Natasha Romanoff

The front door clicked open sometime past midnight, and you lifted your head from the couch where you’d been half-dozing. The sound of boots being kicked off was followed by a familiar sigh—low, heavy, and so unmistakably Natasha.

You stood, padding quietly toward the entryway. She was there, shoulders slumped, hair slightly mussed from the long mission, her jacket hanging half-off her frame like she hadn’t had the energy to properly take it off.

“Nat,” you murmured softly.

Her eyes flicked up to yours, tired but softening immediately. “Hey, detka,” she whispered, her voice worn with exhaustion but tinged with affection.

You closed the space between you and slipped her jacket the rest of the way off, hanging it on the hook. “Rough day?”

She gave a humorless chuckle, pressing her forehead briefly to yours. “You have no idea.”

Without another word, you guided her toward the couch. She let herself collapse beside you, sinking into the cushions with a deep groan. You tucked yourself against her side, her arm instinctively winding around your waist despite the heaviness dragging her down.

For a while, the only sound was her steady breathing, the rise and fall of her chest grounding you both. You brushed a hand through her hair, soothing the tangles out gently.

“You don’t have to talk about it,” you whispered.

“Good,” she murmured, eyes finally fluttering shut. “Because right now… all I want is for you to suck my pussy”