A\N: Okay, so apparently, I can't get over BlackHawk or MockingHawk... or writing explicit content, when the three of them are involved. D': I'm probably going to get in so much trouble for this! I didn't even make it thatgraphic, okay, maybe I did. I don't know! Urggggh... The title was taken from one of my favorite Stars songs, One More Night, which I listened to endlessly as I wrote this.

Just in case anyone wants to know, this story contains: swearing, infidelity, two adults doing the intimate tango, and angst. The pairings are BlackHawk and MockingHawk, by the by, if I didn't make it clear.

Thanks in advance for reading and reviewing! :)

"The difference between sex and love is that sex relieves tension and love causes it." — Woody Allen

That night, on the eve of the most important day of his life, Clint came knocking at Natasha's door. There were no words exchanged between them, just heated glances, as the archer slammed the door shut behind him with his foot and snatched Natasha up in his strong arms. Their lips sealed together quickly as they held fast onto one another; their tongues greedily raiding each other's heated mouths. The kiss was fiery; blazing with years of pent-up desire and frustration. It was as intense and heady as the first time they fucked, and just as fervent and stupefying as the first time they kissed.

In this dingy room, whose air was so incredibly dense with the sharp-tasting aroma of heat and arousal—crackling with so much sensual-energy and unbridled rage that it was almost palpable—Clint began committing one of the worst acts of betrayal to his fiancée.

He was fully aware of what he was doing. Clint wasn't intoxicated and his judgment wholly intact—he just didn't give a shit. Not as he spun Natasha around and pushed her bodily against the door; or as he crushed their hips together and sucked dark hickeys in her neck—not even as she moaned his name and tore into his back with her talon-like nails.

Right now, he wasn't Clint Barton—nor was he Hawkeye or whatever other falsified identity SHIELD would have him assume—he was just a man looking to let off steam and Natasha… she was just a woman. The blonde clenched his eyes shut when his mind told him that, "No, Nat isn't just a woman… she's the woman. The one woman you've always wanted, but couldn't never, ever have."

No… no, Natasha was just a woman, he repeated to himself mentally, trying to quell the pain blossoming in his chest. She was just a woman willing to let him take everything she had, and then some, and was asking for nothing in return. She never asked for anything in return. She never asked Clint for anything because she never needed him for anything. Ever.

"Stop thinking—I need you, Barton. I need you here with me, right now." Natasha panted in his ear as she dug her nails into his shoulder and rocked her hips ardently into his. Her body was thrumming with warmth and desire. Her words sounded sickeningly sweet as they poured from her sinful, rubicund lips. Her breast heaved against Clint's chest as she breathed heavily against his neck. "I need you, please..."

Clint's chest tightened, his breath catching in his throat as he listened to her beg and moan sensually. To any other person, they would think Natasha was begging from him but Barton was no fool—or, so he thought—he knew that her pleas were not for him, but for what he could and would do to her. She never wanted him, never needed him, but always had more of him than she knew what to do with.

So, she used him—over and over again. And at first, he didn't mind because the sex was good and kept them busy between missions. But the more time they spent together, the more attached he had become—until one morning after a long night of rough, animalistic rutting, Clint awoke to a cold, empty bed and had the nerve to be upset about it. "You're so stupid… You should have known this would happen." He chastised himself more times than he could count for each time he found himself abandoned by the redhead.

Natasha could have any man she wanted; she proved it to him time after time that she could. On this assignment or that particular leave; if she didn't feel like the small-talk that usually accompanied their 'stress-release' sessions, the redhead would find some John and ride him 'til she was satisfied and discard him afterwards—like he wasn't a person with his own thoughts and feelings. But, that should have been expected; her disregard for others and her promiscuity. She was the Black Widow after all, much like her namesake, she wasn't known for being the most… loving paramour.

Clint laughed bitterly at the thought that Natasha only called him for sex because he was always available for her use—even if he wasn't actually available. Grunting as his throat began to burn with the acrid taste of resentment and anger, the blonde slammed his hands into the door above Natasha's head. Crowding even closer, he began kissing her deeply and thoroughly until she was truly breathless.

When they parted for air, Clint grabbed Natasha by the hips and lifted her from the floor. Her long, shapely legs finding their way around his waist as he pushed her more closely to the wooden door behind her. Fabric rustled as Clint unfastened his trousers and when they slipped down his legs towards his ankles, the blonde busied himself with hiking the redhead's skirt up her sides.

If their eyes met only once it was then, when Clint prepared to take her against the door. Despite looking like she was on the verge of climaxing at any moment, Natasha managed to keep her countenance plaintive, exasperated, and guarded all at the same time. Her eyes a window to the myriad of the thoughts zipping around her sharp-mind—a looking glass that she made sure to make as unreadable and opaque as possible.

"Barton… I told you—stop thinking." She commanded as she tensed her legs around him. "Just do it… get it over with—" Natasha said through gritted teeth, her voice betrayed her impatience. "—don't think about work. Don't think about the team. And don't you dare think about Morse… right now, it's just me. Just this moment. Do it."

Clint wanted to scream at Natasha, press his fingers into that long, pale neck of hers'—how dare she bring up Bobbi. He was beyond pissed off, then. If not for the fact that he had successfully put his fiancée and his guilt out of his mind on the drive over, only to have Natasha bring it back to the forefront of his mind. It was because... fuck… Barbara—she didn't occupy his thoughts nearly as much as his wife-to-be should have.

Don't get him wrong, Clint loved her with as much of his heart that was available, it was just that Natasha… oh, god—since her dossier was thrown onto his desk. No… since he first laid eyes on her—he was fucking obsessed with her.

Clint knew he and Barbara were nothing less than perfect. Not only were they a handsome couple in civilian-life, but they were also incredible in the field; working together like a well-oiled machine as they breezed through assignments like they were child's play. Fucking glorious in every aspect of their relationship; not only looking good together, working well together, and cohabitating just fine too.

He just couldn't help but revel how not perfect he and Natasha were. How they were like a blazing wildfire that seared everything in its path, burned everyone who got too close—so intense, so burning, and so uncontainable. They were two damaged individuals, their relationship was as imperfect as it could get, their approach to every operation absolutely flawed—but they were fucking amazing, nonetheless.

So… so… fucking amazing.

Clint clenched his eyes closed as grunted loudly, his hands tensed tightly around Natasha's thighs as he joined their bodies with more force than necessary. She cried out with alarm, her legs tightening around his body as she kept her skirt hitched up with barely-trembling hands. Her eyes fluttered closed as she arched into him and moaned so wantonly that Clint was left gasping.

He was going to miss this—the sex, the arguments, the yearning… the highs and lows and everything in between. He was going to miss Natasha a helluva lot more than was appropriate but at that moment in time; he loved and hated her so much that it made him nauseated—so much so that he couldn't find it in himself to care for this, for her, for anything; even though he cared so much… cared too much.

With every slick slide, with every sharp thrust, Clint got closer and closer to the end—the end of everything. As Natasha's head fell against his chest, as she panted and moaned quietly, Clint felt his eyes sting as sweat and tears mixed together and burned painfully.

As much as he just wanted to get this over with and hopefully get Natasha out of his system—as much as he wanted to go home to Barbara and spend the rest of his life hating himself for giving the redhead up like an addict kicking a bad, bad drug—he couldn't stop. Couldn't stop his savage, boiling lust from taking everything the woman had to offer; couldn't stop his heart from hammering in his chest at the thought of losing her; couldn't stop his mind from warring with itself—couldn't stop loving her if he tried. It was fucking frustrating!

Grunting, he pressed Natasha's body so close into the door that she was left gasping for breath. Her fingers dug into his jawline as the redhead pulled and clawed at his face, silently urging him into another kiss. Clint obliged for the moment, bringing their mouths together. Soon, he took on a savage pace that had her eyes rolling around behind her drooping lids. Afterwards, their lips only brushed together, never truly kissing as they thrust together in an unstable tempo.

Clint's breath was warm and smelled heavily of his beloved, unfiltered cigarettes. As he panted into Natasha's mouth, she shuddered and writhed against him; the spicy fragrance seemed to be driving her wild. Clint remembered a time when he would share his cigarettes with her, how just taking a drag from it would have her clawing at him. Pressing their foreheads together, he whispered against her lips, intentionally slow. "I'm close…"

Natasha moaned, nodding helplessly as she inhaled the musky aroma of tobacco. "Okay… okay…" She said, not knowing why she did—not knowing why she was still able to speak in the first place what with the way Clint was brutally plunging into her. Mewling especially loud, she nicked Clint's skin with her nails as she arched her back and trembled.

Clint blinked away the misty haze forming in his line of sight, wanting to see as well as feel Natasha's body tense and quiver as she climaxed. Watching the redhead as she sagged against him, Clint gritted his teeth before he too released. After disengaging from the intimate contact, they stood panting against the door for a moment.

Natasha met his gaze shortly after things calmed and the archer noted that her pretty blue irises were a naught but a thin ring in the midst of her pitch black pupils—so big, so dilated that they threatened to swallow all color in their path. Her breathing returned to normal long before his did and in usual Natasha-fashion, after everything was said and done she was grimacing. "I think you should leave…" She announced quietly, putting her hands on Clint's broad chest to push him away.

The archer nodded slowly, backing away and nudging Natasha out of the way of the door. "Yeah, I should… I've got a big day tomorrow. 'm getting married." He said with a bitter laugh.

Natasha looked more hurt than she would have ever let on. "Yeah… you are. Congratulations, Barton." She mumbled, leaning against the wall by the door.

He opened the door slowly as he stared at the redhead gloomily. "Will you be there… at the ceremony?"

She shook her head no. "Too risky. I'm not nearly crazy enough to fuck with her head, like she does mine."

Clint felt his heart drop into his stomach, he looked away. "Good." He said, before leaving.

Back at his apartment, Clint was filled with shame and self-loathing. Showering the smell of sex and Natasha off himself the best he could, the archer didn't hear the bathroom door click open—didn't hear Barbara enter the room, didn't know she was even home until the blonde flushed the toilet and went on to wash her hands.

"Long night?" She asked over the roar of rushing water. Clint hung his head and let the spray of the shower drench his head and showers. As the steaming water pelted his flushed skin, he hummed lazily in vague agreement.

Barbara pulled the curtain back and Clint almost startled when the blonde pulled him into a gentle embrace. She was still clothed in her over-sized t-shirt, but as the fabric grew more and more damp under the steady dribble of water, Clint could feel the warmth of her body pressed against his. He clenched his teeth as he felt himself become aroused again. He wasn't young anymore, though—he didn't think he had it in him to do anything more than sleep.

"Are you coming to bed, anytime soon?" Barbara whispered in his ear.

Clint shook his head gently, feeling Barbara's soft lips on the back of his neck. "Nah, 'm too tired to fool around." He answered drearily.

The blonde laughed sweetly as she rubbed soothing circles into Clint's shoulder-blades. "Alrighty, then, too tired for sex." She sounded playfully skeptical. Clint felt worried, and he couldn't put his finger on the reason. Probably because he was pretty sure she knew what he had gotten up to just hours before.

Clint's thoughts skidded to a halt, as Barbara reached passed him and turned the knobs on the shower until the water shut off. Turning him around to face her with two soft but wholly capable hands on his shoulders, Barbara rolled her eyes at him when the archer yawned unconvincingly against the back of his hand. "Okay, Mr. Morse, if you're truly so tired then you can go to bed and leave me to put the finishing touches on the flower arrangements."

Clint sighed as Barbara stepped out of the shower and pulled two fluffy towels off the rack. Throwing one to him and wrapping the other around herself, she left the bathroom with a sway of her hips. Clint exited the shower and began wrapping the towel around his waist. He immediately grimaced as the thick cotton chaffed against his stirring hardness. "Damn it… I guess I'm younger than I thought." He quickly unraveled the towel and actually startled this time when Barbara peeked into the bathroom unexpectedly with a thick tome-like catalogue of flowers in her hands.

"Tch… And you said you were too tired to have sex." She joked, tucking the book under her arm. Dragging him out of the bathroom and towards the bedroom, Barbara smiled.

Drowning under the weight of everything, Clint felt his overtaxed mind shut off to keep from melting down. Immediately afterwards, he found peace.

As the archer picked out white Chrysanthemums—and then was told by Bobbi how they were not going to use them at their wedding because they were funeral flowers and death was the last thing she wanted anyone to think about on their 'special-day'—Clint wondered if this moment of happiness and bliss was just the calm before the real storm began.

The storm that would ultimately tear Barbara and an idyllic-life with her from him—the storm that would send him chasing after Natasha in a way so violent, that he never wanted to think of it.

Until then—until the rumbling storm-clouds came rushing over the horizon—Clint wouldn't think on it too much. Reclined on the bed, with Barbara's head on his chest and her flaxen hair tickling his chin as they flipped through the pages of the catalogue, he daydreamt of a less complicated life with either of the two women—because, seriously, he could see it going either way.