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1.
Originally, the mission had been scheduled for in two weeks time. But then, S.H.I.E.L.D. had gotten wind of new information, slipped through by their contact, and now everything had to be in place before the week was over. It was Friday.
This, coincidentally, had also meant the mission now fell smack bang in the middle of Barton’s pre-requested, long-since-approved week of leave. And since Romanoff, the little shit, had refused to work with anyone of a ‘lesser calibre’ – which apparently meant only her or Fury his goddamned self – and they really couldn’t afford to trust this mission to anyone less capable than Romanoff, combined with the fact that Fury was absolutely wrapped around the redhead’s finger, meant that Maria had to deal with the fallout. As usual.
So now, Maria was wriggling her feet in uncomfortably tight heels, trying to find a position that didn’t force the arch of the shoes into her sole, and carefully surveying a room of pretentious criminals over Romanoff’s head.
“You know,” Maria says, because she’s still a little pissed at Romanoff, “you really are conveniently short for this.”
Romanoff raises an eyebrow. “And here I was, about to compliment you on your outfit.” She runs a hand down the tie tucked into Maria’s waistcoat, and gives it an almost imperceptible tug. “It really is very handsome.”
Maria doesn’t blush – she wouldn’t have survived this long around Natasha if she couldn’t handle a flirtatious comment here and there – but a warm satisfaction does settle in her bones. Outwardly, she just rolls her eyes.
“What?” Romanoff continues, leaning in closer to Maria, “no compliments for me?” and she steps back in a flourish to present herself to Maria. (Maria does not miss her warmth, goddamnit). “You don’t like what you see?”
Maria, helplessly, trails her eyes up and down Romanoff, clad in a deep red dress that matches the cut of fabric tucked into Maria’s chest pocket, and does, very much, like what she sees.
Maria tugs her back in closer, Natasha easily letting herself be pulled, and lays a hand over her waist, even though Romanoff is supposed to be leading the dance. “Just focus on the mission, Romanoff.”
Maria doesn’t have to look down to know that Romanoff is smirking, fully aware of the effect she has on the older woman, but she chooses to ignore it, keeping her head high to survey the room. (She wasn’t completely lying; Romanoff truly is conveniently short for this.)
Romanoff continues to lead them through the basic steps of a waltz as Maria scans the room, looking for their target. The description they’d been given consisted roughly of shady, lowlife, gun-for-hire, which was significantly more helpful than it had initially sounded, given that everyone in this room looked like they took regular yacht trips. Maria just had to spot the one man who didn’t look filthy rich.
Just as she’s narrowing in on a hunched over, leather jacket wearing, out of place man in the corner, Romanoff twists her out into an elaborate spin, and dips her. She stares into Maria’s eyes for a moment, before winking and pulling her back close. Maria has to take a moment to catch her breath. When she does, she finds only sparkling amusement in Romanoff’s eyes, and huffs. She knows a losing battle when she sees one. Instead, she turns back to the man, and swears when she sees him rushing into a back passage.
“Shit,” she murmurs, “2 0’ clock – mine – move quickly. I think he’s about to make the drop.” Without breaking her stride, Romanoff leads them through a series of complex steps that bring them towards the edge of the throng of people dancing.
Together, they carefully pick through the crowd and follow him down the corridor, moving silently and precisely, eyes searching for their target. Romanoff spots him a moment before Maria does, and slips into their agreed cover role without blinking an eye. When she feels Romanoff leaning into her, feigning drunkenness and giggling softly, Maria easily follows suite, marvelling only a little bit at how good Natasha is at her job.
Together, they stumble down the dimly lit corridor, leaning into each other the whole way. When they reach where the man is standing, waiting anxiously with a briefcase in hand (which, come on, so overdone) Romanoff near falls in the direction of him.
“Babe! Babe!” she giggles, voice high and airy, “that was so-“ a hiccup cuts her off, and her movements grow increasingly wild in her supposed drunkenness, “that was so funny!” and she trips into the man, hand landing on the underside of the briefcase and tucking a tracker into the corner, whilst the other reaches forward to steady herself.
“Oh my god! We are so sorry.” Maria apologises profusely to the man, and reaches for Romanoff to begin pulling her to her feet. “It’s just – the champagne here is so good,” she whispers, as though letting him in on a secret, ”we might have had a little too much,” she finishes sheepishly.
The man just stares as she continues helping Romanoff to her feet, before nodding quickly and turning away from them. Maria takes the escape opportunity presented to her and they resume their stumble down the corridor, heading for the exit.
When they’re out of the fire escape filling in for their exit plan, Maria turns to Natasha, “A couple? Was that necessary?”
Natasha just smiles at her, slow and enticing, eyes burning, before turning away. Over her shoulder, voice promising mischief, Natasha says, “Just focus on the mission, Hill.”
2.
Natasha’s mouth is a searing heat against Maria’s as she fumbles blindly with the keys to her apartment.
In her defence, Maria had been more than willing to end this spectacular night at the restaurant, contentedly glowing from an evening of warm, comfortable company and subtle flirting; but then Natasha had offered to walk her home, and followed her to door, and before Maria knew it her back was pressed against her front door and the Natasha was tugging her down by her lapel to kiss her firmly on the mouth.
Finally, the lock clicks open and Maria falls back into her home, Natasha following much more gracefully. She smacks aimlessly at the light switch, Natasha licking into her mouth, but eventually has to concede and force herself away from the younger woman to lock the door behind them and turn on some lights.
When she turns back to Natasha, lips swollen red and hair tousled ever so slightly, and unexpectedly strong surge of arousal settles in her stomach, and she has to swallow repeatedly before she can speak again. “So,” she clears her throat, “want a drink?”
Natasha cocks an eyebrow. “Come on Hill, you must have better lines than that.”
Maria chuckles, more comfortable in their familiar banter. “Of course I do.” She steps forward into Natasha’s space, and preens at the way the younger woman leans towards her. “Pretty sure I don’t need them here though, Romanoff,” and she begins to saunter towards her room, looking over her shoulder when she reaches the door. “You coming?”
Natasha shakes her head and laughs almost incredulously, but stalks after Maria nevertheless. “By the end of the night, I sure hope one of us is,” she winks as she brushes past Maria in the doorframe.
A surprised laugh forces its way of her throat. “Really, Romanoff?”
She shrugs. “Easy pickings.”
“Too easy, for someone of your intelligence.”
“Was that a compliment, Commander?” Natasha, now sitting on the edge of Maria’s bed, crosses her legs and leans forward faux-eagerly. Maria’s eyes flicker down and back up in less than half a second, but she knows Natasha still catches her from the cocky grin that splits her face. “Or maybe,” she murmurs, and Maria has moved closer to her without even noticing, close enough for Natasha to hook a finger around her wrist, “there’s something else you want to compliment.”
She pulls Maria down and they both fall back onto the bed, tangling together in a messy kiss. Maria wastes no time in running a hand up under Natasha’s shirt, reaching around to unclasps her bra. She lifts both over Natasha’s head in one fluid movement, then dives back in to leave a trail of kisses down Natasha’s throat.
As Maria begins to kiss lower and lower down Natasha’s chest, she feels the redhead grow increasingly tense below her. It’s subtle, and Maria can still hear her moans, feel her fingers tangled in her hair, but Maria had been paying close attention to Natasha’s behaviour, waring of crossing any unknown boundaries.
Maria pulls away to look Natasha in the eye, studying her face.
“Is something wrong?” Natasha asks, but Maria can see the way her relaxed nature becomes more genuine at the distance between them.
“Do you want this?” Maria asks as gently as she can manage.
“What?!” Natasha all but yelps, “of course I do! You know I do.” Then, when Maria doesn’t respond, “did I do something wrong?” much quieter, much more vulnerable.
“Oh Nat,” Maria winces internally. Not a great opener. “Nat no, I didn’t mean this,” and she gestures between them. “I don’t doubt you, at all. I just meant – this, right now. Sex. You know you don’t owe it to me, right?”
Natasha just stares at her, seemingly at little confused, and therefore a lot defensive. Maria sighs, sitting back on her haunches to gather her thoughts.
“You seemed really uncomfortable. That’s why I stopped.”
“Oh.” Natasha seems to understand now, and turns her face away from Maria to hide the myriad of incomprehensible feelings flit across it. “Sorry. We can uh, we can continue if you want.”
“Do you want to?”
“What?”
“Nat, I don’t want to do anything that you’re not comfortable with. If you’re not comfortable with sex, then we won’t have sex.”
Natasha has curled herself into a ball against Maria’s pillow, and Maria is like ninety percent sure her heart is going to split her chest open with the way it aches.
“Is that not what you wanted from me?” Natasha asks quietly, and Maria hears the unspoken addition of do you not want me?
“Nat, I don’t ever want anything from you that you aren’t willing to give,” Maria affirms, holding eye contact and willing the younger woman to see how much she really means it.
“I do want to,” Natasha says after a long pause, and Maria nods, sensing she has more to say, “but,” and she stops, steels herself, then continues, “not yet.”
And she keeps her gaze just over Maria shoulder, turning her head away as if expecting retribution.
Maria, keeping her movements as soft and predictable as she can manage, just smiles gently. “Ok. That’s ok.” Natasha relaxes, but still seems shaken up, so Maria pushes off the bed to give her space. “Now, I’m going to change into something more comfortable. Want to borrow something?”
And so, five minutes later, a very grumpy Black Widow slouches out of Maria’s room in a hoodie multiple sizes to big for her, and soft cotton pants that are rolled up a few too many times to be optional at the bottom.
Maria, walking out of her kitchen, two mugs of hot chocolate in her hand, cannot stop the laugh that bubbles from her lips.
“Shut up,” Natasha scowls, but she looks so much lighter than she had before that Maria doesn’t hesitate to just start laughing harder. “This is your fault anyway,” Natasha grumbles.
“My fault?” Maria manages through her snickers.
“Yes. Your fault for being so stupidly tall.”
Maria gasps in offense. “Well then, if I’m so stupid I guess you won’t be wanting any of this hot chocolate that I just made with my evil, silly tall person hands,” and she whisks the mugs away towards her sofa.
“Well,” Natasha says, following Maria and plopping down on her sofa. “I never said that.”
Maria sits down on the opposite end of the couch, giving Natasha as much space as she needs. Natasha smiles at her gratefully, and brings her feet up to rest in Maria’s lap. Maria softens, and holds out a mug for her. “I suppose a truce can be made.”
Truthfully, Maria doesn’t think tonight could have gone any better.
3.
Natasha, in all her child-assassin-super-spy-ness, is very aware of when Maria finally shuffles into their kitchen, bleary eyed, slipper-clad feet dragging along the floor. But, even if she hadn’t been, it became all too apparent when Maria practically collapsed against her back, nose nuzzling into her neck and arms making a vague attempt at circling her waist.
Natasha pauses in her puttering to coo adoringly at her very sleepy girlfriend, stretching a hand round to sympathetically run a hand through Maria’s hair.
Maria sighs, pleased at the attention, and twists her face out of Natasha’s neck. “Too early,” She mumbles, and Natasha feels her words on the back of her ear.
“Good morning to you to, Mia.”
Maria grumbles, and leans more of her weight onto Natasha.
“Ok, ok, come on sweetheart. I made you coffee, yeah?”
Maria, very unwillingly, peels herself off Natasha and drags herself over to the steaming cup of coffee, made to perfection, waiting for her on the counter. Natasha watches her go with an unbearably fond smile.
She knows how rare it is for Maria to have enough spare time to even think about being tired, and even rarer for her to actually be able to indulge in her tiredness, so does everything she can to allow her girlfriend to remain relaxed for as long as possible. And if, whilst she’s at it, she also gets to enjoy how adorable a sleepy Commander Hill is either, well she doesn’t see the harm in it.
Maria sidles back over, coffee cupped reverently in both hands, and leans back against the counter, seeming significantly more awake now.
“So, what’re you making?” She asks, and Natasha suddenly remembers her abandoned attempt at breakfast, ingredients sitting on the counter in a number of separate bowls, and flushes.
“Oh, well,” she starts, “Because I’m the absolute best person in the world and a wonderful, amazing girlfriend-” Maria raises an eyebrow. Natasha ignores her. “- I decided to make you breakfast in bed!”
“Oh?” Maria grins. “Well there seems to be a bit of a flaw in your plan, Ms. Amazing Girlfriend. Here I am,” she sweeps a hand through the air, gesturing to herself, “up and at ‘em; very much not in bed.”
“I was going to make you pancakes,” Natasha continues, “but I ran into an… issue, of sorts,” and she gestures vaguely to a cupboard on the wall.
Maria frowns, following her hand motions. “The cupboard? Is there something wrong with it?”
Natasha shakes her head. “No, no. It’s just, well, let me show you.” She moves over the cupboard and pulls it open. Inside, on the very top shelf, almost out of sight for Natasha, is the plain flour, an essential ingredient in making pancakes. Natasha points at it. “And given how you reacted last time, I decided not to climb up the wall to reach it.”
Realisation dawns on Maria, and a wolfish grin spreads across her features as she gently sets her coffee down on the counter. Defences die on Natasha’s lips as her girlfriend stalks towards her, looking far too hot for her to focus on anything else, including her own embarrassment.
Maria advances into her space until Natasha is pressed into the draws behind her, setting her hands down either side of Natasha to bracket her in.
“My, my,” Natasha says, smiling coyly up at Maria. She trails a fingertip over the flex of Maria’s bicep, placed conveniently near eye level as they are positioned. “Aren’t you a strong one.” She bats her eyelashes and lets her voice become more airy.
Indulgently, Maria flexes beneath her hand, more than happy to play into her girlfriend’s antics. “You need a little help there?” She drawls close to Natasha’s ear.
Natasha shivers, and twists to reach a hand up towards the cupboard. “Oh I just,” and she strains harder, pushing her chest out into Maria’s, “can’t seem to reach the flour, you see.”
Maria steps closer, fitting her body against Natasha’s as she reaches up, brushing against Natasha’s retreating arm. From here, Natasha has the most perfect view of Maria’s jawline, sloping flawlessly down her neck, and has the insatiable urge to lick and bite up it. Natasha knows, from plenty of personal experience, just how well the reality of that lives up to her daydream. Instead, she feathers a finger down the defined line of it, trailing it all the way down to her sternum and pressing there gently.
Maria looks down at her, pupils dark and wide, and Natasha cheekily pushes a little harder against her breastbone. In response, Maria settles a heavy, possessive hand on Natasha’s hip, squeezing tightly, and Natasha responds almost ferally. She growls as she lunges for Maria, giving up all pretence of the helpless, docile woman she’d been playing. Maria seamlessly meets her halfway, licking into her open mouth with a heat that Natasha feels in the pit of her stomach. Maria’s hand slides from her hip to the small of her back, pushing Natasha’s hips forward to meet Maria’s, and Natasha moans into Maria’s throat, forcing a hand up Maria’s sleep shirt to scratch at her abs. She grinds into Maria’s hips, urged on by the weight against the small of her back.
A wave of cold air startles Natasha out of her haze, as Maria steps back from her, not even trying to hide her smug grin. Natasha blinks at her, disoriented, as Maria presents the flour to her.
Breathing hard, cheeks flushed and hair tousled, looking – as she is very much aware – absolutely delectable, Natasha stares at Maria.
Maria stares back, unwavering.
Finally, Natasha caves, snatching the flour out of Maria’s hand and near stomping back to her stalled breakfast attempt. Maria laughs, loud and bright, and Natasha turns away to hide her smile at the sound.
“What’s the problem, darling?” Maria taunts, “Wasn’t that what you wanted?”
Natasha ignores her, simply sniffing haughtily and returning to her pancakes. Maria only laughs harder.
“Well,” Maria says, practically sauntering towards the door, “I’ll go back to bed, let you surprise me with breakfast. After all,” she calls out over her shoulder, “you are the most wonderful, amazing girlfriend in the world.”
4.
They filter through the door of their apartment in a heavy silence. Maria can feel the dirt and blood settling into her skin as though it intends to take permanent residence there. They had forgone the opportunity to clean up after their mission and instead headed straight home, each understanding that the other needed the ease and simplicity of their own space.
Maria remembers, months – maybe years – ago, when they used to come home from difficult missions separately. Maria would stay late in her office, filing paperwork and completing mindless menial tasks until her brain was so numbed she could forget the weight of her gun, the crimson of Natasha’s blood, the pain of her own. Natasha would disappear, slipping into the crowd and finding some unknown corner where no one could disturb her. Maria knew that, if it was bad enough for the vice of Natasha’s past to close its jaws on her again, Natasha would find an empty studio and dance until she collapsed one too many times, feet bloody, face pallid.
No matter how late into the night Maria worked, she would always arrive home before Natasha. When Natasha returned, Maria would pull her, weightless and malleable, into bed and bandage her feet.
Now, they gravitate to each other.
Natasha hovers around Maria as she begins to peel off her tac-suit. The blood from the deep wound on her stomach has stuck the suit to her skin, and Maria grimaces as she rips it off. Natasha flinches towards her at her pained grunt, and Maria hears the cut off shout of her name as her comm is ripped out of her ear and her cover blown echo through her head.
At the sight of her bare skin, marred with bruises and cuts, each detailing the violence of Maria’s day, Natasha pales. “Mia…” she murmurs, reaching out vacantly before thinking better of it and pulling back into herself.
“Tasha,” she says, and reaches out before Natasha can slip away from her. “I’m ok, Tasha. I’m alive.” Natasha swallows roughly, and lets Maria’s hand wrap around her wrist and pull her closer. “I’m here, and I’m alive,” she repeats, pressing her forehead against Natasha’s, feeling her breath on lips, knowing Natasha can feel the same.
“You could have died,” Natasha manages, voice faint.
“I know,” Maria responds, because there’s nothing else she can say. Natasha is intimately familiar with death, more than even Maria with her two army tours and grave of fellow marines behind her. Maria cannot offer her any reassurances; Natasha cannot offer her any. They love each other anyway. “We should shower.”
Natasha nods mutely, and begins the arduous process of stripping her own suit.
The bathroom is warmer, once Maria turns on the shower, and heat begins to seep back into her bones. Steam fills the room, and a faint blush returns to Natasha’s cheeks, and for the first time since her cover had been blown Maria starts to feel like a grounded presence in her own life again.
Natasha steps into the shower without preamble. Maria waits a moment, watching the way Natasha relaxes, tension running off her with the hot water. When she looks back expectantly, Maria follows her into the shower.
Maria is drawn towards the heat; the heat of the water, the heat of Natasha, the stark contrast to the cold feeling of her own blood in her hands. She presses the length of her body into Natasha’s, feeling the water soak into the mess of her hair, spilling down her back and encasing her. Natasha leans back into her, and Maria knows that Natasha needs this, needs to feel that Maria is alive, needs to be overwhelmed by the evidence. So, she stands taller and swallows Natasha’s smaller form in her own, until she cannot tell where she ends and Natasha begins.
They stand, entangled, drenched, until Natasha shifts away from her. She turns around, and her hands immediately find the gash on her stomach, now red and raw in its cleaner state. She runs her finger’s gently over the jagged edge of it, then splays her hand over it. This is a familiar routine, and Maria recognises it as Natasha making piece with Maria’s mortality, and deciding once again that this is all worth the risk.
Once Natasha has finished, she reaches wordlessly for the soap. Reverently, she cleans each piece of dirt or blood off Maria. In the process, she washes away the memories of the knife in her gut, the knuckles on her face, replacing it with soft kisses to her shoulder and gentle touches over her hip.
Maria enjoys her work, can’t picture herself ever doing anything else, but before Natasha, nights like these had nearly ruined her. Some things are impossible to forget, and when Maria had left the marines, she had been hoping to leave them behind her. But she had always been a little bit too good at her job, and mindless foot soldier work had quickly become having the lives of hundreds of agents in her hands before she had even eaten breakfast. It was hard, and Maria likes the challenge, needs it, needs to prove herself, but sometimes, when she’s proven everything she has to prove, and still she has to sign off on the death report of a man whose name she learnt only hours ago, Maria hates it.
But here, with Natasha, there is nothing to prove, and no death. Instead, there is warmth and love, and Maria is glad to let herself slip into it.
5.
When Natasha gets home that evening, she’s glad for it. She drops her keys by the door, flings off her shoes, and lobs her jacket onto its designated hook.
“Masha?” She calls out, knowing that today was one of Maria’s now mandatory afternoons off, ever since Natasha had quietly threatened to very seriously harm whoever it was that thought they could keep her girlfriend away from her.
When she receives no response, she quickly strides deeper into their apartment. It’s unlikely that anyone has managed to break into their apartment and take out her girlfriend, but Natasha didn’t survive this long by assuming the best.
Quickly, she gets an answer to her question.
Collapsed face first on the couch, still wearing her work suit, drooling slightly into the cushion, is her wonderful, talented, super hot girlfriend. Natasha, as much as she is able, melts. She takes far too many photos, just as she does when Liho curls up in a ball, one paw draped over her nose, before carefully tucking a blanket over Maria’s shoulders.
Now moving with a precise silence reserved for the most stealthy of stealth missions, Natasha changes out of her work clothes into sweats and tank. Ideally, she would have showered, but that was guaranteed to wake Maria, and Natasha really didn’t want that.
She was very, very aware of just how little sleep Maria got, and whilst she could throw absolutely no stones from her glass house, she could do everything in her power to allow Maria the full extent of any moments of peace she got. It was an arrangement that had worked very well for them throughout their relationship; they were both horrendously shit at taking care of themselves, but so determined to take care of each other, that it was often easier for them both to give responsibility for themselves to the other.
Earlier in their relationship, they had both quickly discovered that any attempt to force either into taking care of themselves would result in a week of disgruntled silence on both ends. But, as both had slowly relaxed, and eased their way into their relationship, they had learnt to lean on each other, without accusations or blame. It was nice, Natasha supposed. (It was more than she’d ever dreamed of for herself.)
So, Natasha forgoes her shower, and tiptoes through their apartment, and maybe takes even more photos of Maria curled under the blanket, before finally heading to the kitchen to begin making dinner for them both.
When Maria wakes an hour later, Natasha has dished two servings, set them aside in the kitchen, and returned to join Maria on the sofa, squeezing into the small space by her feet. This means she has a perfect view of the way Maria slowly blinks herself awake, stretching languidly as she lazily takes in her surroundings. When her eyes land on Natasha, a loose grin works its way onto her face, and Natasha is helpless to return it.
“Tasha,” she mumbles, smile leaking into her voice, still bleary with sleep. She pushes herself off the cushion, sitting up to move closer to Natasha, and collapses against her side.
Natasha smiles gently, leaning into Maria. She brings a hand up to run through Maria’s tousled hair, ruffled by her nap. “Hey Masha. Good sleep?” Maria hums contentedly, almost purring at Natasha’s gentle ministrations. “I made food, whenever you want it.”
Maria tilts her head away from Natasha momentarily to sniff the air. “Smells good,” she says through a yawn, and Natasha has to quell the urge to coo and scratch her behind the ear like she would Liho.
“Come on then,” she says, starting to stand up. Maria wines and leans on her harder, preventing her movement. “What? You don’t want my cooking?” she teases, “should I be offended?”
Maria shakes her head, still very much buried in Natasha’s shoulder, and Natasha is wiggled with the force of it. She takes a long sniff and, emboldened by the smell of delicious food, throws the blanket off herself and ventures out into the daring cold of their centrally heated home. Natasha giggles at her.
After a moment of watching her girlfriend’s back adoringly (and maybe her ass too, sue her) Natasha stands up and follows her to the kitchen, where Maria seems to be attempting to balance both their plates and cups, full to the brim, to carry them back to the sofa. Whilst Natasha has no doubt her girlfriend could easily balance it, she doesn’t feel like risking their lovely, soft carpet on it, and rushes in to whisk the drinks away from her. Maria smiles gratefully, and heads back to immediately snuggle under her blanket again.
When Natasha joins her, exchanging a drink for a plate, she tucks her feet under the blanket to settle them in Maria’s lap. Maria pats the top of her feet before resting her plate on them and reaching for the remote.
By the time they’ve both finished eating, they’ve worked through two episodes of Greys Anatomy and have gradually migrated closer and closer together. When Maria finally, finally puts down her plate, Natasha dives into her lap, settling in with a sigh of relief. Maria chuckles, but offers no complaint.
Touch is an important expression of love for both of them; a reassurance and affection at the same time. For Natasha especially, it has become significant. After having so much unwanted touch forced on her, the choice that Maria will always give her is something that she relishes every opportunity to use. She chooses to wriggle further into Maria’s lap, to stretch her legs out on the other end of the sofa and lean her fully body weight against Maria. She chooses to press gentle kisses against the side of Maria’s neck. She chooses to lean up and connect her lips with Maria’s for a sweet, short kiss. She chooses, and it will never be something she takes for granted again.
Maria stretches out further on the sofa, legs unfolding into the space Natasha had previously occupied, so that Natasha can lie fully against Maria. Natasha eagerly takes the invitation, wrapping her arms around Maria’s torso and tucking her head so that it’s nestled under Maria’s chin. Even shuffled a whole head further down that Maria, their feet still land in the same place, and Natasha, slightly disgruntled at this, twines her legs around Maria’s.
Maria chuckles, seeming to know exactly what she’s thinking (likely due to the frown on her face) and drops a kiss onto her forehead. It would be patronising, except she can feel Maria’s smile on her skin, and it spreads to her own lips, and she just huffs and tucks herself more snuggly into Maria’s nape.
Bringing her hands up to wrap around Natasha, Maria tucks them both under the blanket and settles in for a peaceful night of cuddles before the tv.
+1.
Maria hasn’t seen Natasha in weeks. She’d been called away on business for nearly a month, Natasha unable to travel with her. They’d been able to call during the fleeting moments of freedom slipped into Maria’s schedule, but Maria misses the feeling of her girlfriend’s skin pressed against her own, of running her hand through red hair, of warmth emanating from a small body next to her. So when Maria’s flight home had been delayed by weather (weather! The one thing she couldn’t fix!) she had been, to say the least, pretty fucking pissed.
She’d called Natasha immediately, and her girlfriend had seemed to share her sentiment, if a bit more violently than her. But, infuriatingly so, there was nothing either of them could do to change the weather of all things, so Maria had resignedly curled up in an uncomfortable airport chair and determinedly read her book.
Now, exhausted and boneless, dragging her suitcase behind her, Maria could almost cry at the sight of the steps leading up to her home’s front door.
When the door bursts open, revealing a small, redheaded figure, a few relieved tears may make their way out of the corners of Maria’s eye.
She abandons her suitcase and rushes up the stairs, not running – she still has somewhat of a reputation to uphold – but certainly walking faster than normal. Natasha meets her at the top of the stairs, all but launching herself at Maria. (She, it seems, no longer cares about her reputation.) Natasha’s arms thread around her neck and pull Maria in and up to meet her in a pressing kiss. Maria happily lets herself be pulled, sliding her hands up Natasha’s back to feel as much of her skin as possible.
Natasha threads her fingers through Maria’s hair, and Maria’s mouth falls open in a quiet groan. Taking the opportunity, Natasha’s slips her tongue into Maria’s mouth, licking into it. From the satisfied hum she lets out, Maria thinks she may have fallen victim to another of Natasha’s flawlessly executed plans. For her part, Maria can’t be bothered to worry about it; there are far worse things for her to fall victim to.
Maria allows Natasha to thoroughly explore her mouth, content to sit back and be guided through the kiss. It was a mutually beneficial arrangement.
When Natasha is finally content, she pulls back only far enough to disconnect their lips, leaning her forehead against Maria’s, their breath mixing together.
“Hi,” Maria murmurs, reaching up to tuck an errant strand of hair behind Natasha’s ear.
“Hey,” Natasha whispers, lips curling into a smile. “How’s the view from down there?”
Maria realises then that, with Natasha stood a step above her, she’s currently smaller than the redhead. She scoffs lightly. “Don’t let all that fresh air go to your head.”
“Don’t like it?” Natasha quirks an eyebrow, amusement dripping in her eyes. “Well, I for one,” she dips her eyes very obviously down to Maria’s chest, making a show of peering down her shirt, “am very much enjoying the view.”
Maria snorts, but steps up to crowd into Natasha’s space. “Oh yeah? Well, how about I give you a little more to look at?”
Natasha moans exaggeratedly, and slides her hands down to cup Maria’s ass. “Ooh yeah, now you’re speaking my language, Masha.” She wiggles her eyebrows. “Although,” and she glances around suspiciously, “maybe not out here. I don’t need anyone else seeing what’s mine.” And with a light slap to Maria’s ass, and a pointed look that makes it very clear just that she hadn’t been talking about her own body, Natasha saunters back into their home, swaying her hips purposefully.
Maria makes absolutely no attempt to curb the spike of arousal that rises in her, and shamelessly watches her girlfriend walk away. Only when Natasha is out of sight does Maria turn away, fetching her abandoned suitcase and hauling it up the stairs.
Natasha is waiting for her in the arch of their door, holding it open for her and, the second she’s closed the door behind her, pressing the length of her body up against Maria’s. Maria gives no indication that she’s noticed Natasha, and continues to go about locking the door. As she does, Natasha’s hands roam up and down her back, and she bites small kisses into her neck.
When she’s finished, Maria carefully deposits her keys into their tray and turns slowly to face Natasha. She stretches to her full height and leans forward so that she’s looking down towards Natasha, resting her hands on the redhead’s hips. “Still enjoying the view?” she teases, squeezing Natasha’s hips gently.
Natasha grins, her tongue poking out between her teeth teasingly. “I could think of some improvements,” and she toys with the buckle of Maria’s belt.
Maria laughs easily, hooking an arm around Natasha’s waist and pulling her into a gentle kiss. “God, I missed you,” she whispers against Natasha’s lips.
Natasha meets her easily, humming pleasantly. “Missed you too,” she mumbles through pressing quick kisses to Maria’s jaw.
Maria sighs happily and leans her head back against the door, giving Natasha more space, an offering she quickly takes advantage of. “Stupid men in charge of too many things,” Maria complains, as Natasha begins sucking at her jaw in earnest. “Honestly, I wish I could just kill them sometimes. Would make my life easier.”
Natasha pulls back and wiggles her eyebrows at her. “Ooh, yeah. Keep talkin’ dirty to me.” Maria chuckles lightly, but it twists into something higher and whinier as Natasha bites at the junction of her neck. “Enough talk about men though, don’t you think?”
Natasha lowers to her knees, sliding her hands down the length of Maria’s body, and looks up at her through hooded eyes. Maria’s breath catches in her throat, and she nods absently in agreement. Natasha grins cheekily at her, and Maria smiles back fondly, as her hands work slowly to undo Maria’s belt, and ease her jean’s button out of its loop.
Before they even make it out of their doorway, Natasha has made Maria intimately familiar with just how much she missed her.