neveryourmuse | open roleplay post.

[ Hot on the heels of his own Truth Fact, he is still sipping his tea. Natasha gives him a flat look but this is, sort of, a trust exercise in and of itself, so she doesn't comment.

She diverts eye contact by looking into her own tea. It's green and tastes like green things usually taste, if a little dulled by time. It's an annoyingly difficult question. Tea was a bad choice. ]

Ballet. Hot baths. [ They are frustratingly generic answers, so Natasha reconsiders. ] Clint's kids. [ Better. ] Sometimes I miss New York. [ Openly. She misses Iowa too, but none of these places have anything to do with the architecture there.

Her eyebrows lift again into another invitation. Hey, call and response, that's how this works now. ]

[ Just think, Natasha. You could be having sex instead.

When she lowers her gaze, Tony kind of tilts his head as if he could somehow see her eyes better and therefore read her mind. It's one of those questions that sounds easier than it is, probably, but is maybe even harder for certain types of people.

He listens to company he keeps in the hall of stuff Romanoff likes, and his study isn't sharp. He's not sure if they'll ever completely relax -- 'ever', as if 'they' as a unit have longevity -- but he's not looking for a gotcha moment.

So that's something. ]

Going fast, [ he says, picking up the cue. He could talk about how she's probably read the book on what Tony Stark likes, already, but. ] West coast during the day, east coast at night. Cheesesteak.

[ He's pushed to his feet as he lists these things, easing closer, that when he finds a landing, it's within her personal space again. Still holding the tea, though. In among the release of grassy herb, there's the trace scent of whatever range of masculine grooming and hair products he'd applied a morning ago. No cologne, in this outfit. ]

That little-- [ He points at her, then thinks better, gestures to himself, the eyebrow region. ] --thing your brow does when you're trying not to like me too much. I think that's it, anyway.

[ Lights off! Missionary! A half-assed orgasm after a frustratingly lackluster attempt at oral sex! It could have been such a wonderful world.

No dice. Instead, Tony steps closer. Those things sound different when he says them. Intent feels nice. More revealing, at least, than the things she picks up out of habit and necessity. More-- precious, too, because of it.

One hand is still, also, holding onto her mug. Lets go of it flat on the counter, giving room for most of her body language to pivot open, turn into him.

He smells good. There's a certain amount of telegraphing that happens when Natasha reaches for him, though her touch is light. Fingertips come to rest first at his chest, followed by the rest of her palm. Two solid beats of contact. Twin landings.

She looks up at Tony. Smiles true.

This time, when she kisses him, it's not cautious at all. Heated, a little, by a slow, sincere fuse. But it's firm and warm and the cold from the rain has faded away. Underneath her palm, she can almost feel his heart beat in real, solid time. ]

[ She comes in slow, but it still feels like going fast. Which he likes, purportedly. There is the solid click of earthenware being set down just after they make contact, where Tony has to duck his head some to receive her. That's nice, as is her hand resting where it is, and that her mouth is soft from the last smile she gave him.

His hands both find a place to rest on her waist and he kisses her back, matching pace, pressure, certainty. Very much a third kiss, the kind where maybe it's gonna kick something else off, and he sees nothing wrong in indulging in it while it lasts. If kissing in Berlin had been goodbye, this is more a.

Hello.

Tony has reeled her in a little more by the time it's done, but he doesn't let up out of her space, lingering in proximity. She can maybe almost sense it, his desire to encircle her in his arms. ]

So we got some'n in common, [ he utters, voice pitched quieter. ] Besides New York.

[ Third time's the charm. It's a good kiss. A hello kiss. An I see you, too kiss.

Her lashes jump a few times before her eyes completely open, lazy and slow for different reasons than Berlin. Natasha leaned into him when they kissed; readjusted her weight and tipped her chin up toward his face, narrowing the distance. Now, he lingers. So does she. Green eyes are bright when they lock on him.

She likes the way he looks like this. Natasha ignores the urge to interrogate the why. She just-- enjoys it. ]

Guess so.

[ Lowly, to match his. Her arms twine around his neck. A loose hold, and it enables her fingertips to brush against the hairs at the base of Tony's skull. Natasha's mouth pitches left, then hooks into a twist of faux-consideration. ]

You know, I have some other ideas.

[ Several. Only two of which have to do with actually getting naked, here. ]

[ Tony settles an arm around her waist, cozied in. You could trick yourself into thinking of her as delicate and dainty, right here, and it's knowing better that makes it fun. Nerves prickle under the faint touch of her fingers at his neck.

Fine with eye contact in proximity, there is a shared amusement and-- very likely, some amount of pleased-with-himself deciphered there. ]

Oh yeah?

[ The hand still settled at her flank idles with shirt fabric. ]

Hit me.

[ It's nice. The radio going, the rain pattering at the window, and the world's taking care of itself for a minute. ]

[ She angles in, again, as if about to kiss him. They almost do -- her top lip touches his top lip, hovering, and it might be awkward save for the fact it doesn't last long. A short exchange of heat, breath. She looks down at his mouth. Feels the pull. Resists it. ]

I'm going to make myself come in the next twenty minutes.

[ And, ]

You should help me with that.

[ She's revised her plan and settled on: sex sometime today would be good. ]

[ There is most definitely a split second of a short-circuiting where Tony blinks through her, turning that one over in his mind -- or not really needing to as it fires off ahead of him, wildly, abandoning him there in the kitchen with his arms around the object that inspired it. But it's just a moment.

He insists a step into her, taking advantage of things like height and balance to assert just enough for her hip to press against the counter. All gentle handling, still. ]

We could do that, [ he agrees, and does a mental highfive for his voice coming out normal. (Maybe she can detect just that little bit of strain, of his breathing altered from just a minute ago, and be flattered about it.) ] But we're gonna need to revise that list of things you like.

[ He ducks his head and grazes a kiss against her mouth, as if to itch the scratch that the prior teasing had caused. It's brief but heated, insistent, dirtier. ]

[ Weight shifts, and she leans back a little. The edge of the counter digs into her hip. She drags Tony with her, letting him lean into her space-- closer, now, fingers twining loosely in his hair. This is good. Anticipatory. Exciting. ]

Sure.

[ Just as agreeably.

Gaze then drifts a little, to think it over. Sex is easy, but Natasha doesn't have a lot of it with people she-- makes tea for, probably. Even without a charge of war crimes, working for SHIELD was a lot kinder to her personal life. Apart from the fact it wasn't really SHIELD there at the end.

So. ]

Don't pull my hair. [ Which is a soft ball, and maybe not really about what she likes. She returns the kiss anyway-- slowly, and a little lazily, syrupy-thorough. ] I like being on top. [ Better. ] I'll like it more if you use your fingers than your mouth.

[ Kiss ends but Tony remains in proximity, head ducking down in pursuit of the rain-scent still caught up in dark red hair, the appealing curve between shoulder and neck. Opportunistic, a little, in the gaps between of whatever game this kind of is. Each specification on her part feels like kindling tossed on low fire and he's not sure what that's about.

Analysis later. There'll be time. Right now, they're on the clock.

The hand resting up on her rubs travels downwards, then, smoothing along her belly, to the fastenings of her pants. He lifts his head as he undoes them, as he slides his fingers inside of them, the trap of fabric catching along his knuckles. ]

[ Eye contact. She likes that, too. Touch makes Natasha shift her stance so she can widen, tip the core of her hips into his hand. She makes a soft, low noise-- like an exhale, pressed into the narrow distance between his jaw and her mouth.

It feels good, and not frustrating, which is a change. A nice change.

She lets him work her over until satisfaction seems like a better feeling than urgency. Her hand's pressed at the back of his neck, pulling him close, closer, encouraging him to stay-- her other hand's curled at his elbow, grip tight. It skims down, loosely. Reaches his hand, where she fits her fingers into the dips of his knuckles and stills his touch.

It doesn't take much. She tips her hips, again, to chase out pressure against the heel of his hand in the way that she wants. Orgasm comes quietly; a jump to her lashes, pupils blown, lips parted around a noise that's too staggered to really sound like his name. ]

[ He watches her before and after; during it's a little blurrier, kept close, peripheral full of red hair and the overcast sunlight coming in through windows and his own eyelashes. That Tony doesn't say much could be characteristic or not, she can't know right this minute.

Watching her, mainly. The vulnerability innate in release, coupled with where his skin still tingles from the grip to his arm, where her fingers rest against knuckles. He holds his hand in place until she's still, and quiet again -- that last noise outta her raking over his own nerves -- and then slowly easing back.

Full of want, putting that out there like core heat. Still-- ]

You good? [ --sounds straight, until a quiet laugh chases compulsively after it. It's nowhere in the neighbourhood of mocking. Pleased, low key giddy. Moving his body until she is between him and countertop, a hand resting at the edge. ]

I'm good.

[ Breathing comes deeper, uneven still. She shares the shape of his smile. There's a softness in it, and a sweetness when she kisses him.

Sweat prickles the back of her neck. Everything feels just this side of too-hot, the kind of thick heat that comes with humidity and rain. The muzzy feeling fades quickly but she wants to keep touching him-- so she does, hand resting at the side of his throat, thumb sweeping back and forth along his pulsepoint. ]

You? [ Which could be a question as much as it is a check-in. The edge of the counter digs into the small of her back, so Natasha shifts up onto it. A knee hooks around Tony's hip -- keeps him from letting up any room, and her thighs flank his sides. She reaches for his waistband, thumbs at it. Doesn't quite slip under it just yet. ]

Good.

[ Automatic response, and it's true. He does feel good, because this is nice, everything from Natasha's big eyes focused on him and the delicate touch of her hand at his neck, to the evidence of her release still damp on his fingers and palm, and the enclosing space of her legs around him. This feels a little like going fast, but lazy and languid at the same time.

And then he realises what he just said, and amends-- ]

But, um. Could be better.

[ For sure. He lays an arm along her thigh, slipping a hand up beneath her shirt just for intimacy's sake, tracing his fingertip along the dips of her spine. From here, there's not a lot of adjustment he can do to convey desire, save to press in close. ]

That's what I thought.

[ A little amused about it. Natasha hums. Pressure along her spine, warm and heavy, and she enjoys the pass for another second before her hand does slip underneath. The angle isn't the best so it doesn't last that long. It's sort of lazy, slow strokes and the unhurried, firm ring of her fist. She watches him the entire time.

Natasha stops before it can really get anywhere. It's for necessity rather than cruelty -- she kisses him preemptively, lifting her hips up to take off her jeans. Underwear too. Parts to kick them off onto her kitchen floor somewhere, who cares where.

Draws him back in with her knees, for the second time, to settle between her legs. ]

[ Arousal is a slow burn and so there is room for patience as Natasha works him, his eyes half-hooding and catching his breath shallow in his lungs at initial contact. His hands slide to her thighs, and when she kisses him, he responds with eager pressure, some inarticulate noise at the removal of her hand cancelled there.

When he clues into what she's doing -- and it takes a second -- he sort of helps. She is doing a better job than he is at that, but there's a hand to balance her at the very least.

He brings a hand down to open his pants up more, pushing fabric aside. His movements aren't desperate or hurried in spite of the blood-hard flesh she'd just been handling, the slightly quaver to his breathing, but unhesitating as he lets himself get drawn back close, and he sets a hand against the back of her knee to hitch her thigh up further.

No outright commentary or laughter or smiles right now, but he looks back up to make eye contact, and there's still something like mirth in brown eyes. You find yourself in the weirdest circumstances sometimes, huh?

He pushes into her, and it's a languid and singular motion, and now he makes a noise, relief mingled in luxuriating pleasure. ] Nat-- [ is sighed, incomplete, or maybe not. ]

[ The noise she makes is similar-- a quiet, satisfied sigh. It takes a minute to adjust. Her hand reaches to cup the side of his face, thumb sweeping under his eye. Soft pink across her cheeks and mouth flushed and the same spark of mirth is there, a gentle undercurrent beneath the livewire feeling of arousal and sex and this. Whatever this is now.

They move together. Natasha's quiet, mostly, save for those hitches in breathing. Slow and unhurried until her hand presses between them to touch herself.

Wound tight, until she lets go again. The muscles in her thigh jump, and she comes again with her eyes closed, forehead pressed against his. ]

[ He isn't far behind her, but he does wait her out for mutual benefit, eyes closed and tension steely up his spine, yoked across his shoulders, the hand trapping her knee holding a little firmer, feeling the twitch of her muscles like a pulse.

Tony's hands come up to hold either side of her face and steer her into a heated kiss, about as commanding as he's gotten so far, and from there, he seeks his own relief with a little more urgency than before, slow build burning out. It happens fast once he lets it, giving a shuddered groan half-muffled into her neck, a hand pressing splayed against the countertop.

The next sigh out of him is more conscious, appreciative and relieved, and now facing a dilemma -- that pushing himself out of this space will end it forever and ever, and so Tony lingers where he is, her legs folded around him, too warm under his clothes, the contours of her body pressed closely with his. But he can't imagine the countertop is super booty friendly.

And he has a red hair or two in his mouth, now, so he does at that point lift his head to look at her. ] Hey.

[ He looks at her, and by now her own breathing is already schooled into something level. Maybe not entirely effective, considering. Everything. Natasha's hand has been gently smoothing the back of his neck, short sweeps up and down, but it stills now. ]

Hi.

[ Quietly. Then there's a smile on her face-- a little wry, by most standards. ]

We should have done this in a bed.

[ Regret after sex is probably not very sexy. Natasha might be the type to despair about the status of having had sex on Italian countertops if she gave a shit about Italian countertops. It's mostly uncomfortable, but in the post-coital way that means she can ignore that for a little while longer, so she does. Her thighs press lightly into his hips, not insistent or inviting, but not strictly falling away either. ]

That was fun.

Yeah. I mean, room for improvement, given the--

[ He wants to kiss her again. He would like to be on a bed too, actually, but not in a regrets way and more in a seeing if he could pursue a round two kind of way. More excuse to linger so she can do that nice thing she was doing to his neck-- way. ]

--bed, uh, circumstance.

[ He lands a kiss kind of off-centre on her mouth before reluctantly extricating himself before she has to urge him backwards. Hands helping her resteady herself before he attends to his own half-pantsed situation, still working on gaining back his breath, blood flow normalising, and so on. Reality eking back in.

He ducks down and picks her clothes back up and hands them off to her, underwear first, because he is a Gentleman, eyes guileless of any inherent comedy that may or may not present. ]

That was fun, [ he echoes, on delay. ] I'm glad we didn't do it in Berlin. Now I am, anyway.

Edited 2019-10-14 12:28 (UTC)

[ She takes the clothes, puts them on. Gives him a quick Look through the thick of her red hair when she's shimmying back into her underwear of the Don't say anything variety. There's a small face as she shifts her legs. The realities of gravity after sex are, you know, substantially less fun, so she zips up her jeans and says mildly, ]

Me too.

[ The 4am of Berlin: notoriously ill-timed. Something a little tender still flares in her chest when she looks at him. It's better, now that she knows what to do with it -- she doesn't reach for him, hands pressed behind her at the countertop's edge, but she looks at him openly.

Natasha does that now. Because she likes him, as a person. ]

We should do it again sometime.

[ She says it a little like it's funny, because it sort of is. It feels rote. Natasha says it anyway, because the benefit of intimacy is, occasionally, saying things that are true for the sake of meaning them. ]

You turning me out, Romanoff?

[ --but rote as it may feel, she can probably catch that he'd been looking for that cue. Thinking about it, at least.

A musical tap of his fingers against the countertop. ]

I get it. International bootycalls are best when they got jet repulsors on their feet.

[ There's a look that passes over her face. Mostly, it's some strain of surprise, which gets clamped down and filed away before it can go anywhere. Some of it looks like annoyance. Some of it is neither of those two things. Natasha deftly chooses to ignore those. ]

Sure.

[ Mildly. There's a little pause, and Natasha's head dips for a second as she looks down at her feet. Looks back up, and she arches an eyebrow at him. ]

I'd say you could stay for lunch, but.

[ But that would involve the kitchen. And, you know. ]

[ Oh hey, annoyance, from her to him. Good to know sex hasn't changed that fundamental. ]

Sure, [ he echoes back at her. ] And I guess if I took you down to that quaint little place on the corner for something by candlelight, your cover's liable to take a hit, huh.

Think they deliver?

[ Because that didn't sound like a hard yes on getting him to leave. Still. He's ready for a signal, more attuned to it than he'd ordinarily be when it comes to. This stuff. ]

[ If Natasha were someone else, she might stare at him like he has two heads. Because she is Natasha, she stares at him like he has one head. So, you know. Like normal. ]

We could find out.

[ That is an invite. Natasha pauses, adds, ]

And check if the shower works.

[ To really round out the deal, here. She's open to addendums. ]

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propulsion - 2019-10-30 10:35 (UTC) - Expand