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Liaison

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Peggy’s still not sure about this whole time-travel malarkey. When Howard first pitched the idea to her it all seemed rather exciting, but the reality is very different.

The reality is hushed voices and darting eyes, her being hidden away in a tight little bubble of secrecy because she mustn’t reveal anything from the past or learn anything from the future that might jeopardise the timestream, she mustn’t see or be seen by the wrong people, whoever they may be.

The reality is really fucking boring, actually.

She’d been hoping to track down the Hydra agents herself, those last few fanatics who followed Schmidt’s vision, who’d barrelled into the future using a bastardised version of one of Arnim Zola’s inventions.

Instead she’s met exactly four people since first falling through the portal and handing over the necessary intel. Sure, it’s gratifying to know SHIELD still thrives decades into her future, that they’re so efficient in the face of any bizarre situation, but damn frustrating that they’re keeping her benched.

At least she has good company.

She doesn’t know Natasha’s last name, which is yet another security measure. She’s been assigned as Peggy’s handler, it seems, her liaison and her babysitter, a position it’s apparent she is painfully overqualified for. But she suspects Natasha specifically requested the detail and Peggy’s not about to complain.

Not when they’re sprawled together across the mats, laughter echoing across the walls of the empty gym. They’re only half-dressed, Peggy stripped down to her underwear and the obtrusive metal contraption strapped to her wrist that constantly ticks down until the moment when she’ll be yanked back to her own time period.

There’s an empty bottle of vodka lying between them. Peggy’s used to drinking men twice her size under the table, but Natasha can put away booze like nobody she’s ever seen.

In the forty-four hours since Peggy met her, she and Natasha have fucked in every position Peggy knows and a few she didn’t, a few she’s taking back to the past with her, timestream be damned.

She rolls over, pushes up on to the knees, muscles feeling warm and loose. Crawls closer, and Natasha looks up at her with dark eyes, already spreading her thighs. She lifts her hips so Peggy can tug the tight black cotton shorts down her legs, fingers pausing to dig into bruises just to hear the delicious hiss of Natasha’s breath.

She doesn’t know if the marks are from their sparring matches or from the grip of Peggy’s fingers as she last went down on her.

Her fingers slide inside Natasha’s cunt easily, giving her three straight away, knowing she can take it, and Natasha groans for her, bends her knees and braces her feet against the mat. Curling the fingers a little so she can rub the tips teasingly at the slightly harder little nub just inside and up, and Natasha wriggles her hips, trying to get more.

Peggy’s going to be glad to get back to her own time and into the field where she belongs, but leaving this woman behind is going to be so bloody difficult.

She builds her rhythm fast, thrusting in deep and strong, because she’s learned that’s how Natasha likes it. Fucking her hard, rocking on her knees as she puts her weight into it, hair in her face and murmuring utter filth, telling Natasha how good she looks, how wet and open she is, how Peggy wants to make her scream until her throat rubs raw.

Natasha’s hips twist up into every punch of her arm, heels pressing into the mats, making them squeak with every tight little movement. She matches Peggy’s pace so perfectly, matches her perfectly in every way, and it makes Peggy ache to know that this is temporary, that this is little more than a holiday romance. But it also makes her determined to leave her brand, to make it so Natasha thinks of her always, even when she’s far back in the past and Natasha’s still here in the future, even when time itself separates them.

She presses her hand down beside Natasha’s head, shifts her weight and balance, whole body working with the thrust of her arm now. Natasha’s moaning, eyes fluttering, fingers scrabbling over the mats. Undulating in Peggy’s shadow, slick slide of her fingers inside growing faster and more frantic as she recognises the pitch of Natasha’s voice, the way she’s getting close.

She’s already in love with the feeling of Natasha’s cunt squeezing her, clenching up around her fingers as Natasha growls and comes. She turns her head, teeth sinking into the skin of Peggy’s wrist as she whines, and there’s lipstick on her mouth, Peggy’s lipstick, there from their drunk, sloppy, smiling kisses. It smears against Peggy’s skin, red and waxy, and the truth is that she wants to leave her brand on Natasha because Natasha’s already left her brand on Peggy.

Long when her other wrist is free from the time-travel device, she’ll still be able to feel that lipstick on her skin.

But the clock ticks on, closer and closer to the end of this, the end of her time with Natasha.

Peggy ignores it for the moment, and wiggles her fingers playfully, teasing Natasha’s insides even as she winds down from her peak, just to see the way Natasha’s eyes narrow, the dangerous spark in them, the smirk on her red-stained lips.

For now at least, she’s thoroughly determined to enjoy the time they have.