butterflies & cutting knives
Natasha and Steve creep into the living room, careful not to disturb the rest of the team. They’re all spread out on various couches, a few of them face down on the fluffy white carpet. The TV is off, probably Friday’s doing. Natasha vaults over the counter silently, shrugging off her jacket and grabbing her sippy cup of wine. It looks like at some point someone got up to get the snacks they’d made as well as a bowl of cereal. There are lucky charms scattered across the counter, the box laying on its side.
Natasha sits on the counter and drinks the wine (because sex is always better when you’re buzzed), making sure to push her chest out. Steve, not quite graceful enough to silently jump over the counter, has walked around. He’s shed his hoodie, hair rumpled. Natasha waits for him to come to her, and after a minute he does, placing his hands on her thighs. Natasha sets down her cup, trading the straw for the captain’s mouth. She sucks on his lower lip, coaxing a groan out of him. They trade off being dominant and submissive, swirling tongues and coaxing red hot heat to the surface of their skin. Steve trails down her neck with open-mouthed, sucking kisses down the pale skin. Natasha digs her nails into his shoulder, allowing her head to tip back. Heat pools in her stomach. Steve easily lifts her up, securing his hands under her legs. He carries them to his room.
They fall onto the pale blue bedspread, Friday closing the door behind them with a small hiss. At first, the automatic doors freaked Natasha out, reminding her of hospitals. Of the operating room they took her to sterilize her at the red room (she dreamed of having children as a little girl, and though she realized as she grew older that it was unrealistic, she’s furious that Madame B. took away the choice). But after many nights of balancing on dagger-like heels after a long day of undercover work, or holding a gun and a cup of tea and her phone in one too few hands, she’s come to see the use of the doors. Plus, it looks cool.
“Would you like me to fog the glass, Captain?” the AI asks.
Steve manages a strangled “yes” before going back to Natasha's mouth. Natasha rolls away from Steve and rearranges them so his back is leaning against the headboard. Natasha pulls at the hem of his shirt, hands shaking a little. He helps, pulling it over his head in one swift motion. Natasha straddles him, kissing him hard. Steve tangles his hand in her hair, pulling her closer to him. She doesn’t need much encouraging. She’s always been touch starved from the shocking lack of physical affection in her childhood, always more than happy to be hugged or even sat next to. Clint realized this almost as soon as he met her, always seeming to have a hand on her shoulder or arm. Natasha has never properly thanked him for that. Steve is just as needy as she is, so they go well together.
Steve lifts her tank top, breaking their kiss. It slips off easily enough, exposing her pale breasts. Friday has dimmed the light to a low red, the way they like it. It’s a little weird that an AI knows how they like to have sex, but that’s honestly the least of Natasha’s worries. There’s something so mysterious about the red light, something so fun and sexy and a little bit scary. Steve’s hands move up to her chest, cradling her. He looks at her for a few moments, both their breathing heavy. Natasha goes back to kissing him, but he gently pushed her back. She looks at him, confused.
“Wait,” he murmurs. “I just want to...you’re radiant, you know that?”
Natasha feels her throat tighten. Steve has called her beautiful so many times, in so many ways and it always jerks the same reaction from her. She knows she’s sexy, she knows she’s hot, she knows she’s gorgeous, she’s been told that by every man and woman she’s ever met. But no one has ever called her radiant and dazzling and stunning. Steve appreciates her for her body and for who she is as a person-which is more than she’s ever gotten from anyone else. From childhood, all anyone wanted from her was her body. The red room wanted her for her grace and small form. SHIELD wanted her for her spy and assassination talents. Steve just seems to want her for her. Sure, her body helps. Her body is perfect, she’s big enough to admit that.
“I-” Natasha tries, but chokes, and ends up shaking her head quickly.
“Well, you should.” Steve raised his mouth back to hers.
Natasha mouthes a small thank you against his lips, and by the way his hand presses just a little harder against her back, she knows he understands.
They kiss for what feels like hours. Then, to put it shortly, they fuck.
For a long time.
Like, enough time that they hear someone’s early morning alarm go off a few rooms away. Probably Sam, always one for early morning runs (but seriously, it’s like, four am. What the hell?). So Natasha collapses in bed next to Steve, exhausted but happy. Happy is such a strong word. She’s satisfied. They fall asleep, the spy draped across the captain, legs tangles with legs, hands tangled with hair, lips still clashed together.
Natasha wakes from a dreamless sleep (the first in many months), only to see that it’s eleven in the morning.
“Rogers. Cap. Capsicle.” Natasha pokes him and shakes him, attempting to rouse him from his super solder sleep.
“not you too,” he grumbles, rolling away from her and burying his face in the pillow.
“Sorry,” Natasha replies in a tone that implies she was not very sorry at all to be calling Captain America a popsicle. “But it’s almost noon, we should shower.”
“Shower?” Steve turns his head slightly, raising an eyebrow.
“Yes, shower. Get up or the team will come looking for us.” It’s an empty threat. Sometimes an Avenger doesn’t come out of their room for an entire day and no one really notices. But it gets Steve out of bed quick enough.
They’re both naked, clothes thrown around the room. Steve used to be so self-conscious around her. He used to look for any way to hide his naked form from her, so she usually looked away out of courtesy. Thankfully, that’s changed over the last few years. Natasha loves the mornings when they wake up beside each other, loves how Steve traces lines across all her scars and imperfections. Sometimes they just lay there, staring into each other's eyes, having conversations without any words.
Steve sits up, sunlight streaming through the windows and hitting him in all the right ways. He looks at her as if he’s trying to memorize every bit of what she looks like. His intense gaze makes her feel a little bit uneasy.
“What is it?” She asks.
“Nothing.”
“Then why are you looking at me like it’s the last time you’ll see me?” her mouth quirks sideways; she props herself up on an elbow.
“I missed you, Tasha. Is that a crime now?”
“I guess not,” Natasha replies, bringing herself up to kiss him. “For the record, I missed you, too.”
“Shower.”
“Right.” Natasha gets up, sighing. She pads into the bathroom, turning on the water. She takes a moment to feel a little jealous about Steve’s marble bathroom but consoles herself with the thought of her black and red themed one. It’s way cooler, anyway.
She steps under the spray of hot water, Steve following. His hand finds a home on her waist as he pulls her closer to him. She rests her head on his chest, closing her eyes. She’s still exhausted. She allows Steve to wash her hair with strawberry smelling shampoo, and wash her body with soap that smells exactly like he does (clean laundry and that dusty smell that floods the room when you turn on the heater for the first time in a while). She doesn’t know how they managed to capture that in a soap, but it’s perfectly Steve Rogers (and if she goes out and buys three bars of it later that day, no one needs to know).
Long minutes (or hours, she can't tell) later, the water runs cold. Steve guides Natasha out of the shower, wrapping a towel around her dripping form. He trails sloppy kisses down her neck, over yesterday’s bruises.
“Clothes.”
“Right,” he nods, walking into his closet and grabbing clothes seemingly at random while Natasha searched for hers around the room. She manages to recover most of them (had she really only been wearing one sock the night before? There’s no way to be sure…), taking a hoodie off Steve’s coffee table. It’s black and soft and ridiculously huge on her, falling halfway down her thighs, not to mention the fact that it says “I PUNCHED HITLER” in huge letters across the chest. She has to admit, it’s kind of rad. Plus, it smells like Steve.
“Looks a little big on you, Romanoff.”
Natasha simply sends a glare in his direction, pulling her fingers through her hair. She walks out of the room with head held high, making a beeline to the kitchen for coffee.
“Morning, Red,” Stark greets over a piece of Nutella toast.
“Want some toast with your nutella?”
Stark doesn’t look up from his laptop but flips her off all the same. Natasha connects her Bluetooth headphones and presses shuffle on her playlist. Even assassins need music. Natasha fills a mug and takes a sip. Steve comes up loops his arms around her waist, pressing his lips to her neck.
He’s almost as silent as Natasha when sneaking up on people. almost.
“Coffee?”
“Nope. heading down to the pool to do some laps later, want in?”
Natasha nods, smiling.
Bit by bit, the other avengers trickle into the kitchen and living room, all in various states of sleep deprivation. On a scale of Bruce, who looks dead on his feet, to Wanda, who’s perky as ever, Natasha is probably somewhere in the middle (a Rhodey). Awake, but still not awake enough. They throw food and argued as always, Clint and Sam whispering back and forth. In moments like these, Natasha really wishes she has super hearing like some of her other teammates. Clint stands up, steps on the table (ignoring the several exclamations of “what the fuck, dude?”), and hoists himself into the vents. He’d never admit it, but Natasha is sure that Stark had the vents built large enough to fit their resident bird because Clint had gotten stuck more than a few times back at the tower.
“Well, now seems like a good time to go swimming, before these idiots do something,” Natasha announced, looking at Steve.
“Uh, yes. See you later.”
They exited, going their separate ways to their rooms with the promise to meet down at the pool in ten minutes.