The Spider and the She-hulk

BY : KittyAugust
Category: Marvel Verse Comics > Black Widow
Dragon prints: 6131
Disclaimer: I do not own the Marvel 616, She-hulk, Black Widow nor the characters from them. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Jen smooths her hands down the copper and gold satin of her evening dress. The shimmering fabric makes her green skin seem to glow and it is cut perfectly, clinging to each curve and actually flatters rather than hiding the hard muscled lines of her arms. She loves it. Raf Simons had designed it himself after he read an interview discussing how she wears Dior’s Dolce Vita perfume, but can never find an evening dress that flatters her. She knows it is all for the publicity but she doesn’t care - the dress feels like a dream on her skin. That is what being She-hulk is all about really: proving to all the girls out there (the ones like 15 year-old Jennifer Walters had been) that you don’t have to be ‘normal’ to have dreams, don’t have to be a size 0 to be beautiful. Still proving it to herself too.

She takes a sip of her champagne. She seriously loves these stupid Avengers’ fundraiser charity gala things. The rest of the team hate it - all the schmoozing but Jen’s pretty much in her element.  Sometimes she thinks she is the only person on the team that actually appreciates being a real life superhero and everything that comes with it. The fancy black-tie and champagne, the making nice with billionaires and politician photos, maybe picking up the odd famous model, it is all just part of the parcel. It goes along with the saving the world and helping old ladies with their homework or whatever. Being seen, being part of the community, keeping the world safe - what people know about you is just as important as what you actually do. And, well, if she happens to drink enough expensive French champagne to get a she-hulk tipsy (that’s a lot, like really really a lot - in case you were curious), dance until even her gamma irradiated feet hurt, and if her firm happens to pick up a few lucrative clients, so much the better.

The mirror is huge, even bigger than her one in Avengers’ Mansion, and it has the little bulbs all around it so the light is absolutely perfect for doing her make-up. She runs both hands through her hair and scrunches it up in a false up-do. Lets it down again and tousles it, that looks sexy, maybe too sexy (there aren’t going to be too many exotic fashion models at tonight’s G8 related event, Save the Something-or-other stuff is so much better for hooking up).

“Hmm.” Up is probably more practical anyway, and it shows off all that long green neck. She’s fumbling in her make-up bag for a clip or three when Natasha walks into the massive marble tiled bathroom and makes her nearly drop everything - literally. And also forget how to breathe for about three whole seconds - because hot damn!

It isn’t like it is close quarters (despite Jen being in her hulk form) - it’s a huge bathroom even by Avengers standards. The DC Hilton has pulled out all the stops for its superpowered guests tonight. And honestly, it shouldn’t even be a surprise - their bedrooms in the girls’ suite are connected by this very bathroom. It all makes perfect sense.

But, Jen figures, her surprise is justified. Anyone who can see would be dumb struck by the sudden appearance of Natasha Romanov in nothing but her underwear. Hell, even Matt Murdock would probably need to take a moment.

“Oh,” they both say at once. Jen blinks a few times.

Vaguely, Jen realises she would be less taken aback by lace and thigh-highs - she would have known how to react to that, because it would be part of that whole Widow seductress thing. But there is something about Natasha’s far more practical and battle ready sports bra combo. Something about the smooth grey goretex and advanced polymers are more real, more Natasha, and therefore so much more intimate than a corset and stockings could have been.

“Um,” Jen adds helpfully, “I’ll just…”

Jen waves ineffectually at the door back to her own room - which does have a mirror even if it isn’t as fancy. It’s the polite thing to do…

“Oh, no need,” Natasha smiles, and it’s all super-spy and not much Natasha but Jen tries not to worry about that. “I was actually coming to find you, anyway. Wondered if you could help me with my kevlar?”

“Kevlar?” Jen repeats stupidly.

“Um, yeah.” Natasha’s smile turns more real, more amused in the face of Jen’s confusion. “Some of us aren’t bullet proof remember, Greenie?”

“Oh, right…” Jen blinks again. Then, “I mean, sure. Lead the way!”

Natasha gives her a slightly too knowing look then nods and leads them back through to the adjoining bedroom. It is just as spacious and well appointed as Jen’s on the other side. The Widow’s fight suit is in a heap on the floor next to the door - like the first thing Nat did on arriving at the hotel was take the thing off - which makes sense really. Her guns and battle stingers are more carefully arranged in their lockable case but just as obviously discarded. Laid out on the massive bed is Natasha’s outfit with what looks like a small arsenal of guns, stingers (albeit disguised as fancy jewelry) and other mysterious spy stuff. Along with what has to be the sexiest, most fitted kevlar ever to grace the face of the Earth.

It is a weird reminder of how fragile and human Natasha really is (despite the Red Room’s knock-off super-soldier serum). It must suck having to carry your weapons in a box instead your blood. But then Jen remembers that time Natasha took out a Skrull with nothing but her thighs and thinks maybe she’s doing the same thing so many defeated enemies have done - she almost underestimated the Widow.

“So,” Natasha is saying, holding up the complicated kevlar garment. It looks sort of like a cross between spanx, combat gear, and a very special kind of corset. “You’ll hold it up so I can wiggle into it, then you do up the straps. Good?”

Jen almost feels like she’s being given mission orders.

“How do you normally get into it?” Jen asks. She does as she’s told though and tries not to flush or look too much as the Widow downright shimmies into the thing.

“Well, normally, I don’t have three broken ribs,” Natasha answers cheerfully from the depths of the garment.

“What?” Jen squeeks. She’s had exactly two broken ribs in her career, one from Betty Ross after the whole Red She-hulk thing and one from taking a direct hit from Thanos. It was not a pleasant experience either time, and even with advanced healing, it was over a week before she was walking around and months before she was breathing without wincing. “Aren’t you in pain?”

“Not really,” Natasha shrugs it off… which must hurt too come to think of it. “Robots, what are you going to do? Now can you do up those straps at my waist and the ones around my thighs?”

Oh… wow. Jen is trying to run through every conversation she and Natasha have ever had. Jen isn’t exactly in the closet about her, ah, broad sexual preferences but sometimes people just don’t notice. It’s not like she makes a big deal about it and she hasn’t had anything serious with anyone since Starfox. Damn it.

It’s a perfectly platonic request… but if Natasha doesn’t know and suddenly notices later… well it could get awkward. She doesn’t want Natasha to think she took advantage- Jen can’t help but think of the one roommate back in college and the crying, the word ‘betrayal’ got bandied about. It was messy. And she really, really doesn’t want Natasha to feel-



Natasha gives her a knowing look. And of course she reads Jen like- well, like she’s a super-spy who makes her living and her reputation easing secrets out of the world’s most feared villains and criminals, really. Jen can feel the flush on her cheeks and knowing it makes her go a blotchy purple just makes it worse, heat creeping up her neck.

“It’s okay,” Natasha says, neutrally but not unkindly. “I’m not going to have a tantrum if a hot girl touches my leg.”

“Oh,” Jen says.

“Oh,” Natasha agrees with only a very lightly teasing tone.

Jen takes a moment to remind herself that she is the Sensational She-hulk, not some dowdy confused law student. She can totally do this.

Turns out the application of a little hulk-strength to a bullet-proof corset helps ease the pressure on Natasha’s ribs. But she still asks Jen to help with her various little holsters and hidden weapon straps. There are an awful lot of them. Eventually Natasha is as well armed, bullet proofed and slash proofed as a person can be when they’re wearing an evening dress. And Jen only blushed like four, maybe six, times through the whole process.

Natasha giggles at her. Actually giggles. It’s kind of nice and kind of incredibly frustrating. God, Jen’s a bad friend sometimes. It’s like a reverse strip tease, every strap, every curve, every set of laces tugs at Jen in a way she probable shouldn’t examine. Natasha is tiny anyway. Hulked-out, Jen could probably wrap her hands around the spy’s kevlar-corseted waist- and nope, stopping that thought right there-

“Shulkie? Thanks.” Natasha bites her lip, and if Jen didn’t know better she would think Natasha hesitated. “Here, let me…” she steps right up into Jen’s personal space, and reaches up to slip loose strands of Jen’s hair behind her ear.

Jen realises now that she’s still only half ready, but she can’t quite catch her breath. Drawn in by grey-blue eyes and copper red hair, just like so many marks before her. Natasha searches Jen’s face for a long intense second. She must find what she’s looking for because before Jen really realises it, the Widow is pulling on her neck and she’s following the pressure down into a softer, sweeter kiss than all that kevlar would suggest. Sugar sweet and almost chaste. At first.

It takes Jen a few moments to catch up but when she does, the gamma in her blood burns and she growls forward into it. Hands finding the elegant slashproof curve of the Widow’s waist at last. Natasha responds like a wild thing, presses up into it, kisses back like a fight and digs her controlling hand into Jen’s hair. Hard and just right tugging her into it all even harder. Natasha bites her lip, sensual but unafraid. Hot and soft and-

They break apart gasping as the door slams open, both tensed for a fight and flushed from the kiss.

“Nat, can I…” Danvers stops short in the doorway looking between the two of them. Natasha has dark green lipstick smudged across her lower lip and Jen can feel her own disarray. “You know what, I’ll just go ask Wanda.”

Carol closes the door behind her. But they both hear her shout “Stark owes me 50 bucks,” making them both laugh.

“You look good in green,” Jen says, recovering some of her usual suave, and stepping closer again. Jen rubs lightly at the smudge of her lipstick on Natasha’s lip.

“Yeah, I think so too.”


It takes them a lot longer than it should to finish getting ready for the event. They keep stopping to test out the whole kissing thing again and again. Make-up needs to be reapplied twice, and it turns out Natasha is kind of handsy if you let her be. Not that Jen is complaining at all. Jen ends up with a pair of tiny lightweight sai in her hair once it finally gets put up - she thinks they’re Natasha’s way of saying that they’re finishing this later but she’s not sure. She could have also just been incorporated into Natasha’s undercover arsenal and walking armory. It’s hard to tell with Natasha.

“Do you have to wear lipstick?” Natasha mockingly complains in the elevator while they’re finally making their way down to the ballroom.

“Tonight? Yes. Do you know how much press there’s going to be down there tonight?”

“Yes,” Natasha says with a wicked smile. Right- security expert. She probably did their triple level background checks. Or supervised (read intimidated) the S.H.E.I.L.D lackies that did them anyway.

“But I don’t bother with it around the mansion at all…” Jen says. Maybe it’s too forward, a consolation and an offer and she’s not even sure if this is anything more than a- whatever this is. But…

“Good,” Natasha smiles up at her, blinding for a moment. Then the doors open and the Widow is slipping out and putting on her best press face, all smiles and grace. And… wow, Jen is pretty sure the Black Widow just agreed to kiss her again and possibly on a potentially semi-regular basis. Being an Avenger is the absolute best. She gets her own best ‘I’m an Avenger, trust me’ smile on and braves the room too. This is going to be good.

Jen tries to focus on the gala. She really does. But there’s something under her skin telling her that the best bit is going to happen after the party. Jen nods, and smiles, and even has a good conversation about constitutional law with someone from Capitol Hill. She still finds her eyes roving the crowd, looking for blue sequins and copper hair. God, she’s being worse than the Winter Soldier. Literally. Barnes is actually dancing with some senator’s wife and maybe smiling. Damn it!

Luckily it is only an hour or two before Natasha is sidling up to her, giving Jen a long up and down look that is normally reserved for the Stark Tower chocolate fountain and especially expensive Russian vodka.

“So, Greenie, what do you say? You want to get out of here?” Natasha lays on some kind of accent that Jen thinks is meant to make her sound like a film noir hero. It does make Jen laugh and, she realises, relax. She’s wound up like a swing punch. It reminds her of the moment a few months into living at Avengers Mansion when she realised there was a real person under the layers and layers of Black Widow. Realised that the person who’s first solution to most problems was to just shoot them, was also kind of goofy and a bit of a nerd. It almost gives her butterflies and isn’t that cheesy?

“Yeah, Romanov, I think I do.”

Carol Danvers, in her red, blue, and gold evening dress, gives Jen a lascivious thumbs up when she sees them leaving together. And because Jen is an adult and an Avenger, she blows a raspberry in return.

“You’re a real charmer, Shulkie. You know that?” Natasha says as she drags Jen into the elevator with her.

“Seems to be working on you,” Jen says into Natasha’s hair. The doors are barely closed before she has greedy hands back on the diminutive spy, kissing her in a way that has to communicate her intentions. Natasha folds into it like it’s all she’s wanted all night. Jen was right, the best bit is definitely going to be the very private after-party.

“Maybe,” Natasha whispers, breathless and perfect.  “Maybe I just need help getting out of all this kevlar.”


She does need a hand getting out of the kevlar, and the sequins, and, dear God, her skin looks like cream under Jen’s strong green hands.

Natasha helps Jen with her dress too. She turns and slips, spider quick, under one of Jen’s arms then she’s undoing the zip of the copper dress at an agonisingly slow pace. She drops a feather light kiss on each inch of exposed skin. When the zip is finally fully open, she presses the whole length of her slight form all the way along Jen’s exposed spine. She slides her warm little arms into the dress, wraps them around Jen’s waist - and Jen can feel that enhanced strength now. Not as enhanced as her own but that dense high tensile muscle that means Jen probably won’t break her-

Jen gets distracted from that thought when Natasha licks a long wet line along her back that makes her shiver. Jen’s dress gets discarded too, a layer of golden lamé on top of Natasha’s blue sequins and kevlar. Natasha takes a moment to slip her appreciative hands down Jen’s sides, to graze her back, her waist, her hips, and her ass with a delicate exploring touch. Then she shimmies back forcing Jen to turn if she wants to keep watching her. Spoiler alert: she totally does.

Natasha cocks a coy smile as she reaches behind her and unhooks her bra, walking backwards to the huge bed the whole time. Jen is suddenly very aware of her gamma irradiated pulse. When Natasha winces though, she rushes forward.

“I’m all good Shulkie, though…”

Jen is pretty sure that speculative look also gets turned on supervillains, and nuclear devices that have been wired to civilian villages. She still doesn’t mind having it turned on her tonight though.

Natasha walks- no, stalks smoothly right back into Jen’s personal space and presses her warm almost naked body into the firm green planes of Jen’s. She gets her hands dug into Jen’s hair, pulls both sai out and throws them behind her with a casual flick of her wrist - they bury themselves in the foam padding of an open sniper’s kit.  God, perfect aim and that body, Jen is quite possibly the luckiest superhero in the city right now. Wow.

Once Jen’s hair is pulled free of it’s styling, Natasha uses it to drag her down into a passionate full body kiss. Natasha, being the super spy she is, manages to unhook Jen’s longline bra without Jen even noticing.

“Wow,” Natasha breathes against green skin. Jen knows she’s beautiful, in her both her bodies, but her hulk form is something so inhuman , so other. It is always nice to have it appreciated for something other than violence. “Wow,” Natasha whispers again.

She glances up, catches Jen’s eye, and then she pretty much dives to Jen’s skin. She licks, she kisses, she bites. She captures one super-strong nipple between her teeth and isn’t afraid to really bite - it sends a shot of pure pleasure through Jen. Soon Natasha guides Jen backwards urging her to pick her up. Jen’s hands slide over pale slightly scarred limbs, then she grips Natasha’s thighs and lifts her, and she’s pretty sure she hears Natasha Romanov whimper as they press close and kiss hard. That sound, so sweet and needy, so feminine and open, that’s some kind of prize trophy.. Jen thinks she’ll drown in it.

Then they’re moving, back onto the bed. Jen lays Natasha out like the prize she is. Natasha allows it, just smiles up at Jen like she’s the one winning something. Jen breathes hot against Natasha’s skin, watches the shivered response and smiles. She runs both hands up Natasha’s thighs, warming them to her touch, feeling silk skin and the occasional line of scarring, firm muscle under velvet flesh. Then Jen can’t take it, she kisses into Natasha’s peachy skin and reaches up. She hovers a moment, hands so near yet not quite touching. She looks to Natasha for confirmation-

“Yes,” Natasha says, it would be snapped but she’s too breathless.  “Yes, chert poberi, da!”

Jen doesn’t recognise the Russian but she gets the idea and gets moving. She slides her palm across the already damp surface of Natasha’s Avengers grade panties. Jen is reminded again of how much hotter the practicality is. This isn’t some concocted fantasy version - this is the real Natasha that she gets to touch.

At Natasha’s urging, the panties are quickly discarded- oh god. She’s beautiful. Of course she is. She’s always beautiful. But like this… Jen prides herself on working with words. But this, wow. There are no words for the sight before her. She’s run out of words for how devastatingly hot this situation is.

Natasha smiles at her, perhaps she really is secretly psychic because she looks like she knows what’s going through Jen’s mind - and she approves. “C’mon Shulkie, you can do it,” Natasha says with that smirk. The one that reaches her eyes and doesn’t come out on missions. That smirk.

God, Jen has it bad. Hearing Natasha mock her in the sack really shouldn’t be hot. But it is. Damn it. She narrows her eyes and when Natasha is just smirking back at her she uses some of that hulk speed to slide forward sudden and smooth; licking all the way up Natasha’s thigh. Natasha uses Jen’s hair again, winds her hands into it and pulls her up and forward, urges and near commands her to action.

The first taste of Natasha’s skin is sweat sweet and musky good. Heady and human. But her reaction is even better. When Jen’s tongue finally finds the silky nub of her clit - the way she squirms into it, the way her fingers tangle and pull. It is all so forcefully erotic.

Jen slides her tongue over hot skin, brings it back to Natasha’s swollen and eager slit then drags it away again, in a heated tease. Finally, only when she has the Black Widow spread out before her and almost begging for more, only then does she apply any real pressure. Uses the tip of her strong tongue to press in and taste in long, firm, slow swirls of deadly action. It stirs everything inside Jen in return. She moves her hand from Natasha’s warm thigh and slides one finger softly into her instead. Velvet labia give way to ridged and swollen texture, all wet heat and twitching muscle. Jen is guided on by the occasional incomprehensible demand or order - all given in breathless Russian.

The soft whimpers Natasha is making give way to deeper, needier sounds. Demanding and edging ever closer to that final line of bliss. Jen pushes, kisses, and lickes her right up to it. She exalts in it when Natasha comes, she feels it. First the ripple of muscle, the bitten of whimper. Then the tight clenching shudders as hot pleasure rushes through the other woman’s body. Natasha gasps out something else in Russian, something new.

Jen pushes herself further up the bed, drapes herself over Natasha’s recovering form. She wipes the back of her hand across her chin and savours the precious taste of flesh and lust on her tongue. When she decides Natasha is well enough recovered, about 5 more seconds because it is the best she can do, she leans in to kiss the spy. Natasha kisses her back, obviously enjoys her taste on Jen’s lips. Jen wants to roll them so Natasha is on top but she’s too aware of the ribs that Natasha herself insists on ignoring.

She slides one powerful thigh between Natasha’s instead. The Widow opens for her easily and eagerly. Jen shifts her weight, always aware of her ability to crush a lover as easily as an opponent. But Natasha isn’t having any of it. She kisses hard, demanding again, and forces her own perfectly formed thigh up into Jen’s thus far mostly neglected vulva. The pressure makes her ache for more and she rolls her hips forward.

Jen gets quickly lost in the rolling friction, hot pressure of kiss and thrust and touch. Every time Natasha does that clever trick with her hips, Jen feels it hit her harder. Wave after sweet wave of tense heat washes through her. She thinks she actually sees stars a few times, pulsing pleasure sparking through her body. Skin so alive it would hurt to back away now. The whole time Natasha’s clever hands roam across the surface of her. Drawing even more pleasure from her already sensitive skin. Natasha knows just when to use her nails too. She scratches and digs, just right, edging that precious bliss with just the right border of pain. They move together now. Kiss, and arch, and roll, and so, so close… the first orgasm arrives like a tropical tide, warm, flowing and inevitable. She gasps into it and Natasha presses even harder against her, must read it in her. It isn’t an earth shattering kind of thing. It’s a relief, a gentle rolling heat under her skin that blossoms into tingling bliss as it builds. Natasha kisses her through it, kisses her into it, and keeps grinding against her. Eyes locked on Jen’s face as she comes. Then they’re kissing faster, even more desperate for a second, as Jen floats on the edge of that last wave of bliss. And Natasha must come a second time, her thighs clench and wrap right around Jen’s leg. Head thrown back with beautiful abandon but arms wrapped tight around Jen’s neck.

They kiss slower and closer for a long while, still moving together, but with less of that frantic purpose. Eventually Natasha drops her arms, and falls back heavily into the cushioned glory of the bed.

“Okay,” she says, pushing vainly at Jen’s chest. “Hydration, maybe room service - then round two in a bubble bath - what’cha think, Shulkie?”

Jen laughs, they’re still so close, pressed along the lines of each other, that she can see it reflected in the motions of Natasha’s body.

“Sure,” she says. “We’ll have you battle ready again in no time, Widow.”

“I don’t know. If this is the kind of care I get then I might have to just keep on getting broken ribs.” It’s said to the ceiling - but it’s a promise. Not a promise of anything in particular except maybe a conversation. But Jen is way too hot and bothered for that right now. So instead of talking she kisses the Black Widow quiet.

It takes them another hour to get around to that bath.

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