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“I need to see Director Fury.”
“Do you want me to wait for you?” Clint asked, like he always asked, even though the answer was always the same.
“No. I may be a while.”
Clint nodded, shrugging on his jacket. “Okay. See you when I see you, then.”
Natasha nodded, turning on her heel and heading down the corridor with carefully measured steps and a blank expression on her face. Fury would have been informed they were back, and would be waiting in his office, just as he always was.
Natasha was sometimes, in the course of her duties, required to do things she did not like.
The fighting didn't bother her all that much. She was a weapon, raised to injure and kill. The torture was similar, just a lower use of the same skills. She never felt all that bad about blood shed or lives shattered. No, the part that bothered her was when a mission required total subservience.
Sex was a concept with which she was familiar to the point of mind-numbing boredom, and sex in and of itself was nothing. When the mission required she pretend to be nothing but a frightened, broken toy, however, a slave with lowered eyes, a thing with which men could sate their perverted lusts...
That was hard even for her to take.
The agent seated at the desk looked up and opened her mouth, but the words died with nothing more than a raised hand.
“He's expecting me,” Natasha said, walking past without slowing, and it was only partially a lie. Fury knew she would come, but not when. Sometimes, like today, she came to him immediately. Sometimes she would wait days, just so he wouldn't be anticipating her.
The office door was unlocked; she opened it with no attempt at subtlety, stepping inside and making certain it was fully closed and locked before dashing the short distance to the desk and vaulting it.
Fury had been doing paperwork. He'd had time to set aside the pen and look up, but no more, and she tackled him and his chair to the floor, pinning him and setting the edge of her knife against his throat.
There was no fear in him, she could tell. He knew she wouldn't hurt him too badly. She wouldn't kill him, no matter who she was using him as a substitute for. He simply watched, passive and calm, waiting to see what she wanted from him today.
She slid, knife not wavering, and yanked him out of the fallen chair, shoving him facedown on the floor long enough to yank out the thick metal handcuffs he kept secured to the underside of the desk for her and snap them around his wrists, then flipped him onto his back.
He could have put up a fairly good fight. They both knew he could. He didn't, because she hadn't. She hadn't been allowed to, had been forced to accept what she could have avoided if she'd been given the option. He was as docile as she'd been, and it was equally as fake.
She sat on his stomach, panting slightly, and allowed her anger to show. She growled under her breath, face twisted with hatred for the men she'd like to do this to instead, and tossed the knife aside, using her bare hands to rip the front of his shirt open, exposing his chest, fingernails scraping across his skin. He hissed softly, shuddering, but stilled when she dug her nails in slightly.
“Do not move,” she ordered, voice low and rough as she slid down enough to undo his belt and slacks.
He didn't even nod. Natasha smiled at him, and she could feel how feral it was.
The slacks weren't in her way for long. He wasn't erect, but her hands were more than talented enough to correct that.
Stroking him to full hardness was purely mechanical, something for her right hand to do while her left shoved down her jeans and serviceable cotton underwear, and the act of forcing herself down the length of his dick was nothing more than subjugation on her part, making him as much a sex toy as she'd spent the last month pretending to be.
Fury held perfectly still save for a small involuntary twitch here and there. Natasha rode him as dispassionately as she would have done her taxes, if SHIELD didn't handle those things for her. Neither of them derived any real pleasure from this. They both orgasmed, yes, but the reaction was only physical, with no emotional input or gain.
Natasha slowed to a stop, panting, full of Fury's seed and a sense of balance that had been lacking until that moment.
After a minute or so of simply sitting there, she stood carefully, dripping fluids. They never used a condom; they were both tested at least once a month, and she wasn't fertile. The turnabout of leaving the mess on him was a part of this as well.
She adjusted her clothing, taking the time to wash her hands in the corner sink and retrieve her knife before returning to uncuff him. She didn't bring him the spare clothing she knew was waiting in the cupboard above the sink, didn't offer to clean him, didn't even help him to his feet. She simply stepped back around the desk and went to the door, unlocking it.
“Thank you, Director,” she said, slipping out of the office. Now that she'd visited, it would lock behind her, and Fury would have the time and solitude to make himself presentable again.
As for her, she could do with a bath and a hot meal, and then a week of sleep.
It was time to go home.