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There are two things Natasha loves in particular about Steve Rogers.
The first is how big he is.
When she met him, and her eyes flicked over his unshakable frame, her first thought is:
He could hold me down, and keep me there.
Her second thought is:
God, I would climb him like a tree.
It doesn't help that he has a habit of reaffirming his approval -- his respect and appreciation for his team -- through physical gestures.
A strong hand on the shoulder or back, a brief one-armed sort of hug that has her tucked against his chest for not nearly long enough.
Natasha has never been the biggest person in the room, but she never feels so compact and delicate as when Steve Rogers has an arm around her.
It surprises her that she doesn't mind the feeling.
He calls her 'Ma'am', flashes her genuine, crooked smiles. Later, brings her flowers. Takes her out to dinner.
Things that do strange things to her stomach, and absolutely nothing for the ache between her legs.
At least, until the day where she's kissing Steve goodnight with him bending as always to accommodate, shoulders hunching towards his ears with firm hands on either side of her face, and suddenly he's sweeping her up effortlessly, bundling Natasha into his arms bridal style to carry her inside and fall backwards onto his bed as if he feared he would crush her.
And as much as she likes the idea of him above her, this is nice, too; sprawled over his chest with fingers in his hair as he strokes down her back hand over hand, grinning into her mouth.
Steve is warm -- the consequences of a metabolism that burns like a bonfire when compared with that of a normal man, let alone a woman slight as Natasha. It only serves to make her feel even more soft and vulnerable than she usually does.
And again he manages to brush aside her expectations, because she isn't bothered that he makes her feel fragile, though by all rights she should be concerned by it.
But it's hard to feel unsafe, when his arms are surrounding her and he's all solid muscle wrapped round near unbreakable bone, and making small, delighted murmurs low in his throat.
Natasha is not a woman who needs protecting, but he would do it anyways.
She might even let him.
Steve is amused -- but not objecting -- when his shirt comes off and she spends a lot of time tracing over the contours of his torso; over his shoulders and down his arms, across his chest and along his stomach.
Either over or underestimating a teammate's abilities was a hazard that could cause serious difficulties in battle. And Natasha has seen him in battle, but she's never seen him. But because she's seen him fight, she knows how much power Steve holds in the body he is content to let her explore with curious fingertips, flexing under her touch when she presses against him, squeezes his arms, and he lets her feel the muscle tense with potential force enough to not only pin her to the mattress should he desire, but enough to snap her in half.
And yet he touches her as if she is fine-spun silver; something precious to be handled with care out of a healthy respect for what he held in his hands, despite the fact that Steve has also seen Natasha in combat, and knows fully well what she is capable of.
It isn't an underestimation, and she isn't offended.
Natasha is used to being ogled, groped and manipulated under the eyes and hands of men who have her in their beds for some reason or another.
Steve is not like most men.
She can feel the almost-scrape of his callouses when his hands trace over her form, see the look in his eyes so foreign she can't name it until he kisses down from her shoulder to her wrist, looking up at her from under his dark eyelashes as he trailed back up, fingers encircling her arm completely in gentle firmness.
It's gratitude and awe, but it's also more than that.
It's reverence.
One hand brushing her hair back, he ducks under her jaw to press his lips there, the knuckles of his opposite caressing the side of one breast for several moments before cupping it completely, testing the barest hints of the strength in his fingers against the soft weight until she lets out a long sigh that manages to be both needy and satisfied, and Natasha can feel him smiling against her throat in response.
Her tongue meets his as they both attempt to simultaneously map each others' mouths, and he hasn't stopped smiling.
Natasha can't help but feel he's going to be one happy man by the time the night is over.
Her breath catches when she feels him beginning to press against her, settled between her knees and tangling his fingers in her hair with soft encouragement breathed against her skin.
Of course she knew he wasn't exactly average but -- oh.
He's slow, gradually moving to fill her so completely that at first it burns. When she whimpers he stops immediately, petting down her cheek with his hushed voice gone concerned.
She can only nod, wanting to have him inside her despite the momentary pain, just edging under too much. He gets the hint when she bucks up once against him, aching to have him complete her in a way that absolutely overshadows the slight ache in her body.
When their hips are flush together, he lets out a shuddering breath and she moans at the sensation of being filled, stretched and made whole.
For several minutes all he does is touch and kiss her despite how she can feel him pulsing inside her; the trembling of his arms when Natasha wraps hers up around them before canting against him and unable to keep from sighing at the absoluteness of the feeling, at the way Steve touches every part of her and has her sparking with awareness.
When he moves, she can't think of anything but for how he feels inside her, the unrefined slide of his lips against hers, the coiling of muscle under her fingers as they rock together.
Natasha has been with many men who knew just what to say to every girl, exactly how to touch them so that it was near perfect.
This isn't perfect. But somehow that makes it so; in the fact that it's real rather than rehearsed.
He shudders when he finishes, and she can feel his release trickling out of her around his length. The hot spill inside her only serves to have more of him filling and surrounding her, and Natasha can't help the disappointed noise that slips through her lips when he pulls away, leaving her feeling empty and strung tight without relief.
For a moment she worries he's forgotten about her, but Natasha should know better than to think Steve has forgotten her.
His hands may be somewhat rough with callouses, the strong hands of a soldier. But they're also the dextrous hands of an artist, something she learns firsthand when he rolls to be on his side next to her and rubs over her stomach before dipping between her legs.
He's confident and sure in his touch -- has a right to be, judging by how she cries out and clutches to his arm, stable and grounding -- and it isn't long before he's whispering in her ear.
I've been across the world, he says, And I've never seen anything as beautiful as you.
She can't help but push up against him, nails digging into his forearm and feeling the ripple of movement from the circling, dragging and flicking of his fingers.
I'm the luckiest guy on the face of the planet to have you, he says. I don't know what I did to deserve it.
Natasha would be happy to give him a comprehensive list of everything he deserves, but she's trembling, whimpering and sobbing as she turns into his shoulder and grips his arm as if it might keep her from being completely seared away by the force of her climax, hot and cold at once, and sweeter than anything else.
Again his arms are around her, stroking over her back and her hair as she's enveloped in his strength and his warmth.
Attagirl, he says, I've got you. You're okay, doll. I'm here.
There are two things Natasha loves in particular about Steve Rogers.
The first is how big he is.
How she can curl up on his chest and hold him, and the world can shrink to his arms around her back, the rapid beat of his heart where her ear is pressed to his skin, and the way he moves inside her. How he is everything around her, and everything inside her, heat and power and profound adoration.
That he is big enough to be anything she could ever need.
The second is his gentleness.
No matter how long it's been, or how dangerous the mission they just got off of was, he is always gentle.
Even when it's fast and passionate, Steve never treats her with anything short of worshipfulness. And ever since that first night that he had held her as she quaked under the force of her climax, he always noses against her to press a kiss to her cheek and says the same thing.
He says: Natasha, I love you so much.
And sometimes she feels like laughing because with his broad chest pressed to her back so that she can't help but synch her her breath with his, and his arms tight around her like he never means to let go, it's obvious.
But usually she just turns in his arms to loop hers around his neck and slide one knee up over his hip, holding onto his steady might as if the security she gained from feeling so small and so delicate against him was the only thing she could ever fully depend on.
She says: Me too.