Stumbling Home

Or, Things to Do in New York When You've Been Injected with Sex Pollen

I tried really hard to write something light-hearted and fluffy, but instead I ended up with this - almost 5,000 words of PWP. Geez.

I'm a bit nervous about this one; I've never written anything quite so graphic, so I would really appreciate any and all feedback you have to offer. Thanks so much!

Warnings for possible dub-con, though it's so mild that it probably doesn't warrant the warning. Just in case, though!

Enjoy!

There's a certain pattern to life in Stark tower, now that they've managed to break away from SHIELD. Sure, they take the odd mission from Fury now and then, but decisions are largely left up to Stark and Rogers these days rather than a international conglomerate of shadowy unknowns.

They've been hearing a lot of rumors lately about the mafia cutting some sort of deal with Loki, though Thor insists that his brother is chained to a rock somewhere, bound in eternal damnation.

Three days ago, though, Stark had gotten a hold of a picture of one of the mob bosses meeting with Loki in a park outside of the city.

Thor agreed that the rumors warranted investigation.

So when that particular mob boss announced that he was having a fundraiser, Stark made sure that an invitation came his way. Rogers wanted to send one of them in, quietly, so as to not arouse suspicion.

It's not hard to see how this particular mission fell to the two of them. Natasha Romanov is a very beautiful woman, after all, and a master at her craft. And Clint, well, he's extremely patient and good at watching from afar. It's almost as if this job were built for them.

They get ready for the night together, just like they always do.

It's a kind of ritual bonding, really - one last chance to check over their partner personally before sending them off into the unknown. So, just like a thousand other nights, she double checks all of the straps on his suit, and he zips her into the tiny little scrap of fabric that dares call itself a dress, smirking a bit as she checks the edge of the blade strapped to her thigh.

They don't talk much, if at all, when they're getting ready, but then, they never do. They've never really needed to, even back in those first days when her command of English idiom needed work and Clint still smoked Camel Reds. But even when words failed them, they always spoke the same language.

They've both changed since then, grown up a lot. Natasha's English is flawless, right down to her flat accent, and Clint's replaced his cigarette habit with sugarless gum and sunflower seeds.

Other things have changed, too. Natasha doesn't run into disaster without first checking the charge on her Widow's Bite, and Clint remembers to look over the edge of a building before he jumps. They are no longer the same people they were ten years ago and would have a hard time recognizing the children they were back then.

The trust between them, though, the fragile thing that was born in a back alley in Eastern Europe, hasn't changed so much as it has deepened. There is nothing he wouldn't do for her, wouldn't sacrifice for her.

Steve is waiting for them when they enter the briefing room, ready to go over the mission details again, even though he knows Clint and Natasha memorized them when they received the file two hours ago. It's a soothing bit of ceremony, though, so neither of them minds.

The rest of the team, those who are earthbound, anyway, filters into the room one by one, taking their usual seats at the table. Tony assures them that he'll have a SHIELD team on standby, and Bruce warns them that there have been reports about some new synthesized drug that smells like Loki is behind it.

There is no hesitation in Tony's fingers as he hands over the keys to one of his flashier convertibles, a silvery blue German import that cost more than Clint makes in a decade, he's sure. It's a beautiful car and Clint itches to get behind the wheel.

Clint lets Natasha drive, though, just to be safe.

She lets him out two blocks away from the gala, and he's off, melting into the shadows, then up to the rooftops and finally to the vantage point he set up during yesterday's recon.

He's set up before she arrives, so he knows that she drove around the block a few times to make sure that they weren't followed.

Clint watches her through his spotting scope as she arrives, knowing that she finds his invisible presence comforting. He likes to think it adds a certain added confidence to her step, even if he knows that she scarcely needs his help in that department.

She is just as breathtaking as the first time he saw her when she steps out of Tony's car and hands the keys to the valet, veritably shrugging them in the poor moonstruck boy's direction. Clint smirks when the kid drops them and has to stoop to retrieve them.

"I know the feeling, kid," he mutters not without humor.

Natasha enters the building without a backward glance, and he can imagine her arch expression when she's frisked by the entrance. Security doesn't find her knife, but then, they never do.

She's inside and working the crowd within three minutes of her arrival, effortlessly moving from one conversation to the next, as he watches her through the lens of his scope.

Whoever picked the venue for this little ball was an idiot, Clint thinks, not for the first time. The entrance was well watched and guarded, but once inside, guests were led into an open air courtyard.

Well, it made his job easier, at least. He kept a close watch on Natasha, weapon close at hand should it be needed. Clint doesn't really expect that anything will happen; it's up in the air whether or not Loki was even working with this guy, after all.

But then suddenly and without any warning, she's pulled her hairpin out, shaking her hair around her shoulders. It's a signal, one that he did not expect to receive, but he acts immediately.

Natasha needs help. Now.

Abandoning his equipment (Rogers is going to be pissed if they don't manage to recover it later), Clint repels from the roof and runs across the street, narrowly avoiding several cars that squeal and honk as they swerve around him.

He pushes his way through the line of party-goers waiting to enter, ignoring their disgruntled shouts when he shoves a little too hard. The security guards pose no impediment to him; Clint easily evades their grasp.

His entire journey from rooftop to ballroom takes less than a minute, but the mood inside the room is very different than it was before. No one even looks in his direction when he enters, even though six security guards are at his heels and shouting.

"Ah, Agent Barton. I had wondered if you were going to show up."

Clint's head whips around and he immediately zeroes in on the source of the voice that has been haunting his nightmares for the past year.

It's Loki.

He's got Natasha under one arm with her own knife pressed to her throat. A thin trickle of blood runs down her neck. Clint freezes, afraid to move.

"If I'd have known you were waiting for me, I would have come sooner." His voice comes out as a growl, and he hopes desperately that it doesn't betray all of the emotions that are racing through him right now.

Loki laughs, that perfectly villainous laugh that he has, one that Clint has always assumed the man spent long hours perfecting. He's about to make a comment to that effect, when Natasha springs into action, taking her chance when Loki's as distracted as he'll ever be.

She flips out of his grasp, and Clint draws the pistol strapped to his leg. It's not his favorite weapon, but it'll do in a pinch. Natasha is by his side then, and she grabs his backup from his ankle holster.

Vaguely in the background, Clint hears the security guards come to their senses and start ushering people out of the room.

Loki isn't phased. They've got guns trained on the man, and he starts laughing. So Natasha does what she was trained to do and starts shooting.

And then the trickster flickers out of existence, and they know the shit is about to hit the fan.

They're too slow turning around, though, and Clint feels the prick of a needle in the base of his neck, catching a glimpse of Loki out of the corner of his eye. There's no time to worry about what was in the syringe though. They've got a madman on the loose.

He and Natasha scan the room, but Loki is nowhere in sight. It's as if he was never there at all.

Clint turns back to Natasha then, but doesn't meet her eyes, instead scanning behind her back. He knows she's doing the same.

"Where'd he go?"

She shakes her head. "I didn't see."

They both know Loki could still be there, but the courtyard is nearly emptied now and Clint figures Loki has already played his hand.

Clint does not holster his gun when he calls Rogers, just the same.

Backup on the way, Clint and Natasha exit the building, trying to blend into the crowd. They're about as successful as a woman in a ripped dress and a man in tactical gear can be.

The party goers are distracted though, still afraid, and they don't seem as interested in thanking the people who removed the threat as they are interested in yelling at the minimum wage staff who "had the nerve to let that maniac into their fundraiser!"

Tony is as good as his word and backup arrives in less than five minutes. One team of SHIELD agents quickly disperses through the crowd, and another heads off in the direction of the courtyard.

"You guys ok?" Stark's voice through the suit is never quite as tinny as Clint expects.

Clint hesitates, looking at Natasha.

"I think so, but Loki injected us with something." So, he'd slipped in under her radar, too.

Stark nods. "You two head back, then, get checked out. We've got it from here."

"You sure?" Clint doesn't feel any particular effects setting in, but he knows not to mess around with Loki.

Tony waves them off, and the spies take that as their cue to leave.

He first notices that something is off when he can't peel his eyes away from Natasha as she saunters off to retrieve the car. The motion of her hips dries out the back of his throat, and he's suddenly finding it very hard to breathe. She leans against a column while she waits for the valet to bring the car around, and Clint's pretty sure he's never seen anything he wanted more.

He figures out that it's probably Loki's fault he's got Natasha on his brain when he wants to strangle the kid from earlier when he hands the keys to Natasha, inadvertently brushing his fingertips against her palm.

Something inside Clint snaps a little, and he knows he's going to pay for this later, but he strides over to Natasha, grabs the keys from her hand and directs her toward the car with a strong hand at her back and an acid glare at the valet.

Maybe Natasha's feeling something, too, because instead of putting up a fight, she lets him lead her to the passenger side and does not resist when he opens the door for her. She meets his gaze as he helps her into the seat, and he can feel the heat in her eyes all the way to his toes.

Yes, they are definitely being affected by something.

He's already wild for this woman; he hardly needs a drug to tell him that. From the way she takes her coffee right down to the way she can kick his ass, there isn't anything about Natasha Romanov that he would change. She's the kind of girl that he would have never imagined independently, but once he met her, it was all over for him.

His emotions are roiling inside of him, all boiling down to one thought, one urge, one singular need that encompasses everything else.

He's got to get her alone.

Clint's behind the wheel and peeling out before he knows it, and he's probably breaking more than just the speed limit on his way back to the tower.

He risks a glance over at Natasha while stopped at a red light and nearly chokes.

She's currently turned so her back's against the window, legs spread, eyes trained on Clint. Her mouth is open and she's audibly panting now, as her hand works between her legs.

"Jesus, Tash," he hisses, wanting nothing more than to replace that hand with one of his own.

He's distracted enough that one hand is already making its way up her thigh when a honk behind him breaks him out of his reverie.

Clint forces himself to take a breath and tears his eyes away from the writhing pile of Natasha in the seat beside him. He keeps his eyes locked on the road the rest of the way back to the tower, but it's increasingly difficult to pay attention to the road. He feels harder by the second and the sounds coming from the back of Natasha's throat aren't helping.

They're at the tower, finally, and it's a quick retina scan that lets him into the ground floor parking deck. He's barely gotten the car into its spot and set the parking break when he's suddenly confronted with a lap full of Natasha.

Clint's not sure how comfortable she can be jammed between him and the steering wheel, but something tells him that she cares about that just as much as she does.

He slides the seat back as far as it'll go just the same.

"Clint," it's the first word she's managed to get out, and there's a whining quality to it that he's never heard from Natasha before. And even though she's squirming in his lap and she's got one hand under his shirt and her lips on his neck, it's enough to clear his head a little.

"Tash . . ." he stifles a groan when she licks behind his ear, right in the sensitive spot that she knows drives him up the wall.

"Tash, we need to get checked out."

It kills him to say it, but he knows they really, really need to have a doctor look at them.

"Later. Busy now."

Her hands have wandered down to his waistband and she cuts off his next protest with her lips.

"Tash!"

She's got his pants open and she's slipped her hands inside. The sensation of those hands wrapped so very tightly around him is enough to make him lose what semblance of control he might have had left.

He can't think straight at all when she scoots up his body, shoves her panties to the side, and impales herself on his cock. Natasha starts to move, gyrating on top of him, and he can't even remember his own name anymore. She's moaning in time with his thrusts, and he knows it's going to be over too soon.

Clint reaches down between then, presses a firm thumb to her clit, and buries his face in the crook of her neck. She's so wet and tight around him and he just wants to explode, can feel it building low in his gut.

"Fuck, Tash. I can't . . ." he feels himself start to slip over the edge as she writhes above him, but she just moves faster and harder at his admission. He rubs his thumb in circles, firmly, the way he knows she likes it, then peels down the thin fabric covering her breasts. He nips at her peaks, sucking a little, and then he feels her shudder around him.

Natasha shouts her release, and he lets himself go, pumping artlessly into her.

They take a long minute to come back down, but he still feels drugged, still feels the urge to throw her down somewhere and fuck her until she screams.

He breathes deeply, tries to gather his self control.

Natasha, as ever, is the first to recover.

"Well, that certainly was interesting." He's strangely comforted to hear traces of her old accent bleeding in around the edges of her speech.

She smirks down at him a little, and he knows that she's still feeling the drug too when she bends down and kisses him roughly, all teeth and tongue. Clint feels himself twitch inside her then and she giggles out of the sides of her mouth in reply.

"Really, Clint?"

Her eyebrows are raised in feigned mockery, showing the silly side of herself that she so rarely reveals, even to him. He sighs a little when she slides off him and back into the passenger seat.

He takes a few more deep calming breaths before he dares to look at her while she rearranges what's left of her clothing.

"What the hell was that shit?" He asks, even though they've got a very good idea already. He rubs a hand roughly across his face, through his hair, hoping to clear some of the fog from his brain.

"Probably that synthetic drug Bruce mentioned earlier." She reaches into the glove compartment, fishes around a bit, and comes up with a fast food napkin, which she promptly passes to him.

"We need to get checked out." He cleans himself up, zips everything closed, and shoves the soiled napkin in his pocket.

Natasha nods her agreement and waits until he's righted himself before opening the car door and stepping out.

They walk together toward the elevator, and Clint can't help keeping one hand low on her back. There's no one here but JARVIS to see them, and he can't bring himself to break contact.

They make it as far as pressing the button for the floor where Stark has a permanent on-site medical team when the next wave hits.

The door hasn't even closed before Natasha leaps toward him, and she kissing him like he's got the last bits of oxygen left in the world. His world narrows to the woman in his arms and all he wants to do is lose himself in her, doctors be damned.

She reaches behind her and hits the emergency stop on the elevator panel and he'd kiss her for it if he didn't already have his tongue halfway down her throat.

He works his way across her jaw, down the side of her neck, and nibbles at her throat. There's a bit of blood crusted there from where Loki cut her before, and the wave of rage that washes over him has him growling as he presses his lips there.

She seems to understand the emotion, and she tightens her grip around his shoulders, clinging to him with something like desperation.

He keeps moving downward them, trailing his lips over her clavicle, then down between her breasts. She arches against him, moaning, and experience tells him what she wants right now.

Clint drops to his knees in front of her then looks up to see her heavy lidded gaze fixed firmly on him. Natasha told him once that she'd never let anyone touch her like this before him, and it makes him feel remarkably masculine every time he does this for her.

She's called him a caveman for feeling that way, but she's certainly never complained about his performance.

Clint runs his hands up her thighs, over the tears in her stockings, right up underneath the bottom of her dress. He pushes up the hem, carefully, almost reverently, exposing her panties and garter belt. He lifts his eyes up to hers once more, a question burning in them, and Natasha's lust filled gaze is all the response he needs.

He can smell himself on her, mixed in with her scent, an intoxicating reminder of what happened in the car only minutes ago. He nuzzles her through her soaked panties and grins at the laughter that erupts from her throat. She's sensitive there, a little ticklish, but he knows she likes the teasing; he knows how much it turns her on.

He reaches up to the waistband of her panties and breaks one of the straps, grateful that she wore such flimsy undergarments. She's now bared to him, and she's so wet that the moisture is threatening to drip.

So he licks her once, starting at her center and swirling his tongue around her clit. She tastes like she smells and he can feel himself growing harder when she moans and curses in Russian.

Her left foot is resting on his shoulder now and he can feel her legs quivering, so he presses one hand firmly across her stomach, bracing her more securely against the wall of the elevator.

He's still licking and sucking when she begs for more, so he slips one finger, then another into her. Natasha's back curves like a bow and he can feel little quakes start to roll through her.

Clint looks up to see her head thrown back, one hand pressed against the wall and the other busy kneading her breast. He pumps harder, adds a third finger, and quirks his tongue across her clitoris.

"Come for me, baby," he says, but it's more of an entreaty than a command, and fuck, he still can't believe she's letting him do this to her in an elevator.

Then she's coming, clenching hard around his fingers and moaning so loudly that he's sure every person in a two block radius can hear her.

She quivering when he releases her and she slides down the wall to join him on the floor, settling into his lap while she catches her breath.

He doesn't say anything, doesn't feel the need to. He just wants to hold her and feel her close.

Well, maybe some other things, too. He can feel her heat through the material of his pants and he thinks he might just rip right out of trousers if he doesn't get her somewhere a little more private soon.

"Fuck, Clint." Her voice is worn out, raw, like she can barely muster up enough strength to get even that much out.

He knows exactly what she means.

Her eyes are a little clearer a few minutes later when she meets his gaze, and she gently cradles his face between her hands before kissing him. He knows that she can taste their fluids mingled together on his tongue, and another jolt of arousal ripples through his body.

She giggles at him, breaking the kiss. "I think we should take this somewhere a little more private, don't you?"

All thoughts of stopping at the med lab completely forgotten, he tells JARVIS to bypass the floor they'd previously selected and instead take them up to his floor. Mercifully, the normally inquisitive AI doesn't ask them any questions, just restarts the elevator and takes them directly to their destination.

She takes hold of Clint's hand and leads him out into the darkened entranceway to his apartment, and it's all he can do to walk straight and not embarrass himself by tripping over his own feet. Natasha kicks off her shoes and turns a scorching look in his direction.

She steers him toward the bedroom, and the wag of her hips has him hypnotized, all the more so because he knows exactly what she intends to do to him once they're inside.

The need to be naked is overwhelming, and they're stripping as fast as they can. Natasha takes off the shreds of her panties and is about to remove her garter belt when he stops her with a hand and a minute shake of his head.

"Leave it." He'd be more embarrassed about the tone of his voice, except all he can think about is fucking her with those stocking clad legs wrapped around his waist.

She smiles wickedly in response, and then helps him shed the rest of his clothes.

When they're finally (finally) nude, she pushes him forcefully backward onto the bed, then joins him there. He had half a hope that she would climb right on top of him like she had earlier in the car, but instead she slides down the bed, coming eye level with his painfully erect penis.

Natasha takes him in her mouth in one fell swoop, and he doesn't even recognize the moan that works its way out of his throat as being his own. He looks down, gasping as she deep throats him while a free hand massages the inside of his thighs.

Her other hand slips down her own body, and she's touching herself now, and his balls tighten at the sight. Natasha laughs, and the rumble makes him nearly come right then and there.

"Please, Nat." She looks at him but doesn't stop. "I want to come inside you."

It's inarticulate, to be sure, but she must understand what he means because she releases him with a pop, then crawls up his body, brushing her breasts over his chest before dropping herself down on him.

They both groan at the sensation, but it isn't nearly enough. He's had her like this already today, and he wants something else, something different.

So he flips her over and pushes her face down onto the bed. That she lets him do it just makes him want her more.

He thrusts inside of her, one hand on the middle of her back, pinning her down. He's rocking in and out of her, but the position isn't quite right; he can't get deep enough inside her.

Natasha's making some strained, ragged sound in the back of her throat, almost mewling at him, begging for something that neither one of them can verbalize. Half an idea forming, Clint grabs her by the hips, fingers digging into her, and drags her up onto her knees.

She looks over his shoulder at him, growling at him when he pulls out to change positions.

"Put your dick back in me right now, Barton, and fuck my brains out. Right. Now."

The implicit threat behind her command is just one of the reasons he loves this woman.

Oh.

Well, that's interesting.

He pushes aside that thought for now and gets right back to the business at hand, as it were. He thrusts back inside of her and encounters no resistance at all, she's so wet for him.

"I'm going to fuck you so hard, baby. I can't wait to feel you come around me."

They've certainly never been shy in the bedroom, but the dirty talk is something new, and he likes it. Judging by the noise she makes in response to his words, she does, too.

She's undulating in front of him now, and she curves her back up so he can get better access to her chest. He wraps both arms around her, one hand pinching her nipples, the other flicking her clit in time to his thrusts. He's never been so grateful that Natasha is strong as he is now as she supports both their weights on deceptively tiny wrists.

"Fuck, Tash, you feel so fucking good." As compliments go, it's not his best, but it's certainly well appreciated because that's when she starts to come around him, pulsing and clenching and Jesus fucking Christ, she's so fucking hot.

He slows his thrusting and rubs her clit more gently, drawing out her orgasm.

The tremors have barely died down when she says, "Flip me over and put that dick of yours to good use. I want to feel you fucking me so deep it hurts."

He is nothing if not obedient to her whims.

He gets Natasha on her back with one smooth motion, and now her legs are wrapped around his waist and her tits are bouncing along with his thrusts and holy shit if this image isn't going to be seared into his mind for the rest of his life. She's moaning and crying out in such a way that he feels like he's the star of his own goddamned porno.

Clint's just about to wonder where all this stamina is coming from when his orgasm sweeps over him suddenly, without any warning and he thinks maybe he blew out a fuse in his brain or something because everything goes white and he might have passed out there for a few seconds because the next thing he knows, he's flat on his back with Natasha curled beside him.

Sweat is glistening on her brow and he uses the back of one hand to wipe some of it away. He wants to tell her he loves her, but this really isn't the right time to drop that bombshell, so instead he asks, "So, what do you think? Should we warn the others about Loki's sex drugs?"

"Oh, yes. Definitely."

Natasha cocks her head a little, and he sees a little spark reignite somewhere behind her pupils.

"But like, maybe we can wait twenty more minutes."

He returns her grin as she rolls back on top of him.