your mileage may vary

by Nonymos (ao3)

Natasha was used to having men literally at her feet on a regular basis. Even out of her latex and leather, she was still a pro Domme, and a damn good one at that. She knew how to draw firm boundaries, how to negotiate hardcore and extreme scenes, and how to demand and impose respect. So she was absolutely not nervous over coffee.

The doorbell rang and she jumped to her feet, tugging down her shirt, hiking up her jeans. After checking through the spyhole, she unlocked her door and pulled it open wide.

“Hi,” Clint said, looking almost like he’d gotten there by accident. He was wearing a threadbare purple t-shirt, old grey jeans and derelict sneakers, as always when he wasn’t working.

“Hey." She was smiling without thinking. It didn't happen to her that often. "Come on in.”

Clint smiled back and ducked inside. “Barnes, um—he isn’t there, right?”

“At Steve’s for the whole week.”

“Right. Good.” Clint suddenly froze. “Are you allergic to dogs?”

She raised an eyebrow. “I am not.”

“Oh, good. Because I uh—I have my dog at home. For the month.”

“For the month?”

“One of my friends sort of stole him one day and now we share custody. It’s a long story. Anyway, I wore the same clothes yesterday, so I might still have dog hair on me.” He blinked. “I immediately regret saying that.”

Natasha was thankful her job had graced her with an excellent poker face. “It’s okay, Barton, I already knew you’re a slob.”

He answered with another bashful grin, then hopped onto her counter to sit there. Clint might have also been raised by dogs—but Natasha found she didn’t mind at all.

“Coffee?” she offered.

Clint brightened. “Hell yeah.”

She nodded at the TV. “Die Hard?”

“I love you,” Clint said emphatically.

The first time he’d said it had weirded her out, but Clint had rushed to explain he always said he loved everybody and their cousin, it was casual, super casual, and please do not stress about it, and don’t think either that he didn’t love her—not that he did, it would be crazy, they’d only known each other for a couple of weeks, but he really did like her, though of course she knew that already—

Natasha had been wheezing with laughter long before he was done, and he’d finally stopped talking mid-sentence, looking embarrassed and a bit relieved. Now she got declarations of love every time they saw each other. He apparently thought she’d learned to tune them out, but it wasn’t true; she noticed each one.

Poker face. So damn useful.

“You know, we could also, like, go out and stuff sometimes,” Clint said when she gave him the coffee mug.

“We could,” she agreed. “I’m going to the Hispanic Society of America tomorrow. They opened a new exhibition. Wanna come?”

He blinked at her. “Uh. Okay?”

“If that’s not your thing—”

“No, no, I’d like that,” he said quickly. “I don’t usually… get invited to that kind of stuff? But, um, it could be nice.”

She grinned at him. “It’s a date.”

*

Was it a date, though?

They were hanging out a lot, and Clint was on the fast track to become one of Natasha’s closest friends, which was a surprise all on its own. As for the romantic aspect of things—he struck that chord in her effortlessly, probably without even realizing it. Definitely because he wasn’t trying. It would have been as easy to kiss him as it was to laugh with him. But every time they veered closer to any kind of intimacy, he scrambled back to safer waters. Natasha didn’t push; she knew a safeword when she saw one.

The next morning, Clint showed up at her door in a three-piece suit.

“I know I’m overdressed,” he said before she even said hi, “but it was that or yesterday’s jeans.”

“The ones with dog hair?”

Clint’s mouth opened, but nothing came out. Natasha leaned on the doorjamb with a smile. “Nobody cares anymore what you wear to a museum, Clint.”

“I thought you might,” he mumbled.

“Oh, but I do. Very much. Are you sure you can handle black tie, though? Because I’m warning you, I’m going to dress to match.”

He blinked at her.

“This is your last chance to go for casual chic,” she insisted.

His face split in a relieved grin. “Bring it on.”

Natasha made him wait in the living room while she dug through her considerable wardrobe. A lot of her clients had gifted her with clothes they’d like her to wear, or just because. She picked black Louboutin pumps—the sole was the exact same color as her hair—a black satin dress with a heart-shaped cleavage, and a thin white gold chain with earrings to match. When she came back out, Clint was getting coffee and completely missed the mug, pouring it right down the floor.

“Shit—” Thankfully it only splashed his shoes. “Um. Wow. Now I feel underdressed.”

“You flatterer. I don’t even have make-up on yet.” She watched as he cleaned up the spill. “Do you want some, by the way?”

He looked lost. “Do I want… make-up?”

“Sure.”

“I’m not gay.”

Natasha sent a brief prayer of thanks that Steve hadn’t been there to hear this. “I didn’t say you were. Do you want some or not?”

“I…” Clint looked completely nonplussed. “Do you want me to wear make-up?”

She’d made him uncomfortable. “It’s okay, just forget it. I only asked for fun.”

“No, um, no,” he said hurriedly. “I was surprised is all. Um. Let’s give it a try?”

“You don’t have to.”

“No, I wanna.” Now that his confusion was gone, he seemed genuinely curious, if a bit hesitant. Obviously, he’d never been offered anything like this. “Won’t I just look stupid, though?”

“Are you questioning my skill?” she asked coldly, which made him laugh.

He was a complete beginner and obviously spooked by feminization, so Natasha kept it simple. No dark mascara on fair lashes, no eyeshadow, no lipstick. Just a black line of crayon under his eyes, thin but very dark. It made the color of his irises pop, an incredibly vivid green-blue.

“Done.”

“Already?”

He looked at himself in the mirror and blinked.

“Oh. Wow. This isn’t what I expected.” He angled his head. “Dude, I look… really good.” He sounded almost indignant about it.

She grinned and kissed him on the cheek. “I’m glad you like it.”

Again she felt something in him recoiling, like every time she got too close; but at the same time he beamed at her, and it looked genuine. The make-up really did suit him. She put her crayon back and poked him in the head.

“Now move, I have to do mine.”

*

It was a Sorolla exhibition, with a focus on his best impressionist pieces. Clint turned out to be deeply into impressionism, though by his own admission it was his first encounter with it; he kept stepping closer to the paintings, almost touching his nose to them, and then stepping back across the entire room to see them from afar.

“Look, just look,” he called out. “See the little bit of ocean there? It looks like a high-def picture. It’s ridiculous! Look at all these details! But then you get close to this thing—” He did, striding across the room, “—and you see it’s thick black strokes. Just a mess of paste. It shouldn’t be possible. And yet when you step back, it’s like you’re right there by the sea! That’s just goddamn magic!”

He spoke loudly, with sweeping gestures, as frustrated as he’d been witnessing his own reflection and the unexpected beauty he’d found there. When a discreet lady in museum grey trotted close to them, Clint seemed to notice he’d been yelling his admiration for all to hear and went stiff. But she only smiled at them.

“Are you a private collector?” she asked Clint.

Clint boggled at her.

Natasha took his arm and gave the woman her highest-priced smile. “Don’t spread the word, we’re just looking.”

The lady trilled a laugh. “I gather you’re familiar with Sorolla.”

“Clinton actually owns an early piece of his,” Natasha said, before throwing a simpering look his way. “Isn’t that right, darling?”

“That’s—uh, correct,” Clint stammered.

“Really?” The lady was ecstatic. “Which one?”

Natasha was ready to step in again, but Clint beat her to it. “Just a preparatory sketch of a little rowboat. It’s been in my family for generations.”

“Wonderful, wonderful. Well.” She beamed at them. “We’re very glad to have you here. Enjoy your visit.”

She walked away. Natasha raised an eyebrow at Clint. “It’s been in my family for generations?”

“Look, you put me on the spot.”

“Now you see what happens when you overdress, Mr. Collector.”

“Said the one playing the trophy wife.”

She smirked. “Seriously, where did you get that rowboat thing? You were so natural I almost bought it myself.”

Clint shrugged. “It’s just something I read in the other room. I figured the dude must’ve sketched more than one rowboat in his lifetime, what with the thousand sea paintings.”

“Well, well. Nicely done, Clinton.”

Clint looked pleased, though he frowned right after. “That’s such a lame name for a spy.”

“What’s your middle name, then?”

He winced. “Francis.”

“That’s even worse.”

“I know, right?” He took her arm again. "C’mon, let’s fuck off before she figures out I’m barely literate and wearing my only suit.”

*

“Man. And I always thought museums were a bore,” Clint said, undoing his tie one-handed.

It tugged at his collar and exposed the line of his throat. The suit strained a bit around his shoulders and arms, hinting at rolling muscle underneath. Clint was something of an impressionist piece himself; a mess, but only at first glance.

“Depends on the company.” Natasha smiled at him. “You’ve got a good eye.”

“Aw, don’t laugh at me.”

She blinked. “I’m not.”

“C’mon, I think I made it pretty clear I don’t know shit about art.”

Natasha flicked his face; he took it with a flinch and a smile. “Who said anything about knowing shit?” she said. “I’m talking about what you saw. You know how to look at things, Barton.”

He shook his head, looking away, but the smile was still on his face.

They had such a good day it seemed to vibrate around them as they walked back to Natasha’s apartment. By the time they got there, the lines of Clint’s suit were completely rumpled—he had apparently forgotten he was wearing it—and Natasha had taken off her pumps.

“You’re crazy,” Clint kept saying. “You can’t just walk barefoot on a New York sidewalk!”

“It’s just one street, don’t be a baby.”

They went up the stairs giggling like teenagers and stopped in front of Natasha’s door.

“You look like a panda,” she said. “Next time you're wearing make-up, remember not to rub your eyes.”

“But I needed to rub them! How do you guys do it all day?”

She got the door open and headed for her bedroom. “Go take a shower,” she said over her shoulder, “I’ve got some normal dude clothes in here somewhere.”

“God, thank you.”

“Want a beer?”

“I love you.”

“And Die Hard 2?”

“I worship you,” he yelled.

That made her smile. That’s not how you do it, she almost called back, but then she might have to explain the joke. For now she still tried to tread carefully.

*

The dress-up expeditions became kind of their thing.

Most of the time, they saw each other in the evening after work, when they were both beat; so they just collapsed to watch movies and drink whatever was on hand. James was always happy to join them when he was around—he and Clint got along like a house on fire. (James sometimes threw a questioning glance Natasha’s way, but didn’t push. She liked that in a roommate.) But whenever Clint and Natasha both had the day off, they dressed up and went to all sorts of artsy events.

Clint quickly developed a taste for it. He liked visual arts most of all, and unlike most beginners, he tended to favor abstract pieces. Natasha was also delighted at how good he was at the spy thing. Everywhere they went, they played at being rich and famous in a vague sort of way which never failed to arouse the curiosity of people around them. Clint’s improvisations were deceptively simple, and nobody ever saw through his game. While Natasha liked to multiply personas, Clint always played the same guy, sharpening his character to a fault.

He also became surprisingly interested in make-up, which just fed into his newfound fascination for color and shape. Shopping for foundation with him and debating the merits of golden eyeshadow was the most fun Natasha had had in ages. He was still pretty shy about going out in public with blatant eyeliner, which meant he was quickly becoming an expert in nude make-up, texting her tutorial links at every hour of the day. At first she was worried he was doing it only to please her, but after the fifth Instagram nude makeover video in a row (“nat look!!! this one is made by a guy!!!!!!”) she stopped worrying.

Clint’s only hang-up was the opera, which he’d hated—admittedly mostly due to his hearing aids.

“And honestly, the story was stupid. Blind princess in the desert just conveniently retrieves her sight when the right guy comes along? Bullshit.”

“It’s one of dumbest operas out there,” Natasha approved. “And I’ve seen a few.”

“How come? Isn’t that like crazy expensive?”

“I’ve got a few clients who get off on that kind of thing.”

“Buying you shit?” At Natasha’s nod, Clint sighed. “Man, your job is way better than mine.”

At first she had been surprised he wasn’t more averse to her line of work. She’d prodded him about it and he’d simply blinked at her. I know it’s just your job, he’d said. I’m not an idiot.

And that was true. Clint was a lot of things, but stupid definitely wasn’t one of them, though he tried very hard to make it seem so.

*

Despite many opportunities for a terribly dapper first kiss, they were in ratty t-shirts the first time it happened.

James was at Steve’s again, so they had all the space they needed to loudly and slowly die of heat. Natasha had tied up her hair in a sweat bun and stretched out on the couch. Clint was lying on the floor, insisting it was slightly cooler than other surfaces in the apartment.

“Why don’t you have air conditioning,” he moaned.

“Do you?” she said darkly, fanning herself with a magazine.

“No, but…” He pulled himself up and draped himself over the couch. “Nat?”

“Yes?”

“Can I take my pants off?”

She made a grandly indifferent gesture. “Go right ahead.”

He had to painfully peel them off himself before he was finally standing in his boxers—purple with white polka dots. Natasha wasn’t above ogling from the corner of her eye. Clint slouched and slumped and shuffled his feet all the time, but he looked like a goddamn meal. His t-shirt was sticking to his back with sweat, clinging to his arms and the solid line of his shoulders.

“Fuck it,” Natasha said. “I’m taking them off too.”

One minute later, she was in her panties and they were both sitting side by side on the couch. If this was a movie, thought Natasha, this would be a convenient opportunity for sex. But in a movie, plastic objects wouldn’t have been slowly melting in the corners. She was too hot to even think of moving. At least looking at Clint didn’t take any effort.

“Guess this is how we die,” she said.

“Guess so.”

There was a numb silence. Then Clint sat up, tension seeping in the line of his shoulders for no apparent reason. “Hey, uh—”

She straightened on the couch, wincing when her thighs unstuck themselves from the fake leather. “What’s up?”

“I just, um.” He looked up at her and repeated, “Um.”

And then he leaned in.

Natasha felt a sudden thrill race up her spine. They’d been not-dating for almost six months now, and she’d always suspected something like that would happen, though she couldn’t have said exactly what, or how, or when. And it was now: Clint angling his face, hesitant, waiting for her to come meet him in the middle.

She did, and it was like the room had cooled to the exact temperature of their skin. The kiss was stubbly since Clint forgot to shave every other day, but she didn’t mind. She put her hands on his face to scrape her nails along his jaw. It was an amazing contrast the slick feeling of his tongue. He ran a hand up her back, bunched the wet fabric in his hand. He was a slow kisser, letting himself be explored before exploring in return. Natasha was only just beginning to really enjoy herself when Clint suddenly pulled back and stared at her like he’d realized she was someone else.

“I, uh,” he said. “Maybe I shouldn’t—uh—”

He got up and put his flip-flops back on, already reaching for the doorknob. “I think I forgot to feed my dog. Um. Bye.”

In a second he was out the door and hurrying down the stairs.

 “Your pants!” Natasha yelled after him, though of course he didn’t come back.

*

“Wow,” James said. “And he just walked right out in his underwear?”

“Yep.”

“So that’s why he was so weird at work today. Barely said hi.” James took a closer look at the pants she’d draped across a chair and frowned. “Hey, those are my sweatpants!”

“Well, I wasn’t gonna give him mine.”

He flopped on the couch next to her and reached for the vodka to pour himself a shot. Steve must have done rope suspension with him; there were marks on his biceps that hadn’t faded, though they must be a few hours old by now. There were probably going to last for two or three days. Natasha wondered how they’d taken his prosthetic into account, visualizing several different positions in her head, and realized James had asked her something.

“Sorry, what?”

“I said, are you okay?” he repeated.

Very few people ever asked Natasha that question; her image as an ice queen Domme played a big part in it. But James had seen her at her worst in college—he’d literally held up her hair while she was puking once—and wasn’t impressed by wings and heels, no matter how sharp. Moving in with him had been one of the best decisions she’d ever made.

“Oh, yes. I’m fine,” she said. “It was a long time coming.”

They sipped vodka in silence, staring at the wall.

“Ever play with him?” James finally asked.

“No.” And Natasha knew there was something there. Clint never asked about kink. He’d shown himself curious and easy-going about everything else, including the nature of Natasha’s job and the dozen new interests she’d thrown his way; he was always game for venturing out of his comfort zone. Except for that one thing.

She had been patient, but now that he had literally run out on her, the time for waiting was over.

“So what are you gonna do about it?” James went on.

“I’m going to give him a few days to come around,” Natasha said. “And if he doesn’t, I’ll hunt him down myself.”

“It’s terrifying to be your friend,” he said before clinking their glasses.

*

Clint did not, in fact, come around. Natasha was nothing if not a woman of her word; after seven days of radio silence, she went to Clint’s apartment and knocked on his door.

Loud and happy barks answered her.

“No—Lucky, calm down, boy, c’mon.” He opened the door just a crack. “Um. Hi.”

She raised her eyebrows. “Are you going to let me in?”

He swallowed, then closed the door to take off the safety chain, before opening it wide. His dog happily bounded towards Natasha and tried to put his paws on her shoulders.

“Hey, hey, calm down,” she said, bringing him down to pet him. “There we go. Who’s a good boy? Oh, you are.”

The dog was ecstatic, tongue lolling, tail wagging, and she noticed he was missing an eye. It was just like Clint to adopt a slightly messed-up dog. Still crouching down to scratch the dog’s neck, she looked up at Clint.

He was wearing pajama pants and a shapeless t-shirt, hair sticking out every which way, like he’d run his fingers through it too many times. There were dark circles under his eyes, and he was holding himself very stiffly, still gripping the doorknob.

His posture rang an alarm at the back of her mind. He wasn’t just sheepish; he was tense, shoulders tight, and when she got up he took a step back. She noticed he was—perhaps subconsciously—positioning himself so the dog would stay between them.

“Clint,” Natasha began.

“Look, I’m sorry, all right?” he said quickly. “I’m a bad person, I know, pulling that crap on you—and I’m not gonna try to make excuses for myself, I should know how to act like a grown-up by now—”

“Stop. Stop.” She reached out for him. “Clint—”

He eyed her hands warily. She waited. Eventually, he cautiously reached back and took both of them in his. She squeezed tight.

“Clint.” She mulled it over for a second, but she’d never been a very tactful person. She either said nothing or spoke her mind. “I am never going to hit you.”

He swallowed thickly.

“Wow. Ok.” He let out a shuddery breath and looked away. “Guess I’m that transparent.”

“No, I’m just good at reading signs.” And it was true. She beat up a lot of people, sometimes for a living and sometimes for fun. Each partner she’d had had sharpened her ability to know when to stop. When does the flinch become genuine? When does the fear cross the line? Clint had recoiled from her like he’d expected a punch.

Or, more likely: a slap.

“Can I come in?” she asked again, more softly.

“Yeah,” he mumbled. He stepped back, grabbing Lucky’s collar to pull him in.

She had been in his apartment once or twice, but her own was larger and more practical, so it hadn’t been that often. It was certainly the first time she’d seen his dog, who seemed to have read the mood and left them alone to go eat from his bowl, paws clicking on the floor.

Natasha had expected Clint to maybe offer her something to drink, settle down for a chat. But he still had the social skills of the common sledgehammer and just leaned against the counter, wrapping his arms around himself.

“So, uh, I’ve been married twice.”

She sat down on a stool, slowly. This she hadn’t seen coming. Clint waited to see if she was going to comment, then visibly understood she wasn’t going to say anything, and swallowed again.

“First one was Bobbi. She was great—we were married for… years. But eventually we just…” He waved his hand. “It wasn’t a nasty break-up, you know? But it wasn’t fun either. And I wasn’t used to being single. I guess after that, I felt kind of in a hurry to… to find someone again.”

He breathed out.

“And Jessica came along. And she was… she was amazing. Gorgeous. Way out of my league. And I, uh… Long story short, I cheated on her one time. Really convinced myself that it was okay, that we were just having a few laughs anyway. Messing around.” He made a half-hearted gesture. “Of course she found out and uh, didn’t exactly share my point of view. She came to my place and she slapped me first thing. And I thought, well, okay, I deserve that. I felt really shitty about the whole thing, and I apologized, you know, said I didn’t realize she cared, and she gave me another chance.”

He was staring at the floor.

“After that it all pretty much went to shit. I never cheated on her again, but she was jealous anyway. I think maybe she was checking my texts and stuff? Never found out for sure. But I got paranoid about a lot of small things like that. We fought a lot, almost every time we talked, and every time we’d fight she’d end up hitting me. And—and I mean, I thought, that’s how it is, right? Girls slap boys.”

Natasha just listened, trying to silence the dark anger coiling in her stomach.

“Um. So it was a long time before I realized that maybe it wasn’t normal to get beat up so much. It took a few friends noticing—and even then I said it was nothing. You know? It should have been nothing. They wanted it to be nothing, too, so they didn’t push. Eventually I realized I was afraid of coming home, afraid of seeing her, afraid of being in the same room as her, always bracing myself for the next hit and I…”

He paused for a moment. His throat worked again, up and down.

“It took me another long while to admit to myself I needed help. Even longer before I actually found some. Attended some, um, some kind of—of support group for a coupla weeks. At long last I found the balls to break up with her. And it was… it was horrible. Like I said, it hadn’t been fun with Bobbi, but with Jess, it was… Some of the things she said…”

He shook his head like a dog out of water, then wrapped his arms tight around himself again.

“I moved out, and I found another job and I started over. It’s been… almost three years now.” He looked up, with what seemed like an immense effort. “And then I met you.”

Natasha had no idea what to say. James had warned her—bad shit happened to him—but he hadn't told her what, and she hadn't asked, waiting to hear it from Clint himself, if he ever told her. And now he had and there she was. I’m not like that sprung to mind, but she kicked it away at once—this wasn’t about her. I want to murder your ex also sounded good, but violence may not be a good reaction considering the circumstances. She didn’t dare to go to him. She didn’t know what to do.

She cleared her throat. “Thanks for telling me.”

Wonderful, Romanov, absolutely soulless. But Clint still cracked a smile. “I… I really thought you’d be angrier.”

“Why? Because you ran out of my building in your underwear? That must have been an interesting subway ride.”

He smiled again and unfolded by a fraction, arms loosening around himself.

She said it one more time, softly. “I won’t ever hit you.” 

“But—since you’re, um—” He chewed on his lip and ducked his head again. “If that’s something you like—I don’t know, maybe I could get into it. We can still try it out, you know?”

And there they were. The other half of it.

“Never,” she said sharply.

He looked up at her. She stared back, holding his gaze.

“If you change your mind, if you beg me for it, if you’re obsessed with it, if you say you dream of it at night, if you swear up and down it’s all you can think about anymore, if you say you’re dying inside all because I won’t hit you—then maybe I’ll reconsider. But unless that happens, Clint, listen to me: never.”

He blinked at her, and she knew she’d finally hit the right target, because tension was seeping out of his shoulders. Obviously, he hadn’t expected her to draw such a deep line in the sand.

“But what about you?” he asked.

She raised an eyebrow. “What about me?”

“I don’t know, this… this is your thing. I’m still not sure I understand it much, but I saw Bucky’s back, remember? That’s how we met, even. And… and he told me you were like Steve.”

Natasha exhaled. James was a fucking idiot. “I am a Domme, but I’m not like Steve. Look—come here, let’s sit down.”

She grabbed his hand and led him to the couch. He went willingly, all the fight gone out of him. When they sat down, Natasha saw he looked really frazzled from up close, and she couldn’t help thinking back to the last time they’d been sitting face to face on a couch. She’d really liked kissing Clint, dammit. She didn’t want to mess things up.

“All right,” she said. “Steve is a sadist. Okay? He has a few minor fetishes, but what he really loves is pain. I can enjoy that too, but not exactly like he does—I’m more into the psychological aspect. I like when people submit to me. And letting me hurt them is a pretty immediate form of submission.”

“Okay,” Clint said, listening intently.

“The things I really love are fetish wear and high protocol.”

“Okay,” Clint said again. Then, “I don’t know what that means.”

She grinned. “And yet we’ve been doing a lot of that.”

“Uh. We have?”

“Yes. Fetish wear—I couldn’t bring out the latex catsuit at museums, but I had fun with all those dresses and jewelry and shoes.”

Clint perked up. “Catsuit?”

“Down,” she said mockingly. “See? You like fetish wear too. And as for high protocol—it’s just a form of roleplay. Some people enjoy licking my boots. Some people just want to obey orders.” She smiled again. “Some people also enjoy pretending to be someone they’re not.”

Clint blushed. “Okay. Jesus.” He ran his hands through his hair. “We’ve been doing kinky shit this whole time?”

“No, dummy. I’m just saying that BDSM isn’t as foreign as you think. We’re just a bit more intense about some things.”

“But what we did together—” Clint seemed to look for a better way to phrase it, then just gave up. “It was fun.”

“Well, yes. That’s also why I do kink. For fun.” She smirked. “You did see those marks on James’ back. What kind of lunatic would go through that if they didn’t enjoy it?”

Clint blinked at her like an owl.

“I, uh,” he said. “Well yeah, when you say it like that, it sounds kind of stupid.”

“I love you,” Natasha said.

When he gaped at her, she grinned.

“What? I can say it too, Barton. Casual, right?” She leaned closer. “Super casual.”

She felt the breath of his laugh just before the kiss; his lips were warm and dry. This time, Clint’s hands tentatively came up to cup her face. Then they slipped into her hair to tilt her head, ever so slightly, just enough to fit their mouths together. He was really great at kisses.

“I could get used to this, you know,” she said when they parted.

“Oh good,” he answered hoarsely, holding onto her. “I half-expected you to ditch your pants and run out on me.”

*

“You’re real lucky I had no plans this morning,” Sam said without blinking, though his head was level with Natasha’s naked breasts.

“Just work faster, Wilson. We’re on a schedule here.”

“Why didn’t you call me even earlier, then?”

“You know I need to let this thing soak for twenty-four hours. And then dry.”

“Right, it’s a process,” Sam mumbled, focusing on her right arm now.

Having a second person around helped a lot, because latex was a tricky thing. Even after soaking to slide on better, even after she’d squirted some lube into it, the suit stuck and caught. It was so thin it always threatened to rip. They’d gotten past the thighs and waist already, but the arms were always the most delicate part. Sam was pulling up the sleeve inch by inch.

“All right!” They’d finally gotten to the shoulder. “Second arm. Almost there.”

It seemed easier, and five minutes later Sam was pulling up the zipper in Natasha’s back, compressing her breasts. It was her simplest catsuit, all shining black, without a hood. She loved latex—loved how it hugged her entire body, down to her gloved fingers and integrated nine-inch heels. She felt perfect in one, sleek and glistening and compact, like a black chrome statue.

“Damn,” Sam said. “You’re always a sight in those.”

“Thanks for your help, Sam.”

“My goddamn pleasure.” He stepped back. “Make-up time now?”

“Oh, not right away.”

“What? I thought he was getting there any minute?”

“Of course not. The first hour is always so sweaty. My body needs to adjust. I took that into account.”

Sam raised an eyebrow at her. She felt herself blush—because of the catsuit, of course. She was already heating up.

“What?” she said.

“You’re really pulling all the stops, huh?” Sam smiled with the corner of his mouth. “Ya smitten, woman.”

She put a hand on her hip. “It’s what I always do.”

“For vanilla guys you meet in bars? Yeah, you keep telling yourself that.”

She was starting to sweat, breathing more deeply. She knew her body’s reactions well; it would be at least half an hour before her temperature adjusted to her new second skin, probably more. “This is why James doesn’t like you, Wilson.”

“Romanov, you know that boy loves me.”

*

Half an hour after Sam’s departure, ten minutes after Natasha was done putting her make-up on, Clint rapped at the door. She exhaled to settle her nerves, then smiled to herself. She’d thought of throwing on a robe, putting on a whole show, but suddenly it didn’t even seem necessary.

“Come in,” she called.

Clint stepped into the apartment. “Hey,” he said, without preamble as always, “so I was thinking maybe—”

His words trailed into something unintelligible as Natasha rose from her seat on the couch, looking at him over her shoulder. The light was licking down her back, gleaming white, and she could almost feel Clint’s gaze traveling along, down to her ass which she knew looked astounding in tight latex. The look on his face was absolutely priceless.

“Catsuit,” she said needlessly as she turned to face him.

“Uh.” His mouth was still open. “Wow.”

God, she loved making people monosyllabic. Clint was frozen in place. She opened her gloved hands and smirked at him. “Wanna touch?”

He nodded, then got closer almost timidly. After a moment of hesitation, he put his hands on her hips.

“It’s warm,” he murmured with slight surprise. He moved his hands up her sides. “Wow, that’s… It’s so tight. It’s like it’s painted on.” He looked at her. “Can you feel me touching you?”

“Oh yes. It actually enhances touch. See how tense it is? When you slide up your hands like that—” She hummed. “It vibrates over the whole suit.”

“Like a spider web?”

“Sort of like a spider web.” She put her arms around his neck and smiled at him. “Keep touching, Barton.”

“Okay—” Clint’s hands had reached the top of her back. He felt around her shoulders, presumably for a bra strap, and paused when he didn’t find any. “Are—are you, um, naked under that thing?”

“Yes I am.” She pressed their hips together. “Are you hard under that thing?”

He seemed physically unable to form words. She grinned before kissing him for a good long while.

Then she pulled back and purred, “Time to introduce you to the best part of kink.”

Clint cleared his throat. “And uh, what—what is that?”

“Negotiation.”

He blinked at her. She could have laughed at the look on his face, but took him to the couch instead.

“All right,” she said, plonking herself down. “Do you want to have sex with me?”

Clint looked kind of shell-shocked. He slowly sat down next to her, opened his mouth, then articulated, “I—uh—yes.”

“Good. I’ll need you to wear a condom.”

“I’m—cool with that.”

“I will not hurt you.”

He gave her a tentative smile. “I know.”

“Also.” She handed him a nail clipper and looked him dead in the eye. “Clip your nails. It’s very easy to damage a catsuit.”

He dutifully clipped his nails while she watched him with a raised eyebrow. When he was done, he held out his hands. “Is that okay?”

She peered at his nails. “It’ll do.”

“I gotta say, I—I’m not sure what to do with a catsuit. With you in a catsuit. I mean.”

“Same stuff you’d do if I wasn’t wearing anything.”

“Oh. Well. Good.” He cleared his throat. “You know, I have a metal zipper and—and metal bits on those jeans. I should probably—um, take them off. Just to be safe.”

She grinned and sat back on the couch, with her elbow propped up on the armrest, resting her chin on the back of her hand. “That sounds like a great idea.”

He got up and shimmied them off. Then he smiled at her and finished getting naked. He was very matter-of-fact about it, like he wasn’t much to look at. He had a great ass, fairly toned abs and truly fantastic arms, though his body wasn’t sculpted like James’. It was more like he’d just stumbled by accident into being hot.

Natasha spread her shiny legs, planting her heels on the floor, and crooked her finger. “Come here.”

Clint hesitated, then went to his knees, which did more for Natasha than she would have ever admitted out loud.

“You don’t—you don’t have to do that," she said.

“You like it, though.” Clint crawled to the couch and put his hands on her thighs, rubbing his thumbs along the latex. She felt his touch reverberate everywhere, micro-vibrations shimmering across the tight, thin suit. He was right: it was exactly like a spider web.

“Can I…” Clint’s hands were traveling up again, past her hips and sides. She brought one of his hands to her breast, and bit her lip when he squeezed and kneaded and rubbed his thumb where the nipple would be. A glance down told her Clint was hard, and getting harder. Complete nudity was a good look on him; a flush was traveling down his whole body. Apparently, the idea of her being entirely naked under the sleek, shiny latex was really doing it for him.

He couldn’t stop staring at his hands on her. “That’s like… It’s so unreal. It’s like I’m in porn.” He looked up in alarm. “I probably shouldn’t have said that.”

“Come up here, idiot,” she laughed.

He climbed on top of her and she brought him down for a deep, wet kiss, trailing her gloved fingers in his hair, mindful of his hearing aids. She canted up her hips and rubbed against his erection. Through the thin latex, it was a hard line pressing on her stomach, trailing silvery precome on the suit.

“Here’s another bit of real-life dominance for you,” she said in his ear. “I want you to make me come first.”

“Uh,” Clint said hoarsely. “I—okay. Yes.”

Somehow she had managed to forget Clint had been married twice; but even though kink was an entirely new world to him, sex demonstrably wasn’t. He took his time, running his hands over the sleek planes of her stomach and thighs, coming back to her breasts some more, then grabbing her ass to angle her hips. Only then did his fingers travel down. When he rubbed at her through the latex, he froze as he found the twin zippers he’d apparently missed till then, lining both sides of Natasha’s crotch so she could bare only that. He groaned and pressed his face against her shoulder.

“Okay, Jesus fuck, that’s fucking hot.”

“Glad to hear it.” Natasha was a bit breathless, herself. There wasn’t much to service kink—Clint was servicing her right now, fully naked, chasing her pleasure and nothing else, and that was enough to make her wet. When he flattened his palm between her legs, she grinded against it, throwing her head back.

“God, that’s good.”

“Okay. Um.” He slid off her, getting to his knees on the floor again. “Can we—pull open those zippers? Maybe? So I can, um—so I can use my mouth?”

“Do it with the suit on.”

“Oh. Right. Okay.”

He leaned down and mouthed at her, tentatively first, then with more enthusiasm as she began to react in earnest. Few things were safer than sex in catsuits, what with the membrane between them; and yet she felt his mouth more intensely than if she’d been wearing nothing—his tongue rasped against the thin latex, sending even more tiny vibrations straight to her clit, and there were no fluids to make it too sloppy, nothing to smooth down the sharp hot edges of her pleasure.

“That’s good,” she encouraged him, gasping when the first hints of her orgasm spiked in her, “that’s so good—Clint—Clint—”

She reached out on instinct to grab his hair but remembered to clutch at his wrist instead, and she felt herself pulse and flutter in the tight suit as pleasure rolled through her in increasing waves. Clint was still working his mouth, and when she looked down—she still wasn’t done coming—she saw he had himself in hand, which pushed another rush of tingling heat through her. Her subs weren’t allowed to touch themselves unless she specifically said so, but Clint wasn’t her sub. He was something else.

“God.” She exhaled, then laughed. “Come on, come up. Condoms are over there.” She pointed at a box on the coffee table, and Clint hurried to take one out. Natasha’s legs were still quivering. She reached down for her zippers and pulled them open while he wasn’t looking, putting the narrow piece of latex away. It wouldn’t show unless she was parting her legs.

“Sit on the couch,” she breathed when he was done. He obeyed, pupils blown, and she straddled him, knees on either side of his hips, before taking his face in her black chrome hands to give him a long, deep kiss.

When she drew back, he smiled at her, a bit goofily. “I—I did good?”

“You were perfect.”

Praise seemed to light him up from the inside. Maybe he’d never gotten much of that. She kissed him again, then said in a hoarse whisper, “Now there’s your reward.”

She lowered herself and he gave an extraordinary gasp when he slid up right into her. “God—when did you—”

“Surprise.” She took him all in; it was the easiest thing in the world with how wet she was. Clint arched against the couch, chest heaving. She grabbed the cushions on both sides of his head and looked right at him, rolling her hips. She quickly found that he liked it slow, which was rather uncommon—but a lot of things about him were. He revealed himself into bits and pieces, impressionist painting that he was.

She built it up into a regular, relentless rhythm, watching him all the while, and already knew enough to tell when he was on the edge.

“Nat—Nat—”

She bore down on him, taking him deep, squeezing him in a long tight slide on the way back up.

“Nat—oh, God, fuck—”

He grabbed her thighs while he came, arching, fingers sliding on sleek latex. When his last tremors faded, he flopped back again, leaving his hands where they were, never looking away from her. They just grinned at each other for a minute, catching their breath.

“Success,” Natasha exhaled eventually.

“Fuck yeah.” Clint fist-pumped weakly. “Did it.”

She carefully got off him and zipped back her suit while he got rid of the condom. Out of habit, she fetched two bottles of water, which seemed to surprise him though he accepted one with gratitude, and drank deeply.

“I like catsuits,” he declared when she sat down next to him again.

“I like you.” She kissed his cheek. “But if I were you, I’d reserve your judgement till after you helped me take it off.”

He blinked at her. “How hard can it be?”

“Oh, sweet vanilla boy.” She smirked. “Drink your water.”

*

It was almost an hour before the suit was off and cleaned and zipped back together and hung to dry and they could finally take their own shower. Clint mumbled that he stood by what he’d said—well, he yelled it really, due to the lack of hearing aids under water, but the intention was there. He did let out a sigh of relief when they were finally done with all. They threw on James’ comfort clothes again and went to pile on the couch.

“We just did it on that couch,” Clint remarked with a grin, stretching his legs out.

“That we did.” Natasha lazily high-fived him. “Let’s never tell James about it.”

She snuggled against him and exhaled deeply with satisfaction. “All right. Pizza and Die Hard 3?”

“I love you,” Clint said.

If it was softer than any other time he’d said it, Natasha was careful not to point it out. After all, boundaries were kind of her job.