(Ant-Man/The Avengers) Well-Matched
Title: Well-Matched
Fandom: Ant-Man/The Avengers (Movieverse)
Pairing: Hope/Natasha
Rating: R
Words: 785
Notes: For Ladies Bingo, prompt "heirs", Femslash Friday, and a prompt at The Annual Femslash Kink Meme.
Summary: The tension keeps building between them; when they catch each other's eye, when they spar together, when skin accidentally brushes skin.
Sparring with Scott is fun, sure. But sparring with Natasha is a challenge, and Hope’s always loved to push herself.
Natasha’s entire being is a weapon. Not just the sweep of her heel through the air or the arc of her hand slicing past Hope’s ear as she dodges, but every aspect of her. The flick of her hair, the curve of her mouth, the sway of her hips. It’s effortless to Natasha, knowing exactly how to strike at people, how to find their weaknesses.
Hope’s read the leaked SHIELD files, of course. They didn’t provide a complete overview on Natasha’s past, but Hope knows enough to be aware of the horror Natasha’s been through.
“Head in the game,” Natasha teases, and Hope ducks under her foot, forced to one knee but already spinning out of it, putting distance between them to regroup.
It’d be easy for Natasha to push the advantage, but she doesn’t. She lets Hope get space, her eyes dancing as she watches Hope grin at her. Drawing the match out, and they’ve only been sparring for less than an hour, but it feels like this match has been going on for weeks.
In a way, it has.
All those stolen glances across rooms, held gazes and knowing smiles. Sitting too close, leaning into each other’s personal space in every conversation. It’s a different kind of sparring, sizing each other up, learning everything they can.
Pushing a little harder, getting a little deeper under each other’s skin, fire sizzling between them.
Natasha’s training may have made her a pro at reading people, at working them, but Hope’s had training of her own and she can give as good as she gets.
So in those quiet moments when Natasha’s hand settles oh-so-casually on the small of her back, Hope deliberately presses her weight up against Natasha’s side, her breast grazing Natasha’s arm. When Natasha’s leg pushes snug against her when they sit together, hip-to-knee, Hope lets her fingers slide over Natasha’s waist or her elbow or the back of her neck. And in the here-and-now, when Natasha moves forward again, arm coming up for a strike at Hope’s chest, Hope blocks a little later than she knows she should. Letting Natasha move in closer than is strictly safe, but Hope’s confident in her abilities and it’s worth it for the rush of Natasha’s breath against her lips before she backs off again.
Natasha’s smirk coaxes at the heat that burns in Hope’s chest, that spreads between her legs.
They push forward again, a carefully controlled flurry of movement. Natasha goes to throw her, and Hope rolls with it, their speed and weight well-matched. There’s a moment where Hope should spring to her feet, and with any other partner she’d do just that. But she lets the moment pass, and then Natasha’s hands are at her shoulders, pinning her against the mats.
Hope gets her knees around Natasha’s middle and flips them. It’s no easy move, and she knows Natasha sees it coming. But she’s as content as Hope to let the match stretch on, the two of them grappling across the floor.
Hope’s hair is in her face, her muscles burning, sweat pooling between her breasts, and she feels so damn alive.
Her back hits the mats again, Natasha’s leg nudged up between her thighs, and Hope’s hips buck, grinding herself against the pressure. She feels the noise Natasha makes where their chests are pushed together, feels the low rumble of it, Natasha’s lips dragging against her cheek. It’d be easy, so easy to turn her face, to catch Natasha’s mouth in a kiss, to take this tension between them to the next level.
She could get her hands in Natasha’s hair, bite at her lip, pull at her clothes. She could get Natasha to moan for her, Hope’s fingers shoved beneath her leggings, fucking her so deep.
“Yield?” Natasha purrs, and Hope laughs throatily at the taunt. Because she won’t, no matter how good it would feel, no matter how much she wants to. She won’t be the first to yield, to give in to this pull between them. Because Natasha is heir to a legacy of subterfuge and violence and manipulation, and Hope is heir to a legacy of stubbornness and passion and a complete inability to discuss her emotions healthily - neither is ready to be the first to break.
So the fight goes on. The foreplay goes on. One of them will snap eventually, and it’ll be fucking glorious when it happens.
But for now, Hope’s enjoying the anticipation and the challenge, because, yes, she’s always loved to push herself, and she can tell Natasha is exactly the same.
Fandom: Ant-Man/The Avengers (Movieverse)
Pairing: Hope/Natasha
Rating: R
Words: 785
Notes: For Ladies Bingo, prompt "heirs", Femslash Friday, and a prompt at The Annual Femslash Kink Meme.
Summary: The tension keeps building between them; when they catch each other's eye, when they spar together, when skin accidentally brushes skin.
Sparring with Scott is fun, sure. But sparring with Natasha is a challenge, and Hope’s always loved to push herself.
Natasha’s entire being is a weapon. Not just the sweep of her heel through the air or the arc of her hand slicing past Hope’s ear as she dodges, but every aspect of her. The flick of her hair, the curve of her mouth, the sway of her hips. It’s effortless to Natasha, knowing exactly how to strike at people, how to find their weaknesses.
Hope’s read the leaked SHIELD files, of course. They didn’t provide a complete overview on Natasha’s past, but Hope knows enough to be aware of the horror Natasha’s been through.
“Head in the game,” Natasha teases, and Hope ducks under her foot, forced to one knee but already spinning out of it, putting distance between them to regroup.
It’d be easy for Natasha to push the advantage, but she doesn’t. She lets Hope get space, her eyes dancing as she watches Hope grin at her. Drawing the match out, and they’ve only been sparring for less than an hour, but it feels like this match has been going on for weeks.
In a way, it has.
All those stolen glances across rooms, held gazes and knowing smiles. Sitting too close, leaning into each other’s personal space in every conversation. It’s a different kind of sparring, sizing each other up, learning everything they can.
Pushing a little harder, getting a little deeper under each other’s skin, fire sizzling between them.
Natasha’s training may have made her a pro at reading people, at working them, but Hope’s had training of her own and she can give as good as she gets.
So in those quiet moments when Natasha’s hand settles oh-so-casually on the small of her back, Hope deliberately presses her weight up against Natasha’s side, her breast grazing Natasha’s arm. When Natasha’s leg pushes snug against her when they sit together, hip-to-knee, Hope lets her fingers slide over Natasha’s waist or her elbow or the back of her neck. And in the here-and-now, when Natasha moves forward again, arm coming up for a strike at Hope’s chest, Hope blocks a little later than she knows she should. Letting Natasha move in closer than is strictly safe, but Hope’s confident in her abilities and it’s worth it for the rush of Natasha’s breath against her lips before she backs off again.
Natasha’s smirk coaxes at the heat that burns in Hope’s chest, that spreads between her legs.
They push forward again, a carefully controlled flurry of movement. Natasha goes to throw her, and Hope rolls with it, their speed and weight well-matched. There’s a moment where Hope should spring to her feet, and with any other partner she’d do just that. But she lets the moment pass, and then Natasha’s hands are at her shoulders, pinning her against the mats.
Hope gets her knees around Natasha’s middle and flips them. It’s no easy move, and she knows Natasha sees it coming. But she’s as content as Hope to let the match stretch on, the two of them grappling across the floor.
Hope’s hair is in her face, her muscles burning, sweat pooling between her breasts, and she feels so damn alive.
Her back hits the mats again, Natasha’s leg nudged up between her thighs, and Hope’s hips buck, grinding herself against the pressure. She feels the noise Natasha makes where their chests are pushed together, feels the low rumble of it, Natasha’s lips dragging against her cheek. It’d be easy, so easy to turn her face, to catch Natasha’s mouth in a kiss, to take this tension between them to the next level.
She could get her hands in Natasha’s hair, bite at her lip, pull at her clothes. She could get Natasha to moan for her, Hope’s fingers shoved beneath her leggings, fucking her so deep.
“Yield?” Natasha purrs, and Hope laughs throatily at the taunt. Because she won’t, no matter how good it would feel, no matter how much she wants to. She won’t be the first to yield, to give in to this pull between them. Because Natasha is heir to a legacy of subterfuge and violence and manipulation, and Hope is heir to a legacy of stubbornness and passion and a complete inability to discuss her emotions healthily - neither is ready to be the first to break.
So the fight goes on. The foreplay goes on. One of them will snap eventually, and it’ll be fucking glorious when it happens.
But for now, Hope’s enjoying the anticipation and the challenge, because, yes, she’s always loved to push herself, and she can tell Natasha is exactly the same.