lower angle. Natasha moves in her seat, restless as ever, and only notices her boner when it pokes against the tight fabric of her sweatpants.
"Dude", Clint whispers. "Put that away."
"You think I'm not trying?", she hisses, pathetically attempting to adjust herself under the table. "Fuck. Think I can leave?"
"What, you wanna get laid?"
She rolls her eyes, but doesn't deny it. He knows she's trying to get laid — she always is. Before class, after class, in the middle of practice. Her cock throbs hotly and she grips the table. She needs to put her phone away.
"You're gross", Clint comments. "This is a new low."
"Doubt it."
"Top five at least."
Natasha stares at the blackboard, fingernails digging into the table like she's about to rip a piece off of it. She shifts, the head of her cock rubs against the fabric of her boxers, her entire body jolts. It was a tiny sensation, but it packs a punch — she grabs her backpack and quickly stuffs her belongings into it.
Clint snorts. He anticipated her escape.
"Good luck", he whispers. "Don't forget protection."
She doesn't forget — you don't use any on purpose. Up against the wall, just seconds after she burst into the apartment. Half an hour later, she's on her way to the pharmacy to buy Plan B.
. . .
"Where do you think you're going?"
Natasha slowly turns her head. It's 7am, she barely managed to slip out of bed without waking anyone, but apparently, making a protein shake cost her. She accidentally dropped the shaker into the sink, and while the noise wasn't enough to wake you, it managed to startle Niko from his sleep.
He's on your hip now, eyes squinted and a wooden rattle in his chubby hand. Upon spotting Natasha, he grunts and kicks his feet.
"Gym", she says dumbly. "Wanted to practice. You know, for the game on Saturday. I-"
"Without saying goodbye?", you ask. "That's unlike you."
It is. She never leaves without kissing you. But you're ovulating, so you're clingy and needy, and an hour or two away from you don't sound too bad. The moment she thinks that, though, she feels horrible. How could she ever want you away?
"You seemed tired yesterday", she lies. "Didn't think you'd want to get up to watch me workout."
"Then you don't know me", you say promptly, shoving Niko into her arms. He screeches in delight. "Give me five minutes, then we'll leave."
It takes you almost an hour, but it doesn't throw her off. You're never done in 'five minutes' — it's half an hour at least. Your personal record is 28 minutes, and you only achieved that because Natasha kept speeding up the process by promising you things.
The gym is empty. It's not too far away from your apartment building as it's right on campus, and luckily, nobody seems motivated enough to drag their ass out of bed on a rainy Saturday morning. Most people are on vacation, anyway.
You set up a baby corner for Niko and crouch to put him on his blanket. He rolls over onto this stomach and reaches for one of his favorite teething toys. You, seeing that he's happy and distracted, sit down on the bleachers to watch Natasha.
She's warming up. Her red hair is in a low bun, her biceps on full display. She's warming up, doing quad stretches and walking lunges. There's nothing hot about a basketball player's warmup routine — even you, with your ovulation-colored glasses on, can tell. But she chose to wear grey sweatpants, and the hefty bulge in the front is making you cross your legs.
It's a shame, having to constantly supervise an infant. You love your son more than anything, but sometimes, you wish you could go back in time. Things were easier, somehow, even if Natasha wasn't too unlike a dog getting distracted by hypothetical treats.
"I'd let you fuck me under the bleachers, by the way."
She has to do a double take. "Where's that coming from?"
"What?", you ask, leaning forward and crossing your arms on your knees. "Wouldn't be your first rodeo."
You're not lying. Natasha remembers that night vividly — the gym, right after a basketball game, still smelling like sweat and Gatorade. People started leaving. You lingered. You hadn't been hooking up for too long at that point, but that didn't change anything. You waited until everyone was gone, and then she gave you that smirk that had you pulling her under the bleachers.
You didn't manage to finish, unfortunately. Her coach had walked in minutes later, catching you red handed and sweaty.
"One more incident like this and you'll be running drills until your soul leaves your body", you mock her coach. "Want to try your luck?"
Natasha rolls her eyes, but the tick in her jaw gives her away — she's loving this. She picks up a ball and tosses it in your direction. "Funny. You know I have a game tomorrow."
You leaned to the side just in time to dodge the basketball. "So what? Priorities. Am I not your priority?"
"You always are", she says earnestly. "You and our son. He's trying to eat the floor, by the way."
Your head whips around. Niko somehow scooted off the blanket, and now he's got his face pressed to the vinyl floor. You can see his little pink tongue stick out of his open mouth.
"He's fine", you say, turning back around. Natasha gives you a baffled look. "Where were we?"
"You were about to let me work out", she mumbles, voice strained. She made the mistake of looking at your legs — for some reason, you decided to swap your sweatpants for a short skirt. Not all of the baby weight has dropped off yet, and Natasha's more than happy with that. But god, she needs to practice.
"I was?", you ask, tilting your head. "That doesn't sound like me."
"Babe-"
"Come on. I'll call Wanda, she'll pick up the baby, and I'll let you be my personal lollipop for today."
Her entire face drops, and you see that involuntary shimmer in her eyes. She knows she shouldn't, she knows she has other things to do — but her brain has a one way track when it comes to you, and right now, that track is leading her right between your thighs.
You press call. Wanda is reluctant, but you convince her. Ten minutes later, you're pulling her behind the bleachers only to drop to your knees.
"Fuck", she stutters, immediately threading her fingers into your hair. You look up and she loses her train of thought. When did you put lipstick on?
"This is what you get when you don't ignore me", you say, wrapping your hand around the base and squeezing. "I think it's worth it."
"Yeah", she agrees, breathless. You wrap both lips around the tip and sink down against her bucking hips. "Oh my god-"
It's slow, deliberate. You slide all the way down, your throat still struggling to fit her, then move your head up again. It's all slick sounds and kisses to the tip, lipstick smears tracing veins, kitten licks.
Her hand smacks against the wall in a desperate attempt to keep herself upright. Your hand twists the base, squeezes and moves up, milking her. You follow it back down with your mouth, feeling drops of pre on the back of your tongue.
The lights are too bright. Natasha's too naked. You're too busy sucking her off in a public space. But her thighs tense and her eyebrows furrow, her mouth opens. Your head bobs back down and she has to bury her own fingernails in her side to stop herself from cumming down your throat.
But then, you hum around her. She feels the sensation right under the head, rolling down the shaft along with your tongue, and her hand lands on the back of your head. Right as your face is buried against her hips, she comes in short, messy bursts, leaving your mouth dripping with saliva and cum.
"You're fucking insane", she pants, trying to catch her breath. Her cheeks are deep red. "Anyone could've walked in."
"Nobody did", you say sweetly, kissing her hip just to hear her whine quietly. "How was the workout?"
"Fucking shit. I'll be off my game tomorrow."
"No way", you tease. "Off your game? You? Doesn't make any sense. Listen here, do good tomorrow and I'll reward you."
Tomorrow's game is an important one. It's against one of the team's biggest rivals, and if they lose, it won't just be a lost game — it will be a destruction of pride. She gives you a warning look, her breathing still a little irregular. She wipes her forehead and steps away, her shorts hanging off her hips crooked.
Your eyes dart downward. You can tell she's still half hard.
She wants to tell you off. Unfortunately, she also wants to fuck the attitude out of you. You won't be able to say much nonsense with your face buried in a pillow and — preferably — broken sobs spilling out of you.
"I can't risk it", she says, adjusting her shorts. "We lose tomorrow and we'll forever be known as the ones who lost against the Zebras of all teams."
You tilt your head at her. "Lose and we're breaking up. There, I solved the issue."
"It's not funny", she snaps, tugging at her shorts again. "I have to practice! They're one of the top teams in the tri-state area, their team captain is almost as good as I am. I've been slacking since Niko was born, too."
She has. Not because she's gotten worse, but rather because skipping practice and going to games all sleep-deprived and confused leads to a less than ideal performance. She's still doing good, but you're not a liar — she was better pre-baby.
"Oh yeah", you say slowly, thoughts clearly starting to wander. "You have. Wow, you really need to pull yourself together."
"Fuck you."
Your eyes light up with barely concealed interest. "Don't need to ask twice."
Part of you expects her to drop her shorts and bend you over the bleachers. Sweat is beading at her temple — from the little bit of practice she managed to get in before you interrupted, or simply from being sucked off —, her baby hairs are all curly, her shoulders look broader than you remember them to be.
Not too long ago, she was begging the universe for the opportunity to win you over. Now you're the one begging her to fuck you.
"No", she mutters. "Practice, now."
. . .
The team bus smells like sweat and energy drinks. A subtle hint of vomit lingers — you're unsure whether it's from the team getting hungover after their games, or Niko barfing all over himself. What you do know is that you should've left your son with your parents.
"Bad idea", Natasha says, eyeing Carol as she carries Niko up and down the aisle. "Her muscle memory is sharp. If she sees a hoop, she'll toss him before you know it."
You're not looking at Niko. You're staring at Natasha. She's leaned back in her seat, eyes all worried and jaw working restlessly. Carol walks back up to you to hand over your drooling son, but all you see is Natasha's arms as accepts the baby into her arms.
She shifts the baby onto her knee and starts digging through the diaper bag. She pulls out a cup of puréed pumpkin and unscrews the top.
Clipped fingernails, bruised knuckles, a scar stretching over the back of her hand. Her head dips as she looks at Niko, who's grabbing the spoon with one chubby hand. You lean back, still staring unabashedly.
"There we go, buddy", Natasha mumbles. "Good, huh? Mama made that."
Behind you, Clint watches you stare at your girlfriend. He can tell your thoughts are drifting — he's familiarized with the look on your face, whether he likes it or not. There have been too many movie nights where you gave Natasha exactly that kind of look, and it ended in some sort of exhibitionism way too often.
He leans in and puts his head between the two seats, clearing his throat. "Everything good with you two?"
You barely spare him a glance. Natasha's balancing Niko and the cup of pumpkin like a pro, with her eyes fixated on his face.
"Couldn't be better." You turn around and raise your eyebrows. "Hey, you've been talking about good deeds a lot. How about you do me a little favor?"
He frowns, then rolls his eyes. "There's no way. On a bus full of people? Really?"
"You don't even know what I mean, Barton. Stop accusing me of things."
Natasha glances at you. Niko finished his lunch and is now chewing on the spoon he stole. "What the hell are you on about?"
You give her the same look you've secretly been wearing earlier. She frowns, then falters when it hits her. You're on the team bus, but that's not holding you back. She knows ovulation hits you hard, anyway.
"Here?", she mumbles, fighting the demon that's quietly telling her to go for it. "Babe."
"Let me answer for the both of you", Clint intervenes. "No. Not here."
"We've done it before", you whisper, ignoring him. "You didn't complain then. You seemed quite enthusiastic, honestly."
She hums, contemplation all over her face. You can be bold about these things — there's not a single spot on campus you haven't desecrated in one way or another. The team bus has been victim of that as well. How much harm can one single repeat of offense do?
But no. Last time, you didn't have a baby demanding your attention. At that point, Niko wasn't even a concept, and Natasha probably would've shot herself if she knew she'd get her girl pregnant soon.
"Hotel room", she says, more or less confident that you'll both last that long. "We'll put the baby to sleep and then we'll have all day."
"See, that's reasonable", Clint says, but you put your hand on his forehead and shove him away. "Jesus-"
"All day? You have a basketball game!"
"Oh right", she says, giving you another look. "Think you can last that long?"
You can. You don't have a choice. A few hours later, you find yourself in the middle of the crowded bleachers. People are talking and cheering loudly already, and the game has only just started. Niko is in your arms, with protective earmuffs on and half his hand in his mouth.
Natasha's game has improved since the last time. She steals the ball, uses a crossover to get past a defender, and makes half the gym erupt in cheers by nailing a dunk. You're focused on all the wrong things — though, maybe, you'd argue they're all the right things.
Just because her performance has gotten better doesn't mean the team's has. They're not bad, but they're also not good, and with each portrayal of their own little flaws, Natasha gets more pissed off. It doesn't take long until the Zebras are in the lead, and when a teammate gets fouled by an opponent, she snaps.
Arms sweaty and cheeks red, she storms up to the referee. He completely ignored the foul, which he is now starting to realize, but Natasha doesn't care. You can't hear much from your spot on the bleachers, but you can hear enough to know she's firing more than one insult at him.
"Fucking idiot! She ate shit in front of the whole gym, you think anyone's buying you missed that? She has a fucking nosebleed!"
"Romanoff-", her coach cuts in, but she shoves him away without so much as a glance.
"Do your job right or don't do it at all! Fucking embarrassing to be partial, everyone can tell, you dick sucki-"
"Romanoff!"
Everyone is staring at that point — you included. But nobody else is thinking about dragging her into the locker room right now. She looks good in her jersey, but she looks even better when she's all sweaty and ticked off.
The voices around you turn into a muffled murmur. Your vision zeroes in on her biceps, the way she drinks water and drags the back of her hand over her mouth. When she tugs up the hem of her jersey to wipe her face, exposing sweat slicked abs and the happy trail you've traced with your tongue so many times, you almost lose it.
Natasha's outburst gets the opposing team a free throw and possession of the ball. Given that they're already behind, nobody's happy — but the opponent narrowly misses the hoop, the ball goes flying, and the game continues.
They catch up. Once they're tied, the stakes get higher. Natasha's back to playing like the devil, and the Zebras are back to fouling like they'll get extra points for it.
The game ends with a score of 111 to 105. Her team is cheering, but Natasha is heading straight for the bleachers. She stops at the barricade right as you reach it as well, and you swap the dozing baby in your arms for her sweaty jersey.
"See? You won", you say, leaning over the barricade and pecking her lips. "Even though you yelled at the ref."
"The ref is a bitch", she mutters, rubbing Niko's back. "Did you see that foul? He ignored it. Val's nose is all swollen. She looks like she got out of a boxing match."
You glance at Valkyrie, who's pressing an ice pack to her face. "She'll be fine?"
Natasha hums. "She's good. Just a few days of rest, no big deal. Where's my mom?"
You turn around to search the bleachers. Due to an out of state meeting with another company, her mother happened to be in the same city at the same time as you. Of course she had to attend the game as well — unfortunately, you didn't consider looking for her.
"Somewhere up there. I'll find her, I bet she wants to see Niko."
Natasha nods and hands you the baby again. "I gotta get back to the team anyway. They're going out for dinner later. Want to join?"
"Maybe", you say. "Where are you going?"
"Check in with everyone, then the locker room. Take a shower, you know. I reek."
You know she does. She didn't have to tell you. Her jersey is soaked, feeling heavier on you than it should. You smell her all over you — the cologne, the sweat, the court. It's hot. It's gross. At the same time, you've done worse.
Natasha steps away. The second she's not looking at you anymore, you scan the bleachers until you see that familiar sterile face of Melina.
There's not much time for explanations. You shove Niko into her arms, ramble something about a date night and 'keep the baby alive', then run back down the bleachers.
People stare. You're in heels and a dress, running across the court and ignoring the few players that stayed to do an interview with a middle schooler. Once you figure out the way to the locker rooms, you push open the door and walk in.
She's in front of the lockers, with a towel over her shoulder and her hair matted to her neck. You can see every back muscle, every little scar you left on her skin, and paired with the exhaustion written all over her body, you feel like you don't even need her to touch you. This might be enough.
"Wait", Natasha hears. She turns around just in time to watch you close the door. "Don't shower yet."
"What-" She blinks. "You're fucking kidding. They could walk in any minute."
You ignore what you're hearing, and instead focus on what you're seeing. She's raw in every sense of the word. She's half naked, covered in a shiny layer of sweat, looking almost as wrecked as you need her to be.
"Five minutes", you say, putting one hand on her back and cupping the bulge in her shorts with the other. "You look so good right now, it's disgusting."
Natasha swallows, already feeling herself harden against your palm. "What's gotten into you?"
You raise your eyebrows, fingers relentlessly working on her until she's fully hard and tenting her shorts. You glance down to see the tip poke against the fabric with an eagerness that matches your own. "You're complaining?"
She glances at you. She's frozen, stunned, but her hands finally find your hips out of instinct. Who is she to turn you down? She's never said no to a hookup in a locker room, either.
"Fuck", she mumbles, leaning in to kiss your jaw. You gasp quietly and wrap your arms around her neck. "You're insane."
Your back slams against the lockers so hard they shake. Her hands squeeze and grope their way down your body, and you kiss her like you need it. Fingernails scrape down sweaty skin, teeth clash and bite lips raw, and when she presses her hands between your thighs, her eyes blow wide with panic.
You're not only soaked, but you're also completely naked beneath your dress.
"Did you come here like this?"
"Mhm." You cup her cheek and bite your lip, her blood still clinging to your tongue. "Panties in my purse. You're welcome."
A ragged moan leaves her. You lean in again, kissing the sweat off her shoulder like you're savoring it all, and she snaps. Within a split second, you end up in the showers with the tiles against your back.
Natasha hoists up one of your thighs. Your high heel drops, but she doesn't care — she barely manages to tug down her shorts enough to let her cock spring free. She sinks into you, precum already smeared over your thighs, and you whine quietly as your hips rock. It's like an ache that lasted hours, being soothed at last.
It doesn't take long for either of you to orgasm. She's throbbing inside you, every thought wiped from her brain the second she discovered you went to the game commando. You've been horny for days at this point. A few spurts of hot cum are your undoing, and your brain turns into mush when her thumb circles your swollen clit.
In the end, she does eventually shower. At that point, her teammates walked in on you and silently retreated to a different locker room before you could hear them. You're sitting on a bench now, swiping your lipgloss back on as you watch her step out of the shower.
"I could go again", you say casually.
Natasha shoots you a helpless look. "You'll kill me before graduation."
. . .
"We're already running late", she tries to explain. "Her birthday party starts in an hour. It's a 40 minute drive. We have a baby on board. You really need to get your hormone levels checked because this? It's not normal."
You give her a defiant stare. Niko has knocked out in his crib, just minutes after you got him ready for your grandma's birthday party. You've got everything packed — a diaper bag full of baby clothes, another duffel bag full of your clothes. You're only staying for a few hours, but thanks to a baby that won't stop spitting up on you, it's a non negotiable.
"That gives us 20 minutes."
"No", Natasha says, doing her best not to let her eyes wander below your collarbone. "We need that time buffer. You remember what happened last time?"
You tut, trying your best to ignore her. You smooth your hands down her front, then grab the collar of her dress shirt. It was you who made her get into this attire — your parents appreciate elegance, not shorts and old jerseys. Unfortunately, you're a little too into this look.
"Not going to happen again", you mumble, ghosting her lips with yours. Her hands land on your hips. "Come on. You know you can be quick."
"Me?" She scoffs and presses a quick kiss to your mouth. "That's offensive. Half an hour is my minimum."
Your fingers sneak to the fly of her slacks. You grasp the zipper and give it one sharp tug. "That's a promise?"
Natasha lets out another noise, but she's giving in inch by inch. She grabs your thighs, hoists you onto the dining table, and steps between your legs. Right as she's kissing along the neckline of your dress, you hear Niko begin to fuss.
She's the one who pulls away. You grunt quietly, one hand still on the back of her head, but she raises her eyebrows at you.
"The baby."
You roll your eyes and slide off the table, smoothing your hands down the front of your dress. "It wouldn't kill him to wait."
Once Niko wakes up, getting him to settle and nap again is out of your realm of possibilities. You get into the car, buckle up, and Natasha pulls out of the garage.
It's a long drive. Natasha being Natasha makes it feel even longer. You watch her drive, one hand on the steering wheel and the other on your thigh. You stare at her sunglasses when she puts them up into her hair. You shift impatiently when she pops a piece of chewing gum into her mouth, her sharp jawline on full display.
By the time you arrive at your grandparents' place, you're wet and annoyed. Birthday parties are a big deal in your family — they tend to last hours, and you can usually expect a full course meal and a backyard full of old people that won't let you out of their eyes.
This time, it's no different. You've barely stepped in through the front door when you're already swarmed by aunts and uncles and distant relatives. Their main target are Natasha and Niko. Both of them are new to this.
"There you are!"
You both turn around and almost walk straight into your grandmother. There's lipstick on both Natasha's and Niko's cheeks. Your aunt couldn't resist either of them.
"Oh hi! Happy birthday."
"Happy birthday, grandma", Natasha says, then adds: "Lovely party, by the way."
She smiles, then turns to pinch Niko's cheek. "Look at this one! He's got your nose, Y/N. But the red hair isn't yours."
"It's Nat's", you say, shifting him into a more comfortable position. "The party is outside?"
Your idea was that, once your family is fawning over Niko and passing him around like a trophy, you'd be able to escape a bit. Grab Natasha, tug her into a storage room, maybe soothe the clawing need inside you.
As it turns out, you were being a little too optimistic. Natasha is clutching Niko like she's surrounded by wild animals. And even now that you're outside, old people are constantly walking up to her and petting her cheeks. Unfortunately, they seem to adore her.
"Yes, he's teething. No, he doesn't sleep through the night. No, you definitely can't hold him", she says, turning Niko away from a middle aged man. "Can we leave?"
"We've been here for an hour", you mutter, side eyeing the fancy decor your grandparents put up.
There are suits and expensive dresses everywhere. Somewhere in the back of the garden, a string quartet is playing. You knew this would be out of the ordinary, but you didn't think you'd drag your sweaty athlete girlfriend straight into a scene from a movie about royals.
"An hour too long."
You give her an exasperated look, but she's got her focus elsewhere. One of your grandmother's friends is doting on her — her, not Niko — now. If it weren't that absurd, you'd call it flirting. She's gripping her forearm and smiling wide, her head nodding slightly.
"You've got strong arms, young lady. What do you do, chop wood?"
Natasha, trying to both soothe Niko and talk to the old lady, shakes her head. "No ma'am. I play basketball."
"Mhm. Got the legs for it."
Her face turns from slightly absentminded to horrified. You bite your lip to stifle a laugh. There's one group of people you don't mind flirting with Natasha, and that's everyone 50 and above.
"See?", you say, finally able to lead her aside. You dropped Niko off at your mom's. "They love you."
"They all do", she says, slightly less uncomfortable now that she's out of earshot. "Can't resist me, huh?"
You shoot her a look, but your lips twitch. She's not wrong. All women love her — the ones in your classes, the married ones, and apparently, the elderly ones as well.
You reach the very back of the backyard and tug her behind a shed. Natasha follows obediently, her face slightly distracted, before realizing what's going on. It's been a month since that basketball match, and your ovulation is back in full swing.
"At your grandma's 80th?", she hisses.
"Don't make it weird", you protest, looping your arms around her neck. "I've been waiting all day. You really know how to make a girl suffer."
Her mouth opens right as you hear someone call your name. You quickly push her against the shed and slap your hand over her mouth, stifling the grunt that escaped her.
For some unfortunate reason, that's even hotter. You've got a 6'1 athlete pressed against the wall, completely at your mercy, and she's not even trying to protest.
"That was easy", you tease. "Still gonna say no?"
"They'll hear us", she says, voice muffled against your hand. "You really want to traumatize your whole family?"
"So dramatic."
She gives you a glare and peels your hand off her mouth. Right as you think she might slip away, she cups your face and kisses you. You lean against her, tasting the orange juice on her tongue and feeling her calloused fingers on your cheeks.
It spirals into more needy territory quickly. You put your palms against the wooden wall of the shed, caging in her head. She slides her hands down your body, messes with your dress, then slips her fingers under the fabric to cup your ass.
You're wet. She's hard. You adjust your hips to grind against her dick, muffled little gasps leaving you. The moment you unbuckle her belt, however, someone calls for you again.
"Natasha!" Footsteps near the shed. "Come on, Miss Clarice is asking for you."
She shoves you away right in time. You stare at your aunt, who stopped right when she saw the two of you. Natasha tries to be subtle about wiping the smudged lipstick off her mouth.
"Need the shed?", you ask, gesturing at the door. "Go on."
"Are you looking for something?"
Natasha glances at her feet. She accidentally stomped all over the dahlias. They're nothing but a sad little bunch of petals and squished flowers now.
"Uh..."
"We're thinking about taking up gardening", you say, nudging Natasha. "Now that you're here anyway, could you help us find the pruning shears?"
She frowns. "The what?"
"Actually", you say, quickly grabbing Natasha's hand and pulling her along, "gardening is boring. Maybe you'll have more luck. See you when they cut the cake!"
"Hold on, your grandfather's dahlias-"
You're gone before she can finish her sentence. You're both flustered and a little giddy. The sun is hot on your flushed skin, and even though this almost turned into a grave moral error, you're not deterred in the slightest.
And the best part? Natasha is on a mission as well now. You've barely made it back to the party when she's already looking for ways to escape.
"You said there's a guest bedroom on the first floor", she mumbles, holding you close. You're on the back porch, leaning against the wall and talking in hushed voices. One arm is wrapped around your middle, and her lips stay pressed to your forehead.
"Too obvious. They'll see us leave."
"Do I look like I care? We have a baby, they know you let me do it raw."
You quickly glance at the other guests, but nobody seems to have heard her. What she said is true — it's obvious Niko wasn't planned — but some things are better kept private, anyway.
"You're so disgusting."
"Let's just go upstairs", she drawls, her hand dipping lower. "Nobody cares."
You sigh, pressing closer. She's warm, smells like sun and her favorite cologne. Her hair is open for once. You were already desperate to catch her alone again, but seeing her like this is only making it worse. It's the small things — the hint of a sunburn on her cheeks, her outfit, her arm around you.
You take her hand and slip in through the glass door without anyone noticing. Right as you try to sneak past the kitchen, your mother steps out of it.
"There you are! Natasha, we need a hand. They're trying to carry the speakers outside."
You visibly deflate. "Now?"
"Yes", she says, waving Natasha down the stairs and into the basement. "Now. The string quartet is leaving, and your grandma wants music."
A minute later she reemerges, and this time, with a 40 pound heavy speaker in her arms. Her muscles are flexed, straining the fabric of her dress shirt, and you're leaning against the wall and trying not to topple over. There's an emptiness between your thighs, and you know the only way to get rid of it is to let her stuff you to the point of bursting.
She follows your mom outside and dumps the speakers next to the fence. She comes sprinting back, and you grab the tie around her neck and smoothly pull her into the hallway.
"Need you inside me. Now."
"I'm trying", she gasps, her rough hands impossibly soft on your waist. "This is taking too long."
You scoff, trying to both walk up the stairs and kiss her. Her hand slips under your dress, finding the front of your panties and rubbing you through it. Her fingers push the fabric aside and slip in, two at once, no chance to adjust even a little.
The sounds are quiet, slick, her movements almost too hectic. You reach behind your back and fumble with the doorknob.
"Y/N, honey, can you check on Niko?"
You jump apart. Natasha swears and brings her fingers to her mouth, quickly sucking the wetness off. You feel heat stir in your lower belly and curse whoever it is that interrupted you.
"Yeah?", you ask, voice strained.
"Is he allowed to eat cake?"
You shoot each other a look. He's barely half a year old. Sugar hasn't been on his meal plan yet, especially not in the form of buttercream and sponge cake. Stopping him might be the best option.
When you get downstairs, though, he's already smushed half a slice of cake and wolfed down the other. There's frosting all over his face and hands, and Natasha wordlessly scoops him up. She's particular about his diet.
"Never again", she mumbles, using her thumb to wipe the frosting off his cheeks. "Sugar was supposed to be a special occasion."
"It's just cake."
"He's a baby", she mutters, not even glancing at you. "He needs sugar in moderation. This is way too much for him."
"We all ate sugar", your uncle interrupts. "And we all turned out just fine."
Natasha furrows her eyebrows. "Mhm, pinnacle of health you are."
To you, her words don't even register. You're still buzzing, still dying to drag her back upstairs.
You've always been weak for her, even when you didn't want to admit it. Especially now, with her sleeves pushed up and flyaway strands of hair blocking her vision, that feeling is only getting worse.
She shifts Niko into her other arm and turns around. You reluctantly move your eyes from her arms to her face.
"He's okay", you say, desperate to get him back into your family's care for a while. "He's having fun. Right, mom?"
Natasha's reluctant to hand him back, but you convince her. By the time you've snuck back upstairs, the guest bedroom is occupied — it's your great aunt, who decided to take a quick nap.
You close the door again, barely keeping yourself from slamming it shut. "Fuck."
"There's another bedroom", Natasha says. She's eyeing the ajar door down the hall.
"That's my grandparents'. No."
She wipes her forehead, slowly getting more frustrated. It's way too warm, she's horny, you're hornier. Your little sex sanctuary is occupied, and judging by your experience so far, you'll get interrupted by another family member in the next few minutes.
You can tell she's pissed off, even if she's trying to hide it. Fortunately, everything hitting her at once is making that harder.
"It's a bed", she snaps, keeping her voice hushed. "Take it or leave it."
"We're not desecrating my grandma's bedsheets."
"You have a better idea?"
You want to argue back, but then your eyes shift. There's a guest bathroom right across the guest bedroom — it's tiny, almost like a cubicle instead of an actual bathroom, but the door locks and it doesn't have any sentimental value tied to it.
Minutes later, you're grabbing the sink and watching Natasha struggle with taking her pants off. The room is too small for her, especially with you in it as well. Every time she moves, you feel it.
"You're huge", you mumble, staring. "Gym pays off, huh."
"You could help me", she hisses, finally kicking off the pants. "I've seen birdcages that were bigger."
You snort, watching her struggle with her boxers. Once those are out of the way, she steps closer and bends you over the sink. You writhe against her.
"Not so talkative now", she says, gripping your hips. "You good there?"
"I'll kill you."
She smiles and leans in to kiss your shoulder, and the next second, she slips into you. Just the tip at first, lulling you into a false sense of security — but then, she thrusts it in all at once. You moan, your forehead pressed against the cold ceramic surface of the sink.
Her body stutters at the feeling. She's surrounded by wet, tight heat, and each time she tries to pull out, it's like she's being sucked back in. Her fingers dig into your hips and she curses quietly.
It's not quick this time. The position prevents you from hurrying. Instead, Natasha has to calculate each stroke carefully. Eyebrows furrowed and tongue between her teeth, she fucks back into you. You're wet — even your thighs are soaked —, but it's only helping a little.
The pace is unbearable. Instead of pushing you to your orgasm, you're being dragged to it. Each thrust feels like torture, so once she finally managed to speed up a bit, you're already sobbing and moaning.
"Too dumb to think, huh?", she mumbles, her voice breathless. "Just wanna feel? It's okay, baby, we're almost there."
"Shut up", you moan. She laughs and kisses the spot between your shoulder blades.
A few more quick strokes, and she can tell you're getting close. Right as you're on the edge, she cups your chin and makes you look into the mirror — and it's too much. Makeup smudged, tears everywhere, Natasha behind you. Your head falls forward and you shudder, feeling her cum dribble out of you.
It takes Natasha a few minutes to go back to normal again. Once she does, you clean yourselves up and sneak back downstairs.
"You know", she mumbles, squeezing your side, "I don't mind you ovulating. You could really do that more often."
The way Ellie had latched onto you after that little identity crisis—after stubbornly calling Natasha by her name instead of “Mama” for a week straight—had been funny. Poetic, even. Natasha Romanoff, feared assassin, reduced to pouting because her five-year-old had decided she was “Natasha” now.
But this?
This was a full-scale coup.
It started small. Ellie insisting you pour her cereal instead of Natasha. Ellie demanding you sit beside her during movie night. Ellie dramatically flopping into your lap every time Natasha so much as reached for your hand.
“My mommy,” Ellie would announce proudly, wrapping her arms around your neck like she’d just won custody in court.
Natasha would arch a brow from across the room. “Yeah,” she’d murmur, voice dipping low in that way that made your stomach flip. “Your mommy.”
The double meaning wasn’t lost on you.
Ellie, blissfully unaware, would glare at Natasha like she’d just challenged her for the throne.
And you?
You were enjoying this far too much.
At first it was lighthearted. Natasha would lean against the kitchen counter, watching you help Ellie with homework, and shake her head with exaggerated disbelief.
“Unbelievable,” she’d sigh dramatically. “I raise her, teach her discipline, make sure she doesn’t turn into a tiny criminal mastermind, and who does she run to?”
Ellie would pop her head up immediately. “Mommy!”
Natasha would narrow her eyes. “Traitor.”
You’d just laugh, pressing a kiss to Ellie’s hair while Natasha stalked over and wrapped her arms around both of you, chin settling on your shoulder as if she hadn’t just been publicly replaced.
But then the novelty wore off.
Because Ellie didn’t stop.
She escalated.
If Natasha kissed you, Ellie wedged herself between you with the precision of someone trained in tactical disruption. If Natasha tried to cuddle on the couch, Ellie was suddenly very cold and needed to sit in your lap. If Natasha suggested putting Ellie to bed early, Ellie clung to you like a koala with abandonment issues and declared she had “a bad dream feeling.”
And Natasha… Natasha started to feel it.
One night, after Ellie had insisted on sleeping in the middle of your bed “just this once” for the third time that week, Natasha lay stiffly on the edge of the mattress, staring at the ceiling like she was contemplating the downfall of an empire.
She let out the most dramatic groan you had ever heard.
“I’ve lost my wife,” she muttered darkly into the darkness. “This is it. I’ll never have sex again. I’ll be celibate forever. A tragic, lonely widow.”
You rolled your eyes without even looking at her. “You’re being ridiculous.”
Ellie snored softly between you, one tiny hand tangled in your shirt like she was securing her prize.
Natasha slowly lifted her hand and pointed at the child. “She has replaced me.”
“She’s five.”
“She’s strategic,” Natasha shot back quietly. “This is psychological warfare.”
You turned your head, finally meeting her narrowed green eyes. “You’re jealous of your own daughter.”
“I am not,” she said immediately.
Ellie shifted in her sleep, scooting closer to you.
Natasha’s eye twitched.
“…Okay, maybe a little.”
It wasn’t just emotional frustration. It was the way every quiet moment somehow ended with a tiny human materializing between you. The way Natasha would trail her fingers along your waist in the kitchen, lips brushing your neck, only for Ellie to burst in demanding juice or announcing that she had drawn “the best circle ever.”
The breaking point came a few nights later when Ellie once again appeared in your bedroom doorway the second Natasha had pulled you into her arms.
Natasha froze mid-kiss, eyes closing slowly in defeat.
Ellie padded in, clutching her blanket. “I can’t sleep.”
Natasha stared at the ceiling for a long moment, then at you, then back at her daughter. Something shifted in her expression—not surrender, but strategy.
Later, once Ellie was actually asleep in her own bed, Natasha leaned against the hallway wall and dragged both hands down her face.
“This cannot continue,” she muttered.
You crossed your arms, amused. “What are you going to do? Ground her from loving me?”
Natasha shot you a look. “Very funny.”
“Then what, Romanoff?”
Her eyes sharpened with dangerous clarity.
“Sleepover,” she said decisively. “U babushki i dedushki.”
You blinked. “With the grandparents?”
“Yes,” she said firmly. “U babushki i dedushki—at Grandma and Grandpa’s.”
“And by Grandma and Grandpa you mean…”
A slow smirk tugged at her lips. “With Melina and Alexei.”
You stared at her.
“You’re sending our daughter to your extremely chaotic fake-turned-real parents so you can have alone time?”
“They adore her,” Natasha replied smoothly. “And they will absolutely spoil her. She will not notice my brilliant tactical maneuver.”
“You are unbelievable.”
“I am resourceful,” she corrected.
The next afternoon, when Natasha casually mentioned the idea of a “special sleepover with Babushka and Dedushka,” Ellie’s eyes lit up like she’d just been offered unlimited dessert.
“Really?” Ellie gasped.
Natasha crouched in front of her, all calm affection. “Really. Sleepover with the grandparents. They’ll let you stay up late.”
You watched as Ellie immediately ran off to pack a backpack with entirely unnecessary items.
“You’re evil,” you murmured.
Natasha stepped into your space, hands sliding around your waist. “I am patient,” she corrected softly. “And I have been very patient.”
The apartment was silent hours later after Melina Vostokoff swept Ellie into a hug and Alexei Shostakov promised to teach her “important Red Guardian skills,” which you were fairly certain meant eating snacks and watching cartoons.
The door shut.
The silence stretched.
Natasha turned to you slowly.
“Well,” she said, voice low. “No interruptions.”
“Confident,” you teased.
She stepped forward, backing you gently against the wall this time instead of rushing. “Do you know,” she murmured near your ear, “how many times I have been blocked this week?”
“You’re dramatic.”
“I have suffered,” she insisted softly, fingers tracing your waist with deliberate slowness. “Every time I touch my wife, a tiny voice appears.”
You laughed under your breath. “She loves me.”
Natasha’s lips brushed your jaw. “So do I.”
There was no jealousy in her tone now—just warmth, and a faint possessive edge that made your pulse jump.
“She is just like you,” you murmured later, when the apartment was quiet and you were both finally relaxed.
Natasha huffed softly. “Needy?”
“Very.”
She shifted closer, brushing her nose lightly against your temple. “And you love it.”
You smiled. “I love both of you.”
Natasha groaned, but this time it was fond, not frustrated.
“Fine,” she muttered. “But we are instituting regular sleepovers with the grandparents. U babushki i dedushki. Frequently.”
You laughed against her shoulder. “Strategic.”
She smirked faintly. “Learned from the best.”
And somewhere across town, Ellie was probably announcing to Melina Vostokoff and Alexei Shostakov that you were her mommy.
summary: one drink turns into several. you accuse a very patient stranger of kidnapping you. unfortunately, she’s your wife.
tags/warnings: established relationship, married couple, drunk reader, funny drunk, chaos night out, protective Nat, Wanda is TIRED, accidental flirting, domestic fluff,reader has no survival instincts.
author's note: hi 🤍 i’m supposed to be studying for my exam on thursday (as i said, supposed), but somehow this turned into me projecting my inability to drink responsibly onto reader. that one’s on me.
Wanda being done with everyone and Natasha having infinite patience felt inevitable.
english isn’t my first language, so please be kind.
i’d love to hear what you think, comments always make my day.
You’re halfway through putting on your jacket when Natasha looks up from the couch.
“You’re not wearing heels.” she notes.
You freeze mid-zip. Slowly turn. “Why does that sound like an accusation?”
“It’s an observation,” she says calmly. Too calmly. “When you don’t wear heels, you drink more.”
“That is fake data.”
Natasha smiles like she has spreadsheets.
You narrow your eyes. “You cannot possibly have—”
“I have charts,” she says. “Trends. A very upsetting bar graph.”
You laugh, walking back toward her. “I am going out for one drink.”
She raises an eyebrow.
“Two,” you amend. “Max.”
Nat stands, steps into your space, and fixes your collar with unnecessary precision. “Text me when you’re done,” she says. “I’ll pick you up.”
“I can Uber.”
“Absolutely not,” she says. “I’m picking you up.”
You grin. “You’re obsessed with me.”
“You're my wife, so yes.” she agrees easily.
You lean in, kiss her—soft at first, familiar, then deeper because she hums against your mouth and her hand slides to your waist like it belongs there. Because it does.
She pulls back just enough to murmur, “Behave.”
You smile sweetly. “Never.”
Two hours later, the bar is loud, sticky, and absolutely not designed for the amount of chaos currently occurring inside it.
Everyone said just one round.
Everyone lied.
One drink becomes two. Two becomes celebratory. Wanda is sipping slower than everyone else, Maria is already laughing too loud, and Carol has decided tonight is a physical challenge night.
“Carol,” Wanda says, blinking slowly. “Why are you on the floor?”
“For pride…” Carol says, already lowering herself.
“I can do twenty push-ups!” Carol announces.
A group of random men at the next table perk up immediately.
“I’ll do thirty.” one of them says.
Carol cracks her knuckles. “Count me in.”
You’re half-slouched on the couch, cheering with full confidence and zero balance.
You clap weakly from the couch. “GO MUSCLE LADY!”
“FIVE—” Carol shouts.
Wanda? absolutely done.
She’s seated at the table, nursing the same drink she’s had for an hour, eyes glazed with the resigned patience of someone babysitting a disaster.
You’re on your third—fourth?—drink, perched dramatically on a barstool, telling a bartender a very emotional story about how your wife once reorganized the entire spice rack alphabetically and you’ve never recovered.
“And she smiled,” you whisper, hand over heart. “Like it was normal.”
The bartender nods solemnly. “That’s terrifying.”
“It was hot.” you correct. “But terrifying.”
Then, across the room, Wanda watches you stand on a chair to cheer Carol on.
“Ten! Eleven! Twelve! CAROL YOU’RE A NATIONAL TREASURE—”
Carol collapses onto the floor, laughing. The men look like they might pass out.
Wanda sighs, pulls out her phone.
Natasha is halfway through paperwork when her phone rings.
She answers immediately. “Is she okay?”
Wanda doesn’t bother with greetings. “Well…she’s not hurt.”
“Wanda...”
“She is, however, extremely drunk.”
Nat exhales through her nose. “Where are you?”
She gives the address.
“I’m on my way.”
“She says she’s married,” Wanda adds.
Nat pauses. “…Yes.”
“And that she’s waiting for her wife.”
Nat closes her eyes. “I’ll be there in ten.”
You’re mid-sentence—something about proposing to your wife again because she deserves it—when Wanda touches your arm.
“She’s coming.”
You blink. “Who?”
“Wife.” Wanda says flatly.
“No,” you say, shaking your head. “My wife.”
“Yes,” Wanda replies. “That one.”
You frown. “You’re confusing me.”
“I know.”
Wanda glances at the door, then at you.
“Okay. Show’s over.”
Natasha walks in.
Nat laughs the second she sees you.
“Oh, you’re funny drunk,” she murmurs. “I forgot about this version.”
You spot her immediately. You always do.
Your face lights up like she personally invented electricity.
“Ooooh,” you breathe. “She’s pretty.”
Nat steps closer. “Hey, baby. Ready to go home?”
You recoil like she’s crossed a line.
“Absolutely not,” you say. “I’m married.”
“Yes,” Nat replies patiently. “To me.”
You gasp.
“Nonono,” you say, shaking your head. “My wife is hot.”
Nat smirks. “Correct.”
“And intimidating,” you add. “And she would never approach me like this.”
Wanda points at Nat. “That’s literally her.”
You shake your head. “Nonono. Don’t confuse me. She’s blonde.”
Nat’s smile turns wicked. “You’re married to a redhead.”
You lean closer, squinting harder. “That is exactly what a stranger would say.”
She sighs fondly. “You’re impossible.”
“I will scream.” you warn.
Before you can react, she grabs you—efficient, practiced—and hoists you over her shoulder like you weigh nothing.
Maria chokes on her drink.
Wanda laughs so hard she has to grab the counter.
Someone whistles.
“HEY—” you protest, dangling upside down. “Put me DOWN. I don’t KNOW you.”
Nat pats your leg. “Relax.”
“I’M BEING KIDNAPPED.” you announce to the room. “BY A… VERY ATTRACTIVE WOMAN.”
“Your wife.” Wanda says.
“I will be reporting this,” you insist. “To my wife!”
Nat starts walking toward the door, unfazed.
You squeal.
“HEY—” you smack her back weakly. “Wanda! WANDA I’M BEING TAKEN.”
Nat gives your ass a firm pat. “Behave.”
You gasp. Loudly. “SHE TOUCHED ME.”
“That's my ass,” Nat says calmly. “I’m allowed.”
“She’s gonna be so mad,” you continue. “She doesn’t like strangers touching me like that.”
Nat adjusts you higher on her shoulder. “She’ll survive.”
“I don’t know that.” you argue, upside down.
Carol waves happily from the floor. “Bye!”
The car ride home is… a lot.
You’re slouched in the passenger seat, gazing at Natasha like she hung the moon.
“You drive so well,” you say.
“Thank you.”
“You’re very strong.”
“I know.”
Five minutes pass.
Then you turn your head.
“…You’re very pretty,” you say thoughtfully.
Nat smiles without looking over. “Drink your water.”
“And your arms,” you continue. “They’re… disrespectful.”
She laughs softly. “Careful.”
You lean close, lowering your voice like it’s confidential.
“If I wasn’t married,” you say, “I would absolutely flirt with you.”
“Oh?” Nat glances at you.
“Yes. But I’m a faithful woman.”
“Good to know.”
You lean closer. “Are you single.”
She laughs. “No.”
“That’s a shame,” you say sadly. “My wife would hate you.”
Nat glances at you. “Why?”
“Because I’m flirting with you.”
You suddenly freeze. Eyes widening.
“Oh my God.”
Nat raises an eyebrow. “What.”
“I cheated,” you whisper.
She blinks. “You did not.”
“I emotionally cheated,” you insist. “With… you.”
Nat bites her lip, trying not to laugh. “Baby…”
You clutch your chest. “She’s going to be devastated.”
“I think she’ll survive.”
“No,” you say solemnly. “She loves me.”
Nat reaches over, laces her fingers with yours. “I love you.”
You stare at her hand. At her face.
“…Wait.”
The realization hits you like a freight train.
“Oh.”
She smiles gently. “Hi.”
“You’re my wife.”
“Yes.”
“I flirted with you.”
“Yes.”
You think for a moment. “That’s okay then.”
Nat laughs so hard she has to pull over.
At home, she changes you into comfy clothes while you narrate everything.
“These are my pants,” you inform her. “They are very soft.”
“I know,” she says. “I bought them.”
You pause. “…You’re incredible.”
She tucks you into bed.
You immediately sit up. “Wait...”
“What?”
“You still haven’t proven you’re my wife.”
Nat arches an eyebrow. “How would you like me to do that?”
You think hard. Way too hard.
“…Show me your scar.”
She lifts her shirt just enough to reveal it.
You gasp. “MY WIFE.”
She smiles. “Sleep.”
Morning comes with consequences.
Your head is pounding. The light is offensive. Your mouth tastes like regret.
Nat is already awake, sipping coffee, watching you with entirely too much amusement.
You groan. “Why are you smiling?”
“You told a stranger you’d report me to your wife.”
You bury your face in the pillow. “Did you… did you carry me.”
“Yes.”
“And then?...”
She smirks. “I patted your ass.”
Your eyes fly open.
“You did WHAT??????”
She leans down, kisses you slow and smug. “You didn’t complain.”
A/N: it's 3AM right now and i have class tomorrow. worth it! (i wrote this in like 15 minutes all in one go and it's completely unedited)
Her fingers dip slowly into velvet heat, pressing just where you open up. Wanda stares on, half-drunk on the awe and lust coursing through her veins, as she runs her fingers along the warm folds, collecting slick. She notices you shift in your sleep, fidgeting, eyebrows furrowed, before you settle again.
You're so warm.
And wet.
Wanda blushes, but can't pull her hand away. It's like something has completely taken over her body, possessing her every motion. You'd mentioned before, that you'd be okay with this, had given explicit consent in advance, but she'd never done anything about it before tonight.
She'd come home late, to a darkened living room and silent hallways. She'd found you already fast asleep in bed, soft sighs and huffs of breath curling past your lips into the chilly night air.
Here you are, beneath her, still asleep. The sheen of the full moon glows along the curves and slopes of your silhouette, and she can just barely see enough to make out the distinct glistening of arousal on her fingertips and painted along the insides of your thighs.
Wanda has to bite her lip to suppress a groan at the realization of just how turned on you must have been before falling asleep to end up like this. She presses her wet fingers to your clit, watching the way you shift again in your sleep.
She pulls her fingers away, licking her lips as she stares at the glisten on her skin. She places her fingers on her tongue, moaning softly at the taste of your arousal. Appetite whetted, she quickly and quietly rearranges the two of you, shifting you down the bed with her magic so she can kneel on the ground at the foot of the bed.
She wraps her hands eagerly around your thighs, all thoughts of control and conscience wiped from her mind as she dives in. She laps softly at the accumulated arousal on your inner thighs, cooing softly every now and then at the lingering, slightly sweet, slightly musky taste. She feels your thighs tense up where her tongue meets skin, and she grins to herself, knowing just how sensitive you are.
She follows a trail of whispery kisses up to the apex of your thighs, licking her lips again before she pries your legs open further. She leans in close, a whimper stuck in the back of her throat as she swipes the flat of her tongue through your folds and past your clit. You've always tasted good, but something about this specific scenario makes you absolutely irresistible. Addictive.
She makes another pass with her tongue, feeling the way your body jolts when her tongue flicks past your clit. Emboldened, she refocuses her efforts, swallowing the gathered arousal in her mouth so she can swirl her tongue around your clit instead. The effect is intense and immediate, a sharp huff of breath blown through your teeth and your entire body trembling as her tongue continues its obsessive, repetitive circular motion.
Wanda moans, a little louder than she would have found acceptable were she still considering the consequences, but she's too far gone to think of anything except making you come.
She works herself up just as much, thinking of the way your eyes flutter and roll back every time she makes you come and hoping that she can work hard enough to wake you up with an orgasm, one that neither of you will ever forget.
She closes her eyes and seals her lips around your clit, sucking softly and feeling the way your entire body reacts. She can hear the cry that spills past your lips, can sense when you're broken out of the reverie of your dreams, can feel the way all your muscles tense up as you clock the pleasure coursing through your body.
"W-Wanda." Your voice is hoarse, questioning.
Wanda, mouth still occupied, only moans in response, making you arch your back helplessly as the vibrations travel into your clit and up your spine.
"Please," you whimper, hips bucking up uncontrollably against her face.
She coos softly, swirling her tongue around your clit and watching the way you shudder with the motion.
"Please make me come."
Wanda only hums softly. After all, it's not like she has any other plans. All she can think of is that taste of your orgasm washing over her tongue, and saliva gathers in her mouth every time she gets a taste of your arousal.
"Please— please, oh fuck," you hiccup, already overwhelmed beyond belief. You fist the sheets in a bid for a little more stability, but they slide easily out of your grasp when Wanda sucks on your clit harder.
Wanda, on the other hand, is completely lost. Her only focus is on exactly how to work you to make you come. She hums softly into your clit, working her tongue against the little bundle of nerves as your back arches off the bed.
"Come for me, baby," she murmurs into your clit, and you can't help the way your body spasms into orgasm for her. You choke out helpless cries, feeling like you need more and yet feeling all too much. She works you through it softly, tongue softly lapping at your cunt as she collects the mess of liquid seeping from you.
You moan softly, pressing the back of your hand to your mouth as you lean back, embarrassed. Her mouth feels unreasonably good against your clit, even though she's not doing anything different from what she usually does.
"What time even is it?" you manage to get out, blinking blearily at the shadowy ceiling.
Wanda hums and places a final kiss against the inside of your thigh before appearing on the bed beside you.
"Bedtime again," she teases, chuckling lowly when you groan. She goes easily enough along with your every motion, pulling you in closer when you roll toward her, slotting her thigh between your legs comfortably. Once you've settled yourself into the crook of her neck, she hums, satisfied.
The rustle of the duvet confirms the sudden warmth covering your bare legs, and you curl into Wanda further.
"You did such a good job for me, baby," she's murmuring softly.
You can only hum in response, the feverish allure of sleep drawing you back in. The night brushes against your blush-hot cheeks and you sigh softly, feeling your chest deflate.
"Sleep well, detka," Wanda whispers, lips pressed to your forehead as your eyes slide shut.
Pairing: Wanda Maximoff x Reader
Summary: Wanda got the silent treatment after a mission
Word Count: 1100+
Genre: fluff
The mission briefing had been simple. Wanda and Vision would go undercover as a couple to get close to an arms dealer and distract him long enough for Natasha and Steve to slip in unnoticed.
You hated it from the moment you heard the pairing.
From the comms room, you watched the cameras. Wanda’s hand slipping naturally into Vision’s arm, her smile soft, practiced, the kind she used when she wanted someone to trust her. The kind she also used on you, when she wanted you to melt.
You told yourself you were fine.
You lied.
Halfway through the mission, Wanda’s voice came through your headset, light, warm, with that Sokovian accent she only used when she was charming the hell out of someone. When she was charming the hell out of you.
“Oh, we’ve been together for ages,” she said smoothly to the target, “Vision is very protective.”
Your jaw clenched. Hard.
Then she laughed. Laughed. That soft little giggle that always made your stomach flutter. You let out a tiny huff under your breath. But of course, Wanda heard it.
Wanda didn’t react. Of course she didn’t. She is on a mission. What did you expect.
You muted your mic so fast you nearly ripped it out.
By the time the mission ended, Vision was thanking her for “playing the part so well,” and Wanda was smiling like nothing was wrong.
You decided you were not speaking to her for the rest of the night.
~
Wanda found you in your room later, knocking softly before peeking inside. Her hair was still pinned up, cheeks flushed from the cold outside.
“You didn’t say anything on the ride home,” her voice was gentle. Hopeful. Trying.
You didn’t look up from your book.
Wanda blinked, confused, “Are… are you upset with me?”
Silence.
She stepped inside cautiously, like approaching a bomb.
“Y/N?” she whispered, “Did I do something?”
More silence.
Wanda’s brows furrowed, lips pouting just slightly, “You’re giving me the silent treatment?”
You turned a page slowly.
She gasped like you had committed a war crime, “Me? You’re mad at me? What did I do?”
The fact that she genuinely didn’t know only made you pout harder.
“Is it the mission?” she asked, voice small.
You didn’t answer.
Wanda exhaled, frustrated but trying not to show it, “You know I had to pretend. It wasn’t real.”
You kept reading.
“It wasn’t even good acting!” she protested, throwing her hands up “Vision can’t flirt! He compliments toasters!”
You snorted.
Her eyes widened, “Ah! A sound! She lives.”
You shut your book. Hard. Wanda jumped slightly.
“Detka…” she said softly, crawling onto the bed beside you, “talk to me?”
You turned your back to her. Wanda froze. Then let out the most dramatic gasp known to mankind.
“You’re actually ignoring me.”
You didn’t move.
“Oh, this is cruel,” Wanda muttered, climbing under the blanket so she could sit pressed against your back, “Natasha told me about this. She said you get stubborn. But this... this is evil.”
You smiled into your pillow.
~
The next morning, you walked into the kitchen where Natasha, Sam and Clint were already gathered. Wanda was stirring something on the stove, her eyes flicking up the moment she felt you enter.
“Morning,” Sam said. Then took one look at the two of you and whispered, “Uh-oh.”
Wanda brightened immediately, “Y/N! I made your favourite...”
You walked past her and grabbed a toaster waffle.
Her face fell like you’d slapped her soul out of her body.
Natasha raised an eyebrow, “Silent treatment, huh?”
Wanda groaned, “She won’t even look at me.”
Clint sipped his coffee, “What’d you do?”
“I didn’t do anything!” Wanda insisted, pouting, “Well… maybe I laughed. And held Vision’s arm. But that doesn’t count. He doesn’t even have blood.”
Sam snorted.
You sat at the far end of the table. Wanda hesitated, then shuffled over and sat directly beside you.
Clint muttered, “She’s brave.”
Wanda whispered, “Please talk to me.”
You took a sip of coffee.
~
By lunch, Wanda had tried everything: offering you food, using her puppy eyes, literally floating a heart-shaped spark of red magic in front of you, sitting in your lap like she forgot how chairs work.
Nothing.
When she saw you walking down the hallway, she rushed over.
“Hi,” she said, smiling hopefully.
You walked around her.
Wanda turned dramatically, “She hates me.”
Bruce patted her shoulder sympathetically, “You’ll survive.”
“No,” Wanda said, dead serious, “I won’t.”
~
Later, in the lounge, you curled up with a blanket and your phone while the others watched a movie. Wanda entered quietly and sat beside you, pulling her knees to her chest.
A few minutes passed before she whispered, “You’re really mad.”
Nothing.
“I didn’t mean to hurt you,” she said softly, staring at her hands, “I just… did what the mission needed.”
Still nothing.
Wanda let out a small breath, sounding defeated, “Okay. I guess I deserve this.”
That was the first thing that cracked your resolve.
~
That night, you finally retreated to your room. Wanda followed but didn’t enter right away. She knocked once, then leaned against the doorframe.
“Can I come in?”
You didn’t answer.
She stepped inside anyway, closing the door behind her quietly.
“You don’t have to forgive me,” she whispered, voice trembling slightly, “But please… talk to me.”
You looked at her reflection in the mirror, her hands fidgeting nervously, her eyes shiny with emotion.
She wasn’t playing anymore.
“I didn’t like watching you,” you said finally, voice small, “with him.”
Wanda’s breath caught, “I know.”
“It felt real.”
She shook her head quickly, stepping closer, “It wasn’t. Not for one second.”
“You giggled,” you accused.
Wanda winced, “I giggle when I’m nervous!”
You turned around. She was already in front of you, eyes huge, worried, loving.
“It made me feel stupid,” you whispered.
Wanda cupped your face with both hands instantly, gently guiding you to look at her.
“You are not stupid,” she said firmly, “You’re the person I come home to. The person I want. The only one.”
Your throat tightened.
Wanda’s voice softened, “When I’m undercover, I pretend. But when I’m with you…” she smiled, small, tender, “…I don’t have to pretend at all.”
You swallowed hard, emotions tangled in your chest, “I hated hearing you say those things.”
“I hated saying them,” she whispered, “I kept thinking about you. Your voice. Your little huff,” she smiled nervously, “It was cute.”
You groaned, “Don’t call it cute.”
“It was cute,” she insisted, brushing your cheek with her thumb, “You sounded jealous.”
You blushed, “I wasn’t...”
“Detka. Please.”
“…okay maybe a little.”
Wanda’s smile brightened like the sun, “Does that mean you’re done ignoring me?”
“Maybe.”
She leaned in, lips barely brushing yours, “Maybe?” she whispered against your mouth.
You kissed her. And Wanda melted into you immediately, arms locking around your waist like she’d been waiting all day.
When you pulled back, breathless, you muttered, “You’re lucky I love you.”
Wanda grinned, cheeks flushed, “You’re right. I am lucky. So damn lucky I get to love you.”
Tag list: @mirage018 @yelldontwhisper @canvascoloredin @perfectlyfoggycloud @taliiiaasteria @checkenlittlsblog
Wanda knows it the second she steps through the door -- knows it in the way the air sits wrong, thick and unmoving, like even the dust is waiting for something to break.
She hears the soft slam of a cabinet in the kitchen.
Your cabinet slam. Small, sharp, frustrated.
Her heart drops. She caused that. She caused all of this.
“Y/n?” Her voice is cautious. Too cautious, even to her own ears.
She finds you standing at the counter, hands braced on either side of the sink, shoulders tense. You don’t turn when she walks in. You don’t even pretend.
Wanda swallows hard. She deserves that.
“You left,” she says quietly. “Before we finished talking.”
You let out a breath that sounds like you’re trying not to cry or yell or both. “Yeah. Because you weren’t listening.”
Wanda closes her eyes. That’s fair. That’s painfully fair.
She takes a slow step forward. “I was listening, dorogaya. I just--”
“--don’t trust yourself.” You cut her off with a tired laugh, shaking your head. “I know, Wanda. I know. It’s always the same thing. You’re scared you’ll hurt me. Or touch me wrong. Or lose control. Or--”
“Stop,” she whispers, the word cracking. “Please.”
You finally look at her.
And that alone almost brings her to her knees.
Because you’re not angry. You’re hurt.
Quietly, deeply, devastatingly hurt. And Wanda would rather be shot than be the reason for that expression on your face.
She takes another step toward you. You don’t back away, but you don’t soften, either.
“I laid rules down because I love you,” she says, voice low, steady only because she wills it to be. “Because I’ve lived my entire life being told my power destroys everything it touches. That I destroy everything I touch.”
Your jaw tightens. “Wanda, you don’t destroy me.”
She lets out a breath that sounds like surrender. “I’m terrified I will.”
Silence. Not angry -- just heavy.
You push your fingers through your hair, pacing once before facing her again.
“I don’t need you to be perfect,” you say quietly. “I don’t need you to be safe. I just need you to stop assuming the worst version of yourself is the only one I get to love.”
Wanda’s throat goes tight. Painfully tight.
Because she hears the truth in your voice -- the exhaustion from fighting to be close to someone who keeps putting distance where you’re trying to build a home.
She steps closer. Close enough that you can feel the heat radiating off her, the little static flickers of power under her skin.
She has spent years repressing that warmth around others--but around you, she wants to offer it.
“You shouldn’t have walked out,” she murmurs. “You shouldn’t leave in the middle of a fight. Not with me.”
You raise an eyebrow. “I wasn’t going to scream at you in your own house, Wanda.”
“I didn’t want a fight.” Her voice lowers. “I wanted you to stay. With me. Even if we were angry. Even if it was messy. I don’t… I don’t want distance with you.”
Your heartbeat stutters. Her eyes follow the movement in your chest like it matters more than anything else.
She exhales shakily. “I’ve never wanted someone the way I want you. And that should make me happy, but it terrifies me because wanting you means I have something to lose.”
You soften. Just barely.
“Wanda--”
“No,” she says quickly, stepping even closer until your bodies almost touch. “You need to hear this.”
Her hand lifts -- slowly -- and hovers near your cheek but doesn’t touch.
Not until you lean in the tiniest bit.
She cups your jaw with trembling fingers.
“I lay rules down because I am selfish,” she confesses. “Because if I ever hurt you, I wouldn’t survive it. I would rather chain my own powers, silence myself, cage every part of me that scares me—than risk losing you.”
Your lips part, breath catching.
Her thumb brushes your cheek in a feather-light stroke, and your eyes sting because god, she’s trying. She’s really trying.
“I love you,” she whispers, like she’s bleeding it out. “I love you so much it feels dangerous. And I don’t know how to do this without being afraid.”
You step forward until your forehead meets hers.
“Wanda,” you say softly, “loving someone doesn’t mean controlling all the ways they could get hurt. It means letting them stay anyway.”
She closes her eyes.
Her breathing steadies against your skin.
“I don’t want to lose you,” she murmurs, voice small in a way she never lets anyone hear.
“You’re not going to.”
She finally opens her eyes--bright, emotional, glassy but not broken.
“You left earlier,” she reminds you, voice cracking again.
You shake your head gently. “I walked out, Wanda. I didn’t leave you.”
Her lips part like she’s tasting that difference for the first time.
Then she whispers, “Come here,” and pulls you into her chest, arms wrapping around you with a desperate tenderness that isn’t rough or magical or frantic.
Just human.
Her face buries into your shoulder as she exhales a shaky breath against your neck. One of her hands slides into your hair; the other presses flat against your back like she’s trying to memorize the exact shape of you.
You melt. You forgive. You breathe again.
“You always think you’re too much,” you whisper into her hair. “But you’re not. You’re just scared. And that’s okay. But don’t shut me out when I’m the one person you’re safe with.”
She swallows hard, pulling back just enough to kiss your forehead with a slow, reverent heat that promises more but doesn’t rush.
“Don’t walk away from me again,” she whispers.
You smile, small and tired and full.
“Then fight with me,” you answer, “not against me.”
Wanda lets out a tiny laugh -- pained, relieved, unbelievably soft -- and kisses you again, this time on the corner of your mouth.
“You’re stubborn,” she murmurs.
“So are you.”
Her lips ghost over yours, barely there, asking for permission without words.
You give her a quiet nod.
And when Wanda finally kisses you -- carefully, hungrily, terrified and hopeful all at once -- everything in the room exhales with you.
It’s not fixed. It’s not perfect.
But it’s real. And it’s the kind of love she never thought she’d have.
Synopsis: Jamie Dutton is a dysfunctional man, from a dysfunctional family. What happens when his sister warns you about him, when your relationship is already teetering on the brink of ending?
Pairing: Beth Dutton x Fem!Reader, Jamie Dutton x Fem!Reader
Warning(s): SMUT (mentions of sex, oral, fingering, dirty talk), Slight Abuse (Jamie hits reader during an argument), cheating (but it’s Jamie, so it’s okay.)
Authors Note: Beth Dutton is smexy 😝 This came to me out of nowhere and I decided it needed to be written bc I miss Yellowstone (me as soon as I feel a chill outside)
You’d never known a more dysfunctional man…which is saying a lot.
Jamie Dutton plays the game. He starts off kind, charming, gentlemanly. He opens doors, kisses your temple, holds your hand, acts like a decent man should.
Then, the facade falls. Then, it’s arguments, degrading words, looks that make you feel like you’re worth nothing. Then, his work takes over, and you’re pushed to the back burner, no longer the object of his desire.
And yet, you stay. You let him push you around. You always promised yourself you’d never let this happen, never allow a man to disrespect you, but Jamie Dutton makes it hard to run.
Because then he apologizes. He cries, seems so sincere, promises to be better. He takes you on a lavish date and buys you luxurious gifts, despite your insistence that you’re not materialistic, that words and actions matter more than a disposable gift.
That’s the game, though. He reels you in, casts you out to be eaten alive, then pulls you right back to use you again.
Your relationship has been teetering on the edge of the end for a while. Since your first fight, you’ve been rethinking it. You’d only been with him for a few weeks when the red flags began to rear their ugly heads, and once again, your promise to yourself showed.
I will never let a man mistreat me.
Then, you met his family. You’d been with him for a month, at the time, when a family dinner was arranged. He drove you to The Dutton Ranch, you gawked at the beauty, and he rolled his eyes.
“This land isn’t as pretty when you know who owns it,” He said to you, raining on your parade. You let it slide. He’d opened up about his past, and you gathered that it wasn’t a very peaceful uprising for him, or anyone in the family.
Which rang true when you sat down with his father, John, his sister, Beth, as well as his Brother Kayce, Kayce’s wife and son, Monica and Tate. The tension was clear, mostly directed at Jamie. You wondered what he hadn’t told you, what he’d done for everyone to become tense around him.
Though, you knew Jamie was a ticking time bomb. He was always short tempered and highly emotional, and maybe that was just it; they walk on eggshells to avoid upsetting him.
You know you do.
During that first dinner, though, Beth’s gaze lingered on you. It started as a curious watch, turned into what felt like holes being burned into you, via her misty eyes. She drank whiskey, lipstick leaving a stain on the fancy glassware, and even then, she stayed looking at you.
You couldn’t tell if she was scrutinizing you, or perhaps demanding for you to return her gaze without saying anything to you.
You shifted uncomfortably as you answered questions, talked with Jamie’s family. You had steak and salad, of which was honestly amazing. This was lavish in a new way. It wasn’t a fancy restaurant, but a cozy home, a chef who clearly had good relations with those living here. It was much nicer than anything Jamie had given you, regardless of the luxurious places he took you.
When you finally submitted and looked at Beth, she smiled at you. Not a friendly smile, a condescending one, almost like she pitied you. She nodded her head towards the kitchen, and lifted her empty glass.
She needs a refill…and wants you to join?
You quietly dismissed yourself, and Jamie watched with narrowed eyes and furrowed brows as you followed Beth into the kitchen.
You knew Jamie didn’t trust her, nor like her, and the same went for her. Jamie implied that their relationship was non existent; she’d have disowned him, if she could, and to the extent that she was able to, she had done exactly that. He wasn’t her brother, if you asked her.
Beth’s heels tapped against the hard wood floors, and your eyes flicked down to her shoes, then back up to her face.
She was hot— in a completely respectful, woman-to-woman way, of course.
You swallowed, leaning against the island counter as Beth grabs another whiskey glass. She poured one, then another, sliding the glass towards you. The scent of whiskey drifted through your nostrils, and you grasped the glass, taking a small sip. Beth’s eyes lingered on you, and she tilted her head as your brow twitched upon tasting the potency of the drink.
You looked at her, your body tense. She hadn’t said a word, she simply looked at you, and your stomach began turning with something you weren’t sure - at the time - what to label. Is it fear? Is it nervousness? Arousal?
She looked like she wanted to eat you alive.
Just as you opened your mouth to say something, anything, to break the tension, she spoke.
“Why are you willingly dating my dipshit brother?” She asked you, raising a brow.
You blinked, taken aback by her bluntness. Jamie had warned you, and perhaps that’s why you were so nervous. He made her seem like the devil himself came to life, yet you can’t help but think if you’d seen her in any other circumstance, you’d probably have thought about her for days after. Not because she was scary, no, but because she was sexy.
Her eyes were like daggers, her lips plush, like they’d feel so amazing on your skin. You had never really thought about being with a woman in a serious sense, but for the briefest of moments, the idea flicked through your mind.
“Hello?” Beth’s voice brought you back to reality, as she waited for your answer. You swallowed, took another sip of whiskey.
Why are you with Jamie? He’d shown that he wasn’t reliable, wasn’t trustworthy. Yet, you stayed. Why?
You didn’t know what to say, unable to scrounge up a sincere answer. You could tell, without even knowing Beth, that she wouldn’t take bullshit. So, honesty it would be.
You shrugged, setting your glass down. “He’s decent,” you said, albeit through gritted teeth. He hadn’t been so decent the last few weeks.
In fact, you argued with him on the way to this dinner. That’s ironic, isn’t it?
“Decent?” Beth would laugh, the sound low and mocking. She’d look at you with eyes that made you feel like falling to your knees, like she pitied you so deeply that she’d let her cold exterior up just enough to let you in.
She didn’t , though, because that’s not Beth Dutton. Not so fast, at least.
“He’s anything but decent, dollface.” She’d say, stepping closer to you. She smelled of cigarettes and lingering perfume, smelled like a bad decision but a hell of a good time.
“My brother is scum of the earth,” she told you, looking into your eyes. “And from one woman to another, he doesn’t know what to do with you.” She said, looking you up and down.
This time, though, her gaze didn’t make you feel so small. She looked at you like you should know better, like she wished you saw the same woman she did.
It made you feel empowered, in that moment.
And as quickly as she was in your space, she was gone. She’d walk back into the dining room, call for you a second later.
You’d down your drink, walk back into the dining room, and sit down next to Jamie. He’d raise a brow at you, rest a hand on your thigh.
Leaning closer, he’d whisper, “What did she say?” He asked, but you shook your head simply. “Don’t worry about it.”
You couldn’t stop thinking about it. About her.
Her eyes, her voice, the way she spoke to you. She made you feel scared and safe all at once, like maybe she could hurt you, but no one else would.
It was ridiculous, in a way. You’d laugh at yourself, because how had she had such an effect on you?
She’d laugh at you, probably give you that look again, like she pitied you…and you’d want to crumble to your knees…again.
Jamie had noticed a difference in you. You weren’t so reactive to him anymore. When he said something that would usually start a fight, you dismissed it and moved on. When he tried to kiss you, you’d return it weakly, a mere press of lips against one another’s.
He didn’t immediately dumb it down to Beth — he wasn’t sure what it was. Had he done something? He’s always doing something wrong, isn’t he?
He felt like you always made him the problem. He could never do anything right with you.
“Gifts don’t account for apologies, Jamie.”
“Are you even sorry, Jamie?”
“That hurt, Jamie.”
In time, he felt himself growing resentful. When is he not? His whole life, he’s resented people, because they always turn on him.
Poor Jamie.
Then, another family dinner would come. This time, you’d be seeking Beth out, and Jamie wouldn’t like it.
You found her on the porch, smoking a cigarette.
She was wearing a black dress, white flowers on it, black boots. She wore a black shawl, wrapped around her shoulders, shielding her from the cool Montana air.
She’d look over her shoulder, raising a brow. “Dollface,” she’d greet, grinning at you. You’d manage to smile back, a small smile.
You were relieved to see her. She was like a breath of fresh air, within her bluntness. She wouldn’t lie, wouldn’t manipulate. Jamie always did those things.
Everything he isn’t, everything he lacks, she is the human embodiment of, and god, she’s gorgeous.
You walked towards her, and as you rested your hands on the porch railing, she offered a cigarette.
“I don’t smoke,” you shook your head. She just smiled, tucking the cigarette in her bra. Your eyes followed her hand instinctively, and you’d avert your gaze when she looked at you.
“You swing both ways or what?” She questioned, a laugh laced in her words, one that made your head spin a little bit.
You didn’t respond. Instead, you sighed.
“Why did you warn me about Jamie?” You asked, wanting to get some sort of answer to the million questions you’d thought of in the last few weeks.
It was her turn to sigh. You don’t even know the half of it, do you?
“Jamie being Jamie isn’t enough for you?” She asked, tilting her head at you. You looked her in the eye, shrugging, unsure.
“I mean, I get that he’s a…douche, sometimes, but why would you go out of your way to tell me? Especially the first time we met?” You asked, brows furrowing slightly.
Her expression became solemn, serious. Her eyes dimmed, and she took a long drag off of the cigarette. Blowing the smoke out, it would dissipate into the night.
“I was 15, pregnant,” she’d start, looking out at the ranch, rather than at you. Her lips pressed together, and she swallowed, like she was suppressing emotions. “I told Jamie, I thought I could trust him,” she shook her head, laughing bitterly.
“He took me to a free clinic. Didn’t want word to get out that Beth Dutton was pregnant,” She explained. You watched with sincere concern, eyes softening, a sense of dread building in your stomach. Oh, what had he done?
She explained what had happened. He was young, yes, but he didn’t even think to tell her? To give her the choice?
It made your heart hurt for her, but the look she gave you warned you not to pity her, She didn’t want, nor need it. She was fine in her silent, brewing rage. In fact, she preferred it that way.
“I can’t have children, now, and it’s his fault,” She shook her head. “That aside,” she paused, taking a hit off of her cigarette, which was comedically timed, but you only smiled slightly, “Jamie’s a dick. In every sense of the word, he’s an asshole, and I can tell you’re not happy with him. Don’t stay just because he’s nice sometimes.” She concluded.
You nodded slowly, looking down. Is the right thing to do, to leave him? Would you be happier?
She grinned as she watched you suddenly spiral into thought, and her hand on your lower back startled you.
“You don’t have enough brain to worry so hard, dollface,” she’d tease. She’d lift a hand to your hair, gently caressing it, an affectionate, soothing gesture. Your heart would skip a beat, and you knew then, that if you weren’t leaving him because of the red flags, it’d be because you’re thinking about his sister in ways a taken woman shouldn’t be—
You needed space. Space to think.
So, you gently took her hand and squeezed it, before releasing it. You turned on your heel, to walk back inside.
Before you could, though, she’d stop you.
“Dollface?” she’d call, and meet your gaze when you turned around.
“Don’t go crying to anyone when he does what he always does.”
What were you supposed to do with that?
The ride home with Jamie was nothing short of silent and awkward. He looked at you like he knew what you’d been thinking.
Like he knew you wanted her.
You felt guilty, angry. Angry at yourself for being disloyal, for letting it get to this point. Angry at Jamie for how he’d treated you, shamelessly, and how he’d clearly treated Beth the same. Her dismay towards him was fair, you knew that much.
“What is it with you lately?” Jamie suddenly speaks, breaking the silence within the moving car.
“What do you mean?” You retort, looking at him with furrowed brows. You know what he means. Why had you been distant? Why were you no longer acting like yourself? Why didn’t you want him the way you used to?
Why couldn’t you look him in the eye?
Jamie grips the steering wheel, shaking his head. His anger is already rising, and his nostrils flare, showing that.
“You know what I mean. Shutting me out. Getting all buddy-buddy with the rest of my family who hates me?” He says, looking at you, eyes burning into you, a way that’s similar yet entirely different to how Beth looked at you the first night you sat with the Duttons for family dinner.
You sigh, lifting a hand to rub your eyes exasperatedly.
Now or never.
“Why didn’t you tell me what you did?” You ask, looking at him, mirroring his angered expression.
“What are you talking about?”
“With Beth. When you were young— when you didn’t tell her you were having her sterilized?”
His eyes darken, and his knuckles become white, with how hard he’s gripping the wheel. He’s so quick to anger, so fragile, like a bomb, not a flower.
“So this is what you were talking about, with her? Shitting on me behind my back? I did what was right.” He responds, making you laugh flatly.
That wasn’t right. He may have been young and dumb, but how could he have not known better?
The silence gets to Jamie. It eats away at him until he can’t stand it anymore.
“You wanna fuck my sister,” He suddenly accuses, making your eyes widen, before your expression hardens.
“Are you fucking serious? That’s your concern? Instead of taking accountability—“
“I apologized!,” He says, almost yells. “Jesus fucking christ, you’re always on my goddamn ass about something,” he growls, shaking his head incredulously.
You shake your head, at the same time he does, nostrils flaring.
“Let me out.” You say, reaching for the door handle. He slows down, but doesn’t stop. Not yet.
“For what? You gonna run to her like a little bitch?” He says, and you scowl at him.
“You’re such a fucking pussy, Jamie—“
His hand comes out of nowhere. He backhands you, and like never before.
Then, he slows to a stop. He knows he’s made a big mistake. The biggest one he’s ever made with you.
You grab his phone, then get out of the car.
“What are you doing? My fucking phone—“
You slam the door before he can say anything else, and you open his contacts, finding Beth’s. When you call, it takes a few rings, before she picks up.
“What do you want, dipshit?” Comes her pretty, raspy voice through the phone, and your voice is shaky, in response.
“It’s me, Beth—“
“Dollface?” She asks, laughing. “What are you calling me for? I thought I told you not to go crying to—“
The phone is snatched out of your hands, and the last thing Beth hears before the call is ended, is yours and Jamie’s voice. Arguing, yelling.
She knows the way to Jamie’s house. So, she drove, headlights on, until she saw you, walking down the road, high heels in hand.
Jesus christ, could you be any more pathetic?
It makes her smile, though. She pulls up, honking. It makes you jump, and when you turn around, you sigh gratefully.
You speed walk to the car, pulling open the passenger door.
Beth sighs as you get in and buckle your seatbelt, turning the car around, to begin the drive back to the ranch.
“Thought I told you not to go crying to anyone?” Beth speaks, glancing at you.
“I’m not crying,” You clarify, looking at her. Your eyes are misty, but you aren’t crying.
Beth looks at you, then at the road, grinning slowly. “That’s my girl.”
She reaches over, then, and opens her glovebox, pulling out a napkin. She pushes it to your nose, having you takeover holding it.
“Don’t bleed on my seats,” She says, playfully scolding you.
“I’m bleeding?” You ask, and she laughs, shaking her head.
“No, i’m just fucking with you,” she says, sighing amusedly. She glances at you, seeing the fear in your eyes.
“He hit you?” She asks, her expression shifting. “Did he fucking hit you?” she repeats, when you don’t answer.
You nod your head slowly, lowering the napkin. Her lips purse, and she adjusts the way she’s seating, seething internally.
“Did you hit back?” She asks, and you shake your head.
“You should have.” She says simply, glancing at you, seeing the way you look guilty, like you’re about to apologize.
She stops the car, the breaks squealing as she reaches over to grab your jaw. “Don’t look so fucking sorry. He hit you. You took it like a woman, and you’re stronger than most for not hitting back…If he ever lays a finger on you, or any man, again, you better beat the shit out of them though, yeah?”
You nod, looking into her eyes. She nods back, then releases your chin.
You sit back, slowly scanning her car.
It’s clean, safe from the occasional cigarette ashes. You smile at the thought, just because it’s so her.
Then, you see it. A glimpse of silver tucked into the drivers side door. A gun.
“Do you always have that on you?” You ask, and Beth hums, as she starts driving again.
“I usually have Rip with me, when I leave, but that…” she smiles slightly. “I’d have done what I had to do.” She says simply, glancing at you.
She winks.
Why is it so hot to think of her murdering someone just because they hit you? Much less your ex boyfriend? Her brother?
As it turns out, you could get more pathetic.
She took you to the ranch, brought you inside.
Now you’re in her bedroom, sipping on whiskey.
She sits on her bed, and you stand awkwardly in her room, like a virgin waiting to get laid. It’s amusing and endearing all at once, the sight, making her snicker into her glass.
She crosses her legs, resting the cup on her knee, her fingers curled around it.
“You never answered me,” she says, eyes sparkling with something dark, mischievous. They always seem to be, though.
“What?” You ask, brows furrowing, as you try to understand what she might be referring to.
“When I asked if you swing both ways. You didn’t say,” She tilts her head curiously, gesturing for you to talk, to answer her now.
You blink.
She smiles, because there you go again, working that pretty head of yours too hard.
“Dollface, it’s not that serious of a question. Either you do or don’t.” She says, standing suddenly. She gulps down the rest of the whiskey in her glass, then sets it down.
She steps towards you, grabs your wrist. She guides your glass to your lips, encouraging you to drink the rest of your whiskey, too.
“Either you want to fuck me, or you don’t,” She whispers to you, as she lowers the glass, setting it down alongside her own.
Her hands come to your waist, and she grips you gently, but firmly, pulling you closer. “So tell me, dollface. Are we fucking or not?”
Your breath hitches, your skin tingling. You don’t think the whiskey would have gotten to you so fast, but you don’t want to admit that she’s got you this messed up.
“I hope so,” you finally spit out. She grins, lifting a hand to gently thread her fingers through your hair, gripping it.
“Yeah?” She asks, tilting her head. “Tell me, did he ever satisfy you?” She prompts, and you don’t have to ask who, to know who she’s referring to.
“Sometimes,” You mumble honestly. “Only sometimes?” She asks, raising a brow. You nod, and she shakes her head, clicking her tongue.
“It wasn’t ever worth it, was it?” She asks, and you shake your head.
She nods, gripping your hair at the base. “Boys like Jamie don’t deserve women like you, dollface,” she murmurs, kissing your cheek softly.
Her lips meet yours a moment later. You melt into the kiss, your hands finding her waist, where your fingers curl into her dress. She’s still in the same one from earlier, no shawl this time, and before you can find the straps, she’s peeling your jacket off of your shoulders.
She drops your jacket, her hands sliding down your chest, groping at your boobs.
When she feels your fingers fiddle with the straps of her dress, she stops you. Pulling away, she smiles as she caresses your cheek.
“Let me handle this one, dollface.” She says softly, pushing you back towards her bed.
She reaches down and grabs your dress, gently bunching it up to your hips, then pulling it over your head.
Her fingers dance over your skin, over your bra, down your stomach, towards your panties. She trails her fingers down your crotch, the sickening smile still on her lips.
“Cute.” She murmurs simply, at your wetness, before she peels your panties off, taking your heels off in the process.
She kisses down your leg, your inner thigh, lips ghosting over your pussy, as she kisses your abdomen.
“Beth,” you sigh her name, reaching down to gently card your fingers through her hair. Your heart pounds in your chest, anticipation racking through you.
“Yes, dollface?” She looks up at you from between your legs, and notices the look on your face.
Like you’re scared. Like you want it, but the guilt is already eating you alive.
“This isn’t wrong,” she assures you, raising a brow. “You’re not going back to him, are you?” she asks.
You shake your head slowly, and she shrugs, “Then what’s the problem?”
“Just feels wrong,” you muse, watching as she comes up, hovering over you. She leans down, gently kissing your forehead.
“We don’t have to do anything, dollface,” she assures you, but it makes your heart sink, and you shake your head.
“I want to,” You reaffirm, looking up at her like a deer in headlights.
“Then what’s got you so worried?” she asks, tilting her head. “You and Jamie are broken up. You’re your own woman. Do whatever the fuck you want…or whoever you want, in this case.”
You can’t help but laugh at that, the sound making her smile. She kisses your cheek again, before she slides back down between your thighs, gently propping your legs on her shoulders.
“Just relax,” she tells you, kissing your inner thigh. You take a deep breath, and she watches as your chest rises and falls.
“Good girl,” she murmurs, before one of her hands brushes against your slit, her fingers dipping into your slick.
Her fingers trail lower, down to your ass, and your eyes widen a fraction.
“Woah,” you squeak, and she looks up, fingers retracting.
“Too soon?” She asks, grinning. When you nod, she just laughs, trailing her fingers back up.
“Too soon,” you agree with a breathless laugh, gasping as she dips two fingers into your entrance, gently curling them.
Your eyes flutter shut as Beth starts working you open, her free hand rubbing your hip. She leans in, gently kissing your clit, the act making your legs tremble, and you gently cross your ankles behind her shoulders.
She suckles gently at your clit, working her fingers against your walls, the mixture of stimulation making small mewls leave your lips.
You’re well aware that her father is likely home, probably upstairs asleep, or trying to sleep, and the last thing you want is for him to know that his daughter is fucking his sons ex girlfriend.
“Beth,” you moan her name as she continues her motions, her tongue flicking up and down, occasionally prodding at your entrance, of which her fingers slide in and out of.
Your mewls grow as she pushes you closer and closer to release, and you grip her hair, eyes screwed shut.
“Fuck—“ you breathe a string of curses as she speeds up her ministrations, an orgasm taunting you now.
“Gonna cum for me, dollface?” She mutters against you, and your eager nod only serves to make her push you farther, moving her head up and down with her suckling, her fingers working in and out of you like it’s a paid job.
You fall apart under her touch, and she continues until you’re pushing her head away. When she comes up, her chin is wet with your release, and the smile on her lips remains.
She pulls her fingers out slowly, gently caressing your messy cunt. You jolt, gently smacking her hand with a breathless whine.
She grins, lying down next to you, where she pulls your body onto hers, guiding your head to her chest.
When you start kissing her skin, she caresses your hair with her clean hand. “Don’t worry about me, dollface. You’ve had a long day.” she sighs, kissing your head.
You’re taken aback, before a small smile takes over your lips. Jamie wouldn’t have waited.
⸝⸝ PREMISE: You’ve always teased Emily Prentiss about being older. About how you could handle a woman like her—experienced, commanding, devastating. But when she finally calls your bluff and takes you home, you learn exactly what it means to be at her mercy.
⸝⸝ WARNINGS: legal age gap, oral, mentions of spit and swallowing spit, choking, scissoring, pussy slapping (once), dom!Emily, sub!reader, older!Emily, face riding, degradation, possessive behaviour, breast biting/marking, slight aftercare.
⸝⸝ WORD COUNT: 3K
You said you could handle an older woman. Emily’s about to make you prove it.
You never meant for it to actually happen—not at first. The teasing started as harmless flirting, the kind of half-sarcastic sass you knew you could get away with when Emily would sit across from you in the bullpen, sipping her coffee, legs crossed, eyes sharp. You’d always toss something her way. A cheeky smile. A cocked eyebrow. “Sure you’re not too old to keep up with me?” Or, your personal favorite: “Bet you were a wild one in the ‘90s.”
She always gave it back just as hard. “Keep dreaming, rookie.” Or, more recently: “You wouldn’t last a minute with me.”
But god, what she didn’t know—what she probably knew, honestly—was that you weren’t just playing around. You had it bad. Hopeless crush, heart-racing-in-elevators bad. She was everything: the streak of silver in her hair, the worn leather jackets, that unreadable gaze she had when she was pissed off and trying not to show it. You’d lie awake some nights thinking about what it would feel like to belong to someone like her. To have her ruin you, command you. Praise you—or not.
So when she invited you over for “a drink” after the team closed a case, and you said yes with a grin too wide to be innocent… you kind of knew. You both did.
Her house smells like sandalwood and dark wine and something faintly smoky—like old books and danger. You pretend to admire the furniture, all dark woods and soft fabrics, while she watches you over the rim of her glass. Still in her work slacks and button-down, sleeves rolled to her forearms. Hair tied back, but loose enough to say I’ve been thinking about this too.
“You know,” you say, walking your fingers along the edge of her bookshelf, “I always figured you’d taste like scotch and sin.”
She raises an eyebrow. “And what do you taste like?”
You smile. “Come find out.”
That’s what does it.
In two strides she’s in front of you, her glass abandoned. She doesn’t kiss you yet—just presses you against the bookshelf with her body, one hand coming to rest lightly on your throat. Not tight. Not yet. Just there.
Her voice is low and rough. “You’ve got a big mouth for someone who blushes when I so much as look at you.”
Your heart is hammering. Your whole body is heat. “Maybe I blush because I like when you look at me.”
Emily chuckles—dark and amused, like she’s already decided how this night ends. “Is that right?”
Then her hand tightens—not painfully, but with purpose. Her palm wraps around your throat just firm enough that your breath hitches. Her thumb traces up under your jawline. Your knees go weak instantly. She tilts her head, eyes glittering. “You said you could handle an older woman,” she whispers, voice right against your lips. “Prove it.”
She pulls you in by the throat and kisses you like she’s claiming you—slow, deliberate, devastating. Her tongue invades your mouth with the kind of confidence only time and power can give a woman. You melt against her, moaning softly, already undone and still fully clothed.
When she steps back, her hand still holding you, she nods toward the living room.
“Strip for me.”
You hesitate for half a second—more out of awe than fear. Then, you start to move.
The fire’s burning low in the background, casting flickering gold across the walls. You make a show of it for her, because you want to. Because she’s watching you with that amused, unreadable expression like she’s deciding whether to ruin you slowly or all at once. You slide your shirt over your head, letting your fingertips trace your own stomach before unhooking your bra. You peel off your jeans, slow and sensual, keeping your eyes locked on hers.
She licks her bottom lip. “You’ve done this before.”
“Not for anyone like you,” you breathe.
Her smile darkens. “Damn right you haven’t.”
She comes to you again—pressing you down onto the couch, climbing over you like a wolf cornering its prey. Her hands move over your body like she owns it, mapping every inch. She pauses when her fingers slip between your thighs and find you soaked.
“Jesus. Look at you.” She pulls your legs apart with one hand and settles between them, kneeling on the rug. “You’re dripping. Just from a little choking and dirty talk?”
You whimper, embarrassed and turned on beyond words.
She slaps your thigh, just once. “Answer me.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
She groans at that—whether it’s from the title or the mess between your legs, you can’t tell. “Fuck, you are a good girl,” she mutters. “Let’s see how good.”
Then her mouth is on you.
She licks you like she’s savoring something rare and expensive, tongue slow and flat and devastating. She keeps eye contact as long as she can, even as your hips buck and your fingers dig into the cushions. Her tongue flicks your clit with maddening precision, alternating with deep, slow strokes that make your stomach clench. She moans against you—like you taste like sin. Like she’s been hungry for this.
Your pussy is swollen, glistening, and fully exposed under the flickering light. She spreads you wider, her thumbs keeping you open so she can lap at every part of you. She spits once—deliberately—and drags her tongue through the mess she’s made.
“Such a pretty little cunt,” she says, voice wrecked, breath hot. “So wet and needy. This what you’ve been thinking about while you’re sitting at your desk? Humping your thighs like a needy slut, pretending it wasn’t for me?”
You sob. “Yes, yes—Emily, please—”
“Ma’am.” Her voice cuts through the haze like a blade.
“Yes, ma’am,” you gasp, thighs shaking. “Please, I—I’m gonna—”
She pulls away just before you fall.
Cruel.
You whine, reaching for her, but she grips your throat again, pushing you back into the couch cushions.
“You don’t come,” she snarls. “Not until I say. Got it?”
“Yes, ma’am,” you whimper, every nerve lit up.
Her fingers replace her tongue—two of them sliding in to the knuckle while her mouth goes back to your clit. She pumps slowly, curling, hitting a spot that has your hips jerking with every thrust.
You're gone. Undone. A mess beneath her.
And you’ve never felt more wanted in your life.
Emily watches you squirm—your legs trembling, pussy soaked, your whole body aching for the release she just denied. You’re flushed, panting, lips parted, caught in that blissful place between desperate and obedient.
She doesn’t ease up. Her fingers stay inside you, thrusting slow and deep, curling exactly where you need them, while her mouth toys with your clit in lazy, taunting licks. She knows what she’s doing. She’s watching the way your stomach tightens, the way your eyes flutter, how your hips fight to meet every thrust even though you're not allowed to come.
"You close again?" she asks, even though she already knows.
You nod frantically, mouth barely forming words. “Please, please—I can’t—I need to—”
Emily lifts her mouth, licks her lips, and gives you a low, almost mocking smile.
“Then come for me. Now.”
Her voice is like a spell. Your body obeys instantly.
It hits like a wave—sharp and hot and all-consuming. Your back arches off the couch, legs clenching around her shoulders, the pleasure wracking through you in relentless, shuddering pulses. You cry out, a broken, needy sound that makes her groan into you.
She doesn’t stop.
She fucks you through it, tongue flicking, fingers thrusting, dragging out your orgasm until it blurs into something even messier, your body twitching from oversensitivity. You can’t breathe. Can’t think. Your hands are gripping at nothing.
Finally—finally—she pulls back.
You’re left panting, dripping, thighs still twitching. Your pussy’s pink, puffy, still clenching from the aftershocks.
Emily brings her fingers to her mouth—slick and shiny—and licks them clean, one at a time. She moans at the taste, slow and deliberate.
“God,” she mutters, “you taste even better than I imagined.”
Then, without warning, she leans in and pinches your clit—sharp and fast.
You jolt. “F-fuck—Emily!”
Before you can recover, her palm slaps your pussy once—a wet, loud sting that makes your hips jerk and your eyes go wide.
She grins darkly. “Just making sure you remember who made you come like that.”
You’re still catching your breath when she moves up your body, climbing on top of you with the same effortless power that’s been driving you wild all night. Her mouth latches onto your breast without warning—hot, open-mouthed kisses that turn into biting. Her teeth graze your nipple, then she sucks hard, making you arch in a sharp mix of pain and pleasure.
“Sensitive?” she murmurs, eyes flicking up to watch your reaction. “Too fucking bad.”
She does it again. And again. Alternating sides, biting, sucking, marking you as thoroughly as she claimed your cunt. Your nipples throb, swollen and red, but you never ask her to stop. You don’t want her to.
You’re already shaking again when she finally pulls back.
Then she stands up.
And slowly—so slowly—she starts to undress.
The way she peels off her button-down is obscene. Her eyes never leave yours as she slides it from her shoulders, revealing toned arms, a black lace bra, and the kind of quiet confidence that makes your stomach flip. She undoes her belt next, tugging her slacks down over her hips—no underwear beneath.
Her body is stunning. Real. Experienced. Power and sex wrapped in one devastating package.
She unhooks her bra last, letting it fall to the floor, and tosses it aside like she already knows she won’t be needing it again tonight.
“Lie back,” she commands. “And keep your mouth open.”
You do.
She straddles the couch again, but this time it’s your face she’s hovering over.
You don’t even get a warning.
She grinds down onto you—wet, hot, already soaked—and grabs the back of your head, holding you in place. Her scent is intoxicating. You moan into her, tongue immediately finding her clit, licking her like you were born for it.
Emily groans—deep and raw—as she starts to move. Her hips roll against your face, using you like her own personal toy. You flick your tongue faster, sucking her clit when she rocks forward, flattening it when she tilts her hips back.
“Just like that,” she pants. “Fucking god, baby. Don’t stop.”
She leans back slightly, one hand in your hair, the other gripping the armrest for balance. Her thighs are tight around your head. Her moans grow louder, sharper, filthier.
“You love this, don’t you? Love being used like this—face full of my pussy, tongue fucking me like a desperate little whore.”
You moan in response, tongue plunging deeper, licking up every drop she gives you. She tastes incredible—musky, sweet, intense. You press your hands to her ass, pulling her down harder, letting her grind against your tongue however she wants.
Her movements get rougher, more erratic. She’s close.
“So fucking good,” she growls. “Gonna come all over your face, baby. Gonna soak you.”
And then she does.
Emily cries out, voice cracking, thighs trembling. She grinds down hard, riding your mouth through her orgasm, hips jerking with each wave. You drink her in, moaning into her cunt, loving every second of being her personal plaything.
She finally goes still—shaky, flushed, breathless—and looks down at you with a wicked smile.
“Now that’s how you prove you can handle an older woman.”
Emily’s still above you, her body glistening with sweat, her chest rising and falling fast as she catches her breath. Her thighs are still slightly trembling where they straddled your face, but there’s a grin on her lips—feral, proud. You made her come. Hard. But she’s far from done.
She leans down, kissing you deeply, not caring that her own slick is still wet on your chin. If anything, it turns her on more. Her tongue pushes past your lips with purpose, tasting herself on you, groaning when you moan into her mouth. The kiss is messy, needy—more animal than anything else. It’s tongues and teeth and heat.
Then, without a word, she pulls you up into her lap—managing to keep control of the moment even as your legs wrap around her waist. Her hands are firm at your hips, guiding you as she lowers both of you onto the rug in front of the fireplace, the flames throwing flickering amber light across your skin.
She shifts, and suddenly her thigh presses between yours—and you realize what she’s doing. You gasp.
“Oh my god—Emily…”
She hushes you with a kiss to your throat. “You said you could take me,” she murmurs. “Let’s see if you can keep up.”
She positions her legs, and yours, until your pussies align—slick, sensitive, bare skin pressed to bare skin. You both inhale sharply at the first touch—hot, swollen, aching.
You grind forward first. Tentative. Exploring.
Emily exhales, slow and low. “There you go. That’s it, baby.”
You keep moving—rubbing yourself against her, your soaked folds sliding against hers, clits brushing and catching, slick noises mixing with your broken gasps. Emily grabs your waist, meeting every grind with one of her own, panting, her eyes locked on yours.
You’re nose to nose. Chest to chest. Wet and wild and completely, deliciously lost in it.
She kisses you again—sloppier now, desperate—and as your moans tangle in each other's mouths, she reaches up and grabs your jaw, tilting your head back.
“Open your mouth.”
You do, lips parted, pupils blown wide.
She leans in, tongue barely out—and lets a thick strand of spit drip from her mouth into yours.
You swallow it without hesitation, moaning like it’s the filthiest, hottest thing in the world.
Emily’s eyes go dark.
“You really are my perfect little slut,” she breathes, before her hand wraps tight around your throat again. This time firmer. Possessive.
The pressure makes your vision blur around the edges, makes every rub of your body against hers so much more intense. She’s grinding up harder now—her hips relentless, chasing that edge again. And you’re right there with her, every nerve ending on fire, soaked and shaking and completely hers.
“Come with me,” she growls, tightening her hand just slightly as her pace quickens. “Let me feel you.”
Your body gives in first—heat rushing through you like a lightning strike, thighs trembling, pussy pulsing, mouth wide open but no sound coming out as you collapse into her. But Emily doesn’t stop. She thrusts against you one more time, lets out a choked groan, and her whole body stiffens beneath you as she comes with a low, breathless moan right into your neck.
You both stay there, tangled, gasping, foreheads pressed together.
Chest to chest.
Pussy to pussy.
Still pulsing.
Still connected.
Eventually, she loosens her grip on your throat and strokes your cheek instead, her thumb brushing gently across your lips.
“That,” she says, still catching her breath, “was only round one.”
And judging by the look in her eyes?
You believe her.
Even though her voice was still rough with dominance—“That was only round one”—her touch changes almost immediately afterward.
You’re still straddling her, still tangled up in heat and heartbeat and sweat, your body soft and pliant against hers, when she lets out a long breath. Her hand slips from your throat to cradle your jaw, thumb brushing along your cheekbone with surprising gentleness.
“You okay?” she murmurs.
You nod, still dazed. “More than okay…”
Emily kisses your temple, slow and grounding. Then she lifts you carefully off her lap, guiding you down onto the rug beside her. You watch her body move as she stands—graceful, still naked, still so stunning it makes your throat tighten.
But this time, she’s not stalking. She’s not commanding.
She disappears down the hall for a minute. You hear a faucet running. When she comes back, she’s got a warm, damp towel in one hand and a softer look in her eyes.
“Don’t move.”
You don’t.
She kneels between your legs and begins to gently clean you up—slow strokes between your thighs, catching the mess of both your orgasms with careful precision. It should feel embarrassing, being spread out and wiped down like this—but somehow, with her, it doesn’t. It feels intimate. Reverent, even.
“You were incredible,” she says softly, pressing the towel against your inner thigh one last time. “You took everything I gave you.”
You look up at her, eyes hazy, lips parted. “I’d do it again in a heartbeat.”
She smirks, but there’s warmth behind it now. “I know.”
She rises again and tosses the towel into a nearby hamper, then offers you her hand. You take it, and she pulls you up into her arms. She doesn’t bother redressing yet—just walks with you, skin to skin, back to the bedroom, where she peels back the covers and lets you climb in first.
Then she slips in beside you, spooning behind you, her arm wrapped firm and protective around your waist.
You’re sore. Spent. Blissed out. And entirely, completely hers.
As sleep begins to pull you under, you feel her mouth brush against the back of your shoulder, and you hear her whisper:
“Next time, I’m tying you up.”
And god help you—your exhausted body still shivers at the thought.
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