Title: Childish Things (1/1)
Fandom: Avengers/Marvel Cinematic Universe
Pairing: Clint Barton/Natasha Romanoff
Disclaimer: I own nothing.
Summary: "Love is for children."
"So be childish with me."
Author's Notes: My first Clintasha fic. Hope you enjoy.
They were on assignment in Italy, in hopes of gaining intelligence on an associate of an infamous arms dealer. Their mission that day had been strictly recon, posing as vacationing tourists while they watched the comings-and-goings of their target's countryside villa. After spending half the day pretending to bicker over a broken-down rental car, waiting for a tow truck that would never come, they had received a call from their handler telling them their arms dealer had been caught on a narcotics charge by French police, raised red flags on the computers, and was now waiting to be transferred in UN custody.
Hawkeye and Black Widow were called off the chase to let bureaucracy take charge and were left with eighteen hours to make their rendezvous point, five miles south of their current position. If he were to be honest with himself, Clint had hoped the opportunity meant a little downtime abroad to take in the sights and spend time with Natasha. With the broken-down car really being broken down (as in wires had been cut in case a wayward guard from the villa took it upon themselves to help) the trek was on foot, and despite Natasha grumbling about her fashionable sandals being unfit for such a long walk, she still accepted his offer of a gentlemanly arm and managed to smile at the bad jokes he cracked along the way.
All was well, until a rumbling in the distance was the only warning before the heavens opened up above them and unleashed torrents of rain so heavy they couldn't see a foot in front of them. So, they made a dash for the nearest blurred outline to vaguely resemble some sort of structure.
They were both drenched to the bone, their wet civvies sticking to them as close as a second skin, as they came crashing into the nearest shelter from the downpour. Clint bolted the door shut behind them, relieved when the flimsy wood held surprisingly strong against the blustery winds outside. The sound of their exerted breathing from their impromptu sprint filled the small space, joining in cadence with the rain padding against the tin roofing, echoing softly against the metallic surface.
He fiercely shook his head, sending droplets to fly into the air in a manner quite like a dog after a bath. This earned him an eyeroll from his companion, something he noticed out of his peripheral as she tore off her ruined straw sunhat and began wringing out her soaked red curls. Clint hid a smile and turned away to take a look around at their new surroundings.
They were in an old gardener's shed, he noted as he studied the rusting tools hanging on the wall and the pile of clayware pots in the corner. The sole window was a tiny, dirty thing, and he noticed both the broken pane and the goosebumps rising on Natasha's skin. He frowned, taking off his t-shirt and the plaid short-sleeve he wore over it, balling them up to fill the wide hole in the glass.
He regarded his work with a satisfied nod and turned back to find Natasha watching him, looking half-amused, half-exasperated. She arched an eyebrow, resting one hand on a cocked hip. "I'm not your damsel in distress, Clint."
Clint bit back a smile as he realized she had recognized the protective gesture and he shrugged. "Good thing, too. Hawks look awful in shining armor. Could you imagine me as a white knight?"
Natasha studied him thoughtfully and said with a rare softness, "Perhaps a black knight…in slightly tarnished armor."
He smiled, just barely resisting the urge to cross the room and touch his fingers to her cheek, or worse, kiss her with a tenderness the moment deserved. His softer attentions weren't usually welcome right after an operation, even one as uneventful as this had been, especially when they were still technically in the field. He for one had learned to make the transition from partner to lover almost seamlessly, but Natasha always needed a short time, to move from an undercover persona where everything was an act, to being with him, where the feelings and interactions were raw and genuine, sometimes painfully real.
He turned away to resist the temptation, going over to investigate a dusty old cot in a corner. He picked up the faded blanket, giving it a discreet sniff. He then shook it out and began to look it over. Natasha watched him, taking in the hair plastered to his head and the droplets running in tiny rivulets down his face. She tracked the water with her eyes and watched it travel down his bare chest and down to his stomach, not quite as toned as ten years before when they first met but still impressive as his muscles stood out taut and defined. She followed the thin trail of golden hair from his navel down, disappearing below his waistline.
"This should work," he was saying, "Nothing more offensive then a couple of moth holes." He brushed off the cot and gingerly sat down, testing the sturdiness. Natasha licked her lips as she watched the muscles ripple through his back as he moved. Clint Barton was no longer a young man, but he was her man, and the sight of her man in his bare element never failed to please her.
A familiar heat sparked in her belly and Natasha silently slipped out of her sandals, reaching behind her to lower the zip to her sundress. The purr of the zipper caught Clint's attention and he turned his head toward her just in time to catch the dress dropping to the floor. His gaze was reverent and stunned, greedily taking her in as she nonchalantly hung the dress to dry on a nearby set of hooks, joined by her firearm and the thigh holster encasing it.
Her bra and panties were fine black lace, standing out against her porcelain skin in an undeniably sexy way. Clint grunted, nostrils flaring, his jeans becoming all the more uncomfortable as his groin hardened in the tight confines.
His blue eyes bore into her, their depths as intense and turbulent as the storm outside. He stood and stalked toward her, the bulge in his pants unmistakable. She gave him a coy smile, eyes a dark and smoky green, and the sultry glint in them sent a thrill through him as he managed to close the distance between them.
His rough hands cupped her hips, calloused fingers brushing against her bare flesh and Natasha arched into his touch, silently asking for more. He kissed her, her arms twining around his neck as his tongue lightly skimmed over the seam of her lips, begging for entrance she gladly granted him.
Their kiss picked up in fervor as hands began to roam. He backed her up against the wall behind her and pressed himself against her, working a knee between her legs. She arched into him, rubbing against the muscular thigh pressed to her center, Clint working his lips down to her neck as his hands molded to her breasts, thumbs flicking against the pebbled nipples.
She whimpered and would have been mortified at the sound if she hadn't been so thoroughly distracted by his hand sliding between her thighs, and his groan of approval as he pushed aside her underwear to come into contact with the slick heat of her arousal. The longing for him grew to intensified proportions as he rubbed his thumb against her, coating his fingers in her wetness before he dipped two teasingly inside her, withdrawing just as she bucked into his touch.
Natasha let out a colorful litany of harsh, guttural Russian curses, her hold on his neck tightening as she attempted to move, stopped by the strong hold he had on her hips. Clint's brows arched, both impressed and amused the more creative Natasha became and he leaned his head down to brush his lips against her ear, whispering to her. "Just one word, Natasha. That's all I want."
She let her head fall back with a sigh as he peppered kisses down her neck, burying her fingers into his hair as she gave in to what she knew he wanted. "Clint." So simple, just his name, but so much more significant between them. An acknowledgement that she was there and present with him, showing there were no masks or pretense, just Clint and Natasha. "Clint, touch me."
Clint did as he was bid, wonderfully, as he slid his fingers firmly inside her. Natasha gave a moan of triumphant pleasure, using her hold on his neck to yank him closer, crushing her lips to his. He heatedly returned the kiss, angling his fingers to delve deeper into her as Natasha rocked in rhythm with his hand. The sweet tension coiling in her belly continued to tighten as she spiraled higher and higher, guided by the ardor of their kiss, the heat of his body as he pressed close to her, and the sensuality of his touch.
He suddenly stopped and pulled away, Natasha's growl of protest cut off prematurely as he dropped to his knees and replaced his fingers with his lips, pressing to the bare folds of her sex. She arched hungrily against him, desperate to feel more of him. He caressed her thoroughly and skillfully, his body's answering ache tightening painfully in his jeans. He slipped two fingers beneath where his tongue was circling her clit, crooking them to curl against her inner walls, and she was unable to hold out any longer. Her head fell back, nails biting down into his shoulders as she came hard.
Her body trembled in the lasting throes of her climax and he got to his feet to hold her steady. They moved together with wordless consent, prompted only by a brief glance of understanding, Clint slipping his hands beneath her thighs to give her a boost as Natasha wrapped her legs around his waist. He maneuvered them around to carry her across the shed to deposit her gently on the cot. Natasha leaned back on her hands, appraisingly watching him undress as he made quick work of his belt and fly, dropping the jeans to the ground and securing his gun before moving to join her.
Her hands skimmed up his sides, caressing the warm, firm skin and feeling his muscles ripple as he settled over her. She pressed her lips to his neck, feeling the tendons tense and flex as he swallowed hard, the strain of holding back showing as he fixed her with a heated stare. Natasha smirked in reply, reveling in his groan as she raked her nails along the waistline of his boxers.
He tilted her head up, kissing her with a voracious hunger, tasting everything she offered and demanded even more with urgent insistence. She responded with demands of her own, meeting him with equal passion and equal fervor as she pushed down his boxers and shimmied out of her own underwear. She felt the hard length of him against her thigh as he pressed close and she arched into him, loving the way his eyes fluttered and his rumbling groan as he bucked against her.
She continued to nibble at his neck, stroking his sides as he reached over the side of the cot and drew out his wallet from the back-pocket of his jeans. Clint opened the leather billfold and fished out a small foil packet, tearing it open to deftly roll on the condom. She held his eyes as he moved forward to align their bodies, slowly pushing into her to be met by the parting of her body and her appreciative moan of his name.
As he came to rest fully seated inside her, Natasha hitched her legs up to wrap around his waist as Clint began to move. His thrusts were slow and natural, Natasha releasing a soft, contented sigh as she basked in both exquisite pleasure that came with being with him and the flawless familiarity of having him inside her.
He buried his face in her hair, rolling his hips forward to deepen his way into the welcoming heat of her body. "Tasha," she gasped out, his voice thick with passion, "Tasha, so good."
"Clint," she sighed in response, wrapping her arms around him to hold him closer as she moved in rhythm with him.
He kissed her sweetly, softly, his strong hands gripped her hips, angling them to deepen his thrusts, earning for them both increased ecstasy as the pleasure picked up tenfold.
She clung to him, feeling every brush of his skin, every creak of the old cot beneath them, every stimulating jolt of sheer ecstasy that came as his hips jerked forward, his thrusts picking up in ferocity. His pace grew feverish, egged on by her soft sounds of pleasure, the sensation of her lips grazing against his, her body writhing beneath his.
"Tash, Tash, Tash," he found himself groaning her name in mantra, his voice rough and husky as his body tensed and the pressure in his abdomen built to almost painful prospects, his breath ragged and panting.
They were drowning in sensual bliss, in that same ache for release as their bodies came together again and again in some primordial alchemy, racing toward completion. Sweat beaded upon his face, dripping down his neck, and she licked around his pulse, tasting the salt of his perspiration. Her eyes were hooded and sultry as they met his, her hips bucking up to urge him on.
Clint groaned, reaching down to hastily unfasten her brassiere, pulling it down to bare her breasts to his eager gaze. His hips propelled forward, hard and fast, and his mouth lowering to find an exposed nipple, his tongue circling the areole. He added into the sensual torture as his hand crept between their joined bodies, his fingers seeking the sensitive nub that would stimulate her high.
Her breath hitched painfully and she mewled out something resembling to his name, her nails raking down his back. His mouth sealed over hers to stifle the sound of her cry, a soft and firm passion cut short by his own strangled call as he felt her spasm and tense all around him, bringing him into his own climax. "Natasha," was all he could groan before he lost all sense of coherency.
Afterward, she lay quietly as he dozed beside her in drowsy satisfaction, reveling in the rare moment of peace as she lightly stroked his face, relaxed and eased of the brooding solemnity so characteristic of him. His nose twitched at her ministrations, the arm draped around her waist tightening its hold as sleepy blue eyes fluttered open to gaze up at her. "Hey," she said softly.
"Hey." He skimmed his knuckles along the curve of her cheek, looking at her with a warmth and tenderness that had something not all together unpleasant tightening in her chest. "I love you, Nat."
Natasha tensed and pulled away from his embrace, giving him a baleful glare. "Clint…" she started warningly.
"Natasha," he countered calmly.
She gave an annoyed huff, looking pointedly away. "Love is for children," she grumbled.
She heard his husky chuckle before Clint pulled her back to him, sealing his mouth over hers in a heated kiss and Natasha responded instantly with beautiful ardency. He pulled away only when they had need of breath and he brushed his nose against hers. "Then be childish with me," he whispered, "Just for a little while."
Natasha sighed with defeat, melting into him as she nuzzled against his chest, breathing in the familiar scent that was uniquely Clint. He recognized the surrender immediately, pressing a kiss to her forehead as he caught a barely audible murmuring in Russian against his skin.
"I know, Tash. I love you, too."
Their rude awakening came a few hours later when the property owner found them curled up together in his shed, shouting loudly in foreign tones and gesticulating wildly. A startled Clint had leapt up and reached for his gun, finding himself stark naked and pointing his Glock at an elderly man old enough to be his grandfather.
Natasha, for her part, had remained perfectly calm, cool and collected as she sat up with the blanket held to her chest, quickly defusing the situation with a charming smile and rapid-fire Italian volleying back and forth as Clint stood by, useless and clueless.
Afterward, as they were dressing, Natasha into a slightly wrinkled dress, and Clint into his damp jeans (lying crumpled on the floor) and t-shirt (still in the window), she informed him they had been invited to dinner with their previously unwitting host and his wife, after which a taxi would be called for them. Dazed and confused about the sudden turnabout in the situation, he stood there like a buffoon for a moment before she rolled her eyes and grabbed his hand, tugging him after her.
Later, he would be mortified over his reaction, used to be quick on his feet like the exemplary agent he was, but as Natasha twined their fingers together and smiled at him over her shoulder, he found he didn't care how things had come to be, just that they were.
It was time with Natasha, after all, and that's what he had wanted all along.
literary devices of the insane mind
...the cuddly kind of lunatic...
- Childish Things (1/1)