Hey there, lovely readers! We are Kyo and Saga of xCrazyCollabx and this is our first fanfiction on the site that we wrote together and we wanted to kick it off with one of our new favorite couples!
Warnings: mature content, graphic sex, scenes of blood and violence, cursing (all that good stuff!)
DISCLAIMER: We do not own any of the characters, they belong solely to Marvel! (And a good thing too, otherwise this stuff would go on ALL THE TIME)
Without further ado, enjoy!
Clint Barton strode through pristine white hallways, his footsteps echoing off the walls as he made his way to Director Fury's office. He wondered at the back of his mind what was so urgent, but his face remained impassive as he approached the door. His face never gave away the curiosity that was eating away at him. He knocked firmly and waited to be called inside.
"Come in." Came the director's voice and he opened the door, stepping in and shutting it firmly behind him. Director Fury was a man of pure power, though he didn't have some superhero abilities; his stare was one that cut one to the core, the kind of stare that said: "you're going to do what I say and do it with a goddamned smile on your face."
"Have a seat Agent Barton." The man nodded toward a slick, leather seat, and Barton took a seat with the elegance required of every personal of S.H.I.E.L.D. "Has Coulson briefed you at all?" Fury questioned, a tan colored file sat on the desk in front of him, no papers sticking out, perfectly in order.
"No sir, he has not." Clint replied, voice void of all emotions except the pristine one of a soldier ready for command. Fury let out an annoyed sigh, not good. The man glanced down at the folder briefly, before sliding it across dark wood towards him, "I'm sending you on a mission, Agent. You see, a spider has been weaving its web for far too long, dabbling in things it shouldn't and pissing off a lot of higher up people who I really don't want pissed off." Fury sighed once more and looked up from whatever fascinated him with his desk to speak again, "I want that spider dead Clint, I want it exterminated, and you will do just that. Am I understood?" Clint nodded firmly, reaching out and sliding the file closer.
"Yes, sir." He answered. Nick Fury nodded. Clint Barton was his best agent, the only man he would ever send on a mission like this. He was the only one who could take down the Black Widow, the deadliest rogue assassin he'd ever encountered. Threats were useless and every other agent he sent was shipped back to him in a body bag. He should've been worried for Agent Barton but that man's skills were unrivaled. He would have no problems terminating her, "Where am I headed?" The man asked.
"Russia. You have one hour to look over the file and get ready. I want this done quickly; I want you back by morning." Clint nodded again before standing from the chair, "I'll see you shortly, Agent Barton." Fury spoke before Clint lifted the file with long fingers and walked from the room, headed quickly back to his room to look over the file and get packed. Russia's climate was nothing he needed to pack lightly for so he had to break out the winter clothes for this one. He took a seat at his desk, leaning back in a leather swivel chair, folder in hand.
Natalia Alianovna Romanova, from Russia, a woman with a past that made him quirk an eyebrow, not to mention a laundry list of skills and targets she'd already assassinated. There was also a picture of her, the name "Natasha Romanoff" scrawled in black `ink. One of her aliases, no doubt. The photo looked like a mug shot, her bright burgundy curls framing her face where a smirk rested on pink lips that made him want to smash her face in. He'd do that later. After all, he wasn't the type of man who was afraid to hit a woman if she deserved it. He stood, tossed the folder on his desk, and grinned, a grin that was shown to hardly anyone. It looked like he'd actually have a bit of a challenge on this mission. Not to mention, the opportunity to rid the world of a crafty little spider.
"Looks like you're in for a bit of fun, Agent Barton." He chuckled to himself as he went to suit up; after all he needed to look good if he was going to be heading to an exclusive party, where the famous Black Widow would be.
Stepping onto the Plane, Phil Coulson surveyed the agent's choice of attire, his tight dark slacks and thick wool coat, scarf wrapped around his neck. He only assumed the man wore a suit to attend the party where Romanoff would be.
"Are you ready to go, Agent Barton?" He asked, standing and giving the man's hand a firm shake before taking the bag that was slung over his shoulder, laying it in one of the seats.
"Always ready for a bit of action Agent Coulson." Clint chuckled, as he moved to take his seat and crossed slender, but powerful legs. Phil chuckled and took a seat by him, "Get some rest, Agent. You'll need it dealing with this wild card."
"I do believe you're right." Clint replied, before the plane began to move and take to the clear, blue skies, taking him to Russia, where his target waited. The trip there was long, but having Phil to talk to wasn't bad They talked about the Black Widows skill sets, the best way to take her down, and Clint already had a good idea on how he would do it. The Black Widow was known for setting her sights on high ballers. S.H.I.E.L.D had created for him an alias. One that was dabbling in all the wrong places just like her, it had been pretty simple. Stir up some rumors, take out a few of the men the Black Widow associated with, slip in Clint's alias name, and bam, he was known around her little web, and he was sure when they crossed paths, she'd be out for blood, and he would give it to her. Her own, spilled out on the carpet of her pent house, hell, maybe he'd even do a little crafty spider design just for her.
He grinned when the pilot's voice came over the intercom, "We will be landing in Moscow, Russia shortly. Please fasten your seatbelts until we have safely landed." The voice crackled in and out, before fading out completely. Seat belts were buckled, the plane began to descend, and the beauty that was Russia in the winter began to rise from the mist, like some other worldly place. He stared, mouth agape as the looming skyscrapers and spires came into view, the morning glow of sunlight glinting from glass and shining metal, brilliant reds and golds spraying against the horizon like the delicate splash of a wave against smooth stones. Seeing the beauty of the landscape almost made him regret the reason he was there and the extremely short time he was allowed to stay. He could have stayed there forever, gazing upon the majestic skyline of Moscow. But he couldn't forget his mission; it was his number one priority. Maybe one day he could return and admire it more. But for now, his mind was focused on Natasha Romanoff.
Disembarking from the plane, he nodded a goodbye to Phil, striding over to the sleek black car that awaited him, its windows dark enough that he need not worry about anyone seeing in. The driver opened the door and he slid into the warm back seat, sighing as he let the hot air sink into his skin. Sliding off his jacket, he revealed his blood red dress shirt and tight leather jacket that molded to his muscled biceps and torso, straps littering the arms and back, deadly blades hidden from sight but easily accessible to him. The dress shirt was undone at the top, void of a tie; he wasn't one to wear those boring, glorified nooses. He slid on a pair of black leather gloves that hugged his skin but provided fluid movement of his fingers. He had to be ready, he was sure she'd put up a fight. Cornered mutts always bared their teeth in the ugliest ways. He gave the signal for the driver to start the car and soon the engine was roaring to life and he was headed toward the party, night had settling around him.
The streets of Moscow were crowded, people running, and yelling soundless things at each other. Children pointing at things that only seemed to interest them. It took about thirty minutes total to arrive at the large venue where the party would be held. Lights glowed faintly along a walkway, in which the car pulled up to. The engine was shut off and the driver came around and opened his door. He slid him a tip, ensuring that his things would be taken to the same pent house where Ms. Romanoff was staying. He wouldn't be staying there long, but he needed to be in close range to her; he needed his..."supplies" within range. Guests mingled around the entrance way and he was frisked at the door by a man with beefy hands. His weapons wouldn't be found, but he got a kick out of the way women's eyes slid over his body, eating him up like he was some fucking piece of cake. However, he didn't bother himself with women; they always seemed to compromise his job and always asked questions they shouldn't. Finally, he was allowed through, his name being on the list.
The entrance hall was large, red and gold accents touched everything, from the couches, to the bar. Hints of black slipped in among it all and he quite enjoyed that; he hated too many bright things. He tensed and nearly bared his teeth when out of the corner of his eye, a woman swayed toward him. It wasn't Black Widow, but he decided he wouldn't cause a disturbance over the way she slid long fingers over the shoulder of his jacket, her voice thick and heavy with the rolls and crescendos of the English language, through foreign lips painted a cherry red.
"Welcome, Mr. Morse," She smiled, and he gave a polite grin, though his eyes scanned the room for the Widow. The woman's next sentence flew over his head when his eyes locked on his mark. She had just entered and his vision narrowed down to her, no one else, just her. Red hair pinned up in an almost 50's fashion, lips painted a dark red, as if she had smeared on some poor soul's blood. Hips swayed like a viper, poised and ready to strike, and the dress she wore was enough to send any sane man's blood boiling to a dangerous level of cardiac arrest. It was black, lined with silver that ran in intricate designs from every angle. Slits ran up each side, just stopping at hips, and he wondered if she had even bothered to wear underwear under it. Long legs were bare, no stockings, no blemishes, with a pair of black stilettos to match. Sliding away from the woman, whose lips pursed into a pout at his immediate loss of interest in her, he made his way through the sea of people as the notorious Black Widow was greeting grinning men that dripped sleaze and the scantily clad women on their arms that made him shudder with disgust. When he neared her, her pale green eyes slid to him immediately. She was good to have heard him approach through the dull roar of chatter and the swimming ocean of bodies. She smiled slowly, politely, though it was clear she had no idea who he was. He reached out, planting a kiss on her smooth cheek, the dusky scent of amber clinging to her skin as he laid a hand on the small of her back. Her hands came up to rest on his shoulders, a feather soft kiss pressing to his cheek.
"Hello there, Ms. Romanoff." He breathed gently.
"I'm embarrassed, I don't seem to remember you." She chuckled low, the sound throaty and lacking any humor. Her voice was breathy, like a summer breeze, barely grazing his skin, "Have we met?"
"We have now. I'm Francis Morse." He felt her tense then, recognizing his name in an instant as the one she'd heard floating around everywhere she turned, but her composure was quickly regained.
"Mr. Morse...how lovely to finally meet you. I have heard so much about you." She pulled back, her eyes darkened to pools of deep jade, irritation swirling in their depths and he was sure she'd have liked nothing more than to slit his throat right then and there. But she couldn't risk that. As many times as she'd avoided capture, there was no way she could bribe or threaten that many witnesses. It was too risky for her and they both knew it.
"It's a pleasure to meet you as well." He smirked, watching the way her plastered on smile never faltered, never changed, her mask never falling, "I hope we get a chance to speak more before this little party ends."
"Indeed." She purred, sliding her hands down his chest before turning away from him and striking up a conversation with a tall man standing back, away from the chattering people. Clint knew he was some kind of bodyguard right away, probably being ordered to tail him during the party and track and kill him when he left. He slipped away from the group as he headed for the grand, and highly pretentious, white and gold marble staircase behind him. He could keep a better eye on her from above and stay out of her grunt's crosshairs more easily. All he had to do now was wait for her to leave.
He nearly laughed, the bodyguard was trying to find him among the people there, he saw the curse fall past lips, and he grinned viciously, that woman clearly didn't realize how matched she was. Nearly an hour later, he watched her head toward the entrance, and he left his hiding spot, among the shadows, and darkness he so loved to frequent. He watched her slid into a slick, white limousine and waited for his car to pull up, a new car, just for safety measures, the still silent driver easily tailing the limo, like it was some damn video game for grade-schoolers. They pulled into the garage of the hotel and he gave the man his tip, heading inside and straight to an elevator, pressing the button to take him to the top floor. As the door opened with a ding, he exited the small space. The game was on, the board was set, and he would be sure to come out victorious. He entered his room, unlocked it with a key he had been given much earlier, shutting the door firmly behind him. A computer was set up on a desk and he strode over to it, entering a password and watching as the well lit room of Natasha Romanoff came into view, the woman having just entered. He had shots from every angle, and every room. An agent had managed to make it in, and set up cameras, only barely making out, narrowly missing having his head chopped off by a rigged trap. Apparently the woman had many installed throughout the room. He planned to bypass them all, every last one of them, like a stroll through a park. He watched her check her traps and search her room, though he knew she'd find everything in order.
She went to her computer as well, set up on a small desk sitting by an expansive window, the lights of the city spilling over the floors. Switching to another angle, he zoomed in on her screen, chuckling in amusement at the file named "Morse" she was accessing. Her information was pathetic, no longer than a page of intelligence. No more than Fury had allowed to be circulated about him. She was typing furiously about how he'd evaded her sharpest guard and how he'd been sent onto the streets to find him in the black car he'd been seen arriving in. Her pointless floundering amused him so much that he almost didn't want to kill her just yet. He wanted to stay up and watch her follow leads that would only reach a dead end. He wondered when he'd seen that pretty face contort in anger. But he had a mission and he had to begin. He only had until morning. Standing from the desk, he went to his bag and extracted the dual Kukri that lay within a sleek velvet case, slipping them into the leather sheaths he secured around his waist. He exited his room and walked silently down the hall towards hers, using the duplicate key Coulson had given him on the plane to unlock the door and step inside, thoroughly enjoying the look of shock on Romanoff's face as he shut the door casually, strolling into the room like he owned the place. She stood from her chair and he saw the pieces start to fall into place in her eyes. She was finally starting to get it.
"So..." She hummed, trailing a finger over the smooth surface of her desk as she strode around it before leaning back against it, crossing her arms over the ample-and very impressive, he'd admit-swell of her chest, "Who do you work for, Mr. Morse? Although I suspect that's not your real name." He grinned, running a leather-covered hand over the handle of his blade.
"Well, that's my secret for now, my dear." He didn't see the harm in being a bit nice to her, after all, he was here to slit her throat, and watch it rain, and gush around the quick and sharp edge of his blade. He pulled the black knife from its sheath, and walked forward, boot heels tapping lightly against wood floors as he neared her and swished the knife through the air, a trap giving way and sending a knife slicing past him, barely missing his throat, "Ah, nice trick you've got there..." He watched her eyes narrow, watched them meld into something primal, and wild. Oh, she was mad, pissed even. "What's wrong sweetheart?" He breathed low, grinning as he now stood in front of her, and inhaled the dark musk once more from her flesh. He grazed the knife against her cheek, against the smooth, ivory expanse, and he felt her tense before he drew back quickly as she drew a knife, from where, he wasn't sure. He dodged quickly, hissing as the blade nicked his cheek. She was quick, and that dark light in her eyes was still there, and he reveled in it.
They were evenly matched until he pulled a trick, something that would stun her. He reached out quickly, dropping his knife, and yanked her to him, molding his mouth to hers, nipping her lips and plunging his tongue into her mouth. He felt her tense, felt her guard drop, dumb bitch. He drove her back towards the desk, jerked wrists above her head, and handcuffed them together, looping the chain around the leg of the desk, all the while managing to still kiss her, though she had bite his lips numerous times throughout it. He yanked the knife from her grip, and drew back, his lips bleeding like he'd cut them with a razorblade. He stepped back, looking at the way her long body was stretched, bent backwards over the desk, her arms pinned above her. She thrashed like a feral beast, teeth gritted at him as she struggled fiercely against her restraints. He simply stood back and watched, smirking at her futile efforts to free herself. When she realized she couldn't escape, she stilled, not wanting to waste her energy, he suspected.
"What's the matter, sweetheart?" He taunted, picking up his blade and tossing hers to the side, well out of sight. She glared at him through her dark auburn lashes, her lips pressed into a scowl, red lipstick smeared around her mouth. He lifted a hand to wipe the blood from his lips as he neared her slowly, making sure he heard the deliberate steps until he drew closer. She remained perfectly still, watching his every move and she waited, waited for him to draw close, before she slammed a perfectly aimed kick into his stomach. The hard blow dropped him onto his ass, gripping his stomach, and she quickly flipped onto her stomach, pulling herself over the desk to crouch behind it, nudging it up enough for the chain of the handcuffs to be easily slipped underneath, freeing herself.
Clint groaned, as he rose to his feet, and growled low; he knew he'd have a pretty good sized bruise there from her goddamned high heel, "fuck..." He spat out blood, and watched as her eyes slid to her knife and she ran for it. He cursed, she was fast, but he was closer to the knife and he just barely managed to reach out and grab her hair, tangling his fingers in long strands of fiery red curls and jerking her back toward him locking a muscular arm tight around her neck. He watched as her face turned a lovely shade of red.
"Hold still, you fucking bitch." He spat and he dragged her backwards, slamming her head into the desk, until he felt her begin to go limp, though he knew she was still conscious, the flutter of eyelashes and that fucking smirk on her lips still present even as blood dripped from her forehead down her cheek. He sneered, leaned down and lapped it up, before pressing his lips to her ear, "What now, Black Widow? Me and you, we're evenly matched, no matter how much it pains me to say it." he spat low, voice filled with pure contempt as he pressed her torso harder into the desk, her arms trapped beneath her. He couldn't help leaning back slightly and gazing down at her body and the way her dress was hiked up, nearing obscene.
"It would seem so." She breathed, panting lightly from exertion, feeling his chest rising and falling just as rapidly against her back, "Seeing as how we're even, I'm sure we each have questions we'd like answered." Clint growled low, but he couldn't disagree.
"I guess we do." He saw her smirk widen then and just as he opened his mouth to ask what the hell she was smiling about, her hips were thrust back against his own, locking the words in his throat.
"So...I guess it's true what they say about...adrenaline." She hummed, turning her head to grin at him with those tantalizingly swollen lips, "Or...are you just that hard from manhandling me?" With a deep growl, he gripped her upper arms and yanked her up before shoving her down onto the small futon by the doors that lead out to the balcony. She turned her head and gazed up at him, green eyes dark, as she laughed, low and smoky, "Are you going to fuck me, Mr. Morse?" She rolled onto her side, long legs falling apart, and he moved to crouch in front of her.
"I'm not into women, so close your fucking legs." His voice sounded bored, void of all emotion, as he gazed down at her with dark blue eyes, "I'm not here to fuck you, rape you, or do any of the other dirty and obscene things that I am sure are floating in your head, Ms. Widow. No...I'm here to kill you, I'm not going to fuck you." She laughed, and gazed at him through long eyelashes.
"You sound like you're trying to convince yourself, not me. What, are you gay or something?"
"I don't disclose-"
"If you are, I can still handle you, Mr. Morse. Come on now...why don't you throw away that little, cocky bitch attitude of yours." She glared hard at him this time, "Because I really hate, cocky bastards who can't back up-"
He dug his knife into her leg, dragged the blade down her thigh, and hissed low, "I warned you...I'm not like every other man." She sucked in a breath and while he'd never admit it aloud, he had to give her credit; her lips remained twisted into that smirk that made him furious, made him want to pin her down and slam her pretty face into the floor. His knife was at her throat next, his face no more than an inch from hers, "Wipe that goddamn smirk off your face, Romanoff." he snarled, watching as she gazed at him steadily.
"What's your real name?" She questioned with an almost coy tilt of her head, wild auburn curls a mess atop her head, tangled from yanking. He didn't answer her, simply pressed the blade harder to her skin.
"I'm asking the fucking questions." He spat, "Give me the names of all your employers." She laughed, the convulsing of her throat causing the blade to slice open her skin, a thin droplet of blood trickling down her neck.
"That doesn't sound like a question to me." She smirked wider, "Since you didn't answer mine, however, I think I'll just call you 'cocky bastard'. How's that?" Her eyes glinted with amusement as he bared his teeth.
"Shut your fucking-" When the kick landed in his groin, he wondered when he'd remember to restrain her damned legs. He grunted, and reached out and gripped her throat, he moved to lay atop her, holding her down with his weight, "you stupid fuck..." He felt her chuckle under him, felt long legs wrap around his waist, "Tell me your name..." her voice was low and he leaned back, gazing into dark emerald depths.
"Why?"
"Because you're going to fuck me and you're going to tell me your name..." She spoke low, and her legs tightened, causing him to hiss at the pain that flared in his groin, "You seem one for pain, Mr. Morse...like I said, you're going to fuck me, because we're evenly matched and I want a little more fun, before I kill you." He didn't know why, but he leaned back, slid off his leather jacket, and tossed it aside. Climbing to his feet, suddenly too hot in the spacious room, he strode over to the balcony door and pushed it open, before turning back to the Black Widow. He lifted her easily, arms flexing with power as he carried her toward the balcony railing, the cool air chilling their skin. Why he was doing this was beyond him, but he set her down on the steady railing and ripped her dress down the front, face still impassive. She smirked at him, leaning back, so he had to grip her tight around the waist with his free hand, "You could easily kill me now..." She breathed, her hands were still cuffed, and he slid leather covered hand over one of her free breasts, tugging on the hardened pink nub.
"I can and I will Natasha..." She arched against him, pressing her breast into his hand.
"Now, tell me your name." She purred, looping the chain of the handcuffs behind his head and yanking him forward, pressing her lips harshly to his sore ones and nibbling with a fierce need that made heat pool at the base of his stomach. Growling into her lips, his hand gripped her round breast hard before a peaked nipple was pinched tight between a thumb and forefinger, causing a back to arch and lips to part in a low groan, allowing Clint's tongue to slide deep, lapping at white teeth and tangling with the slick pink muscle inside. His other hand slipped down, fingers cupping between her legs, making the woman shudder beneath his touch as he assaulted her mouth mercilessly, twisting and tweaking her nipple until she was panting into his mouth, unable to resist or even respond, save the small, circular motions of her hips and the bowing of her back. So she pressed her mouth harder to his, returning the feral kiss with an equal demanding ferocity. He growled low in his throat as he teased her through her thin underwear; he would not allow her to take control. He was running this, no matter what way you looked at it. He was going to use her and then he was going to finish his mission.
"You want to know my name?" he spat, as he released her and undid his jeans. They were too close to danger for him to worry about her trying to kill him right now; with the chain around his neck, they'd both go over. He was hard, and he saw her eyes go to look down, but he snarled at her, "Eyes up." They traveled back to his face and he stroked himself, before reaching down and moving aside the woman's underwear to slide into her. She was tight, and soaked, and he groaned as she squeezed him tight, milking his swollen cock already, "Clint." He panted as he moved his hands back to hips, driving himself deeper into slick folds, "Fuck, my name's Clint."
Emerald eyes rolled, and she tensed, fingernails clawing at the back of his neck, "Clint...nice-" she was cut off, as he slid deeper. He wasn't a virgin, he knew how to fuck women and he liked deep penetration, he liked to ram into a cervix. He groaned as he pushed himself deeper into her. He was long, and could go deeper if he wished, and right now he wanted to catch her off guard, and he would. Her moan was choked as he continued and she looked down to see he wasn't even all the way inside her, "Fuck, Clint..." She hissed, gripping the back of his neck hard, "You trying to fuck my throat with that thing?" Her long, lean legs slid around his waist. He smirked and slid a hand into her hair, gripping the tangled curls tight. He didn't want to admit it but she was gorgeous, her body and skill were unrivaled, except by his, and he was going to savor every second of this. His hands gripped her hips and he slammed his hips forward, his cock hitting her cervix hard, and she jerked against him but her face never betrayed the pain he knew she was in.
"Well, I'll give it to you, sweetheart..." He panted, yanking her head back to make her look at him, "You're the first to take my whole cock." She groaned as he rolled his hips and he fought down his moan when he felt liquid staining his pants, "And let me tell you..." His hand gripped one of her hips harder, he wanted to mark her, make her his until he had to kill her, "You're taking it like a fucking pro."
She panted and grinned, face never betraying the pain of having him ramming deep into her, working her spot, though he also drew forth exquisite pain with the pleasure he gave. This man was indeed a pro, and she reveled in the muscles she felt as she leaned into his torso, inhaling cologne and the faint smell of death and blood on his sweat soaked flesh, "Clint...fuck me hard..." she panted into his ear, and screamed when his teeth sank into her throat, piercing the flesh between shoulder and neck. He was rough, an animal, and she felt herself cumming hard around him, gushing over slacks, as he drove into her bit harder at her flesh. He was a gorgeous, cocky bastard, it wasn't like she had noticed how the handsome the man was, and for some reason had felt a small, and very miniscule regret at having to kill him. She gasped as her neck was released, and he drew back mouth smeared with blood, wide deep blue eyes dragging her in and drowning her in their depths, "I'm not going to fuck you Natasha..." He panted, even though he bent her, until she was leaning all the way back over the balcony, and he felt her tense.
"What are you-" She started but gasped when he slid back inside of her and sinking just as deep as before, pressing into her cervix relentlessly as she tried to find purchase on something but with her hands still handcuffed, she couldn't get a hold on anything. She could only dangle over the edge, watching the cars below while she was fucked mercilessly by a man sent to kill her. She'd have a hell of a story, that was for sure. She moaned when the angle caused him to rub over her spot, her legs trembling as her walls clenched around him and she could feel herself dripping.
"You're gushing like a fucking waterfall, Natasha..." He hissed out, grinning at the cry she released when his fingers pinched her swollen clit, her insides clenching and even more of that thick cum seemed to pour from her, "You always get this wet?" Clint smirked, and watched her face twist with pain and pleasure, before she gazed up at him
"Only from men who actually know how to use their dicks." Her voice was rough and he dragged her upwards and slammed into her over and over.
"Fuck, you damn bitch!" He dragged her mouth towards his, and she panted as he pumped her faster, and the pain was overpowering. It drove her to the brink of insanity as he sucked her tongue hard and forced her to take him deeper than she had any man. She was always in control, and now she was under his mercy, and she found herself cumming again, spasming around his pulsing cock before a deep groan pierced the air, and honks filled the sky. She had a feeling they were sounding due to a traffic jam. He filled her until he flowed back out, dripping down her thighs, and she panted. Yes, they were evenly matched, even in sex. Fuck. He drew back, blue depths swimming with a deep, and wild glow, "A deal, Romanoff." Had she heard him right? Her mind was foggy from the sex, from the pain that coursed through her, but she spoke like it didn't matter what he said.
"A deal?" Her chin was gripped and her head was forced back to make her look into foggy, yet hard eyes.
"If you come and work for the division I work for, I won't kill you." She blinked slowly, taking in what he was saying, "Well?" He was firm in his words as well but why was he offering this to her? Hadn't they just seconds ago been millimeters from slitting each other's throats? Far be it from her to look a gift horse in the mouth. Slipping her arms around his neck again, she gave that slow, satisfied smirk he couldn't stand.
"Tempting, Clint. First, you try to kill me. Then, you fuck me. And now you're offering me a job?" The man shrugged, his face portraying that of a man who cared about little. Very little, "Alright then. It's a deal." He pulled her from the railing and into the penthouse, pulling out his phone, he dialed Agent Coulson's number, the man's bored voice finally coming through after the second ring.
"Mission Accomplished, Agent Barton?" Coulson questioned, and Clint looked over at the grinning Black Widow, who stood there handcuffed and still alive, and replied, "Mission Accomplished."
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