Pastries and Provocation
Clint Barton knew few things for certain. The most important of these things was that Natasha Romanoff, red head, Russian, and spy, was a tease.
A fill for the kink-bingo prompt "Food".
Thanks to Sarah and Jo for listening to me whine about this and giving me suggestions on how to proceed when the story, well, just wasn't. LOVE!
Enjoy! Feedback is love!
There were a few things Clint Barton knew for certain.
One, composite arrows maybe flew quicker and straighter, but he'd cut his teeth on wooden shafts, and, for him, nothing beat the old standard.
Two, Agent Phillip Coulson (Phil to his friends) was either a goddamned psychic or just really fucking good at reading people, but it didn't matter since the end result was the same. Once upon a time, he had tried to keep things from the senior agent, but the bastard had an unparalleled knack for seeing right through him, to the point that Clint might as well have just handed him a detailed list of his darkest secrets for all the good reticence did him.
Three, and this really was the most pressing issue, something he knew better than he knew anything else, a certainty in a lifetime of uncertainties, a surety amongst inconsistencies – his partner, Natasha Romanoff, red head, Russian, and spy, was a complete fucking tease.
Case in point: tonight he was stuck six floors up in an unfurnished, unheated, roach infested shit hole of an apartment while Natasha sat in the lap of luxury across the street, legs primly crossed as she waited to meet her contact.
It hadn't been much of a mission, just a mind-numbing surveillance detail punctuated by occasional nights like this one – nights which invariably resulted in him keeping one hand on his rifle and an eye on his partner, peering through a spotting scope and waiting to see if everything would go wrong.
He was good at it, waiting, had the ability to sit still for hours, springing into action in an instant if the op required it. The problem, however, was that this particular op didn't require it, didn't really require agents of their skill level to work it. It was a simple data gathering job, one that even the most junior agent could handle. Not for the first time, Clint wondered if this was somehow Coulson's way of paying them back for the shit storm that was Budapest.
Whatever their handler's intention, Clint had been holed up most of the afternoon waiting for Natasha to come onto the scene. Then, once she'd shown up in the over-decorated office reception room he'd been watching since the wee hours of the morning, he'd proceeded to wait even more while she cooled her heels on an expensively upholstered chair. The waiting had long since stretched into hours, and despite shedding his outer layer, it was sweltering in the tiny apartment, enough so that he felt a bead of sweat work its way slowly down his spine.
He sighed, then added another tally mark to his mental count; keeping track of said beads of sweat had been his sole source of entertainment as he sat on the unforgiving metal chair, peering down the scope poking between two slats in the blinds. Sure, he was as patient as the next sniper, but this much idleness would get to anyone.
And to think, when Fury first approached him all those years ago, he'd leapt at the chance to join SHIELD, excited for the opportunity to travel and do some good with his life. Spying, he'd discovered, like so many other jobs, sounded a hell of a lot sexier than the reality.
He'd just started another rousing round of "Count the Dead Flies in the Window Sill", when Natasha bent toward the bowl of fruit on the table next to her, giving him a perfect view down the top of her dress as she selected a pear. Suddenly, his day was far more interesting.
She bit into fruit with a wicked smile aimed in his direction, and there was no way in hell anyone consumed fruit that way, not even Natasha. His pants started to get uncomfortably tight as he watched her carefully demolish the yellowish green fruit, but he kept his eyes fixed on her, watching her bite into the ripe flesh, watching her cheeks hollow slightly as she sucked, watching the tip of her tongue flick out to lick the stray juice from her full lips . . .
She blinked once, slowly, deliberately, and he narrowed his eyes. All he could think about was holding her down and replacing her tongue with his own and Jesus fucking Christ, the little minx knew it.
"Behave," he muttered into the mike, even as he ground a hand against his crotch to relieve some of the mounting pressure. She just smirked and took another lascivious bite.
He was rescued only by something the secretary said that he didn't quite catch, and Natasha stood, dropping the core into the waste basket before stepping into the contact's office with a delicate sway of her hips.
The information they were after was easily gleaned in the first five minutes of their conversation. It didn't matter how often he saw her at work, Clint always marveled at how good she was at her job, how quickly and thoroughly she got what she wanted. Still, she stayed in the office for twenty minutes after that, going through the motions to conceal her true purpose. And even if he'd really like to get the hell out of this apartment, he loved listening to her work, loved the sound of her voice as she smoothly lied her ass off. It was art, pure and simple, and she was an artist of unparalleled skill.
When she came back through the office door and into his line of sight, he released a breath he hadn't realized he was holding. She'd hit him if he told her, but he always worried when she had to go behind closed doors on a mission, afraid that something might happen to her before he could get there. He fully recognized that it was stupid, but, well, emotions were stupid and he did his best to make sure they didn't interfere with his work. Clint liked to think he was at least marginally successful.
"Rendezvous in five," he said as he watched her leave the tiny office. Her acknowledgment carried over the radio, and then he was packing up his equipment, securing the case inside a nondescript duffle bag. Hanging the bag over one shoulder, he wiped down the window sill and chair for fingerprints, then headed out of the apartment.
It was blessedly temperate at street level as he walked toward the little coffee shop where he was to meet up with Natasha, and he already felt better as he cooled off in the light breeze, sweat evaporating from his body at last.
They'd scoped out the place together the night before, a tiny hole in the wall that served an inexplicably good Ethiopian roast, and he hoped she was in the mood to stick around for a bit because he needed some fucking caffeine after a day like he'd had.
He spotted her easily when he walked in, her red hair perfectly coiffed and sticking out amongst the hordes of blondes and brunettes. She couldn't have gotten here more than a few minutes before him, but she looked very much at home in the back corner of the room, sipping from a cup, and if he hadn't seen her leave the office building, he never would have believed that she hadn't been there for hours.
God, he fucking loved that woman. Maybe he'd even tell her that one day.
"Waiting for someone?" he asked, bobbing his head toward the second cup sitting on the table in front of her.
She smiled at him, just a quirk of her lips as she slid the cup across the table at him, but her eyes warmed up instantly, and she tracked his movements as he settled into the seat across from her. They wouldn't talk here, not about anything consequential, but it was nice to be in her physical presence after watching her from afar all day.
They didn't talk much at all, as it turned out, exchanging inanities about the weather, but the tension between them was palpable, and he knew that they were both a little keyed up from work - she from the thrill of infiltration, he from the excess of adrenaline that came with hyper vigilance. When he laughed a little too hard at one of her jokes, a glint appeared in Natasha's eye, and he nearly spit out his drink moments later when he felt one of her toes working its way up his leg.
"Nat?" he asked, wondering what the hell she was thinking, but then her foot found his crotch and he stopped caring. He leaned back heavily into his seat and spread his legs wider, the arousal that he'd stymied earlier flaring back to life instantly at her touch. Time stopped as everything narrowed down to the two of them, and he found himself unable to breathe, unable to even think clearly.
Natasha, on the other hand, calmly sipped at her coffee as if there was nothing amiss, the only sign that she was affected by any of it the very slight quickening to her breath and the barest hint of a flush on the apples of her cheeks.
He knew he was in trouble when she reached for the muffin sitting on the table between them.
She consumed the pastry bit by excruciating bit, picking it apart to crumbles even as her foot reduced him to the same. Somewhere in the back of this mind, he recognized that they were being astoundingly stupid right now, that they should at the very least take this elsewhere, but nothing short of imminent death was going to pry him out of his seat.
He couldn't tear his eyes from her as she brought piece after piece to her mouth, chewing slowly and sensually as only she could, licking her fingers obscenely after each bite. Her own beverage long since gone, she gently tugged his cup from between clenched fingers, and he hungrily watched the slow bob of her throat as she swallowed. He stared for a long, difficult second at the smear of pink lipstick remaining on the rim of his mug, and the smirk on her face told him that she knew precisely what he thought about that, what other things he imagined her lipstick staining.
A droplet of coffee remained on her lip, and she increased the pressure with her toes as her tongue darted out to catch the black liquid. Clint couldn't stop himself then, letting out a forceful grunt loud enough to be embarrassing, and he stood suddenly, grabbing his pack and her hand and veritably dragging her out the door.
The walk back to the hotel was silent and swifter than strictly necessary. Clint was sure that they were drawing stares, but that really didn't matter because she continued to tease him as they hurried, throwing heated glances over her shoulder and swaying her hips in front of him. He knew she liked it, knew she enjoyed the feeling of everyone around them knowing exactly what they were up to, knew that she was already dripping wet, and had they not made it to the hotel when they did, he'd very likely have dragged her off down a back alley to fuck her there, public decency laws be damned.
They made a beeline through the lobby and up the stairs, single minded in their haste, and he couldn't get her in the room quick enough, his hands reaching for her, desperate for her, but he only grasped air as she danced away, laughing as she raced ahead of him.
She let him catch up to her outside the door, let him crowd her space and nuzzle her neck while she distractedly dug through her handbag for the keycard, and when she finally produced the thin piece of plastic, he could have shouted for joy. Taking the card from her and shoving it into the lock, he barely had enough focus left in him to jerk her into the room and slam the door behind them before he was on her, panting from the exertion of resisting her.
"Jesus, Nat," he said, backing her up against the door and thrusting his pelvis against her, grinding his hardness into her. He bent down to press his lips against her forehead, a harried whisper erupting from his lips. "You're such a fucking tease."
She moaned a little, a choked noise in the back of her throat, and then she arched against him, trying to get closer even as he kissed her. He could taste the traces of coffee and sugar on her tongue, the last remnants still clinging to her lips, mixed all together with the flavor that belonged to her alone. He wanted to taste her everywhere, lathe his tongue over every inch of her body, breathe her in and consume her until there was nothing left of either of them.
She muttered something incoherent and rough into the air as he worked his tongue over her jaw line, back toward her ear, and he sucked the lobe gently into his mouth, scraping his teeth across the soft flesh as he released it. She stifled a surprised yelp when he ran his palm down her side, smacking the side of her ass lightly before pulling her leg up around his waist to draw her center closer to his.
"Dammit, Clint," she breathed, and her arm shot out to brace herself more firmly against the door, shifting the angle of her hips. She thrust her pelvis against him, and he curled one arm underneath her for support, easily falling into a rhythm. She met him stroke for stroke, grinding herself against his cock, and he swore he could feel her damp heat through all the layers of cloth that separated them.
He used his free hand to paw inexpertly at her breasts, and he'd feel like a teenager except she let out a particularly lurid string of curses at the action and shoved harder against him, encouraging him in the strange mixture of Russian and English she used when she lost control.
"I've wanted to fuck you all day," he muttered, rubbing himself more rapidly against her, increasing the pressure between them. "Ever since you picked up that damn piece of fruit, I haven't been able to think about anything except peeling off your clothes and getting my mouth on every inch of your body."
"Always thinking with your dick, Barton," she said, but he knew she wasn't complaining, wouldn't have wound him up if she didn't expect this reaction. Natasha always knew precisely what she was doing in every situation, and their sex life was no exception. She dropped her leg from his waist and reached up behind herself then, shifting forward awkwardly, and it took his hormone-addled brain a long moment to figure out that she was trying to work the zipper on her dress.
"Let me," he said, spinning her around in his arms, and he carefully tugged the zipper down, drawing the tip of his finger down the line of her spine as he stripped her. He'd just exposed the upper cleft of her ass when she turned back around, dark lust in her eyes, and she stepped out of her dress, leaving it in a puddle at their feet. He closed the gap between them, unable to stay away, pushing her harder against the door and running his fingertips up her arms, delighting in her shivers.
"I want you," she said, meeting his eyes, and though the sentiment was obvious from the way she'd been reacting all along, he grew impossibly harder to hear her say it aloud. He kissed her, lips meeting lips, tongue battling with hers for some non-existent control, and he eased the straps of her bra off her shoulders, desperate to get closer, to remove every barrier that kept him away from her body.
He slid his hands back up her shoulders, then brushed along the planes of her neck, the hollow of her throat as he worked downward, firmly palming both satin-clad breasts before tucking his fingers over the upper edge of the lacy contraption. With one sure tug, her breasts spilled out over the garment, and he was drawn in like a moth to a flame, lapping at her stiffened peaks and sucking one pebbled nipple in her mouth.
"Fuck, yes," she hissed, drawing out the syllables and pressing her palm against the wall behind her. Her other hand snaked around his head, and she threaded her fingers through his hair to hold him close. He bit down lightly then, eliciting a throaty giggle from his partner, and with one eye cracked open, he watched the flush across her chest deepen.
Releasing her nipple with a pop, he asked "Liked that, did you?"
She was biting her lip and nodding mindlessly when he looked up at her, her head rolling against the door, and fuck, she was beautiful like this. He drew his hand from her hip over to her center, dragging two fingers down into her panties and along her slit to dip them inside her slick heat, gratified at the further proof that she was just as turned on as he was.
"You're so fucking wet, Nat," he groaned, resting his forehead in the crook of her neck. He pumped his hand in and out of her experimentally, feeling a surge of pride that he'd brought her to a state like this, that he'd driven her this far to distraction. Her hands fluttered down to his waist then, and she made an impatient noise as she tugged open his belt and undid the fastenings on his pants.
"Now," she commanded, heated and yearning, and he didn't need to be a genius to figure out that she wanted him inside of her as badly as he needed to be there. Removing his hand from her panties, he grabbed her firmly, both palms on her ass. Reading his intent, she leapt up, twining her legs around his waist and her arms around his neck. She pressed her lips to the sensitive spot just below his ear as he carried her further into the room, toward the bed, and when she bit down, he stumbled, nearly dropped her.
At last his shins hit up against the side of the bed, and with one carefully aimed toss, he threw her down and watched her bounce on the mattress, deriving a secret thrill that she let him do it. He started to climb in after her, determined to get his mouth back on her, but she'd reclaimed some of her usual wherewithal and curved an eyebrow at him, reminding him silently to remove his clothes and his boots before he went any further.
As he stripped out of his own garments, she peeled the remainder of hers off, tossing everything away haphazardly. She flicked her panties at him, striking him on the chest, and without thinking he buried his nose in the damp material, breathing her in. It took more willpower than he'd be willing to admit to keep himself upright, to stop himself from reaching down and jerking himself to completion right then and there, but then she made an impatient noise in his direction, and he tossed the scrap of lace down to join his shirt on the floor.
He was struggling with his boots when she propped herself up on the pillows to watch him, and his throat dried out when one slim, manicured hand reached down to stroke between her legs. She grabbed her breast and worried her nipple, eyes firmly fastened on his torso, his arms, and when his pants dropped, she turned her heated gaze to his erect cock.
"You're so fucking gorgeous, Clint," she said, then licked her lips and increased the pace of her fingers between her legs.
He had every intention of drawing this out, licking the length of her body, starting with her toes and working his way up around her knees, then further still to her sensitive inner thighs. Earlier today, he'd fantasized about running his tongue along the crease of her hip, tasting the sweat that pooled there. He'd wanted to bury his face between her thighs, glut on her saltiness, cover his face in her scent, and suck on her clit until she flew apart underneath him, cursing his name. And after that, when she was sated and pliant beneath him, he'd wanted to work his way further still, pausing over her belly and her ribs, nibbling at her tits until her arousal grew again and she writhed against him, begging for more. He'd wanted to enter her slowly, thrusting in and out of her at a leisurely pace until she came over and over, again and again.
But then she moaned, a perfectly filthy noise that echoed in his ears, a noise that promised pleasure and bliss and exquisite release, and when he managed to look up at her face, he saw a familiar grimace plastered all over her features, her face misshaped with arousal, and then he was on top of her without any conscious thought.
He quickly reconciled himself to the abandonment of his goals because she wrapped her legs back around his waist and tugged him down onto her and oh, wasn't this better anyway? All of his good intentions were thrown to the wind, and he thrust inside her in one smooth stroke, his eyes rolling back into his head at the glorious feeling of her tight pussy fluttering faintly around him.
Natasha cried out, stretching to accommodate him, and she reached up to grab his ears, pulling his face down until it melded into hers, his forehead resting against hers. Their breath mingled in the narrow space between them, and he touched one hand to her face lightly before sliding his thumb into her mouth, the pad of which she sucked and nibbled as they rocked together.
The combination of her mouth on his thumb and the feeling of her wet heat around him had him closer to the edge than he'd expected. She was just so damn hot and tight, and he'd been thinking about this all fucking day, and, son of a bitch, if he wanted this to last more than the next five seconds, he was going to have to think of paperwork or filing cabinets or pet rocks or something, anything that wasn't the way her teeth scraped the edges of his thumb or the press of her legs around his waist.
He was just starting to gain some control over his body, had just started to relax into the exquisite purgatory when she gasped, sharp and heavy, and releasing his thumb, she dragged in one large gulp of air before catching her breath up in her lungs. She was obviously close now, face contorted further as she hovered on the cusp of orgasm, and he eased a hand down between them to stimulate her further. She flung her head back at the increased sensation, and then she arched against him with a wordless cry, finding her release, her breath shuddering out even as she exploded, her walls contracting tightly around him over and over again, clenching his dick so tightly he worried for his circulation.
And maybe he'd spent too much time thinking about file folders because suddenly he wasn't ready to come anymore, ready instead to ride her longer, and he hoped and prayed that she was in the mood for the same. When her trembling subsided, he thrust once, then again, testing the waters, and he felt warm desire pool in his belly at her encouraging moan.
"Yes, please," she murmured, the phrase coming out like a plea as she raked her nails across his shoulders, and he felt his flesh gave way where he would sport the marks of this encounter later.
Though he'd been content at first to simply slide in and out of her, enjoying the extra moisture she'd released when she came, it wasn't enough now, and she must have been feeling the same because she twisted underneath him, drew away from him to turn over on all fours. She peered over her shoulder at him as she came up on her hands and knees, and he knelt behind her, running his hands over her back and neck before turning his attention lower.
He spread his hands across the smooth plane of her ass, used his thumbs to spread her cheeks apart, and then, keenly reminded of his earlier fantasies, he leaned in to put his mouth on her, slipping his tongue inside her pussy and feasting himself on her the way he'd been dreaming about. She became a senseless wreck before him as he worked his tongue back and forth, up and down along her slit, a wordless whimper ripping its way out of her throat, and he felt her drop down to her elbows to rest her head on the mattress.
He lifted his face away from her slightly, his eyes greedily taking the sight of her spread open in front of him. "I want to feel you come on my tongue," he said, then smacked her firmly on the thick of her ass. He chuckled when she yelped and bucked back against his hand, and he took the opportunity to dive back in, eating her out with gusto, licking and sucking her noisily.
She was hot against his face, her hips starting to shake when he pressed one thumb to her clit, and a new rush of fluid gushed out of her and down his chin, soaking him. He knew she was close again, knew he could drive her over the edge with a few more carefully placed strokes, and nothing was more important than fulfilling that goal. He leaned into her, humming a tune without lyrics against her clit, stroking her with his fingers, and brushing his nose against her opening. She was moaning his name as he worked her, getting closer by the minute, and then he swept one long finger across her anus, crooked the tip inside of her, and she was coming, pulsing uncontrollably against his face.
He didn't let up this time, didn't wait for her to come back down, just straightened up and inched closer to her. Leveraging his hands against her hips, he thrust himself in all the way up to the hilt, bottoming out inside of her.
She shouted, half-pain, half-pleasure, and he would stop except he recognized that noise, knew what it meant, knew that he could ride her hard now, could pound into her with all of his strength and she would meet him halfway. He could feel the last tremors from her orgasm pulse around his cock, and as he stroked her body, he could tell from her responses that he could wring another one from her yet. Desperate to catch up and fall over the edge with her, he wrapped his arms around her, pulling her torso upward until her back was nearly straight. She relaxed into his embrace, let him walk them forward until he could brace one hand against the headboard, and she hummed appreciatively as he pinched her nipples with the other hand, rolling the sensitive buds between his fingers.
He closed his eyes, dropping his mouth down the crook of her neck, biting her, sucking her, and he knew it would leave a mark, but then, so did she, and if she wasn't going to stop him, then he saw no reason to pull away. He could feel her start to seize up in his arms, a strangled sob erupting from her throat, so he concentrated on the weight of her breasts in his hand, the heated clench of her pussy, and when she came harder than before, he was right at her heels, coming apart inside of her, shattering and shouting, adding his voice to hers, and god, he fucking loved being with her like this.
They collapsed down onto their sides on the bed, boneless and carefree, and maybe they should be heading to the shower to clean up, but it was just really nice to lay there beside Natasha without a care in the world.
He wasn't sure how long they lay there quietly curled together, but when they stirred, the sun was setting over the horizon, casting long shadows in the room. She was the first to move, pulling away from him and sitting up on the bed.
"So, I'm thinking I should eat pears more often," she said, breaking the silence with a thoughtful expression on her face.
He looked up her and chuckled. "I'm not sure my body can take that."
She rolled her eyes affectionately at him, then leapt neatly over his prone form to the floor. She reached out one hand and lightly slapped his thigh. "Come on, Barton," she said. "Let's shower."
He groaned, but he wasn't the type to turn down such an invitation, so got up and followed her, not bothering to resist the urge to grab her ass when he came up behind her as she bent to start the water.
She giggled, a real giggle, the kind of laughter he only got out of her after multiple orgasms, and an unexpectedly deep sense of contentment washed over him at the sound. He grinned back at her, letting the easy affection he felt for her roll over him and settle in his core, and he pulled her into the shower behind him, sliding the curtain shut and wrapping her into his embrace.
She leaned into him as they let the water wash over them, and she sighed a little into his neck.
"We need to call in," she said.
He nodded, realized she couldn't see him, then said, "Yeah, I know." He reached for the shampoo, squeezed a good sized dollop into his hand. "We've got a couple more hours before Coulson starts to worry, though."
She nuzzled his shoulder before she spoke again. "Maybe we can ask for a more exciting assignment this time."
He knew she had her doubts, same as him, about why they'd pulled this particular detail, but they were both very good at avoiding serious discussion whenever possible. Sometimes, it was the only way they stayed sane. So instead of talking about narrow escapes from death and handlers who knew them better than he should, he gently leaned her head back under the spray, then started to massage the shampoo into her hair.
"Oh," he said nonchalantly. "I think this assignment ended up being pretty exciting."
She snorted, but the effect was lost when she followed that up with another breathy sigh. "Oh, that's nice," she moaned, and dammit if he didn't feel the sound all the way in his toes.
"Stop that," he said huskily, tipping her head back to rinse the suds from her hair. She cracked an eyelid open, looked downward.
And then she smirked.
"I don't know if I should be aroused or flattered," she said, then smoothed her hand down his chest.
He slapped his hand over hers, halting her movements as her palm danced over his abdomen. "Don't start anything you aren't prepared to finish," he warned.
She raised an eyebrow at that, then grasped him without preamble with her other hand. She squeezed his cock, pumped him to attention, then leaned in and whispered, "I never do."
She dropped down to her knees on the porcelain and took him in her mouth in one smooth motion, cupping his balls in one hand and tugging gently. His arm shot out against the tile wall at the sensation, and a warm, tingling feeling washed through him, settling somewhere below his stomach. He wasn't sure if she could wring another orgasm out of him after the one he'd had earlier, but he was sure going to let her try.
His world collapsed to the feel of her lips around him, the tightness of her hand around the base of his cock, and when he looked down to see her at work, he found her staring right back up at him, watching him like he was watching her.
"Fuck, Nat," he cursed, trying to warn her. "I'm gonna come . . ."
If he'd expected her to pull away, he would have been wrong; she simply increased her pace, sucking harder and swirling her tongue around the head of his cock each time she pulled back. The tension that had been growing in the base of his spine snapped suddenly, and he came with a choked shout, whiting out a little around the edges of his vision.
When he returned to reality, she was standing back up and grinning brightly.
"C'mere," he said, and pulled her flush against him and kissed her, tasting himself on her lips and tongue, wrapping his arms around her and basking in her until she pulled away panting.
Smiling up at him, she said, "I wanted to do that all day."
He laughed, then leaned in to kiss her again.
Clint Barton knew a few things for certain.
He knew how to shoot, knew how to sit and watch and wait for the perfect shot to line itself up, knew when to take it, knew he wouldn't miss. More importantly, he knew when he shouldn't take the shot, when holding his fire was the better course of action.
He also knew Coulson had probably already left a message telling the two of them to stop with the "extracurriculars" and report in. More than likely, the senior agent already had a new assignment lined up for them, probably something "more exciting", as Natasha had hoped.
Most of all, though, Clint knew without a doubt that Natasha Romanoff, Russian, red head, and all around badass spy only tormented him because she knew he liked it, knew that it made their mutual release more satisfying. So despite all the crappy assignments they pulled, both the ones that left them in stitches and the ones that led to tears of boredom, he couldn't really complain.
Yeah, maybe it was a hard life, sure, but someone had to live it.