A short PWP for eiluned because we've all been feeling crappy recently, and what better way to cheer people up than Clintasha porn?

Special thanks, as always, to eiluned, Bees, and Amanda for the cheerleading and support. Love you guys!

More thanks to the people who've been messaging and reviewing and favoriting - you guys make this all worth it! Enjoy!

And to those of you waiting for the Stumbling Home sequel - I'm about 40k in, with an anticipated 10k more to write, and then it's time for editing. My best guess is that I'll be posting by the end of the month. Sorry it's taken so long; I want to make sure that I write the whole thing this time before I post so that I don't leave anyone hanging! If you're interested, I do post occasional updates and previews on my tumblr - I'm sidhera over there - come by and say hi!

It was cold in the safe house, and she'd left her coat in the check back at the fundraiser.

She was probably supposed to feel lucky right now - lucky that they'd both gotten away with their lives, lucky that they had a safe house to fall back to, lucky that they both still had their weapons and no one had (probably) followed them.

And, really, they were lucky. Very, very lucky, not to put too fine a point on it, because she'd been recognized at the banquet hall, spotted by a former client from her freelancing days. Before she'd even had a chance to warn Clint, nine men in dark suits had surrounded her, guns drawn, and the two of them had ended up fighting their way out with little more than her throwing knives and Clint's glock. It had been a near miss, one that they'd only survived because they knew each other and because they trusted the other to watch their back.

Still, all of that felt somewhat hollow when you were indoors and could still see your breath fogging in front of your face.

"Jesus, it's cold in here!" Clint exclaimed, shutting the door firmly behind them. He'd always run a bit hotter than she had (and would prattle endlessly about the winters in Iowa, if asked), but he'd lent her his suit jacket midway through their retreat here, when they'd stumbled to a brisk walk in a crowded square, pretending to be nothing more than a tipsy couple on their way home after an evening out.

Even if he'd missed her coat, he'd still managed to grab her over-sized purse from the check, the one where they'd secreted his compact bow and their surveillance equipment, both of which would go unused now that they'd been made. She was a grateful for that small favor at least; a lot of that equipment bore the telltale markers of their organization, and they couldn't afford to be found out, not when dealing with this group. SHIELD would have to send in another team, albeit a less experienced one, and they'd just have to hope that whoever ended up with her and Clint's sloppy seconds knew what they were doing when it came to navigating the intricacies of the Solntsevskaya Bratva.

She took a look around the small apartment, lamenting as always SHIELD's typical inability to furnish their safe houses with more than the bare minimum. This efficiency looked just the same as the hundreds of others across the world just like it; a stove and a mini fridge shoved in one corner, and a pair of twin beds in the other. There was something almost comforting about SHIELD's lack of imagination when it came to quartering its agents. It didn't seem to matter if they were in the middle of Moscow or Darfur; all their hideouts looked the same.

She understood why they didn't spend a lot of time sprucing up places like this, she really did, but one of these days, she could really go for a safe house that had enough blankets. You know, just for a change of pace.

She shivered involuntarily, and she rubbed her arms up and down inside the inadequate barrier of Clint's jacket, trying in vain to generate some heat from the friction. Her dress was intended to attract attention, to keep it away from Clint who'd been busy picking the lock into their host's study when she'd been identified. The designer concoction was decidedly not intended to keep her warm, and even with his jacket, she was freezing. She'd curse spec ops for putting her in yet another impractical bit of silk and lace, but then, she hadn't really anticipated making a tactical retreat through a Russian winter night with the mafia on her tail.

"Cold?" Clint asked, interrupting her thoughts with a hand on her shoulder. By the time she'd replied in the affirmative, he was already crossing the room purposefully. He tossed the bag on the floor beside the stove and leaned up to tinker with the thermostat.

"Shit," he said a few moments and a couple firm swats at the ancient device later. "I think it's broken."

She sighed. Of course. Wasn't that always their luck?

She glanced over toward the bathroom, wondering if they at least got hot water in this place. Her skin felt filthy underneath her clothes, and she wanted nothing more than to wash the grime and the ghostly fingerprints of the men she'd danced with that night off her skin.

"I'm going to get cleaned up," she said. "Maybe the water will warm me up a little."

She was halfway through the door and stepping out of her shoes when Clint asked, "Mind if I join you?"

She cast her eyes over her shoulder, and smiling, she said, "Only if you get my back."

He returned her grin and followed on her heels, unzipping the back of her dress while she bent over to start the tap. For the first time all night, luck was with them, and the water wasn't icy, but a passable tepid instead. They undressed quickly, trying to get into the heat of the shower before the cold caught up with them, and they helped each other out of their clothes, moving slower than usual because of the aches and pains born during their flight. When they at last stepped under the spray, it might not have been as hot as she would have liked, but at least it was warm.

She sighed as he made good on his promise to wash her back, feeling herself relax under his gentle ministrations, and by the time he started washing her hair with the cheap, SHIELD issued shampoo, she was putty in his hands.

Clint bundled her up in one of the two rough towels, both of which had seen better days, but that was okay because he kissed her on the top of her head, telling her to wait for moment while he went into the other room for clean clothes.

He returned with matching sets of grey sweats embossed with the familiar eagle logo, both of them in his size, so when she pulled the comfortable fabric on, she was swimming in sportswear.

He looked softly at her, smiling that smile of his that melted something inside of her, the one that made her forget that she was tired and sore and halfway around the world from her own bed and her 1500 count Egyptian cotton sheets.

"Come on," he said quietly, tugging on her hand. "Let's get in bed."

"We should clean our weapons," she protested, but she followed him anyway, let him pull her along into the other room.

"It can wait," he said, pulling back the blanket on one of the beds. "I'm tired. You're tired. And we've got a good . . ." he glanced at his watch. "Twelve hours before our rendezvous."

He reached over to the other bed, grabbing the second blanket and adding it to the pile before climbing in. He patted the space beside him once he was settled, holding up the edge of the covers for her as she followed him in. She settled easily into his embrace, scooting backward until she was spooned against him, her back nestled against his front. He reached up and over her, flicking off the lamp and plunging the room into blackness.

Still relaxed from her shower, she was starting to drift off when she felt him thicken against her ass, felt him lengthen and grow harder. She wriggled, letting a short burst of laughter bubble out of her.

"Shit, sorry," he muttered, and she could almost hear the blush in his voice as he tried to shift his pelvis away from her. "Ignore that."

"Kinda hard to," she said, not even totally realizing what she'd said until Clint groaned.

"You just had to make a pun, didn't you?" he laughed, skimming his hand along her hip. "You know what I think about you and puns."

She did.

When they'd first met, half a dozen years and hundred missions ago, she'd been somewhat humorless (if you chose the kind adjective). It had only been Clint's constant (some might say incessant) good humor that had changed her, that had clued her in to a lighter side of laughter. While she doubted she would ever be comfortable joking around with anyone the way she did with Clint, it did strange things to her insides to watch his reaction to her attempts. This particular reaction, the one that had him fingering the waistband of her sweatpants and starting to breathe more heavily - well, she definitely approved of it, that was sure.

The mood in the room shifted immediately, and she grabbed his hand as he starting working his way into her pants. He stilled, as if he'd expected her to brush him away, but instead of stopping him, she went with it, helping him along and pulling his hand downward until his fingers were teasing the edge of her panties, until he was worrying her clit through the thin fabric.

"If you want me to stop," she said, trying to keep the gasp from her breathing as he tormented her. " You'll meet with stiff resistance."

He snorted, then pressed his lips to the back of her neck, the day's growth of stubble on his chin sending delightful shivers down her spine. She arched back against him, sighing softly. It had been a while since they'd been together like this, since they'd been able to take the time to just enjoy each other, and she wanted to draw it out, wanted to revel in the sensation.

"Really? Stiff resistance? That's the best you can do?"

She pressed her hips back against his crotch, rubbing against his erection even as he slipped his fingers under the band of her panties and into her pussy.

She bit her lip and moaned, taking a moment to compose herself before she gasped out, "You could even say it's growing by the minute."

"Okay, I get it. Hard, growing, ha ha," he deadpanned, sucking on the skin under her neck. He snaked his other hand under her body, pulled her against his chest, and he slithered under her shirt, taking a direct path up to her painfully erect nipples.

"I can think of plenty of things I'd like for you to get," she said, unable to say more through the breathy gasp she emitted when he pinched her nipple, punctuating the action with a swirl of his fingers.

"That's not even a pun," he said, licking the corner of her ear. "I'm not even sure that qualifies as a double-entendre."

"Stop complaining."

She craned her neck around to capture his lips with hers, tasting him and breathing in his scent, enjoying the myriad sensations that rippled through her at his nearness. He held her closely against his chest, his hand pressed over her heart as they ground against each other, and she might even have described their position as snuggling, except that they were assassins and they certainly didn't do that sort of thing.

He unexpectedly rolled her clit between his fingers, and then she was coming on his hand, pulsing around him as he massaged her through the aftershocks.

"You're so hot when you come," he whispered, his voice harsh with arousal, and she felt the timbre of his statement deep in the pit of her stomach where it stirred her, made her want to mount him and ride him until they forgot about fancy parties and blown covers and sub-zero weather in shitty safe houses.

"I want to fuck you," he groaned, and she reached between them, thrust her hand down into his pants and grabbed his cock, pumping him as he bucked his hips into her palm. "Can I?"

"Yeah," she said, and he was all action, pulling her sweatpants and panties down over her hips without further ado, spreading her pussy with his big hand, and running his fingers up and down along her soaked slit.

"Fuck, you're wet," he groaned, and then she managed to free his cock, helped him guide it into her, and suddenly she was full, filled up with his thickness, stretching around him and fluttering pleasantly as she adjusted to his presence.

She was just starting to feel like she could contain herself, was just starting to feel like she was going to get through this without making noises that made her sound like a cat in heat, but then he started moving, started pumping in and out of her with long, firm strokes, and that goal was burned to ashes.

He wrapped his hand back around her hip as he fucked her, flicking his archery roughened fingertips across her clit, and she was already tightening back up around him, already hovering close on the edge of oblivion for the second time tonight. She cried out wordlessly as the heat pooled low in her belly, and she felt a fresh wave of wetness gush out of her even as she tumbled over the edge, gripping the sheet in front of her so tightly she thought she might tear it.

She buried her face in the mattress as kept up his thrusts, drawing out her orgasm and spinning it headlong into another as he bit down on the crook of her neck. She felt his own movements lose pace then, felt him falter as he hissed his impending completion, and then he was right there with her, calling out her name and a that of a deity she knew he didn't believe in, pumping into her and digging his fingers almost painfully into the flesh of her thighs.

At last, he softened, fell out of her, and she twisted in his arms, turned to face him, and she could see his pupils glitter in the light coming from the streetlight outside the narrow window.

"Warm enough yet?" he whispered, voice thick with sleep and post-coital bliss.

She dropped a single, chaste kiss to his lips before nuzzling into his chest, feeling strangely content to tuck herself under his arm and into his side.

"Getting there."

The night was still.