Archive of Our Own

Technically, they're supposed to set up two tents, but they never do. At close to the peak of Dykhtau mountain, nearly 15,000 feet up, it's too blistering cold for separate tents. They're meant to maintain a professional distance to one another, lest they care for one another, but Natasha has cared for the Winter Soldier since long before they started sleeping back to back to share warmth. She accepts a thermos of hot coffee from him-- black. They're never allowed sugar or milk while on the move, they simply aren't shelf stable, nor are they necessary. The caffeine might keep them sharp, but anything else is superfluous. She closes her compact mirror, which she'd just been using to wipe off the lipstick she put on for their last successful mission, and unzips her heavy coat to reach inside, pulling out a small packet she'd snatched while they were working in the little town of Kyatvet. Powdered milk. Natasha holds a gloved finger to her lips with a secret smile and rips open the top of the foil with her teeth, holding her hand out for Winter's thermos. He hands it over wordlessly and she pours half of the powder inside, before tightly screwing the lid back on and shaking it up, and handing it back to him. She does the same for her own. Powdered milk doesn't do much for already-shit instant coffee, but... it's something. And really it's the little somethings that keep her going. He doesn't smile when he drinks it, but he never smiles with his mouth. She sees it in the way he appreciates it with his eyes closed. She's the only one who shares the little somethings with him.

Really, if they didn't want Natasha to care for the Winter Soldier, they never should have paired her with him for mission after mission. He's been everything to her, in stages and layers. A mentor, a leader, a teacher, a brutal sergeant, a wounded soul, a quiet poet, a friend. Just as he's watched her evolve from frightened little girl to the woman she is today, she's watched him come in and out like the tide on a beach. She's seen him expand and contract with every time they put him back on ice over the years. Like a bitter frost coming in to kill a flower that had just started to unfurl. He's out right now. They were undercover for nearly two weeks, in the freezing winter of Kyatvet, masquerading as husband and wife to extract vital information from an extremely dangerous and paranoid individual. If they'd been made, it was only through their combined effort that the mission would have even been able to be completed. But they're professionals. It never came to that. Natasha would miss the boring, ordinary routine of putting on makeup every morning to pretend to be Prushinka Stepanova, the retired ballerina with a weak ankle. Waiting for extraction now, and knowing they'll leave them on this peak for days until they get around to picking them up, Natasha enjoys her coffee with illicit powdered milk. She doesn't think it would be so hard for them to give them little pleasures like this every once in a while. She knows why they never do, but... at least when it comes to her, she doesn't think these little somethings could ever make her dream of defecting more than she already does. It's not powdered milk that makes her want to leave.

Looking across at Winter, she lets out a soft sigh that comes out as a cloud of steam. At least the wind has died, and the low golden sun over the distant peaks is warm as it lays over them like an orange blanket. They soak up that heat while it lasts like two big cats, but there are already stars twinkling in the sky where it's darkest, right overhead. "You know my birthday was yesterday," she says, and takes another sip of coffee. God, but it still tastes bad. "I know we're not supposed to keep track, but... I saw the date."

There are so many times when the Soldier just... doesn't know what to say. He isn't looking at her when she's speaking and he doesn't turn to look at her now, but the acknowledgement still finds its way in those little things. The leather of his glove creaks as he passes just one thoughtful swipe along the side of the thermos held in his hands. Cruel that the very material keeping his coffee warm was also stopping him from being able to feel most of the heat it would provide. Fortunately, Winter worked well on nothing. Nothing is what fills his head now. A birthday. They did have those. Ice blue eyes reflect the sun as he watches it slip over the horizon, and for a long while Natasha's only answer is the quiet, rustling remnants of a breeze ghosting up their mountain. "Happy birthday," Winter finally says at last, sounding mechanical, almost robotic as he lifts the thermos to his lips for another drink. It burns on the way down. He doesn't sip with abandon or gulp any more than he needs, but he makes sure he feels it on his lips, his teeth, his tongue and the roof of his mouth. When he pulls back his lips are shiny, and he licks them only to immediately regret it. The cold makes moisture it's enemy. A glutton for creature comforts, it's easy to forget. Just as fast, Winter wipes his mouth with the back of his opposite hand. Would it make the Soldier feel better or worse to know how old she was now? She'd certainly grown a lot. Finally turning his head, Winter regards her with that inscrutable squint. His thermos settles to rest on his knee. "How do you feel?" Winter prompts, without expressing anything himself.

She inhales slowly through her nose. They know better than to breathe through their mouths, in weather this cold. It cools the core too much. How does she feel? It's a loaded question. And if it came from anyone else, she would ignore it at best, lie at worst. But she trusts Winter in ways she trusts few others. "I feel... 21, I guess," she says, since he didn't ask how old she was. She doesn't know why she wants him to know, she just... does. It makes her feel more real, to know there are parts of her that live in other people's heads, even something as simple as how old she is. "Which doesn't actually feel all that different from 20, to be honest." She does feel different, but not in ways that she can talk about. This time last year, the thought of escaping the Red Room was nothing but a daydream. A fantasy that she could think about in the safety of her own mind, in those moments she could breathe between tasks. Her thoughts are the one thing the Red Room could never control, so it's those thoughts she held precious to her heart. But a lot can happen in a year. A lot can be planned in a year. A year ago the possibility of escape was laughable. Now... she's actually making plans. Flexing her feet in preparation to take baby steps. It'll be a slow exodus, leaving the Red Room will be like trying to slip underwater without making a single ripple, one inch at a time. But it's starting to feel real. Leaving Winter, though. It's the one little thorn in her side. The one thing that gives her pause, that stalls her feet. She doesn't want to leave him, but he's in worse than she is, deeper than she is. They take his mind and heart every time he goes back into the ice, and it takes her months to claw it back out of him. She knows he'll be put on ice again after this. 13 days unsupervised in regular society made him soft in ways that barely count as soft at all compared to regular people. But compared to how he's "supposed" to be?

She knows this'll be the last time he drinks coffee in a while. She wishes she had some sugar to put in it for him. Her heart aches as she watches the steam from his coffee catch his eyelash. A single dewdrop freezes there almost as fast as it catches the hair, and she sees it sparkle in the waning sunlight like a tiny diamond. "I wonder what I would be doing right now if I was never in the Room," she muses dangerously. Testing the waters. "Girls get drunk on their 21st birthdays, don't they?" She's never been drunk in her life.

The effort at least earns Natasha a snorting sound from deep in Winter's chest. Something that others would dare call a scoff , maybe even a laugh if they were feeling really bold. Winter makes that sound in any other company and he's out for another twenty years and shocked until he's little more than paste. He does it with Nat now though, immediately. Easily, without the usual buffer that it would take for a less-him him to process. Winter brings the thermos back to his lips, this time giving Natasha a visible once-over as he sits up a little straighter, like regarding her for the first time. In thick, judgmental Russian he chides, "Not good girls."

She cocks her head with a coy little smile, eyes wide like she's offended. "You think I'm a good girl?" her voice crackles, hoarse in the frozen mountain air, and the implication makes her laugh. She soothes her scorched throat with another sip of coffee, which just scorches it in a different way. Looking back out at the mountain range below, with its harsh shadows in the dying sunlight, her smile fades slightly. The character of Prushinka had been a "good girl." Newlywed to her handsome but dour husband Edgar Stepanov, who was a fisherman during the season for it, and unemployed in the winter. It gave him a reasonable excuse to skulk about town, as if always looking for odd jobs to support his young wife, already retired from her dream career by an injury. They seem like they could have been such a sweet couple, if they were real people. "Maybe if I was never in the Room, I would have been good," she says, the ghost of that smile still on her lips. "What do you think I would have been like?" 

There it is. That question again. Part of him had hoped she would be distracted by a rare attempt at humor. The Soldier should have known better than to think she wouldn't chase her own lead. He hides by taking a drink, by tracking the woman with his eyes through thick, dark lashes. It's a weight she's intimately familiar with by now-- when someone know what to look for, the Winter Soldier is notoriously easy to pinpoint. He's full of tells just waiting to be read, and she's an expert at it by now. Winter's jaw tightens as he drinks, as her question still hangs heavy and unanswered in the air. What would she be doing. What would she have been like? Extrapolating a theory like that might be a bit much to expect of the dog of Hydra, but Natasha had never held him to a standard he could not meet.

"Probably the same," He finally answers at last, eyes breaking away from her to take in the last dregs of sunlight before their world is cast into blues and purples. His glove strokes along the side of his thermos again, but this time he doesn't drink to distract himself, "You are good." Winter says it so matter-of-fact, it belies how far gone from his programming he is. It's always harder, to see slices of the man he could be if given half a chance, to know they'll be gone in a matter of hours. Again Winter's eyes find her, and this time they meet her gaze like he's challenging her to look anywhere else, "That's your problem."

She holds that eye contact with a somber dutifulness, giving his attention every inch of respect it deserves. The next time she sees him, he'll barely remember who she is. He'll know her name, he'll know he's her mentor, but he won't remember how to make her smile, or that he even likes to. He won't remember the warmth of her back sleeping against his, or that she put powdered milk in his coffee. His cyclical life hurts to watch. "My problem," she repeats, only breaking the eye contact when she thinks maintaining it might give away how deeply she feels. Maybe that is her problem. "You might be right." He'd tried to train the heart out of her. He was the first, but he wasn't the last. But he was the only one to realize it would never work, because after him, she got better at lying. He's the only one who knows how to peek under the mask she wears. He's the only one who even knows it's there. God, she'll miss him when she goes. Maybe there's hope that he could get out, too. They're going to be on this mountain peak for at least 40 hours, awaiting extraction. Theoretically, they could take out their trackers right now, drop them in the snow, and vanish like ghosts. That's the part that she struggles with the most, is knowing how easy it would be to vanish. The Red Room, the Winter Soldier program, they trained the two of them in ways that would make it so easy to run and hide, but make them fear what would happen if they were recaptured so severely, that they never try. But god, does she want to try. She can't just ask him to his face. The information would get out of him somehow, and entirely against his will. If it were up to him, she knows he would carry her secrets to the grave. But he isn't always him. Sometimes the Soldier takes over, and he's smothered beneath him. So she has to be more careful, just in case. For both their sake.

"I think if I got out tomorrow, if the Red Room suddenly vanished in a puff of smoke... I might like to be a defense attorney. Or an investigative journalist. Is that dumb?" she asks, looking at him out of the corner of her eye.

If word got out that they'd had even this conversation, it would be punishment for them both. Not death, it was never death. The Red Room did not like to dispose of its tools, especially when they could be so easily fixed. Even these dreams, no matter how innocent and hypothetical, could set them back years. Decades. Winter holds his gaze firm, even after she looks away, looking at her profile like he's trying to memorize it. Winter is, in part. He's always trying to memorize it, whatever he can, whenever. It works even if he doesn't think it does, or at least it's what he tells himself. He has to dream when he's under, even if they elude him when he's awake. Only reluctantly does he look away, if only to give her question some thought. "Don't know the first one," Winter admits at last, another sad feature of their life at large. They are only what their handlers allowed them to be. Why would a dog know the word for attorney, when they'd never needed to before? He takes a deep breath through his nose, a plume of smoke emptying into the air, his eyes following the curling path into the darkened night sky. "But you are the strongest widow the Red Room has ever created," Winter says with full bias, his personal hand in her training a point of pride. Finally his chin drops, and Winter shifts to look at her again, where she's still only look at her through her hair like he might dare to see her, "You could do anything and it would be beneath you." His expression is serious, until finally he looks away, and it seems very intentional. He can't look at her while he asks it, but he can't not ask -- "Is that what you want?"

The question kicks her in the chest and knocks all the wind clear out of her. Worse, there's evidence for it, as the cloud of steam that leaves her raises overhead and lights aflame with gold sunlight, now since passed over their heads and plunged them into shadow. It would be nice if they were allowed to start a fire, but the light would give away their position. The tiny battery-operated space heater would have to be saved to keep their tent warm overnight. She wants to move closer to him. Nobody's ever asked her what she wants before, not even him. A testament to how far he's drifted away from the Soldier that Hydra wants him to be. A testament to how far they'll shove him under again. She might not see him for years, after this. She might be gone by the time he wakes up again. She can't wait for him, as soon as she gets her opportunity to leave, she knows she'll have to take it. She can't hinge the rest of her life on anyone else, not even him. Even if the thought of disappearing while he's under makes her stomach turn and her throat tighten. She would fade away from his memory for good, in that case, if she wasn't there to remind her of all her little somethings. Instead of answering his question directly, she flips it back around to him. Bold and cautious at once. "Do you ever think about what you'd do if you left?"

The question's effects are immediate, and unfortunately more predictable than they should be. The Soldier's brow furrow heavily over his eyes, guard immediately risen. As if this could have been a trap all along, Natasha sent to disarm and destroy him, to confess to some lesser wrongdoing. Dreaming. "No," Winter says immediately, with an accompanying head shake to boot, to emphasize and underscore how very much he doesn't think about it. But he has to answer that way, doesn't he? How often has his obedience been ground into his programming? There are times, at least, where Natasha can taste freedom. There are moments where she is given peace, and whatever semblance of privacy one can find amongst the program's walls, the Soldier is given none. He goes, from one mission to the next, without even the time to think about what it might look like to just stop . There's a very slim note of panic in the way Winter looks at Natasha when he does, breathing just a little faster, catching a little higher in his throat, "I can't."

She sees how scared he is, and hates that she's the one who put this fear in him. She hears his gloves creak around the thermos, and hears the fright in his voice, and the part of her that he calls good wants to rush to take his fear away. She was the one who incited it in him, after all. But so much of Winter's life is fear, and so much of how he conducts himself on a daily basis is to avoid that fear. He's obedient so they don't hurt him, because he's afraid of being hurt. At his core, everything he does is an aversion to the things he's afraid of, and to let him run from this too would only be a disservice to him. "I know," she says evenly, glancing at him only slightly, so he won't feel so looked at. "I know we can't. It's not real, though, they're just thoughts. They can't punish us for what we think if we never tell them out loud." She gives him a sad, soft little smile. A quiet admittance of all the ways she breaks their rules every single day with her thoughts alone. Until they come up with some kind of technology that can broadcast their thoughts out loud against their will, they will always have the privacy of their own heads. She has no doubt it's technology they're working on somewhere, though. Anything to strip the last of their humanity.

The Soldier shifts, as he is wont to do when he gets wholly pushed out of his comfort zone. He sits with his back further straight, taking another breath as if deep breaths were the only thing that could soothe him. He looks down into the top of his thermos without being able to see the liquid past the lid, but he really squinted at it like he was trying to before again distracting himself with a drink, a surefire way to buy time, not that Natasha would ever rush him. He doesn't rush himself, either, and doesn't speak until he's sure what he's saying is the truth. "You misunderstand," Winter says at last, expression troubled, lips pressed into a firm line. "I can't ." He looks up at Natasha after that, to make sure what he's saying makes sense. "I think about... 'What if', or 'if only', and it only... hurts. It hurts after you're gone. It hurts deep. Even in my sleep, it hurts," Winter looks away then, hair falling into his face in a move that was hard to imagine wasn't orchestrated. It was getting long again, another testament to his time spent outside of the chamber. Sometimes they would shave it back down before he went under, sometimes they let it keep growing; The length it was at now, it could go either way. He seems to speak steadier from behind it, more confident of himself without having to bear the weight of someone's gaze, "There is nothing out there for me. No place to belong." Winter says, voice a steady, grim echo of a sentiment ground into him by his betters.

She hates hearing him refer to the cryo chamber as "sleep." As if there's a single thing restful or restorative about it. She's never seen him come out of cryo, but she once heard two Hydra agents mocking him later, joking about the way he shivered and coughed. She wonders if they just hose him down and send him off, or if he even gets a moment to settle back into consciousness. She's always been too afraid to ask, it's easier to imagine they warm him with a blanket and let him breathe, even if she knows it would never be true. "I think you're wrong," she says softly, without looking at him. "The world's an awfully big place for there not to be room in it for people like us." She says it so easily, even though they're only able to have this conversation at all because of the absolute isolation from the rest of the world that they have on this mountain top. Miles away from civilization in every direction, free from even the technology that might betray them with ears always listening in, and on borrowed time until they're extracted and taken right back into that world. She wants so desperately for him to see the forest, but he's stuck hiding in the trees. "If we ran, they could never find us," she says. Not a plan, not a promise, just a hypothetical. And one she's posing-- her rebellious thoughts, not his. Even this would set her back, if he were to reveal it, but she could always couch it in a lapse of judgment, and go right back to lying. She's good at that. "They trained us how to hide from people exactly like them."

"Yes, t hey trained us. They will know all our tricks," Winter still speak from behind that curtain of hair, face entirely obscured for Natasha. He's scowling at the stars, furious at the just-rising moon for something it had nothing to do with. Maybe for coming out, when all Winter wanted was to enjoy the last few minutes of the day. It makes him feel better at least, to frown, the ache in his face making his ears roar just a little bit in a satisfying way, like the cold wasn't hurting him enough. It was a precautionary measure, more than anything. A pain afforded to allow Winter the luxury of talking about this at all. His programming says to catalogue this away to report later. The more conscious part discards it, and reminds him their conversation now has no bearing on the successful mission they had already finished. Any debrief Hydra would need later could be circumvented by talking exclusively about the mission. Their only fault would come if Hydra debriefed him about Natasha specifically , and in that case... Well, she'd been nothing but professional and exemplary during the mission. That's all he needs to say. Winter tries to grind that thought into his head, louder than the programming making his fingers twitch. He ducks his head as his metal hand clenches and unclenches, not even given a glove to hide it from the elements. It was fake, after all. Why bother? "Maybe you're smart enough to hide from them. I'm not."

She wants to argue that isn't true-- on a level, it isn't. She's never found him stupid. Hydra talks about him like he's an idiot, a hound, a senseless animal, but she knows the truth. She's spent weeks with him in the mud, trained with him on a personal level. She's seen his soul peek out and turn its face towards the sun again and again, only to duck back into its cave to hide from the Soldier. But she knows Winter would never consider himself smart. He's surrounded by geniuses everyday, who operate his crown, his throne, the very synapses of his mind. He compares himself to people outside the league of most of humanity, and comes to the conclusion that he's lacking, because that's the only valid measure of intelligence by Hydra's standards. He would never be able to consider his emotional intelligence as a source of strength of character. They would never let him. She scoots closer. It's getting cold, after all. Her hip very nearly touches his, where they sit on the tarp that keeps their pants off the snow. "Nevermind how," she says, soaking up just a little of the warmth coming off of him. He runs so hot all the time. They scarcely need the space heater at night, just putting him in an enclosed insulated space is enough, he'll heat it up from within himself. "It's not real, remember? It doesn't matter how you got out, just imagine that you did. What would you do?"

For a second Winter wonders just how he'd managed to find this. His life as long as he could remember had been cruelty after cruelty, interspersed with only the complicated 'peace' of sleep. There were exceptions, to be sure, people who had appeared like phantoms amongst the cast of regulars only to vanish after one too-long sleep, where an entire lifetime has passed in the blink of an eye. Natasha was maybe the most consistent constant Winter has had in a while, and he always wonders if he doesn't leave her... different, from when he first arrived. She has a nasty habit of making him think. Just like now, making him consider this cruel hypothetical, sitting so close; Just as she can feel the warmth radiating off of him like a furnace, he can feel the ice of her leathers in such stark contrast to his own. He's seized by the urge to touch her, to pull her closer, to give her at least his back, his side, whatever she would need to be warm. He gets crazy like that, impulsive to jump steps ahead, but then, they were used to making the best of limited time. With a snorting huff, Winter's large, gloved hand reaches over after tucking his thermos between his knees. It lands on her thigh, just above her knee, and pulls her the rest of the few scant inches to sit flush with his side. "Just say you're cold," He grouses to her disapprovingly, "No point to suffer when I'm this hot." Winter's hand settles there on her knee, thumb stroking a gentle line into her skin, even through her tactical gear, her question still left unanswered. "I don't know," He finally says again once they've settled, "Are you there?"

It's not the first time he's touched her. It's not even the first time he's touched her kindly. Hell, the entire past two weeks was all about performing the theatre that they were in love all around the town of Kyatvet, just so that people would talk about those sweet newlyweds, in that neighborly, conversational way. The one thing they never did even in public, because they were explicitly never allowed, was kiss. That would have been a step too far, even for a ruse. But they aren't undercover anymore. They're in their own little world, on top of an isolated mountain. There's nobody around for him to pretend for. He's just touching her... because he can. She takes another sip of her coffee, using it to justify the heat in her stomach. "Let's say that I am," she says, giving him permission to use her in his secret, illicit fantasy of what his life would look like if he left Hydra.

A thoughtful 'mm' is Natasha's only reply for another long, agonizing spell. His hand continues to move on her leg, but his eyes are elsewhere, face pointed once more toward the horizon. He's frowning again, but not as hard now, put at ease just by the contact between them. It makes him feel a little less alone, when his buzzing thoughts make it so hard to remember. "Something quiet," Winter finally says, as vague as that is, "I like cutting trees." A temporary job as a lumberjack over the last week sticking with him, remnants of a life he'd never get to have. It's almost more cruel to send him on these missions, where he gets a taste of another life, only to be returned to the cold, uncaring bosom of his handlers. The hand on Natasha's thigh squeezes, and Winter shifts a little in his own posture, thermos kept in his other hand as he turns himself in, closing their conversation off from the world. They really should put the tent up before it gets too dark, but Winter is having a nice time talking. "Could I do that? If you were a reporter?"

"I don't see why not," she smiles, her heart beating a little faster. This is the closest she's ever gotten to coaxing something rebellious out of Winter. He's always so cautious, so afraid. It doesn't escape her notice that it's her proximity that seems to make him feel brave. Carefully, she returns the gesture, laying her palm against his thigh in kind. She wishes she could touch him more directly, without the glove. In Kyatvet they were allowed to do whatever necessary, short of kissing, to further the illusion that they were an ordinary newlywed couple. But as soon as they were behind closed doors, all contact would cease. As soon as they were out of sight of the public, all touch was forbidden. Technically it's still forbidden now, but... well, he started it. "We should put up the tent," she says, as if reading his thoughts. And maybe partially because she wants to get out of his space before they do something stupid. She stands up, and offers him a hand up, which he does not need, but he does take. Natasha doesn't press the issue as they work together to set up the tent, taking care to lay it on a second tarp so the moisture from the snow melting doesn't leak in. It's highly insulated from within by thermal layers that radiate heat from the inside inwards in a constant cycle, but even just the work of setting up the thing has them warm enough to strip out of their heaviest winter layers as soon as they're inside, even before the space heater is set up. She fluffs her hair out to try and get some air on the damp back of her neck, her gloves and boots set aside. The best part of sneakily using one tent is that they have double the materials-- double sleeping pads to make it twice as thick, double blankets to huddle under, double the body heat. Even in just a light sweater and thermal socks, Natasha feels hot inside the tent.

And watching Winter strip out of his things does nothing to help that heat. Maybe it's remembering the way he would put his arm around her waist in the Kyatvet farmer's market while she spoke to a poultry farmer about her eggs. Maybe it's the way he asked to include her in his fantasy about life outside this hell. Maybe it's just that he is undeniably, ludicrously handsome. But when he pulls his jacket off and it rides his shirt up his stomach a little, she notices. "So if you were a lumberjack, and I was a journalist," she says, referring back to their little fantasy from before, "Where would we live?"

There's an audible noise of frustration again from the Soldier, as he hunches over in their little tent and struggles to tug his jacket off of one arm, finally managing and tossing it in the corner, with the rest of their cold, wet things to be warmed first by the heater. Doubtless they'd organize them later, spread them out to get them properly dry. For now, Winter is just glad to move his arms freely again. He snorts like a disturbed bull, casting a dark glare Natasha's way as though he would ever get seriously sick of her questions enough for it to turn to anger. "What place has trees and news?" Winter replies sternly to her dreaming, squinting over at her for a moment before crossing the tent to help her with her fussing, hand raising to gently graze a finger just along the collar of her shirt, gathering any last, stray hairs that were caught and pulling them out without tearing a single one. The metal of his finger is cold on her skin, which has a red flush to it now, when before Winter would've said it was closer to blue. Winter looks down at her with trouble in his eyes, not stepping away after his task was done. That same hand raises to tuck a stray piece of hair hair behind her ear. "I would go where you need me," He says at last, before she has a chance to answer, and only then does the hand fall from her face. "We should eat," The Soldier suddenly deadpans, the warmth leaving his eyes as he realizes too late how close they really are. He hadn't had a chance yet to take off his shoes, so Winter's boots crunch across the tarp as he crouches by their bags with rations, their thermos' set to the side by the heater to keep them a semblance of warm. There's more crinkled, plasticky sounds, and finally he returns with a couple of foil-packed packages of hard tack bread, all of which he mutely hands to Natasha, without keeping one for himself.

She's not really hungry. The last time they ate was nine hours ago, and it was from two bowls of hearty veal stew that were handed to them in town by a kindly old woman the entire community referred to as "Baba Anya," just a few hours before they completed their mission. Natasha hopes she's sleeping well tonight. But she, like the soldier beside her, knows well that eating is a mechanical chore. He breaks open his pouch of flavorless paste, which she tried once and gagged on the texture, and he sips from it with the attached straw mutely as she chews her way through nutrient-rich, dense and cardboard-flavored bread. If she closes her eyes, she can remember the tender carrots and potatoes and beets from the stew that morning. 'I would go where you need me,' he says, and it sounds so real when he says it. But she knows where his loyalties truly lie, and it's not out of love. He would defer to Hydra every time, only out of fear. For such a terrible and powerful man, she wonders how many people realize just how much of his decision making process is ruled by a soft, insecure sense of fear. If pushed, he would break, and he wouldn't break for her. And it breaks her heart in kind, but not because she feels like he doesn't care enough about her. Because she knows how afraid he must be, for it to still outweigh the overwhelming sense of affection she feels from him every time his soul crawls out of that cave. She moves to sit close with him again, even though they don't even have the excuse of the cold anymore. She picks up his arm, and puts it around her waist again, like he would hold it for the mission. She asks, in a soft voice, her boldest question yet. "Would we be married? Like in Kyatvet?"

A heavy sigh fills the tent again, like every time she invades his space is knocks all the air out of his lungs, viscerally. It does in fact. Sometimes a heavy sigh feels like the best he can offer. Still, his hand doesn't move from Natasha's waist, and he in fact squeezes it as he leans back a little to finally kick off his boots, leaving him in just his thick, lined socks. His toes wiggle. How very strange, to see the Winter Soldier's feet. "Married," Winter mutters under his breath, and only afterward seems to think about it. "Not like Kyatvet," Winter decides at last, after a minute of contemplation. After all, married like they had just been had been for show. They hadn't been in love, the stories they'd told had been incidental, and for the most part had involved Winter standing there and looking warmly down at Natasha while she sold the story. Just Winter being there and being... himself was enough to sell the case from his point of view, at least. He didn't have to say much for people to think he was an ex- something , even if 'fisherman' might've been a little underselling it. No, if they were going to be married... Winter would want it to be right. Real, at least. "Married like us," Winter answers at last and inclines his head toward her with a serious, official nod, like indulging her in his attention. Funny, when he's scarcely paying attention to anything else, even though one of them should technically be on watch. That said, anyone that tried to get the jump on Natasha and the Winter Soldier in a tent would have it much worse than they would, even with the element of surprise against them. "Prushinka was nice," Winter amends, apropos of nothing, like she might be hurt by his rejection. He follows it with a shrug, "Have more in common with Natasha."

There's a part of Natasha that tells herself she should be ashamed of the way her heart flutters when he says that. She's a killer, a trained assassin, one of the best, the best according to the Winter Soldier's opinion. His opinion shouldn't matter to her more than anyone else's, but... here she is, ducking her cheek down against his chest with the most girlish smile she's probably ever given to date, outside of a mission. "And how are we married?" she asks, her hand moving across her body to flatten against his chest. It feels strong under her hand, through his thermal underarmor. She can feel the gallop of his heart, and wonders if it picked up speed like hers. She angles her head back to look up at him with her cheek on his shoulder instead, at the handsome square line of his jaw and his full, forbidden lips, always drawn so tight in a scowl.

The next time Winter sucks in a breath, he does it intentionally deep into his chest, so he can feel it raise and lower, and feel her hand move with it. His gut cramps as it always does when she touches him, when she gets so close it makes him ache. Her kind of touch is so rare, so warm; It makes him struggle a little, just to remember how to think. What'd she ask again? Ah, how they were married. Like Winter has any concept of a marriage. He'd participated in some in his time, a doll for party guests to play with as they wished or a stalwart guard posted to prove someone's standing within Hydra-- But those marriages were hardly what Winter could consider ideal. They didn't even feel real.

"I've hated every wedding I've ever been to," Winter confesses, and jostles his shoulder just a little to watch her mouth, leaning down to press his nose into her hair-- Fleeting, only fleeting, but enough for him to smell her and imprint her hair on his mind, too. "How would you like?"

Natasha's own concept of marriage is limited, too. She's seen more than Winter, expected to know and understand more. Only half of being a Black Widow is assassin work, the other half is being a woman, and everything that goes into that, including the commodification of her body and femininity. Her role in performing womanhood for the sake of distraction or extraction is expected and clearly defined by others. She gets no agency in how she presents her own female experience. But Winter is asking her what kind of a wife she would want to be, in this fantasy they're creating, where Natasha Romanoff, and... Winter Soldier (they would have to give him a real name in this fantasy world, he can't remember his) are married somewhere quiet. He's giving her the space to speak for herself, in a way nobody else ever has. "I think maybe you should be the wife," she smiles teasingly, her hand smoothing in a line down his chest and stomach. She feels his muscles tense, his body go rigid. This sort of touching is absolutely forbidden between soldiers, and she knows that even as she does it. The Winter Soldier isn't allowed any pleasure of his own, he's only used for the pleasure of others-- just like Natasha. Maybe that's why she wants to touch him like this. Because she wishes someone would make her feel worth touching for her own sake, too. "You're the quiet, demure one. I'll bring home the money from my job as a journalist, and you can cook dinner and keep the garden."

Even from her angle down below, Natasha can see the way the Soldier's entire face scrunches up at that, in what looks so dramatic it looks intentionally comedic. It's not, but clearly he has opinions on being known as the wife . So interesting, considering before this mission he had scarce a reason to have much of an opinion socially either way. No, the wrongness feels like it comes from somewhere deep-down, some indignant part of him that wasn't from the Soldier. It wasn't that he wasn't meant to be the wife, it wasn't about his programming. Maybe it was also a case of hypersensitivity thanks to the hand dragging its way down his chest and making his head fuzzy and dumb. Chin tucking to his chest, Winter watches that delicate, soft hand. When it dips low enough for her pinkie to graze his navel, Winter's hand covers hers, stopping it in its tracks. "I would take care of you," Winter says solemnly, a daydream said more like a vow, like he was pledging it on the spot. Funny, that they weren't married. Sad, that they likely never would. Winter's hand squeezes around Natasha's, and delicately pulls her hand away from his belly to flatten against his chest. From there Natasha can feel his heart again, she can also feel the metal plating under his armor, where his cybernetics meet his flesh, the raised welt of a scar that seals the two edges. She can't feel or even see the scars that litter the border, from reckless doctorwork or fits of anguish. For a second Winter just holds her there, looking at their hands with intent. "You'll make someone very happy," He grimly declares, lips pressed tight in a line. 

She can't take it anymore. He's so sad, so quiet, and their time is so limited. They're just hours away from being taken off this mountain top and separated. They'll give their individual reports on the mission, her in the Room and him wherever it is they take him-- she doesn't know all the inner workings of Hydra. They'll wipe him and put him under for weeks, months, years. There's no guarantee she'll ever see him again after this, and if she does see him, it won't be like this. She wants to remember him like this. Pulling her hand away from his, so effortlessly overpowering the strength of the most ruthless killer in history despite how tightly he held her hand, only because he would sooner gnaw off his own hand than hurt her with it, her fingers instead find his jaw to turn and lift it. She swears she can see understanding in his eyes behind the gesture even before she moves in to angle her lips against his. It's the kiss they weren't allowed to share in Kyatvet, and immediately she knows why. The way this simple kiss feels like fireworks under her skin is dangerous. It makes her want to run away right now, take him by the hand and drag him down the mountain until they find somewhere quiet, with trees. It feels like a spiritual experience, this kiss.

The Soldier was not new to kisses. Maybe this cycle it was, they'd never kissed while they were married-- But overall, it knew what a kiss was supposed to feel like, the subjective feeling of lips against lips. Interesting then, that this didn't feel like that at all. Interesting then how this one, beyond every other kiss he'd ever shared, manages to take his breath away. The Soldier remains still for just a moment, before he breaks into motion, all of it, all at once. His abandoned hand raises to cradle her jaw, fingers tangling in just the edges of her hair at the back of her head. Winter returns the kiss in kind without thought, holding her steady as he tilts his head to move his mouth against hers, and he doesn't even as the hand around her waist tightens, then squeezes. With a shift and lift, Winter pulls, and drags Natasha into his lap, without lasciviousness or need. That much in clear in how desperately firm his fingers have sunk into the meat of her hip, the way he holds her close like even parting to breathe would be too far. And then, as soon as he begins, Winter wrestles himself into some modicum of self control. He pulls away like she was a physical burden, a magnet he had to force himself to look away from. "We can't," Winter says seriously without looking her in the eye, while his hand kneads bruises into her thigh.

"We can't," she agrees breathlessly, and kisses him again, harder than before. The way he surged to meet her without hesitation or fear tells her more than his words ever could. His loyalty to Hydra is lip service, like hers is to the Room, and she's known that as long as she's known him. Even as a child, she could see the way he'd go lifeless behind the eyes when performing his duty as a Hydra pawn. It wouldn't be until they were alone that the light would flicker back into focus behind his pupils. But this is completely different. This is abject, willful rebellious disobedience. There's nothing else to describe this as she yanks down the zipper of her insulating vest and tosses it aside. She doesn't need it, she's already boiling hot, straddling Winter's thighs. Her mouth slants over his again, and it opens this time to drag her tongue against his lips-- and the second they part, she licks inside. The last person she kissed was a man named Lukas Popovich, who she was sent to seduce just six months ago. In fact, every man she's ever kissed was someone she'd been sent to seduce for information, starting as young as 15 years old. This is the first time she's ever kissed someone by choice, and it feels... amazing. "We should stop," she gasps into Winter's mouth, as she tugs the bottom of her undershirt up and over her head, throwing it aside into the pile with everything else, so all she's left in is her unsexy, featureless grey tactical compression bra, thermal leggings and socks.

It might as well be expensive French lingerie, just by the way Winter devours her, bright eyes flicking down and up her body so fast it's a miracle he sees anything at all. Must be why he has to do it a few times, to make sure he's really seeing what he can see. Lording over him Natasha is haloed by light, and Winter leans back just to stare at her in wonder, like being spoken to by a god. "We should... stop," Winter repeats with all the intelligence of a gecko, staring at her with wide eyes and flushed cheeks, lips parted and wet and bruised from their kiss, and somehow still managing to look so sweetly rumpled, straddled by a beautiful woman. There's absolutely no conviction in his words, repeating them just to say it, as always taking cues from his betters around him. Natasha was his better, she was his world. The hand in her hair is gone, left when she decided to rid herself of her shirt and underclothes. Winter's tongue drags over his lip, tasting himself, tasting her. Both of his hands settle on her thighs now, too high to be respectful but then, this entire thing was disrespectful. This entire tryst was out of line. An indulgence like this would earn the Soldier pain, no doubt, humiliation if he was unlucky. There was no pain in the way her skin feels, so soft across his knuckles, as one hand raises up to curl a finger under the waistband of her leggings, next. There's no pain in the way she gasps, quiet and stifled, like she just truly hadn't expected him to touch her . Unable to help himself his hand shifts again, the flat of his palm pressing flat across her bared, toned stomach. She was beautiful, so small he could almost touch her breastband with his fingers spread out like this. "We can't," Winter repeats again, as that hand shifts instead to pull her down by the soft, firm plane of her back, pressing her flat to his chest and kissing her again.

Her tongue moves against his like a snake, sly and quick and sharp. Startling even herself, she moans when his hand drags up her back, and she grabs that hand by the wrist to shove it down instead, fitting his hand right over her ass. Popovich might have been the last person she kissed, but it wasn't a pleasant experience. He smelled like cigars and was 40 years older than her, and his lips were thin and fishlike. The only man she's ever kissed or made love to that came close to feeling enjoyable was a young man named Idris Weber, who was suspected of planning to defect from Hydra. She'd been 19, he was just 24, and he had in fact been planning to defect. He'd been clumsy, never been with a woman in his life, but his fumbling had been so earnest that it's stuck in her head, even a dozen mission-mandated lovers later. It was sad, how easy it had been to get him to admit that to a pretty girl he fell in love with in just 72 hours. It was sadder when she had to turn him in for it. She never did find out what happened to him. If he was lucky, they killed him. Re-education was never worth it. She'd die before turning Winter in for this. She shifts up onto her thighs, but only so she can grind her hips down more effectively, settling into his lap in a way that lets her grind forward against his groin, and backwards against his hand, hips swaying in a dancelike circle as she pants into his mouth. She can actually feel herself getting wet, and not even Idris with his polite exploration had been able to do that to her so easily. It's something she can do at will, of course. Every Widow needs to have full control over her sexual abilities, in order to be able to use them effectively. But this had been involuntary, and calling it 'getting wet' was honestly underselling it. The feeling of Winter's tongue against hers has her basement flooding.

A huff of breath is her reply, a huff of breath hard-earned from the tightly-controlled Winter Soldier. This was a man who's every bodily function was programmed and timed to the most-efficient degree, a man who never felt out of control, out of line, out of command. This was the man who lived, breathed, and would eventually die for Hydra. There's nothing patriotic about the way he broke orders now, and continued to break them, every minute this went on. He's not thinking about the Motherland as his fingers sink into the supple curve of Natasha's ass, and Winter moans beneath her just to feel it. His breath his hot against her lips, and he swears he feels teeth every so often, like she's trying to test where his pain tolerance is. It's never enough to hurt, never enough to feel more than a pinch of pain and then nothing, and Winter is so happy to return it, he doesn't even seem to notice if they're kissing harder than two new lovers should. The idea of softness was best left in the field, where it could be useful. Here, they were themselves. They were killers. Winter breaks the kiss and pulls her head back with gentle fingers twisted in her hair. He bares her throat to him, and licks a wet stripe up her neck where the warm glow of the heater exposes a bead of sweat racing down the tendon. She tastes salty and sweet all at once. Winter seals the lick with a kiss at the junction of neck and jaw, trailing them down until he can claim her lips again. His hand on her ass guides it in its lewd roll, nudging her higher up and pushing her further down, so he can feel her grind against every inch of him, bulge quickly growing with every swipe, still trapped behind kevlar and cotton. His thumb hooks in the elastic and pulls down, only enough to fit his hand beyond instead, to grab her by the ass and feel her skin as it gives, and as her muscles tighten with surprise. "Beautiful," Winter mutters against her lips, opinion made just by touch alone.

She needs to feel him more completely, she needs to feel his weight against her, and more importantly, she has to get these suffocating leggings off. It's already sweltering hot inside the tent, with their combined body heat and the space heater glowing orange on the far side, where it couldn't be carelessly kicked over by them, so she doesn't even feel cold as she kneels up and out of his lap to instead drag him down on top of her, kicking her leggings down in the process, and off her feet, socks and all. Winter is still wearing so much, so she claws his shirt off of him too, discarded into the same sinful pile as the rest. His body is tight with muscle, but with that super-soldier metabolism of his enabling his body to change shape so rapidly with even the slightest alteration in routine, two weeks of eating solid, substantial meals has made him softer in places she can sink her fingers into-- like right at his oblique, where she grabs hold of him now. Vulnerable in just her plain grey underthings, Natasha aims to even the playing field by popping the buckle of Winter's belt and unzipping his pants, guiding him back down to kiss her with one hand at the back of his neck, and the other shoving down the front of his pants to palm his cock through his underwear. More importantly to size it up and determine how much this is going to hurt before it starts feeling good-- and the heft of what she feels in her palm is intimidating.

Winter groans like an animal at her touch, another spark of heat unfurling in his belly, unfamiliar and exciting. For him, sex was no different than a command. Someone said to perform, it was his job to dance, they asked him to fuck? He fucks. This was unwitting, this was pure will . Just want and impulse, spurred by nothing but what Winter wanted. When was the last time Winter had listened to anything his body wants? Immediately filling at just her delicate hand, Winter's hips instinctually lift up and away, like he's shying away from the touch-- Funny, when nothing else about him seemed shy. Metal arm braced above her head, delicately avoiding her hair spilling out of it's tight, practical braids, Winter bruises Natasha's mouth with kisses, teeth dragging until they plump, then kissing them soft again. He can't seem to get enough of kissing her, mouth moving languidly, his body warm and heavy above her. They come together like teenagers, minus the fumbling. Practiced experts, the both of them, like two professionals coming together for a dance. Winter's hand reaches up from Natasha's ass to hold her ribs, then higher still, until he can feel elastic beneath his fingertips once more. His belly burns with pleasure at that hand, as the rocking of his hips begin to drive him into her palm, and as if to return the favor he finally pulls the elastic of her bra up, over her breasts and baring them to the sweltering tent air. Her breast is immediately covered by his hand, pointer and thumb delicately finding her nipple and rolling it between them as Winter claims her mouth and to swallow the cry he startles out of her, bearing his body down against her as he does.

Winter touches her differently than any other man has ever done. Not even for some romantic reason, although she's certain there's an element of their illicit affection for one another at play, but because every other man who's touched her, even the ones who make the barest effort to make her feel good, do so because they're trying to leverage something out of her body. Not Winter. She gets the distinct feeling that she could ask him to go down on her, and he would build a den between her thighs to settle down like a bear for winter, and he wouldn't come up for air until she asked him to. Because unlike every other man she's been with, Winter alone understands what it's like to be a creature designed to be desired by and to perform for others. He touches her with the express intention to bring her pleasure because that's all he's ever been taught to do. Whether it's face down for use by men or straight-on to be used by women, his only job has been to make his partner feel good. His touch on her body meant to bring her pleasure isn't a point of pride for him, but only because he knows no other way. "Winter," she moans, her head tipping back into the crinkly plasticky blankets and tarps that make up their little nest, her hand squeezing around his package like a stress ball. It alarms her how genuine the sound is, ripped out of her chest as if by force, not a single note of it forced or fake for his pride. She can feel the way her underwear have stuck to her with her own slick, suctioned to her skin and proof of her arousal.

A deep grunt leaves him at her hand, grabbing and squeezing him so hard his gut aches from it. He's been on the other end of a clumsy grab or two, some men liked to make him whimper and cum, just to see what the great Winter Soldier sounded like in bliss. But this was different, this was earnest and eager, the moans leaving her... hungry. Not hungry for his pain, not hungry for her power, but hungry for him. For his fingers and his mouth, for the weight of his body against her. Winter lowers himself down, trapping her hand between them as he rolls his hips forward into her core, still covered by those so-modest cotton panties. They barely do anything now, Winter can see for himself how wet she is. He can smell it in the air, perfuming the warmth with the musky, thick smell of her. It makes Winter's mouth water, but one thing at a time, and grinding feels too good to stop, not when he still has other options. The hand is cute, and Winter pinches her a few times to illicit those little cries again, unable or unwilling to help himself. Only then does he pull away from her mouth, just in time for her to tip her head back, to bear her throat-- And oh, what a tease that is, too. It's willpower that keeps him from sinking his teeth into that throat. He sinks his teeth into her chest instead. Gentle, but certainly there, Winter's teeth graze over her nipple, replacing his hand with his mouth. His head is bowed like a man at the altar, his hips moving as his tongue flattens against the sensitive nub, rolling in circles and grinding smooth, until he tightens into a bud in his mouth again, and Winter grinds the bud between his teeth, worshipping her chest.

Her fingers tangle into his hair, both hands holding onto him desperately as her toes curl in the bedding. One hand at the back of his skull and the other across the nape of his neck, nails clawing into his skin as she arches up to meet his mouth-- but really, the star of the show is the way he feels grinding against her. She tears one hand away from his neck to instead grab at his pants, shoving them down further, so she can get her fingers down under the waistband of his underwear. With a firm yank, his cock springs out from the elastic and slaps her across the bare thigh, and the first thing she feels is a hot trail of pre that trickles ticklishly down her raised leg, towards her groin. It immediately makes her smile through her moans, as her free hand then grabs him by the ass and drags him in tighter, to grind his now-bare cock against her soaked panties, stuck to her like a second skin. "Oh, Winter," she whines, her voice coming out in a hoarse crackle that breaks like glass, her core tightening with anticipation at the feeling of that length grinding across her pussy, even through her underwear. "I need it, please--" She surprises even herself with those words. Sex has never been a need, not even for a Black Widow, whose identity is marked in half by her sensuality. Sex is a tool, a transaction, even on occasion a weapon, but never a need. Only the powerful have the privilege of categorizing sex as a need, and when they need, they turn to people like Natasha, like Winter, to provide. Right now, she needs Winter.

Even that too, is a request the Soldier has heard before. They 'need' him, always need, like his way of having sex was something special. They need him like they need water or air, basic things all men need to survive. Winter has heard it all before, pretty and mean, from women and men alike. By now he knows there's no way to judge how either will go based on gender. Under Hydra, women can be as deplorable as the men who subjugate them. Not Natasha. Never Natasha. Natasha says 'need' and 'please', and Winter never wants anything more. He's never cared about sex as anything but a means to an end, a step to a final goal; But Natasha needs it, and Winter needs to supply. The feel of her across his bare cock is almost too much for him to stand, and Winter grunts as he leans over her for a second and just thrusts . He tucks his chin to his chest and looks down the line of their bodies, but Winter rocks his hips back then grinds them forward, fucking into that wet stripe made between Nat's thighs and feeling how every stroke makes her flutter just beyond the cotton. Even with her panties in the way he feel the way she tenses and releases, how desperately she does want him. "Not yet," Winter chides, because he knows better than to hurt his favorite person. As her delicate hips arch up, it takes every ounce of willpower not to fuck forward again, to catch her panties on his cock and keep fucking, until they break or she takes them, too. He doesn't, instead, he pulls away completely. A chiding, 'Ah' leaves him even as Natasha begins to moan her displeasure, metal hand landing on her hip to hold her down before his human hand pushes between her thighs. "I'm big," Winter explains, fingers trailing gently over her slit through her panties, feeling the slick for himself at last. He brings those two fingers up, looking down at Natasha as he tucks them into his mouth. He moans when he tastes her.

"I need--" Winter leans back as those two fingers lose their patience with the rest of him and push her panties aside, sinking in to feel just how wet she was for himself.

It's instinct that has her covering her mouth to stifle the noise it pulls out of her, even though there's no need and no precedent. When she's having sex for a mission, her voice is as much a part of the performance as the rest of her, and she's certainly never had to hide having sex when she wasn't supposed to-- because she never has before now. Even so, they're up on a mountain top, nobody's around to hear them. So she pulls her hand away just as quickly to instead plant it around his bicep, squeezing to feel his arm flexing as he breaches her with his fingers. She forgot that prep was a thing people did for those they care about. She's been with so many men who just dive straight in cock-first that she actually forgot how good it could feel to start with fingers. "Oh my god," she gasps, her voice quivering and soft in her throat as her head angles back and her pussy tightens sharply around Winter's fingers. Her breasts bounce slightly with her sharp, quick inhales, and she gushes down his fingers when they arch up into her.

The way she feels around him is one Winter hopes he keeps with him, even after the shocks. Warm and tight, fluttering and shy, gripping him tightly only to release a moment later and so, so wet. The smell of her fills the tent, the sound of her joins it. Every olfactory sense is filled with Natasha, so much so he can no longer hide the way his mouth waters. He licks his lips looking down at her, lips shiny and eyes dark. Her body sings its approval, and anything it doesn't say, her words do.


"Good," Is all Winter can think to rumble, but he says it like he means it . Those two fingers stroke deep into her walls, curling against them, grinding into them with his knuckles and feeling the way she spills into his palm as a direct result. Winter wants to lick his hand clean, to bend down to lick her clean himself. Maybe he should. Maybe he should . Winter's tongue and teeth lave Natasha's nipple with attention, switching breasts after a minute to give the other some much-needed affection. Those fingers set a slow, intentional pace, pushing in delicately only to stuff her full with the bulky weight of his two fingers, so deep his knuckles grind into her clit. After a minute he pulls away from her chest, unable to stop himself from pushing her further up the bedroll, scooting down himself. Those fingers leave her only to grab her by the hip and adjust her himself, to tip her legs up and spread them wider to accommodate him, so his shoulders can spread her pretty legs open and he can taste her himself.

She didn't even have to ask-- she didn't even have to ask. She almost says something about how he didn't have to, but as soon as his mouth meets her cunt, any protests she had vanished in an instant. She was going to tell him he didn't have to only because she didn't want him to feel like he had to just service her like she was one of his masters-- but even as soon as she has the thought, it disappears. Because she knows if the roles were reversed and she'd been the one to think of getting her mouth on him first, it wouldn't be out of a sense of duty or service. "Winter!" she gasps, her hands finding his hair again. "Wait, wait--" He obeys, concern in his eyes, but it's clear in a moment that she just wanted to pull her panties off all the way, tossing them over towards the space heater because they definitely need to dry, and then she grabs him by the hair and drags him back down to continue. Her pussy is lasered bare, the same as his chest and belly, artificially smooth as if they're porcelain dolls instead of human beings, but he doesn't complain as his tongue drags over and through her.

It means Winter gets to taste her glossy slick without the hindrance of hair. Frankly he would've eaten through a goddamn thicket, and the way his lips open around her and his tongue slip past her folds shows he came to eat . The hands in his hair drive him crazy, had he been grabbed by the hair? Yes, before, but like this? What was she doing differently, how did he say to keep doing it ? Winter groans with his mouth full, vibrations going from his throat to his lips and directly up into her core, before he follows with his tongue. She tastes like the best candy or treat, a thing that makes you lick your lips afterward. Winter's tongue flattens through her folds, two fingers pressing deep inside of Natasha again and bearing down, opening her wider only to be joined then by his tongue still. Fingers and tongue work in unison, fucking her open then withdrawing, leaning back to fold lips over her clit and suck until her thighs shake and raise, like they're threatening to clamp down around his head. Winter decides then he wants them to, he wants to feel that happen. When he pulls back his chin is shiny, it's impossible to tell from what. Saliva or slick it would never be said, and either way he's licking them clean, squinting the closest he ever would to a smile before going back for more. This time his lips seal over her clit as three fingers split her open, and the two work in tandem to tear her apart.

"AH! Ah- ah- ah- ah- ah-" her breath comes out in weak, stuttering, hoarse little gasps. She feels so full of him, so tight around him, squeezing him involuntarily with little quivering flutters of her pelvic floor, and she realizes it's because she's actually close to cumming. She's only ever had one other orgasm in her life, and it was because one of the men she'd been sent to seduce decided to torture her with a toy. It wasn't even by his own hand that she'd cum, and it hadn't even really felt good because she'd had to be on high alert, watching the other people in the room who were observing like hyenas waiting for the lions to finish eating. She remembers it just feeling like a lot. It feels like a lot now, too. It's frankly a miracle that the Red Room doesn't take their clits when they take their reproductive organs, but that's only so their pussies stay pretty for the people who need to use them, not because they're of any use to the Widows themselves. How sad that at 21 years old, even if she wanted to pleasure herself, she wouldn't have the first clue how.


Winter knows. Winter knows and he's applying every inch of his expertise on her. Unparalleled in skill with his hands, though they're usually being used to kill, now she feels them holding her apart and splitting her open. His wicked tongue works her over, and one glance down at him knocks the wind out of her with the sight of his eyes closed and brows furrowed in a pensive and worshipful expression of devoted concentration, his lips sealed around her until the shadows of his cheeks deepen while they hollow. "Winter!" she cries, and crests, elegant and shivering as she arches up to meet him.

There was never a prettier sound uttered. Natasha comes apart in his hands, shaking and trembling, her thighs and core clenched so tight she expels tremors from her gut with every slight shift of her body. She writhes to find peace as wave after wave of pleasure finds her, and Winter doesn't dare stop the long drag of his tongue through her folds or the slow grind of those three fingers, still buried inside of her to the knuckle and splitting her open. Winter can feel the way her cunt grasps his fingers, desperate to draw him deeper, to feel him inside. She'd said she'd needed it before, but if it weren't for the brain melting out of her ears, she'd probably be desperate by now. Pulling away with a wet slurping noise, Winter pulses his fingers a few more time, thumb raising to grind slowly against her clit as he looks down at her through heavy-lidded eyes and thicker lashes. There's an inscrutable look in his eye, that same squint he gets when he's pleased, when he's happy . And why wouldn't he be? This was maybe the only positive experience he's ever had in his life. That thumb keeps grinding over her cunt, mean enough that it makes her hips raise even after she's done leaking over their bedroll, "Do you want me to fuck you?" He asks, in a tone that somehow reads sweet, but it's not shock that it's a voice just for her. The Soldier doesn't grace his clients with his voice usually unless they make him, and certainly never asks. Those that use him generally know what they want. But Winter wants to hear her say it. His cock still stands hard as a rock between his legs, and standing over Natasha now he shifts forward, lifting one of her legs to catch his cock against her thigh, grinding it just once to remind her just what she would be agreeing to.

She's nodding before he's even touched her again, even though she's still catching her breath. More than anything, she knows she wants him to fuck her. They might never be like this again, safe and sheltered and alone and whole, and she wants this almost more for the memory than the experience. Remembering Winter like this, tucking him away into her heart exactly as he is in this moment, that's what she wants more than anything. "Come on, big guy," she says, her voice cracking as she smiles crookedly up at him. "Show me what you're made of." She throws her thighs up around his hips, linking her ankles together behind his ass and yanking him down to meet her so his cock drags against her cunt, and she inhales sharply at the feeling of his flesh grinding into hers when she's still so sensitive. If she can take a cattle prod to the back, she can take a dick while hypersensitive. She's never had to before, but... first time for everything, and she's a quick study.

A grunt of air is punched from Winter's nose at the gesture, as the iron weight of her legs locks around his hips and holds him there, and he gets the first deep grind of cock through cunt. " Natasha ," He grunts disapprovingly through his teeth, snarling as his metal hand snaps out to hold her by the hip in retaliation without thinking. Her skin feels so soft under the weight of his hand, and he pins her to the bed to stop her devious wriggling. Keeping her pinned to the mattress, Winter's other hand takes hold of his cock, hips canting back so he has room to line himself with her core. She's still dripping with her own slick, still shiny across her thighs from his mouth, dappled with the marks of their lovemaking. He wonders if they'll have to come up with an excuse, or if they won't even think of it on a Widow. Winter's metal thumb strokes a smoothing line across the curve of her hip, "Relax," He urges seriously, able to feel where she's trembling beneath the skin. "Breathe," Winter urges one more time before he guides his head to sheath inside of her, pushing ahead despite obvious resistance, but never enough to tear or to hurt, just until he's settled to the hilt like a vice, and even he needs to stop for air.

She was about to scold him for coaching a Widow on how to be fucked, but as soon as he breaches her, she realizes she'd needed that coaxing after all, because she instinctively held her breath. It all leaves her in a rough gust as her ankles go weak behind his back and unhook to instead loop lazily across the backs of his thighs, and her hands shoot up to claw him across the back and shoulders in welts that will heal up in seconds. " OH my g-uhh-- ahh- uhh-- oh my-- oh my god--" she gasps, wheezes, her pussy trembling around him, soft and stretched to the breaking point. Never has she taken a cock this size, and by all accounts it should hurt, but he shifts and it's like he pulled a ripcord to light her whole spine on fire-- and that wasn't even a real thrust. She barks anyway, her hips jolting up against him, fucking down that last half-inch. He's waxed just as bare as she is, and the feeling of his smooth groin pressing tightly into hers, superheated flesh on supersensitive, has her yelping again like a kicked animal, tossing her head to the side and throwing her arm over her face to hide.

"It's okay, it's okay..." Winter's voice pierces through her gasping, hitching breaths, filling the tent with its smooth confidence, "Relax, it's okay, you're good. You're so good," He leans forward to take her hand, to pull her arm away from her face and lace their fingers to the side to hold it there. Maybe it was cruel, when she obviously wanted to hide-- But he needed to see. Winter needed to see the pleasure across her face, the bliss taking over her normally so cool, so calm demeanor. He had trained her since she'd been approved for his circuits, had been gone years only to return to her a fully grown woman. Winter had watched her struggle and fail, had seen her grow and succeed. If there was anyone in his life he could say he could care for, it would be Natasha. He needs to see the way he makes her feel. Those hips move only in slow, grinding circles, barely pulling back as he lets her adjust to his girth. Winter's cock is huge, it splits her open so prettily, even with the preparation from his fingers; Leaning over her, Winter pulls one of her thighs a little higher on his hip, to open her up more, to allow her to breathe-- And finally he pulls back, only a few inches, and gives one slow thrust forward. Tight and wet and hot around him, Winter feels her every time she clenches, "Fuck," Winter mutters under his breath, just a little something for himself as he rolls his hips back to fuck into her again. Now it's him trembling to react, shivering out of sheer willpower holding him at bay, when all he wants to do is devour her.

The motion is easier than when he was still. The friction of his cock dragging through her like a saw is easier to bear than his quivering mercy. It takes just one thrust to feel good, and a second thrust to feel amazing, and the third she swears blows her brains out the back of her head. She barks, her toes curling tightly in the air where he's holding her leg aloft, and her fingers tighten between his. It feels-- it feels incredible. With dutiful preparation and careful guidance, he'd opened her up just enough, just perfectly enough, as if he'd molded her just for him. There's not a stitch of space left inside her, he fills it completely, like they were made to fit together, like two lost puzzle pieces from the same battered box. She shouts again, his reservations coming through in the tense way he holds himself, like he's afraid to break her. As if he hadn't broken her before. He once shattered her collarbone without meaning to, when she was 14 years old. If she can take that, she can sure as hell take this. "M'not gonna crack," she croaks, flexing that thigh against his hip. "I wanna see--hnn nnhhah oh my god-- I wanna see what you're capable of."

He tries to ingrain that in his mind. She won't crack, she won't break; By now how much worse had she endured, by men and women alike? The Red Room and the Soldier program were alike in many ways, the Widows a necessary derivative when there were roles the Soldier just couldn't play. Surely she was right, this wouldn't kill her. Why does a part of him want to? Not kill her, no, never kill her, but does he want to see her crack? Maybe he wants to be the one that splits her. Leaning back, Winter's hips withdraw almost entirely, and with one deft thrust, he buries himself to the hilt, fucking the breath right from Natasha's lungs. Without a word he repeats it, withdrawing all the way, then slamming forward again. Their hips clap with the force of his thrusts, and his fingers tangled in hers squeeze like he's reassuring her he's there. The hand curled around her thigh sinks its nails into the tender meat of it, and with one final resettling of that leg against his hip he leans out over her and begins to fuck her .

She lets him hear it, too. Head thrown back, she sings to the mountain, and almost believes it can hear her when the wind sings back and buffets their tent. He's strong, so strong her bones rattle under her skin with every thrust, and it feels good. She opens her eyes, and it looks good too, with Winter looming over her like a beast. They are neither each other's firsts, but it still feels like the first of something. Possibly the last of it, too. "Winter!" she cries, sobs with pleasure, feeling as thought he's fucking her inside out with every thrust. Perhaps they're not each other's firsts, but it is the first time either of them are being seen like this by someone. Vulnerable, soft, and willing to risk so much for the opportunity to be together like this, even if it only happens once. Even if it does only happen once and even if Natasha is ruined for it, it will have been worth it.

Winter feels where Natasha's fingers bite into him, where her claws should turn his back and shoulders to ribbons. His hips thrust in earnest, setting a brutal, unrelenting clip that has her bouncing higher up the bedroll, stopped only by the hand curled around her head and holding her down to meet him. "Natasha," He growls in response, turning his head when he can no longer bear it, and silencing her with a kiss. It wasn't to shut her up, because he loved the way she sounded. It wasn't to distract her, because he needed her here with him. Winter needed to taste her, wanted to feel her. His cock feels hugged on all sides by her cunt, wet heat trickling down his cock until he smells like her, too. Every part of him needed to consume every part of her. She moans into his mouth, and Winter swallows that too, filling her mouth with his tongue and exploring her teeth as his hips slam bruises into her skin. He pulls away to breathe, to give her a chance to. " Shit ," Winter snarls, as he finally releases her hand to cup her breast, leaning back to just look at her as his hips continue to find home, thick cock burying to the hilt and splitting her, deep enough he swears he sees the shadow of a bulge just along her lower belly, but maybe that was just wishful thinking, his fingers pinching her nipple between them without those thrusts skipping a beat.

"Oh! Oh- oh ohh ah- ah!" she's past words now, reduced to senseless noises, the kinds she's only ever performed for men who couldn't find her clit with a map and a flashlight. To be fair though, hardly could she. Winter is doing everything right, angling his pubic bone so it bounces off her clit with every thrust, touching every part of her as if in worship. She feels worshipped by him. Her whole body bounces with his thrusts, but none so much as her breasts, one of which is caught in the cage of his hand while the other swings soft and free. She gropes the other one just to mirror him, since she knows he would never touch her bare breast with his metal hand, and the pleasure of having both nipples tweaked at the same time makes her yelp again. She can feel she's going to cum again, and isn't that a wonder too? Not just once, but twice, and so deliberately both times. "I'm gonna-- again--" she gasps, her voice a wheezy shudder in her throat, "Winter-- oh god you're gonna-- make me-- again--"

There's a reckless sort of exhilaration that runs through Winter at those words, hunger flaring anew in his gut. He wants to make her cum, needs to feel her cum around him. He'd felt her before against his fingers but now he's sheathed inside. Winter groans low and deep in his chest, hand squeezing her one more time before he releases her to grab her hips with both hands and yank her down to meet his thrusts. Winter wants her to cum at the peak, feeling the most pleasure a woman could feel. With one hand hooked over her hip, Winter begins to expertly grind his thumb against her clit, while his other hand holds her hip firm as he begins to set a ruthless clip, driving into her again and again. Her walls clutch at him every time he withdraws, and part like butter for him when he sinks inside of her, all resistance for show, her body open and soft and pliable as he takes her and bends over her to drive her into the tarp.

She barely makes a sound this time when she cums, because she practically holds her breath. She doesn't mean to, but the pleasure that ratchets through her paralyzes her lungs, so that all she manages is a mute, hoarse little squeak before her voice cracks and catches in her throat. Her face turns red, her neck and chest following suit, dying her a shade that almost matches her hair. It's indescribable. Every muscle spasm is drawn out by the feeling of his cock dragging out of her and then fucking back inside, like she's trying to gain her footing in an earth quake. Her pussy feels like it's hooked up to a car battery, the muscles fluttering and trembling and squeezing, and his cock just keeps bruising into her, battering her insides, unable to move or think or breathe-- Until she does, taking a gulp of air and almost choking on it in her haste to sob. Head thrown back, spine arched, legs squeezing around his hips, she reaches up to grab him by the back of the neck and yank him down so she can throw her arms around him, clutching him frantically and moaning into his neck as he just keeps fucking her, chest to chest.

The Soldier earns his name of 'dog', as Natasha buries herself in his shoulder and he, presented with her perfect, beautiful expanse of skin, does not stop himself-- He bites. First it's his breath, warm, ghosting heavy against her skin, her voice in his ear so sweet and wet and desperate, high-pitched and broken from pleasure, from feeling she can barely function around; Her body is a vice around him, hot and wet, drawing him deeper, holding him there even when his strength overcomes her again and again. It's all so much, too much for him to think to stop himself . Winter sinks his teeth into Natasha's shoulder, hard enough he tastes copper across his tongue. He's mindless as he fucks her, driven only by pleasure, the pride of her own making his blood burn and his ears ring, the pleasure in his own gut driving him like an electrical circuit attached to his brain. Natasha goes hoarse in his ear, and only then does Winter think to pull away. His hips don't stop moving, and he already can tell the roaring in his ears, an old familiar friend. He refuses to acknowledge it, shifting his hips back and not giving Natasha a word of warning before he pulls out entirely. She makes a broken, angry little whimper, and it makes Winter squint, even through the haze of his lust. "You won't break," Winter reminds her, as he gently rolls her to her belly, raising one knee to brace up against the bedroll, then leaning over her to sheath inside her again-- The new angle gives her a rest, her tired legs and hips the opportunity to give into the ground. It gives Winter the chance to sink into her from above and behind, moaning deep in his chest as both hands return to her hips, and he begins another cruel rhythm.

This is a position she's very used to, and one she usually hates. It usually means detachment, signals how impersonal her body is to the other person that they don't even want to look at her face, and in fact if Winter had asked to flip her over she would have said no because she would have been sure she would hate it-- and yet when faced with it directly, all she feels is warmth. There's no doubt in her head that Winter adores her, that he didn't flip her over because he doesn't want to look at her anymore. His words, combined with the rough clip he takes, tells her that he just wants to fuck her harder than she can take from the front-- and god does he. She's grateful to be on her belly because it means her breasts don't bounce hard enough to make them sore, and they would have, with how hard he's fucking her. His hips clap against her bare ass, and she props one arm folded under her head so she can rest her forehead against it and moan down into the cavity of her own arm, while the other folds up and back to play with the bite mark he left on her shoulder. If they ask, she'll say the target bit her when she and Winter killed him after getting the information they needed, but they probably won't even ask. They'll just catalogue the injury and assume, and take care of it-- and the thought that they'll just tend to a wound on her body that Winter left while fucking her makes her belly coil tighter.

Winter's own belly clenches behind her, so hard he feels his entire body clench with it. His balls and his lungs, his heart even skips a beat as another orgasm comes and goes with no relief, no grace given to the poor soldier who slaves over her. She's softer now at this angle, softer now that her body can collapse into the bedroll. Her insides feel like the hottest of silk, still wrapping and clinging to him like a vice, the kind that makes Winter's entire body feel chapped from how good it feels. "Natasha, Natasha," Winter growls into the air, eyebrows knitting together in a desperate furrow as his hips continue to drive into her. HIs metal hand raises to stroke down her back, where the shiny shimmer of sweat has begun to bead, from effort and heat, trapped on her back for so long. It's beautiful, the orange-gold glow illuminating her like candlelight, even if the whir of the motor was much more unpleasant. He wants her to cum again, needs her in this desperate place with him. Leaning over her, Winter hunches over her shoulder, kissing the hand that covers his mark, huffing warm, rough breath into her ear. "Still with me?" He asks, because frankly he can't be sure, hips rolling in a filthy grind as he stays sunk in to the root, just to feel her over him entirely again, her hole making wet sounds as he moves. His cock jerks when he hears it, even buried deep inside.

"Yes, yes," she gasps, frantic and hoarse, pulling her own hair off to the side to give him room to kiss her shoulder and neck unimpeded. She's sore, her pussy feels used, but for the first time in a satisfying way, a way she likes. He keeps plunging into her, stirring her up like a pot, and surely he must be close by now-- but he's also a super soldier, so she might have wanted to think about that before so eagerly getting herself into this mess. Not that she would want to be anywhere other than this mess. The weight of Winter across her back, the feeling of his breath puffing over her neck, the strength of his hips, the girth of his cock-- every piece of this moment she catalogues to remember for the rest of her life. This may very well be the last time she ever has sex that feels good, and she intends to cherish every second of it. "You can-- cum inside," she tells him roughly, panting into the bedspread. It's not like she can get pregnant, after all.

A low groan is her answer, guttural and feral. Those words might just be the best he's ever heard, and Winter tucks his nose to breathe her in deep as she bares her throat to him again. Oh, she wanted it. He'd half expected her to chide him when this was all over for his bite, even if in the moment she didn't seem to mind; Seems like his question was answered though, in that one little gesture. His cheek is rough and stubbled, coarse like sandpaper against her hypersensitive skin. "I will," Winter promises, still chasing that pleasure, and seals it with another kiss. This one is to her throat, and more teeth than lips. He sucks into her skin, canines leaving marks where he could surely draw blood if that was what he wanted. The soldier's cheeks hollow instead, and he sucks until he can feel her pulse throbbing against his tongue. Only when he's sure she's hypersensitive and squirming does he rake his teeth across the newly-made bruise, and the way her cunt squeezes around him in retaliation is enough to punch a grunting laugh out of him, an actual laugh-- not much, just two soft scoffing sounds, easily missed unless you knew better, unless you knew all the Soldier's sounds. She feels so good he's going delirious, slapping his hips into her, Winter punctuates the thrusts with a grind, and he sinks his teeth into Natasha's shoulder a second time, locking on like mutt as his hips begin to pick up pace again, this time held down by his chest across her back.

He's weighing her down so perfectly that she can hardly take a breath in, compressed down into the bedmats and sheets with his body. He feels huge, not just inside her but over her, blanketed on top of her, holding her body down. She spreads her legs wider and bends them up on either side of his hips, her toes pointed towards the curved ceiling of the tent, and the way it makes her thighs flex tightens her pussy around him even more. She's in love. Or maybe just as close as a Widow can get. She loves his body, his gentleness, his fierceness, his cock-- god she loves his cock. It's embarrassing, as a Widow, to feel this weak for sex, this easily manipulated. If Winter had any plans to hurt her, she would admittedly be helpless to him, stuck flattened under his superior size and strength, but for once she's not thinking about exit strategies, she's not thinking about contingencies. All she's thinking about is the next plunge of that cock, and the way it takes her breath away. "Oh my god," she turns her face down towards the bed mat again, her cunt fluttering and squeezing with the shadow of a third orgasm, threatening her, teasing her. There's no way she can cum a third time, there's no way. "Oh my god, Winter, I'm-- oh god--"

Winter's grunts are without words, without cohesion. He gnaws against her shoulder like he's trying to avoid turning her purple, which only means spreading out the bruising, hungry kisses. When her thighs move, Winter moves with her, knees hooking under Natasha's thighs to not only hold them up, but to stop her from regretting this decision that locks him deeper into her, raises her ass to above-knee height, and gives Winter the perfect leverage to fuck into her anew. Baring his teeth, Winter leans back all at once with a furious snarl, unable to only mouth at her shoulder or he would outright tear into her. He can't trust himself to control his teeth, his jaw; Hunger consumes Winter's entire rationale, and both hands land on Natasha's hips to hold her down as he leans back into his heels, to fuck up into her and churn her guts at the same time, a cruel, tight angle, fucking up and in. The hands on her hips pull in time with his thrusts, fucking her down to meet him and pulling her up and away as fast, a clip she couldn't hope to keep up on her own, not this deep in. He fucks Natasha like he's proving a point, like he's determined to make her cum again. He is determined, that's for sure. He does also want to see her cum again. But he was fucking her like he wanted to claim her, like he wanted to bruise the shape of his cock into her walls, so she could never fuck anyone again without thinking of him.

It feels absurd, it feels impossible, but she cums again, she cums again-- and this time it's the most intense one yet. She feels herself gush around him, unaware that this angle had perfectly stimulated her g-spot, and his constant battering over the spot has her cumming wetly, dripping down her thighs, puddling on the tarp between Winter's knees, the feeling so intense that she would believe she'd just had an accident if not for her cursory understanding of what a g-spot is and that it supposedly feels good to stimulate it. "Feels good" doesn't even come close to covering this, though. She folds both of her arms over the back of her own head like she's taking cover from an explosion, because it feels like her brain will fly out the back of her head, it feels so good. Tremors wrack her whole body, pleasure coursing up into her stomach, her chest, squeezing her lungs, her ribs, her cunt-- her thighs shake, her feet quiver, and she sobs into the tarps under them like she's distraught.

Winter tries to follow suit. He really, really does. As Natasha comes apart in his hands for the third time beneath him, Winter wants nothing more than to lock up tight and spill his seed into her, to leave a wetter mess amongst the disaster that had become of their tent. His balls clench and he stops thrusting, pounding like he's seeking home in some grand, final resolve. He wants to cum . He does not. With a loud, mournful noise and a snarl, Winter's hips snap completely out of Natasha, and this time his cock doesn't return. Cruel, even if technically she'd been through the heaviest waves of her orgasm-- to have something be so fully there for so long and to take that away feels like a cruelty. In truth, Winter can't stand to touch her anymore, not because of revulsion of repulsion, but because he's too fucking sensitive. His entire cock, shiny from Natasha's slick, is a bright, unfortunate purplish-red, and as it hits the hot tent air it throbs, where it would normally leak a bead of pre. It doesn't this time, it doesn't leak anything at all, and it hasn't. It hasn't, and it hurts . Leaning back, Winter raises a hand into his hair and makes another inhuman noise of pain and frustration, anger built up over an eternity that even now he can't resolve. He thought he could force it, with a beautiful woman, a relationship he would die eagerly to protect. Natasha was so perfect, in every human way. It wasn't her fault he was a monster. "Sorry," He grunts, voice gravely rough, "Not you." Winter clarifies, without even looking at her, pushing up onto his knees to grab her thermos and set it in front of her head. It wasn't water, but honestly, same difference.

In a confused daze, Natasha picks her head up off the bedding. Her whole body is throbbing with the consequences of three orgasms, her limbs achy and trembling as she pushes up and rolls over to look at Winter. Clarity comes back to her slowly, and then all at once as she sees his cock, practically turning purple between his thighs, and it occurs to her that while she had cum and unspeakable three times, he hadn't even finished once, and he seems to be struggling. "What's wrong?" she asks, her voice hoarse as she fully flips around to face him, gingerly reaching out towards his painful-looking dick. "What's going on?"

Grunting, Winter bats her hand away before she can touch him. Frankly her hand on him again would be too much, it would really start to hurt if he kept pushing it. He’d pushed past three false orgasms himself and it starts to hurt, around 6 it gets almost crippling. “I can’t,” Winter mutters, voice dark with barely-contained rage, long-standing and painful. Taking a breath, he looks down the line of his body where his cock still throbs, even without a single hand touching him. He’s so worked up, so desperate for release, and he just— can’t. Winter had avoided looking at Natasha while she’d pushed herself up, but now he does, bright blue eyes cloudy with anger and lust as his eyes drag over her body. She’s a sight to be seen, he just wishes he could finish her as she deserved. But she does, at least, deserve an explanation. “Not allowed,” Winter offers, with a spiteful sneer. He really doesn’t need to elaborate more than that, they both know exactly who allows him.

"Nobody's here," she tells him, scooting a little closer, and cupping his face with both hands, since he's too sensitive to be touched by the cock. "It's just you and me, it's okay. You're allowed. Nobody will know."

A frustrated groan leaves Winter's throat, and again he pulls away from her hands. Even them on his skin feels like too much, a fluttery little exhilaration making his chest feel like static. His cock twitches again. "No," He insists, voice hot, cheeks actually feeling like they're burning. "I can't ," Winter hisses. Looking up at her again through his hair, "They won't let me."

It starts to dawn on her what he means. She thought he meant that he was having a hard time getting off because he was still thinking about the fact that he wasn't allowed to. And of course he wasn't allowed to, it was never the job of people like them to have an orgasm. At best, they're a hole to be filled, a service to be used. She's not "allowed" to have sex like this either, but that didn't stop her. But she glances down at his cock, and then back up to his tortured face, and starts putting the pieces together. Her heart hurts for the man kneeling in front of her, too sensitive to even be touched, as she realizes that when he says he can't, he means he physically can't. In a quiet voice, she asks, "What did they do to you?"

"What they do," Winter answers, sneering as she shifts his shoulders to his ears and pulls away, rocking back on his heels like he's fixing to stand up. Movement was comfortable, it was the act of running away without actually going anywhere. He couldn't, after all, they had alerted their handlers of their location. They were now bound here. But Natasha deserves so much more. It was an explanation he'd decided she'd been owed in the first place, and her gentle eyes filled with worry only prove the point-- if anyone deserved to know, it was her. She deserved to know why Winter could not help her as he wanted. It's a struggle to put the words together, out of the practice of describing his own wrongness. "I have... a word," Winter manages, words reluctant and slow, "Without being given the command, I can't..."

As much as that repulses her, it also makes sense. Natasha knows about his trigger words, the words they speak that makes the light go out behind his eyes. She heard them once, but only once, and there had been so many of them that she can't remember them. Not that she would ever have a reason to need to know them, but she swears one of them was "sunrise" or maybe another was "train." She can't remember. "Okay, that's okay," she says, trying to remain hopeful. She wants to touch him again, but he just keeps pulling away from her touches, too hypersensitive for even the gentlest of touches elsewhere on his body. "Tell me the word, maybe I can say it?"

That was... actually not a thought he'd had before, and Winter pauses and leans back on his heels, eyebrows furrowing as he seems to consider what she had said. "You say it?" he repeats, like the revelation it was. Why hadn't he thought to let someone else say it for him? Well, simply because it had never come up. No one had ever asked... out of compassion. So he frowns, desperately searching his brain for what the word was. He can hear it, he thinks, the sharp tone of the beginning syllable, but the word as a whole escapes him. He so rarely gets to hear it, so many people take pride in making the mutt squirm. "I..." He feels his chest sinking, "I don't know it."

Her first instinct is to desperately ask how he can know he has a word but not know what it is, but the question is answered by her own thoughts before it even makes it out of her mouth. He doesn't know it because they never say it. Because of course they don't, why would they? Even Natasha isn't supposed to cum, and she never does, but not because they physically bar her-- rather because before now, she's never had sex with someone who actually cared about her pleasure. But half of what the Winter Soldier is used for, when he is used, is for his penis. So of course they had to put a block in place to prevent him from cumming when he's not supposed to. A conditional failsafe, that makes it physically impossible for him to climax without express permission. And then they never give him that permission, to the point where he can't even remember what the word is. Her heart breaks, and she can't help but reach out again, to rest her hand on his chest. His cock looks so painful, throbbing and red and shiny between his legs, and she wants so desperately to give him relief. She can't just use him like everyone else for her own pleasure and call it a wash just because his is harder to find. "Maybe we can muscle past it," she says, already knowing it sounds futile. It's not like Hydra or the Room to be flimsy or careless with their programming, but... it's worth a shot. "Let me try?"

Frustration makes Winter hot, hotter than he already was, boiling the roaring to his ears into a fever pitch. "I just tried," He insists, voice bitter with old cynicism. He leans back resentfully onto his heels, then breaks up and away, finally getting to his feet. Their tent is small, but he's not so big, and with just a little hunching he can still get to his feet and move a little, like a restless dog, before crouching at the other end of the bedroll, to distract himself with pulling at their tangled clothes, like he was really just going to get dressed and move on.

"Hey- hey," she says softly, taking his hand to stop him from retreating. She pulls him down, to sit with her, heartbroken by his tight expression, and painful-looking erection, knowing what it represents. "I know you tried, but I didn't. Widows have tricks. Maybe we can get you past it if we try one more time."

Just being forced to sit makes Winter ache all over again, and he makes a surly-sounding growl as he tosses his head in a shake, dismissive and annoyed, before he opens his eyes to actually look at her. Natasha looks sad. She looks almost like she wants to cry, actually, but he knows she never would. Maybe some of it was even for show, hyperbolic emotions to overcompensate for what the Red Room beat out of her. God knows Winter is guilty of it. He is mad now, though, really properly mad, but that's an entirely other thing, rightfully earned. His jaw clenches with the rejection already coming, but at the last minute, his words change. With a heavy sigh, at last Winter's shoulders slouch, "What... were you thinking?"

"Just lay down," she says, gently urging him to lie flat on his back. "Let me take over. You were working yourself up, getting frustrated. Let's shut off your brain, get you out of your head." Swinging a leg over his thighs, she gives him a fleeting little kiss before bracing one hand against his chest, and delicately wrapping her other hand around his cock. It's blistering hot in her palm, and immediately throbs and lurches to meet her touch, Winter's expression contorting with pleasure-pain that sucks all the air out of his chest. "Shh, it's okay," she murmurs, and then uses that hand to swipe between her own legs, collecting new, fresh slick that she applies to his cock. The heat of it had evaporated and soaked in some of the moisture, so the new coat of slick feels like velvet over his painful shaft. "It's okay."

Seems like the name of the game was carnal animal sounds, because when Natasha touches him again, Winter groans low in his throat and tips his head back into the tarp, grinding the back of his head into the uneven ground, hard enough like he was trying to dig through the dirt below. In truth even her slick hurts, her hand over his cock good and bad, making his balls tighten and goosebumps raise up his arms and over his core, which clutches and releases, giving Winter not a minute of solace. "Please, Natasha--" Winter sounds so desperate, voice breaking as his metal hand digs fingers into their bedroll, "Make it fast--" He hisses impatiently, ready to fail and move on.

She can see that he's sore, and that's fair because as she positions herself over him and bears down, she's sore too. But it's not fair that she's sore in a used, satisfied kind of way, and he's sore because of how unsatisfied he is. It's not fair that he could bring her to ruin so many times in a row, and be left so completely, miserably without relief. Her pussy aches as she sits astride his cock, pulled taut around him when it's already so used, but this at least she's not a stranger to. Pain during sex is expected for a Widow, and they're trained to white knuckle through it without showing a stitch of that discomfort on their face. And honestly, 'sore because she had too much good sex' is just about the last reason a Widow would ever feel pain during sex. "Just look at me," she cups a hand to his jaw as she starts to rock, working them up slowly with deep grinds, to try and coax Winter and herself back towards the edge gradually, rather than all at once. "Just keep looking at me, don't think about anything. I'm right here, I've got you."

There's a very different feeling in Winter's gut, as Natasha mounts him and begins to grind. He's been mounted by men before, from head on like this or from behind, but women had never done this, for them he'd always been a servant, little more than a drill attached to a machine, working them to completion and put back in the closet where they'd found it. This was pleasure for pleasure's sake, completely bereft of any accountability . Natasha begins to ride him, and Winter feels pleasure without an ounce of work, and he can't remember the last time he'd felt something so good. It was tainted only by the pain tinging every stroke, like touching a low-watt current. An ache in his stomach that extends through his limbs as Natasha's pace begins to make him breathe heavier and his gut clenches. She arches her back, and Winter's hands snap out, faster than he can even realize, and grab her thighs. Just as she commanded, Winter keeps his eyes on her. He doesn't look anywhere else, and when his mind strays, he forces it back onto her, the red of her hair, the perfect expanse of her skin-- the bounce of her breasts, even better from this angle than above. He wishes he could actually enjoy this.

She feels guilty that as she warms back up, becoming used to the feeling of being fucked again, her soreness starts to fade and be replaced by pleasure. That much is obvious as the furrow in her brow recedes and a flush rises to her cheeks, and her pussy starts to flutter around him again. She's determined not to get off again, because it would just be cruel, and hopes that she has the willpower to stop an orgasm if she feels one approaching. It's not something they actually train Widows how to do, because that would mean they would have to attempt to give them orgasms in the first place. "Good," her voice hitches as she praises him, betraying how much pleasure it's giving her to ride Winter like this, embarrassed that she has less composure than she'd like. She could shut it down, go into Widow mode, but she hardly thinks he'd appreciate it if she suddenly shut off her feelings and turned into a robot. One hand splayed on his chest, the other grips the wrist of his organic hand, as she bounces over his cock, panting softly. She can't help it-- he makes her feel good.

Despite her best efforts, of course Natasha begins to feel it. Winter can't blame her, it's natural. He wants her to feel good, or this whole thing really has no meaning-- so when she tries to school her face and keep her rolling calm, Winter's hand on her thigh squeezes, cradled by her palm. "Yeah," He encourages, eyes focused up at her with an unnerving intensity, without blinking, without diverting. Natasha could be the only person left in the universe, the way Winter was looking at her. He wants to hear her voice go pretty again. Maybe he can't cum but Winter is still such a creature of simple, carnal need, and he still needs to hear Natasha sing as pretty as she was before, if only because now he's heard it once. Clenching his jaw, Winter's human hand shifts, dragging up and over her ass then up her back, at one point with his entire hand around her slim ribcage, so small compared to him, and taking him so well. He finds her breast again, pinching with two fingers and catching it as it bounces.

She gasps sharply when he gropes her breast, pleasure shooting down her belly and tightening her cunt in a little flutter. Her hand flies up to catch him by the wrist, part of her wanting to protest him trying to give her any direct pleasure at all. She's supposed to be trying to get him off, not the other way around-- but she doesn't want to scold him for making her feel good, either. "Does it feel good?" she pants. She can feel his cock throbbing inside her, jumping against her walls every time she sheaths herself over him. She still feels so tight, pulled so wide to stretch around him, but it's not a struggle to take him anymore. "I can feel your heartbeat in your dick."

At first he only nods. He only can nod. Natasha looks like a goddess above him, haloed by orange fire. Her hair glows from the heater over her shoulders, her skin perfect despite the work she'd been putting in for the last hour. On top of him is just how he can really appreciate it, when her breathing gets so deep he can see her ribs, and her nipples go so hard they tighten like perfect little nubs. Soundlessly Winter nods again, before he finds his words, "Yeah," He groans, his fingers pinching and twisting her nipple between them to feel the way she clenches around him when he does, twisting again, a third time, until he releases her and gently grinds the pad of his thumb into her nipple, in time with their hips meeting and grinding in a filthy circle. "So good," Winter mutters, reverently.

Relieved that she's not just hurting him, Natasha leans up onto her knees and starts to fuck herself properly, bouncing over Winter's cock hard enough that their skin slaps together in a rhythmic staccato. Her panting keeps perfect time with the tempo of her churning hips, a soft moan lifting the end of each rough breath that leaves her. "Can you cum?" she asks, reaching up to hold him by the jaw. "You can do it, I know you can do it, tell me if you get close--" Mostly because she wants to really kick it into high gear when he gets closer, to give him the best possible chance of overcoming his need for the word. Maybe if she just gives him enough permission, gets him worked up enough-- surely they can't completely override natural, organic human physiology through brainwashing alone... can they?

Gritting his teeth, Winter clenches his jaws as he begins to focus down on the feeling of his own pleasure. He'd been ignoring it, just as Natasha had feared, not wanting him to lose himself in pleasuring her and forgetting about his own. Truth was, Winter couldn't just forget about her pleasure, he couldn't just remember his own. If he remembered too much too fast it hurt, but like this, with Natasha's pace going from slow and steady to powerful and hard, it at least feels natural. He can trick himself into pretending he wasn't already a couple orgasms pent-up and verging on collapse. The hand on her breast tucks right up under it, grabbing her ribcage so hard a part of him is worried he's hurting her, but he can't focus on the two things at the same time. "Harder," Winter grunts, a hard-sounding command as the other hand on her hip holds her thigh down, just to fuck up into her hard a few times, to help get him there, and to remind himself what it feels like when her pussy clenches down and spasms around him in surprise.

She plants both of her hands around his shoulders, and just as he asked, she fucks him harder. Her hips clip over his, even if they go a little unsteady as her own pleasure builds again. She wants to slow down to try and keep from cumming again, because the unfairness of her wringing a fourth orgasm out of herself in so many minutes when Winter is struggling to even cum once seems unbearable-- but if she focuses too much on her own body, she runs the risk of neglecting his. So instead she just does as he asks, her nails digging into his shoulders as she uses gravity to her advantage, lifting herself up and dropping back down over his cock so hard it punches the air out of her belly in deep, barking gasps. She's determined to give him the best possible chance of cumming, keeping her eyes barely open when they want to flutter shut and just focus on how good it feels to have his cock battering into her again. She cups the side of his neck, and leans down to kiss him briefly, before gasping, "You can, you can-- you can cum, cum for me, cum for me--"

Teeth clenching until they groan, Winter arches his hips as he desperately meets Natasha's thrusts, as much as he can. She's slamming down on him, each hit wringing another belly-dropping wave of pleasure down into his toes. He can feel the way her pussy is working over her, and has no idea if it's just the angle making it feel different, or if she really is doing something, if it was a trick the Widows were taught. He wouldn't be surprised, he'd definitely been forced to learn some things. The teeth bared turns into an outright growl as Winter's frustration catches up with his voice and it unleashes itself entirely unbidden, snarling into the tent as he bites into that kiss. His metal hand finally releases her hip, reaching up to grab her by the back of her hair instead, to hold her down and kiss her hard before holding her in place against his chest and fucking up into her, driving hard into her cunt, up and in, he can feel the curve of her spine, the way her lungs clench up as tight as the rest of her, like he's fucking the very breath from her body, pussy tight and stretched around his cock so much it feels like sin-- "I--Nat--" He grunts, entire voice pained as his cock throbs and jerks, balls tightening and entire lower half turning a mottled shade of red-- and he doesn't cum.

But she does-- and that feels just mean. She can't help it, his driving hips send her shuddering on top of him as he pins her down against his chest. She tries to hold it in, tries to act like it's not happening, it feels like rubbing it in cruelly, but even though she holds her breath to remain completely silent as she cums, he can feel it in the way her thighs squeeze and tremble around his hips, the way her belly flexes and jumps against his, the way her pussy tightens and flutters around his cock. He can feel it in every line of her body as he wrings a fourth, gratuitous, unnecessary orgasm out of her, and he's left aching and pained. She's panting as she pushes up onto a shaky arm, feeling like she's gotten a harder work out in the past hour than anyone had ever given her in the Room, and pulls her hair back over her shoulder to get it out of their faces. "Sorry," she gasps, her voice absolutely wrecked. "I'm sorry."

"It's fine." Winter's balls are still clenching beneath her ass, his cock throbbing and jerking inside her, with an orgasm entirely bereft of even a drop of precum. The amount of effort that had to have gone into just this one trick of the Soldier's was repulsive, the pain Winter was feeling now, and for what? For who's satisfaction? Well, Hydra would have certainly been very pleased, had they known this little speed bump would dissuade their illicit tryst. After a moment Winter releases his hold on Natasha's hair, metal fingers delicately withdrawing from her curls without pulling a single strand, as she settles it back over her shoulder. He takes a long, deep breath, even as his hips even occasionally jerk forward entirely on leftover stimuli, making the man grunt beneath them. His hand finds Natasha's hip, more to steady her still impaled over him than his own self. "It was a good try," Winter offers, which sounds so much like condolences to her it was heartbreaking, "Best I've had."

"Best you've had," she repeats. Fury sparks in her ribcage. She kneels up and off his cock. " Best you've had." She's not angry at Winter, and that much he can tell because she's not looking at him. She's angry at Hydra, for what they did to him, how they hurt him. She's angry that the 'best he's had' is an unsatisfying affair in which he couldn't even finish. "No," she says, shaking her head as she goes through the options. She can't just leave him hanging, she can't just call it quits here. Winter's cock looks as angry as her, bright red and shiny with her fluids, purpling near the tip. What happens if she lets it go here, he just what, goes soft? And that's it for him? Absolutely not. She can do better than that. Kneeling back between his legs, she looks down at him, wounded as he is. and glances from side to side, trying to come up with a plan. She won't let it end like this, she can't walk away from this knowing she got four peaks, and he can't even find one. So they can't brute force past the word, so what? Maybe he doesn't need to orgasm to still feel something, and she can come up with something. Something that would make him go soft after, like a proper orgasm would. She feels a gust of wind shake the tent, and a thought strikes her. "Do you trust me?" she asks.

Apprehensively Winter raises an eyebrow, leaning back onto the bedroll like he's trying to really look at her. It's not like she could have anything hidden on her, she was stark naked, and Winter had now officially seen just about every crack and crevice she had on her. He knew she wasn't a threat . But he also had no fucking clue where she could be going with this. "....Don't know, why are you looking at me like that," Winter finally mutters apprehensively, looking over at her with a slight sneer on his face, not from Natasha's attempt or even her sweet anger on his behalf (a weird descriptor for rage, but one could hardly expect the Winter Soldier to be conventional) He looks uncomfortable rather than angry, despite what the sneer may suggest, and he arches his hips a little to adjust his poor, aching cock, hissing as it jerks again, now bobbing in the air.

"I have an idea. Just roll with me," she says. She leans over him to steal a kiss, and then leans away. She moves quick. She has to, in this kind of weather. She tugs the zipper to the door of the tent, pulling it open only about six inches, and even that sends a stab of cold into the otherwise very warm tent. She stuffs her hand through the opening and grabs a big handful of snow from outside, and before Winter has a chance to even ask what she's doing, she yanks the zipper back shut and rounds on him. This might not be the exact same as an orgasm, but she's confident that the shock of cold, while not only making his dick go soft, will feel like so much that it'll be the closest he's had in so long he can't even remember his orgasm trigger word. So with no time to spare, she wraps that snow-filled hand around his cock, and molds it into place with both palms.

In one instant, Winter goes from warm and pained and tight and annoyed to cold and sharp and overwhelming and-- his ears ring, his mouth drops right down, and his back arches off the ground as the feeling of ice clamps down around his cock like a vice. It's nothing he's ever felt before, his pain intensifies all at once in one horrible, beautiful moment as Winter roars with his head thrown back. His hands slam into the ground, fingers digging in hard enough there's the telltale sign of ripping plastic tarp. Is this an orgasm? Surely not, this isn't the warm, full-body feeling of an orgasm. Winter feels like he's falling absolutely, like his body is suspended in a white cloud of so much it's nothing at all, no thoughts between his ears, no feeling through his body. Eventually he collapses back into the ground with a gust of air, eyes overblown and wide, staring up at the ceiling of their tent as his hips jerk and twitch into the air, and his cock begins to soften.

The snow melts fairly quickly over his cock and Natasha's hands, their skin warm enough to reduce it to water soaking into their skin and dripping onto the tarps below. Natasha raises her hands up, slush and water dripping off her palms, like she's surrendering to the man she left quivering beneath her, watching triumphantly as his cock seems to deflate before her very eyes. He's trembling, panting, red in the face-- he looks like he just came. He looks, frankly, exhausted. She leans over him to grab the edge of their thermal blanket, and wipes her hands dry, before dragging it over to mop the freezing water off his cock and thighs, too. "How do you feel?" she asks. "Was that okay? It's not the real thing, but..."

Winter is still gulping air as he lays there and Natasha shockingly takes over fussing around, wiping up messes and stepping around him, like he was the one who'd just cum four times. He'd just had the once, and it was... well.... It was . Darkened blue eyes track her wearily as she moves throughout the tent, and he shifts when she's done wiping him off, wincing as he finally sucks in one final, deep breath, and releases it. "It was.... good," Winter finally says, though it seems to take him a second to decide that it was that. "I don't... know... what it was, I feel...good." He thinks, "Wh-- You came again," he finally says, "Right?"

She can't help but laugh as she gathers up the messy tarp from under him, carting it off to the side to be cleaned later, and instead fluffs the thermal blanket up around them (messy end down by their feet) as she claims a spot at his side. "Yeah, I did. I think if you try to get another one out of me, she'll start biting," she says, moving Winter's organic arm up to use it as a pillow.

A startled scoffing noise leaves Winter, another one of those near-misses that could just almost be a laugh if someone were to listen real close, and without bias. He'd never admit it though, just like the way his eyes squint up isn't a smile, the arm Natasha claims relaxing without hesitation around the back of her neck as feeling begins to throb back into his waist, and he feels like he'd just been drop kicked about 15 times in the cock. No doubt an after-effect of the literal blueballs he'd experienced. "I'll keep that in mind," He mutters, sounding amused as he turns his head to the side to look at her face while she settles in, "...Thank you." He finally mutters, when only the whirring of the heater at their feet and the wind remains.

She listens to the wind for a while too, letting it sink in what just happened. It was beautiful, spectacular, wonderful, and she'll cherish this memory for the rest of her life, even if this never happens again. But there's a bittersweet note to the finality that makes her chest feel heavy after a moment of just relaxing in Winter's embrace. "Next time you see me you won't really remember me," she says softly. She's never said it out loud like that before, she's never had to. It's not like it came as a surprise to either of them, they both knew it came after a mission together. Winter would never be allowed to retain his memory, his individuality or personality. They would strip it out of him as soon as they could. But it's different this time. This time, everything is different. They weren't lovers before, and maybe they should have thought of that before ringing this bell that could never be unrung, but hindsight is 2020, and she's a cunt.



She sounds so hurt. Winter understands that hurt. He knows how much it hurts to loses everyone, over and over again, to relearn and re-understand his life and the order he belongs in, the very bottom rung of a very large ladder. In truth, Winter has no idea how much it hurts to be the one forgotten. His stomach cramps a little with guilt, thinking about it, but it fades into the same bitter, sour feeling that underscores every move he makes. "Not entirely true," Winter finally says, after giving that sentiment the respect it deserves, because she's right. He won't. He won't remember her name is Natasha, or that she blows on her fingers to keep them warm as soon as the sun goes down. He won't remember the song she hums tying her shoes or what color her favorite knife is. The Winter Soldier will not know Natasha Romanov from any other Widow. He'll never remember the way she scrunches her nose when she laughs... but he'll remember what it sounds like, and he'll hear it on the breeze. The Soldier has no memory of love, but he'll remember the feeling of warmth in his chest when he looks at her, and sees her already looking at him first, the slow smile creeping onto her face pouring directly into his heart; Winter won't remember the feeling of her fucking him from up above.... Reaching over, Winter curls his arm tight around Natasha's shoulders and brings her to his side, beyond it if she wants, free to climb on top of him, aside him, around him, inside, wherever she wanted to be, she had reign. Turning his head to the side, Winter tucks his nose into her hair, and takes a slow, deliberate breath. Maybe he won't remember their sex as it was, but he'd remember this. "I remember you," Winter mutters under his breath, lips still pressed against the shell of her ear.

Natasha isn't much of a crier, but she turns her face into his chest, and she cries. Softly, without much drama, her breath is just a shivering thing in her chest as she mourns the normal, happy life they could never have. Not unless a lot of things changed very quickly, and she already has a feeling she won't be able to take him with her. "I'll miss you," she whispers. Not only because he'll forget her, but because she's going to leave as soon as she can, and she's already mourning the loss. And because it's easier than saying I love you. Widows and Winter Soldiers aren't supposed to love.

The arm around Natasha's shoulders tightens, and Winter takes a slow, deep breath in as the finality of the moment seems to clink into place for him, too. Maybe he really hadn't been giving her credit for how serious she was about leaving, how far along she was or how soon it might be. Maybe the time between their meetings just doesn't seem that long, and how could it when he was asleep, and Natasha was fighting just to survive? Natasha's tears bely more than just being sad, missing him. It was.... this. This was it. Winter squeezes her closer again, bending to press a kiss to the top of her head when she turns to bury it in his chest, pulling her up even in her sorrow, not asking for her eyes, but tucking her head under his chin instead. She can stay resting on his chest, but he wants to be able to breathe her in. If this is the last time they'll see each other... he wants to make sure he'll remember how she smells, just like this.



"I taught you every good thing I know," Winter mutters against her hair, finally letting his eyes close and lips twitch. If it was a smile, no one could see it. It'd be a sad one, anyway, "After a while, I'm just a ghost." That doesn't feel right, and Winter goes quiet, tucking his nose back into her scalp and just breathing for a second, the words right there on the tip of his tongue. "...I'll miss you too," he finally mutters, bringing his other hand to curl around her waist.

He won't, and that's the saddest part. She knows he won't. Or maybe that's not entirely fair, but he won't miss her like she misses him. He'll miss some abstract moment he can't remember or put his finger on, a nebulous feeling or collection of colors that he can't put into shape. He'll miss the idea of the memory of the feeling of the ghost of her-- and it's not his fault. They're both so helpless, so small under the machine that consumes them both. She wants to free him, and she knows she can't.



She says quietly, "I know you will."