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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.