#for a while now i've woken up with a wet pillow n face & a pounding headache every like. 2 or 3 days bc i was crying in my sleep and idk how

[ronanlynchbf]

this CANNOT continue 😐👎 (waking up crying every second morning or so)

[chalantness]

fic: now that i've got you (i won't let go)

Rating: NC-17 Word Count: ~3300 Characters: Steve/Natasha Summary: He takes her aching body in his trembling hands and touches her until she starts feeling again, and she kisses him until he stops feeling, and for one blissful, fleeting, selfish, perfect moment, neither of them is falling apart.

For: @seaductress

A/N: Based on this post because Johana is an instigator. This was my attempt at Angst which kind of fell through but I liked what I ended up with, anyway!

Also, I made a writing playlist to go with it!

Read On: [ ao3 ]

It becomes a routine of sorts, the way it always does for them. Falling apart, coming back together. One running, one pulling back, one leaping forward, one following in the shadows. Somehow reckless and predictable and tragic and beautiful, all at once.

Just like everything else they touch.

She hasn’t seen him in hours, but most days, that’s typical. She knows where he goes, but she doesn’t follow him anymore. Half the time he just wanders, whenever he isn’t sitting in a circle of foldable chairs as strangers talk and he certainly doesn’t. Not that she’s seen, anyway. Maybe it’s because he knew she was watching him and listening for him, and now that she isn’t lingering in the back, maybe he’s become more talkative. She grasps onto that thought with both hands tightly, wanting it to be true. She wants that for him. But she’s not sure if he wants that for himself. For as long as he’d started disappearing, seeking something – or more likely, nothing at all – he comes back with those same shadows in his eyes as he leans against the far wall and watches her train, hour after hour, until she’s numb in her muscles and just about everywhere else, too.

Then he takes her aching body in his trembling hands and touches her until she starts feeling again, and she kisses him until he stops feeling, and for one blissful, fleeting, selfish, perfect moment, neither of them is falling apart.

Not while they’re falling together.

But as the day drags on, every time she expects to turn to find him hovering in the corner, he isn’t there and she fights the swirling, sinking feeling tightening in her stomach.

She goes through magazine after magazine, puts a few hundred bullet holes into targets on the wall, and she’s worried.

She runs for hours and hours, in circles for miles outside around the building, looking over her shoulder for his shadow, and she’s pissed.

She wraps her hands and pummels into a punching bag – swift and calculated, then aggressive and wild and sloppy, then calculating once more – and she’s hurt. She punches into that damn bag until her knuckles feel raw under the layers of gauze, until her muscles ache and then go numb and then ache all over again in protest, and she’s—

“Enough,” his voice orders, smooth and soft and sliding over her spine in a warm tingle as his large hands come around her hips, arms flexing, all of that careful strength focused on keeping her in place. He’s standing close enough behind her that she can feel his warmth, but not close enough where they’re touching anywhere else, and she throws another punch against the bag because she’s being stubborn and a little bit spiteful. His body wraps around her as his hands clasp around her wrists, tightening – warning – as he yanks her back against him, and all at once, every emotion she’d pushed aside all day comes crashing down on her so hard that her knees nearly give out.

But Steve holds her up. He always does.

“Enough,” he repeats, a plea this time, and it’s as if her body had been waiting for this. For him. Her weight melts against his as his arms come around her waist, locking her in a tight hold, and he presses his face into the curve of her neck. His breath comes out in heavy puffs against her pulse, smelling of dark and bitter alcohol.

He’d taken from Tony’s stash again, and the realization makes her chest tighten. It’s been a while since it’s gotten this bad.

He turns his head just barely, grazing a kiss against her skin. He squeezes onto her harder, so hard that it starts to hurt, and she knows it’s wrong of her to find comfort in it.

“Steve.” His name is a question and a sigh all at once, thick with both worry and relief, and his eyelashes are wet against her neck when he buries his face further into her. Her eyelashes flutter closed and, for the first time all day, she lets herself feel the dull throb in her scalp from how tightly she’d pulled her braid together. Usually Steve does it for her – maybe because touching her is the only times his hands don’t seem to shake anymore – and he always handles her with so much more care than she’ll ever give herself.

“You were gone this morning,” he mumbles into her skin. It’s not quite an accusation, not quite a question, not quite anything, and she doesn’t know what to do with it.

“I—” She shakes her head, trying not to remember the way she woke up with his arms around her, their bodies intertwined as the beginnings of dawn started to spill into the room through the part in the drapes. She tries not to remember the way his face was pressed into his pillow, the way her fingers itched to trace over his lips, parted as he took in steady, peaceful breaths. Because in that moment, with his warmth and his weight pressing over hers, he was at peace and she was so selfishly content by it that she’d done what she’s always done best: she ran. She untangled herself from him and slipped out of his room without her usual grace, her heart pounding against her ribcage as she fled.

Move on, they say in every one of those damn meetings Steve sits in on. It’s been years, they reason. Your loved ones would want you to be happy, they insist.

Happy.

The word feels bittersweet in her thoughts as she remembers that that’s exactly what she felt that morning, still hazy with sleep as she caught sight of Steve sleeping soundly beside her, without those shadows on his face, without that storm in his eyes. She felt content to lay there with him, as if she wanted nothing more for the rest of her life.

As if she hadn’t watched her friends disappear right in front of their eyes. As if she had given up on them.

“I didn’t know where you were,” Steve says, his voice low and gravelly, angry, in a way she hasn’t heard in a long time. “You were just gone.”

Of course.

She closes her eyes, her throat feeling tight, her chest feeling tighter. He doesn’t know that she’d woken up for the first time in years with a lightness in her chest that she had no right to feel. He doesn’t know that she’d stumbled from his bed and nearly tripped out the door in her attempt to not panic, don’t panic, don’t you dare panic—

He simply knows that she had been asleep in his arms and he’d woken up and she wasn’t there anymore. In a blink. In a snap.

His grip tightens at her hips as he lifts his head from the curve of her shoulder, fingers digging into her skin so hard, she knows there’ll be a bruise there in a matter of hours, but she doesn’t care. She doesn’t care about anything as she turns to look at him over her shoulder, her breath catching in her throat as she finds herself staring up into his stormy blue eyes, glassy and a little hazy from the alcohol he must have spent all day drinking. His body is practically simmering in his anger, in his hurt, even as his eyes flash in relief as his thumbs are smoothing circles into her skin, over and over, as if trying to commit her skin to memory. Despite what she put him through, he’s happy to see her.

Happy.

She swallows past the tightness in her throat, trying to turn to face him, but his hold on her keeps her in place. She tries to pull his wrists off but, stubbornly, he doesn’t budge.

“Steve,” she breathes, voice wavering as she reaches up to cup his jaw. “I’m right here. Okay?” She tilts her head up, brings her face closer to his. “I’m right here.”

His expression cracks at the edges, finally loosing his grip on her as he turns her around, pulls her to his chest. She can practically feel his heart thundering in his chest as she slides her hands up, over his neck, rubbing her thumb back and forth over the pulse there. His tension ebbs a little more. “Don’t ever do that to me again, Nat.”

Nat. His voice cracks on her name and she shakes her head quickly. “I won’t,” she promises, just barely getting the words out before he kisses her.

He cups the back of her head, kissing her hard, kissing her breathless, and she feels her knees start to give out from under her. She whimpers, reaching up to grasp his forearms as she leans into him, and he groans into her mouth as he nips at her bottom lip. He tastes like something strong and smooth and bitter, an alcohol she can’t place in this moment—not with hands sliding down her back as he leads them forward, his fingers pulling at her workout top. He pauses just long enough to tug it over her head and toss it aside, turning to push her up against the wall. “Don’t you fucking do that again,” he breathes, his voice gravelly and low and so fucking desperate that it hurts, and she knows he can see it in her eyes. How much she feels for him. What she feels for him. His expression cracks even more, the anger quickly fading until all she can see is herself.

He looks at her like she’s everything. He looks at her like she’s his life, and she left him. Didn’t even think about what he might take that as, because she’s just that selfish—

“Don’t do that,” he growls, kissing her again, a command and a plea all at once. Because of course he can read her just as easily as she can read him. “Don’t.”

She doesn’t deserve his reverence, his loyalty and his faith, but, god, she wants to earn it. She always has, and so she gives in, whispers, “okay,” against his lips and kisses him hard, harder. Until she can’t hear those damn voices in her head anymore, saying awful, terrible things that she’s not even sure if she believes anymore.

Not when Steve has always tried his damn hardest to get her to believe him instead.

He yanks away, her head tipping back against the wall as she stares up at the ceiling, her vision blurry. His thigh slots between her legs perfectly – they always fit so fucking perfectly together, she doesn’t know what to think – and his body rocks hers into the wall as his lips move to her neck. His kisses are both frantic and reverent, hasty in his urge to taste every inch of skin, yet he allows himself to pause just long enough to nip at her with each brush of his lips, soothing the mark with his tongue before he moves lower.

It’s dizzying, distracting her, making her fumble as she tries to undo the buttons of his shirt. Everything between them feels hot, frantic. Perfect.

He always feels perfect, even when nothing is at all.

“Nat,” he breathes, moving down onto his knees in front of her, and she tips her head forward watch as he hooks his thumbs over the waistband of her leggings and her panties, tugging them down her thighs as his teeth find the scar at her hip, nipping. His hand curves over her ass as he digs his fingers in, making her gasp as he bites lower, lower, teeth grazing the inside of her thigh. His lips murmur her name into her skin over and over again, a tease, a taunt. A punishment, she realizes, when his breath ghosts over where she’s aching and wet, pausing, his eyes flicking up to meet her gaze. She pushes her fingers into his hair, tightening, earning the wisps of a smile on his lips.

And her heart cracks wide open.

He licks a broad stripe up her sex, quickly finding her clit, and she lets out a moan.

He sucks at the tight little bud, once, twice, three times, drawing out a mewl from her lips as she coils forward and twists her fingers into his hair, and then his tongue slips lower, licking down to her entrance as her knees quiver.

She can’t move much with his hands keeping her pinned to the wall, and the angle is awkward with her leggings hitched at her knees, but, god, it still feels so good.

It takes him no time at all until she’s whimpering, grinding her hips as best as she can as he finds her clit again, sucking, circling, pushing her closer and closer to that dizzying edge. He groans, slips a hand between her legs and strokes two fingers over her slickness, almost toying with her wetness – because fuck she’s so wet – and then easing them inside of her as he pulls his lips off of her with staggered inhale, like he’s gasping for air. Her vision nearly whites out when he curls his fingers, thumb stroking over her folds as his lips hover, parted, just over her throbbing bundle of nerves. She mewls, knees quivering as his fingers continue curling, making her keen out as they brush that sweet spot.

Then he slips his hand out, takes her clit between his lips and hums as he pushes three fingers back into her, and her body jolts as she comes with a cry.

Her walls clamp around his fingers for a moment, pulling a groan from the back of his throat, and he thrusts once, twice, three more times, long and hard and deep, before pulling his hand away to grip her hips, holding her upright against the wall as her body writhes from the waves of her orgasm.

His lips are still against her sex, teasing her as he murmurs soft, sweet things, coaxing her back down from her high. All she can manage is a soft gasp of surprise when she feels him yank her leggings all the way off before standing, pulling her body off of the wall and gently tipping her forward, until she’s laying on her back atop the training mats.

He braces himself above her, his face slightly silhouetted by the bright, fluorescent lights overhead, and she feels a little bit like she can’t breathe as she stares up at him.

Sometimes, she still can’t believe he’s real. Sometimes, she still can’t believe that he’s become such an undeniable part of her, that she knows she wouldn’t recognize herself without him.

(And the hardest part to believe? That she knows she wouldn’t recognize him without her, either.)

As if hearing her thoughts, the quiet, fleeting trance is snapped between them and his mouth is on hers again, desperate, urgent, stealing her breath as her hands tug gracelessly at the zipper of his jeans. He groans into her mouth when she dips her hand inside, finding him hard and thick and pulsing as she grasps his length in her hand, and he shoves his jeans and his boxers down his hips before hitching himself up on one elbow, sliding easily between her legs as she draws the tip of him to her dripping wet folds.

She slides him up and down, up and down, rubbing him against her clit until the little bud is throbbing and his body is practically shaking in his effort to restrain himself.

“Why do you let me do this to you?” she asks, voice just barely above a whisper as she poises him at her entrance, and they both know she’s talking about more than one thing right now. Why do you let me dictate so much even though you’ve always been the better leader? Why do you let me have my way when I always end up hurting us both?

Why am I good enough for you?

He groans, drops his forehead to hers as he pushes into her, and her eyes flutter closed at the pure pleasure of him stretching her out, filling her deep.

“Because I want you to,” he answers, his voice sounding labored as he bottoms out inside of her. He shifts, reaching down to hitch one of her legs around his hips, knowing she’ll follow his lead, and her spine arches off of the mat as he starts thrusting into her. “Because I like that you want to.” There’s nothing easy about his strokes, no hesitance or pace to let her get used to him, because when her body knows his in the way it does – craves his in the way it does – she doesn’t need slow or gentle. She doesn’t want it.

She wants him and all of his frustration and his anger. She wants this man who always gives so much of him to take and take and take whatever he wants from her.

She wants to see the parts of him that no one else gets to see. No hesitance or doubt or restraint—just beautiful, selfish, wild passion. Just Steve.

She whimpers into his mouth as he kisses her hard, thrusts into her harder, faster, practically bruising her hips against the floor. Her nails scrape against his back, digging into the taut muscles there through the thin material of his shirt. His body always feels so fucking perfect above her, broad and solid, the thick muscles of his arms caging her in and blocking everything else out so that all she can focus on is his heat and his musk and his slick skin and just him. Her lips twitch into a smile against their kiss as she slips her hands around, pressing both palms against his chest, just above his thrumming heart, and he groans snaps his hips into her hard, as if this little gesture is enough to undo him.

His thumb slips between them, finding her clit and rubbing, drawing a mewl from her lips as her body writhes. It’s almost too much, fuck, it’s too much—

“I know, I know,” he soothes, circling his thumb faster as he angles his hips and thrusts deeper. “But I need you to come with me, Nat.” He groans, biting at her lip. “Nat, Nat.”

She couldn’t tell you how long it actually took, how many times he’d chanted her name as he thrust into her—but she feels him grow tense above her as he yanks his lips away and groans, long and loud right against her ear as his warmth spills inside of her. And it’s as if her body had been waiting for him because her spine arches off of the floor, her orgasm crashing down on her even harder this time, until there’s nothing but throbbing, frantic heat between them, her every sense going hazy with the force of her pleasure.

It feels as if it takes entire minutes before their breaths start to even out, his lips hovering just above hers as, slowly, she floats back down from her high.

He groans, his body sagging against hers in a warm, comforting sort of weight, pinning her to the floor, and she shifts her head to bury her face into his shoulder. She feels him turn his head to kiss her hair – once, twice, letting his lips linger as he breathes her in – and she winds her arms around the small of his waist and holds him close.

She knows that their fight is far from over, the war far from done. She knows that they’re far from healed.

But in this moment—in their moment, stolen, soft, sated—she also knows that they’re happy. And maybe that’s something they’ve earned after all.