The soft rays of sunlight bathed the streets of New York City in a gilded light, and softened the sharp edges of the sky scrapers and crudely sketched cafes, as if an angel's breath had ghosted the town.
Clint Barton perched on the slim railing of the small balcony located outside of his apartment; it was, of course, a precarious position to hold, but he'd had years and years of practice to perfect his balance, and so, this was almost natural to him. In fact, it was so natural, he only had one hand gripping the railing; the other embraced a coffee mug his best friend, Natasha Romanoff (better known as Black Widow), had bought him for his birthday.
Today was Christmas. It was Clint's favorite holiday. Of course, it seemed a bit odd and sentimental for him to say that, but it was true. Morning in New York City was like every other morning, but Christmas mornings in particular had a tangy zest to them, and a sort of hope that permeated and filled the city that was felt by even the most despondent. He loved to sit outside and feel the crisp winter air, and watch the children run outside and play with their new toys. It was, all in all, a pleasant, happy atmosphere to be in.
Of course, he felt like he was the only one who reveled in this treasure. Every Christmas, Natasha was always out on some mission, deep in the rainforests, or shielding her eyes from the desert sun. Her work was first before anything. Fury had given Shield agents Christmas day off, and Clint utilized it to his best ability. Natasha, however, didn't seem to have care for these sort of things, and went off anyway.
She seemed to have her own personal reasons why she had this adversity to Christmas (although she never actually said so), but Clint did not want to pry. Attempting to pry would grant him nothing but a foot to the groin, and possibly a loss of friendship. Also, for him, Christmas was not really a religious matter. It was the general atmosphere of mirth and ambience that satisfied him immensely.
He was ambiguous on if that was the reason she didn't like it.
He asked her once what religion she held, and she simply said,
"My own."
The way she said it was with utter conviction, and he understood exactly what she meant. He didn't voice his understanding out loud however, but she knew that he knew what she meant. They had their own silent language.
However, today was a day unlike all others. Natasha had actually decided to stay home that Christmas. Well, actually, she didn't really have a choice- Fury put his foot down and declared that so God help him, she better stay home for one day and relax.
It probably didn't help that her life was directly endangered last week in a mission to Bangkok. Natasha denied anything of that nature, but Fury reported that she could've been killed. He didn't say more on the matter, and neither did Natasha.
But anyways…she was home. And, Clint had bought a gift for her. It had taken him forever to find the appropriate components, make it. He never was good at arts and crafts.
But now that he had it, he didn't want to give it to her. No, no, he did, of course he did, he was just so nervous and apprehensive by what her reaction might be. She'd either love it or hate it. Of course, it had an underlying connotation that signaled, well, some sort of feeling for her. And truth be told, sometimes he looked at her, and he didn't see a friend, he saw someone that he could hold, and take to dinner, and look at stars with.
And he wasn't some kind of sap. He liked simplicity. He wasn't even very romantic. But, sometimes, he would get this feeling when they were together, and he was not only confused by it, but scared. He was an expert at masking this, however. With her, it was always the brick façade she had built around herself. He felt like he'd never know what she truly felt about things. Sometimes, in the heat of the moment in missions, or when they'd face conflict, he'd look at her face, always seemingly impassive, her eyes cool and calm, and wonder, What are you thinking?
No. No. He had to give the gift to her, goddamn it.
Don't be a wimp, he told himself.
"It will be fine," he said out loud, and took a hearty sip of coffee.
It was still early, and he knew that her sleep patterns weren't fantastic, so he decided to visit her around noon. Glancing at the clock, he realized it was only 7:40.
He took a superfluous shower, scrubbing his underarms three times. Afterwards, he brushed his teeth, flossed, and gargled with mouthwash until he was certain any remnants of coffee were completely eradicated.
The next few hours consisted of him walking around, watching arbitrary channels on television, and making a house out of cards.
After the card house tumbled down, he looked back up at the clock; there were still two hours until noon.
"Ah, screw it." He picked up the phone, and dialed Natasha.
It rang six times, and he was certain no one was going to pick up, but on the seventh, she finally did.
"Hello?" Her voice was succinct; he was glad he hadn't awoken her.
"Hey, it's Clint."
"I know, I have caller ID."
"Just wanted to make sure."
"Of course. So, what's up?" she asked.
"Do you want to hang out?" he asked.
"Sure, c'mon over. I'll put the kettle on."
"Alright, bye."
"See ya."
Within two minutes, he was out the door, bundled tightly in a warm jacket, fingering the delicately wrapped present in his pocket.
The walk to Natasha's apartment was pretty short in its entirety, and he arrived at her front step rather quickly.
He knocked once on the door, and waited. A few seconds after, she swung open the door, her red hair pulled back into a bun, and a small smile on her lips.
He followed her inside, and hung his coat up.
"What brings you here?" she asked, as she padded into the kitchen, and turned off the screaming kettle.
"Just wanted to see you, Tash," he grinned, and flopped down on the couch.
"Of course, of course," she said, and came out of the kitchen toting two cups on a tray. She placed them on the coffee table before him, and plopped down on the couch. She turned to face him, brushing the sleeves of her clunky sweater up her arms, displaying the smooth bare white of her wrists.
"I'm glad to see you actually here, and not y'know, getting your head blown off," he chuckled.
"Staying home definitely has its perks," she said, and gave a small laugh. "Although it gets kind of boring, staying here. Solitude is a virtue, but, sometimes, I get a bit lonely."
"I get lonely, too. But that's what friends are for."
"Now, don't get all sentimental on me," Natasha said, wagging a finger at him. She picked up a cup of tea, and took a small sip.
"Don't be a Grinch," Clint said, shaking his head.
"A what?" She looked confused.
"A Grinch," Clint repeated, his brow furrowed.
"What's that?" Natasha asked.
"You…oh, geez, I've got to catch you up on this stuff," Clint said, his eyes widened. "Where's your remote?"
"It all seems kind of silly to me," Natasha said.
"That's the point, Nat, loosen up!" he said, poking her shoulder.
"If I wanted to loosen up, I'd be drinking vodka, not tea," she pointed out.
"Tasha, c'mon, what did Christmas ever do to you?" he asked her, finally unearthing the remote from a stack of pillows on the floor.
There was a pregnant pause as she circled the rim of the cup with her index finger. Finally, she said,
"At the orphanage, we didn't celebrate Christmas." That was all she said, and she resumed drinking her tea.
"Turn on the TV, alright, and we'll see who this Grinch person is," she muttered, her face red.
Clint looked at her for a moment, unsure of what to say. She didn't tell him to invoke pity, she was simply responding to his question. It was oddly touching in a way for him, because she very rarely said anything so personal about herself.
He took his seat by her. As he looked over at her, he noticed how much she resembled a young child; her knees were drawn up to her chest, and her face, devoid of makeup, looked strikingly innocent.
He flipped on the TV, and passed through several channels, until he came to a kid's program, where luckily, they were showing The Grinch Who Stole Christmas.
"You're a mean one, Mr. Grinch…"
The green furry monster's face split into a grin that resulted in a plethora of wrinkles.
"I thought you said this was for children," Natasha snorted.
"C'mon, it's a classic," Clint laughed.
Natasha snickered, but quieted down and resumed watching it with him.
Half an hour into it, she was leaning forwards, her eyes wide, and her hands on her knees. Clint glanced at her, a bemused expression on his face.
She leaned back, her head almost gracing his shoulder; tendrils of her hair brushed his cheek.
"Oops, sorry," she said, and straightened up.
Once the program was over, and the credits were rolling, she stretched, and yawned.
"So…it's kinda cute, isn't it?" Clint said.
"Yeah. I get your analogy about the Grinch now," Natasha said, rolling her eyes.
"Yeah."
They were silent for a moment, with Natasha studying her fingernails, and Clint staring out the window. Clint's hand suddenly shot out, and squeezed the area between Natasha's rib cage and hip, causing her to squeal, and back-hand him across his shoulder.
"You're ticklish," he said, grinning with his new discovery.
They were standing now, and she backed away from him, a hand covering the affected area. "Don't push me," she warned.
"Or what?" he teased.
He stepped forwards, and she stepped backwards. They did this sort of cadence until they reached her bedroom, where there was a dead end.
"I have you trapped," he laughed.
"That's what you think."
He raised an eyebrow. Natasha suddenly fell to the floor, trapped his ankle between her two feet, and twisted, causing him to catapult to the ground. He aimed a hit to her face; she blocked it. She swung an elbow towards his stomach; he caught it.
They did their odd tango throughout the bedroom, each intercepting each other's hits, with occasional breakthroughs; Natasha dealt a fierce roundhouse kick to Clint's exposed ribcage, and he managed to sneak in a knife hand to her collarbone.
They stumbled into the bathroom, and as Clint raised his fist, she did a back flip, grabbed the towel ring, and swung herself into his chest, throwing him to the ground. He grabbed her face, and tilting her chin upwards, he managed to lower her to the floor. However, his position of dominance did not last long, as her heel smacked him in the solar plexus, and he let go of her with a miniscule whine.
As she got up, he threw his arms around her waist, ignoring the sharp pain induced by her fist to his temple, and they both crashed into the shower, taking the curtain down with them. Natasha kicked, and her foot activated the shower head, which spat icy-cold water down on top of them. They both screamed, and Clint hurriedly switched the thing off.
They sat in the tub, breathing hard, both adequately wet from the shower. They simultaneously broke into laughter.
Natasha was wiping laughter-induced tears from her eyes as Clint said, "I'll buy you a new shower curtain."
"Don't-don't bother," she said, and then entered a fresh round of laughter, doubling over. Clint had never seen her laugh this hard in his entire lifetime, and this provoked strong-bellied laughter from his as well.
"Ahhh," Natasha sighed, and leaned upon Clint, the back of her head on his chest.
"Well, that was relaxing," Clint said.
"Oh, yes, definitely," she said.
"You gave me a bruise," he laughed, tugging up his pant leg.
"It's bigger than the one you gave me," she said, pointing to her bicep.
"Nuh-uh, yours is bigger," he said.
"Scared I'm trying to emasculate you?" she teased, poking him in the stomach. He squirmed briefly, grabbing the offending hand.
"No, no," he gasped.
"I've found your weakness," she said, raising her eyebrows up and down theatrically.
"And I've found yours," he grinned.
"Guess we're at a stalemate. Hey, I need to change my shirt cause it's totally soaked. Just wait in the kitchen, okay? We'll heat up a pizza when I get out," she said.
Looking over, Clint realized that she had taken the blunt of the shower's wrath. They got up, with Natasha wringing her shirt out. She shooed him out of the bedroom, and closed the door.
Clint walked back to the kitchen, pulled out a bar stool, and sat down. Their fighting sequences were like a game to them- they constantly pulled out moves on each other, at random times. Sometimes Natasha won, and sometimes Clint won. In this case, it was unclear.
He suddenly remembered the present he wanted to give her. He looked towards the bedroom door- she still wasn't coming out- and decided that now was the perfect opportunity. Better now, than never. Adrenaline rushed through his body; he wasn't sure why he was so nervous about this. He was completely overreacting. He dug out the gift from his coat pocket and returned to the kitchen.
"Hey, there," Natasha said, walking out of her bedroom and into the kitchen, where she opened her freezer and pulled out the pizza box.
"Hi," Clint answered, looking up at her briefly.
She preheated the oven, and then sat back down, across from him.
"What's that?" she asked, pointing to the parcel held in Clint's hands.
"Well," he swallowed, "Um, it's for you."
She smiled, and then said, "You didn't have to do that."
"I wanted to. Just…open it, okay?"
"Okay." She gingerly took the package, and slid a finger beneath one of the flaps enclosed with tape. She opened the rest of the gift in this meticulous fashion. Once the wrapping was off, it revealed a small beige box. She carefully lifted the cover, and then looked at the contents.
She completely froze, her eyes glued to the object in the box, her free hand held slightly above it. Silence ensued, and Clint looked at her worriedly.
Did I just do something horribly wrong? He wondered, staring at her intently, trying to gauge her facial expression.
"Are you…okay?" he asked.
With a finger, she gently lifted the object out; it was a dark green bracelet intertwined with strings of pearl blue; in the center was an ebony stone.
"Where did you find this," she said, her voice barely above a whisper.
"Well, I know it's not an exact replica, but I found a bracelet in a Parisian market, and then I had an onyx woven in during our trip to India. I know it's not the same. I just wanted to do something nice for you, because, well, no one ever does nice things for you. And I thought that someone should."
She looked at him then, a hint of tears in her eyes, and a shaky smile on her lips.
"You know," she said, "The bracelet that I always wore was given to be me by my mother. And I've had it for the longest time, through the Red Room, and through the war, and through the Manhattan attack. When I lost it last week, in the Bangkok battle, I was…" She swallowed, and stopped, looking down at the ground. She very gently placed the bracelet on the counter and then, she took two steps forward, so that she was directly in front of Clint, who looked at her, and suddenly, wanted nothing more than to have her pressed against him. She wrapped her arms around him, and he reciprocated, standing up fully. She buried her face into his shoulder, and with trembling fingers, stroked his hair, very lightly.
She smelled so good, and she was so warm, and her hair was so soft. And all he could think about was how her fingers felt, and how she felt against him. He'd always wanted to know what it'd be like to hold her. They had hugged briefly, in passing, but never like this.
She pulled her face away, and they locked eyes. She looked faintly confused, her eyes searching his. Impulsively, he cupped her face, running a thumb along her cheekbone; her skin was so soft, and he felt that ancient jolt in his veins that he hadn't felt in what seemed like an eternity.
He pulled his hand away. "I'm sorry," he said, afraid that he had been presumptuous.
"Don't be," she said, blinking twice. She ran a hand along his face, a touch as light as a feather, as though she was scared he would break.
Grasping her chin, he leaned in, and pressed his lips to hers. They were soft, tentative kisses at first, and both trembled; her fingers ran along his spine, and grasped his shoulders; his stroked her face. His body pressed against hers; she leaned against the counter, and dipped back, wrapping an arm around his neck to bring him closer to her.
The kiss deepened, and their tongues met. She pulled at his hair, and he wrapped his arms around her waist tighter, so she wouldn't fall. He pulled her up onto the counter, and the pizza box went flying to the floor. Neither of them noticed.
As she was propped on the counter, he trailed kisses down her jawline, and onto her neck; she wrapped her legs around him, and dug her fingernails lightly into his shoulder. She suddenly grasped his face, curtailing his action. He looked at her; her face was flushed and she was breathing hard. She wrapped her legs tighter around him, and opened her mouth slightly, as if she was going to say something, and then shut it. Then, with a singular, quick movement, she popped open one of the buttons on his shirt. She kissed his earlobe, and whispered, "Now."
Without hesitation, he carried her, his head pounding rapidly in his chest- was this actually happening? Was this her, Natasha Romanoff, pressing mad kisses to his face?
With a hand groping backwards, he found the doorknob of her bedroom door, and they stumbled in, her hands hastily undoing the buttons on his shirt. They collapsed on the bed, and she broke the kiss, straddling him.
He sat up so she could remove his shirt, his face buried in her neck. She tossed his shirt aside, and looked down at him; she'd seen him shirtless, but never like this. She ghosted a hand down his chest, and over his stomach, dangerously close to the area which she was currently sitting on. She placed a kiss to his chest, her eyes on his.
His hands tugged at the hem of her shirt, and she obediently raised her arms upwards as he gently lifted it, leaving her in her bra. She was well toned from years of training; her stomach was flat, and her arms were well built.
His eyes widened, and all of a sudden, he seemed unsure of what to do, although he knew exactly it. She gently took his hands, and placed them on her breasts. She cupped his face, her thumb stroking his jawline.
"Don't be afraid," she whispered, and nipped at his ear.
He stroked each one gently, and then reached behind to unclasp her bra. His eyes widened once more at the revealed sight. Her breasts were pert, and her stomach was toned. Her torso was smooth, save for the scars from years of battle. Each one only added to her pulchritude. He cupped her breasts once more, running his thumbs over her hardened nipples. She kissed his forehead as he did so, her sweet breath washing over his face.
Running his hands down her back, he laid kisses on her collarbone, leaving goose bumps in his wake. She gripped his hair tighter, and let out a soft moan.
There was a scar above her right breast, and she froze, staring down at him with wide, frightened eyes. Without breaking eye contact, he kissed the scar. He thought she was the most beautiful woman in the world. And he wanted her to know that.
He then ran his tongue over her nipple, and she moaned louder, digging her fingernails into his back. The sound she made greatly heightened his arousal, and suddenly, his pants were unbearably restrictive.
They kissed furiously once more, and her hips rose to meet his; she ground into him, and he groaned into her open mouth.
She dragged a hand down his front once more, her fingers nipping at his belt; she cupped the bulging area then, smiling at the way he stared at her, his face flushed with apparent arousal.
He stroked her thigh, and then ran a finger vertically across her; her grip on him loosened slightly.
With a sudden zest, she tore open the button on his pants.
He tore her pants off with one quick tug, and her underwear as well. She removed his boxers; he kicked them off with a violent force that made her laugh.
They were both completely exposed to one another. They simply stared at each other, with wide, curious eyes. He was the first to reach out; his fingers stroked her hip, and then wandered further. He felt her wetness, and then dipped a finger inside her. She lay back for him, her breathing steadily increased. He then applied more pressure to a certain part of her that sprung tears to her eyes.
She mouthed, "Don't stop," with tears sparkling in her eyes, and then, reached a hand out and grasped his length, stroking, her thumb crossing over the tip. Every single one of his nerves felt as though they were doused in fire, and he almost lost track of his actions to her.
She released him, and clenched his bottom, bringing him to rest directly between her legs. His hardness pressed at her entrance, and she trembled in anticipation, her limbs entangled with his.
He slowly filled her; she was so tight, and the way she was clenched around him, her eyes swimming with wanton lust, almost drove him to the edge. He sucked the sensitive skin beneath her ear, and then, pressed his lips to hers, unbridled. Her breath was sweet, and her lips were soft. She ran her fingers along his jawline, shifting her hips so that he was buried deeper inside her. He rolled his hips as they kissed furiously with open mouths, their tongues gently meeting.
He looped an arm around her back, and brought her to a sitting position. She wrapped her legs around him, and pressed kisses to his eyelids. They expedited their tempo, and she gasped as he sharply thrust upwards, her eyes rolling back into her head.
She pressed her palms against his thighs, and brought herself upwards, before slamming down on him, all the way to the hilt, inciting a satiating groan from him. He pressed her closer to him, so that her breasts were against his chest. She licked the side of his neck, slowly, nibbling here and there. She then kissed his mouth once more, each sighing with ecstasy.
She gripped his hand, her fingers slipping through the spaces in his. She trembled, and ground harder into him. He lay her back down on the bed, thrusting with a greater speed, never letting go of her hand. His other hand gripped her hip, kneading the soft flesh. She gripped his hand to the point where he thought it'd break. Suddenly, her eyes widened. She gasped, and he felt her muscles grip him tighter. He rotated his hips ferociously, his fingers wafting to the apex of her thighs to find the spot that had provoked such a fulfilling reaction from her before.
She came with a loud moan, and he followed a few seconds after her, before collapsing on top of her heaving body, his lips pressed against her damp shoulder.
He rolled off of her, then, so he wouldn't crush her, and he simply stared at the ceiling, his heart pounding.
He felt a hand gently run down his arm, before interlocking with his hand. He turned to the side so he could face her. They looked at each other for a moment, and then Clint shifted so that she was in his arms, her head resting on his chest.
"Clint?" she said, looking up at him.
"Yes?" he said, his hand on her back.
"Merry Christmas."
Author's note:
Soooo this was supposed to be posted on Christmas...but it took me a long time to write this, actually. This is my first smut scene...ever, actually. So, if it's kind of well, not so fantastic, let me know. I'd like to hear advice on this.
I, along with many other people, ship Natasha and Clint. They have so much chemistry. It's odd because my main fic, the Point of No Return, is a Natasha/Loki story.
Anyways... happy holidays, and I hope this was enjoyable to read.
-soirblanche