All She Can Think About update

Peter pulled off his mask after the battle, his face glistening with sweat, his hair dark and mussed up. He ruffled it into a no more presentable, but less uncomfortable state. “I do not remember getting this sweaty before I joined the Avengers. Tell me I’m not getting old. I’m the young one, right?”

“Anyone’s young compared to Cap,” Hawkeye quipped from the co-pilot’s seat.

Natasha wanted to shush him. She was staring at Peter. She’d admired his body often enough, that slender, muscular physique that his skintight costume showed off. But she didn’t know now how she could’ve truly appreciated it without seeing his face. That face tied everything together, put a cute veneer on all those chiseled muscles. Made him approachable, attainable. Friendly. He was handsome, not just well-built—there was something so appealing about his messy hair and brown eyes that would’ve been lost if he were more classically attractive, like Steve, with his bright blond hair and sky-blue eyes. Steve she wouldn’t mind fucking, it was true, but Peter…

Peter noticed her looking at him. He turned his head to her and Natasha tried to control her breathing. She felt flushed, hot under the collar, but as an experienced spy, she could slow her heartrate—keep her cheeks from blushing. Look as cool as always.

“What’s the matter?” he asked, touching his face with a gloved hand. “Am I gonna have to think up a story for another bruise?”

“No,” Natasha said coolly, her hand stealing to one of the compartment in the Quinjet, next to her hip. She opened it, pulled out a box of moist towelettes from the supplies, and offered one to him, as if that had been her intention all along. “You just need to take better care of your skin. All that dirt and grime can’t be good for that pretty face.”

Peter grinned bashfully as he took the towelette and mopped at his face. “Okay, but you’re the only one allowed to give skincare tips. Tony wears that helmet all day—I bet he has an exfoliating cream in there somewhere…”

Natasha giggled at his joke and pulled down her zipper, taking a deep breath that swelled her breasts, slipping her open catsuit down to either side of them. She didn’t show her nipples, as she knew she wouldn’t, but she thought she showed Peter enough to give that Black Cat woman a run for her money.

“Mmm. That’s better.” Natasha took out another towelette and ran it down her sweaty cleavage. If Peter were masked, he’d have plausible deniability about whether he was watching or not. Now, though, he carefully kept his gaze… abreast… of her.

She thought she caught him casting a longing look at his mask.

“Have I ever told you how happy I am that you let us know your secret?” Natasha asked him. “The thought of you having to keep that stuffy mask on all the time—a hero deserves better than that. It’s good to know you trust us.”

As the coolly recirculating air of the Quinjet’s cabin soaked into her exposed skin, she felt like tearing off all of her costume. She wanted to be totally naked, seen all over. But of course, she was used to those kinds of intrusive thoughts. Not so sexual—so naughty—but maybe it was a good thing that her miswired brain wasn’t speaking to her of death and destruction anymore.

“Hey,” Peter reasoned. “If you can’t trust the Avengers, who can you trust?”

“And we trust you. And our faith’s been rewarded. Or at least, mine has.”

Natasha leaned forward. She knew she shouldn’t—that she was letting Peter see more of her abundant cleavage than ever, risking her tits falling out of her open suit altogether—but she did.

“Thank you for saving me, webhead. If there’s ever anything I can do to show my appreciation, don’t hesitate to let me know.”

Peter flushed bright red, his eyes skittering around the cabin. Bad enough that Natasha was painfully aware of what he was thinking, but if any of the other Avengers saw him like this—no, they were off in their own little worlds, phones and paperback books, leaving him and Natasha alone in their intimacy.

Bad choice of words, webhead, he thought to himself. A thought that sent him spiraling back to how Natasha had said his nickname.

If his skin could burst into flame, it would’ve.

“I mean, you don’t have to thank me,” he stammered. “You’re, you, Black Widow… you…” He gestured unhelpfully. “You’ve saved the world a million times. How could I ask for you to do more than—just keep doing what you’re doing?”

Natasha smiled at him, a razor’s edge to the kinky turn of her lips. “Saving the world is my job. Thanking you… that’s more personal.”