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When you looked at it logically, Natasha really had absolutely no right to be protesting.
Even if it was through laughter and they both knew she was more than capable of freeing herself from Steve's firm grip around her waist, with her squirming limbs half-heartedly making as if to attempt escape, it was still absurd.
And seeing as this whole thing was entirely her fault, every cry of "Put me down," or "Steve, cut it out!" that she managed to get out between chuckling went unheard, Steve didn't feel sorry in the least. Natasha had known full well what she was doing earlier that day, and it was absolutely ridiculous to be complaining about it now, after the way the night was going to go had already been decided so firmly.
If she was going to jostle his elbow every time Steve tried to put pen to paper in order to take notes in their (admittedly painfully monotonous) meetings, and ignore the long-suffering, Atlas-worthy sighs he let out, as if having scrawls across his notebook amounted to carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders -- and then later, pretend not to notice the way he'd nudged her foot and given her a stern look -- well, they both knew how that ended.
Namely, with Steve giving her superfluous assistance off of his motorcycle with both arms tight around her and letting out a cheeky sort of growl as he did before setting her on her feet, and Natasha turning in his embrace leading to them spending some time exploring the practicality of kissing while one was grinning.
It continued with Steve getting Natasha over his shoulder almost before she could have done anything by way of refusal. However, seeing as she had no intention of refusing any of it, the moment for escape came and went without another moments' consideration -- yet another reason why her apparent grievances regarding her current situation were unfounded.
"Don't you ever get tired of manhandling me?" Natasha demanded, finally going somewhat limp; resigned to her fate like a convict to execution. Steve could hear the smile in her voice anyways.
"Nope."
Steve's own response was cheery, off-handed. Casual in a way you would likely not expect from a man currently carrying his lover up the stairs of his apartment building, in full view of any New Yorker who happened to be coming home as late as they were. It was bold, to be sure -- but self-consciousness was quite far from his mind, with a woman like Natasha. Not only due to her own forwardness, but because any man would be privileged to have her on his arm, let alone as amused as she currently seemed to be.
"Good." She matched his tone as he unlocked the door, and then performed one of her many acrobatic escapes -- the kind that managed to catch Steve off guard no matter the frequency of its use or the forewarning he himself had gotten -- and was somehow on her feet in front of him. But seeing as she had seized his jacket, pulled him down to again crush her lips to his-- well, how she had gotten there seemed largely unimportant, and Steve forgot the question of it entirely in favor of sliding fingers under the hem of her shirt, callouses brushing the imprints in her skin from her jeans.
"Because I never get tired of whupping your sorry ass for doing it," Natasha smirked at him, and Steve really took no issue with the way she had his jacket on the floor with a few quick movements, smooth from practice and repetition.
Steve liked his leather jacket. But he liked Natasha a hell of a lot more, and there would be no harm done if it spent a few hours on the floor before being hung up.
Really, it could probably keep until morning and suffer no ill effects.
"That so, ma'am?"
Rather than dispute it head on, Steve's voice was colored with polite disbelief as he tugged her own jacket to join his, two rumpled heaps of leather still warm from being worn much of the day.
"Mm," Natasha replied, her vocabulary somewhat limited when her tongue was occupying itself quite happily with his.
"I was," he had to speak quickly in the brief moments where his mouth was fully his own to use; but the sentence was stilted anyways, as Natasha kept darting up to kiss him and he was unable to be anything but compliant. "Under the-- the impression...that-- we were...fairly evenly... matched-- on that front."
It took some blinking before he remembered that there truly were other senses aside from touch and taste -- hints of smell; he could catch traces of her perfume, though it was faded now, at the end of the day -- to see Natasha giving him one of her many looks designed to make one feel flustered and cowed. The current was what Clint referred to as the "Ego-Crusher"; the one that managed to be amused, incredulous, and just a touch challenging.
At first, it had lived up to its sobriquet quite completely; now Steve's only response was an open, unassuming smile.
Her own lips curled up in satisfaction. It didn't take long for Steve to see that Natasha liked a man who stood his ground. Something he understood completely, considering he admired a woman who stood hers.
There were some that had expressed concern or surprise immediately upon finding out (It wasn't a secret, exactly; they just didn't flaunt it about. But if Natasha was going to keep grabbing his ass in a purposefully conspicuous way, Steve figured that might not even apply anymore.) -- sometimes both at once -- considering that they were two very stubborn, very strong-minded people.
Tony had told Steve he felt like they'd be at each other's throats constantly.
Steve had shrugged in lieu of answer, and didn't bother to draw particular attention to the fact that it was being at each other's throats -- often called 'sparring', when brevity was a concern -- that had gotten them together in the first place; considering that their first interaction that could be called a date by any stretch of the imagination had happened after several lively matches when Steve had asked Natasha if she wanted to grab a bite to eat to regain some spent energy.
He also didn't mention that they most assuredly were at each other's throats on a constant, but irregular basis.
And he definitely kept very much to himself the fact that neither minded this facet of their relationship in the least.
In fact, judging by the barest beginnings of a smile when Steve had looked up from his notes -- now with a long line across them, thanks to Natasha's calculated interference -- to give her her an exasperated look at the juvenile way in which she chose to pass the time, she might even like it.
Which was honestly a welcome relief; considering that he certainly did.
Natasha was pressing him against the door, fingers trying for purchase in the short hair at the back of his neck and one knee slipped between his as she reacquainted herself with his mouth, like it had been years rather than minutes between then and the last time they had whispered sighs into one another, contentment and sparks of exhilaration swirling together into one feeling that left them both in a state of breathlessness that had surprisingly little to do with a lack for oxygen.
But on the question of strength, Steve would always come out victor. It was through his determined pushes and pulls to the right direction that had both taking their turns becoming more familiar with the corners of the furniture, as his mind was quite thoroughly elsewhere; that they ended up in the bedroom.
At which point Natasha got them both onto the bed with another quick twist of limbs that had Steve laughing again, finding himself on his back with Natasha sitting across his thighs.
Not an entirely unpleasant position to be in, all things considered.
She traced down the line of his jaw with her lips as they both went for his shirt buttons at the same time, though the hasty attempt to speed up the process only gummed up the works; arms and fingers tangling as they fumbled with what Steve decided in a distant, quiet corner of his mind was a diabolical means of fastening clothes shut. Entirely too effective, overall.
And as much as he liked assisting Natasha in removing her own clothes, finding that she had stripped her shirt at the same time that he pulled his undershirt over his head was hardly unwelcome. In fact, Steve didn't think he could properly appreciate it, at this angle. Toeing off his shoes so that they fell to the floor with a hollow sort of thunk, he rolled to prop himself up above her on one elbow, drawing the other hand down her side slowly to remember the feel of her skin underneath his, kissing from the corner of her mouth to her neck.
"May need to stop sitting next to you in meetings," Natasha commented against his lips, apparently out of nowhere as she pulled him back up for a long kiss with hands on his cheeks.
"Why's that?" Steve was quite sure he didn't pull off the blithe tone she had managed in quite the same way, feeling heady and humming with energy that reminded him very much of what it felt like to be drunk.
She took her time before responding, fingers stroking down to his neck and lips lazily insistent against his.
"Your aftershave." Natasha ducked her head under his neck and took a long breath, presumably hoping for as much of the scent as possible. "Makes me want to use the conference table for something more interesting."
"Tasha!"
Steve was again reminded of how difficult it was to try and make himself sound disapproving when he was also laughing. And though he had done many impossible things, he doubted he would ever master that one.
Especially if he stayed with Natasha, who prompted him to such a reaction quite frequently.
He could hear the triumph in her cloying whisper as she nosed against his cheek.
"If I climbed into your lap, would you be able to resist?"
"Well, ma'am, I hope I never come to that dilemma." His response was meant for a tease, but the sentiment was honest.
To Steve, any moment with Natasha was something to hold onto with both hands. It would be admittedly difficult to reconcile that longing with other things-- such as the social acceptability (or lack there of) of sexual activities on a table in a room full of people.
Natasha managed to get him again on his back, kissing down his chest to undo his belt. She'd barely tossed it across the room before Steve again had the upper hand and was working on the fly of her jeans. He was about to pull them off of her when Natasha slipped from where he had her pinned, and he was the first to be left only in underclothing, though it took very little time before Natasha had joined him in that particular respect.
What followed was a bizarre amalgamation of contented, slow kissing, quick, lively tussles for dominance, and a lot more laughter than the grave way in which the Sisters had spoken of sex would ever have lead Steve to believe it would be a common enough occurrence when he joined his girl between the sheets.
Steve had her on strength, weight and reach, but Natasha was cunning, and somehow always found a way out from under him, working her wrists free or rolling them both until she was once again where she wanted to be, mouth bowed into a smug smile when she dipped to kiss him once more.
Because of that cemented pattern, it came to no surprise that it was when she was again straddled over his hips that Natasha apparently decided that it was time to move on to the next step, if the efficient way in which she removed her bra and panties, and then Steve's boxers, was anything at all to go by.
A firm hand on the back of her neck, Steve persuaded her into several more exploring kisses before she was nipping at his lip, drawing up and back to pull all of her hair to the one side of her neck, and give him a soft smile. It was a peculiar thing to see her do, considering how uncertain it was -- as if Natasha was new to the business of smiling fondly at anyone, and wasn't entirely sure she was doing it properly.
He beamed back at her, flushed half from their good-natured wrestling, half from arousal and hair out of its normal neatness due to her frequent habit of messing it up as much as possible. Steve was beginning to wonder if she would rather he leave it like that all the time, even if just to save her from the effort of putting it in a disarray.
Natasha had both hands planted on his chest when she sank low onto him, fingers flexing at the sensation and nails sparking slivers of pain from where they dug into his skin. Her head was flung back, and Steve could clearly see her expression from his half-lidded eyes as her own fell shut, eyebrows twitching together and a smile occasionally flicking over her features before it returned in full, her chest heaving and lids barely parted to see him.
He likely looked the same as she; strung out on anticipation and filled with want -- a sting that was soothed by how they were locked together, and only more so when she lifted herself up on her knees and her brow furrowed, lips spreading open and fingers white from the pressure, eyes again closed as though one more sense would be near overwhelming.
He pulled his heels back up towards him, cradling Natasha back against his thighs as his hands found her hips with familiar ease before stroking around to her back, lighting on her cheek to brush his thumb over it, palming her breasts and making gratified murmurs to match the ones that slipped from her lips as Steve mapped over her skin with his hands and his eyes, warm bursts of pleasure skittering through his entire form.
However, she was looking unfairly smug, and the smile that pulled at her lips was unmistakably self-satisfied.
Probably because of the way he was straining up towards her. Most would find such a thing flattering, or even perhaps endearing. Natasha was, to say the absolute least on the subject, not quite like most other women.
She saw his reactions to her as a victory.
Steve was not quite ready to raise the white flag just yet.
In a somewhat awkward movement, he was up and sitting on his heels, holding Natasha still against him with the steel grip of a powerful arm around her waist, nuzzling into her neck and dusting kisses over her skin, not allowing her to reciprocate as Steve canted up into her with long, smooth strokes that had her breath fracturing.
It wasn't the easiest angle, and Steve soon traded the clear upper hand for convenience and practicality; laying her down on her back with one arm up under her shoulders to tangle in the damp red curls, guiding Natasha into raw, unrefined kisses even as her hand found his opposite and their fingers laced together, Steve's palm pressing hers firm down into the mattress.
Their rhythm was irregular; frivolous and fluid with their grinning delight at being together tinging the gentle panting that seemed to separate them from the muffled sounds of the street, along with their heartbeats shuddering in their ears and fingertips; the way the sheets felt coarse in their over-sensitized state; the sticky-slick slide of sweat dampened skin, and the blue Polaroid light of a lingering dusk that came in from the window. Not to mention the quite remarkable feelings that surged through their bodies, titillating their senses in a way wholly unique to their current state of trusting vulnerability.
In all, it was the kind of experience that one usually tried quite diligently to commit to memory. Which isn't to say that they didn't, but the extremely high probability of a repeat experience allowed the soldier and the spy to focus on every detail for its own sake, instead of with the frenzied distraction of someone trying to take hold of something that was inevitably slipping from their reach.
Natasha was not overly fond of being in such a subordinate position, and so it was on their sides that they finished; with her knee up over his hip, one of Steve's arms around her, fingers possessively tight on her shoulder and the other hand between her legs, coaxing and leading Natasha to completion alongside him.
Both clutched at one another for stability in the glowing aftermath for some time before Steve pressed his lips to her temple, said, "You gonna let me take notes from now on, or are you going to keep being childish whenever you get bored?"
If his life depended on it, Steve would not be able to relate what it was that Natasha did so that he found himself with his back on the floor beside the bed in the next few seconds to see her propping herself up on her elbows at the edge of the bed, one eyebrow curved in a very meaningful coy arch.
"But Steven," her words were molasses-thick with affected sweetness. "You look so cute when you're hot and bothered."
Well, now, that was asking for it if he'd ever heard it in his life.
Natasha's brow rose up further when he rolled over, coiled back and pounced up at her with a playful snarl. Hot and bothered indeed.
This train of thought was very thoroughly and completely derailed as there was a sharp snap, and once he had rolled over on the mattress that seemed to be doing a half-hearted imitation of a hairpin, Natasha leaned over him. The amused tweak of her lips was the only indication of anything other than the dryness in which she spoke.
"Steve."
Her hair fell in an unruly curtain, and the light catching the curls burnished them with hints of gold.
"You broke the bed."
Steve blinked, as if this sort of thing was terribly mundane, even as his fingers brushed down her sides while he assessed the damage.
The frame had splintered clean in half, and the end of one of the slats was prodding most rudely into his back.
"Guess we'll need a sturdier bed, then."
She just laughed.
With some careful experimentation immediately following, they came to the conclusion that -- despite the inconvenience of the bed frame being in two separate pieces -- the mattress still worked just fine.