Chapter Text
“Fuck” you mumble, slamming your laptop closed and shoving it in your backpack. It’s the second week of your senior year of college and you’re late for class- more specifically your thesis seminar. You’d declared a major in classical studies freshman year, against your better judgement. You found each class insightful, your studies useful even, however notoriously impractical. Your small school always held up as a cozy haven for you, regardless of how hard classes had always been. You’d chosen a small, all girls liberal arts school in New England. How predictable.
Hustling out of the library, you throw your hood over your head to protect yourself from the ongoing drizzle. It wasn’t even October yet, and the sky had already opened up. You check your watch- 3:17.
“Shit shit shit”, you mutter under your breath. You were supposed to be in your seat two minutes ago. Being egregiously on time to every class had never been something you cared too much for, but your thesis class was quite small due to your choice of studying a dying subject. And your professor, ever the tyrant, had quite the late policy. The syllabus had clearly stated:
“Two minutes late, you’re marked down.”
“Five minutes late, don’t bother coming.”
3:18.
You pick up the pace despite the afternoon dew sticking to your forehead and nose. You’d already been late once and had no intention in finding out what happens when you’re late twice.
3:19.
Your classroom is in sight as you jog up the old carpeted stairs of the humanities hall, pushing open the door as the clock strikes 3:20. She looks you dead in the eye as the door swings open and you realize you’re not breathing.
“Get out.”
“Yep.” You swivel on your heel before you can even get one foot in the door, head lulling to the side in defeat.
“Office hours are at five.”
“I know,” you say without turning around, waving a hand in dismissal.
The hour and forty minutes goes by at a snail’s pace. You park yourself on the couch outside of the Classical Studies wing, unable to do anything but bounce your knee and find new hangnails to pass the time. You hear her before you see her, heels padding softly down the hall. She walks right past you towards her office and you don’t look up from your hands.
“Come.”
You fumble with your backpack, slinging it over your shoulder and trailing behind your professor. You don’t need to pay attention to where she’s going to find her office- this wasn’t the first time you’d been here. Because the department was so small, you’d had a class with her nearly every single semester. You’d assumed she’d lighten up on the seniors, considering your status and proximity to real adulthood, but had been proven painfully wrong. At the ripe age of twenty two, it seemed only right to you to be treated as so, however you could never find a way to hold your ground in these types of situations. The sheer imbalance of power had always been too much to bear. And after all- she had seen you at a very vulnerable eighteen.
“Y/N.”
“Romanoff.”
She shoots you a brief warning look before looking down at her desktop.
“Why were you late today?” Professor Romanoff asks curtly without looking up from her computer.
“I was in the library- I lost track of time,” you start, but she quickly cuts you off.
“You’re what? Twenty one-“
“Twenty two.” Favor returned.
“Twenty two,” she looks up at you now, cocking an eyebrow. “You should know how to manage your time at this point, no?”
“I’m sorry.”
She makes a sound like “mmhm” but you don’t quite catch it.
“Do you want to know what happened in class today?,” she asks. It seems she’s feeling nicer than usual.
“Yes of course,” you respond. Folding your hands in your lap. Her chair creaks as she sits back to look at you properly, folding her arms over her chest. She’s wearing a black turtle neck tucked into a burgundy skirt, the length of the black sleeves resting just below the first knuckle of her thumbs. You catch sight of a gem on her ring finger as it catches the light. Well that’s new. You’d always had the understanding that she was a cold loveless being.
“We talked about time management,” she starts, and now you understand where this is going. “when you should have your project proposals done and when the first segment of your thesis should be complete.”
“Insightful,” you say before you can catch yourself.
“Yes y/n, very. I suggest you take another look at the syllabus and watch the recording from today’s class. It’s already posted. I’d also suggest you get a watch, but it appears you already have one,” she says, eyes drifting to the leather watch at your wrist. “Use it next time okay?”
You take a deep breath, fighting to look her in the eye.
“Yea. I will.”
“Thank you,” she says with a genuine smile- but you know better. “You can go now.”
You quickly pick up your stuff, mumbling a half hearted “thanks” before quickly shuffling towards the door.
“Oh, and y/n,”
You freeze on the spot, bracing yourself.
“I’m holding study hours tonight at eight in the hearth. Considering this is already your second absence I would advise you attend.” Your professor says, a smile plastered on her face.
“I’ll do my best.” You assure her, quickly stepping out of her office to avoid further pestering. “I’ll drag my stupid feet over to campus for you, my liege,” is what you really meant, but oh well.
It’s almost six by the time you get back to your apartment. Rain patters against the windows of your dinky flat as you light a candle and cook up some dinner. You have little to no desire for attending study hours, but at the same time you feel oddly compelled. Each conversation you’d had with Professor Romanoff, although frequently humiliating, always left some spark of interest. Perhaps masochism, perhaps boredom, but either way you always decided to let it happen. After eating some pasta and drinking your fourth cup of coffee of the day, you hop into the shower and throw on some comfy clothes. This was an academic affair, however it was raining and fucking cold, so sweats would have to do. You wonder if Professor Romanoff will have anything to say about it.
You walk into the hearth at 7:59.
“How timely.”
“What?,” you say, lifting your headphones off of one ear.
“I said, how timely,” Professor Romanoff retorts, shooting daggers at you from her place at the head of the table. You purposefully sit down at the seat furthest away from her, unpacking your laptop and shoving your headphones into your bag. You open your MacBook and try to act like you’re checking emails, while periodically glancing at the door. What was the point in being here if no one else fucking showed up?
“You don’t have to sit so far away, I don’t bite.”
Fuck you forgot she was here. You clear your throat and get up, moving closer, but still maintaining a one chair distance. You look at the closed door for too long, willing it to open. You hear your professor sigh next to you and a rustle as she scoots closer, settling in the chair beside you. No no no no please god no.
“The proposal isn’t due until next week-,” Professor Romanoff starts. You’d never been in this close proximity before and were too scared to look at her. “-but it’s probably smart to have it at least halfway done by next class. What do you have so far?” Nothing, you had nothing but a loose, very loose, idea of an idea.
“Well. I uh- I think… maybe like, well so I think I want to combine classics and literature.” You stumble on your words, your throat constricting.
“Fascinating.” Shut the fuck up.
“To be honest I don’t have much of a plan.,” you surrender.
“I figured.”
You press your lips into a thin line and finally lift your head to look at her, but she isn’t looking at you, her focus instead on her computer.
“By literature do you mean poetry or research of ancient texts?”
“Research of ancient texts.”
“I suggest you spend some time in the state archives- you could try the university archives, but your options will be more limited. Generate at least a rough research question by next class. I’m sure your peers will provide some inspiration for your proposal.,” Your professor continues to type as she speaks and you notice her nails are painted blood red as you stare at the ring on her left hand.
“Are you listening to me?,” she says abruptly, turning her head to look at you.
“Oh- yes, yes I uh- will head to the archives this weekend.,” you feel a flush creeping up your neck. She’s looking you in the eye for the first time this evening and you notice her irises are green with flecks of yellow and blue. Her nose is upturned, her eyebrows strong. Her lips are painted a dark red, round and full. If she wasn’t looking at you like she was plotting a very detailed and intricate homicide, you might actually say she looked beautiful. She sighs.
“I want you to succeed, y/n, but I don’t know how to get through to you.”
You feel an electric zap in your chest. Did your professor actually have a soul?
“I-,” you don’t know how to respond. “I’ll get the proposal done on time, really I promise. I’m dedicated and actually really looking forward to this research.”
“No it’s not that,” Professor Romanoff says, and you start to become aware of the fact that she’s still holding eye contact. “I don’t doubt your work ethic or intelligence in the slightest. I’m supposed to be your advisor. I’m supposed to create an academic mentorship with you, but you don’t seem to understand that.”
Your face feels like it’s on fire. This is possibly worse than being academically chastised.
“I understand I’m not the warmest, most inviting professor at this institution,” yea no shit, “but I’m here to help you. Really.” She looks surprisingly sincere.
“I understand that,” you respond.
“My phone number is on the syllabus. I’m not usually that kind of professor, but for my seniors I’m willing to bend a few rules. Text me any questions you have with your research this weekend.”
You just nod your head.
“Yes?”
“Yes.”
“Considering nobody else decided to show up this evening, I think I’ll call it a night. Go get some sleep y/n.”
You go straight to the bar. It’s the one closest to campus and it’s named “The Rusty Dog”. It’s shitty, but it gets the job done. You plop down on the stool and order a rum and Coke before shoving your face into your hands. It was always easy to hate Professor Romanoff, but liking her was proving to be much more complicated. You down your drink and order another. The alcohol makes your body feel warm and tingly, and you let your mind wander. You wonder how old she is. Definitely not over forty right? You give it a solid thirty six, her skin is too smooth. Her hair- it’s a shade of red that you’d always assumed was natural, but maybe she dyes it. Does she have a boyfriend? No- fuck, a fiance apparently, she has a fiance.You order another drink before you can allow yourself to think the decision through. Someone sits down next to you and orders a martini, extra dirty. Fucking gross. You look over to see the perpetrator and nearly fly out of your skin when she looks at you. Romanoff.
“Y/n,” she says with a nod, like she expected to find you here half drunk.
“Hi.”
You end up sitting with her in a booth, unsure of how you got there. The two of you make small talk and it feels almost normal, but you can’t help but feel like you’re doing something scandalous.
“Do you want another drink?,” Professor Romanoff asks, nodding towards your now empty glass.
“Oh um, no I think I’m okay,” you say cautiously. She twists her martini glass between her thumb and pointer finger.
“You don’t have to be scared of me y/n,” your professor says with a small laugh, her eyes crinkling.
“Oh but I do,” you say without hesitation. You’d always been reserved and careful around her, but the alcohol was loosening your filter.
“And why is that?,” she asks, taking a sip of her drink and looking up at you.
“My entire academic career rests on your shoulders this semester, and you’re notoriously difficult,” you say as a smile creeps up onto your face. You can’t tell if you’re in fight or flight or just having fun.
“You make me sound so simple Y/N.”
“You’re far from simple, Professor Romanoff.” You nearly wince as the words come out of your mouth. The formality seems so juvenile considering you’re sitting together in a bar.
“You can just call me Natasha,” she says with a testing grin.
“Oh my god no I cannot.” And with that she gives you a toothy smile, her teeth white against her lipstick.
“You know it’s quite common for professors to have their students refer to them on a first name basis.”
“You’re different.” You don’t even know what you’re saying at this point.
“I think you’re the one that’s different,” she says, leaning forward on her elbows and folding her hands in front of her on the table. “You’ve always been tough to crack, tougher than my other students. You’re always quiet in class, cautious.”
“No you’re right I crumble in the face of authority,” you choke out and with that she laughs. “Imagine what it’s like when I get pulled over for speeding, I lose feeling in my legs and start crying.”
“Well if you couldn’t tell I’m not a cop.”
“Then why am I so nervous?,” you say it before you can stop yourself. You watch as she leans back in her seat across from you, her hands planted firmly on the table as she takes in what you’re saying.
“Professor Roma-,”
“Natasha.”
“Natasha- I think it’s time for me to go home.” Her first name coming out of your mouth feels foreign.
“Yea I also think it’s time for you to go home.,” she says, crossing her arms over her chest. You dig around in your pocket and lay a twenty on the table.
“This should cover my portion-,”
“I got it y/n, keep your money.”
You squint your eyes at her for a second before taking your money back and shoving it back into your pocket.
“This was great, really. I’ll see you on Monday?”
“Yep. Get home safe.”
You get up as quickly as you can, but you’re drunker than you thought. You slap your hand on the table as you get up, nearly falling out of your seat.
“Y/n did you drive here?”
“Yep.”
“And you’re driving home?”
“Not anymore.”
“Alright come on.” Your professor throws a couple bills on the table before getting up and standing in front of you. You look up at her like she’s your shining savior. She offers you a hand but you bat it away.
“No I’m fine.,” you mumble, but your legs feel like jello.
“I don’t think you can stand.”
“Well you’re wrong.” And you shoot yourself up and almost fall into her. She wraps an arm around your waist to keep you from falling and plants her other hand firmly on your stomach to keep you upright. Your skin feels like it’s going to melt off in the places she’s touching you.
“Did you forget to eat dinner or something- what’s wrong with you?,” she sounds almost accusatory and your faces are mere inches apart.
“No no I just- my medication, and I haven’t drank in awhile my tolerance is low.” You weren’t about to clarify the fact that you were on a max dose of antidepressants. “I usually just walk home if I have more than two drinks it’s okay.” She stares at you for a few seconds, still gripping you in place.
“I’m taking you home.,” she responds without room for negotiation, her arm around you pulling you towards the door.
“You’re so nice.”
“I thought I was notoriously difficult?”
You snort.
She gets you into the passenger seat of her car and buckles you in. You’re fully capable of doing it yourself, but you let it happen anyways. She slams her door shut and turns the car on.
“Where do you live?,” she asks, but your head is rolling to the side. “Oh good god-,” she grabs your jaw to look at her. “Y/n tell me your address.” You just giggle. “Could you maybe direct me there? Do you live in an apartment?”
You slur out her name but that’s as far as you can get.
“Fuck me what did I do to you,” she says letting go of your face and stepping on the gas.
You let your eyes close as the car starts to move and before you know it, the vehicle has stopped moving and the passenger side door is open. You feel your seatbelt release and a familiar arm come around your waist and lift you up.
“Where?”
“My apartment.”
“Who?”
“Your thesis professor.”
“Natasha.”
“Correct.”
You stir awake, groaning as the sunlight peaking through the window hits your sensitive eyes. You roll over, pressing your face flat into the pillow. You begin to drift back to sleep until you realize that this is most definitely not your bed. The sheets smell like unfamiliar detergent and vanilla, and they’re way too expensively soft. You hear footsteps and it all falls back into place. Fighting the urge to let the covers swallow you whole, you slowly turn and open one eye.
“Morning.” It’s Natasha.
“Where am I,” you ask, voice heavy with sleep.
“My bed. I took the couch. It felt wrong dumping you there, it’s not very comfortable.” You can’t quite see her face but she doesn’t sound angry.
“Don’t you have a husband or something.” You’re not sure why you’re asking her this but it feels relevant.
“No.” And you hear her turn around and leave.
You force yourself out of bed with a groan and slowly stand up. You’re still in your clothes from last night, but there’s a pair of sleep shorts and a large t-shirt folded neatly on the bedside table. You groggily change into the fresh clothes and can’t help but notice that they smell like the sheets. Rubbing your eyes, you look around the room. There’s a large bookshelf in the corner with a potted ivy hanging from the top and a wooden desk covered in papers with a few paintings on the wall. The bed is positioned next to a window facing the street with sheer lace curtains that allow the sunlight to come in. Wrapping your arms around your chest to conceal the fact that you’re not wearing a bra, you shuffle into the living room. The whole room is big and open, with Natasha standing in the kitchen, her back to you. Her hair is up and she’s wearing tight yoga pants and a blue tank top. You want to slap yourself in the face.
“How’d you sleep?”
“Awful.”
“Figures.,” Natasha says as she turns towards you and scoots a hot cup of coffee on the counter your way. You drink it slowly, closing your eyes. When you look back up, you see your professor staring at you with her palms planted firmly on the counter. She’s wearing tortoise shell trim glasses and you’re taken aback by her bare face. Of course you didn’t expect her to wake up with a full beat, but it still feels oddly intimate.
“What time is it?”
“9:30,” she says, looking down at her watch.
“Can I have a sweater?”
“Mmhm,” Natasha responds, scooting past you to get to her room. You continue to sip your coffee as she rustles around in a drawer. You hear her footsteps approaching behind you and she reaches around you to place a cable knit sweater on the counter to your right. You feel a hand come up to rest on your shoulder and you can feel the warmth of her body on your back.
“Let’s not make this a habit.”
“What? Me borrowing your sweater or me sleeping in your bed?” You didn’t mean it like that but the connotation stays the same.
“Both.”
She drives you back to campus to get your car. The ride is silent for the most part until she pulls into the parking lot and turns to look at you. She’s still in her pajamas with her hair messily tied up.
“I would do this for any of my students,” she says like she’s trying to assure herself.
“Okay.”
“And next time try to drink a little less.”
“I’ll try.”
“No, there won’t be a next time.”
“Sure there won’t.”, you respond, unbuckling your seatbelt.
“I’ll see you on Monday.”
“Monday,” and you smile at her kindly before closing the door and walking to your car. You get in and wait for her to drive away before examining yourself in the mirror. Your mascara is smudged around your eyes and your hair is tangled. You wonder why she didn’t cook you breakfast.
Later that morning after you’ve showered and eaten some cereal, you lay on your unmade bed. You’re still wrapped in a towel with your wet hair dripping onto the duvet. You almost wish you had been drunker so you wouldn’t be able to remember it at all. None of it feels normal, but also none of it feels wrong.
You get dressed quickly and jog down to the laundry room in the basement with Natasha’s clothes. The least you can do is wash them for her. You can’t help but hold the sweater up to your face and smell it before tossing it in the washing machine. You sit on top of the washing machine with your legs crossed, staring at the cracked eggshell paint on the wall until the cycle is finished. Throwing the clothes in the dryer, you feel like you should text her. About what? To thank her? Offer to drop off the clothes she lent you? Maybe you could just drop her class and never think about it ever again.
You’re staring at the syllabus on your phone as the dryer finishes. Her phone number is scrawled in the top right hand corner. You fish out Natasha’s clothes and head upstairs to your flat, the number on the syllabus still mocking you. You punch it into your contacts and stare at it a little longer before turning off your phone and taking a long nap.
You wake up around six pm to the sun setting. The rain is back of course, slapping against the window pane, but you hurl yourself out of bed and into your kitchen to get some dinner and do some homework. You flip open your laptop to check your email and there she is. Professor Natasha Romanoff. Bcc: Classical Studies Thesis.
Hello students, I hope this email finds you well. Just a gentle reminder that study hours are on Fridays at 8 pm and I expect all of you to blah blah blah blah- you slap your laptop closed and pick up your phone.
I have your clothes
Who is this
I washed them
You can give them to
me in class on Monday.
That was not the response you wanted to hear. You groan, getting up from your kitchen table and grabbing your keys. You don’t know where you’re going but it’s definitely not here. You look around for a sweater to brave the rain and throw on Natasha’s as it’s the closest to the door. You figure you can just wash it again tomorrow. You drive for a bit, not quite sure where you’re going until you find yourself approaching “The Rusty Dog”. You order a rum and Coke and sit at the same booth you sat at last night with Natasha. It’s symbolic. Your phone pings.
Actually drop them off
tomorrow please.
Okay
Thank you.
Or you could come get now
Sure. If that works better for you.
What’s your address?
I’m not at home
Then drop them off tomorrow.
Goodnight y/n.
I’m at the bar
You turn off your phone and smack your forehead into your hands. You feel fucking pathetic. You didn’t even know why you decided to tell her you were at the bar, there was no point.
You sip your drink absentmindedly, scanning your eyes around the bar. It’s a Saturday night, but it’s too early for anyone interesting to show up. You can hear the rain pounding in the roof, drowning out the soft music playing from the speakers. You stare down at the bubbles rising to the surface of your drink, swirling your straw around the brown liquid as the glass clinks against the sides. You hear the bell of the door jingle and heeled footsteps quickly approaching your booth. You look up from your drink and can’t help but smile.
“We can’t keep meeting like this.”
“You’re wearing my sweater.”
“Sorry.”
Natasha slides into the booth, seated across from you. She rests her elbows on the table, folding her hands flat out in front of her. You finally catch her eye and realize she doesn’t look happy. You wait for her to talk first, but the silence is deafening.
“So-,”
“Y/n I don’t know what you think you’re doing but don’t do it.”
“I’m not doing anything.”
“Can I have my clothes back?” Natasha asks sternly.
“Why did you come here?”
“For my clothes.”
“Sure.”
She leans forward, her eyes flashing something like anger.
“Y/n.” It’s a warning.
“Your clothes are at my apartment,” you sigh.
“You’re wasting my time,” Natasha huffs and you remember she’s your professor. You notice she’s in a tight blazer and her hair is curled, delicately framing her face.
“Why are you so dressed up?”
“I had a conference,” Natasha says. “For my job. You remember my job don’t you?”
“Yes I remember your job.”
“I’m your professor, y/n. And you’re my student,” she’s looking at you expectantly.
“Yes I know,"
“And I think it’ll be in your best interest if you try and remember that.” She leans back, her arms folding in defense. The look in her eyes is cold, piercing. You don’t know what to say. “I think you should leave, y/n.”
“Natasha-.”
“Go home.” She’s still glaring at you from across the table.
You push yourself up off the table and stomp angrily towards the door, Natasha’s eyes following you as you leave but her position at the booth stays unchanging. You push out the door into the cold night, the rush of rain hitting your face as you dig around in your pocket for a cigarette and a lighter. You press your back into the brick wall, holding one hand up to shield your cigarette from the rain as you light it. You take a deep inhale and close your eyes as the door swings open.
“That’s bad for you.”
“Go away.”
You don’t open your eyes as you hear footsteps approach. A hand wraps firmly around your left hip, pushing your torso into the wall. Your eyes shoot open and Natasha’s face is an inch from yours, her eyes shooting daggers.
“Hi,” you mumble, the cigarette dangling out of the corner of your mouth. With her other hand, Natasha reaches up and delicately lifts the cigarette from your mouth with her pointer and middle fingers. You watch wordlessly as she takes it to her lips and takes a drag, all the while holding eye contact. She throws it on the ground, blowing the smoke into your face and grinding the cigarette into the ground with her heel.
“Rude,” you quirk as she averts her gaze from the ground back to your eyes. Her thumb is pressing into your hip bone, holding you in place and it feels like it’s burning a hole straight through you. “I only got to take one, maybe two drags. That’s about ten cents of nicotine and I could’ve had fifty.”
“You’re pissing me off,” Natasha says quietly.
“I gathered that.”
Natasha presses her hips forward into you, watching attentively to catch your reaction. Your breath quickens and you look down to avoid her gaze but she tilts her head down, following.
“Look at me,” she whispers, and you do. She catches your chin with her hand and hungrily presses her lips to yours. She moans quietly into your mouth, a sound of satisfaction. You reach out to touch her, maybe pull her closer but she grabs your wrist before you can get close and pushes it into the wall above your head. A strangled noise leaves your throat, but she swallows it with her tongue, slipping it into your mouth. She pulls away abruptly and you whine, chasing the kiss.
“We’re too close to campus, someone could see us,” Natasha murmurs, rubbing her thumb over the pulse at your wrist. She wraps her fingers around it and tugs you away from the wall and into her car.
She opens the passenger door for you and you sit down, but when she sits in the driver’s seat you climb over the center console and into her lap. You straddle her thighs, placing your hands on her neck and kissing her hard. She roughly grips your waist, pulling you into her, but breaking the kiss with a laugh.
“We’re not fucking in my car.”
“Why not?,” you protest, peppering kisses down her jaw and neck. You can taste her vanilla perfume.
“Because it’s fucking uncomfortable y/n.”
You drive in anticipatory silence to Natasha’s apartment, her right hand gripping your thigh the entire time.
When you walk into her apartment, she peels off her blazer and kicks off her heels before pushing you up against the door, not bothering to turn on a light. You find yourself in a similar position to when you were outside the bar- Natasha pressing her hips into you and pinning your wrists at your sides as you fight to touch her. Her leg slips between yours and your arms finally go limp, Natasha taking the opportunity to switch her hands from your wrists to your waist. She kisses you hard, making subtle noises of pleasure ever so often as you twist your hips back and forth against her thigh. You want her hard and fast, but your pleasure is clearly on her time. Natasha makes a quiet “uh-uh” noise every time you try to lift your hands up and off the door. You want her tongue in your mouth, but she pulls away slightly every time you try to deepen the kiss and you can feel the smile on her lips.
You feel her tug you forward by your hips and you follow, never breaking the kiss as she walks you backwards towards her room. Eventually the backs of her knees hit the mattress and she sits down, placing a hand on your stomach so you stay standing. You look down at her as she lifts her shirt over her head and slips off her pencil skirt, looking at you through hooded eyes the entire time. She’s left in just a bra and underwear and the sight of her bare skin makes you want to cry. She leans back on her elbows and looks at you expectantly. You follow suit, sliding your jeans down and taking off your t-shirt. She bites her lip when she realizes you aren’t wearing a bra. You’re about to chase after her onto the bed when she speaks up.
“Do you remember when you called me difficult?” Natasha asks, still looking up at you.
“Yea I do.”
“Do you still think that?”
“I guess we’ll have to find out,” you say with a smile, crawling towards her as she scoots back onto the pillows. You settle on top of her quickly and press her down into the mattress by her ribcage before she has time to claim dominance. You press your lips to hers and she tries to push you off by your shoulders, but quickly gives in as you snake a hand up to her chest. You squeeze her breast briefly before lightly running your thumb over her hardened nipple beneath her bra. She lets out a small moan but never loses composure, continuing to kiss you as her hands trail into your hair. You think you have the upper hand until she tangles her fingers into your hair and rips your head back away from her.
“Get on your back,” she says sternly, and you have no choice but to oblige. She straddles your lap and flips her hair to one side before dipping her mouth to your nipple. She swirls her tongue around before sucking your nipple into her mouth and letting it go with a pop. She licks and sucks at your chest to the point where you’re breathing heavily and squirming beneath her. You reach a hand around her back and unclasp her bra, watching as it slips down the front of her biceps. You’re surprised as she pays no mind and continues to lave at a nipple until you throw your head back and groan. She drags her tongue up between your breast and into your mouth and you kiss her breathlessly. She pulls away once again, sitting up as her thighs squeeze your hips.
“Natasha,” you breath out, but she just tuts, throwing her bra to the side. You stare at her hardened nipples and the perk of her chest, your mouth nearly watering. She slides your underwear off before settling back in top of you, her knees still digging down into the mattress as she lowers her mouth to yours. She kisses you slower this time and allows you to skim your hands over the back of her thighs and the curve of her ass where it rests in the air above you. She kneads your breasts as you firmly grip the soft skin of her waist, her body moving up and down with the kiss. You feel like you’re turning into dust as she kisses down your neck and chest, creating a trail down your stomach and hips to your center. She looks up at you as she settles between your thighs.
“Just want to taste you,” she says between planting kisses on the delicate skin of your inner thighs. You attempt an affirmative nod, but she darts out her tongue and licks a stripe up your center before you can say anything. Your head flies back into the pillows with a groan. She avoids your clit at first, both of her hands wrapped around your thighs to hold you in place. You try to arch into her mouth, but she pushes you firmly back down each time.
“Be good,” she growls from in between your legs as she presses her tongue firmly against your clit. She sucks your clit into her mouth and you try not to scream, biting down on the back of your hand as you grip Natasha’s pillow with the other. You muster up the ability to look back down at her and see that her eyes are trained on your every reaction. She lets out a small moan and the vibration against your clit ties a knot in your stomach. You realize that one of her hands is in between her legs, her underwear hanging onto her left ankle as she touches herself.
“Natasha-,” you heave out, still holding her intense stare. “Natasha I want you up here.”
She releases your clit with a pop before sliding up your body so your faces are level. You watch as she brings the two fingers that were in between her legs to your mouth. She pushes them between your lips and you suck her wetness off of them, her mouth slightly parted as she nods in approval.
“That’s it,” she whispers, pulling them out of your mouth and down to your cunt. She drags her middle finger down your clit before pushing it into you and curling and your eyes roll into the back of your head.
“Good, baby good,” she praises, slipping another finger into you and curling it firmly up and out. Her free hand is planted next to your head and your hand flies up to grab her wrist as she continues to rut her fingers into you. She kisses you once messily, but your jaw hangs slack as you start to lose control. Your moans are coming out rhythmically at this point, and Natasha can tell you’re close. She watches you so intensely that it’s almost too much to bear.
“Not yet,” she says, slowing the speed of her fingers ever so slightly as you whine from the loss of pressure. “Put your fingers inside me,” she breathes out and you do just that. Her blatant want sends shivers up and down your spine. You want nothing more than to be the reason she comes undone. You scrape your nails against her stomach and down to her pussy, satisfied with how wet you find her. You slip two fingers into her at once and she lets out a small whimper. She begins to rock her hips back and forth, riding your fingers as she picks up the pace inside you. You watch as her jaw goes slack as her body moves against you. Her thumb finds your clit as she curls her fingers into you and the noise that leaves your mouth is closer to a sob than anything else.
“Fuck,” Natasha groans, her hand slapping up onto the bed frame above your head. You can feel her clenching and fluttering around your fingers as the pressure in your lower stomach threatens to explode. You hook your legs around her torso as you feel yourself begin to come undone. Natasha’s eyes are still boring into yours, but she’s breathing heavily into your mouth and you can tell she’s losing her composure.
“Natasha-,” you whimper, not sure what you’re begging for if everything you want is staring you in the face. Your eyes clamp shut and you huff out a strangled breath as the knot unravels.
“Look at me,” Natasha says between heavy breathing. Your eyes fly back open as her breaths become breathy high pitched moans, her knuckles turning white as she grips her wooden bedframe. Your thighs squeeze her torso as your head flies back involuntarily. You scream out her name as your legs shudder. Natasha slows down the pace inside of you ever so slightly, but the sensation is still bordering on too much. She sinks down onto your fingers one more time before her body goes rigid.
Still riding your high, you watch as her face contorts and she mewls above you. She lets out a few more soft moans as she rocks her hips into your fingers again before her head falls forward and her body slackens.
“Fuck,” Natasha says quietly, her voice rasping. Her fingers have stilled inside of you completely, but she’s still gripping the bedframe as she catches her breath with her head hanging low. Her hair falls into your face as your chest rises and falls, your legs releasing and falling flat on the bed.
“Oh my god,” Natasha says as her hand falls limp next to your head and you think she’s laughing. You can’t see her behind the veil of hair. You realize your fingers are still inside of her so you try to take them out cautiously, but she still jumps a little as you do. She does the same, slumping to the other side of the bed in a heap of hair and limbs. You groggily turn your head to look at her beside you, her feet resting on your legs.
“Are you always like this after sex?”
“Shut the fuck up,” Natasha responds without moving or looking at you, her face pressed flat into her pillow.
“What now?”
“Now you sleep,” she mumbles.
“I thought I wasn’t supposed to sleep in your bed again.”
“Well I suggest you take advantage of this opportunity then.”
You lift your hand up and see it’s still glistening with her arousal. Your eyes dart over to her to make sure she isn’t looking before quickly sticking your fingers into your mouth.
“Stop you pervert,” Natasha grumbles, limply lifting her arm to bat at you. You grab her hand as it swats at your face and pull her over to you. She mumbles something indecipherable but doesn’t scoot away, snaking an arm over your shoulder instead. She tangles your legs together and presses her face into your neck.
“Can you cook me breakfast tomorrow morning?”
“No.”