Chapter Text
Lottie’s always known Nat is beautiful.
Strong.
A little terrifying.
And a crack-shot with a rifle.
One of the most intimidating women she’s ever met (height aside), as well as one of the most stunning.
Lottie thinks her strength has a lot to do with that. Nat knocked her on her ass with one swing the first time they met, and it still wows her to think about.
Like—wow, what a woman.
Arm wrestling on the 2525 that one time, too. Nat would’ve beat her if Mari didn’t step in and tell the two of them to quit comparing dick sizes and focus on the mission, and Lottie would’ve liked being beat.
“You know,” Nat says, “you’re not so tough-looking without your battle suit.” She’s grinning at Lottie and Lottie likes that, too. That smile is powerful. Sly and cocky, a little crooked, and so full of well-earned pride. Nat’s got plenty to be proud of.
“You’re not so scary either,” Lottie says. She digs her fingertips in and pulls Nat’s hips against her. She can’t remember the last time she was this close to a woman—if she’s ever been this close to a woman—but if Nat never gets any farther away from her than she is now, Lottie will die happy. “Now that you don’t pull guns on me for fun anymore.”
Nat’s eyes twinkle and for a moment Lottie forgets where she is.
On a stolen jet with her legs stretched out on the floor of the bridge. She’d been trying to nap, to sleep off the emotional weight of the last forty-eight hours. Thought it might do her some good to close her eyes and forget the world for a little while. Then Nat ditched the pilot’s seat and pulled her out of her dreams (and right into another one).
Not that she’s upset about it. She isn’t, she’d like to make that clear. More like Lottie’s tickled that it took Nat fifteen minutes to make the decision, and surprised it took her that long at all.
“Is that what you want me to do?” Nat’s not looking at her. Or she is, but only at her lips. Her hand drifts from Lottie’s chest to the handgun holstered at her side. She thumbs open the securing strap and pushes the other hand through Lottie’s hair, wrenching her head back. “Pull a pistol on you?”
Lottie’s expression doesn’t change. Gloved fingers flex against Nat’s hips, drawing her down with the subtlest of motions.
But Nat catches every movement, seamlessly following Lottie’s guidance, letting her notch their hips together like the last two pieces of a puzzle.
And Lottie knows it’s all her doing, that they wouldn’t be in this position if Nat didn’t want them to be, that this is all going to be on her terms. Lottie isn’t sure any other way is plausible, really, because ever since Lottie walked away from her old life she’s been a lost hiker without a trail map. She hasn’t known what to do, what to think, how to feel—shit, she’s barely known what to say most days. She’s resorted to self-isolation when possible and varying levels of selective muteness otherwise.
Gunning her way through the Yellowjackets compound to root out security faults, and because she could, was easier than this. Putting down her first big bad was easier, too. So was throwing hands with The Butcher.
Most things have been easier than what Lottie is doing right now.
There’s no more mission, no more threat, no more risk—just Nat and a stolen jet and too much time on her hands.
It’s one of the very first times since early childhood that she’s been able to relax, really relax, and Lottie wants no part of it. She’d take back the bullets, the espionage, the threats, the risk, all of it, if it meant she no longer had to feel this empty. Without purpose.
So if Nat wants to take all of that away, ease the trillion-ton weight on her shoulders, even if just for a while, Lottie is okay with that.
She hears her belt click open. The heavy buckle hits the ground before she feels the cold kiss of a barrel pressing into the soft skin beneath her chin. For a moment she tastes danger again. It makes her smile, dopey and crooked.
“You’re a little more damaged than I thought, aren’t you?” Nat’s eyes narrow a fraction of an inch. “Would it get you all excited if I told you it’s loaded?”
“Yes,” Lottie says. A warm hand works its way into her pants, pressing against the heat of her cunt through her underwear. “And yes.”
She hears a click, a soft one, and she knows exactly what it is.
Something cracks open in Lottie’s chest. Something weighty and all-encompassing. It ripples through her veins and blossoms in her core.
Thrill.
“Safety’s off,” Nat says, but Lottie already knows. She grinds the heel of her hand into Lottie’s clit, pushing her dampening underwear against the give of her entrance. “Still excited?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Nat laughs.
Lottie doesn’t dare move her head. She sucks in a sharp breath, eyes falling shut.
Nat would shoot if it came down to it. Lottie knows her well enough to know that if she broke open and released the torrent that lives inside of her (if the reason she’s a liability came to fruition), Nat would shoot. And maybe that scares her a little, having her would-be executioner so close, but Lottie’s fear lives in the same place as her arousal. A place with the power to make her heart pound and her ears ring and the coil in her belly start to burn.
Fear pressurizes everything, fits it all to burst, threatening to spit shrapnel into anyone unfortunate enough to be near, and Lottie likes that feeling. She likes wondering what would happen if every little thing bottled up inside of her just… blew.
Kaboom.
She wonders if there would be any survivors.
“You’re not even listening to me,” Nat says somewhere far off, and Lottie yanks herself back.
“I’m really not.”
“Look at me.”
Lottie looks.
Nat’s eyes bore into hers. Inquisitive and green, probing as she searches for a window to peer into Lottie’s soul. She doesn’t worry about Nat finding what she wants in her own eyes, dark and hungry as they are. Nat always finds exactly what she needs.
“That look—you’re pleading,” Nat says after a moment, brow furrowing. “I’m not sure I know how to feel about that.”
A slow, lazy smile slides across Lottie’s face. “But?”
“But at least you’re fucking wet,” Nat mumbles, finally slipping her hand beneath Lottie’s underwear. She drags her fingers through slick lips, finds her clit and lingers there, and smirks. “Honestly? Jesus, Lot.”
Do it, Lottie thinks, tilting her head until the metal of the barrel digs into her skin enough to sting, I dare you.
And then something changes.
Maybe it’s the heat—the sweat sticking Lottie’s shirt to her chest, the warm buzz in her ears between words, the fire rising in her belly—or maybe she’s just losing it. Maybe that last mission flipped a switch inside of her.
Maybe this is the culmination of every moment spent training with the Yellowjackets, the aria at the height of the show where her heart splits open and suddenly she’s looking at things differently, seeing things she never wanted to see before, all because of the people she’s allowed into her life. Or maybe her programming has gone to shit; like Nat, Lottie was built to be a weapon, a machine capable of decimation and deception without remorse.
All Lottie knows is that something is happening.
It takes her another moment or two to realize that it’s not actually something happening to her.
It’s Nat.
Her hand stills between Lottie’s legs. The pressure of the barrel under Lottie’s chin lessens.
Nat looks—scared? It’s not something Lottie’s ever seen on her face before.
“You actually think I’d do it,” she says, voice dropping to a hum, eyes threatening to close off and keep Lottie from reading too far in. “You really fucking think I’d shoot you.”
“Wouldn’t you?”
“God.” She’s laughing, but it’s pained. Incredulous and disheartening. “When Cap told me you were fucked up, I didn’t expect… this. It’s like—like you want me to do it.”
Nat starts to drop her hand, to pull the gun from Lottie’s head, to holster it again, but Lottie catches it before she can. Her hands clamp tight around Nat’s wrist, unrelenting, and she pulls it back until the tip of the barrel digs so deep beneath her chin that it’s a little hard to breathe.
“Don’t,” Lottie growls. And now she truly is pleading, begging with her eyes, desperation written so clearly across her face that it scares her. The fear still feels good. “Just…” Weakness slips into her tone, seeps into her eyes. Nat looks at her with something between pity and horror. “If you won’t kill me, just fuck me.”
She won’t.
Not until Lottie lets her flip the safety back on, which she does even though it dampens the adrenaline and makes her consider rolling back over and going back to sleep.
But she doesn’t want to upset Nat, doesn’t want to close the door on whatever this is between them, so she allows it. And she does still want to get off, wants to break beneath Nat’s touch and slump into ecstasy when she’s through, but she wanted it a certain way. A dangerous way.
It was Nat’s fear that did it. The worry on her face, the disbelief that rocked her the moment she figured Lottie out.
Her own relationship with fear is one thing, but she didn’t like seeing Nat afraid. It made her want to soften, apologize, and offer up a version of herself that doesn't exist. She’s never been one to cater to anyone’s emotions like that before.
It’s all new.
For both of them.
But Nat adapts.
So does Lottie.
It helps that Nat is smiling again now that she’s safeteyed-up and Lottie’s hands are back on her waist, guiding her in a steady grind on Lottie’s thigh while she takes her.
“That’s good, isn’t it?” Cold metal kisses Lottie’s temple and she closes her eyes. Warm fingers spread her cunt, push in, and stroke her from the inside. “You like being touched with a gun to your head?”
Lottie considers. Then she tells the truth: “Feels forced,” she mutters, biting at the inside of her cheek, “now that I know you won’t use it.”
“Fuck off,” Nat says, stretching her open with a third finger.
“Just fuck me.”
She doesn’t.
Instead Nat slips her hand out of Lottie’s underwear and moves off of her lap.
“Focus,” she says after she’s shucked her pants and dragged Lottie onto her back. She swings a leg over Lottie’s head and hovers inches above her mouth. “I trust you can manage that.”
Lottie clamps her hands around Nat’s thighs and pulls her down.
Heaven on her tongue, thick and heady and wet. Fingertips dig into pale skin, pulling Nat against Lottie’s open mouth as her tongue glides through her wetness.
It’s only when Lottie lifts her head from the floor, eager for more, desperate to spear her tongue into the depths of Nat’s cunt, that she pulls the gun on her again. Presses it to the middle of Lottie’s forehead and forces her head back to the ground with a dull thud that sends a ripple of shock through her system.
“Look at me,” Nat says, and Lottie does, forcing her eyes open. “Stop thinking,” she says next, rubbing a thumb over Lottie’s cheek. “Forget everything that isn’t my pussy. Can you do that for me?”
Lottie wants to please her, she realizes, because she’s already nodding without thinking, and somehow that’s worse than not wanting to upset her.
Not wanting to upset her is passive, or it can be, but this isn’t, and it can’t be.
This is wanting to act in a way that Nat will like, that she’ll remember, approve of, that she’ll still be thinking about two days from now when they’re back in New Jersey and going their separate ways. This is wanting to rip off her gloves and dig her nails into Nat’s thighs because she wants to feel the sting, not because Lottie wants to make her feel it. It’s wanting to keep her eyes open because it’s what Nat told her to do, not because it’s what she’s pretending she would’ve done anyway.
Wanting to please Nat is forcing herself to stop caring about whether or not the gun is loaded, whether the safety is on or off, and whether Nat would actually shoot her or not; wrenching her thoughts away from the doom and the gloom and the buzz it brings her is not easy, but the taste of Nat filling her mouth makes it easier.
Lottie nods.
“Good girl.”
A sound rumbles from Lottie’s throat, a groan and a growl all at once, and its effect is immediate: Nat shudders, thighs trembling in her grip, and she hunches over, digging the metal of her gun into Lottie’s forehead so hard she’s certain it’ll cut deep enough to scar over.
Lottie closes her mouth over Nat’s clit and sucks, rolling her tongue against the swollen bud, coaxing her on, drinking her in, all while Nat fists a hand in her hair and ruts against her face. Lottie might care about how hard it’s getting to breathe if the lips of Nat’s cunt didn’t spread so easily around her tongue, swallowing it so smoothly, wrapping her in heaven and offering her a taste of salvation.
“Fuck,” Nat hisses, and, “Just like that,” and, “For someone who doesn’t talk much, you’re—shit—you’re so damn good with your mouth.”
Lottie would smirk if she wasn’t so busy.
Instead she just hums, slow and steady, dull vibrations sent up through Nat’s clit as she fucks her with her tongue.
When Nat comes with a cry it spills out of her hole in waves, gushing onto Lottie’s tongue each time she clenches. It coats her lips, slicks up her chin, and when Nat slumps off of her and the gun goes clattering to the floor, all Lottie can think about is her heart trying to beat its way out of her chest and the taste of Nat on her tongue.
“I’m telling Cap to send you for a psych eval when we get back,” Nat says after a moment.
Lottie turns her head, too cum-drunk and hazy to let her eyes focus, and, “Par for the course,” she mumbles, her own pleasure entirely forgotten. Giving Nat hers was enough.
Nat reaches for her, touching her forehead with sweaty fingers. “You’re bleeding,” she says. When she pulls away her fingertips are wet and red with blood. “Sorry.”
“Don’t be,” Lottie tells her, pulling at her wrist and kissing the blood from her fingertips.
It tastes like a prayer.