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“You need a better lock on this door,” Natasha says, and the only reason Phil hasn’t already grabbed his gun and shot her is that he’s learned to recognize the sound of her picking the lock. That first time was a fairly close call, though. They’re on the second floor, and she’s just come in through the balcony. Which is only accessible via trellis. He's pretty sure he doesn't need a better lock. He might need less insane friends, though.
He doesn’t bother to look up, “Don’t you ever just knock?”
It takes her about thirty seconds to cross the space from the balcony door to the open space he calls his office, thirty seconds he spends waiting, till she finally leans down to read over his shoulder. He shoos her away. It’s nothing interesting, and her clearance is technically higher than his, so it doesn’t particularly matter if she looks, but it drives him nuts to have someone read over his shoulder, and she always does it.
Natasha kisses him on the cheek, says, “You’ve been avoiding me.”
Phil ignores that, though he has, actually.
Natasha goes over to the fridge, rummages through the mayonnaise and pickles, last night’s leftovers, sighs disappointedly. She’s about to settle for a soda when she spots the cookies from Dean and Deluca. She glances over at Phil, snatches a cookie and starts looking through his cabinets for coffee.
“If you’re eating my cookies, I swear to god I will taze you.”
“Nnn mnn, wouldn’t dare,” Natasha says, sucking a bit of melted chocolate from her fingers, “Coffee?”
Phil turns to look at her, “Are you staying?” It’s already nine, and he’s not sure he wants to be up that late if she’s not.
Natasha shrugs, pulls down the larger espresso pot from its place in the cabinet, “Maybe.”
Just about the time Phil’s reached a stopping point, Natasha’s pouring Phil an americano. She hands him his mug and perches on the arm of the couch, watching him intensely as she sips her espresso. Natasha never studies him, not unless she already knows the answers to the questions she’s about to ask, and when she leads with, “Nice cufflinks,” he has a fairly good idea where the night’s headed.
Phil’s always intensely aware of his tells when he’s around Natasha, and he tries very hard not to glance over at the cufflinks on his desk. “I like them,” he says, and sips at his coffee.
“You’re a terrible liar,” Natasha says.
Phil laughs, “I know.”
“So,” she says, “Are you going to tell me?”
“What is there to tell? I’m completely out of my league.”
Natasha shrugs, “Obviously not, you’re there.”
“That doesn’t mean I have any idea what I’m doing.”
Natasha reaches out, strokes his cheek fondly, “It’s not all that complicated. Men aren’t much different than women, not really.”
Phil gives her a look, “And what makes you think I understand women?”
Natasha laughs. “Oh, Phil, you know more than you know.” She stands and slips between him and his computer, selects all the Gavin Friday albums and sets his music player to shuffle, turns the sound up so it’s just loud enough they’ll be able to hear it upstairs, and more importantly, so Phil’s elderly next-door neighbor will complain about the music instead of the moaning, “Come on.”
Phil leaves his coffee on his desk and follows her to the bedroom on the third floor, which is funny, because it’s his house, he should be leading the way, but Natasha’s spent quite a lot of time here over the last several months, and she takes the stairs two at a time, effortlessly.
By the time he’s cleared the stairs she’s already stripping off her shirt. He watches her for a moment, the way she moves has always fascinated him, and even when she’s half-tangled in her teeshirt she’s poised, graceful. She turns and looks at him, smiles, kicks off her boots and slowly, very slowly, unzips her jeans. What he did to deserve a friend like Natasha, he’s never going to know.
Natasha pounces him, and he realizes just how idiotic it is to think of her in those terms, but that’s what she does; she pounces. She springs at him and has him on his back on the bed before he’s even had a chance to think. Her hands are under his shirt, she’s grabbing at him and stroking and she knows exactly what to do to make him moan without even so much as unbuttoning his fly. He’s awfully glad they’re on the same side.
Phil pulls off his teeshirt, struggling a little with the cast on his hand, and normally he’s self-conscious about people seeing the scar where Loki ran him through, but it’s impossible to be self-conscious with someone who seemingly embodies lust like Natasha does, with someone who wants to touch every inch of him, no matter how imperfect or broken. She sets to that scar straightway, licking, biting, and he threads his fingers though her soft red curls, closes his eyes as she tongues at the ridges and hollows, bites in places where nerves have gone awry. He feels the weight of her teeth but not the scrape, the warmth of her mouth but not the wetness, and then she trails her tongue lightly along that ridge of oversensitive skin, feather light, and he shudders.
He slides his good hand beneath the waist of her jeans, strokes her back just above the rise of her ass, plays with the elastic of her g-string. Natasha makes a contented, purring noise, and whispers, “Tell me.”
Phil licks his lips, nuzzles at her hair, takes a deep breath and says, “I held him down. I beat him with his own gun and then I held him down and fucked him. Even if I broke my hand doing it, it was incredible.”
Natasha licks his neck, breathing a little more heavily, and Phil continues, “Tony was stroking him, and all I could think of, while we were taking him apart… Ohh,” Phil loses his train of thought, because Natasha’s just her slipped hand beneath the waist of his lounge pants, and she’s teasing at his hip, not quite touching his cock but the promise of it is there, and he loves Natasha’s slender, clever hands.
“You want him to fuck you, don’t you?” she says, and it’s not really a question. She traces a little circle over the last of that bruise, presses down hard. Phil licks his lips, nods, breathing through the sharp ache.
“You love how strong he is, love that he could break you without even trying,” she says, and Phil’s breathing heavier now, “You love it even more that he wouldn’t ever hurt you, not even if you begged for it,” and she squeezes hard, presses her body against his.
Phil grabs her, and Natasha never kisses him, so he goes straight for her throat, bites gently, as he presses his hardness against her hip, rubs himself against her. He traces his hand along her bra strap, wondering if she’ll let him touch her. He would be worked up enough without her talking, but the way she seems to almost read his mind, it does things to him, and he wants her hands on him, wants to hear her moan, wants anything, everything.
Natasha puts him on his back again, sits straddling him, slowly grinding her ass against his cock, and leans over so she can look through his bedside table. She grabs the lube, but she’s looking for something else, and she frowns when she doesn’t find it, says, “Where’s your first aid kit?”
The non-sequitur makes Phil pause, but he says, “Under the bathroom sink.”
Natasha slips off him, says, “Take your pants off.”
Phil wriggles out of his flannel pants, and suddenly feeling exposed, pulls back the blanket, settles beneath the sheet. Natasha’s back a few moments later, carrying rubber gloves and a washcloth, and Phil’s a little perplexed. She slips out of her jeans, slides under the sheet with him, and turns him so they’re spooning. She nuzzles his neck and presses close as she slides her hand down along his back, whispering, “It’s easy. Let me show you.”
Suddenly Phil understands what the gloves are for, and all the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. “I…”
“Shh,” she says, “I won’t hurt you, I promise. If you don’t like it, just tell me to stop.” She traces her hand along his hip and leans back, reaching for the things she’d set on the table, “You know me, Phil, and I know you. You’ve been wanting him since you laid eyes on him, and you’re never going to do it…” He feels her shift as she slips on a glove.
Words tend to desert Phil when he’s anxious, but with Natasha he tends to say things he wouldn’t admit to anyone else, probably because on some level, he knows there’s no keeping secrets from her, “He… He’d be so disappointed.”
“I won’t be,” she says, and he hears her flick open the cap on the lube, hears the wet slide of it as she slicks her fingers.
He goes completely still, buries his head in the pillow.
Natasha caresses him with her free hand, plants a little row of kisses along his shoulder and down his spine, “Relax.” She squeezes his ass and slides her fingers along his skin, teasing him with that wetness. It’s not entirely unpleasant, and Phil breathes again, though not very deeply. Her fingers are so slick, and the lube is starting to warm against his skin; just the light touch as she strokes at him, it feels surprisingly good. He presses his hips back against her wanting for her to rub with a bit more pressure, and she slips one finger inside.
His body goes immediately tense, his erection is suddenly failing him as he feels himself clenching down against her, and oh god, he doesn’t know what he’s doing at all. “I don’t think I can…”
“It’s alright.” Natasha kisses the back of his neck, whispering, “Breathe.”
Phil takes a deep breath, but that doesn’t really help.
Natasha doesn’t move her hand, but she reaches around with her free hand, trails her fingers down his chest, presses her body close against his. He can feel the lace of her bra against his back, her breath against his skin, and he’s expecting her to start telling him filthy stories, when instead she says, “Agent Natasha Romanov, SHIELD Avengers Division, report for August fifteenth.” Phil is suddenly not only uncomfortable, he’s completely bewildered, but Natasha is speaking just above a whisper, her lips brush against the back of his neck as she speaks, and he can’t help but listen, “Personal day. Nine twenty-seven AM, Trader Joe’s Union Square location. Reconnaissance and resupply. Supplies of mini peanut butter cups ran out two days ago, troops were becoming restless, Agent Barton drank the last of the Blackberry Crush this morning. Situation bordered on critical.”
Phil settles in against her, and he’s almost, not quite but almost, forgotten that she’s still got her finger up his ass. “Encountered heavy resistance, evasive action taken against a very determined old lady with a pushcart in order to secure caramel popcorn. Obtained the last of the strawberries without casualty. Proceeded to public library on scheduled data retrieval mission. Uneventful. Desired outcome achieved.” Phil’s not really listening to what she’s saying anymore, as it obviously isn’t important, but the sound of her voice is soothing, and he can feel himself starting to relax. She shifts a little, presses more skin against him, and when she slowly starts to move her hand, he shivers. “…therapeutic massage with Rodney at three fifteen PM.”
Natasha is still speaking, but she’s pushing deeper, pulling out further now, and even if his life depended on it, he probably wouldn’t be able to repeat what she’s just said. Something about getting to her massage, about a delay on the express at Grand Central, having to take the 6 instead. He drifts, listening to the individual sounds of her words, rolling vowels and sharp consonants. On some level he knows he’s hearing what she says, because when she breathes, “He’s got such strong hands,” suddenly Phil’s thinking about Steve again.
She slides her hand up his side, clutching at his shoulder, squeezing deep, kneading at the muscle, “He does, doesn’t he, such strong hands,” and Natasha’s got awfully strong hands too, soft and small but so strong. When she squeezes him, it’s not too much of a stretch to imagine Steve instead, “…and he’s so gentle, isn’t he. All that raw power, and nothing but the way he feels about you holding it back. It makes you melt when he touches you, doesn’t it.”
Phil exhales with a little whimpering noise, and Natasha slips another finger inside of him. He opens his eyes, breathes a deep, shuddering breath. If she’d teased at him, he would’ve tensed up again, but she’s fingering him slowly, stretching him now, sliding her fingertips occasionally against his prostate, making him shiver each time. He’s vaguely aware of a slight burn, but her gloves are so slick with lube that he’s more vexed by the sweat that’s rising on his legs, and he throws the sheet back, sighs at the sudden soft breeze. The air is still around them, but it’s momentarily refreshing, and Natasha thrusts her fingers deeper while he’s distracted. It takes his breath away.
Phil shifts his hips back against Natasha’s hand, “I want him to…” and even he can hear the desperate note to his voice, “I want…”
Natasha pushes at his shoulder, makes him lay on his stomach, and she slides up on top of him, “Do you want him to hold you down?” Phil gasps, goes a little tense, because he doesn’t really want to admit it, but Natasha reads him like a book even when he’s not being so obvious. She pushes his legs apart a bit with her thigh, not much, but enough to make him think of Steve settling between his legs, of Steve making him feel exposed and helpless. Natasha lines up her groin with her hand, starts rocking her hips like she’s fucking him, and she’s moving a little faster now, “He could have you, and there wouldn’t be a thing you could do about it.” She clutches at him, digging her fingers into his hip.
This isn’t the sort of thing Phil normally fantasizes about — all truth he’s a pretty boring lover — but something about Steve, about how strong and noble and good he is, it makes Phil hungry, desperate. The idea of Steve laying atop him, pressing him down, sweat slicking their skin, feeling Steve breathing heavy as he fucks him right into the mattress, it’s just so wrong it’s right. Phil moans.
Natasha slips her free hand beneath his hips, grips his cock tight, Phil thrusts into her hand, completely lost in his fantasy. She matches his rhythm as she fingers him, and when he starts to gasp against the pillow, starts to knot his fingers in the pillowcase, she slips a third finger into him. It hurts, but it’s also amazing to feel so full, so stretched. He turns his head and tries to muffle his moans in the pillow, but Natasha makes a pleased, desperate little sound like she’s about to come. She runs her fingertips over the head of his cock, squeezing just below, and he’s coming before he even realized he was close. She helps him ride it out, then goes still, letting him catch his breath before she slowly pulls her fingers out, slides her hand out from under him.
She kisses his shoulder, slips away. He hears her pull the glove off, knows she’s wiping her hands on the washcloth. Her breathing is deep and slow like she’s as satisfied as he is, and when he reaches out, trails his hand down her back, she shivers.
“Let me,” he says, but she shakes her head, “Not necessary.”
Natasha stands up and walks to the bathroom to wash her hands, comes back with a warm washcloth and wipes the lube from his ass. He turns over, lets her wash the semen from his stomach; he doesn’t know why she does what she does, but she seems to enjoy it, and he sure as hell loves it. She tosses the washcloth in the hamper, gives him a rather pragmatic look, seeing as she’s standing there in her lingerie, “You’re going to want to order more gloves.”
He blinks a few times, closes his mouth.
“They come in sizes, some are textured and feel a lot more like skin, get those. Un-powdered. Make sure you don’t buy the latex ones by mistake, either.” Phil nods, making a mental note, watches as Natasha goes and picks up her teeshirt from off the chair she dropped it in, somehow he enjoys watching her put on her clothing even more than taking it off, somehow it feels more intimate, more private. She shimmies into her jeans, sits down so she can pull on her boots, “You’ll want some dental dams, too.”
Phil swallows. He really is out of his depth and it’s amazing.