It's you, it's you, it's all for you

Everything I do

I tell you all the time

Heaven is a place on earth with you.

- Video Games / Lana Del Rey


The frail glass of the champagne flute cracks as his grip tightens and he has to set it down on the table beside him before it shatters between his fingers.

Natasha's dancing with Banner and even though Clint knows she's his—his księżniczka—he can't help the flood of jealousy creeping through his veins and settling in the pit of his stomach. It's an unpleasant feeling, dark and sinister, and Clint wishes he could stop it because he knows he shouldn't feel it, but he does.

He watches as Bruce's hand slides just a tad too low, and he wants to scream when Natasha does nothing but turn her chin slightly to catch his eye. Hers have got that teasing glint, sparkling bright and mischievous. She's playing a game, he knows, making him jealous and trying to get him all riled up because she loves possessive sex with him almost as much as she loves him. Natasha does it pretty often, but it's always been with marks and something about the fact that this is Bruce bothers Clint. It's a mixture of that, the way his jealousy blurs his vision, and the look of adoration and something else on the man's face that causes Clint to leave the ballroom, the hinges of the door protesting loudly at his unnecessary roughness.


The sweet scent of cool cinnamon fills Clint's nostrils, almost impedes his other senses, and he can tell it's her immediately because he knows her smell, her taste, her feel. And, of course she's found him wandering in a second floor corridor because the spider always knows where her hawk is.

She's got his back pressed against the wall before he can grab her, his arms pinned to his sides, and he could easily break out of the hold, but he decides against it, resting the back of his head on the wall and sighing.

"Leaving already?" She purs in his ear. Her scent is overwhelming.

He can feel her soft, wet tongue as she traces the shell of his ear with its tip, waiting for his response, but he's had enough practice now that he's able to suppress the shiver that follows and he responds in a dull voice.

"I got bored."

Natasha pulls back to look him in the eye, the glint in hers still present and her bright red lips curl slightly at the corners.

"Were you jealous?" She simpers, her eyes blinking innocently.

He's uncertain, his silence too long, and the sparkle disappears and her mouth turns down in a frown, her eyebrows furrowing.

"Clint..." Her voice is gentle.

"Natasha, I—"

"Stop," she whispers as she places her mouth on his in a gentle, almost chaste kiss, yet it's still filled with passion and Clint will never get sick of kissing Natasha.

"You know I love you, right?" She murmurs against his lips, their noses brushing.

He hesitates, closes his eyes and takes a breath through his nose, and then another, but he's having some trouble because his chest feels heavy and it's like the oxygen isn't making it to his lungs.

"Yes," he tries.

Natasha's silky palms come up to caress his face and he opens his eyes to meet hers; it's like coming up for air.

"Yes," Clint repeats, more confidently this time.

"I'm sorry," she says.

"I didn't realize dancing with Banner would upset you so much, but you should have more faith in me." She kisses his forehead, his eyelids, his cheeks, his nose, his jawline between each word, every kiss an apology.

Clint can hear faint traces of hurt in her voice and he feels like an asshole when she presses her lips to his again in a searing kiss, all of her feelings conveyed in one touch.

He breaks away, resting his forehead against hers.

"No, I'm sorry I'm being an insecure prick."

Natasha laughs and the sound makes Clint's heart soar.

"Don't be."

She's purring again.

"Let me make it up to you."

Before kissing him again, she hitches her leg around his waist, their bodies melding together, and she presses his hand to the inside of her left thigh.

He runs his calloused fingertips of her velvety skin and revels in the tremble that reverberates through Natasha as he caresses her. Clint can feel the faint lines of the letters scrawled across her flesh and he gets dizzy as blood rushes to his cock.

Natasha presses her pelvis into his sending waves of pleasure through them both, and Clint can feel the way her lips curve against his neck when he groans.

"Your księżniczka," she whispers, her breath hot and moist on his neck.

Her hands travel down the front of his suit and she marvels at how well it fits his build, the way wet cloth clings.

The tips of her fingers are gentle as they hook into the waistband of his trousers and they're suddenly around his knees with Natasha on hers, smirking up at him, one brow arched.

"No underwear—really?"

The light dances in her eyes.

Clint's voice is low, rumbling through his chest when he replies, "Didn't think they'd be of much use."

She rewards him with her mouth, taking him in until she can feel him at the back of her throat and then she swallows and Clint sees stars.

She begins to hum as she travels back up his shaft, her tongue dancing around him, caressing him.

Clint's trying not to make any noise but he's always been vocal when it comes to Natasha and he shouts her name when she flicks her tongue against his tip.

He's got one hand clenched in a fist, the fingernails digging into his palm to keep himself sane and the other is lost in her hair, fingers massaging her scalp encouragingly. It feels as if he's being devoured and he wouldn't have it any other way.

The pressure in his spine is building and his thighs are beginning to tremble as he tries to keep upright, but it's difficult when Natasha does that with her tongue.

Clint can feel his balls tightening and he lets out a desperate warning, his words a gasp.

"Tasha."

She pulls away suddenly, a large grin plastered across her face. She's got his cock in her hand and she's stroking it slowly.

"Dance with me."

It's her only request.

"Tasha," he whines, and he's met with another raised eyebrow.

"You know I don't dance."

He's always the one watching her dance and he's content with that.

"Please."

He stares down at her as she kneels on the floor, her lips swollen and red, her cheeks flushed, and her hand still working his cock. His księżniczka.

He sighs.

"One dance."

The grin turns into a smile, a genuine one filled with so much joy that Clint would never say no again if it meant so much to Natasha. It's not as if he hasn't seen that smile before, but he adds it to his list of things that make Natasha happy because this is what he lives for.


There are more people in the ballroom when they return and they try to be conspicuous, but Natasha's hair is disheveled and Clint can't stop smirking every time he sees her knees.

Splotches of purple and blue are blooming across her porcelain skin and he can't help but be joyful at the looks she keeps getting, and maybe just a bit possessive. He can see the leers of some of the other SHIELD agents, and he wraps his arm around her shoulders, marking his territory.

They're a force to reckon with, the perfect duo. The spider and the hawk. And when Natasha does as he does, wrapping her arm around his waist with a certain glint in her eyes, people know not to approach them.

Natasha pretends not to notice Clint's constant fidgeting, the way he adjusts his trousers every few minutes to avoid gawking, but she can't help the feral grin that spreads across her face.

Their bodies sway together, a beautiful mixture of intimacy and grace. They're good together—no, great—and everyone in the room can see it.

Clint's breathing is becoming labored and Natasha can feel him through their clothes, hard and burning, and desire courses through her veins, but she keeps herself in check and merely smiles into his collar.

The song the orchestra is playing creates a nostalgic feeling in Natasha, and at this moment in her life, she's the most content and satisfied she's ever been. And it's because of Clint.

She thinks, heaven is a place on earth with you.

Clint feels like home—is home—and she never wants to spend another second without him, so she tells him and it's them against the world.


As they exit the building, Natasha slips her hand into Clint's, their fingers interlocking, and Clint knows everything is right in the world.

They've got each other and they always will, and it feels like heaven.

Fin.


A/N: I apologize profusely for how long you all have been waiting for this to be completed, and the only excuse that I have is school-which, mind you, is a pretty darn good excuse, being a biology major! That aside, I've finally finished my first chaptered fic and I'm honestly incredibly satisfied with how it turned out. I'd just like to thank all of you for sticking around so long and for the support you've given me in writing and completing this story. Your reviews, follows, and favorites really do mean the world to me. I'd also like to thank Lettiebobettie from Tumblr who gave me permission to write this based on her Clintasha graphics. If you haven't yet, check out Lettie's graphics linked in Chapter 1!Again, thank you all so much.

Disclaimer: All characters belong to Marvel and credit also goes to Lettie for letting me write fics based on her illustrations.