Day 26 - Handjob/Sex with your ex - Black Widow

Patrick could tell something was off as soon as he saw the guard in the break room. None of his coworkers were 5’5” with an hourglass figure. Though Tucker did usually fill the requisite slot of the random white guy with an outrageously good ass; Tucker was also off tonight.

He approached the strange new guard much the same way he would have approached a thermonuclear bomb. Moving one foot slowly in front of the other, not shuffling soundlessly, as the lack of noise was as conspicuous as the stomping of boots or the clacking of heels. Instead trying to sound casual and purposeless, creeping toward the new guard with all the pretense of somebody not creeping. Patrick also didn’t get within actual arm’s reach before they moved like a blur, slamming an elbow into his ribcage and driving him down into the ground, gun pressed against his temple. It wasn’t necessarily that his life flashed before his eyes, it was more that he had a sudden and intense realization of the fact that one simple mistake had ended a long line of otherwise survivable decisions. He saw the way he had approached other situations in the past without being thrown down with a gun in his face. He saw the folly of his ways and how that had resulted in his current situation. And the result of that wasn’t a great, cosmic sense of regret. It wasn’t a soul-shaking compulsion to devote himself to a higher power should he be granted a second chance. It was the same kind of ‘oops’ that one produces when one spills their coffee.

As Patrick looked up through the angry eyes of his coffee-cup life, the non-guard looked down at him with her face slowly softening. The gun pulled back.

“Patrick,” She sighed, offering him a hand up.

“Natasha?” He returned curiously, letting her help him up. She had always been way stronger than her short, curvy silhouette suggested.

“Don’t take offense to this, but you’re not nearly high ranking enough for us to be having dramatic meetings like this.” Natasha slipped her gun into her holster. It wasn’t that she didn’t see him as a threat, it was more that she didn’t see him as a gun-level threat. At least not until he made himself one. “You’re on the wrong side of the fence. Only one out here too, by the look of it.”

“Aren’t you literally the one on the wrong side of a fence right now?” Patrick tried to puff out his chest and assert some dignity. “You’re lucky I’m the one who found you. I only do this patrol once a week.”

“No,” Natasha responded humorlessly. “You’re lucky I’m the one who is breaking in. Did you know there hasn’t been a single locked door between here and the perimeter?”

“Would a locked door have stopped you?” Patrick asked sheepishly.

“It would have slowed me.” Natasha gesticulated casually. “I’m not a lockpicker.”

“I’m not sure the disguise is doing much for you,” Patrick sat down. Natasha did too a second later, beside him and not across the table. “There aren’t any girls on the guard team. Let alone ones shaped… like that.”

“That’s a compliment, right?” Natasha performatively ran her hands down the normally unflattering guard uniform that Patrick and his coworkers were expected to wear.

“You look like somebody vacuum-sealed fatigues onto a cello.” Patrick deflected. “It’s distracting, but I’m not sure you’re fooling anybody.”

“That… is a compliment, right?” Natasha repeated with just an edge of malice, then sighed and leaned over onto him. “Why can’t you just tell me I’m pretty any more.”

“Okay, you’re pretty.” Patick let her lean. “Seriously, what are you doing here?”

“Work, what are you doing here?” She responded humorlessly.

“Work,” Patrick groaned. “Security contractors that worked for SHIELD got bought out, SHIELD wasn’t willing to pay us to go full-time. Now we guard what the new bosses tell us. For the new wages.”

“Would it make any difference if I told you that you’re working for the bad guys?” Natasha shifted slightly.

“I have to eat,” Patrick wrapped an arm around her shoulders. Natasha stiffened but allowed it. He didn’t need to hear any sounds, his mind could fill in her cocking triggers and priming devices as he let his guard down. “If what they’re doing is that bad, you’ll just go past anyway.”

“Hardly apocalyptic, just… bad stuff.” Natasha murmured.

“Worse than Blackrock?” Patrick put his feet up on the table of the guard room. “That was the other offer.”

“God no.” Natasha stuck out her tongue. “Though I am going to have to… knock you out.”

“Not literally, I hope.”

“Well, that was one of the options. I’ve also got a muscle relaxing pill or a sleeping dart.” She gestured to one of the pouches on her belt. “If you’re still bad with needles, I can slip the pill into your coffee.”

“Sounds great,” Patrick gestured toward the coffee maker. “I was just about to make a fresh pot.”

“Just drink it and lie down somewhere that you won’t hit your head on anything,” Natasha handed him a clear, oversized pill filled with brown granules the size of rice grains.

“Thanks,” Patrick pocketed it. “Wouldn’t want to get hurt by the spy incapacitating me.”

Natasha sighed and then leaned into him. He could feel the press of her chest and the softness of her cheek against his shoulder, but mostly what came back was the smell. The baby-powder and honey smell that, like certain songs and certain tastes, were forever now part of a memory. As irremovable from the nostalgia as the context and the thing itself.

“I miss you sometimes,” Natasha finally wrapped an arm around his chest too. “I’m not too big to say it.”

“Me too,” Patrick rubbed her back. “You ever wonder-”

“Don’t pick at the wound,” She stiffened. “In your head, you get to tell yourself that you would have gotten over the ‘no kids’ thing. In my head, I get to tell myself that some part of you would have always held it against me. Neither of us has to be wrong this way.”

“Have to wonder.” Patrick pushed back.

“Get to wonder,” Natasha countered just as readily. “Mutual can either mean nobody tried or nobody to blame.”

“You seem happy with it,” Patrick mumbled, more than a little petulantly.

“No, don’t pick.” Natasha nudged him.

“Can’t help picking,” He responded.

“Is the chance that you were right worth the risk that you were wrong?” She looked up at him.

A relationship showed you as many bad and ugly things about yourself as it did good and beautiful. Insecurities for every nicety you could give freely. Frustrations for every honesty. You thought that you weren’t insecure about following up Bruce Banner, but then you thought about the Hulk. The female James Bond fantasy was cool and exciting until you played out the movie. It ate at you. It could weaponize parts of thoughts that you didn’t realize existed. Shadowy, underwater-part-of-the-iceberg sized rottenness for every inch of healthy apple skin. And of course it could do the reverse, but most relationships failed. Then, like nobody remembered the quality of the meals on the Titanic, you fixated on the sinking.

Even the fact that she could walk away from it seemingly much easier than he had, the wrong eyes could find an ugliness in that. The fear wasn’t some juvenile sense that you’d been replaced, that she’d found a hotter guy with a bigger and better dick and looked at you like some failed experiment. A far realer, larger fear was that you were an old pair of shoes. Something useful, now worn out. Comforting but drained of utility or interest. That she had moved on not in a way which was cruel, but which was utilitarian.

The process of a relationship, in particular a failing one, was about ten percent active participation and ninety percent maladaptive daydream. This was also not limited to the romantic and interpersonal.

“You know, I don’t think you ever actually knocked me out while on mission before,” Patrick changed the subject.

“I didn’t?” Natasha looked at him queerly, “What about the Hydra thing?”

“They ziptied me in one of the break rooms,” Patrick shrugged. “They never said the name, but I always rejected the Hydra stuff because it seemed like… a Dungeons and Dragons group or a workplace polycule. Nobody would say what it was, they just wanted you to be involved in something that they always made seem pretty awful to actually be part of.”

“I could have sworn…” Natasha murmured.

“We aren’t on different sides of the fence that often,” Patrick started the pot of coffee. “Not ideologically, at least.”

“But professionally,” Natasha countered.

“Professionally, you usually told me to stay home on days where you were going to…” He gestured nonspecifically.

“You don’t think it’s too late for you to call in sick?” Natasha took a step toward him. “They make me pay for those pills, you know.”

“Way too late. We’re basically alone for a couple miles anyway,” Patrick sat back down, “Not like I’m going to be able to stop you from taking the money out of my wallet.”

“I would never,” Natasha sat down next to him. “Not yours, at least.”

“But somebody else’s?” He gave her a quizzical glance.

“Once upon a time,” She shrugged. “Once I learned that most of you guys were contracting, I stopped.”

“Eh,” Patrick shrugged back. “If they’re from one of those private military groups where the dickheads walk around with **** rifles and fake SWAT gear, I figure you’re in your rights.”

“Oh yeah, those guys are dicks,” Natasha seemed to be getting slightly impatient.

“Overpaid dicks,” Patrick couldn’t help looking at her as the coffee pot gurgled. “I feel about doing that work the same way you probably feel about corporate espionage.”

“Pat, not to give a political lecture, but most of what I’m doing is corporate espionage.” She gave him a softly chiding look.

“You know what I mean,” He grinned.

“Yeah, I do,” Natasha folded her arms. Her catsuit creaked under her uniform. “It’d be smarter… safer…”

“And you’d never be able to look yourself in the mirror,” Patrick finished for her.

“It’s not like what I’m doing now is without moral hangups, but at least I’ve never been asked to help bury the patents for a clean engine in some oil magnate’s vault.” Natasha had the kind of nervous, high-energy shiver that meant she was working herself back into form.

“And I’ll call a General ‘sir’, but I’m not doing it for some skinhead middle manager.” Patrick kicked his feet up on the desk and folded his hands behind his head.

Natasha gave him a complicated look. On the most basic level, there was an annoyance. Annoyed that he was the one working when she was working, which meant that the job was going to be slower and messier than it might have otherwise. She was incredibly fussy about work and work alone. But a layer down, she was clearly also glad to see him. Though not in any sort of romantic way, at least he didn’t think so. The brain’s reaction to a long-term partner - or ex-partner if the parting had been decent enough - was not one of arousal or excitement, but more the warm, recognized comfort of a nice chair, a well-worn pair of shoes, a vocal but relaxed elderly housecat.

He had misread her initially. Some relationships died once you reached the comfort stage, because some people needed the excitement - sexually or platonically. If your definition of love involved continual effort of pursuit or continual effort to impress, you were probably destined to be a monogamist - but a serial one. Perhaps it was on him for assuming that she was somebody he needed to impress. In retrospect, it seemed silly. Sometimes the people with hectic, exciting lives wanted the comfy chair. And if you could both agree on where the chair was supposed to be and what color to get the upholstery in, all of that could work. At a certain point your metaphor also became so muddled that you gave up on it.

The urge to pick up the pace and move at her speed - equal parts some lingering, misplaced sense of duty as well as basic common courtesy - was as strong as it was useless. They were both waiting on something, she was just waiting… faster… than he was.

“What are you actually here to do?” Patrick tried to make small talk.

“Have you seen the big crate in your warehouse? The one that’s mildly radioactive?” She gave him a **** grin.

“They didn’t tell me it was radioactive,” Patrick grumbled.

“You don’t spend a lot of time around it, do you?”

“No,” He sighed. “Probably more than my doctor would like, but it sucks in the warehouse anyway.”

“Well, the good news is that the radioactive component won’t be there for much longer,” Natasha kept glancing over at the coffee pot.

“You’ve got something safe to carry it in, right?” He kept looking at her.

“Yeah,” She glanced back at him, then looked away quickly when she met his gaze, “They wouldn’t have sent me out and asked me to carry it back in my pocket.”

“Well, mine didn’t even tell me it was radioactive,” Patrick shrugged.

“One of several reasons you’re on the wrong side of the fence, now.”

“Job sucks anyway,” Patrick finally got up and poured a cup of coffee as the machine finished working. “If they lay me off for getting knocked out, that’s probably best of both worlds. Gets me out and guarantees severance.”

“Is there a non-shitty guard duty job?” Natasha glanced at him impatiently.

“Less shitty, but nothing’s clean,” He popped the pill into his mouth and **** it down with a sip of too-hot coffee. “Least this way I don’t have to clean up.”

“You didn’t have to swallow that,” Natasha smirked. “You could have split it and poured it.”

“Yeah, but then it would have ruined my coffee.” Patrick took another sip.

“It’ll be cold by the time you can move again,” She gave him a look.

“Cold coffee is part of the job,” He shrugged, almost right away, he felt funny.

“Your eye is drooping,” Natasha immediately reached out and supported him, guiding him up out of his seat and laying him down on the floor. “You have a break room? Let me get a pillow and blanket for you.”

“Down the hall,” Patrick mumbled. He could already feel a deep, dull lethargy like he’d been missing his Vitamin D supplements.

Natasha disappeared and then came back a moment later. She had also ditched her guard uniform, walking around just in the skintight black suit and abundance of belts. Her boots thumped on the floor, and he couldn’t help but ogle her just a bit as she moved. The guard uniform was certainly less… flattering. Especially for a girl as blessed as Natasha.

“Right, here’s the plan,” She was doing something to her voice. Clearly she was in go-mode, but it sounded like she was trying to apply bedside manner in a tactical and efficient way. Kneeling down, she lifted his head slightly and shifted a pillow underneath it. Then tossed a blanket over him. “You said nobody else will be here until morning, right?”

“Shouldn’t be,” Patrick mumbled. It was getting much harder not to slur his words. Already his movements felt stiff.

“Well, so long as there aren’t any alarms to set off, won’t be. In that case, the pill and everything is just a precaution. It’ll probably even be out of your system before somebody gets in. In which case, this will all have been pointless.” She fidgeted with his blanket, seeming to hesitate and consider something for a moment, then leaned down and kissed his head performatively like she was tucking him in. “If I mess up and set something off, I’ll come in on my way out and take these away so you don’t look quite so pampered.”

“Probly shunt bather.” Patrick’s tongue felt swollen. “Get aht.”

“We’ll just cross that bridge when we get to it.” She gave him a pitying look, then stood up and walked out.

Over the next few minutes, Patrick could feel himself getting both stiffer and heavier at the same time. Description kinda failed, because it wasn’t so simple as going completely relaxed or completely rigid. It wasn’t like sleep paralysis, and it wasn’t like being absolutely shitfaced. More a sort of intoxicated fixation. Like getting so high he had frozen up in front of the tv with a bowl of popcorn on his lap but wasn’t eating it. Just instead of watching the pretty colors dance, he was looking up at a shitty fluorescent and a popcorn ceiling. He tried to close his eyes and fall asleep, but his body was still in at least some semblance of a panic state. For a while he just sort of…. Meditated. Sitting there with his eyes closed for long enough that the coffee pot’s automatic switch-off clicked noisily over his ringing ears. Then, finally, when something happened, it was the sound of approaching boots. Natasha, moving slowly enough that she didn’t sound like she was in any kind of hurry. And even before she had come back into the room, he could hear her sigh. He opened his eyes again, but couldn’t get them quite fully open. As she looked down at him and her ginger hair cascaded around her face, she gave him a look he couldn’t quite figure out.

“Well, this is embarrassing.” She finally said, sitting down on the floor next to him.

Patrick grunted back, it sounded wet and gurgling. He worried for a second he might be **** on his own spit, but with some effort he managed to swallow and clear his throat.

“They uh…” Natasha sighed and leaned back against the wall behind her. “I guess they moved it?”

He gave a long, annoyed grunt. After a second’s thought, he realized he had probably known and could have been more helpful. On his way in, Jeremy - the guy who did last night’s shift - had talked about trucks coming in and out. Even without knowing it was radioactive, none of the hired dicks liked being in the warehouse anyway. He hadn’t checked to see if it was still there - he assumed she would know better than him - but he might have warned her.

“Well, not like it never happens.” Natasha continued. “I checked the manifest to be sure and through the various codewords, I got a pretty good guess of where they moved it. Only question is if they got tipped off I was coming or if it’s just unlucky. Either way, this was all kind of a waste of time. Sorry.”

After a couple of different thoughts of how he might try to respond, Patrick settled on a noisy sigh. One that she mirrored a second later. Natasha scooted closer to him, leaning over his face and dabbing the blanket at his lips.

“Could be worse.” She added. “Do you need anything? Another pillow, another blanket? Blink twice for no and once for yes.”

Patrick blinked twice. He would have really liked another sip of coffee right about now, but he didn’t remotely trust his ability to get it down. After a second, Natasha lifted his head up off of the pillow and set it down in her lap, scooting back against the wall. She ran her fingers through his hair, stroking his cheek with her other hand.

“Well, could be worse. You’ve probably only got two or three more hours like this.” She closed her eyes and leaned her head back against the wall. “I don’t have an appointed pick-up time, I’m deep cover. That also means I’m going to need to find my own transportation cross-country to the new site, and if they knew I was coming they’ll probably just move it again and…”

Natasha trailed off and leaned down, cupping his cheek and tracing down his stubble to his chin with her fingernail. Even at an angle that shouldn’t have been flattering, she was still exceptionally good-looking. Her face had also completely shed the hard edge it had been wearing underneath her expression. Mentally, it seemed she was completely off-mission now, despite still technically being somewhere she was supposed to be shot on sight. Her cheeks were a little flush from the cold and her eyes mostly looked tired.

“Sorry, am I boring you?” She asked, only half-joking. “I know I only ever really talk about work.”

Patrick blinked twice, making sure to do it slowly and leave no ambiguity.

“That’s no, right?” Again she was joking but sounded like she had her doubts. “Not two yeses?”

He blinked once, making sure it was even more clear.

“Kiss-ass,” She pinched his nose teasingly and went back to stroking his hair. “I don’t know, I could **** you a little. What do the old guys in comics complain about their wives talking about? You want me to tell you about my bitchy coworkers?”

Flexing his shoulders as hard as he could, Patrick managed what was probably a half a shrug. With no other movement, it probably registered.

“Don’t do that,” She put a finger to his lips. “I’ve tried powering through it. It’s like sleeping on your shoulder wrong, you’re cramped up for days afterward.”

Patrick gave her what he hoped was an inquisitive grunt. She looked down confused, but seemed to put it together.

“Oh yeah, I’ve taken that same thing before.” She leaned back and went back to stroking his hair. “It’s not some altruistic thing where I won’t do something to others that I haven’t experienced myself, because I don’t intend to get shot - thank you very much. But I kinda wondered what it would be like to take the edge off. I’ve had surgery before, so the sleep dart wasn’t super appealing to me, but the pill seemed like it could be fun.”

Natasha reached into one of her pouches and pulled out a little plastic container.

“I’ve got more if you decide you like them,” He blinked twice, she shrugged. “I wasn’t crazy about them. Part of it was my fault, I didn’t plan well enough in advance and the episode I had put on ended, so I was stuck for like two hours on autoplay of stuff I wasn’t interested in. Maybe if you put on a series or something, or a long movie, it could be a fun high. But your neck does get sore if you have it tilted to one side the whole time.”

Putting the pills back in her pocket, Natasha gave him a slightly mischievous look and slipped an icy hand under the collar of his shirt.

“Sorry, it’s freezing out here,” She grinned as he made a noise of protest.

Her hand settled right into the center of his chest and caused a rash of goosebumps. A second later, she moved her hand over to the side and pushed the other one in too. Her cold, nimble fingers pinched his nipples. When they had designed Natasha, they hadn’t made her run warm. Inevitably, when in a relationship, you find out that your partner keeps their hands and feet in a freezer before heading to bed.

“I really gotta wear gloves,” She feigned a sigh as she turned her hands over under his shirt. “But since you insist on keeping this fur coat under your clothes-”

After he gave another noise of protest - or rather, another couple - Natasha finally withdrew her hands with a snicker.

“Sorry, one for old time’s sake.” She sighed dramatically. “I kinda wish we’d done this before. Having you like this is fun. Makes me feel strong, virile even.”

Patrick grumbled under his back in response and Natasha reached down to stroke his chest and stomach, over his shirt this time.

“Honestly, you’re having a way better time of it, having somebody around to take care of you for part of it.” Natasha patted his stomach. “Especially somebody who is as funny, charming, entertaining-”

He started blinking rapidly at her, and Natasha looked at him for a few seconds before squeezing his nose again.

“You know, it’s up to me to decide what that means. And I’m going to say it was you agreeing with me.” She drummed her fingers on his stomach. “You are helpless here, you realize?”

Patrick blinked twice at her. Honestly, just tempting fate at this point.

Natasha scowled, though her lips remained turned up slightly at the corners. She lifted her hand up from his stomach and reached over toward his crotch, grabbing a handful of sensitive bits and squeezing just hard enough to make him grunt loudly.

“I’m sorry, are you arguing?” She asked in faux indignation. “Saying you aren’t helpless doesn’t magically make you not helpless.”

Patrick grunted again and blinked twice. He could feel his body reacting to her hand, and she could certainly feel the stiffening that was happening.

“Is this seriously the game you’re playing?” Her voice lowered dangerously, but she was clearly having as much fun as he was - probably more.

He blinked once.

“Of course,” Natasha sat back and sighed, though her hand didn’t move from his crotch. Instead her grip released and started to alternate squeezing and loosening. He was getting hard a lot faster now, and considering how target-locked her fingers were, she was aware. “You know, one of the things that did make me think about trying them again was this kind of thing. I was single at the time, but the thought of somebody coming in and just… doing whatever they wanted to me? Have your boyfriend come in and play with you? Leave a vibrator between your legs?”

She gave a performative moan and pulled her legs out from under his head, setting it back down on the pillow. Natasha pushed herself under the blanket and glanced up from the darkness - eyes flashing, as her fingers found his zipper.

“No chance I’m getting out of and back into the suit for this, we’d barely have any time for the good stuff.” She said somewhat morosely. “But I can and absolutely will make a mess of your shirt for my own amusement.”

Her hands found his cock and pulled it up out of his pants, her hands still cold enough to be a slightly unpleasant sensation. But then Natasha flipped the blanket up over her head, hiding what she was doing for only a second before Patrick shuddered at the hot, wet feeling of her breath and her lips. Natasha moved with surprising speed and urgency. Perhaps she wasn’t sure how long his dose would last him, perhaps she was simply having that much fun. Either way, only a few seconds after her lips closed around the head of his cock, he felt them sliding down his shaft toward her hand.

Patrick groaned, feeling little twitches in his thighs and stomach that he couldn’t materialize into actual movements. Natasha wasn’t usually an on-top person, and he wasn’t usually paralyzed, so he wasn’t sure at first how he felt about not being able to touch her. Not being able to embrace or grope or control the pace of it. He certainly didn’t hate it. Natasha’s eager pace and her proficiency made him struggle to keep his breathing under control. His stomach rising and falling as his chest struggled to move. Looking mostly up at the ceiling, head tilted only partially down toward the moving mass under the blanket. She let out little noises of exertion as well as moans, both colliding with wet, messy sounds that provided almost as steady a background layer as the fluorescent hum.

He could feel her hand pumping furiously as her mouth and throat started to steadily do less of the work. Eventually, the warmth and wetness was gone entirely and only her strong, familiar grip remained. She wasn’t being especially gentle, in fact, she was more adjacent to beating it like it owed her money. But she was also very aware - and very careful - about the parts she could and couldn’t be rough with. She was operating almost entirely like a woman on a mission.

And then at the peak of it, she threw the blanket back, revealing her face again - flushed with effort. Her lips were slick and spitty, her hair a mess of static wet clingers-on. Her hand moved rapidly and then, as he let out another wet gurgle and shook all over, she kept pumping but with his cock aimed up at his own stomach.

Patrick’s eyes squeezed shut and the choked noises from his throat became high and ****. His cock throbbed in her hand and he felt his load landing hot and wet on his shirt. It jumped up to his chest as his rod became a white-hot ball of lightning, Natasha’s hand suddenly slowing dramatically and squeezing up like she was dragging every drop she could up out of him. When he opened his eyes again, shuddering, she was giving him another look he had trouble reading.

Natasha stood up, pulled out her phone, and snapped a picture of him.

“That was honestly more fun than I thought,” She murmured as she put her phone away. Reaching between her legs for a moment, she bit her lip and pulled her hand away like she’d burned it. “Really wish I’d worn the suit with the extra zippers right about now…”

Bending down, she slid him back into his pants and zipped him up. Looking at the clock again, she tied her hair back.

“You’ve only got a half hour left, tops.” She finally said, her voice professional again. “And the sooner I’m out of here, the better. You gonna be alright?”

Patrick blinked once in a daze.

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