Phil wasn’t gentle about the knots he made around her wrists. He knew she could easily get out of them, but the lighting was too good in the holding cell; they couldn’t afford to halfass it.
"You know, if I didn’t know any better, I’d think you were enjoying this," she accused, deadpan as she watched the door.
"Who says I’m not?" he retorted in that mild way of his, and even Natasha had to smile.
Natasha would have smirked — but for only having one eye, Fury saw an awful lot.
As it was, she and Clint had played this game multiple times, and he knew better than to provoke her. Keeping her attention trained on the report points being discussed, she trailed her hand up his thigh to match the hold he had on her — only she didn’t stop until her fingers tiptoed across his zipper.
Should he choose to keep going, he would be the one to break first. He always was.
Natasha’s eyes narrow, because she knows he knows this. He’s experienced it more than a few times, after all.
"I like being on top." Never one to beat around the bush, she spits it out. "Not metaphorically…" Because there are certain people she will always stay still for, "…but literally."
She thinks for a short moment, her lips twitching to one side a millimetre or two. “Is that a kink?” And then her nose wrinkles; it doesn’t matter. “It’s a preference, anyway.”
(n) amadan, Scots Gaelic
Send in ✉ for my character’s reaction to getting a sext from yours
[text to: Barton, Clint] Wrong number, hotshot.
[text to: Barton, Clint] Call. him.
Send in ❣ for my character suddenly being joined in the bathe by yours
[ A brow raises ]
There are other showers…
"And you’d be free to use them."
This one is her favourite, the most tactically positioned between the twin entrances to the locker rooms, and after a mission like the one she’d just been on, there’s much more to keep her eyes on than Maria’s subtle curves. Her own body is inconsequential, so it makes the most sense to share the stall — though the look on Maria’s face says she might not agree.
"So move over or leave." A pause. "And whatever you do, don’t get my guns wet on the way out."
still think the composition is a disaster, but it’s as done as it’s getting and i can ~let it go~ now
"Clint, they have not invented a word yet for how not in the mood I — oh.”
The SHIELD mess hall is the second to last place she ever would have expected to see Phil during daylight hours — he claims it interrupts his efficiency and usually packs a lunch, but she’s decided he’s probably got the least chance at getting food poisoning out of all of them because of it.
It’s also the very last place she would have expected to feel the subtle weight of his hand on her thigh.
She looks covertly around for a few moments, wondering if Skrulls have invaded, but she figures at least there’d be a memo or something if that were the case.
At any rate, the fact that she doesn’t stab him in the thigh with her fork is as good as permission.