Author's Note: Okay, here it is. Another crazy project I promised myself wouldn't take priority in my life, and yet, somehow, very mysteriously, ended up becoming the story I would write for hours and hours whenever I possibly could.

I would like to thank everyone from the AO3 writers' facebook group, who encouraged me to carry on with this project when I was feeling very lost. Without the support, perhaps this story wouldn't be here. Honestly, this group is fucking amazing.

Writing fanfics has been such a crazy process of self-discovery for me. Getting inside Natasha's mind was another experience entirely. I'm so pumped to have written this, though, because I think it's amazing and worth every excruciating moment I spent editing this to death. So, without further ado, here it goes. I hope you enjoy this ride.

Disclaimer: I'm not the owner of anything — just a really pathetic self-control.

"Y-yes, just like that, baby," the man underneath her moaned, eyes shut and back arching under her ministrations. For some reason — probably because he was currently buried to the hilt inside her — he thought it was acceptable to throw nicknames around. Baby was far from being the worst thing to cross his lips since the moment they had entered the motel room Natasha had rented for the night for that exact purpose — finding some stranger to drag along for a few hours.

Although, hours might have been a significant overestimate of David's competency on her part. Minutes seemed more likely.

Natasha carried on riding him — faster, harder. She wanted so badly to feel something other than disgust for both herself and the poor excuse of a man lying on that cheap bed. Sex was supposed to be easy, she knew. Instead of easy, though, the situation in which she had gotten herself was more of a hazard than anything else.

David grabbed her hips, opening his blue eyes to bestow her with a pitiful look she was sure he deluded himself into thinking was something approaching sensual. If it hadn't been so goddamn pathetic, it would've been funny. As it was, Natasha closed her eyes and tried to focus on the stimulus happening there. David had a dick — a perfectly operational dick, at that —, if she forgot everything else about him, maybe she could salvage her night.

With how unlucky she was, the second Natasha's eyes closed, the idiot raised his hands to fumble with her bra-clad breasts, squeezing more than caressing. It wasn't the borderline pain that bothered her — not even close —, it was the reminder that Natasha still had her bra on, that she had batted his hands away the two other times he had tried to remove it. Which, in turn, had absolutely nothing to do with self-consciousness and everything to do with the soulmark on her ribs — a soulmark that, at the moment, felt like a burn searing into her skin as she thought about her other half.

He would never have settled for such a passive position. Tony would've never allowed her to hide behind clothing items. Tony would've- No, she would not do that to herself. She was there to forget, to escape.

Natasha faked a moan, throwing her head back. Fake it 'till you make it, that was her new motto. She would go through the motions until there was space in her head for anything other than him. She had to. Thankfully, her training helped in that instance.

The ability to compartmentalize was invaluable in her line of work, a skill she had learned by necessity, foremost. Equally as important, was the capacity to disassociate, another essential skill, and one which had saved her sanity more times than she cared to admit. However, if Natasha allowed herself to be perfectly honest in the private space of her own mind, in the middle of sex wasn't a time she would've thought to need either of those abilities.

The sad excuse of a man beneath her gasped, trying to get some leverage with the heels of his feet to thrust back, only to half-slip ridiculously. Natasha never even faltered in her moves, still riding him with an absent mind, trying to convince herself she felt something close to pleasure from it.

"Just like that," he groaned, breathy. "God-yes!"

Natasha considered saying something equally as ridiculous back, just to convince herself she could, but before she came up with an appropriate tone for the occasion, her phone ran on the bedside-table, Clint's number flashing on the screen. Saved by the ring.

Releasing a quiet relieved breath of air, she got up and accepted the call, ignoring the surprised flailings happening on the bed.

"Hit me," she said, hoping for a mission.

Clint was her favorite for a reason. "Ditch the douche-bag I can hear behind you, there's a mission. Kidnap. SHIELD's business. Meet me at the headquarter. Can you make it in thirty?"

Natasha glanced at David, who was sitting at the edge of the bed, a furious look on his sweat-dripping face. "Give me twenty," she said, before hanging up. As Clint had said it; it was time to lose the douche-bag.

Love was for children; Natasha learned that the hard way. In her line of work, trust was the thing that would get her killed, so, instead, she settled for acquaintances. Falling in love, getting married, having children, baking pies... the whole white-picket-fence life wasn't for her, had never been for her. She was Russian — the American dream was for fools.

And she had been following the plan for years and years before it all went terribly wrong. Her hard work went down the drain, and she knew exactly who to blame. Natasha carefully constructed persona cracked the moment she met Clint.

Clint was annoying. Horribly, overwhelmingly frustrating. Yet, somehow, he ended up sliding between the tiny cracks of the armor Natasha had never even known were there. He was brutal, vicious and ruthless when needed, and yet, at the same time, there was a softness to him, something about the way he joked and laughed at his own stupid witticism that pulled at just the right strings to make Natasha fold whenever he was concerned. That, or maybe his unwavering loyalty.

Clint saved her. She owned him a debt that could never truly be paid — not with money, not with favors, not with blood. So she stayed. Stayed in SHIELD even when shit hit the fan and Natasha wanted nothing more than to run and hide, the way she had been trained to do. She glued herself to his side and saved his life more times than she cared to count, trying to ignore the voice inside her head that whispered about how many times he had been the one to save her.

It was best if she pretended to stick around because he needed her to.

The Avengers, however, turned out to be so much more than what she had signed for. When Fury asked her to monitor Tony, she considered, if only for a brief second, telling him the truth and bailing. She could've dealt with Bruce Banner, with Steve Rogers, hell, Natasha could have dealt with the Norse god, but not Tony Stark. She avoided and carefully monitored anything pertaining that man with steadfast determination, and for Fury to destroy that with a few barked orders to infiltrate as the man's secretary… well, safe to say it took all of her will force to keep her thoughts to herself and accept the mission without another word.

So Natasha did what she did best — created a persona, with different tastes, mannerisms, and desires, and immersed herself in it, shielding her mind while focusing on the mission. Foremost, she was an agent. More than anything else, she did what she had to do to get shit done. It was almost never painless, and it always left a scar behind, but it was what she had been made and molded to do — what she did better than anybody else.

During those types of missions, Natasha avoided Clint like the plague. She vanished from his sights because it was simply too difficult to stay detached when he was around, constantly reminding her of herself. He understood. He understood much too well, which was why he often tracked her down whenever her mission dragged on for long and gave her a good shake.

He knew, though. Of course he fucking knew. Clint had seen her in every state of undress possible, had tended to ninety-percent of her injuries, so of course he knew that with Tony it would be different. No one got that close to their soulmates without consequences, and even Natasha hadn't been delusional enough to believe herself exempt from that when she accepted the mission.

And she had been right, she acknowledged as she looked at her reflection in the large mirror hanging from the wall — the wall from the Avengers Tower. From her room in the Avengers Tower, to be more precise. Somewhere along the way, Natasha allowed herself to be roped into this crazy initiative, which had transformed into a serious group of… what? Vigilantes? She wasn't even sure anymore of what they were.

A wrong turn of head led her eyes to land on her left side, on her ribs, more specifically, where her soulmark was branded into her skin. An apple. The perfect symbolism for knowledge, temptation, sin, the fall of man, death, wisdom, luxury, love, fertility, immortality. Hers was not just an apple, though. It was a half-eaten apple.

She hated it. Perhaps 'cause it hit too close to home for comfort. Natasha knew perfectly well what apples symbolized — it being bitten only told her what she already knew about herself; there were sin and temptation all around her, and Natasha had bitten, chewed and swallowed. She had been tested, and she failed. It was fitting, if not somewhat harsh to be branded that way, to be reminded every day of her choices.

She looked at her mark — it was still there. Like her, it had survived the Red Room. It surely hadn't been for lack of trying on their part. They tried — not only on her, but on all the girls — to remove the soulmarks. They couldn't. Nobody could. No matter what they did to the skin, it always grew back, untarnished.

It was there to stay, Natasha had accepted that. Forever connecting her to Anthony Stark.

Why couldn't it have been Clint?

Natasha gave herself a once over. Mechanically. Methodically. She knew what she had to do — had all the correct steps memorized for many years. She was an expert at the game and tonight she would play to win.

Deciding she was as ready as she would ever be, the assassin, who was playing the seductress for the night, turned and strode toward the elevator, pressing the button for the lab once she was inside it. She felt calm, focused. A mission was something she was familiar with, something she understood. There was only a goal and a strategy to get there — the rest was white noise.

When she reached the doors, it was immediately clear that Tony wasn't expecting company that night, because he was bent over the main table, working on a big metal piece, while some loud rock music drowned all other sounds in the room. Natasha didn't give that the chance to discourage her, though. Tony worked, it was his thing. Natasha worked out, and Tony created. That was just what they did in between missions to clear their head — she wouldn't have a better opportunity.

The second Natasha entered the room, JARVIS lowered the music to an acceptable volume, which prompted Tony to raise his head from the (motor?) in front of him and face her.

It was clear that her presence in his lab was shocking. For a minute he eyed her, before speaking. "Romanov," he greeted, no more warmly than he did any other stranger.

"Tony," Natasha said, a lot more pleasant. She was smiling, too. The woman she was tonight was someone who smiled easily. "I heard most people go out into the world on Saturday nights."

If anything, her words seemed to sour Tony's expression even further. He turned back to face his creation. "Well, I'm not most people, and I have to finish this. It's a new prototype."

She leaned over his counter — slightly, always slightly — before she responded, knowing her movements were bound to call his attention. "And how's that working out for you?" She asked, letting her tongue wrap around the words.

"It's not," Tony answered, eyes glued to the metal in front of him. His frustrated expression remained the exact same, no shift whatsoever. He didn't even glance up as Natasha rested her palms down and pushed her top half even closer to him than before.

She wouldn't allow it to disturb her confidence. More than anything else, she was a professional. Natasha had done ops where she had to win people over for months and months before they trusted her enough to do whatever it was she needed to get done — this was nothing more than a distraction. Tony was known for his obsession with his work, it would take more than some cleavage for him to stray his focus. She would simply do better. Failure was not an option.

"Are you going out?" He asked, and it almost sounded like a dismissal.

"Yes," Natasha lied, knowing she would go no further than her downstairs bedroom after she left that lab. Or maybe Tony could- "To a club, actually. Wanna come along?"

Again, he barely seemed to register her question. She expected at least a subconscious response — a shiver, a surprised glance, a nervous gesture, anything. Yet, Tony Stark, king of all parties, couldn't give a fuck that Natasha had just asked him to join her. "Pass me that screwdriver," he requested instead, opening his hand without turning to look her way. When she placed it in his waiting hand, he added. "Oh, yeah, party. Not a good day for me. I gotta finish this — it's important."

He probably wasn't lying about it — whatever he was working on was most likely to be an important project, or he wouldn't have bothered. In fact, if she were to analyze the situation objectively, as well as put together the clues scattered at the models and projections covering the several screens around the table, then it would be clear that his uttermost focus was being given to an Avengers project. It failed to diminish the burn of the rejection, however.

"Are you sure you're not open to some convincing?" Natasha tried once more, in a sweet tone.

Tony was already elbow-deep into the project, grease covering his hands and shirt. "Yep," He confirmed, popping the 'p' sound. "Have fun."

Like a snap, her concentration failed, and Natasha felt like flinching from his casual tone. All the conviction she had previously been feeling evaporated just as quickly as they had come, leaving Natasha feeling rather foolish for being intruding on Tony's work just to play some stupid game. He wasn't interested.

Convincing herself that she was above such a thing as humiliating herself for any man — no matter who he was — Natasha figured she had done enough damage for one night, and, before she could come up with another ridiculous plan to engage the engineer, she said her goodbyes. It was quick, easy. He made no moves to prolongate the conversation or to prevent her from leaving — not that she had been expecting him to — so she just turned on her back and made her way to the elevator.

The problem with Clint was that he saw too much. He, more often than not, would stand in a corner, bypassing casual surveillance and watch people's interactions without pitching a word in, as though he honestly had no opinion about anything being discussed. But that wasn't the part Natasha objected to — she was a spy as well, being inconspicuous and blanked-faced was part of the job. The glaring difference between them, however, was that she studied people's behaviors and predicted what their decisions would be or what their motives were, based on years upon years of study and hands-on experience. Clint, on the other hand, empathized with others on a level that would forever remain a mystery to Natasha, no matter how many times she worked alongside him.

She was far too cynical to believe in mystical powers or gifts, yet she had no other way to describe the manner in which Clint would spend an hour observing a person or carrying a casual conversation with them, only to pick them apart later on and predict their future decisions down to the tiniest details. It never failed to amaze Natasha nor did she ever come close to replicating his methods. Clint simply had better eyes than she did.

Which was why, after being left puzzled by Tony's behavior once more, when all she wanted was a dangerously hot shower and a facemask, Natasha opened her bedroom door to the sight of her partner lying on her bed — looking content and carefree to boot — she barely managed to hold back a sign. She deserved her rest — she did.

"Please, don't look so pleased to see me," he said, rolling an arrow in his hands as he carried on sprawled on her clean bed-sheets in his dirty gym clothes.

Casual tone, relaxed posture, dirty clothes. It wasn't difficult to guess where he was going with that.

"You can't even see my expression without turning to face me, Clint," Natasha pointed out, closing the door behind her. By doing that, she was surrendering. For the time being, at least.

"Yes, I can," he rebutted. "Getting predictable there, Tasha."

"Don't call me that." It was a reflex. Shit. Not only did she argue against the shortening of her name in a way she hadn't done in years, but she also sounded so overly defensive about it. No way would Clint let that slip by.

"Would you prefer Natalia?" He wrapped his mouth around the name, Russian pronunciation and all.

"Fuck you." Another slip, another sign.

Clint dropped the arrow to one side of the bed, patting the other side invitingly without another word. He had his head turned to her now, giving Natasha that soft, understanding look she should be used to getting by then — but wasn't. He knew, she realized.

Natasha exhaled, stepping out of her heels and going straight for her bed, throwing her body next to Clint's. Close, far too close. With them, there was always an unspoken dance going on — one that they had never dared to write down the steps for but had somehow established itself between the two of them over the years. By then, most of the moves had already been danced and witnessed, in a way or another.

Not that one, though.

"Who are you today?" Clint asked, and his eyes burned as they held hers. He asked, even though the answer had to be clear by her clothes, her expression, her smell.

"Not Natasha," she confirmed. There was no use denying.

"You smell revolting," he pointed out, wrinkling his nose. "Sweet is not a good scent for you."

"Clint, you smell like a dirty gym," was her reasonable argument, even though they both knew the smell of sweat and dirty was far more appealing to her than any apple and cinnamon perfume sitting on her cupboards could ever hope to be.

"I was on the target practice. Where were you?"

"The lab." There was no need to say which one.

He raised both eyebrows. "Tony's?" he asked, probably just because he wanted to hear her confirm it.

And she did. She was so goddamn tired. "Yes. Tony's."

"Funny outfit to wear to Tony's greasy lab," Clint commented, his closest hand lifting from the bed to touch the hem of her dress, pinching the fabric between his fingers. "Silk, hun?"

Natasha felt her brows moving on their own volition as her expression went from blank to pained at Clint's casual question. "Silk," she confirmed, feeling pathetic as he released her dress and allowed his hand to rest on her thigh instead. "Fucking silk. Clint—"

"Are you upset because he doesn't show any interest for this charade or because you didn't have the guts to go up as Natasha?" Clint interrupted, suddenly ignoring their careful dance and going for the kill.

"I don't know," Natasha responded, and it was the truth. Everything about the situation was new and uncomfortable for her — what she was doing was both unprofessional and ridiculous, and Natasha knew better than to be either of those things.

Clint — saw-more-than-he-should Clint — squeezed her leg before saying, "You would hate him if he fell for your game. You know you would, Tasha. If he had shown even the slightest interest in you tonight, tomorrow you would be wearing this awful perfume again and buying padded bras by the dozens."

She would have done precisely that – it was easy to picture. "It would've been simpler if he had."

"Simpler? If you want simpler, go for the doorman from the first floor who always looks as though he is seconds away from a stroke whenever you enter the tower," he said, his voice soft. "Tony is… well, Tony is not simple, I'll tell you that."

"Tony is a man." It was a basic observation, but one that should've implied several other moves on his part.

"So am I," Clint stated, once again squeezing her thigh with his right hand before, in a flash, rolling over her body, covering her smaller frame with his. Natasha tensed as he hovered above her, his left elbow sustaining his weight as his other hand began to travel up her leg slowly.

Her body went still as she fought against different instincts howling inside her head. Clint's face was inches above her's, his breath hitting her skin each time he exhaled. Natasha forced herself to breathe with him, even as his hand went further up her thigh. The side of her that still behaved in the way she had been trained to wanted to head-butt him and shove him off her; the side that understood Clint better than anyone else kept her in check.

"Should I proposition you as well?" He whispered mockingly. "Tell you all the weird shit I want to do to you? Or maybe I should skip the boring talk and go straight for the good part — after all, why wait when you're clearly dressed to impress?"

She sagged under him.

Natasha went completely lax as Clint's hand finally stopped when he reached the place on her hip where her underwear should've been. His hip was pressed against her and yet he showed no signs that he was affected by the feel of her body. It was ridiculous. His eyes were studying her every move as the teasing finally reached her brain.

Natasha was behaving absurdly.

"There's nothing else but this," she finally admitted, whispering in the space separating them. "Clint, he ignored me. Nothing, not even a glance. How can he—"

And, as a curtain being lifted, Clint's disposition changed again, his mocking expression leaving his face as he removed his hand from her hip. Suddenly, as she laid there, confused and lost, his eyes went so soft. "Tasha. You gotta shed all these past skins you keep clinging to — it's way past due, I think. You invade his personal space — his lab — to watch him work on his unfinished projects while listening to his favorite playlist and expect him to welcome a stranger? This is our team; this is our home. No one is acting here."

She hadn't been acting before, too. She had been trying to settle into the role of being an Avenger, a superhero, a part of a team, a member of a family. But Tony…

"I can't," Natasha shook her head. "He's… Tony has had so many—How could I even—I mean, I just want to—Pepper is-"

"Gone. Pepper and Tony are no longer together for a reason, Nat. Come on, you know this. She couldn't live with his life as an Avenger. You are a goddamn member of this group."

"I know!" Natasha shouted. "So? What am I but the spy nobody trusts, and who cannot trust anybody in return? The only time Tony showed an ounce of interest for me was when I was fucking Natalie, the assistant."

"Tony's a playboy — his words," Clint reasoned from above her, refusing to scream back. His eyes were tracking her moves carefully, and he never moved an inch from his place hovering over her, almost protective now. "He flirted with a new assistant, so what? You wanna a first-hand sample of the whole 'quick fuck and goodbye card experience'?"

"If I get to leave this all behind afterward, yes!" Maybe she could cleanse herself of that sickness, which was spreading all through her body.

"Stop deflecting. You're Natasha Romanov, if you wanted a shag, we wouldn't be here. It's time you admit that you wanted him to say no to all this crap, and now that he's passed your shitty tests, you're scared because there's no place to go from here."

The problem with Clint was that he saw too much. He saw too much, and it threw her off when he turned and said something about herself that she hadn't been ready to admit even in the darkest corners of her mind, as if it was obvious. Simple. It was crazy, terrifying, bizarre.

Then, with a tiny smile hanging on his lips and a knowing look on his bloody eyes, he suggested, "Why don't you ditch the plastic apple pie spray and see if maybe he likes a little dirt and sweat?"

Natasha closed her eyes. Perhaps because the temptation to do just that was far too great.

AN2: I'll be back with the new chapter soon, alright? Don't forget to leave a review on your way out 3