Auhtor's note: Not exactly porn but I think I'll still get in trouble for posting this. Oh, well! The pacing is off but I'd cut myself some slack because I wrote this in, like, five minutes, so... yeah, whatever.
Anyhow, I dedicate this story to all those who love BlackHawk and those few people with a kink for smoking! Oh, and if you squint, there's some implied Clint\Barbara... also known as MockingHawk... Don't cut me!
As per usual, thanks in advance for reading and whatnot! :D
"Smoking had come to be an important punctuation mark in the long sentence of a day on the road." ― Francis Scott Fitzgerald
When Clint awoke from his dreamless slumber, he felt wholly lethargic and fatigued. Forcing himself upright against the headboard, the archer grunted as the shoulder he dislocated the evening prior began to give him pain.
Though, he had been given plenty of painkillers by the concerned nurses that attended him, they had long since worn off. Without those fussy physicians, or an IV running through his arm, he was going to have to grin and bear it.
As he moved gingerly to get off the bed, the blonde's body shuddered violently as he was wracked to the core with pain. Oh, that was new… he didn't remember getting hit by a truck; but it sure as hell felt like he did.
Clint bit his lip and then hissed as he felt the already torn skin there split under his teeth. Releasing the abused flesh as it bled anew, the blonde wiped away the thin trails of blood dripping down his chin and swung his legs onto the edge of the bed.
Panting as pain blossomed from deep within his chest—probably somewhere around his rips; which were probably cracked—he grabbed for the nightstand at the edge of the bed.
His wide palm was wrapped in thick bandaging but Clint paid that no mind as he made to stand. His knees trembled; his neck throbbed; his back ached and cracked as he stood to full height. Despite the literal agony he was in, the archer pushed through it; pushed all the pain from his mind at the notion that it wasn't in vain.
He had killed his intended target. And while he did get wrung out a like a towel by a giant, juiced-up freak of science, he had completed his damned assignment and would be without one until he healed.
The pros of finishing a contract was that he was free to do what he pleased with his time—the immediate con was that he never knew what to do with his free-time.
Clint was always working and when he wasn't… he still was loitering around the gun-range, fucking with the rookies and keeping his skills sharp. If not that, he was bettering his equipment: tweaking his longbow, mixing more potent poisons for his arrows, or perfecting his explosive arrows. At that point in time, he was so close to the right formula to make a larger and more devastating explosion.
And if not that, he would take apart all the handguns in the armory and polish them until he could see his reflection in them… or until he was given another assignment—or until he was bored, which almost never happened.
However, since he felt like a child's favorite stuffed-animal looked after years of abuse at the hands of its unwittingly cruel owner, Clint would be doing none of that.
Not even the polishing.
He could scarcely lift his left arm over his hip without his shoulder crying in protest. And his right hand had been sliced pretty deep by an errant knife rendering it stiff and disagreeable for the sake of it.
Clint tried to flex said hand then, as he swayed wearily on his feet. Aside from the physical pain brought on by the confrontation with his target's 'little'—and he uses that word loosely—pet, the archer was experiencing some technical difficulties inside that head of his.
Mental trauma aside—he will forever stay away from really, really tall guys. If not for forever, just for a little while—Clint found that his usually pristine vision was blurry around the edges and mottled with a myriad of bright colors.
As he tried to shake off the onset of vertigo, Clint gagged as his stomach did a few slips. He head began pounding like a war drum. He closed his eyes and began breathing deeply. As he gripped onto the table for dear-life, the archer counted backwards from one hundred.
Around seventy or so, Clint paused and realized that the nausea had passed. Exhaling, he maneuvered his body a tad bit and went to rifle through the night-stand. Pulling the drawer open carefully, Clint reached inside and groped around the scantly-lit drawer for a few long-drawn moments before he found and retrieved a pack of smokes and his favorite lighter.
The silvery shell of the lighter caught the little beams of light that poured in through the window. It was a gift from someone he worked with once. Her name, much like she was in her civilian disguise, was ordinary—like Barbara or something… He preferred to call her Bobbi.
Her call-sign was a whole other story: Mockingbird. Whenever Bobbi assumed the identity of Mockingbird, she was something extraordinary.
Remembering the way her black-and-white bodysuit hugged her figure—which was phenomenal from all the training she was put through—Clint wondered where she was now. Did she remember him? Because he thinks he could remember her for a lifetime; a different kind of memory of her flitted through his mind, as ran his fingers along the intricate engravings in the lighter. Uh-huh, he certainly could.
Pining for a cigarette right about then, Clint staggered towards the balcony. It was tough work to get the door opened, but once he was out there, the blonde stepped out onto the terrace and inhaled the smells of the night as it splayed out over the sprawling city of Paris, France. Time after time, visit after visit; Clint still had yet to experience Paris enough to grow tired of it. As he leaned against the railing and fished a cigarette out of the packet, he wondered if he ever would.
Gingerly, Clint lit the cigarette balancing between his bruised and bloodied lips. Taking a healthy drag as he savored the addictive tobacco, the blonde sighed and slipped the lighter into his pocket.
Closing his eyes as he held the smoke in his lungs for as long as he could, Clint felt himself relaxing in increments. His mind went blank as he drifted in a sea of calm. No thoughts of work, no thoughts of pain… just calm. It lasted for a fleeting moment before his head starting swimming from oxygen deprivation. Plucking the cigarette from his mouth, the archer finally exhaled. The smoke escaped his mouth in a thick, white plume and quickly evaporated into the chilled air.
Clint opened his eyes and stared at the cig in his hand. It was already almost burned out. He grumbled before putting it out in the thickly-painted railing and lighting another. As he continued to smoke, Clint slowly became more and more heavy-eyed. By the fourth cigarette, he was leaning heavily on the banister. If it wasn't for Natasha opening the porch-door, he might have tumbled over the railing and to his untimely demise; which would be sad and ironic because Hawks never die from falls.
"Barton…" She said softly as she approached him and laid a gentle hand on his shoulder. "You're not supposed to be out of bed; Doctor's orders." Natasha reminded him with an edge of authority in her voice.
The blonde looked at her hazily before flicking his cigarette bud to the ground. "The Doctor also said I'm not supposed to be smoking, either." Clint said smugly as he tentatively licked his dry lips. His tongue tasted copper and tobacco. He didn't know whether to be disgusted or mellow; he went with the latter. "Maybe I just don't want to follow his orders, or anyone else's, for once."
Natasha rolled her eyes but didn't reply. Instead, she took a few careful steps forward until there was no space between her chest and Clint's. He stared down at her with questing blue eyes; Natasha craned her neck and kissed him soundly on the mouth. Even though his lips were aching at the contact and his mouth tasted like tobacco and an indiscernible but incredibly foul-taste, Clint wrapped his arms around Natasha's slight frame and held on tight to her, and she him, as they kissed.
When they finally pulled away, she smiled slightly, "If you're not taking orders, then I'll ask you nicely. Can you, please, go back to bed?"
Clint, breathless, was unable to keep a firm enough grip on Natasha. She slipped from his grasp but kept his hand clasped in hers'. "Can I have just one more smoke, then?" He asked softly as she led him back into the hotel room. When they were inside and she had him on the bed, Natasha had already retrieved his smokes and lighter from his pocket. That sneaky minx.
"Just one more…" She reasoned, lighting the cigarette and chucking the prized lighter somewhere behind her. Clint had half a mind to complain about that uncalled for treatment of his belongings—but, before he could begin to say anything, Natasha climbed onto the bed; and then onto him.
Sitting astride his hips, the redhead took a careful drag from the cigarette before pulling it out from between her ruddy lips and leaning over him. Clint felt arousal spike throughout his body making it thrum pleasantly as he stared up at Natasha. She was wearing a thin white nightgown—only god knows where she could have gotten it—and nothing else underneath.
He could see clear through the fabric and if the peep-show she was giving him wasn't hot enough, Natasha drawing their mouths together and kissing him passionately had him sweating bullets. The unfiltered smoke passed between them; from Natasha's sinful mouth to his and Clint's head spun in response. He clutched at Natasha's hips tightly and showed her just how much he appreciated what she was doing.
She smirked against his lips as she caressed his neck and jawline. Repeating the sensuous process a few more times, the redhead leaned back and paused as she observed the cigarette—and then the man writhing betwixt her splayed thighs.
Her pulse had quickened until her heart was hammering against her chest. She wanted it so bad… so, so bad… but, Clint—despite how macho and horny he might be—was still badly injured and still required weeks of recuperation.
Exhaling heavily, Natasha took one final drag from the cigarette. Instead of kissing Clint again she leaned forward and whispered hotly into his ear, "There. One last cigarette… Now, you have to hold up your end of the deal and go to sleep." She demanded; unintentionally seductive as her lips brushed against the shell of his ear. When the archer groaned aloud, she reached over and put the cigarette out in the ashtray on the nightstand.
Clint growled before he tightened his grip on Natasha's hips and rolled them over. Hovering over her, he smirked. "I'll sleep—just not yet." His hands slipped in-between her legs.
Natasha moaned and trembled; before she could get ahold of herself as his skilled hands went to work. Grunting, she rolled them back over; pinning Clint's arms above his head, she hissed. "Barton, go to sleep!"
The archer's eyes were blown wide from the agony lancing throughout his shoulder. His arousal diminished from a roaring blaze to a tentative flicker. "Okay." He croaked as Natasha slid off of him and slinked out of the door.