AN I do not own HP or any of the characters! Smutty fluff Clintasha, mentions of torture, updated to be free from errors!

Natasha was his everything. He in way too deep but there was no way he could take it back. They didn't talk about it, or even acknowledge it, but he knew that she'd noticed. There was no way she could have ignored it. She made an effort, a lot of the time, to be indifferent or neutral towards him whenever he acted anything less than professional—she brushed his hand off her arm, stopped any conversation before it could get personal, and always tried to make sure they never faced each other when sharing a bed. She put distance between them, which was for the best. But he hated it. It was necessary, though. Couldn't get too attached… And he tried to be content with that—he really did—until Budapest.

He had been tortured before, no question, but Budapest was different and he could tell before he even set foot in the country that it would be interesting. He hoped it was the rare, suspiciously easy assignment that could be finished within a day or two; but he had the sinking suspicion it would be the other kind of interesting. The bad kind. If he'd known what was waiting for him, he would have turned around the second he landed.

But he didn't.

Which was how he ended up bound, face down, on a slab of wood, with a blindfold over his eyes and a bloody rag gagging his mouth. He screamed and braced himself every time they pulled one of his nails off, he choked and convulsed with each dose of electricity, and he just laid there and took every single beating. There wasn't much else he could do. He tried to think of a rescue team, of a way out, but his mind was blank. The only thought his mind would let slip through that survival filter was her. Not her rescuing him, or even comforting him. Just her.

The longer it went on, the harder it was to stop that frantic thudding of his heart or the sharp, stinging constriction in his chest. Their interrogators drove him through panic attack after panic attack. It was amusing, to them, and they kept pushing him until his head lulled to one side and his mind slipped under, trying to shield him from the pain.

The blackouts happened so many times that Clint lost count. He lost track of reality, letting the lines blur between daydream and torture until there wasn't really anything separating them except a vague idea. But, through it all, his mind focused on her. He imagined her slipping through the door, as silent as the air itself, and stepping up beside him. In his mind, she would ghost her fingers over the wounds on his back, barely touching, and she would cup her hand around the back of his neck, thumbing his jaw. She would turn his head, caress his cheek, and whisper to him to breathe. To focus on her voice. To trust her, to let himself fall. And he did, gladly, because nothing seemed sweeter than sinking into her touch like some kind of protective shield. He would have given anything for that to become reality.

He tried not to let himself get his hopes up whenever the men seemed agitated or annoyed because it was never her but he still hoped. He tried not to dream of her rescuing him. Realistically, he knew she probably wasn't even looking for him, not aware that something was even wrong, because that was what people assumed when you disappeared as a covert op agent. Vacation, or something. But his mind always ended up back on that one thought… Her, stepping through that door, his saving grace.

When she did actually come, he was unconscious. Splayed out on the table, covered in bruises, blood, and scabs, and completely unresponsive. She tried to shake him awake or startle him so he could run but there was no chance of that happening. He couldn't even stand up on his own. She dragged him—literally, because his body weight was too much for her to carry on her own—until he slipped back into unconsciousness. Again unresponsive, he looked like he was dead. Covered in damage and dried blood, too exhausted to even hold his mouth closed, and unconscious. He stayed like that for the majority of his rescue.

When he did wake up, it was in the passenger seat of sedan that was hurtling down the road so quickly that his eyes couldn't even adjust to the movement. He swayed, falling a bit more towards her, and tried to breathe.

"Hey, stay with me, okay?" It wasn't really a command but it felt like one, so he tried as hard as he possibly could to obey. He didn't want to disappoint her. Or die.

"We're almost there, okay? Just hold on, stay with me you're gonna be okay." He nodd— dear god that was a mistake. Everything swirled and twisted in on itself until he couldn't even see her, let alone recognize her face. No, this was too close to a daydream. It was too easily not real, he needed it to be real. He felt himself slipping, falling deeper into that panic that paralyzed his entire body and made it hard to breathe, until a hand grabbed his. Not roughly, or violently, but desperately. The calluses were familiar. The size and shape of the fingers were… tangible. They were sweaty and shaky… But they were real. Natasha was real.

"Just hold on, okay?" She squeezed his hand and, he couldn't nod to show her, but it helped. He sucked in a huge gulp of oxygen, letting her outline come back into focus, and squeezed her hand back a little. She seemed to breathe a little easier.

The next time he woke up, he was lying flat on his stomach and that was enough to send him into a panic because he knew that they'd gotten to him again. That he was back in that hell. He jolted and thrashed but… his limbs actually moved. He wasn't tied down or restrained; it was a bed. In an instant, Natasha was there beside him.

"Hey, it's okay, just breathe. You're safe." Her voice hit him like a sedative and he nearly collapsed, almost falling back onto the countless wounds on his back. But she caught him and held the back of his neck to keep him upright. Safe. He was safe. Like a slap to the face, it suddenly knocked the air from his lungs. They'd escaped. He was running from them, they were running from them. He had to run.

He tried to get up, to run, to fight, anything but sit there and take it like he'd done before, but Natasha stopped him. She eased him back to sit on the bed and slowly sat in his lap, pulling his head forward to press against her shoulder. Slowly, she began to rub his neck. He hadn't realized he was hyperventilating, or that he was trembling and crying on the bed. Every inch of his body hurt but nothing struck him harder than the realization that Nat had come for him. She'd saved him.

He just shattered, right then and there. Tears poured down his cheeks and he only gasped in air so he could let it back out in a sob, shaking against her small frame. She held him. After a while, she tried to put distance between them like they were supposed to do but he gripped her arm so tightly it had to hurt and she stopped. He tried to breathe enough to speak.

"Pl- Pl…. Please…" He was trying to beg her to stay, to protect him from the panic attacks and the nightmares, but he couldn't get the words out. Maybe he was scared of how she'd react, or maybe it was a pride thing. But all he could manage to say was please, over and over again in that pitiful tone.

"Please what, Clint?" No, he had to say it. He had to. There was no way he could handle being alone after what he'd just been through and he had no idea why the torture was affecting him so much but he felt like he might die if she left. He needed her, more than oxygen.

"Protect me," he finally whispered, clinging to her arm and begging her with everything he had. Now was not the time for professionalism or distance, he needed her. More than life itself. She sighed, relenting, and moved back into their previous position, holding the back of his neck and gently rocking them from side to side.

"Please," he breathed, barely audible above his crying. "Please…" She pulled him away enough to press their foreheads together, meeting his eyes with a kind of intensity he'd never imagined she could be hiding. Slowly, she caressed his cheek and let him sink into her hand.

"Clint," she began, trying to ground him back to reality with her a bit. "Clint, I'm here. I've got you. You're safe, I will never let anyone hurt you again. I've got you. Do you trust me?" He nodded, but he felt the weight behind those words. They were more than protective, more than a promise. He was hers, now. Her… something. But he was under her protection, she would take care of him and keep him safe, if he trusted her to. There was no one he trusted more.

"Yes." She kissed his forehead, thumbing his temple, just long enough for him to start to lose himself in it. Her touch was addictive. Even when she hit a bruise, running her fingers through his hair, he didn't pull away. He just nuzzled closer, silently begging her to hold him tighter. To give him reassurance. To make him feel safe.

"I've got you, Clint, just breathe. I won't let anything happen to you. You're safe here, I've got you." And he believed her.

That was the start of a long, complicated relationship. He'd tried to earn her trust or break down her walls a hundred different ways but, apparently, the key wasn't in giving her anything. It was in asking. The moment he'd begged her to protect him, there was no going back. He didn't want to go back.

From that moment on, she touched him. In little ways, at first, that could have been ignored but then in more obvious, possessive and protective ways. It started with a little more contact when she changed his bandages, a brushing of their skin together when he pretended to be asleep. It didn't seem like much, but for them it was catastrophic. She didn't touch anyone, least of all him. They were close, but she was forcing that distance still and she kept him at arm's length almost as much as she did with strangers. Physical contact was too… personal. But the little slips here and there spoke volumes about how she really felt and he was not so out of it that he didn't notice. She could have easily shifted them, or changed the bandages a different way. But she intentionally let their skin touch. Either to calm him down, or because she wanted to, but either way he relished in every tiny sliver of contact.

She grew more confident, the longer they stayed in the safehouse alone together. Without agency doctors fretting over him, she seemed to have a new level of anxiety about his health that let her dote on him. When he had a temporary fever, she laid her hand on his forehead. When he winced twisting his neck, sore from having to stay awkwardly on his stomach, she didn't even hesitate to touch his skin and massage the muscle beneath it. The touch grounded him.

Soon, all he had to do was whisper a shaky little please and she would be there, rubbing his arm or holding his hand or running her fingers through his hair. If the panic got worse, they always fell back into that familiar position: him, sitting on the bed or the floor or the couch, with her in his lap facing him. She cupped the back of his neck and pulled him into her, pressing his forehead against the crook of her neck. Slowly, she would bring him back.

They started sharing a bed, to save her the walk from her room to his when he inevitably woke up screaming. Then, because of the still healing wounds, he slept on his stomach. With his head on her chest, his leg thrown over hers, and her hand gripping the back of his neck. She held him like that every chance they got because it slowed his heart rate and it made it easier for him to just exist. She made it easier.

The nightmares were bad, there was no doubt in either of their minds. No matter how long they stayed there, holed up in that little safehouse together, he couldn't shake that terror and pain. Like tiny slivers of glass in his skin, too small to see or pull out but big enough to hurt, he couldn't get rid of them. Even with Natasha there, he was always a little bit on edge. It was an exhausting way to live.

He wanted to trust her, to just let go and let her do all the worrying and the thinking for once. He couldn't think about when they would come for him, or strategize against them, because every ounce of his energy went into just existing. Sleeping was even exhausting. But he couldn't ask her to do that and he didn't know how to even begin that conversation. What was she supposed to do? Tell him not to worry? Like that ever worked or ever would work with people like them…

It took four shots of Russian vodka, courtesy of Nat, to loosen his tongue enough for it to come up.

"I want to relax." She didn't give him a look or even set down her glass just she pursed her lips and nodded.

"What will it take?" He hesitated. He took a long, deep breath and did another half shot. They were alone in the semi-lit room, just the bottle between them and the table. But, somehow, he felt a hundred times more exposed than he had under the scrutiny of her medical attention or at night in her arms. She wasn't pushing him, though, just waiting. Letting him speak if he wanted to.

"I.. don't know for sure." She just nodded and popped another grape in her mouth.

"What are you thinking?" Deep breaths. He tried not to start panicking as they sat there. It was just words. Just a conversation.

"I think… I think I need someone else to worry and think and stress for me for a bit. I think I need to let go. Like a trust fall, I guess." She just nodded. He felt like his every breath depended on her reaction, like the second she even frowned or hesitated he might die. But she didn't, she just popped another grape in her mouth. Slowly, she chewed it, just looking at him.

"Who would you trust?" He was going to throw up if the conversation didn't end soon, there was too much fear and too much anxiety. He was just waiting for her to laugh at him or roll her eyes or something. But his veins were pumped full of Russian vodka that tasted a little bit like her if he thought about it long enough… and she was his everything. He was honestly in love with her and she probably knew. That was what put that distance there, like barb wire between them, but she'd been so committed to taking care of him and she'd let that distance fade a bit… he really didn't want to ruin that. But he was never going to have this conversation with her again. He had to say it.

"I'd trust you." There was no surprise in her face, no hesitation or concern. Just that same thoughtful little purse to her lips, and the same attention to the grapes in her bowl. Of course he trusted her. She'd saved his life, she was his partner, it would have been ridiculous to say he didn't trust her. But she'd been keeping that distance between them for a reason. Probably because she didn't feel the same. Why would she? Love was for children.

She stood suddenly, taking her now empty bowl to the kitchen behind him. Probably to wash it or get more grapes, he reasoned, but he still measured her pace and her posture as she walked and became extremely aware of her presence behind him, just out of sight. She wasn't uncomfortable or unsteady, though, and her pace was relaxed. How the hell was she so calm?! He felt like he was going to pass out.

"Clint," He jumped, surprised by her voice suddenly right behind him. One hand gripped the back of his neck the way they were so accustomed to, but her other hand pressed against his forehead and eased his head back against her stomach. His eyes closed, his mind found her heartbeat beneath her skin. Slowly, he felt his head rise and fall with each breath she took, completely calm and controlled.

"Clint, do you trust me?" He nodded before she even finished the question. "Good. Do you trust that I would never hurt you?"

"Even if I asked?" She laughed, shaking him with the sound, but he had to smile. This was good, this was more like them. She seemed almost more comfortable like this than she normally was but he had to tell himself he was imagining it. Or maybe she just hated not being able to help.. But her smile was actually tangible in the air, he could taste it. She smoothed his hair and held his head a little more forcefully against her stomach.

"Touché. Do you trust that I will not hurt you unless you ask for it, and maybe not even then?" He nodded, sensing the humor fading to a more serious tone. "Do you think you can be honest with me? Completely honest, even if it's difficult or uncomfortable?" It didn't seem like nodding would be enough to convince her, not with something that big, so he forced his mouth to open.

"Yes." He wouldn't like it, but he knew that he could and, if she asked, he would. She was one of the only people he had no difficulty being honest with… a lot of the time she just never asked. He probably would have even admitted to being in love with her—if she asked.

"I need you to tell me if you're uncomfortable or if you want to stop, or even just take a break. Can you do that?" He nodded again. "How much control do you want to give up? Mentally? Physically?"

"All of it." She sighed at the way his voice trembled, but just smoothed his hair and held his head.

"Do you want to give me control?" He hesitated. Carefully, like he was testing the waters, he lifted one hand and gently grabbed her wrist. He pulled the hand that was holding the back of his neck away and, when she let him, he repositioned it to blanket his throat. She didn't squeeze or grip, she just held it there.

"Do you want to give me control, Clint?" Her voice was more level, more firm, like she was demanding an answer rather than asking for it this time. He covered her hand with his and pressed it tighter against his throat.

"No," He pressed it harder, guiding her fingers to squeeze the arteries there. "I want you to take it from me." In under a second, Natasha completely shifted. She seized his throat and squeezed just right, like she'd done it a thousand times, and he just melted. His mind clouded and he sank into the chair until the only thing he could comprehend was her hold on his throat and his forehead, pulling him back against something solid and firm. Something so… her.

"Breathe." One word, a command. She wasn't putting any pressure on his windpipe but he'd stopped breathing because his body was humming and buzzing, falling deeper and deeper until her touch was the only thing he knew. Why would he breathe? But she'd ordered him to, so he did. He sucked in a sharp breath and, rather than taint it, the oxygen made the lack of blood so much more apparent. Until, suddenly, she let go. He gasped, even though he'd been breathing, and fell limply back against her but she let him, just holding his forehead to keep him steady.

"Kneel." He clamored to get up and onto the floor, bruising his knees on the hardwood, but he did it. Her footsteps followed him, pulling him up onto his knees rather than sitting back on his legs, forcing all his weight onto his kneecaps, and she carded a hand through his hair as praise.

"Do not move, understand?"

"Yes." She disappeared, appearing beside him with a silk scarf. He closed his eyes before she even made a move towards him, but sure enough she stepped up and tied the silk over his eyes.

"Are you comfortable removing your shirt?" He nodded. "Then do." He did, struggling not to accidentally pull off the blindfold with it, and just held it in his hands because he didn't know what to do with it.

"Hand it to me." He held it out to the air, to the nothingness, and she took it, proving that she was still there with him. "Good, don't move, don't sit back or relax." The weight on his knees began to ache, but he didn't move. He was shaking by the time her hand touched his skin, just above his waist, barely brushing. It was so faint, so light, that he couldn't completely track it as she trailed her finger up his skin, over his ribs, and across his collarbone.

She didn't seem like she was planning to hurt him, or even do more than tease, but he couldn't handle that. He needed her to ground him. This was distracting, but it wasn't enough. So, when she started again to run her finger down the center of his chest, he lurched forward into her touch and dug her nail into his skin. She started to pull away, afraid of hurting him, but he pressed harder and almost sighed in relief when the reality around him became a little more clear. He could hear her breathing, if he listened.

"Do you like the pain?" He almost cried, shaking and trembling out some kind of agreement in the hopes that she would do it again. A single nod was all it took. She trailed her finger over his skin, the same light and faint touch from before, but just when he began to get impatient again, she dug her nail in and left long, red scratches against his chest. He almost fell, collapsing into her.

"Stay still." He steadied himself, if only a little, and she resumed the teasing. His knees screamed, protesting the hardwood and the weight of his body, but every time he started to sway, she straightened him.

"Count to 100, don't rush." He began quickly and easily, but slowed the longer she hesitated. He kept going, repeating himself until she purred in appreciation at his pace. Then, he began again.

"One… Two… Three…" She smoothed his skin, stroking his cheek and thumbing beneath his eye and over his lips. Gentle, and full of affection. But on every multiple of five, she scratched him. He began to anticipate it, and she felt him tensing before each multiple and squeezed the back of his neck to relax him, making sure each scratch had its full impact. When he got used to that, she began to kiss his skin. It felt so strange and unexpected—she'd never even kissed his forehead when taking care of him, so to feel her lips on his skin in a situation like this… He almost swooned.

But she kept going, pressing a kiss to his skin each time he counted. She undoubtedly noticed how his voice trembled the closer she got to his throat, or to his chest. She kissed along his collarbone, along his shoulders, and down to his naval. He was so absorbed in it, so relaxed, that when he hit fifty, he wouldn't have even noticed. Except that kiss, just below his ribs, was not a kiss. He jolted, feeling her teeth as she sank them into his skin, and he almost screamed. But then fifty one, and she kissed it. Fifty two, and she kissed again. Fifty three, another kiss. He tensed as they reached sixty, and again another bite—sharp, and on his arm this time. But then it was kisses again. Seventy sank into his stomach, just above his right hip. Eighty was on his chest, over his heart. Ninety was near his collarbone, closer and closer to his throat. She kept kissing, lulling him into that sense of security, and he started to brace as they neared a hundred but, on ninety seven, she bit hard. Deep, where his throat met his shoulder, and it sent electricity down his spine hard enough to take his breath away. She broke away just as quickly, but he took a moment to recover.

"Ninety-eight…" She kissed the bite mark, soothing the bruise that was already forming.

"Ninety-nine…" She kissed his forehead, softly and sweetly with so much care behind it that there was no way he was misinterpreting things now.

"One hundred…" He braced, expecting another bite, but her breath was so close to his face that the only reasonable place she could have bitten him was on the nose, which seemed wrong.

"One hundred…" She whispered, echoing his own words back into him. He couldn't see, but he could feel how close she was to him and it made his chest ache for her. For some kind of contact, for anything she would give him… One hundred was a milestone. If fives got scratches and tens got bites, what did one hundred get? He began to seriously worry when he realized the pattern of escalation but he didn't have time to panic.

She kissed him.

Not his skin, not any of the bite marks, not his forehead—him. On the lips. He jumped to respond, despite behind told not to move, and reached for her, trying to find some kind of purchase—anything to keep her from disappearing again. He was completely prepared for her to push him away or reject the movement, but she didn't. She welcomed it, guiding his hand to cup her cheek and letting her own tangle in his hair.

She hesitated, just for a second, to pull off the blindfold and meet his eyes. That shock, snapping everything back into focus, made everything suddenly so real and the pain in his knees flared but he didn't move, he just winced. It was enough to make her notice.

"You can relax." He tried to just sit back on his legs or maybe reposition himself but his muscles were so exhausted from holding him that he practically fell the second he tried to move. She caught him, though. Slowly, gently, she pulled them both into the bedroom and situated him on his stomach, so as not to hurt the scabbing wounds on his back. The moment she stepped away, he felt her absence stab into him like a shard of ice.

"Tash—" Instantly, before his voice could break, she was back beside him and trying to comfort him.

"Hey, it's okay. I was just closing the door." He relaxed a bit, both at the words and at her fingers playing with his hair, but his gut still yearned for more. He reached blindly for her, catching a wrist.

"Please?" That one word was all it took for her to climb into the bed beside him and pull his head onto her chest. She held the back of his neck, like always, and trailed her other hand up and down his back, just ghosting over the bandages.

"What will help you, Clint?" The whisper was like a voice from god leaning down and pushing him to do it. He was so afraid. They'd broken so many limits already, he didn't want to make her uncomfortable. But she was the one who'd kissed him…

"Kiss me again." And, instantly, she did. This time, he was ready for it and he pulled her closer, pressing their bodies together, and tangled a hand in her hair to guide her head, deepening the kiss. He was in absolute bliss. When they did break away, he could feel the flush in her cheeks and the stuttering of her breath against his cheek but he couldn't let it end there. He fell back onto her chest, like before, but nuzzled his face into the crook of her neck and kissed her pulse point.

"I'm in love with you, Natasha." The hand in his hair paused, but then resumed its stroking. He had to say it, there was no way he could survive a relationship like this if there was any chance she didn't see it. She had to know that every kiss, every touch, wasn't just about the panic attacks. It was because he wanted her, because she was his everything. Because he was in love with her.

"I know."

Thanks for reading! Please please please review! Let me know if I should continue or leave it as a oneshot!