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like the ceiling can't hold us

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The party is boring. The party is interminable. Natasha has circulated, been congratulated, now made her way to the wall, parked next to a high table, twirling her martini glass idly by the stem. She thinks boredly about all the things she could be doing right now, how she could best escape this room using only the tablecloth and the stiletto strapped to her thigh underneath her evening gown.

Well, not only. There's a candle and the glass, too. That makes it almost too easy to be fun.

Phil detaches himself from the crowd, coming to stand at the small table with her. "What's new?" Natasha says, setting down the martini glass.

"This party is intensely boring," Phil says, forcing a smile.

"Not new," she tells him.

"The late-breaking story is that another tell-all about Captain America and the USO girls is coming out," he says. "This one has orgies, I'm led to believe."

Natasha just rolls her eyes. "And what news is there about me?" she asks playfully, amused at the thought of what his answer will be, how this will turn out.

He delicately brushes a curl away from her ear, leaning close to speak softly into it. "I'm pretty sure they think the team passes you around like a joint."

Natasha hums. "A girl can dream."

Phil glances up, and Natasha doesn't move. His posture changes, his spine straightening. He looks now like he's giving her a threat assessment, that he's boring old Coulson, milquetoast secret agent, only special skill not giving a fuck. The only problem is the look on his face, the I've-got-your-number smile, the one that makes her want to tackle him to the floor and ride him hard. "Is that what you want, Natasha?" he says, in a perfectly level, perfectly reasonable voice. "Tell me, who haven't you fucked? Stark? I know he and Pepper like a third. Or a fourth."

She draws herself up to her full height, crossing her arms, adjusting her shawl. She sets her mouth in an unhappy line, but her eyes say something completely different. "Scheduling conflict."

"That's a damn shame," he says; now he's frowning, aping disapproval. "Though you do have to look out for reactor marks."

"Do you speak from experience, Phillip?" she says, letting her tongue roll over the syllables of his name.

"Could be, could be," he says noncommittally, which Natasha takes for the resounding 'yes' it is. "You don't have to tell me about Clint."

"Well, you were there for at least part of it," she says, letting her face grow more annoyed. "I hear you're the one to ask about the Hammer of the Gods, though."

"Well, they say it was forged in the heart of a dying star," Phil says, deadpan. "But if you're asking if Thor's a good lay, I have to say yes."

"When he's had that many centuries to learn, he better be," Natasha says.

"And with Banner AWOL, that leaves the Captain," he says. "And don't even tell me-"

"Mmm, twice," she says, almost breaking character as she replays the memory. "God bless America."

Phil swallows, barely perceptible. He leans forward, giving off his best I-will-end-you vibes, the illusion good enough that Natasha's pulse quickens. "I want to fuck you across this table right now."

"That is the only thing that would make this party bearable," she says, scowling, giving it right back. By now anyone watching this must be more than a little uncomfortable; Natasha's getting a little uncomfortable herself, but that has to do with the wetness between her thighs, the way it's making her panties cling.

"I get this impression that it wouldn't be enough for you," Phil says, at the height of his imaginary rage, his voice dropped into a low, dangerous tone. "I have this feeling that you'd be a lot happier if you were on your back for everybody. You just want everybody to line up one by one to fuck you. You won't be satisfied until you've had every one of us in your mouth and your pussy and your ass."

Natasha puts her hand flat on the table, leaning towards him, pure anger flashing in her eyes. "You forgot about Pepper."

"I was counting Pepper," he assures her, narrowing his eyes. "Trust me, you haven't seen that woman work a strap-on."

Natasha can feel someone walk up behind her, but Phil's expression says clearly who it is, even through his mask of anger. "Jesus, you guys," Clint says when he joins them, giving them both equally concerned, disapproving, utterly fake looks, putting a hand on Phil's chest like he's about to separate them before they can go for each other. "Get a room."

"Come with us," Natasha says, nostrils flaring.

"See you outside in twenty," he tells her, and Natasha walks away from them, playing out her false breaking point. Finally there's an end in sight, though they will be twenty incredibly long minutes. Then it will take ten more torturously slow ones for them to get back to the Tower, one hundred-eighty eternal seconds to call the elevator, take it to her floor, and get them into the bedroom. In thirty-four minutes she better have somebody's dick inside her, or this party has in no way been worth it.

She catches Phil's eye from across the room, and he nods at her, just once, taking a drink of scotch. She doesn't really think it's going to be a problem.