Title: Your Name is Like a Prayer for My Sins
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: ~3,700
Characters: Steve/Natasha
Prompts: a bunch from imagineyourotp
Summary: "If I could entertain myself alone in our bed this morning, I can entertain myself in your office, too."
A/N: A little something for Romanogers Smut Week, even though I only really addressed maybe two prompts? I wasn't sure if I'd have time to get a decent enough standalone in time so stringing together a few snippets seemed like a good alternative.
Your Name is Like a Prayer for My Sins
I.
She barely has the chance to hear the door unlock at the turn of her key when she feels his hand grasp her arm, spinning her around – quickly, way too quickly – and disorienting her already hazy senses as his lips are on hers again in another kiss, hard and sloppy and demanding. She can taste the alcohol on his tongue, can practically feel the shot of Asgardian ale burning down her throat again as Steve presses her against the door, kissing her like he hasn't seen her in months. She whimpers at the force of it, warmth in her stomach coiling tighter as he crowds her space, and then she gasps as the he suddenly opens the door behind her, sending her stumbling back at the motion, heels skidding against the hardwood.
"Shit," he breathes, drawing her to his chest as she catches her footing again, and she lets out a laugh against his lips. "Sorry."
"Shut up," she orders, bringing their lips together again, and he groans lowly in his throat, all but slamming the door shut with his free hand.
Bed, she thinks through the thick fog of the alcohol in her system. A bed would help right now, except their bedroom is on the second floor, and just a few misbalanced steps backward sends her stilettos sliding out from underneath her, and she grasps onto Steve on pure instinct, causing him to fall forward on top of her as her back hits the staircase.
"Are you alright?" he asks, voice slurring, concern just behind the glaze in his eyes as he pulls back to look at her.
The steps are biting into her, and she kind of hit her head with the landing, but all she can feel is Steve pressing against her, towering over her, hard against the wet lace of her panties where their hips meet. So this giggle bubbles out of her as she reaches between them, fingers undoing his belt buckle in a deftness that her body seems to still be capable of, even in its drunken haze. "Hurts like a bitch," she says, breath hot against his ear in a way she knows drives him crazy as she yanks his belt and tosses it aside. "Think you can make it better?"
He smirks against the column of her throat, helps her push his pants down and then grasps her knees and shoves them apart.
He fucks her like this – hard and heavy against the staircase, her nails scraping against the hardwood as she grips at the steps, the wood creaking under the force of it, them – and it's nothing like they've ever done, something Steve would never had considered sober.
(Maybe she should get him wasted on Asgardian ale more often.)
... ...
II.
She's close, she can tell, and so can he, because he swipes his thumb over her nerves between them, drawing a sharp cry from her lips against their kiss. The sound echoes through the air, and he draws it again and again as he rolls his hips harder, faster, against hers, thumb pressing harder as her breath stutters. Her arms and legs circle even tighter around him in response, her body shaking, and, somewhere beyond the pleasure clouding her thoughts, she wonders just how pissed the soon-to-be newlyweds would be if they found out what she and Steve are doing in the bathroom during the rehearsal dinner. Bucky may not care, but Helen would be nothing short of pissed that they couldn't hold out for another half hour.
Attuned to her thoughts as always, Steve murmurs, "Just had to wear this one, did you?" against her lips as he tugs at the stretchy-satin material of her cocktail dress.
Her lips twitch in a smirk, but before she can even begin to reply, he angles his hips, thrusting particularly hard, and her head hits the wall as she throws it back in another gasp of pleasure. She's so, so close, and he presses his face into the curve of her neck, kissing her pulse to let her know that he can tell.
Her eyelids flutter closed, fingers digging into his shoulders as she nears her high—
And then they hear the knob of the bathroom door twists, and Steve slaps his hand over her mouth as the thing squeaks, door swinging open as heels click against the tile.
"…one lucky man, that groom," someone is saying.
"If I didn't know any better, I'd say you have feelings for the bride-to-be," the second person teases with a laugh.
Their footsteps stop halfway into the room, which is a little bit of a relief, since Natasha and Steve are in the very last stall on the other end, but still. Natasha trembles, gripping onto Steve too tightly. She's dangerously, painfully close, heart thumping anxiously in her chest. One of them twists a faucet on and Natasha closes her eyes, almost holding her breath.
"Shut up," the first one says, laughing as well. "I'm just saying, I had a chance to talk with her and Helen is an incredibly intelligent person. It's amazing."
"Her man has a lot going for him, too," her friend replies with a wistful tone. The two laugh.
Natasha swallows, quiet and hard, and wills herself to calm down—but then Steve starts moving his hips again, thrusts slow, deep, and it takes every ounce of control for her not to moan in surprise. Her eyes fly open to meet his, and she knows that while he sees the hesitation in them, he also sees the excitement.
He presses a kiss to her forehead – keep quiet, as if she didn't already piece that together – and angles his hips again, quickly picking his pace back up.
The conversation between the girls fades into the back of Natasha's mind, thoughts too wrapped in pleasure as Steve works his hips against hers – and then he circles his thumb against her nerves again and her back arches, his other hand pressing against her mouth even more as she bites down on her lower lip, muffling the sound of her orgasm. He keeps rolling his hips against hers, dragging out her high, until she grasps onto his hair and tugs it to get him to stop, too dangerously close to letting out a cry at the force of the pleasure.
He drops his head into the curve of her neck again as her trembles slow, his breath silent but hot against her collarbone.
The girls are still talking as the water is twisted off, but Natasha can't exactly focus on what they're saying anymore as they head back outside.
Steve's hand drops from her mouth and Natasha gasps for breath. She shifts, but then his hand comes down on her hip, holding her in place as his body tenses. She can almost feel how hard his heart is beating, how heavy his breaths are, and another warmth of excitement pools in her stomach at the idea of him also being on the verge of his high.
She rocks her hips against his, her motion a little sluggish from her own orgasm, but it draws a growl from him all the same.
"Natasha," he snaps. "Stop, stop. I can't—"
She grasps his chin, tips his head back and presses a heated, wet kiss to his lips. "It's your turn," she says, and then relishes in the way his groan vibrates through the air.
... ...
III.
"You look beautiful like this, you know," he says, voice low and hot against her ear, fingertips tracing lazily over her wetness.
She bites down a little harder on her lower lip, eyelids fluttering open as she rolls her head over to meet his gaze. The hesitation that had been in his eyes as he looped his tie around her wrists, trapping them to the headboard, it entirely gone – and she feels another pulse of excitement at the way his eyes slide over her slowly, admiringly, expression heavy with arousal – and adoration, she realizes, recognizing the sparkle in his eyes. Never has she ever been entirely at someone else's hands like this, and the gentle way he kisses her cheek tells her that he knows what this means. He knows how much she trusts him, how he makes her lose some sense of control, and there's something incredibly empowering about it.
He presses his fingers into her, slowly, palm grazing her nerves, and her entire body shudders.
"Steve," she breathes, heart thumping hard in her chest at the thought of him working her up, bringing her so close only to leave her right on the edge yet again.
He hums against her skin, latching onto one of her breasts as he curls his fingers, and a sharp cry falls from her lips. He swirls his tongue, flatten his palm against her as he thrusts a little deeper, and she moans, arching, tugging her wrists. She's close – so, so close – and her breath hitches as she squeezes her eyes shut—
Then he stops, drawing back from her completely. She whimpers.
"Not yet," he says, bed dipping with his movement. "Open your eyes," he tells her, and she does, vision blurring back into focus as he lowers his head between her thighs—
... ...
IV.
"Tony's going to be pissed."
Steve grunts, hand combing roughly through her hair as he kisses her a little harder, pressing her back against the surface of the pool table – one of Tony's brand new pool tables, in his recently remodeled game lounge. He definitely won't appreciate the things that are about to happen on this thing, and that's probably why Steve is choosing here to do it.
"You were the one that said it didn't bother you," she reminds out as he fastens his lips to the column of her neck. He sucks at her skin and she tips her head back, letting out a moan.
He grunts in response again, his free hand squeezing over her knee in an almost possessive manner. Because that's what this is about, of course.
"Tony whisking me around the room, flaunting me off to all those lawyers and investors," she says. He growls, hand sliding under the hem of her cocktail dress and cupping her wet heat through the soaked material of her lace panties, which covers little to nothing, if she's being perfectly honest. (That's kind of the whole point, though.) His jealousy gets her so riled up, and she knows that it should be wrong. Steve has no doubts when it comes to them and their relationship, or her and her feelings for him, but he's told her more than once that he can't always rationalize himself through his jealousy. His possessiveness doesn't sit well in his stomach, and she doesn't ever want him to feel uncomfortable with himself.
But this man who strives so hard not to fight would do exactly that in an instant if he's fighting for her.
How can she not love that?
"He paraded you around like his trophy." He sinks two fingers into her without warning and she gasps sharply, nails digging into his biceps. "You're no one's prize."
"No," she breathes, legs shaking, hips rolling unevenly against the rhythm of his fingers. He knows just how to work her, how to curl his fingers and angle his wrist, and it would be more embarrassing how quickly he brings her towards her high if he wasn't so good at it, at her. "No, I'm not a prize." His hand stalls and this little sound escapes her throat, hips shifting against his fingers until he starts moving again, except his pace is slower now, thorough, teasing. She draws him closer, kissing the corner of his mouth. "But I'm all yours."
He runs his thumb over her nerves, her entire body rippling in a shudder, and though her eyes are closed, she can feel his stare against her skin.
She reaches for him, hand curving over the back of his neck to bring their lips together again, and there's something incredibly gentle about their kiss despite the force of his lips against hers, something incredibly innocent despite the flutter of her walls around his fingers as he thrusts a little harder.
Every part of her is his to have, and no one could ever make her feel the way he does, and the bruising kiss he leaves at the curve of her neck tells her that it goes both ways.
... ...
V.
Her tactics of distracting him from paperwork are becoming less and less subtle, she knows, but she has no shame in using them, anyway. He knew exactly what she had in mind when she came into his office and he still insisted on getting through his files rather than pay attention to his girlfriend sitting on his desk, so really, it's his own fault.
She spreads her legs a little, skirt gathering at the tops of her thighs, and she watches him glance at her in her peripheral as her hand slides along the inside of her leg, back arching ever so slightly at the feathery touch of her fingertips grazing her ticklish spots. Steve knows every one of them, knows just how turned out he can make her if he pays attention to them, and she hums as she remembers how he'd worked her up between their sheets last night, all night. He was supposed to be hers this morning, but of course, duty had called.
"Natasha," he says, tone low in his chest, deep and warning.
She hums a little louder, pressing her fingers to the front of her panties in slow, teasing circles, warmth coiling as she imagines his callous fingers are there instead.
"Don't mind me," she says, bringing her other hand up to run through her hair. "If I could entertain myself alone in our bed this morning, I can entertain myself in your office, too."
He tenses at this, and she can see it just underneath his expression, how frustrated yet turned on he is by the thought of her getting herself off.
She circles just over her clit through the thin, dampening material of her panties, a content sigh falling from her lips.
Then she feels his hand clasp around her wrist, yanking it out of the way as his lips suck over her heat through her panties, and she gasps in pleasure as her hips jump. "Fuck," he groans out, sending vibrations against her nerves, and then he flattens his tongue against her and her body shudders, head tipping back as she stutters out a breath.
He sucks over her once, twice, letting go of her wrist so he can push her legs wider apart when they twitch to clamp shut around him, and she moans his name. "Yes, yes."
He tugs at her panties, all but yanking them down her legs when she lifts her hips so he can get them off, and he still has them in his hand as he pushes her legs back apart, the wet material pressing against her skin and sending a warmth through her. "Jesus, Nat," he breathes, mouth on her again as he licks a stripe up her center. Her hips snap up, legs shaking under his touch as he works his tongue over her in broad strokes, groaning appreciatively at her taste. "Hated leaving you in bed this morning," he tells her, one hand gripping her leg as the other moves between them. His thumb circles over her nerves and she whimpers. "Thought of you the whole way to the office, and then for you to actually show up here?"
She manages a breathless chuckle, fingers combing through his hair. "Did you imagine me like this?"
"Just like this," he tells her, and then his lips close around her clit, sucking hard. She arches her back, crying sharply. "Nothing compares to the real thing, though." She feels him smirk against. "Now I'm never going to get any work done on this desk."
Good, she thinks, but before she can say this out loud, he slides his tongue into her, walls fluttering as she gasps his name, and she forgets about anything else.
... ...
VI.
A giggle escapes her lips as he tugs her into the closet with him, lock clicking into place as he presses her against the wall. She can feel where he's hard for her through his pants and relishes in the groan that leaves his lips as she grasps at him again, palm grinding against his length. She could tell just how thin his control was growing under her touch, and yes, she really shouldn't be distracting him during these team meetings, but she simply couldn't resist the urge to touch him, drawing these low groans and hissed pleas to get her to stop it.
"You," he breathes, tone almost accusing as he fumbles with the buckle of his belt, "are going to be the death of me."
She hums lightly, grasping his length when she hears his belt and pants fall to the floor, and he presses his forehead to her collarbone as he lets out a hiss.
"I don't exactly hear any complaining," she says, stroking slow – agonizingly slow, if the low rumble in his chest is anything to go off of – and his breath stutters against her skin as he groans her name, hips shifting against her grip. "The break is only ten minutes," she reminds, fingers squeezing ever so slightly. "You'll have to be fast."
He presses their lips together at this, kiss wet and heated, fingers popping her jeans open and tugging it down her legs with her panties in one swift motion, drawing a gasp.
"We'll have to be fast," he corrects, brushing his length against her slick heat. "If this is happening, it's happening for both of us."
Then he pushes into her before she can muster a response, his thrust deep and hard, and the back of her head hits the wall as she throws it back in pleasure. He angles his hips to establish a particularly delicious thrust, one that can always make her fall apart in seconds, and moans his name so loud that she's sure they can hear it all the way down the hall.
... ...
VII.
She presses her head back into the pillow, humming at the gentle touch of his lips against her neck, slow and tender. Her body is still buzzing, heartbeat only now evening out in her chest, but he curves his fingertips lazily over her hipbone, kissing her skin soundly, and she can't help but feel a warmth of excitement stirring all over again.
"You alright?" he asks. He manages to sound genuinely concerned yet proud at the same time, and she doesn't know whether to smirk or smile.
She shifts beneath him, drawing her arms around his neck again, pulling him a little closer as his lips slide up to press a kiss to her cheek. "More than alright," she says.
He reaches up, takes her hand in his, and her stomach flutters as he pushes his thumb over the band of the wedding ring on her finger – the only thing he hadn't taken off of her all night. He had done this very thing with her engagement ring, and she still finds it as endearing now as it had been in the hours after the proposal. She found herself staring at it more than once during the reception, when the sparkle of the diamond under the chandeliers had caught her eye, and Steve had kissed the back of her hand every time he'd noticed this.
Her body is thoroughly, completely exhausted, but part of her is too awake to let her fall asleep.
He dips his head down and brushes his lips over her shoulder, over the scar she knows is still there from her assignment almost three weeks ago.
"Guess it was a silly idea to go strapless with the dress," she says. It had only been a very small moment, but she remembers the twinge of… disappointment, maybe, when she'd seen the scar on her skin in the reflection as Pepper was zipping her up.
His hand stills where it had been sliding slowly down her side, glancing up to meet her gaze, and her heart thumps under the intensity of his stare. She licks her lips.
"The dress was perfect," he says, pressing a kiss along her collarbone, slow and wet. He squeezes his hand over her skin and she tips her head back a little more, letting out a sigh. "You make anything look beautiful, especially your scars," he goes on, lips sliding lower. His other hand takes her, lacing their fingers together as he presses it into the pillow by her head. "If they were staring at those scars, it's because they were in awe"—he kisses the skin of her breast, over the spot a blade had sliced her—"because they were reminded just how much of a fighter you are"—another kiss to the fading bruise over her ribcage—"and how you win, no matter what," he says, placing a lingering kiss to the scar on her hipbone.
"Steve," she breathes, pushing her legs a little further apart. He slides his lips back up, catching every bruise and mark as he goes, and she lets out a whimper. "Steve."
He tucks himself against her, his length brushing her heat, and she moans low in her throat, circling her arms around his neck again. Her body is eager, craving for his touch despite having it so thoroughly all night, and she loves it. She loves him.
He presses his lips over hers as he sinks into her again, kissing the gasp from her mouth. "I love you," he murmurs against her lips.
She curves her hand over the back of his neck, holding onto him a little tighter as they kiss. Her heart is thrumming, breath catching in her throat as he rolls his hips against hers. It should've been surprising, how well they fit together, but it never was. "I love you, too," she tells him, and he presses his palm flat against her chest, just above her heart.
.
.
.
.
"Imagine your OTP getting drunk at a bar and going home to have clumsy, drunken sex."
"Imagine your OTP having sex in a public bathroom. As Person A starts to reach the climax, they hear someone walk in and Person B covers Person A's mouth to keep them from getting caught as the stranger uses the restroom."
"Imagine Person A of your OTP horny, tied up and moaning helplessly as Person B teases them to the point of begging."
"Imagine your OTP making love for the first time. On a pool table."
"Imagine Person A going to work at their office and Person B tags along with them for the fun. Things get a bit sexy and they end up having sex on Person A's desk, knocking everything on it onto the floor in the meantime."
"Imagine your OTP having steamy sex in a hallway closet during a meeting break."
"Imagine Person B finding out Person A is very insecure about their body, and proceeds to tell them everything they love about Person A, personality-wise and physically. Stray touches lead to slow, passionate sex, Person B still listing things they love, never seeming to find and end."