Her back hit the edge of the cabinet and Natasha whimpered, but not from the pain that, honestly, she scarcely felt. The moment their mouths met, her arms came around him; one coiled around his waist, beneath the weight of that fascinating silver arm, and her left slung around his neck, pulling him close. Hers, to keep. God please, forever.
The air inside the apartment was muggy, but there was heat in the small kitchen, and not from any tawdry appliance. No, the Black Widow and the Winter Soldier had, at long last, found each other again, and the people that they now were had opted to throw all caution to the storm outside and rekindle that smoldering ember back into its previous inferno.
Natasha dimly recalled cold stone walls, icy floors, tattered blankets, groping hands, hungry mouths, and the years seemed to disappear completely from her memory, leaving her to associate these soft, soft lips with those she'd kissed over two decades before, when she'd been so young and eager. Now, alone at their last haven, she was no less eager, no less starving for him; she met his kisses with just as much energy, the same desperation - needing to feel something again, just so she could tell herself that this was real; he was real.
--that she wasn't alone anymore.
A slim bare leg slipped over James' hip, coiling him close. This was insanity, devouring this man right in the middle of their shitty little kitchen, but then, it also made perfect sense. Red curls spilled over pale shoulders as her ponytail disappeared, and short nails scraped hot white lines over scarred shoulders, soothed by soft touches moments later, homage to the trauma he'd suffered, as she relearned his body with her hands alone.
"...Dzheyms," emerged from her throat an eternity later, when both of them had to pull apart in order to breathe. It was his name, the first hymn she'd ever voiced, and for the youth she'd been and the woman she was now, there was no other word, no other name so absolutely beautiful.
no subject
The air inside the apartment was muggy, but there was heat in the small kitchen, and not from any tawdry appliance. No, the Black Widow and the Winter Soldier had, at long last, found each other again, and the people that they now were had opted to throw all caution to the storm outside and rekindle that smoldering ember back into its previous inferno.
Natasha dimly recalled cold stone walls, icy floors, tattered blankets, groping hands, hungry mouths, and the years seemed to disappear completely from her memory, leaving her to associate these soft, soft lips with those she'd kissed over two decades before, when she'd been so young and eager. Now, alone at their last haven, she was no less eager, no less starving for him; she met his kisses with just as much energy, the same desperation - needing to feel something again, just so she could tell herself that this was real; he was real.
--that she wasn't alone anymore.
A slim bare leg slipped over James' hip, coiling him close. This was insanity, devouring this man right in the middle of their shitty little kitchen, but then, it also made perfect sense. Red curls spilled over pale shoulders as her ponytail disappeared, and short nails scraped hot white lines over scarred shoulders, soothed by soft touches moments later, homage to the trauma he'd suffered, as she relearned his body with her hands alone.
"...Dzheyms," emerged from her throat an eternity later, when both of them had to pull apart in order to breathe. It was his name, the first hymn she'd ever voiced, and for the youth she'd been and the woman she was now, there was no other word, no other name so absolutely beautiful.