A/N: The following is part of a fusion 'verse I have (the other fandom being Supernatural), but all you need to know for this is that Clint and Natasha are hunters of things that go bump in the night.

Given it's been a while since I've written anything close to smut (which this is not), so apologies if it's a bit Ikea porn-ish. Also apologies for all the gratuitous religious references.

WARNING: sexual content, references to violence and abuse

revelation: find your own verse and chapter

It'd been an easy job: dead teenager crawling out of its (her) grave to drink the blood of its (her) family, so they'd put an ash arrow through its (her) mouth (that was Clint) and decapitated the body (that was her) before adding holy water and then burning the remains.

Easy.

Natasha hated those jobs: too many dead girls in her head. Too many dead girls that Natasha would like nothing more than to let extract whatever revenge they wanted on the people that hurt them. But she had red on her ledger and black on her soul; she had debts to repay if she stood any chance of not ending up in hell, so the living trumped the dead. She was okay with that.

Mostly.

(Before they left town, Natasha made an anonymous tip to social services, and reported the family she'd just saved for the sake of the dead girl's younger brothers. It made her feel a bit better.)

A day later, they were in another town and another cheap hotel, and she still felt itchy under her skin with bites she couldn't scratch. Clint was doing that thing where he'd watch her when he thought she wasn't watching, and it was both irritating and endearing. Endearing meant her mood was improving. She could acknowledge that.

And, hell, if the man kept hovering and wanting to help, he could damn well help.

“Clint,” she said, and they've been together enough years (god, how many now?) that he knew her. He could hear the request in the timbre of her voice, could read the details of what she wanted in the way she tilted her head and leaned back against the hotel room's desk.

Clint smiled and got that look on his face that always made her feel warm and safe, an unflinching, god, you're an amazing thing that was adoration grounded in reality. Then he was up in her personal space just like she wanted, pushing her back against the desk with his hands in her hair, kissing her as if it were the only thing to save her. The edge of the desk dug into her ass, but she ignored it, wrapping a leg around his hips instead, pulling him closer and closer still.

“'Tasha,” Clint said, her muttered name was a prayer, just as his had been. He dropped his head down to kiss her jaw, her neck, the three-barred silver cross that hung under the dip of her collar-bone.

“You're useful to have around, Barton,” she replied, voice breathless from lust and a sudden bubbling laughter. The laughter turned into a moan as he palmed her breast, sucked at the join of neck and shoulder. Natasha started to wonder how thin the walls of their hotel were, and then Clint slid down onto his knees, which would have been distracting all of its own even without the wicked glint in his eyes. Her foot swung back down onto the ground in time for him to run his hands down her sides, because, yeah, she'd need the balance very soon.