She likes Clint under her like this. It's not that it puts her in control; Natasha has been the one lying beneath people herself, in many situations, often enough to know that it doesn't mean giving up control. No, it's that it makes him seem more... touchable, here beneath her hands.
She lightly traces the crease of his pelvis and he bucks up helplessly, so responsive when the aftershocks are still shuddering through him. It makes her tighten around him. In turn he inhales sharply, pupils dilating, and she feels her insides flutter. She loves this moment in the after, with its every little cause and effect. Beautiful feedback loops.
His hands flex where they cup her hips, then slip a little lower, thumbs drawing gentle circles on her sensitive skin and she bites her lip as she shivers.
She enjoys this thing that they have, that’s grown out of their friendship in the same way their friendship grew from partnership. The sex is always fantastic.
Go team, she thinks with a soft laugh.
“That was really good,” Clint says, beaming up at her.
It makes him happy to see her happy. Another of those feedback loops.
“Only good?” Natasha raises a disdainful eyebrow, but she can’t stop smiling and the effect is ruined.
He grasps her hips firmly and lifts her off of him, shifting her forwards a little and then lowering her to straddle his thighs. She feels a little hollow, wasn’t quite done, but also achy and body-used in the best of ways, so she lets him and admires the muscles of his arms as he does.
“Really good,” he repeats.
His eyes are still smiling, with those small crinkly lines that form in the corners, but his mouth has turned serious. Natasha tilts her head a little and considers him, wondering why the change and what her response should be. She settles for teasing.
“What, you think you could do better?”
“Are you asking because you want to know the answer?” he says, still serious.
“Yes,” she decides, because this is Clint and if there is something he knows then she wants to know it too. And if that something is an extra level to the sex they’ve been having, that personally she thinks already beats ‘really good’ out of the water, then yes.
Yes, she wants to know.
Clint flips them over and pins her down, back flat on the bed, with his warm, calloused hands wrapped about her wrists.
This isn’t exactly new. They’ve played with this kind of thing before, but usually when sparring has turned to something else, or at the end of a mission, blood running hot, not as a second round in a bedroom.
He shifts his weight, repositions his knees, and now she could still get out of this, but it wouldn’t be easy and that knowledge sends a jolt of adrenalin up her spine.
Clint closes in, pressing kisses against her neck, grazing the shell of her ear with his teeth, and she arches up into him willingly.
“Hypothetically,” he breathes hotly into her ear, “because I’m not into scaring you off. And I can be patient. You know how patient I can be. But because you asked; remember, you asked.”
She was already still keyed up, but with the weight of him on top and his voice right there she can feel her nipples pebbling where they press against his chest.
“Hypothetically. Great sex would be against the hanger wall, fresh off a quinjet from some hot country, sweat not yet dry. Or in the locker room showers, trying to be quiet. Or maybe we check into a hotel later, to celebrate, stretched out on fancy sheets.”
Natasha can see it playing out when she closes her eyes, helped by memories of doing exactly those things. Sweat slick in the small of Clint’s back; hands too greedy to wait for the shower to wash it away; sheets rumpled and mountain of decadent, stupid pillows tossed aside.
“Me doing whatever you want,” he whispers, and with no space between them she can feel him growing hard again. “And whatever you don’t know you want. And just at that moment when you think you can’t take it anymore – but I know you, Tasha, I know what you can take – just then, when everything narrows down, I tell you that I love you.”
Natasha tenses, can’t help it, suddenly vulnerable and every instinct screaming danger.
"Hypothetically," Clint reminds her gently.
He squeezes her wrists, in reassurance not a power play, and gently kisses her cheek as he lets go and moves away, giving her space. He sits up, turning his back to her so his legs hang over the side of the bed, and Natasha finds herself staring, frozen, at the mole that sits just to the right at the bottom of his spine.
She has choices. She can get up, take a shower, come back in her clothes, or a towel, or in nothing at all. She can pick up her things and just walk out. She could reciprocate – but her heart beats too hard at that. No.
She doesn’t know what she wants.
To have him pin her down and make good on his threat, his promise, or to leave before she can be undone.
If this were anyone else, this would just be a fuck and it wouldn’t matter. She wouldn’t see him again, or she would but she wouldn’t give a damn. But he isn’t anyone else. He’s her partner, her friend, more than just someone she has sex with.
Fantastic, hot, enthusiastic sex. Sometimes there’s even laughing involved and she’d never known how good that felt, not before him.
And the friend part, she’ll admit that’s a good kind of new too, being part of something that’s more than just bodies in motion. But she’s not – she can’t do more.
She also doesn’t want this to stop.
Natasha gets to her knees, kisses the back of his neck, and he sighs. She brings her hands into play, to feel his shoulders and run her palms down his back. She hasn’t had a chance to appreciate him from this angle yet tonight. And he always does best with physical reassurance.
Clint slumps forward under her attention, and maybe a little in relief.
He reaches back, still not turning his head to look at her, and places one warm hand on her thigh. Strokes her skin and, when he gets no objections, moves it higher. Finds her wet between her parted thighs and strokes her clit, once, twice.
Natasha rests her forehead against the damp skin of his back and breathes.
“You want to go again?” he asks quietly.
She draws a little circle on his skin with her tongue, just because she can.
“Want me to use my mouth? Or just push back in again?” He slips two fingers inside her and adds, “Because I could.”
She makes a noise at that, at him curling his fingers just right, but also at the thought of him hard again already, because of her.
“What do you want?” he asks.
His mouth would be easier; she wouldn’t have to look him in the eye, she could let him take her apart in almost the way he promised only without the threat of him being able to talk, but she hadn’t been ready to be lifted off of him before, wasn’t quite done, and she wants him back inside her.
“That,” she tells him. “The second one.”
As he turns around she pulls him towards her, pulls him on top, because it doesn’t mean being out of control and she won’t be afraid. He obeys, eyes wide, and pushes back in just like he’d said he would, there and perfect.
They find a rhythm and he doesn’t look away, eyes pinned to hers as surely as he’d held her pinned before. She can’t look away, even when he reaches between them and finds her clit again with his very capable fingers.
His lips part, so he can gasp in air, as close as she is and adrenalin surges through her system again. He won’t say it, because he’d said he’d wait, she’s not ready, she’s not, but as he breathes out and breathes out sound, she wants it. She thinks that she wants it.
“Tasha,” is all it takes.
Hypothetically she knows what he means anyway.
For now, it’s really good sex.