Walking into her room, Agent Romanov checked the sparsely decorated room over for tampering then closed and double locked the door. Toggling her earpiece she said "Widow signing off; give me six hours emergency only then a wake up ping."
"Yes ma'am" operations acknowledged.
With a sigh she set her phone and earpiece on the low table by her bed. Blue lights lit up as they started recharging.
She enters a code on a keypad on the wall and several wide shallow drawers slide out, displaying a murderous array of guns and knives held in slots in dark grey foam. She starts to strip off her unused weapons and return them to their empty spaces. The armoured bracers for the Widows bite go in one drawer, the Bite bracelets themselves in another after she slips the batteries out and puts a fresh set in.
Her pistol goes in a side drawer where she keeps the cleaning kit; she'll strip and clean it before the next mission. The unused spare pistol and the back-up derringer each go back into their slots.
She carefully packs away the Saw-wire garrotte, the reinforced climbing cords, knives and Taser shock discs. Lock breaking charges, timed grenades, plus a few toxic things SHEILD wouldn't really approve of.
Once her belt is lighter she unbuckles the holster straps around her thighs and disarms the booby trap in her belt buckle. She sets the buckle with the others, one loaded with poison needles, one is an emergency beacon, another a stun grenade. It always pays to have an extra trick up your sleeve if someone tries to strip or disarm you.
She closes her private arsenal and sits on the bed, lost in thought as she unbuckled her boots
She had lied to Steve. It should be no big deal, she lies to everyone, she even lies to herself.
But with him it was just too easy and he took it so personally, like kicking a trusting little puppy. The look of hurt betrayal he'd given her shouldn't have hurt , she's gained peoples trust just to betray and kill them a thousand times before , but this had actually made her feel bad. Was she losing her edge?
Barefoot, she pads across the room to the bathroom. She activates the control hidden in the sleeve to make her costume relax, the skin tight and slinky fabric becoming looser. A miracle of modern materials and armour technology, the fabric felt like thick rubber but breathed like cotton, was proof against fire and acid, electrically insulated and the armoured layers set as hard as steel plate under high velocity impacts.
Pulling down the frontal zip she feels the breast supports relax. For pure stealth missions she wears it closed and firm like a sports bra to keep things under control, but when operating with a team or against human opponents she has to vamp it up a bit as she has a reputation for sex and murder to uphold. One advantage of the limbic system is that by stimulating the medial pre-optic area of the hypothalamus you can reduce reaction times in human males; looking sexy slowed enemies down.
It did mean rushing into battle with impractical cleavage and a full face of make-up on, but it'd kept her alive so far; a worthwhile trade off she thought as she put make up remover on a cotton pad and started to remove her war paint.
Clean faced, she took a small UV torch from the bathroom shelf and held it to the skin on the inside of her forearm for a count of five seconds. Tattooed under her skin were a series of marker dots that altered with her body chemistry, any unusual drugs or poisons flag up as red marks, vitamin deficiencies as dots and her hormone levels as a series of lines. Her graduation had left her ovaries intact so she didn't have to worry about menopause just yet, in fact to balance her extreme physical regime they'd boosted her oestrogen and testosterone levels to keep her bones and muscles healthy. Too many athletes had suffered brittle bones in old age and she needed to keep in peak physical form. Noting her levels she added more edamame beans as a snack to tomorrow's meal plan.
As the marks faded back to invisibility she looked at herself in the mirror, naked to the waist. She stretched and turned, examining herself critically. All too often she treated this as routine maintenance, keeping herself fit and in shape as a part of the job, her sex appeal another weapon to employ as needed. But now she cupped her breasts, feeling the soft weight of them, grasping the nipples between finger and thumb and tugging softly. A shiver of desire ran down her spine.
Time to finish up the Widows work and get some quality personal time.
She slid the suit down over her ass and bent over, wiggling it down her legs and stepping free. Clad only in a snug black thong she reached into the shower and set it running then got a towel ready. As the water filled the shower with steam she pulled the thong down and kicked it to one side.
The water is scalding hot and she takes a moment to let it wash over her then drops it to just mildly warm.
She's a set routine, scientifically calculated to maintain her hygiene and good looks. Long hot showers can dry and damage the skin, so a warm and short one is best.
She has a specially formulated hair shampoo and body wash to remove traces of gunpowder and explosive residue, the smell of a fire fight could linger in her hair for days otherwise. So Hair first, then body top to bottom, then face last.
Squeezing shampoo into her hand she starts to work it through her hair
Thinking back over the mission, she'd been pushing Steve towards names on Fury's approved relationship list, but with no luck. She'd gone over the candidate list with Nick and they were all solid agents, ideal to give Steve an emotional grounding in the modern world. She was almost sad to be left off the list but had to agree that Steve wasn't capable of the necessary compartmentalisation to go on missions with a romantic partner and still focus on the mission goal. But she'd commented she didn't think Sharon Carter was a good idea, as he'd lose his shit when he found out who she was. But Fury thought it'd be useful leverage for her close protection role if she ever had to break cover. Nat just worried it'd rekindle the feeling he had for Peggy Carter and transfer them, it'd break his heart when he realised Sharon was very much her own woman.
Rinsing out her hair she switches to her body wash, unscented but medicated to stimulate the skin and speed healing. It makes her skin tingle as she washes her arms, her shoulders, arm pits and under her breasts, swift and methodical. Down over her belly, feeling the old scars that are markers of past failures, red in her ledger she's still working to set right before she'll let herself have them removed.
She works the lather into her neat strip of pubic hair, no matter modern fashion science knows that hair is there for a reason and on long missions away from clean water the last thing you need is an infection. She keeps it trimmed neatly and her natural shade of red unless missions call for it to match her hair colour. She strokes soapy fingers over her mound, feeling a needy heat build in her but she doesn't let it distract her. Finish the shower before any personal time.
Thinking back to the mission a line of poetry comes to mind. "His strength is the strength of ten because his heart is pure." It's Tennyson, her English literature and subterfuge classes remind her. Sir Galahad. In days gone by Steve would have been a knight in shining armour, a Paladin in D&D terms.
My good blade carves the helms of men
My great lance thrust-eth sure
My strength is as the strength of ten
Because my heart is pure
She clenches her buttocks, feeling the tone of the muscles. Her legs are smooth, permanently depilated and strongly muscled. Not much has changed there from her ballerina days she muses as she soaps between her toes, but her feet are so much better from not dancing. They surgically rebuilt her toes to correct the impact damage they'd endured from her teenage years in the ballet, both for combat efficiency and because some powerful men have a weird love for feet. Strange that sexy feet can be used as a weapon, but it does let her wear a lot of lovely shoes.
"For his heart is pure" A romantic poetic ideal but with Steve it was almost true. All the records she's seen show the serum that made him causes insanity, deformity and death in the few who survived the process. The American Camp Cathcart tests had just five survivors out of three hundred and only one real success, and America had squandered that. In Bruce it was meant to make soldiers capable of fighting during a nuclear war and instead it made a monster of a gentle man. Captain Blonsky doubled down with serum and radioactive Hulk blood and had paid a terrible price. What was left of him was in cryostasis in a bunker in Alaska, too volatile to use for anything but mass destruction.
She finishes with washing her hands then her face and rinsing off with cold water.
As she turns the water off she relaxes her control, daily maintenance done and now she can have a few moments to herself. She starts to rub her moisturising cream all over her skin, taking slow sensuous strokes. Her cream slick hands cup her breasts, kneading the sensitive flesh, fingers tugging cruelly at her hard nipples.
She let out a low moan of desire and pressed her forehead to the tiles, her hand sliding over her quivering abs to disappear between her legs. She's slippery and wet as her fingers start to stroke, eagerly rubbing as she remembers the mission.
When Batroc threw that grenade she had dived away from it, instinctive self-preservation. Steve stepped towards it, knocked it back then picked her up and shielded her with his body. So fast it must have been instinct for him. When he jumped she had shot the window out for him, a snap shot but enough to break the glass and get them through out of the blast.
They'd done this sort of thing countless times before, under pressure they always seemed to know what the other is going to do, a strange harmony.
He'd picked her up and held her to him and that feeling of being taken up and carried off made her ache for him. He's known she was his and just done it, knowing she'd follow his lead without question. As her fingers circled her aching clit she moaned and slowly sank to her knees in the shower stall, head still pressed to the tiles. The sheer power of him that close was breath-taking but somehow reassuring, stern but fair, firm but not cruel.
She remembers the heat of his anger after the explosion, the look in his eyes cutting into her heart. Oh, she'd made a joking admission of guilt but he was right, it was on her and she had done wrong. She felt her thighs quiver as she wished he'd punished her there, that she'd crawled to his feet and begged forgiveness, that he'd pinned her wrists down and torn her clothes from her, spanked or whipped her until the tears ran down her face, until she really was sorry and he forgave her and she could crawl into those arms again.
To feel small and safe and owned. Forgiven, Protected, to not have to fight just for a moment.
Frantically working her clit she tensed her whole body, pushing her face into the unyielding tile as she imagined him driving deep inside her. She was close, so close, but the last sensation was frustratingly out of reach. "Please" she whispered to the tiles. "Please". She imagined him standing over her, looking down on her helpless in her need and taking a handful of her hair. Pulling her head back harshly he looked her in the eye and she moaned her plea "Please Master…"
Like a dam bursting the sensations crashed through her, pulsing in her groin and the tight muscles of her thighs, driving the air from her lungs in short gasps.
She recovered slowly, legs like jelly. It'd been too long, she'd let things build up too much. He was too straight laced to give her the domination she craved but he cared for his team and that would have to be enough.
She crawled into bed, letting the exhaustion rise up to take her; a few hours of deep sleep and she'd be ready to go.