Birthday Smut-a-Thon: Never Have I Ever (Avengers)
Title: Never Have I Ever
Fandom: Avengers
Pairing: Steve/Natasha, implied Tony/Bruce
Rating: NC-17
Word count: 3,242
Prompt: Somebody needs to besmirch the ever-loving cherry out of Captain America, oh my god. I don't even care who, as long as it's filthy!
Summary: A drinking game points out that Steve has a lot of never-evers. Natasha decides to help him mark a few of them off the list.
Notes: This is for my Birthday Smut-a-Thon. Thank you to my dear no_detective for the really inspiring prompt! I hope this is filthy enough for you. :D
Never Have I Ever
By Lenore
In retrospect, Steve really should have guessed that Tony's so-called "strategy session" was just an excuse to get them all drunk. The last time Tony willingly attended a team meeting-okay, so that was never. It takes about three seconds once they're assembled for Tony's business-like expression to transform into the all-too-familiar gotcha grin, and out come the bottles of whiskey.
Steve could perhaps blame his own naïve optimism for the fact that he's stuck playing the most embarrassing game ever invented, but it's far more satisfying to blame Tony.
Never have I ever given a blowjob in the middle of a high-speed chase, never have I ever been arrested while actually wearing clothes, never have I ever created an animatronic version of Director Fury and sold it on eBay, never have I ever had sex with the entire New York Rangers hockey team. By the time they've all taken a turn, Steve is the only one whose shot has gone untouched.
It's still sitting there in front of him after round three. By all rights, Steve should be the only one even remotely sober-somehow that would make him feel better-but no one is slurring so much as a syllable. Whiskey is little more than water to Thor, and Bruce has a gamma-fired metabolism. Natasha is Russian, and Clint has apparently learned to keep up with her. And Tony-well, he's Tony.
"Never have I ever-" Tony begins round four, dragging out the ever thoughtfully. "Been pegged," he says at last, his smile quick and mischievous. "JARVIS, for those of us perhaps not familiar with the term-"
"Pegging is a sexual practice in which a woman penetrates a man's anus with a strap-on dildo, Mr. Stark," the computer smoothly replies.
Steve blushes so hard it feels as if he's been scalded. For a man who has saved the planet on more than a few occasions, he sure does have a lot of never-evers in his life, quite a few of them things he's never even heard of before.
No one else appears to share this problem. Bruce and Clint nonchalantly throw back their shots.
Thor's eyebrows knit together in perplexity. "If one's brother was in female guise when this pegging took place-" He shrugs and drinks and slams his glass down onto the table with almost more gusto than the wood can withstand. "A most excellent game!"
Natasha raises an eyebrow at Tony.
"Okay, fine. I lied." He drinks too, with a smug little smile.
"Never have I ever been more embarrassed," Steve mutters under his breath.
Everyone else cheerfully downs their shots.
***
It's not entirely surprising when one of his team turns up to help him mark a few of those never-evers off his list. These are people who love a challenge, and Tony had once suggested a pool to see who could be the first to besmirch Captain America, as he so charmingly put it.
What Steve isn't expecting is-
"Miss Romanov." He drops his gym bag at his feet with a dull thud.
If he could stop himself from staring slack-jawed, he certainly would. It feels terribly impolite. But he can't stop, not with her sitting there on the edge of his bed, relaxed and waiting and really very, uh, curvy in that little black dress she's wearing.
"Steve."
He doesn't think she's ever called him by name before. Not that he can remember. But then most of their conversations consist of Incoming! and Can you hold them off? and Duck!. It doesn't leave much room for getting personal.
"What-um-is there-" He trips over his own tongue, and his skin feels suddenly hot and way too tight. He knows he's turning a beety shade of red. On a three-mile run, he doesn't work up much of a sweat, but just having Natasha in his room, watching him with careful calculation, makes him feel instantly damp under the arms, perspiration beading on the back of his neck.
She gets to her feet and starts toward him, with assassin stealth, barefoot, hips a smooth glide, no wasted motion. It must be the last thing her targets ever see-if they see her at all. Should that really be arousing? Steve doesn't know. He sweats a little harder.
It gets a lot trickier to breathe when she stops in front of him, so close he can feel the warmth of her body through the thin cotton of his T-shirt. He can't honestly say that he's never thought about her. He's got a long list of never-evers, not a vision problem. Sometimes, he'll watch her out of the corner of his eye, not to ogle, just to appreciate: the curve of her neck as she bends over a report, the flex of muscle in her arms when she spars with Clint, her cipher smile that he doesn't quite know how to decode.
She doesn't remind him of Peggy, not in her details anyway-there were no shadows in Peggy, no unspeakable secrets. But he does feel the same kind of wonder whenever he looks at Natasha, a thrilling amazement that someone so small and so lovely can be so formidable.
"You don't have to," he blurts out, even though, God, she's so close, and she smells so good, and he really- "I wouldn't want, not if you're just being nice, if you don't really want-"
He has no idea what he's saying.
And then he's not saying anything at all, because Natasha is kissing him. "Never have I ever been someone's first," she says when she pulls back, her voice as quiet as a breath.
He likes that, the idea that he can give her something too, and he fumbles his hands onto her waist and kisses her back. She's both slight and incongruously strong in his arms.
Just let nature take its course, that had been Bucky's big advice before some ill-fated setup with a girl whose name Steve has long since forgotten. It seemed incredibly unhelpful at the time, but Steve gets it now, the way want just takes over, and he follows his impulses: stroking his hands up Natasha's back, tracing the curve of her neck that he's so helplessly admired, kissing her mouth to get the taste of her.
"Never have I ever wanted to get someone naked so much," she says, smiling, stepping away just enough to get a hand on Steve's T-shirt and yank it up over his head.
Really nimble fingers, Steve thinks in a daze, as Natasha makes quick work of the rest of his clothes. Never ever been naked in front of a woman is officially marked off Steve's list.
In the world the way it is now, sex is supposed to be so simple-that's how people treat it, like a game-but it feels very complicated to Steve when Natasha kneels in front of him. He goes hot all over, actual goose bumps rising on his arms. God, she looks gorgeous down there, the slope of her shoulders and the confident tilt of her smile, and yet, he's not sure he wants her on her knees for anyone.
Had she ever called him "Steve" before today? He really can't remember, maybe not, and she's going to-with her-and it's supposed to be simple. It's not supposed to mean anything. But she's on his team, and the way Steve feels about his team is anything but simple, and it means everything.
Natasha strokes a hand along his thigh. "I think you may be overthinking this just a little."
He can feel himself blush all the way to the roots of his hair. "Um, sorry?"
She smiles gently, and that's really something, because he knows how deadly she can be. She presses her lips against his belly, her breath warm on his skin. "You're going to like this, trust me."
Then her mouth is on him, and he hears a startled, half-choked groan in the room and realizes that's it coming from him. Logically, he knew it was going to feel good, but now that she's actually doing it, "good" doesn't even begin to cover it. He stares down at her, brushing the hair back from her face. Her hands look small resting on his hips, and her mouth is pink and shiny and very round where it-her eyes are bright and hot.
He's not the only one who likes this, he realizes.
Filthy jokes dredge up from some moth-eaten part of his brain, stuff the guys at training camp said about girls who would-do what Natasha's doing. If anyone said that about her, Steve would pop them one in the jaw. Not that she'd need him to, of course. She's more than capable of throwing her own punches.
He's always liked that in a woman.
"Natasha," he tries to warn, voice cracking, because it doesn't seem right to-but she doesn't pull away, and then, right or wrong, he is. Coming in her mouth.
When he's finished, she drops a kiss to his thigh and rises, a slow, teasing glide up the length of his body, and it doesn't seem to matter that he just crossed a pretty swell never-ever off the list. He already has that hot, eager flutter in his belly again.
"Super soldier stamina is going to come in very handy, I can see," Natasha says appreciatively and guides him over to the bed.
His knees hit the edge of the mattress, and she pushes him back onto it. There are items laid out on the coverlet that he hadn't noticed before, things she must have brought with her: condoms and a bottle of clear gel and-what looks like a-with straps. For pegging, he realizes, and no matter how much he swallows, he can't quite clear the nervous lump from his throat.
"That's for later and only if you want." She reaches behind her, and the noise of the zipper seems oddly loud in the quiet room. "First things first." Her dress hits the floor, and she steps out of it.
If he thought she was curvy in clothes, it's nothing to how she looks without them, creamy skin and gams like he's never seen and roundness in all the right places. Only a few little scraps of black fabric stand between him and-then not even that, as she gets rid of the brassiere with a quick flick of her fingers and shimmies out of her panties.
Steve's not sure he's even still breathing. It's really kind of hard to focus on anything but her.
"Lie back," she tells him, moving toward the bed with predatory grace.
"Yes, ma'am," he says, which makes her smile, and he scoots up the mattress.
She kneels on the bed and crawls up his body, not quite touching him, although he can feel her heat everywhere. She crouches over him, gorgeous and fierce, and they kiss for so long even his super-soldier lungs eventually go breathless. He's careful to keep his hands at his sides, though, fingers tightly curled in the coverlet, not that he doesn't want to touch her, because he really, really does. He just doesn't quite know what he's doing, what the boundaries are, and he's not going to take any liberties.
"Steve."
It's permission, or possibly a demand, and Steve certainly wasn't brought up to disappoint a lady. His hands shake a little as he draws his fingers up her arm, shyly explores her thighs, cups her breasts in his palms. This last makes her groan out loud, and he rubs his thumbs against her nipples to get her to make that sound some more.
In a blink, she's straddling him, holding him down by the shoulders, putting her tongue in his mouth. She's strong, but he's stronger, and he could throw off her grip if he wanted. He really, really doesn't want to. A picture flashes through his head, his wrists fastened to the headboard with some very sturdy ropes, and Natasha-doing things to him, anything she wants.
Gee, he thinks hazily, I never expected that.
Natasha smiles and holds him down with a little more force, and there's a playful spark in her expression that seems to promise: We can pull out the ropes next time if you want.. How could she know? And then it strikes Steve that maybe that's what sex is, a way of finding out about someone. Maybe it's not so complicated after all.
One thing Steve understands for sure is fair play, and if his mouth will feel half as good to Natasha as hers did to him, well then, fair is only fair. He shifts his weight and flips her onto her back, kneeling between her legs. She laughs, a rich, pleased sound, and spreads her thighs wider for him.
He stares. He can't help it. That's her-gee.
"Whatever you do, I can pretty much guarantee I'm going to like it," she tells him, hooking a leg across his shoulders.
He kisses up the inside of her thigh and strokes the crease of her hip, and then it's all new territory from there, pink and wet and lady-smelling. He lightly touches a finger to her, and the impatient noise she makes urges him on. He bends his head and reaches out his tongue. She tastes sweet and a little salty, good, and the more he uses his tongue, the more of those little sounds come streaming out of her.
It's really starting to make sense now, all the hubbub about sex.
When he finally pulls away-after two false starts when Natasha threatens to gut him if he stops-she's lax and flushed all over and breathing heavily, one arm flung above her head.
"Mm," she says with a lazy smile.
He smiles too and kisses her and starts to roll away, figuring she's had enough.
Natasha catches him by the arm. "Oh no. I'm not even close to being done with you." She reaches out, patting the coverlet, and comes up with one of those little foil packets, which she opens with her teeth. He moans when she rolls the condom on him, her hand cool on the hot parts of him.
Just do what comes naturally, and it is, so natural, to hold himself above her and slide between her legs and push inside.
"God," he mutters.
He figures he can be excused for taking the Lord's name in vain just this once.
She wraps her legs around his waist, loops her arms around his neck, and maybe Steve hasn't done this before, but they're a team. It only takes a moment for them to get in sync and start moving together. He kisses her breasts and her neck and her lips. He wants to touch her everywhere, and he'd like this to last and last, but so much for super-soldier stamina. It's no match for how incredibly good this feels. At least he makes sure she gets there first, her eyes going wide and her body arching up, and when he comes, he buries his face in that little valley between her breasts.
He's not sure he ever wants to be anywhere else.
"That was-" he tries to say afterward, but he has no words.
"It certainly was."
He can tell that she's smiling, and he turns onto his side to see it and rolls over onto something. He fishes it out from under his hip, and it's that thing that looks like-with the straps.
Natasha raises an eyebrow at him. "Already?"
He blushes so furiously he's pretty sure he's bypassed red and gone straight to purple. It only gets worse when he thinks about how that would work, the dark leather straps crisscrossing Natasha's pale skin, and how it would feel, big and stiff and kind of-full.
"Um," he stammers.
"Maybe next time?" She rolls onto her side to kiss him, and her voice drops down low, "I really think you might like it."
That same mental picture from before comes flashing back to him-his wrists and the headboard and those very sturdy ropes-only now he imagines Natasha moving over him, moving in him. Fucking him. There, he's said it. Or, okay, thought it.
She would look amazing fucking him, he realizes.
Steve is still blushing when he nods. "Next time."
***
"Something's different about you, Cap," Tony says, with a squinty look directed at Steve across the breakfast table.
He's only said this same thing about a gazillion times in the three days since-well, Steve thinks of it fondly as Operation No More Never Ever.
Steve ignores Tony, as usual.
"Pass me the strawberries, Steve?" Natasha says absently, not looking up from her Kindle.
One of the many things Steve has discovered about her-now that they talk about things other than weapons and strategy-is that she has an absolute weakness for murder mysteries. It's a little bit like research, she'd said with a shrug. When she starts a new book, only the threat of global catastrophe can tear her away from it.
"Steve?" Tony echoes. "Since when do you call him 'Steve'?" His squinty look gets even squintier.
"It's his name, isn't it?" Natasha answers, her voice as cool as a blade, and even Tony isn't foolhardy enough to keep going when she sounds like that.
Of course, it's only a momentary retreat. This is Tony, after all.
A few days later, they all end up in the TV room after dinner. Someone puts on Star Wars, and Bruce makes popcorn. Thor asks a million questions, deeply confused about which of the eight worlds is Alderaan, and ready to do battle against the Empire to avenge it. Steve wistfully remembers how different movies used to be, and even though Natasha is on the other side of the room, she smiles as if she knows exactly what he's thinking.
Tony bustles in as the Rebels are taking to their Y-wing fighters, making a place for himself between Clint and Bruce on the sofa. "So, I'm thinking we need to make our team meetings a weekly thing."
"No," Clint answers automatically.
"I've got Macallan 1926 Fine and Rare." He pulls a bottle out from under the sofa, where it's apparently been lying in wait.
"Did I say no?" Clint muses. "Obviously I meant yes."
"Great! We can just pass the bottle around. No need to bother with glasses. We're all friends here." Tony claps his hands together. "I'll start. Never ever have I slept with one of my Avengers teammates."
Bruce nearly chokes on his popcorn, and Tony shoots him an apologetic look.
"Anyone need to drink?" Tony holds out the bottle. "Anyone. Steve."
Steve takes a newfound interest in Luke's quest to destroy the Death Star. He's not one for lying, even by omission, but some things are just too good, and too private, to throw away on a drinking game.
"Huh," Tony says at last.
He tips the bottle back himself, and Bruce can't quite hide his grin.
When Steve catches Natasha's eye, he hopes his expression gets across: Never ever will I kiss and tell. Natasha's mouth curves up at the corners, and there's a flirty spark in her eye that Steve is pretty sure means: Meet me in my room in ten minutes.
Never ever has life been better.
My Bday Smut-a-thon is open for prompts until 6/20. Don't be shy!
Fandom: Avengers
Pairing: Steve/Natasha, implied Tony/Bruce
Rating: NC-17
Word count: 3,242
Prompt: Somebody needs to besmirch the ever-loving cherry out of Captain America, oh my god. I don't even care who, as long as it's filthy!
Summary: A drinking game points out that Steve has a lot of never-evers. Natasha decides to help him mark a few of them off the list.
Notes: This is for my Birthday Smut-a-Thon. Thank you to my dear no_detective for the really inspiring prompt! I hope this is filthy enough for you. :D
Never Have I Ever
By Lenore
In retrospect, Steve really should have guessed that Tony's so-called "strategy session" was just an excuse to get them all drunk. The last time Tony willingly attended a team meeting-okay, so that was never. It takes about three seconds once they're assembled for Tony's business-like expression to transform into the all-too-familiar gotcha grin, and out come the bottles of whiskey.
Steve could perhaps blame his own naïve optimism for the fact that he's stuck playing the most embarrassing game ever invented, but it's far more satisfying to blame Tony.
Never have I ever given a blowjob in the middle of a high-speed chase, never have I ever been arrested while actually wearing clothes, never have I ever created an animatronic version of Director Fury and sold it on eBay, never have I ever had sex with the entire New York Rangers hockey team. By the time they've all taken a turn, Steve is the only one whose shot has gone untouched.
It's still sitting there in front of him after round three. By all rights, Steve should be the only one even remotely sober-somehow that would make him feel better-but no one is slurring so much as a syllable. Whiskey is little more than water to Thor, and Bruce has a gamma-fired metabolism. Natasha is Russian, and Clint has apparently learned to keep up with her. And Tony-well, he's Tony.
"Never have I ever-" Tony begins round four, dragging out the ever thoughtfully. "Been pegged," he says at last, his smile quick and mischievous. "JARVIS, for those of us perhaps not familiar with the term-"
"Pegging is a sexual practice in which a woman penetrates a man's anus with a strap-on dildo, Mr. Stark," the computer smoothly replies.
Steve blushes so hard it feels as if he's been scalded. For a man who has saved the planet on more than a few occasions, he sure does have a lot of never-evers in his life, quite a few of them things he's never even heard of before.
No one else appears to share this problem. Bruce and Clint nonchalantly throw back their shots.
Thor's eyebrows knit together in perplexity. "If one's brother was in female guise when this pegging took place-" He shrugs and drinks and slams his glass down onto the table with almost more gusto than the wood can withstand. "A most excellent game!"
Natasha raises an eyebrow at Tony.
"Okay, fine. I lied." He drinks too, with a smug little smile.
"Never have I ever been more embarrassed," Steve mutters under his breath.
Everyone else cheerfully downs their shots.
***
It's not entirely surprising when one of his team turns up to help him mark a few of those never-evers off his list. These are people who love a challenge, and Tony had once suggested a pool to see who could be the first to besmirch Captain America, as he so charmingly put it.
What Steve isn't expecting is-
"Miss Romanov." He drops his gym bag at his feet with a dull thud.
If he could stop himself from staring slack-jawed, he certainly would. It feels terribly impolite. But he can't stop, not with her sitting there on the edge of his bed, relaxed and waiting and really very, uh, curvy in that little black dress she's wearing.
"Steve."
He doesn't think she's ever called him by name before. Not that he can remember. But then most of their conversations consist of Incoming! and Can you hold them off? and Duck!. It doesn't leave much room for getting personal.
"What-um-is there-" He trips over his own tongue, and his skin feels suddenly hot and way too tight. He knows he's turning a beety shade of red. On a three-mile run, he doesn't work up much of a sweat, but just having Natasha in his room, watching him with careful calculation, makes him feel instantly damp under the arms, perspiration beading on the back of his neck.
She gets to her feet and starts toward him, with assassin stealth, barefoot, hips a smooth glide, no wasted motion. It must be the last thing her targets ever see-if they see her at all. Should that really be arousing? Steve doesn't know. He sweats a little harder.
It gets a lot trickier to breathe when she stops in front of him, so close he can feel the warmth of her body through the thin cotton of his T-shirt. He can't honestly say that he's never thought about her. He's got a long list of never-evers, not a vision problem. Sometimes, he'll watch her out of the corner of his eye, not to ogle, just to appreciate: the curve of her neck as she bends over a report, the flex of muscle in her arms when she spars with Clint, her cipher smile that he doesn't quite know how to decode.
She doesn't remind him of Peggy, not in her details anyway-there were no shadows in Peggy, no unspeakable secrets. But he does feel the same kind of wonder whenever he looks at Natasha, a thrilling amazement that someone so small and so lovely can be so formidable.
"You don't have to," he blurts out, even though, God, she's so close, and she smells so good, and he really- "I wouldn't want, not if you're just being nice, if you don't really want-"
He has no idea what he's saying.
And then he's not saying anything at all, because Natasha is kissing him. "Never have I ever been someone's first," she says when she pulls back, her voice as quiet as a breath.
He likes that, the idea that he can give her something too, and he fumbles his hands onto her waist and kisses her back. She's both slight and incongruously strong in his arms.
Just let nature take its course, that had been Bucky's big advice before some ill-fated setup with a girl whose name Steve has long since forgotten. It seemed incredibly unhelpful at the time, but Steve gets it now, the way want just takes over, and he follows his impulses: stroking his hands up Natasha's back, tracing the curve of her neck that he's so helplessly admired, kissing her mouth to get the taste of her.
"Never have I ever wanted to get someone naked so much," she says, smiling, stepping away just enough to get a hand on Steve's T-shirt and yank it up over his head.
Really nimble fingers, Steve thinks in a daze, as Natasha makes quick work of the rest of his clothes. Never ever been naked in front of a woman is officially marked off Steve's list.
In the world the way it is now, sex is supposed to be so simple-that's how people treat it, like a game-but it feels very complicated to Steve when Natasha kneels in front of him. He goes hot all over, actual goose bumps rising on his arms. God, she looks gorgeous down there, the slope of her shoulders and the confident tilt of her smile, and yet, he's not sure he wants her on her knees for anyone.
Had she ever called him "Steve" before today? He really can't remember, maybe not, and she's going to-with her-and it's supposed to be simple. It's not supposed to mean anything. But she's on his team, and the way Steve feels about his team is anything but simple, and it means everything.
Natasha strokes a hand along his thigh. "I think you may be overthinking this just a little."
He can feel himself blush all the way to the roots of his hair. "Um, sorry?"
She smiles gently, and that's really something, because he knows how deadly she can be. She presses her lips against his belly, her breath warm on his skin. "You're going to like this, trust me."
Then her mouth is on him, and he hears a startled, half-choked groan in the room and realizes that's it coming from him. Logically, he knew it was going to feel good, but now that she's actually doing it, "good" doesn't even begin to cover it. He stares down at her, brushing the hair back from her face. Her hands look small resting on his hips, and her mouth is pink and shiny and very round where it-her eyes are bright and hot.
He's not the only one who likes this, he realizes.
Filthy jokes dredge up from some moth-eaten part of his brain, stuff the guys at training camp said about girls who would-do what Natasha's doing. If anyone said that about her, Steve would pop them one in the jaw. Not that she'd need him to, of course. She's more than capable of throwing her own punches.
He's always liked that in a woman.
"Natasha," he tries to warn, voice cracking, because it doesn't seem right to-but she doesn't pull away, and then, right or wrong, he is. Coming in her mouth.
When he's finished, she drops a kiss to his thigh and rises, a slow, teasing glide up the length of his body, and it doesn't seem to matter that he just crossed a pretty swell never-ever off the list. He already has that hot, eager flutter in his belly again.
"Super soldier stamina is going to come in very handy, I can see," Natasha says appreciatively and guides him over to the bed.
His knees hit the edge of the mattress, and she pushes him back onto it. There are items laid out on the coverlet that he hadn't noticed before, things she must have brought with her: condoms and a bottle of clear gel and-what looks like a-with straps. For pegging, he realizes, and no matter how much he swallows, he can't quite clear the nervous lump from his throat.
"That's for later and only if you want." She reaches behind her, and the noise of the zipper seems oddly loud in the quiet room. "First things first." Her dress hits the floor, and she steps out of it.
If he thought she was curvy in clothes, it's nothing to how she looks without them, creamy skin and gams like he's never seen and roundness in all the right places. Only a few little scraps of black fabric stand between him and-then not even that, as she gets rid of the brassiere with a quick flick of her fingers and shimmies out of her panties.
Steve's not sure he's even still breathing. It's really kind of hard to focus on anything but her.
"Lie back," she tells him, moving toward the bed with predatory grace.
"Yes, ma'am," he says, which makes her smile, and he scoots up the mattress.
She kneels on the bed and crawls up his body, not quite touching him, although he can feel her heat everywhere. She crouches over him, gorgeous and fierce, and they kiss for so long even his super-soldier lungs eventually go breathless. He's careful to keep his hands at his sides, though, fingers tightly curled in the coverlet, not that he doesn't want to touch her, because he really, really does. He just doesn't quite know what he's doing, what the boundaries are, and he's not going to take any liberties.
"Steve."
It's permission, or possibly a demand, and Steve certainly wasn't brought up to disappoint a lady. His hands shake a little as he draws his fingers up her arm, shyly explores her thighs, cups her breasts in his palms. This last makes her groan out loud, and he rubs his thumbs against her nipples to get her to make that sound some more.
In a blink, she's straddling him, holding him down by the shoulders, putting her tongue in his mouth. She's strong, but he's stronger, and he could throw off her grip if he wanted. He really, really doesn't want to. A picture flashes through his head, his wrists fastened to the headboard with some very sturdy ropes, and Natasha-doing things to him, anything she wants.
Gee, he thinks hazily, I never expected that.
Natasha smiles and holds him down with a little more force, and there's a playful spark in her expression that seems to promise: We can pull out the ropes next time if you want.. How could she know? And then it strikes Steve that maybe that's what sex is, a way of finding out about someone. Maybe it's not so complicated after all.
One thing Steve understands for sure is fair play, and if his mouth will feel half as good to Natasha as hers did to him, well then, fair is only fair. He shifts his weight and flips her onto her back, kneeling between her legs. She laughs, a rich, pleased sound, and spreads her thighs wider for him.
He stares. He can't help it. That's her-gee.
"Whatever you do, I can pretty much guarantee I'm going to like it," she tells him, hooking a leg across his shoulders.
He kisses up the inside of her thigh and strokes the crease of her hip, and then it's all new territory from there, pink and wet and lady-smelling. He lightly touches a finger to her, and the impatient noise she makes urges him on. He bends his head and reaches out his tongue. She tastes sweet and a little salty, good, and the more he uses his tongue, the more of those little sounds come streaming out of her.
It's really starting to make sense now, all the hubbub about sex.
When he finally pulls away-after two false starts when Natasha threatens to gut him if he stops-she's lax and flushed all over and breathing heavily, one arm flung above her head.
"Mm," she says with a lazy smile.
He smiles too and kisses her and starts to roll away, figuring she's had enough.
Natasha catches him by the arm. "Oh no. I'm not even close to being done with you." She reaches out, patting the coverlet, and comes up with one of those little foil packets, which she opens with her teeth. He moans when she rolls the condom on him, her hand cool on the hot parts of him.
Just do what comes naturally, and it is, so natural, to hold himself above her and slide between her legs and push inside.
"God," he mutters.
He figures he can be excused for taking the Lord's name in vain just this once.
She wraps her legs around his waist, loops her arms around his neck, and maybe Steve hasn't done this before, but they're a team. It only takes a moment for them to get in sync and start moving together. He kisses her breasts and her neck and her lips. He wants to touch her everywhere, and he'd like this to last and last, but so much for super-soldier stamina. It's no match for how incredibly good this feels. At least he makes sure she gets there first, her eyes going wide and her body arching up, and when he comes, he buries his face in that little valley between her breasts.
He's not sure he ever wants to be anywhere else.
"That was-" he tries to say afterward, but he has no words.
"It certainly was."
He can tell that she's smiling, and he turns onto his side to see it and rolls over onto something. He fishes it out from under his hip, and it's that thing that looks like-with the straps.
Natasha raises an eyebrow at him. "Already?"
He blushes so furiously he's pretty sure he's bypassed red and gone straight to purple. It only gets worse when he thinks about how that would work, the dark leather straps crisscrossing Natasha's pale skin, and how it would feel, big and stiff and kind of-full.
"Um," he stammers.
"Maybe next time?" She rolls onto her side to kiss him, and her voice drops down low, "I really think you might like it."
That same mental picture from before comes flashing back to him-his wrists and the headboard and those very sturdy ropes-only now he imagines Natasha moving over him, moving in him. Fucking him. There, he's said it. Or, okay, thought it.
She would look amazing fucking him, he realizes.
Steve is still blushing when he nods. "Next time."
***
"Something's different about you, Cap," Tony says, with a squinty look directed at Steve across the breakfast table.
He's only said this same thing about a gazillion times in the three days since-well, Steve thinks of it fondly as Operation No More Never Ever.
Steve ignores Tony, as usual.
"Pass me the strawberries, Steve?" Natasha says absently, not looking up from her Kindle.
One of the many things Steve has discovered about her-now that they talk about things other than weapons and strategy-is that she has an absolute weakness for murder mysteries. It's a little bit like research, she'd said with a shrug. When she starts a new book, only the threat of global catastrophe can tear her away from it.
"Steve?" Tony echoes. "Since when do you call him 'Steve'?" His squinty look gets even squintier.
"It's his name, isn't it?" Natasha answers, her voice as cool as a blade, and even Tony isn't foolhardy enough to keep going when she sounds like that.
Of course, it's only a momentary retreat. This is Tony, after all.
A few days later, they all end up in the TV room after dinner. Someone puts on Star Wars, and Bruce makes popcorn. Thor asks a million questions, deeply confused about which of the eight worlds is Alderaan, and ready to do battle against the Empire to avenge it. Steve wistfully remembers how different movies used to be, and even though Natasha is on the other side of the room, she smiles as if she knows exactly what he's thinking.
Tony bustles in as the Rebels are taking to their Y-wing fighters, making a place for himself between Clint and Bruce on the sofa. "So, I'm thinking we need to make our team meetings a weekly thing."
"No," Clint answers automatically.
"I've got Macallan 1926 Fine and Rare." He pulls a bottle out from under the sofa, where it's apparently been lying in wait.
"Did I say no?" Clint muses. "Obviously I meant yes."
"Great! We can just pass the bottle around. No need to bother with glasses. We're all friends here." Tony claps his hands together. "I'll start. Never ever have I slept with one of my Avengers teammates."
Bruce nearly chokes on his popcorn, and Tony shoots him an apologetic look.
"Anyone need to drink?" Tony holds out the bottle. "Anyone. Steve."
Steve takes a newfound interest in Luke's quest to destroy the Death Star. He's not one for lying, even by omission, but some things are just too good, and too private, to throw away on a drinking game.
"Huh," Tony says at last.
He tips the bottle back himself, and Bruce can't quite hide his grin.
When Steve catches Natasha's eye, he hopes his expression gets across: Never ever will I kiss and tell. Natasha's mouth curves up at the corners, and there's a flirty spark in her eye that Steve is pretty sure means: Meet me in my room in ten minutes.
Never ever has life been better.
My Bday Smut-a-thon is open for prompts until 6/20. Don't be shy!