A/N: Or Five Times Clint Didn't Suffer from Performance Issues and One Time He Did. Because I've been too lazy to work on my other fics. Please enjoy!
Disclaimer: Everything belongs to Marvel.
They'd just returned from an assignment in Cairo, one that had kept them busy and their hands to themselves. They hadn't had a chance to interact, really; Clint had been rushed to the infirmary due to several broken ribs and a sprained ankle immediately after extraction.
In the stuffy debriefing room four hours later, with no time to rest or shower, mind you, Natasha and Clint listened to Fury as he recalled everything they had done wrong.
As Clint was beginning to let Fury go fuzzy around the edges, his fingers drawing circles mindlessly across the cool surface of the table, he felt a foot nudge the side of his calf. The only other person in the room aside from Natasha and Fury was Coulson, and it sure wasn't him.
His eyes travelled slowly from the tabletop to Natasha, and while she wasn't looking at him, her foot continued to rub against his leg under the cover of the table.
Clint started to get nervous then, his left leg shaking a bit and his palms beginning to sweat. They hadn't been together since before landing in Cairo, and while he'd had his hand for company, that really wasn't saying anything.
A soft tapping jarred Clint from his thoughts and his eyes refocused on the redhead, only for him to realize that she'd picked up a pen off the table and was now playing with it in her hand. He knew he was in trouble when she brought the pen to her lips, running the back of it along her bottom one.
His eyes tracked the movement of the pen and the tip of his tongue darted out to moisten his lips. If he started to breathe a bit heavier, well, Clint would just say the room was getting too warm for his liking.
Fury was still speaking to them, although Clint thought it was more like speaking at them, and he really did try to make it look like he was still listening, but Jesus, the way Natasha was twirling her tongue around the cap of the pen leaving a glistening trail of saliva—Clint shifted uncomfortably in his seat and adjusted the pants of his tac suit.
The loud clearing of a throat caused Clint to jolt and he looked up to see Fury glaring at him, and who would've thought that one eye could be so menacing.
The eye narrowed as Fury asked, "I hope I'm not boring you, Agent Barton."
Clint gulped, slouching his body so that the steadily growing tent in his pants was hidden.
"No, sir," he replied evenly, even as Natasha ran her foot along the inside of his thigh.
Fury's brow rose, "Really? You seem restless. Should I make this more entertaining for you?"
The bandages around Clint's ribs were starting to feel too tight and he could feel a drop of sweat as it rolled down his cheek.
"No, sir," he said too quickly. "Sorry, sir."
All he wanted to do was throw Natasha on the table and fuck her, but his brain told him the other people in the room probably wouldn't appreciate that. Especially not Fury.
The director scowled, growling, "Get out of here, this debrief is over. I want your written report in three hours."
He left the room with his coat billowing and Coulson hot on his heels.
Clint's eyes slid shut in a mixture of frustration and relief. When he realized though, that the pressure of Natasha's foot was no longer present, his eyes shot open to see Natasha's hair whipping through the doorway and around a corner. He'd have to make due with a cold shower.
It was movie night at the Avenger's tower and everyone was settled into their proper places.
Thor was sprawled across one of the large bean bags, Steve and Bruce were laying on their stomachs in front of the television, Pepper and Tony occupied the couch, and Natasha and Clint sat squished together in the armchair.
It had been Thor's choice that night, and he'd chosen the Wizard of Oz; one he'd never seen but the rest had, Steve included.
Natasha always preferred the romantic comedies, something only Clint knew about her, and so he wasn't surprised when he felt her shift next to him, her arm brushing his. She'd grown bored by the time Dorothy's house was torn from the ground.
She motioned for him to sit against her shins and he complied, never one to turn down a back massage from Natasha. And anyways, the armchair was definitely large enough.
As he settled back against her legs, his eyes trained on the huge plasma screen before them, she trailed her palms up his arms to his shoulders, kneading into the flesh and the tense muscles underneath. She rubbed at his shoulders, using her thumbs to loosen the knots, and then started working at the space between his shoulder blades, a spot that always bothered him.
He expected her to be rough, as she always was. What he didn't expect was her hands sliding across his chest moments later, and her breath hot against his neck.
The shirt he was wearing didn't have a collar loose enough for her to shove her hands down it, something Clint would be forever grateful for, but when she instead plucked at his nipples through his shirt, he sucked in a harsh breath and tried not to jostle the chair too much.
He thanked every deity that the Avengers plus Pepper were so captivated by the movie, because explaining what Natasha was doing was the last thing he wanted to have to do, ever.
His attention returned to Natasha's ministrations when she trailed her fingers across his abdomen, her nails scratching roughly at the skin through his shirt. He felt the curve of her smile as his shiver reverberated through her shins.
Clint was hard pressed not to groan at the feeling of her running her tongue up the side of his neck, hot and wet, just like Natasha probably is right now. He told his brain to fuck off.
She chose that moment to latch onto his skin just under his left ear, a sensitive patch she'd found one night in Venice, at the same time, bringing a hand down to cup him through his sweatpants.
He was really glad she'd brought a blanket to cover them, but if he panted any louder, someone was bound to hear them.
Natasha's teeth scraped across his flesh, followed quickly by her tongue, soft and soothing. The sensation sent pleasure shooting down his spine and bursting out of every nerve in his body, and if that wasn't enough, she jerked him over his pants causing his hips to buck, the leather chair groaning under their weight.
Clint grabbed Natasha wrists, stopping her movements, and craned his neck to look at her. His gaze was met with a sultry smirk.
"I need to...get something," he murmured, blinking slowly, knowing she'd understand what he was suggesting.
He rose off the chair, holding the blanket in front of him to cover his erection, and looked at her expectantly.
She blinked at him.
"You know, I think I'm going to stay here and finish the movie." Her eyes were laughing.
Clint groaned and sulked out of the room.
Clint was beginning to get frustrated with Natasha, and while she wasn't leaving him completely in the lurch, waking him up with a blow job and joining him in the shower, he couldn't believe he kept letting her get away with teasing him. Although, had he sat down and thought about it, he'd let her get away with anything.
Love really fucking sucks, he thought.
She did it again, a week after the movie night incident, and while Clint griped about how unfair she was being, he wouldn't admit that he found it incredibly hot. He didn't fancy having blue balls all the time, though.
It was at a press conference the third time it happened, following a brief but messy battle with large, robot dogs that had torn the city of Boston to shreds.
Clint would be happy if he never had to see another Rottweiler again—metal or not.
He didn't know where she'd gotten it from, and still doesn't to be honest, but Natasha procured a lollipop from an unknown place seconds before the Avengers' press conference, and had he realized sooner, he would have hightailed it to the opposite side of the platform. Of course, as luck may have it, he was standing right next to her the whole fucking time.
Because Clint and Natasha were still a large part of SHIELD, traveling often between the tower and the helicarrier, they worked hard to keep their identities somewhat masked, although the Chitauri attack hadn't helped their efforts. They still tried.
Were it their choice, they wouldn't attend the conferences at all, but Fury liked to have them there just in case, of what neither knew, but this is why Clint found himself standing next to the Russian assassin, both dressed like the other SHIELD agents that were there to watch, and her eating a lollipop, although her motions resembled nothing of eating.
His attempts to focus on other things were futile, his eyes continuously drawn back to Natasha. And when he couldn't see what she was doing, he could definitely hear.
The click of her teeth against the hard candy and the way her lips sucked at it, pulling and twisting. The wet sounds of her tongue lapping at the sugar—they were drowning out the noises of the conference and Clint thought he was going to go crazy. They mixed with the loud pounding of blood through his ears.
He glanced at her again out of the corners of his eyes and he really didn't understand how no one else was noticing this. Tony Stark's tinted glasses couldn't be more captivating than the way the redhead was licking at the red sphere.
Natasha started to hum, a content sound, and suddenly Clint was back in the Avenger's tower, back against the glass wall of his shower and Natasha between his thighs, her knees impressed by tiled floor.
She had hummed something that sounded oddly like the chorus of Will You Still Love Me Tomorrow. Of course, he'd thought in response.
Brought back to the present by a snap of Natasha's fingers, Clint looked over at her again. Were it just them, he knew she'd be wearing a shit eating grin, but all he could see were her laughing eyes and her delicious lips, still rolling the lollipop around in her mouth.
Clint strategically clasped his hands together in front of him. He could just imagine Stark turning around, pointing at him and snarking, that man has a boner. He thought we wouldn't notice, but we did. The thought alone was enough to flush Clint's cheeks even more than they already were.
As Steve was beginning his part of the discussion, Natasha caught Clint's attention again, clearing her throat softly. She motioned towards the hallway when their eyes met and then flashed four fingers. When he nodded slowly, she turned and hopped off the stage, making her way to the exit without attracting any attention.
Exactly four minutes later, Clint was walking quickly down the hall headed towards the men's room. His eager smile was met with no Natasha and her candy lying next to one of the sinks. His phone pinged seconds later.
Her explanation was short, but she'd been called away unexpectedly to an assignment in Calcutta. Clint tried not to recall all the fun times they'd had there.
Her text was immediately followed by a media file, the caption reading only: ;-)
Clint's hands started to tremble, his breathing accelerating.
In the few minutes between her being called away and Clint reaching the bathroom, Natasha had gotten herself off in one of the stalls, the sucker still grasped tightly between her lips and her phone recording it all. As her orgasm hit her, her mouth dropped open, the lollipop falling from her mouth along with the tumble of his name from her lips.
Clint didn't get back to the conference room until the event was over.
Every once in a while, Stark hosted a party in some beautiful ballroom in one of the many hotels he owned. Apparently, as his new "housemates", the rest of the team was now expected to attend these parties. Every. Single. One.
While Clint had no real qualms with going to parties because he always went with Natasha, he still didn't enjoy attending and pretending to enjoy conversations with people he didn't like; in fact, he was still adjusting to the company of the rest of the Avengers, as Natasha had had more time to warm up to them than he had.
It wasn't that he disliked people, he just disliked most people, although he had recently been finding the other Avengers to be rather entertaining. Other people, though, well that was a different story.
But he and Natasha attended their first one with the team just like everyone had promised, and he'd been having a rather decent time until she asked him to dance with her. Or rather, told him to. And of course he's hers even though he'll never call her his, so he'd have said yes regardless, albeit begrudgingly.
It had started out quite nice, actually, calm and slow, nothing more than rocking back and forth on the balls of their feet. But then the song had changed to a song meant for tangoing, and while Clint had tried, unsuccessfully he might add, to pull away from Natasha to "get more drinks", she'd held fast to his hand and pulled him into a tighter embrace. If Clint found if a bit harder to breathe and not because of their close proximity, he wasn't complaining.
She smirked up at him, her voice low as she murmured, "Nu-uh, Barton. You're not getting away now."
He'd responded with a surrendering sigh and a withering flick of his eyes that held little conviction.
Natasha liked to wear dresses that hugged her curves and the one she was wearing was no exception. The thing was practically painted onto her, the shimmering black fabric clinging where Clint wished he could and the slit up the side leaving nothing to the imagination. He was about 99.99% sure that Natasha wasn't wearing underwear and he almost groaned at the thought.
It was so tight, in fact, that Clint could feel her every movement against him—every shift and press. Jesus, how did he keep allowing himself to get into these situations, he wondered exasperatedly.
As they continued dancing, their bodies melding together, every move graceful and sensual and absolutely breathtaking, they attracted a crowd. And that was when the redhead chose to press her thigh between his at just the right—or in this case wrong—angle, and press her breasts against his chest, the gleam in her eyes showing she could feel how hard he was against her hip.
Clint was ready to grasp Natasha's wrist and drag her to another room as soon as the song was over, but she'd always been quicker than him, nimbler, and she turned to look at him over her shoulder as she sauntered towards Steve, shooting the archer a heart stopping smile and a wink.
Clint excused himself to the bathroom for the remainder of the party.
He lay on his stomach peering through the scope on his sniper rifle, his bow just inches from his right hand.
He'd been in the same position on the same roof for the past six hours, watching from a rooftop as Natasha did what she did best—infiltrate, seduce, and kill.
It was about a quarter past nine when the seduction came into play, and while Clint would never admit the amount of willpower it took not to just shoot the man and be done with the job, he was beginning to get restless, his fingers itching to pull the trigger.
He'd watched her do this hundreds, if not thousands, of times, but no matter how often she reassured him that she was his, he really couldn't help but let jealousy wash over him as he watched every man (and woman) she had to seduce put their grubby little hands all over her. It helped, though, that they never got past her underwear.
But because she'd been so teasing lately, Clint figured another incident was due soon. He just hadn't thought it would be quite so soon.
The man, Maverick, a German mob boss, had Natasha pushed up against the window, and although the assassin was a fantastic actress, Clint could see the stiffness in her back as the man attempted to shove his tongue down her esophagus. Well, Clint thought, at least he knew he was definitely a better kisser.
As the German groped Natasha's breasts through her shirt, she turned so that they were pressed against the windowpane, one of her hands coming up to undo the buttons.
Clint's pants started to feel too tight, and he wriggled around on the ground in an attempt to find a more comfortable position. But when Natasha removed her shirt and her bra, he had to do some more serious adjusting to relieve some of the pressure.
She knew he was watching intently as always, but this was the first time she'd put on a show for him in the middle of an assignment. Clint watched, breath coming out in short puffs, entranced by the way it fogged up the glass and hid her face.
He knew she wasn't getting off on the way Maverick was grinding against her, that she was turned on by the fact that he was watching, but fuck, all he wanted to do was shoot the guy and take his place.
The German must have tried to take things further though, because Natasha turned around suddenly, and Clint was left staring at the curve of her spine and her hourglass figure, her red hair tumbling unruly over her shoulders.
She'd always been good at getting what she wanted, and in all the ways possible, so Clint wasn't surprised as he watched the man kneel in front of her, his head dangerously close to her deadly thighs. Clint watched in awe as Natasha caressed the man's face in both hands, the act so gentle and sincere looking, that even the archer was startled when she quickly snapped his neck, his body slumping forward against her legs. The redhead kicked Maverick's body away, a look of disgust writ across her face and she dressed hastily, blowing Clint a kiss out the window before exiting the room.
For once, Clint was glad they were away on a job because if they weren't, now would be the time that one of them would be called away. Now, he thought, he'd have her all to himself as soon as they met up at the hotel.
And he did.
They're at a bar with a fourth of SHIELD and the rest of the Avengers, celebrating Fury's birthday, even though he isn't actually there. If you have an excuse to drink, well, fucking drink, otherwise you're just drinking to get drunk and that means you're an alcoholic. That's what Natasha always says.
The crowd is the normal night crowd plus the steadily rowdier group of agents and assassins and superheroes, and because Natasha and Clint haven't actually gotten drunk together in quite some time, they take this opportunity to.
It takes about 28 shots of vodka, the shittiest of course, to get Natasha absolutely shit faced, stumbling over her feet and her words, and about 18 for Clint, but he's always known she could drink him under the table. She's Russian after all.
As they grind together on the dance floor, front to front, hot and filthy, the rest of their team is doing their own things; Steve and Thor are having a drinking contest, but everyone knows Steve is going to win except the newbies who're all being hustled by the older agents, Tony and Bruce are having a drunken conversation about various inventions they've each come up with, and Pepper, Darcy, and Jane are sipping martinis and laughing at the team as a whole.
Natasha's breath is searing on the skin of Clint's neck and he really wants to fuck her, so he hooks his fingers through the belt loops on her jeans and kisses her, all tongues and teeth and sweet, nasty desire. He drags Natasha through the door labeled "Gents" and shoves her roughly against the it once it's closed, placing sloppy kisses on her neck as she vaguely remembers to turn the lock.
She fumbles with his pants, her hands too relaxed to grasp at the button and fly, and Clint wants her so, so badly, and he tries to help but his large hands only hinder the process more. Natasha giggles drunkenly, really drunkenly because Tasha never giggles, thinks Clint, and she slaps his hands out of the way, finally undoing the button of his denims and pulling down the zipper, pushing everything over his hips.
Except for that she realizes she has nothing to work with now.
"Clint," she whines, and Clint thinks it's adorable as he continues to mouth at her neck.
She pushes him gently, "Do I not do it for you anymore?"
Through his drunken haze, Clint can hear the hurt in Natasha's voice and he looks up at her, his eyes sincere.
"God, babe," he groans, and she only lets him call her that on special occasions. "Of coursh—of course you do."
Her eyebrows furrow as she asks, "Then why aren't you hard?"
Clint doesn't think he's ever heard such a sobering statement in his life up until now, and he looks down to realize that she's right.
He can't help but be angry at himself and his cheeks begin to burn.
"Clint, baby," she says soothingly, cooing. He wishes she'd call him that more often. "It's okay! It happens to everyone. Including Thor and Tony. I've been told by people."
She winks, her lips curving into a delicious smile and her brows waggling suggestively. His sullen pout makes her giggle more.
He moans still, "It's the alcho—alcohol."
Natasha makes him feel better though, by taking them home and taking care of him in the morning. In more ways than one.
But seriously, Clint thinks later, performance issues are the biggest cock block ever. He hopes Stark doesn't find out.