"I thought I might find you up here." Clint's voice rose over the distant chatter and thumping of music a few floors below.

"You know me too well," mused Natasha, gazing out at the city below. It was shortly before midnight, and a party was raging in the Stark tower. Tony had thrown a giant New Year's bash, one that spanned seven floors of the tower. Every celebrity within a 100 mile radius was here. She took another delicate sip of rose from her champagne flute.

"Parties aren't exactly my thing either." Clint stood beside her now, taking in the view in the giant window.

"Too well," she repeated.

"I'm sorry, what?"

"Nobody ever knows me that well. You're the first." She downed the rest of her drink. Clint took the empty flute from her and put it on a nearby table.

"Sit with me, Nat." Clint took her hand and pulled her to the floor. She complied absently. Downstairs, a count started up. Fifty-nine, fifty-eight.

"I wish it was snowing." Clint could see something in her eyes that scared him slightly. She was always so composed, her expression dignified, hiding anything that could be perceived as vulnerability. One of the many side affects that came with the job.

"You miss Russia." He knew enough about this lifestyle to know the look of homesickness immediately.

"Yes." A pause. "It's already the new year there." Twenty-two. Twenty-one.

"Can I kiss you?" The words slipped from his mouth before he had the chance to stop them. She looked so cold, so lonely, that it broke his heart. She turned her head sharply at him. Eighteen, seventeen.

"Clint?" She spoke his name as both an answer and a question.

"Yeah?" Seven, six, five.

"I'm tired of being alone."

With that, she kissed him. Suddenly gravity stopped working. Zero. The people in the floors below shouted, and the first round of fireworks lit up the sky in brilliant reds and whites. It felt as if the whole world, or at least the whole city, was celebrating this moment. This kiss. Natasha. Him. Finally. She tasted like champagne and slightly of peppermint. He inhaled, exhaled, breathing her in. He opened his eyes slowly and pulled back. Natasha gazed back at him.

"I'll never let you feel alone again." Clint brought a calloused hand to the nape of her neck, ran his fingers through the base of her hair. He brought his hand to the front of her head, and guided her face to his once more. The fireworks were still going, in the sky and in the top floor of the tower where they sat, apart from the rest of the world. Something in his chest was aching. He draped his left arm around her waist, and her hand made its way up to his tie.

"Clint," Natasha breathed, their foreheads pressed together. "I..."

"Shhh. It's okay." His hands caressed her back, and he was reminded just how fragile she was under her muscular exterior. He traced each vertebra, savoring the feel of the bare skin exposed by her low-cut green dress. Natasha began to fumble with the tight knot of his tie. It came undone and she pulled it out of the collar slowly. She began to unbutton his shirt, and he gasped involuntarily, feeling bumps rise on his chest when she brushed her hands along them. He buried his head in her neck, overcome by the situation. The sound of the fireworks and the party below, the feel of her skin, her breath, her heartbeat, her warmth. Her. Clint was unable to do more than hold her as she pulled off his jacket and then his shirt. Her hands, upon finishing their task, rested around his neck. The fireworks reached their finale, and they sat, intertwined.

"Clint," she murmured, a little louder, and he looked up at her eyes. Such pretty eyes. The lights from the city illuminated half of her face as she watched him breathe. His hands, around her waist, trailed slowly upwards and he tugged on one of the green satin straps. Hers moved from his neck down to his chest, worrying one nipple with her thumb and then downwards, tracing the muscular V that seemed carved from stone. His whole body seemed hewn from marble, smooth and hard and solid.

"Nat- ahhhh." Clint groaned as her fingers played in the stripe of coarse blond hair running from his navel to his-

Shit.

He gasped as every ounce of self-restraint fled south, and his eyes flew open to meet Natasha's, searching, asking. He loosened the other strap of her dress, and realized that she wasn't wearing a bra, her breasts fitting perfectly in the elegant green dress even without one. He felt himself growing more and more aroused. He growled and began to kiss her neck, and she let out a throaty laugh as he whimpered quietly.

"You're perfect," he mumbled into her neck, and he meant it. Natasha made a sound akin to a cat's purr, and began to work on the tuxedo's zipper. He could feel his penis straining against the fabric, and he lifted himself up a bit to allow the expensive fabric to be removed. She pulled off the pants, and admired his sculpted legs for a moment before returning for the red boxers. She maneuvered out of her dress, and now was clad only in her barely-there black thong.

"Fuck me." Natasha was panting for air.

"Oh, gladly." Clint smirked and growled hungrily before taking her in his arms and pinning her to the floor. He crawled on top of her, knees on either side of her perfect legs. He worked his way down her body, leaving a trail of red bite marks from her neck to her collarbone, over her left breast, across her stomach, before he reached the thin ribbon of fabric lying across her hipbone. He licked her thigh for a moment before taking the thong in his mouth and tearing it off her body. He lapped his tongue across her lower torso, and snapped the other side. Clint began moving forward until his face was gain at her neck.

"Nnnggghh." Natasha bit down on his earlobe. The heat was somehow growing warmer, and she needed his body so badly. But he took his time, sucking at her neck and whispering her name so quietly she thought he was imagining it. Finally he took his hands and gently spread her legs, tossing the torn thong across the room. The air was heavy with pheromones and anticipation. He ran his hand along her thigh, slipping his rough, calloused fingers between her legs, drawing a loud gasp from Natasha. He began to rub and massage, and soon his fingers were covered in a warm, wet fluid that he had a sudden desire to taste. He looked her in the eyes as he licked his fingers. She stared, heavy lidded, pupils dilated so far that he could barely see her irises.

"Natasha," he sighed once again.

"Please, Clint..." She was begging. "Please." Her eyes searched his desperately. His cock was aching for contact, for friction, but the fact that he had reduced her to this whimpering puddle made him want to draw the moment out as long as possible.

"Please what?" He grinned wickedly, amazed and surprised at himself. He definitely wasn't a virgin, but everything previously had been a quick, meaningless fuck. But now, he had total, absolute control over the person he loved more than anything. Christ, she was hot. "What do you want me to do, Natasha?"

"Make me scream," Natasha panted. She closed her eyes, waiting for him to enter her.

"How am I gonna do that?" Another groan.

"For god's sake, Clint. Enough." Suddenly, the trained martial artist in her, combined with the animal-like desire throbbing between her legs, took charge. She grabbed him and pulled his body to hers until he was the one whining, the tip of his cock grazing the white-hot pink flesh at the edge of her entrance. She pushed her hips up, knowing that there was no way he could resist now.

It worked.

Clint moaned and slid his full length inside of her.

"Nahhh..." He tried to remember how to say her name, but he was melting into her, and it faded into a moan. He pulled mostly out and then thrust again, softly and slowly at first. He removed himself completely and grasped her hips before slamming himself into her again as hard as he could. Natasha whimpered, and ached for more.

"Fuck..." Another thrust. Harder and harder they came, in perfect rhythm. She felt her muscles begin to tense as a ball of something not unlike molten lava gathered in the pit of her stomach.

"God. God. Natash...a...god." He was close, so close.

"CLINT!" Natasha screamed, and the world went white as her orgasm overtook her body. Clint grunted as he came, hard, and spilled his thick seed deep inside her. They both gasped for air, and Clint rolled off of her.

They lay like that for a while, melting together.

"Holy shit, Natasha."

"Yeah."

"There's a bedroom down the hall." Clint began to sit up.

"Nooo, stay here."

"I'll carry you." Natasha was too spent to protest farther, and allowed herself to be swept up, bridal-style, into his strong arms. She clung tightly to his body, imagining how they must look, wet and sweaty, completely naked, and Clint carrying her like a child. He reached the bed and pulled back the layers of thick blankets, laying Natasha down gently, before climbing into bed on the other side. He pulled the covers over both of them and clung to her tightly. They fell asleep curled together, and everything felt right.