A knock on the door in the small hours wakes her from fitful slumber. Natasha is alert and out of bed in an instant, Beretta in hand, already convinced that the disruption does not bode well. It takes only a glance through the peephole to confirm all of her fears.
He's a mess when she opens the door, hair out of place, his clothes rumpled and covered in dust. She knows the moment she sets eyes on him that the mission did not go to plan, the evidence is in the cut on the left side of his face and the hard look in his eyes. He's hurting physically and emotionally, she can tell by the way he favours his left side and the dark bruises that colour the exposed skin of his arms. She can taste the air of desperate anger that flavours the air around him.
The mission was meant to last a week; he shouldn't be back for another three days but she doesn't think about that as she looks up at him. She thinks about his state of mind and forms a silent prayer in the back of her throat because it's obvious to her that neither of them is going to come through the night without the storm breaking. It doesn't occur to her to fear him though, not even when she can see that he is struggling for control, not even when letting him inside means giving him permission to use her as an outlet for his pent up emotions. They've been here before, they'll be here again.
His breath is heavy, rasping on the exhale as she reaches out and pulls him into the apartment, looking up and down the hall to make sure that nobody else is there. Only when the door is closed behind them does she lower the gun, setting it down on the bookshelf to her left. "What happened?" she asks, keeping her voice low so that she doesn't disturb the neighbours on the floor below. "Are you okay?"
Clint doesn't answer but rounds on her, the movement faster than any she might expect given his condition and the obvious exhaustion that seems to bleed into the air around him. His body collides with her own, arms pinning her wrists above her head against the back of the front door. His grip is hard enough to bend bones and she hisses at the flash of pain that rushes through her, her body tensing as she considers fighting him off but this is Clint and she understands his behaviour as clearly as if it is her own. If he wants to hurt her he is more than capable, so it's obvious to her that this isn't what this display of dominance is about.
Pressing his body in tight against her own, he lifts her off her feet and pins her to the wood at her back, nightgown hitching up around her waist. Heart rate spiking, she lifts her chin and locks her eyes with his own, trying to read the emotions that she sees there. His eyes burn into hers, jaw clenching as he radiates anger and something else, something deeper. His pain when she sees it is staggering, the type of pain that she understands on a primal level and responds to in the only way she knows how - by giving herself over to him completely.
He says nothing as he claims her mouth, stubble scraping against her skin, feeding at her with lips and teeth and tongue until wariness is the last thing she is feeling. "Say yes," he begs, breath hot against her skin, making sure that she has the power, that the final choice is hers.
Natasha gives the choices that are available to her a moment of consideration, knowing that there are two sure ways to purge his anger - through fighting or through fucking - and she knows that her choice has already been made. Heart rate picking up, adrenaline flooding her, her body wakes up to a reality that steals her breath; she knows where they are headed and she she is fine with that. This isn't going to be gentle, this will be raw and violent, soul shattering even, and she craves the blistering heat of his touch, wants him to make her blood boil.
He waits for her answer, still and quiet despite the urgency that sings through him. She nods her assent, brings her mouth back to his and gives in. His kiss is unforgiving, uncompromising, and she responds by giving him the same rough treatment in return. Need roars on the air between them, hormones dulling everything but the need to feel his hands against her skin as he seeks whatever release he needs in her body.
When she melts against him, legs wrapping around his waist and holding him to her, he releases her hands so that she can wind them into his hair. His hands are all over her, his breath hot against her skin and she trembles in his grip as those familiar calloused fingers ghost up her thighs to rub against her centre. He kisses her hungrily, mercilessly, until she forgets how to breathe, lungs screaming for oxygen and body burning for more of his touch. Dizzy, she clenches her fist tighter in his hair, feels his snarl against her mouth as her nails pierce the skin of his neck and draw blood. Neither of them pull away, neither of them can.
The sound of his belt buckle hitting the wooden floor is all the warning she gets before with a single powerful thrust he pushes his way inside her. Caught off guard by the pain, she swallows an explosive curse by sinking her teeth into her own lip hard enough to draw blood. She's too tight, not quite ready for such a forceful entry and as willing as she is she needs a minute. Clint stills, breath heaving, lifts his head to kiss the taste of her blood away from her mouth and waits for her to adjust to his presence, only beginning to move when she nods that she is okay and flexes her hips against his own. His first thrust draws a low shaking breath from her, the pressure flicking the switches between pain and pleasure. Her eyes meet his and she finds that she wants more, needs to explore this dynamic even though it might leave her bruised and sore.
He starts slow, hips moving in a steady advance and retreat that turns her blood to molten metal. Natasha breathes in the scent of his skin, allows the salty taste of his skin to linger on her tongue and closes her eyes to savour the sensations. Strong fingers grip her hips hard enough to bruise and she absorbs the pain, her body translating the stimulus to something divine. Her body opens for him, giving itself over to the way that he moves in and against her. She loses herself in the familiarity of the way he feels, the way he tastes, and calls the memories of a hundred nights to her until she is all but gasping under the onslaught of remembered sensation.
He drives her hard, her body caught between his own and the door at her back, and she does her best to keep up with him. She is aware of nothing but his body up against hers, muscles taut and straining toward her, mouth nipping at her throat as he moves. There is nothing gentle about this, nothing tender, this is raw and desperate, a release of anger and pain, but she meets his every movement, matches the ferocity of his emotions with those of her own.
It doesn't take long, both of them achieving completion with a final series of punishing thrusts. Something inside her snaps and she yells as he slams his hips forward one last time, the pleasure a hairs breadth from pain, delicious and disorienting. Clint comes hard, a muffled curse the only accompaniment to his release, breath a harsh raspy thing against the skin of her throat, his body trembling in the wake of what has transpired between them. She doesn't move, doesn't speak, heart beating so hard that she can barely breathe. He doesn't withdraw from her body; she doesn't unhook her legs from around his waist. For a long moment neither of them move, neither of them speak.
After a moment she feels the difference in his body, the storm of emotions that gave fuel to his orgasmic delirium passing like the end of a hurricane and giving way to a sudden complete stillness both within and around him. With his face still buried in her neck, she registers a change in his breathing and knows that he's on the very edges of himself, lost and adrift.
"I'm here," she tells him simply, grounding him by stroking her hands over his shoulders, letting him know in only two words that she gets it, that when he isn't strong enough she will be strong enough for both of them. In her embrace and in the face of her understanding he breaks, the first rough sob escaping him as he adjusts his hold so that he cradles her more carefully, accepting the strength that she offers.
Aching and breathless, her body still pinned between his own and the door, Natasha wraps her arms around his shoulders and holds him while he cries. Her name escapes him, the desperate plea of a man who knows he is drowning and wants to be saved. She feels his pain as if it is her own, her heart clenching at the sounds of his distress and she hates the events that have brought him to his knees, and by extension bring her to her own.
His shoulders shake violently against her and she tightens her grip, kissing his forehead and whispering words of quiet reassurance to him without knowing whether they will do any good. She tries though, she has to because she worries that if she doesn't he might literally shatter apart in her arms. "Shhh," she soothes, reiterating words that she uses over and over when he is lost in nightmares, his subconscious melding past and present in a kaleidoscope of remembered horror and imagined failures. "Shhh it's okay, it's okay. Come back Clint, come home to me."
Only later, after pushing and prodding him into bed, does she allow her own emotions to surface. With his body curled into her side, she finds reassurance in the rise and fall of his chest, in the heat of his skin, but she can't sleep. He shifts position as if he can sense her thoughts, though exhaustion stops him from surfacing from his slumber. She takes his hand, running gentle fingers through his hair with her free hand in an attempt to soothe him. He doesn't wake but his fingers tighten around her own and it is all she needs to anchor her in reality, his voice a honey and gravel sigh as a single word, her name, escapes him. Her own words escape her on a voice as soft as breath, the long familiar words of a half forgotten Russian lullaby finding their rhythm and merging her history and present in a cleansing rush, the words of comfort and love seemingly appropriate given the circumstances.
It doesn't take long for him to settle against her but Natasha, unwilling to let him out of her sight, stays awake for the rest of the night.