Chapter 2: Morning Hunger
The first sensation was warmth. A deep, solid, all-encompassing heat that seeped into your bones and loosened muscles clenched from a lifetime of sleeping on cold ground. Then, the weight. A firm arm draped over your waist, a hand splayed possessively across your stomach. The scent of clean skin, faint sweat, and something uniquely, indefinably Natasha filled your nostrils.
Memory crashed in with the pale dawn light.
The tent. The car. The race-car bed.
The creeping, desperate need in the night that had driven you, sleepwalking, to her door. The feeling of her letting you in, pulling you close. And then… the release. The hot, shameful flood into the diaper, right there against her. You’d wet yourself in the Black Widow’s bed.
A mortified heat flared across your cheeks, but it was instantly drowned by a sharper, more urgent sensation. The diaper between your legs was a swollen, sodden burden, cool now against your skin. But pressed against the firm line of Natasha’s pelvis, it created a strange, yielding pressure. And above you, just inches from your face, was the soft swell of her breast, rising and falling with her slow, sleep-steady breaths beneath a thin cotton tank top.
The shame melted, burned away by a hunger so acute it made your mouth water. It was the same desperate ache that had made you drain the glass of milk last night, but deeper, primal. Your body moved before your mind could formulate a protest.
You turned slowly in her arms, careful not to break the contact. She murmured something low and Russian in her sleep, her arm tightening, pulling you closer. Your face was now buried in the soft valley between her breasts. The scent was stronger here, intoxicating. You nuzzled, your nose tracing the line of her sternum through the fabric. A soft sound escaped you, a needy whimper you didn’t recognize as your own.
Your lips found the shape of her nipple, hardened against the cotton. You closed your mouth over it, biting down gently, not enough to hurt, just to feel.
A vibration rumbled through her chest—a low, sleepy hum. Her hand on your stomach flexed, fingers pressing into your skin. Her eyes were still closed, lashes dark against her pale cheeks.
Emboldened, you shifted, pushing yourself up on one elbow. You looked down at her. In sleep, the harsh lines of command were gone. She looked younger, her lips slightly parted, her red hair a messy riot on the pillow. You watched her for a long moment, your heart hammering against your ribs.
Then you moved. You swung a leg over her hips, straddling her, the bulk of the wet diaper creating an immediate, obscene cushion between you. The crinkle was loud in the quiet room. You saw her green eyes flicker open, hazy with sleep, then sharpen into focus. They held yours, unblinking, giving nothing away.
You didn’t speak. Words were useless, dangerous. Your hands went to the hem of her tank top. You tugged, a silent question.
Her gaze dropped to your hands, then back to your face. For three endless heartbeats, she was still. Then, almost imperceptibly, she arched her back, lifting her hips from the mattress just enough.
It was all the permission you needed. You pulled the soft cotton up, over the flat plane of her stomach, past the gentle swell of her breasts, and finally over her head, letting it fall discarded to the floor. The morning light painted her in shades of gold and grey. She was lean, muscled, a map of faint silver scars and taut skin. And her breasts… they were full, heavy, perfect. Your breath caught.
You didn’t hesitate. You collapsed forward, burrowing between her and the sheet, your face finding the warm, fragrant skin of her chest. You nuzzled, inhaling deeply, before your mouth found its target. You took her nipple, areola and all, into your mouth, and suckled.
It wasn’t sexual, not at first. It was a fundamental, soul-deep hunger. A need for connection, for nourishment, for a comfort you had no name for. You suckled with a desperate urgency, your tongue working, your lips sealed tight. A soft, broken sound escaped you.
Beneath you, Natasha went utterly still. Then, a shuddering exhale. Her hands came up, not to push you away, but to cradle your head. Her fingers threaded into your hair, holding you to her. Not guiding, just… accepting.
“Malen'kaya,” she whispered, the word a rough caress against the crown of your head. Little one.
The sound of her voice, the feel of her hands in your hair, shattered the last of your control. Your hips, already resting on the soaked padding, began to move. You ground yourself down against her, the sodden diaper creating a hot, messy friction against the bare skin of her pelvis. You could feel the hard line of her pubic bone through the pulp. The sensation was filthy, shocking, intensely arousing.
Natasha’s breath hitched. Her hands tightened in your hair. Her own hips lifted off the bed, meeting your grind with a sharp, answering thrust.
The dynamic shifted. The gentle suckling became hungry, punctuated by the soft, wet sounds of your mouth on her breast and the relentless, crinkling rhythm of your bodies. You released her nipple with a soft pop, panting, and looked up. Her eyes were dark, pupils blown wide, fixed on you with an intensity that stripped you bare.
“Is this what you need?” she asked, her voice a gravelly scrape. Her hands slid from your hair, down your back, over the swell of the diaper, gripping the damp plastic through your hoodie. She pressed you down harder against her.
You couldn’t speak. You nodded, frantic, and dove back to her other breast, suckling fiercely now, your teeth grazing the peak. Your hands braced on either side of her head, and you rode the damp bulk between your legs against her, the messiness of it, the childishness, somehow making the pleasure more vicious, more real.
Her control snapped. With a fluid, powerful motion, she rolled you. In an instant, you were on your back, staring up at her as she knelt over you, her hair a crimson curtain blocking out the dawn. Her eyes were fierce, predatory.
“You came into my bed,” she stated, her voice low and dangerous. “You made a mess. My mess.” Her hands went to the waistband of your diaper, hooked her thumbs in the elastic. “Now I clean it up.”
She peeled the tapes, one after another, the sound violent in the quiet. The cool morning air hit your wet, exposed skin, making you gasp. She pulled the heavy, used diaper out from under you and dropped it carelessly to the floor. The smell, intimate and humiliating, bloomed in the space between you.
You were laid bare, utterly vulnerable. You expected her to look, to judge. She didn’t. Her gaze never left your face.
She reached for something on the nightstand—a plain glass of water. Without breaking eye contact, she took a long drink, then poured the remainder, a slow, deliberate stream, onto your stomach. The cold water made you jolt and cry out.
“Hush,” she murmured, and then her hand was there, spreading the water, cleaning you with a clinical, thorough efficiency that was somehow more intimate than any touch you’d ever known. Her fingers were firm, purposeful, wiping away the night. A washcloth from the ensuite bathroom, warmed under the tap, followed, her movements steady and unfazed.
You were trembling, overwhelmed by the shame and the care and the unbearable, coiling tension in your gut. When she was done, she tossed the cloth aside. She looked at you, clean and exposed on her white sheets.
“Better?” she asked, one eyebrow arched.
You nodded, a tear escaping and trailing into your hairline. “I’m sorry,” you whispered.
“Don’t be.” She leaned down, her breasts hanging above you, and captured your mouth in a searing kiss. It wasn’t gentle. It was claiming, demanding, a mirror of the desperation you’d shown her. You kissed back, tasting coffee and sleep and her.
When she broke the kiss, she trailed her lips down your neck, over your collarbone, lower. Her mouth closed over your nipple, and you cried out, back arching. Her hand slid between your legs, and you were drenched for a different reason entirely.
“You’re so wet,” she muttered against your skin, her finger sliding through your folds with an easy, practiced glide. “Is this for me? Or for the diaper?”
“For you,” you gasped. “Always for you.”
She entered you with two fingers, curling them, and your world fractured into bright, silent sparks. It was fast and intense, her thumb circling your clit as her fingers worked inside you, her eyes watching every twitch of your face. You came with a choked sob, gripping the sheets, your body bowing off the mattress.
As the waves subsided, she withdrew, bringing her glistening fingers to her mouth. She sucked them clean, her eyes holding yours. Then she moved down your body, pushing your thighs apart with a firm pressure.
“My turn,” she said, and her mouth was on you, hot and wicked and impossibly skilled. She licked and suckled, drawing a second, sharper climax from you in minutes. You screamed into the pillow, toes curling, seeing white.
When you could breathe again, she was crawling back up your body, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. She gathered you against her, turning so your back was to her front, just as you’d begun the night. Her arm was a steel band around your waist.
“Sleep,” she commanded, her lips against your shoulder. “We have training in two hours.”
You drifted, your body boneless, sated, swimming in endorphins and confusion. The last thing you felt was her hand, splayed possessively over your now-bare stomach, and her quiet, steady breath against your neck.
The sharp, electronic bleat of a SHIELD-issue alarm shattered the peace. Natasha was moving before the second chirp, slipping from the bed like a shadow. You blinked, disoriented, the smell of sex and her skin clinging to the sheets. You watched her move naked across the room to the dresser, every line of her body efficient and purposeful. The spell was broken.
She pulled on black tactical pants and a snug tank top, not looking at you. “Shower’s through there. Towels are in the cabinet. You have twenty-seven minutes before we need to leave.”
Her voice was different. Flatter. The voice of Agent Romanoff.
You scrambled out of bed, suddenly hyper-aware of your nakedness, the lingering soreness between your legs, the memory of her hands, her mouth. You didn’t know what to say. “Thank you” felt absurd. “What was that?” felt suicidal.
You gathered your hoodie and pajama pants from the floor, avoiding looking at the sodden diaper still lying there. “I’ll… get this,” you mumbled, gesturing vaguely.
“Leave it,” she said, not turning around as she holstered a weapon at the small of her back. “I’ll dispose of it.”
The finality in her tone closed the door on the night. You fled to the bathroom.
The shower was blisteringly hot. You scrubbed your skin until it turned pink, trying to wash away the feeling of her and the stink of your own shame. When you emerged, wrapped in a towel, your clothes from yesterday—clean, thank god—were folded neatly on the closed toilet lid. The grass-stained shirt from the locker room sink was there too, dry and smelling faintly of her laundry detergent.
When you entered the kitchen, dressed, hair damp, she was sipping black coffee, scanning a tablet. Another full mug and two pieces of buttered toast sat on the counter across from her.
“Eat,” she said, without looking up.
You ate in silence, the toast tasting like ash. The distance between you was a physical thing, a wall of reinforced glass. You stole glances at her. Her expression was impassive, unreadable.
“Last night…” you began, your voice small.
Her eyes flicked up from the tablet. They were green and cool as sea glass. “Was last night. It doesn’t exist outside this apartment. Is that clear?”
It was a dismissal. A erasure. It should have hurt. Instead, it felt like a lifeline. A way to survive the daylight. You nodded, swallowing the last of your toast. “Crystal, Agent.”
“Good.” She stood, taking her mug to the sink. “Grab your bag. We’re leaving in five.”
The drive to the SHIELD facility was silent. The city woke up around you, oblivious. You watched her profile as she drove, hands steady on the wheel. The woman who had held you, cleaned you, made you come apart twice, was gone. In her place was your commanding officer.
She pulled into the staff lot, a secluded area away from the recruits’ entrance. Before you could unbuckle your seatbelt, her hand shot out, gripping your chin. She turned your face to hers. Her gaze was terrifying in its intensity.
“What happens in my apartment stays there,” she repeated, her voice low. “You perform below standard today, you hesitate, you blush every time I look at you, and you’re gone. Back to your tent. Understood?”
You understood. This was the price. This was the deal. You met her eyes, forcing your own to harden. “Understood.”
She released you. “Then get out. Go through the east door. Be on the mats in twelve minutes.”
You fumbled with the door handle, your heart a frantic drum against your ribs. You stepped out into the cool morning air.
“Recruit,” she called.
You turned.
She was looking straight ahead through the windshield, her jaw tight. “Tuck in your shirt.”
You looked down. Your shirt was untucked. You hurriedly shoved it into your pants, your face burning.
“And eat more at lunch. You’re running on empty.”
Then she put the car in gear and drove away, leaving you standing alone in the parking lot, the ghost of her touch on your skin and the smell of her still in your hair, walking into a day where none of it had ever happened.
The day was a test in a whole new way. Every shouted command from Agent Romanoff was a blade. “Eyes forward, recruit!” “Is that the fastest you can move?” Her voice held no trace of the woman from the dawn. You pushed harder, your muscles burning, your lungs ragged, fueling yourself on the memory of her hands and the terror of being sent back. You didn’t blush. You didn’t hesitate. You became a machine, just like her.
During hand-to-hand drills, she paired with you. Her body was a lesson in applied physics, all brutal leverage and impossible speed. You sparred, and she pinned you, her weight driving the air from your lungs, her knee between your thighs. For a fraction of a second, her gaze dipped to your mouth. “Your guard is sloppy,” she announced, loud enough for others to hear, before releasing you. The space where her body had been felt suddenly, dangerously cold.
You followed her rule. Nothing left the apartment. But everything inside you churned. The confusion, the sharp yearning, the lingering soreness between your legs—it all fermented into a single, focused need by day’s end. You needed to know if the door was still open, or if you’d burned through your one chance.
Back at her place, the silence was a thick, live wire. She ordered takeout. You ate on opposite sides of the sofa, the news playing to no one. “Sleep in the room again tonight,” she said finally, not looking at you. It wasn’t an invitation. It was logistics. A place to store a problem asset.
“Okay,” you said. Your heart hammered against your ribs. The plan solidified, a reckless, terrified hope.
You waited until she was sequestered in her room with files. You showered, the water scalding. Then, in the quiet of the borrowed bedroom, you did it. You opened the plastic package from your bag. The diaper was white, thick, printed with little clouds. You unfolded it, the crinkle absurdly loud in the stillness. You lay back on the bed, lifted your hips, and slid it underneath.
You fastened the tapes, the snug embrace both shaming and deeply comforting. You stood, looking down at yourself. Legs bare. Upper body bare. Just the diaper. The air conditioning raised goosebumps on your skin. You felt utterly exposed, and terrifyingly free.
You rooted in your bag, past the clean shirt, until your fingers closed around the worn plush of your bunny. You pulled it out, then found the silicone pacifier, giving it a quick rinse under the faucet. You popped it into your mouth. The familiar, rhythmic suck calmed your screaming nerves.
You waddled. There was no other word for it. The bulky padding forced a slow, wide-legged gait. The laminated floor was cool under your feet. Each step crinkled. You pushed the living room door open.
Natasha was on the couch, still in her day clothes, reviewing something on a tablet. She looked up. Her face didn’t change, but her body went preternaturally still. Her eyes tracked from your bare feet, up your legs, over the swaddled diaper, across your bare stomach and chest, finally resting on the pacifier in your mouth and the bunny clutched to your side.
You didn’t speak. You couldn’t. You just walked toward her, the crinkling marking your slow progress. Her expression was unreadable, a mask of pure observation. You stopped in front of her, a silent question hanging in the air.
Maybe she’d let you.
You turned slowly, your back to her, and lowered yourself. You settled into the space between her thighs, your back coming to rest against her front. The diaper created a plush barrier. You leaned your full weight into her, pulled your knees up, and nestled your head under her chin. You released a shuddering sigh around the pacifier.
For several heartbeats, nothing. She was a statue behind you. Then, with a slow exhalation, her arm came around your waist. Her hand splayed across your bare stomach, her fingertips just brushing the top edge of the diaper. Her other hand lowered the tablet to the couch cushion.
She rested her cheek against the top of your head. Her body was warm and solid, a fortress. She didn’t ask questions. She didn’t comment. She simply held you, her thumb making slow, absent circles on your skin.
The pacifier bobbed gently as you suckled. You clutched your bunny tighter. The tension of the day, the roaring confusion, began to leach out of you, absorbed by the steady beat of her heart against your back.
Her lips moved against your hair. “Is this what you needed?” Her voice was a low rumble you felt in your bones.
You nodded, a small movement.
“The others,” she began, her arm tightening a fraction. “They see this, they’ll eat you alive. You understand that?”
You nodded again. You did understand. This was a secret so big it could destroy everything. She was holding it with you.
“Then it stays here,” she murmured, the rule reaffirmed but transformed. Not an erasure, but a possession. “This is mine to see. No one else’s.”
You made a soft, agreeing sound around the silicone nipple. You closed your eyes, sinking into the warmth, the safety, the profound taboo of it. Her hand on your stomach slipped lower, her palm resting fully on the front of the diaper, feeling its bulk.
She didn’t move it. She just left it there, a heavy, claiming weight. “Mine,” she whispered again, as the night deepened outside, solidifying the truth. You were both keeper and kept, and the line between training and this had dissolved completely.
You were both keeper and kept, and the line between training and this had dissolved completely. The pacifier in your mouth softened the world, her chest a warm wall at your back. Her hand lay heavy on the front of your diaper, a possessive weight that anchored you. You let your eyes close, drifting in the quiet.
The day’s exertions had left your body exhausted but restless. A familiar pressure began building low in your gut, a clenching, urgent need. It wasn’t the sharp pang of suddenly needing to piss; this was slower, deeper, more insistent. Your earlier meal stirred, demanding release.
You stiffened slightly in her arms, the pacifier pausing its gentle rhythm. You tried to breathe through it, to ignore it, the way you always had to in shared dorms or public spaces. But here, in the fortress of her lap, the rule was different. This is mine to see. Her own words echoed.
A small, pained sound escaped around the silicone nipple.
Natasha’s thumb stilled its circling. “What is it?” she murmured, her lips against your hair.
You shook your head minutely, eyes squeezed shut. Shame warred with the building, physical imperative. The diaper already felt enormous between your legs, a stark reminder of your vulnerability. To do that here, deliberately, while she held you…
“Look at me.”
Her voice was low, but it was Agent Romanoff’s voice, the one that brooked no disobedience. Your eyes fluttered open. You tilted your head back to see her looking down at you, her expression unreadable in the dim room light.
“Tell me.” It wasn’t a request.
“I need to…” you whispered, the words muffled. You couldn’t say it. Your face flushed hot.
Understanding flickered in her green eyes. They held yours, unwavering. Her arm around your waist didn’t loosen. Her hand on your diaper didn’t move away. If anything, her palm pressed down more firmly. “So do it.”
You stared at her, your breath catching. The permission, so casually given, was a seismic shift. It stripped the last vestige of privacy, of dignity. It was horrifying. It was everything you hadn’t known you needed.
Your body made the decision for you. The internal dam broke. You bore down, a soft, strained grunt escaping your nose as you pushed. Your eyes stayed locked on hers, wide and terrified and trusting.
The sensation was a hot, expanding fullness. The diaper, already pressed between you and her, absorbed it silently at first, then with a damp, mushy squelch as it packed out. You kept going, your body shuddering with the effort and the profound taboo of the act. Each soft grunt was a punctuation mark in the quiet room. The smell hit a moment later, earthy and intimate, weaving into the scent of her skin and your shampoo.
Natasha’s breath hitched. Her gaze, which had been analytical, clouded. Her hips gave a subtle, involuntary jerk upwards, pressing the now-soiled padding more firmly against you both. A low moan vibrated from her chest into your back.
“Bozhe moy,” she whispered, her voice rough.
Her other hand came up, gripping your hip, fingers digging in. She began to move against you in earnest, a slow, deliberate rocking of her pelvis, humping the messy diaper. The crinkle of plastic mixed with the wet, shifting sounds inside it. Her eyes were dark, hypnotic, fixed on yours as she used the bulge you’d created for her own friction.
“You made this,” she panted, her rhythm increasing. “You made this mess for me.”
You could only nod, mesmerized by the raw hunger on her face, by the feel of her chasing her pleasure against the consequence of your most basic need. The pacifier fell from your slack mouth, dangling against your chest. You were a tool, a conduit, utterly claimed.
Her movements grew sharper, more frantic. Her brow furrowed in concentration, a sheen of sweat on her upper lip. With a final, sharp grind and a choked-off cry, she stilled, her whole body tensing against yours before slumping back into the couch, breath coming in ragged gusts.
Silence, thick and visceral, settled over you. The evidence of both your releases was a warm, heavy mass between you. She didn’t let go. Her arms tightened, pulling you even closer into the ruin, her forehead dropping to your shoulder.
For a long time, there was only the sound of her breathing slowing. Then, she spoke, her voice wrecked and soft against your skin. “We need to get you cleaned up.”