“Shit, sorry sweetheart–” Clint says, and that’s all the warning he gives before a massive hand slams down onto the table behind him, palm facing Clint’s chest, to sweep Natasha toward the edge of the table. For a wild second she thinks he’s going to swat her clean off of it, but then when she gets about a foot from the edge she can see over it to where his other hand’s got a thumb hooked in his waistband, boxers and tac bottoms pulled out three or four inches to catch her in his underwear. 

She rolls down cotton briefs end over end until she winds up flat on her back staring forward and a dick and balls larger than her in every aspect, and then the waistband over her head snaps closed, sealing her into darkness.

“I don’t have any pockets on this outfit,” She hears him mutter under his breath, “And we got company.”

They’ve been under cover for three weeks, mostly Clint since the accident, and he can’t be seen with her - god only knows what the group he’s infiltrating would do with her if they found out. 

She knows this logically, it’s just when she’s smashed chest-first into the head of her partner’s soft cock it’s a little hard to be logical.

“Gentlemen,” she hears him greet - the sound rumbles almost through her stomach, a strange distortion thanks to her size and her proximity. 

“Young blood, walk with me,” comes the deep baritone of the man Natasha knows to be in charge. 

And Clint obliges. It shakes up Natasha’s entire world, because every thundering step jiggles the malleable flesh above her. It jostles her so hard that she gives in and reaches out, wrapping her arms around the head of Clint’s dick to keep from being swept under the far worse place below. She can’t hear any indication of a falter in his voice or in his step, but it’s impossible to miss the way his cock twitches a little at the feeling.

They pick up the pace, from a slow amble to brisk, and Natasha has to cling a little more tightly. The flesh she’s hugging gets a little warmer and, she realizes, a little thicker too - filling out just slightly with blood, lifting a little from where it’d been resting limp atop his balls. This subtle change isn’t so subtle to her, because it means his slit lifts up and presses directly into her face head-on, soft and clean but relentless thanks to the wall of unforgiving material behind her. 

She shakes her head a little, frustrated, trying to turn her face away from a slit that almost seems bound and determined to make out with her. She lifts up both her hands to push at the head of Clint’s dick, trying to steer it away from her face - it works, but not necessarily the way she intended. Another twitch, this time a heartier throb, and it swells against her, grinding up her face as hard as it can before it has to start curving up, climbing up her body like a vine and dragging her with it a little until she’s pinned just beneath the head against the wall at her back.

This whole process takes nearly twenty minutes, and then she notices that the jiggling, bouncing, shaking has stopped and they’re standing still. She can hear the sound of loud conversation, of laughter, of clinking glasses. 

“ За здоровье,” someone calls, and she hears Clint echo it back followed by the clinking of two glasses together in a toast.

They’re drinking. He’s having a drink, presumably in a bar, with a mob boss while Natasha sits here accidentally stimulating his dick and getting smushed by his erection.

Clint, for his part, knows that he should do something about it. He could make an excuse, head to the restroom, pull her out and figure out an alternative plan - maybe store her somewhere safe there until it’s time to leave.

…but she doesn’t know that, does she?

And he wouldn’t want to arouse any suspicion.

…and she feels kinda nice down there anyway, sort of like a little finger rubbing at his dick while he drinks. Gently stroking and stimulating and writing against his sweet spot. It’s not gonna hurt anyone if he keeps her in there a while longer. When’s he ever gonna have the chance to shove an entire god damn person down his underwear, let alone Natasha? 

The more shots he takes the hotter he thinks it is, and the more tempted he is to wrap his palm around himself over his pants and start massaging.

…Or maybe get one of the girls eyeing him to come sit in his lap for a little while.