bakerstreet | (no subject)

(no subject)

the SHOWER SEX meme
> Your character is in the shower with another character because they're close enough to do that together.

> You're helping each other get clean.

> You start getting freaky. Maybe this is the sequel to earlier sex or just unwinding after a bad week.
> If you're from a canon that is set in the olden days or a world without showers, you're in a bath or a hot springs or a bathhouse.

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[ Months. It's been months of working, of wearing a slightly different skin than the one she would normally wear around Sif. That's fine, that's how the job goes, sometimes — Natasha knows how to seperate the things she is from the things she needs to be. It still never feels safe. Not entirely. Natasha, though, relishes the little things: the way Sif knows how to drive and always speeds, just a little. The way her hair looks, tucked underneath the collar of her leather jacket.

It's good, and they're alive, and maybe they have to work together instead of be together, but that's fine too.

Natasha might still be struggling with that core concept of who she is, to figure out something less malleable than she has been. But she knows, in this moment, that she's Sif's just as much as Sif is hers; she sighs, curls her hand around Sif's hip and pulls her closer. ]

We're supposed to be getting clean.

[ She doesn't actually care that much. ]

[She turns her around with the sound of that sigh, presses her back up against the tiled wall and leans down to trace the line of her collarbone with her mouth, sucking water droplets from her skin with languid precision. The queen of deceit and she can't pretend they have time to be doing this? Come on, Natasha, don't disappoint her.]

So we are. [But once you step down the path, once Sif steps onto it, she doesn't plan on getting off until somebody gets off. It's more than just a need to get rid of adrenaline built up from the last infiltration mission, it's a need to reconnect with this woman who holds her heart in bloodstained fingers without Sif minding it one bit. It's a necessity, imperative, to reconnect them.

Her mouth follows down to the valley of her breasts, one two three kisses and Sif's kneeling, her hands tracing up the back of her legs, over her calves, her thighs.]

[ Natasha just— takes a moment. Her palm reaches out and smooths Sif's hair back, raven-silk underneath her fingers. Traces away the light shower spray from her vision. Natasha thinks that love used to scare her, once, and after that it used to frustrate her; these days, it is what it is. She holds it like a bird in her ribcage that beats its wings too fast, not because it's desperate to be free but because it wants more.

She rests her weight a little further against the wall, parts her knees a little. Doesn't hitch her leg over Sif's shoulder, at least, not until she either makes her or it becomes imperative.

Easily, softly: ]

You're trying to be kind to me.

[There's a laugh so soft that it's only discernible because she leaves it fluttering against the inside of one of Natasha's thighs. She pulls away, looking up with open smile, unguarded.]

And I am not succeeding? [She tsks her tongue in disappointment, and lets one hand take the place her mouth was at last, slowly rising further up.]

Should I not be? [A kiss is left against the gentle curve of her belly, tongue flickered under her bellybutton.] Should I not want to?

[She moves her hand up to between Natasha's legs now, middle finger gently dragged from her clit to where she's slicker.] Or do you only want me to be hard? [And pushes one finger in easily, draws it out and adds a second one when she presses in again. She's tight and Sif has missed this.]

Fuck.

[ It's been too long. Everything feels familiar and raw and new at the same time -- the way her laugh breathes warm against the inside of Natasha's thigh, the way Sif's mouth feels, the way her finger presses in. Natasha's head tips back with a low moan, made so much louder than she normally is by the acoustics of the glass stall, the kind of American vulgarity she doesn't employ because that's not the way she was shaped when she was new and claylike. A hand drapes slowly up the curve of Sif's neck, gathers hair messily, like an anchor rather than a courtesy.

Natasha can't help the involuntary clench, the shudder that ripples to the tips of her toes.

Her voice bleeds arousal, the hoarseness to it, the roughness to her consonants: ]

I want you to do whatever you want to.

You - [as a form of answer, spoken low and almost breathless just before she curls her fingers towards herself, finds the spot she hasn't forgotten about even in this long separation. There are places on Natasha's body that not even Ragnarok will make her forget. Her mouth finds her clit, and it's perhaps anticlimatic in the way she just licks the flat of her tongue against her, but it's efficient.

There's taste, there's slickness that seeps down her fingers to the inside of her palm, there's that clench in Natasha's cunt that is just delightful.] - better not have plans for a few days, love.

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