Work Text:
There are two things Natasha picked up on pretty quickly when it comes to Rogers: one, he really is that idealistic, and two, he's got a wickedly dirty sense of humor. The former she doesn't much care for, but the latter is something she finds likable. He also fills a pair of jeans like nobody's business, and boy, does she appreciate that. She might even prefer casual clothing to that aggressively patriotic costume of his.
They're all out for drinks in a seedy karaoke bar – team bonding is what Stark calls it; Natasha blames it on his lack of friends other than Rhodey and Pepper – and yeah. The company she's still getting used to, but far be it from her to complain about the view. And as far as the scenery in here goes, Steve Rogers in low-hanging jeans and a tight T-shirt is certainly one of the highlights.
A nudge from her left jars her out of that train of thought, and Clint leans in to attempt a whisper, only he's had a few and miscalculates the volume. “You're staring. Are you really that drunk already?”
Natasha raises her head to check if anyone might've heard, but no one's paying them any mind. It's the only reason she manages to resist the urge to smack him upside the head. “I'm not drunk, neither am I staring.”
“Whatever you say.” He plops a handful of peanuts into his mouth, which, eww, Natasha doesn't even want to begin contemplating who else might have had their paws in those. “But from where I'm sitting, it sure looks like you're busy eyeing up Captain America.”
She doesn't dignify that with a reply. Instead, she pointedly turns her attention towards the stage, where Darcy and Jane are tag-teaming a not entirely unwilling Thor into singing Total Eclipse Of The Heart. Quite a show, actually: Darcy being so enthusiastic that Natasha fears for her blood pressure (but then again, that's pretty much her standard), Jane looking like she's torn between going along with her friend’s evil scheme and wanting to drag her boyfriend to safety, and Thor giving it his all with a besotted glint in his eye, even though Natasha's rather sure he hasn't even started to feel the alcohol he's consumed so far. It's funny. And it totally fails to distract her from the model specimen that's hanging back by the bar.
“I never took you for someone who'd nurse a crush in silence,” Clint says, voice muffled by another mouthful of peanuts, and Natasha doesn't need to see him to know he's grinning the most obnoxious and self-satisfied grin in his repertoire.
She elbows him, reveling in the startled yelp he emits. “Crush. What are you, twelve?”
For a few precious seconds, his only reaction to that is grinning even wider, but before she has time to figure out what he's up to and get ahead, Clint’s raising his arm, shouting Rogers’ name and beckoning him over. Of course, Rogers dutifully complies.
Once he's sat down across from them, Clint excuses himself towards the stage, but not without nudging Rogers conspiratorially. “Someone's got to keep her company while I'm up there, don't you agree?”
Natasha is going to shoot him. She will. At the first available opportunity.
Rogers nods, but to his credit, keeps his mouth shut. They sit there, smiling at each other awkwardly as they watch Clint climb the stage. Like the rest of their so-called team, they haven't spoken much beyond surface-level small talk and the occasional banter over comms since the Chitauri attack. Besides, Natasha isn't much the type for mindless chatter.
Up on the stage, Thor and Clint have joined forces for a song Natasha can't identify. Neither of them is in the vague vicinity of hitting any notes. She winces.
“I just decided the best thing about not being able to get drunk anymore,” Rogers says eventually, “is that I won't feel tempted to go up there and make a fool of myself. What do you think – how many of the people in here have smart phones, and how long is it going to take until the first video hits Youtube?”
Natasha tries not to be surprised that he knows either of these terms. He isn't dumb, he's been a seasoned operative before SHIELD even existed. Of course he's going to do his homework. “If I had to bet, I'd say they already did.”
“Probably,” Rogers agrees. His gaze tracks the waiter as he navigates past them with a tray of empty beer bottles. “Can I order you something?”
“If I want a drink, I can order it myself,” Natasha says, regretting the harshness of the words immediately. It’s force of habit; having to strike down her fair share of drunk suitors is a steady part of her usual bar experience, has almost become automatic at this point. “Sorry. I mean, no thank you. Not right now.”
They fall back into silence. Clint's shed his duet partner and is now belting out It's Not Unusual, winking exaggeratedly at Natasha whenever she glances his way. She's definitely going to shoot him.
Then again – and maybe it's the alcohol speaking, although she'd still claim she's not that drunk – he does have a point. Hiding her attraction to someone isn't her style. She likes Rogers well enough, as a person. She really likes the sight of him. She wouldn't mind finding out whether his selfless enthusiasm extends to more intimate activities. They're teammates, sure, but that doesn't have to become a problem. It hasn't been, with others, in the past – evidence for that is currently up on the stage, making a public joke of himself to give her a better shot at bedding who she wants to bed. So. What the hell, right? No time like the present.
She turns to Rogers, waits until he notices and directs his attention her way, sitting there with his chin in his hands and his eyebrows raised. God, he's gorgeous. “Look, I hope I won't make you uncomfortable, and if I do, tell me to shut up and we'll never talk about it again, but... I think you're attractive. I'd like to take you home. Just to try it. See if we click.”
Rogers blinks. “That's... direct.”
“Well.” Natasha shrugs. “Offer's on the table. Say yes, say no, I won't hold it against you.”
He takes long enough to reply that it occurs to Natasha how someone who grew up in the Forties might not be all that perceptible to the direct approach, what with chastity and women having to be honorable and hard to get. But she doesn't do regrets or second thoughts; it'll either work or it won't.
“Okay,” he says after what can't have been more than a minute, but felt like ten times that. “Sure. You're also...” He trails off to let his eyes rake up and down her body in a way that's anything but chaste, and his voice is a little lower, breathier, when he continues. “Attractive.”
The whole maneuver should be over the top and vaguely sleazy, but he crowns it with a smile that, somehow, softens it down to flattering and sincere. It's far from the reaction she'd expected, certainly much smoother, and a shiver of excitement makes its way down Natasha's spine. She shoots a glance up towards the stage, hopes it adequately conveys a silent thank you, you idiot, and takes Rogers' hand as she stands.
They're leaving.
***
His apartment, at least, holds no surprises. Simple, a bit old-fashioned, functional but bland. He's offered her a cup of coffee – what a cliché, but apparently that's her theme for the night – and now he's in the kitchen brewing it while she's inspecting his bookshelves. History books, more philosophy than she'd have guessed, no novels except for some classics so old he probably read them before he fell into the ice. She takes The Art of War off the shelf, well-read judging from its state, and thumbs through it.
“Ever read that?” he asks as he walks into the living room with a cup in each hand, sets them both down on the coffee table.
She nods, doesn't turn around. “Yeah. Required reading for someone in our line of work, isn't it?”
“Hmm,” he says, and it's a habit of hers she can't afford to drop that she's tracking his whereabouts in the room. She senses him closing in, isn't surprised when his hands come up to massage her neck, drag down her shirt just enough so he can lick at the sensitive skin where neck meets shoulder.
Okay, so that widespread assumption Captain America is a blushing virgin? Busted. Banned to the land of myths and fairy tales. Couldn't possibly be further from the truth. She makes a note to ask him about that later, inquire when and where he's gathered experience.
Now, though, she slowly puts the book back onto the shelf. She turns, slings her arms around his neck so she can pull his head down for a kiss. He's not fumbling his way through that either, holds onto her when he kisses back, slow, languid and unhurried, like he's got all the time in the world. His hands stay on her hips, keeping her close but not pushing. He seems like the kind of guy who'd be content with just this for hours on end, and damn, they should've done this sooner. It's a nice change of pace, although patience isn't exactly one of her virtues.
She's the one who pulls away after a few minutes, entwining their fingers as she goes. “So,” she says, looking up at him through her lashes in a mockery of innocence, “I've seen the living room, quite nice, but where's the bedroom?”
He laughs, just as she intended, a low rumbling sound that makes her want to kiss him again, and wordlessly pulls her along. His bedroom blends right in with the rest of the place – a wardrobe, a single bed, a chest of drawers and a few black and white prints on the wall, nothing else, riding the line towards impersonal. It's not unlike her apartment, only that her furniture's a bit more modern, and she guesses that makes sense; neither of them ever had much energy left to spend on visits to Home Depot or Ikea. It's a living space, not a home.
Natasha abandons that thought when he comes up behind her again, huge hands wrapping around her middle and idly stroking her stomach, just enough so her shirt's riding up and he can get at a sliver of skin, the contact a reminder that yeah, no, she had plans to move this along. He’s left the lights off, but there's street light filtering in through the blinds, dipping the room in a warm, dim glow.
She takes a step back and turns, doesn't have to squint to make out his form, ridiculously sculpted chest and broad shoulders, and, ah yes. The shirt has to go. Leaning in for another quick kiss, she lets her hand trail down his body, starting at his pecs and going lower in one slow stroke. His eyes track her path, and he sucks in a breath when she reaches his stomach, his hips, shifting his weight. She shakes her head at him, slides her hand underneath the thin fabric of his shirt, and he gets the hint, strips it off. His posture while he lets her look is relaxed, easy and comfortable, the hint of self-consciousness in the way he squares his jaw and flexes the muscles in his upper arms just a little bit too much, only visible to her because it's part of her job to read people. Half the men she's known would've met her appraisal with a smug comment, something along the lines of hey honey, like what you see, and although there's nothing inherently wrong with that – she appreciates confidence in a man, never did have much of a taste for charity cases – it wouldn't fit him. He looks more like a boy in the body of a man, like this, strength and solid muscle on the outside but inside still frail and breakable, permanently torn between the two.
To even the playing field, Natasha pulls her own top over her head and unclasps her bra so he's no longer the only one who's exposed. His eyes flick to her chest, his sharp intake of breath confirming that he, too, approves of what he sees. With a smile that she hopes is appropriately vicious, she pulls down her jeans and panties in one go, kicks off her shoes so that she's standing before him naked, hands on her hips and issuing a challenge. He takes it, makes quick work of the rest of his own clothes and mirrors her pose.
Rogers licks his lips. “Get up on the bed,” he says, but it goes up at the end, like a question, not a demand. She would've complied either way, has been curious to see how he reacts, what he intends to do, whether the commanding tone from missions and meetings would extend to this, too. She finds she likes this more, the insecurity he barely bothers to mask. Not due to inexperience, more like he’s playing a game he used to be good at, but he hasn’t played in a while and isn’t sure the same rules still apply.
Legs open in front of her in a loose cross, she positions herself so she's leaning against the headboard. His eyes fall down to the space between them, but he gathers himself quickly, throat working as he swallows. He puts his hands on her knees, gently pulling them apart, eyebrows raised and searching for her gaze to ask permission. Parting them on her own accord and nodding, she grants it.
Now openly staring, he sits back on his heels, swallows again. He briefly closes his eyes, then lays down in the v of her legs, braced on one elbow, idly stroking the thumb of his other hand through her folds. She shivers at this first touch, always so electrifying, hisses a breath when he parts her folds, blowing on the wetness there, and she reaches own to swat at his head for being a tease. Evading her easily, he laughs, that low sound again that makes her insides turn liquid, but he complies. Her eyes fall closed as he seals his mouth around her, fingers pulling her labia apart further as he licks a stripe down the length of her cunt, sucking slightly.
It's good, it's fucking wonderful, but it's still teasing, slow and shallow. She's got a feeling that's intentional, though – not lack of skill, but drawing this out, going slow, getting her ready to climb out of her skin before he goes all in. Not a strategy she disapproves of, per so, since it tends to be rewarding, but, patience. Really not her thing. She bucks up against him, trying to get her where she wants him, just barely managing to resist reaching down and give him a nudge.
The next time he licks at her, he pauses at her clit for the briefest moment, as if to confirm that he did, indeed, figure out where it is and knows what to do with it, but has no plans to act for the next little while. She rolls her hips again, whining low in her throat when he punishes that with a complete loss of contact. He looks up at her, grinning, licking his lips again, but this time it's not a sign of nerves. She wants to kiss him, taste herself on his lips, but she also has more pressing concerns right now.
Natasha's tempted to give him explicit and unmistakable instructions on what she wants him to do and what kind of hell he's in for if he doesn't get a move on, but she settles for a show rather than tell. Drawing her knees further up, she reaches down to touch herself, thumb on her clit, her other hand twisting a nipple between two fingers, lets out a throaty moan, and it doesn't fail to get her the desired results. She can hear his breathing pick up, and then he's putting a hand on hers, stilling her, sets his mouth on her with renewed enthusiasm. Eyes flicking up and down between her face and her cunt, he pulls her apart, thumb finding her clit and rubbing before his tongue gets back to work. He alternates between the two, licking into her in between, and it's not long until her free hand flails out, bunching up the sheets so she's got something to hold on to as pleasure builds in her like a flood. He reads her well, almost too well, letting up whenever she thinks that yes, fuck, now, has her riding the very edge of orgasm until she's out of her mind with it. Then, only then, he works a finger into her, giving her the last bit of additional stimulation she needs to downright explode with pleasure, her thighs quivering around his head. She feels like she's drowning, breath coming in fast, desperate pants that only serve to make this more intense. He doesn't let up until she wriggles away, orgasm subsiding and his touch suddenly too much.
Natasha sits up, slowing her breathing, watches as he sits back on his haunches, cock straining up against his belly, and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. Which, okay. Is kinda hot. She needs a moment, but she's not done here just yet.
“And now tell me,” she says, “where you learned that. Who taught you? What have the history books been keeping from us all these years?”
Something washes over his face when she mentions the history books, the reminder that he's in those seemingly unwelcome, but he smiles. It's nostalgic and not without a twinge of pain, but honest. “She was a dancer.”
“A dancer?” Natasha parrots, worries that she might've zoned out of the conversation for a few moments – hey, orgasm, who could blame her – because she fails to make a connection.
“From the tour. Those shows. Sarah. She was one of the dancers. I... I didn't love her, was still in love with someone else, and I told her that. She said she didn't care.” He falls silent, casts his eyes down, like an admission of guilt. Natasha's about to point out that there's nothing wrong with a consensual, mutually beneficial relationship if everyone knows what they're in for, until she remembers the idealistic part. She wonders if there's something she should say, but then he continues by himself. “I was a puppet on a string, on a stage, and Peggy was in Europe, fighting a war. I didn't think I'd ever see her again. And Sarah... Sarah felt good.”
Natasha shakes her head. “You don't have to explain anything, least of all to me.” She gets her legs under herself, crawls towards him, tipping his chin up to kiss him. It's brief, less passion, more trying to communicate something she assumes he wouldn't want to hear if she said it out loud.
His eyes fall closed, forehead dipping down so it touches hers. He takes her hand and laces their fingers together, the moment more intimate than anything they else they did so far. It makes Natasha's insides turn liquid again at the same time as it makes her want to withdraw; she doesn't know him well enough for this. She hasn't yet thought about where this might take them, whether it's just one night of casual fun or something more. That's for tomorrow, in the harsh light of day.
She moves her hand down his body, the one that's twined with his, and wraps it around his cock. “Show me how you like it.”
Rogers exhales, his head falling back, but he obeys. With a firm grip, he uses both their hands to stroke himself slowly, thumb swiping over the head ever so often. He's quiet about this, moaning low in his throat, barely audible. His breathing picks up and he kisses her again, urgent and messy. Everything about him is less serum-powered super soldier and more self-conscious kid, as if he doesn't dare make too much noise or draw too much attention to himself, even in a situation like this.
Natasha stills their hands, and, never breaking the kiss, drags him down with her as she lies down. He goes along, positions himself between her legs, fumbles to reach into his night stand. Plastic's being torn, and she feels his hand working between their bodies, rolling on a condom she wouldn't have expected him to have at hand.
She'll seriously need to adjust her opinions about him, after tonight. There’s so much that surprises her that's obvious in hindsight, if she'd ever bothered to really pay attention. But that, too, is something she'll think about after sunrise and a few hours of sleep.
As it is, she spreads her legs wider, allowing him better access. She's still wet and sensitive from before, allowing him to slide right in without any discomfort at all. He's still careful about it, gradual, not moving in earnest until he's buried in her to the hilt and given her a moment to adjust. Whoever his dancing girl was, she taught him a thing or two about this as well; he fucks her slow and deep, just the right twist to his hips, body curled over hers. He looks right at her as he drives into her, pulls out, does it again, his eyes pinned to hers and his mouth open slightly, expression reverent, rapt, as if she's the most beautiful thing he's ever seen. It makes this hotter still, that singular focus – like this is about her more than it is about him, her pleasure and not chasing after his orgasm.
She arches her back as she comes, sooner than she'd like, nerve endings in her cunt still on fire from before and not in need of much additional stimulation. He fucks her through it, picking up his pace, bites his lip as he visibly struggles to keep his own climax at bay until she's done. Only then does he follow, his rhythm turning uncoordinated, erratic for a few more thrusts. When he's done, he lets himself fall to the side, rolls onto his back and props his head up on one elbow to look at her. He's still breathing hard, but he looks happy, relaxed in a way she hasn't seen him all night – or at any point before tonight, for that matter.
“Do you want –” He clears his throat. “Do you want to stay here?”
“I was counting on it, actually,” Natasha replies. “My car's still at the bar, and finding a cab at this time of the night would be a nightmare.” She also plain doesn't want to leave, doesn’t want to have this end for the time being, but she has no plans of telling him that. Maybe later, if this turns out to be the start of something, she'll be able to admit to these things. Not yet, though.
He nods, unfolds himself, and stands. “Gonna go to the bathroom. You know. Clean up. I'll be right back.”
Natasha falls asleep before she can hear him return to the bed.
***
She wakes to an empty bed, the smell of pancakes – her list of things she didn't know about Steve Rogers keeps growing, but then again, not too much of a surprise a poor Brooklyn boy learned how to cook for himself – and three unanswered text messages. Of course. Someone's waiting for a report. He'll have to wait a little longer, though, because there's also a faint whiff of fresh coffee mixed in with the pancake smell and that combination is just too tempting to resist. Rogers has laid out a bathrobe on a chair next to the bed; she pulls it on and walks into the kitchen.
He’s standing by an old-fashioned gas stove in boxers and a T-shirt, turns to smile at her when she walks in. “Thought that might get your attention.”
“Well, I'm a woman of simple needs,” she says, surveying a table set for two but making no move to sit down. “And coffee in the morning is pretty much essential.”
“Good.” He lets another pancake join the stake of them he's collected on a plate, turns off the stove. “I don't trust people who're functional without caffeine to wake them up.”
This is probably the point at which they should sit down, have breakfast, and talk. They're adults. They're teammates. They can handle this maturely. And they will. But Natasha is still pleasantly sore in all the right places, she's not the least bit over being affected by the sight in front of her, and she doesn't want to talk just yet.
She walks over to the table, steals a sip from his half-full cup. She looks him up and down, eyebrows raised. He looks back, grinning, shifts to accommodate her when she steps closer, backs him up against the edge of the counter and lets the bathrobe glide off her shoulders.
Pancakes and maturity can wait. There are better things to do on a kitchen table.