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Summary: He had that eerie feeling he was being watched, when his eyes opened he saw Natasha sitting on the bed, just staring. He reminded her of a cat, the way she sat so perfectly still, almost statuesque. But still, it was unnerving.

“Uh, hey, Tash. What’s up?”

“I want to try something.”

“Alright?”

“Do you trust me?” 

Rating: NC-17. There is fun sexy times at the end. and lots of general swearing.

Clintasha.

For the first week Natasha stayed rather distant and quiet, not that she was ever really talkative or affectionate before. This had a different air about it, nervous and tense. Every day it would seem to be a little easier for her to relax, but Clint still gave her space. He’d go out and sit on the edge of the cliff and watch the water churn and whittle away at pieces of driftwood collected from the front of the island. Or he’d go work out in the basement, or clean Natasha’s weapons. She spent a lot of time meditating in front of the huge window in her bedroom. Hardly a word was spoken that first week, but it was comfortable silence, a healing silence they both left at rest and didn’t try to scratch. He still heard her wake up screaming most nights and some mornings, but he stayed in his room.

After the tenth day Clint could take his walking cast off because of the S.H.I.E.L.D. advanced healing medicine. Natasha massaged the stiff joints of his ankle and foot and dragged him down to the basement to work on regaining strength in his leg instead of his already muscular arms. It was a big step for her. She’d hesitated at first with the personal contact, after taking off his cast she looked at his bare leg like it was the hardest thing she’d ever done.

“Tash, I can take my own damn cast off,” he’d prostested.

She replied curtly with, “Shut the fuck up, Clint.” Before taking a deep breath and working the ankle in soothing ways. By the time she was pulling him by his sleeve down the stairs, he could tell she was happy with herself. Her smile looked like that of a child showing a parent an all A report card, and he felt pretty proud of her if he was being honest.

That night she’d woken up screaming again, and this time he didn’t stay in his room. He knocked gently on her door, when she opened it he took in the perfectly ridiculous but beautiful sight of her bed head wildly curling this way and that around her tired face.

“Need some company?”

She just nodded and let him in. He sat on the bed and rubbed her back as she sat next to him and stared into the dark. Neither of them slept that night, they just sat in silence. She was unable to decide what to do next, and he was unable to leave her side for even a moment. At dawn she announced she was going for a run around the island. He didn’t point out to her that it was sleeting and well below freezing. He just had a hot shower ready when she returned, and some toast and tea on the table when she got out of the shower.

That night when he knocked on her door after the clockwork scream, she pulled back the covers for him and he crawled into the warm bed beside her. She reached out for his hand in the dark, and he gently rubbed his thumb over the back of her hand until she fell back to sleep.

Every night she would go to her room, and he to his, but when she awoke in terror he’d slip into her bed and hold her hand. One night when a storm raged outside and she’d woken up especially terrified, she snuggled up against him and asked him to hold her. So he did. They’d slept curled together before on missions where space wasn’t abundant, his arm around her, or his hand resting on her hip absently running his thumb on her skin to soothe. She’d trusted him then to not do anything stupid, and she trusted him again. Sometimes he’d press a gentle kiss on the back of her neck, or on her shoulder blade, and she’d smile into the darkness at the warmth and tenderness of it. Neither of them mentioned it though.

He relished any contact between them. There were moments when she was so effortless in her sexiness he thought he’d just die right there. He’d file away mental snap shots of these moments for later in the shower or when he excused himself for the night. The way she looked stretched out on the couch, focused on a book, absent mindedly eating berries. The way her hips seemed to have extra swing when she wore a long skirt. The way she looked after she got out of the shower, cheeks pink, hair mussed up, absent of makeup. The shape her lips made when she blew a stream of cool air at a steaming fork. He’d always appreciated her grace on the battle field and he’d seen all these things before, but he thought it was inhuman the way she just seemed to be so beautiful all the time.

By the middle of the fourth week, he’d whittled a chess set. He tied a bow out of string on it and waited for her to come up stairs after her workout. She made fun of his dinky bow and then proceeded to kick his ass when they played a game. Their meal times had become full of lively conversation and laughter. The night of the chess match she hummed while they did the dishes. He set down his rag and held out his hand to her, she looked at him skeptically.

“Come on, Nat, let’s dance!”

She laughed, “to what?”

An idea popped in his head and he rushed to the ipod dock and put on some old jazzy dance music.

“Now, Ms. Romanoff, shall we?” he winked at her.

She rolled her eyes dramatically, but her smile betrayed her true feelings as she took his hand. They’d both been trained to dance for under cover missions, but this wasn’t a ballroom, or a club. It was the living room of a cabin at the edge of Alaska. At first they danced like a couple of teenagers at their first school dance, his hands on her waist, and her arms around his neck, but bodies definitely apart, just kind of swaying to the music. A more upbeat song came on, and they both got into it. He twirled and dipped her. Their feet seemed to move in perfect step, she was laughing and he was smiling.

“It’s a good thing we both know how to dance!” he said as he spun her around.

“It would be so embarrassing if the king and queen saw us mess up,” she said gesturing dramatically to the chess board on the coffee table and dissolving into a fit of laughter.

“Those bishops are sure gossips, we’d never hear the end of it,” he chuckled.

They laughed until their stomachs hurt and their cheeks were sore from smiling. Dancing song after song. A slower song came on, and he pulled her close and they smiled at each other.

“We didn’t finish the dishes,” she said after a few steps. 

He didn’t say anything, just gave her a look that said. “Really, Natasha? Now?”

She laughed an apology and they danced in silence for a minute, letting their bodies glide around the room pressed together.

“You’re so beautiful, Nat.” he said without hesitation. A blush crept into her cheeks and she looked away. He laughed a little, “I’ve never in my life seen you bashful.”

“And if you tell anyone, I’ll hurt you.” she smiled as she said it, but he doubted she was lying. “But,” she continued after a moment, “Thank you. You’re looking pretty handsome yourself, I guess” she added sarcastically. He just smiled at her and she smiled back, there was a glint of something in her eye and before he could identify it her lips were pressed against his. Just as warm and soft as the way he remembered. He kissed back and he felt her tongue flick out to meet his lips, and he let her deepen the kiss. His hands anchored on her waist, and her arms curled around his neck holding them together. It was a long, lingering kiss and he savored every moment of it.

When she pulled away she reached down and grabbed his hand led him to the bedroom. She pulled him in front of her and pushed him back on the bed with a smile. She straddled his lap and kissed him deeply. His hands pulled her against him and hers combed through his short hair. She rocked her hips against him, and he moaned quietly into her kiss. She smiled into his mouth.

“You like that?”

“Do you even have to fucking ask?” he bit her lip gently and she pushed her hips into his lap, “Oh Jesus Christ, Natasha.” He kissed her hard. She laughed a low, sultry laugh. He fought the urge to flip her over and kiss down her body; he didn’t want to take the control out of her hands yet. Her hands pulled at his shirt and he ripped it off without hesitation. She began to kiss down his chest, fingers trailing in the wake of her lips. His hand threaded into her thick hair. She felt so good, and he just wanted her so badly he thought he was going to explode. Suddenly the warmth of her lips was gone and she was rolling off him, her brow furrowed. “Is something wrong?”

“I—no. Yes. I want to—but I do—can’t,” she sputtered uncouthfully.

He sighed, he was more than a little sexually frustrated and definitely turned on, but Clint Barton was a gentleman. “It’s alright, Tash.”

“Sorry.”

“Nothing to be sorry about,” He sat up and kissed her forehead, “but if you’ll excuse me, I definitely need a cold shower.”

“I can tell,” she winked, but there was still hesitation in her eyes. He gave her a wry smile and left to take care of himself.

It didn’t take him long once he stepped into the hot water, hand pumping firmly, images fresh in his mind of the Goddess in the other room, to come to completion, holding back a moan and instead breathing out her name.

He didn’t invite himself into her room that night; he knocked gently when he heard her awaken. A ritual they had begun bypassing weeks ago. She opened the door to him, and they slept curled together. He didn’t hold her hesitation against her, he was surprised she’d even let it go that far. He fell asleep, lost in the familiar scent and warmth of her.

He had that eerie feeling he was being watched, when his eyes opened he saw Natasha sitting on the bed, just staring. He reminded her of a cat, the way she sat so perfectly still, almost statuesque. But still, it was unnerving.

“Uh, hey, Tash. What’s up?”

“I want to try something.”

“Alright?” his mind was still hazed with sleep, he was in civilian mode, not mission mode.

She crawled over and placed a hand on his chest and kissed him deeply. He could get behind whatever plan this involved.  He brushed her hair behind her ear and she kissed down his jaw and gently nipped at the crook of his jaw under his ear. He let out a little growl and she giggled. She straddled him once again, her night dress pulled up over her thighs exposing miles and miles of deliciously smooth, strong leg.

“This is a gooood morning,” he said, running his hands over her legs and letting them hold her hips. She kissed across his bare shoulders and up his neck.

“Do you trust me?” her breath was hot on his ear.

He was a little taken back by the question, “Of course!”

“Okay, good.”

Her hands took his and she raised them above his head. Before he had time to comprehend, he felt the silky firmness of nylon cord being wrapped around his wrists, tying them to the bed post. He took the moment to enjoy the closeness of her. He placed a gentle kiss on her breast, reasoning that if they were in his face, he might as well take advantage of it.

“The Black Widow is tying me up. I can’t decide if I am incredibly turned on, or extremely scared of what happens next.”

She smiled; it was a smile that can only be described as naughty. Her hips slid down a little, the way her ass slid over his stiff cock made him moan. “It seems like the first option.” She kissed down his body, her hand slipped inside the waistband of his sweatpants, so tantalizingly, teasingly close. Instead her hand careened to his hip and she let her nails drag across them as she pulled his pants down. She slid them off one leg at a time. Clint felt like hating her for teasing for a brief second, but he knew she needed this. She had complete control over him.  She sat back on her heels between his legs, looking him up and down like a hungry lion does an antelope. She pulled her nightgown over her head, revealing the body he craved to touch and taste. The one he’d become so fond of holding. He could see all her scars in the clear morning light. Some delicate and thin, some deep and layered over old scars. The supple curves of her body looked more beautiful to him than any picture, sculpture, ad, or model he’d ever seen.

She took in all of his skin, the marks and scars of his battle hardened body. She liked the treasure trail of hair beneath his navel. The hard lines of his body melting into the delicious V of his hips. Those steely eyes giving the same look she knew he was giving her.

Suddenly she was pouncing on him, kissing him roughly as her hand reached between him and stroked him firmly. He struggled a bit against his bonds, but he knew he could never undo her knots. She shifted and her hand guided him into her wetness. Her head fell back and she bit her lip.

“Oh fuck, Tasha,” he breathed out raggedly as she began to move her hips in delicious figure eights. He wanted desperately to reach out and hold her. She ran her fingers through his hair and kissed him as she began to move up and down. He braced his legs and pushed back into her. She leaned back and he took in the sight of her body moving rhythmically against his. “You’re fucking perfect, you know that?”

“Hardly,” but she winked at him. She reached for something in the drawer next to him. “Do you trust me?” He saw she was holding a very sharp looking knife in her hands.

“Of course.”

She kissed him hard and he picked up the pace as much as he could from this position, it was steady but nowhere near what he wanted, “I need you.” he suddenly felt the ropes go slack and his arms fell behind his head and the knife clattered to the ground.

He looked in her eyes, “Do you trust me?”

She gave a small nod; there was no doubt in her eyes, “Yes.”

With that his hands took her waist and he rolled them over. Her legs instinctively went over his shoulders so he could thrust harder and deep and hit the right spot. Her hands gripped the sheets and she was breathing  was coming in pants. They were hurtling towards climaxing.

“Fuck, Clint. Oh, fuck!”

Her moans were driving him over the edge. He flipped her onto her hand and knees and he edge himself off the bed so he was standing on the floor. He pulled her body upright against his, one hand gripping her hip tightly, the other snaking up to twist and tweak a hard nipple. He kissed and nipped at her neck. Her hand held his head in place and the other was holding his hand to her hip.

“So close, Natasha,” he whispered in her ear. “You’re so fucking incredible,”

“Don’t stop,” she gasped. He thrust into her harder a couple more times before her body shook with a powerful orgasm, “Oh god, Clint!”

Somewhere between those perfect lips moaning his name while her body squeezed deliciously around him and her body turned to gelatin in his hands, he found himself moaning “Natasha,” into her ear and coming inside her. They rode out their orgasms and fell into the bed. Bodies shaking gently with aftershocks.  He looked at her, cheeks flush, still breathing heavily, smiling. “Good morning, beautiful.”

“Good morning, Clint.”

She kissed him gently, but it was heavy with emotion. Trust, need, desire, acceptance, happiness.

“What should we do today, darling?”

“I was thinking we’d spend the day in bed,” she smiled and her finger traced over a scar on his chest languidly.

“Perfect.”