Fuck them, and get what you want. It's a strategy that's served well in the past.
He's white all over, like marble. Even against her own pale Russian rose skin, Prince Nuada's limbs look bathed in moonlight. Too pale to be human. Too old to be stupid.
She'd come prepared for a fight. In the end, she was more of a warrior than a diplomat - the iron hand in the slinky velvet glove. Supernatural, they'd said. Potential terrorist, they'd said. Fury's exact words had in fact involved the phrase "tree-hugging hippy guy". They hadn't precisely said "hug the hippy tree guy" but Natasha had special talents and her own way of operating. "In the event of a further alien invasion, he could be an ally," Fury had said, "or he could be absolutely our worst nightmare. Find out for sure and deal with it."
As it turned out, they'd fought first. Then moved on to something else.
He snakes his arms around her, briefly running his palms over her bared breasts, then digs his strong, elegant fingers into her spine, keeping her in place. Although she's on top, straddling him, she's aware that's she's in danger of being trapped by the sight of him stretched naked beneath her, his peculiar alabaster perfection making it harder to stay focused than usual. She's not seen anything like him before, and certainly never screwed anything like him before.
She flicks a glance to where the shredded remains of her black bodysuit lie in a pile, just behind his head. He'd been stronger than she expected. And much, much quicker. That spear he'd slung with such grace had made short work of her clothes. Between this guy and Loki, she feels she's really starting to hate spears. The spear lies discarded now, pushed out of reach when she'd been caressing him out of his tunic.
He arches against the floor as she increases her rhythm, and his shiny, glass-like nails rake across her back. She murmurs encouragement, more than half enjoying the pain. The silken black trousers are pooled across his knees, effectively hobbling him should he try to stand. Sometimes her business can also be pleasure, and he's really very beautiful. His sleek cornsilk mane of hair, the ends trailing gold as if dipped in pollen, spills across the floor of the warehouse. The push of his hipbones against her becomes more violent: now is the time, act now, or never. He feels good inside her. For a brief second, she considers never: considers letting Nuada live so that they can do this again. Learn what it would be like to do this regularly and with the luxury of genuine lust.
Then she moves, flattening her upper body down over his so she can lunge for the gun concealed in the rags of her clothes. And at practically the same moment, she feels his hands come up as well. So terribly quick to react.
The pallor of his muscles as he grabs the back of her neck with one hand is like that of plant roots: grown in darkness and strong with the patience common to trees. The strength in his body is the strength of a growing sapling to crack concrete. His other hand flashes forward as she rears back, gun in her grip. It's now that the physical reality of his supernatural standards hits her: his arm is like a corded whip, and the blade held very cold at her throat. He must've had the tiny knife concealed under all that hair. She breathes out sharply, the last tremors of sexual pleasure still hanging in her body, the muzzle of the gun pressed to his white temple.
Fuck them, and get what you want.
Nuada and Natasha lock equally assessing gazes with each other, their naked bodies still entwined together from the hips, both breathing hard.
And they each wait, silently, for the other to blink first.