Here's a little piece to tide you guys over until the next part of Stumbling Home is ready. I sat down today with the intention of finishing the editing on the next two chapters of SH and then wrapping up a prompt fic for a friend over on tumblr, but then this spewed out instead. In any case, next chapter of SH should be up tomorrow at some point, and then the prompt fic in the next couple of days.
Enjoy!
Natasha took pride in her work; she always had. Whether it meant taking out a squad of goons with her bare hands or slipping some corrupt politician a mickey, she was a perfectionist. She liked her job, and she liked doing it right.
And, most of the time, her attention to detail and quest for perfection were what saved her when things got out of control. She relied on her training and laser focus to get her through the most difficult challenges, and it usually worked. She got in, did her job, got out; rinse and repeat. Sometimes, however, even with all of her considerable strengths, it wasn't quite enough. Sometimes, no matter what she did or how good she was at her job, she took a beating.
Today was a sometimes kind of day.
The mission was successful; Natasha was happy for that, at least. She liked this new team of hers, even if there were still some major kinks to be worked out. Thor was sometimes obtuse (but one hell of a brawler), Bruce could be shy about changing into the Hulk (but he always got over his fear in time), Steve gave people too many chances (but he saw the good in her), and Tony, well, Tony was Tony.
Then, of course, there was Clint. Her partner now for six years , it often felt more like he was her shadow than another person. It made her itch somewhere deep inside that someone knew her as well as he did, but she was willing to admit that maybe, just maybe, it was better having a partner who knew her shoe size than a ten other Widows who would kill her given half the chance.
Maybe.
But despite all her training, despite the best efforts of her team, Natasha could barely walk after battling Doombots all afternoon. She doesn't know how many branches on the psycho tree good ol' Vic had to have hit on his way down to decide that making robots in his image was a good idea, but she had to give him some credit. Those sons of bitches were built to last.
By the time Hulk had smashed the last of the robots into smithereens, the sun was already setting over the city, and Natasha could feel her muscles starting to stiffen up. Maybe the god, the metal suited billionaire, and the genetically enhanced wouldn't be feeling it tomorrow, but she most certainly would.
So would Clint, Natasha noted as she ran her eyes over her partner. Even though he'd spent the majority of the battle on a nearby rooftop, the way he was favoring his left leg and clutching his side indicated that at least one Doombot got a few blows in.
After making sure the other was okay and nothing needed patching, they cat napped next to each other, strapped into jump seats on the Quinjet for the five minute flight back to headquarters.
When they arrived back at Stark Tower, the first thing Tony did was suggest pizza and a movie. Actually, no, the second thing he suggested was pizza and a movie. The first thing he did was return Nick Fury's call; the bald man had left a series of increasingly irate messages over the course of the day, wanting to know "just what the hell was happening in midtown, goddammit!"
She shared a quick glance and a shrug with Clint while Tony was on the phone, and so even though she was both tired and sore, the need for calories outweighed the need for a hot bath and sleep. She refused to be the only Normal to beg off (Clint preferred Badass Normal, but that was Clint for you); if everyone else was going to be there, she was, too.
She was, however, perfectly content to melt into the plush couch in the middle of the rec room they'd all congregated in and let someone else take care of logistics for a while.
She was just starting to get comfortable when Clint flopped onto the couch next to her and tapped her on the knee. He'd swapped out his SHIELD spec hearing aids for the larger, more comfortable ones practically as soon as they touched down, but she could see that he had them turned off, most likely to rest his ears from the bruising they surely took in today's battle.
He'd been doing that more and more often in front of the rest of the team as of late – wearing his regular, over the ear hearing aids but leaving them switched off unless he needed to be in on a group conversation. Both his regular and his duty pair had been upgraded and refined frequently over the years, but he'd told her once that no matter what SHIELD tried, it always felt like his ears were bleeding after wearing them all day. Something about how they could never quite get the right volume. Natasha made a mental note to talk to Stark about getting Clint some better hearing aids.
"Get your feet?" He signed after he adjusted himself to a comfortable position.
Natasha paused before answering and considered. They were neither the touchy-feely types, especially not in public, and she really didn't feel like letting Tony Stark in on more details of her relationship with the archer than necessary, so she really should refuse. She should wait until everyone wandered off to sleep or science or whatever the hell else her teammates do after missions; more to the point, she could wait. It wasn't like she'd always had the luxury of Clint's hands after a long mission.
But her feet were sore and Clint's hands were strong and Tony probably already knew every lurid detail about them from the way he had this place under surveillance and fuck it, she wanted her feet rubbed.
So Natasha shifted around on the couch, leaned up against the armrest, and kicked her still-booted feet into Clint's lap. He undid the laces and the buckles that held them on and slid the nasty things off her body. Even with that simple adjustment, she already felt ten times more relaxed. One of these days, she was going to maim whoever decided that heeled boots were the way to go for women's SHIELD uniforms.
Clint ran his hands up and down her calves first, loosening the muscles there, then peeled off her socks, shoving them into the tops of her discarded boots. She knew that her feet were sweaty and they probably stank, but if Clint wasn't going to complain, then she wasn't going to bring it up.
Thor and Steve have wandered into the room where Clint was currently working his magic, but they were completely absorbed in conversation (something about battle tactics, but Natasha couldn't give less of a shit right now, honestly), so instead of worrying about what her teammates thought or trying to explain herself, she let her mind wander and her neck relax into the cushion while Clint rubbed her feet. Because damn, the man knew what he was doing, working each joint thoroughly and surely as if he'd been trained for it.
She wasn't sure how much time elapsed, but she was thrust back to reality by Stark's shout of, "Pizza's here!" and the savory smell of cheese wafting her way. Her stomach rumbled, and it must have been loud because Thor said, "Verily, Natasha!"
She would be embarrassed except she wasn't.
When Clint got up off the couch to put on the movie (neither Thor nor Steve could be trusted with the number of remotes that particular feat required in Stark tower), Natasha slid off the couch and padded over to the minibar where Tony had left the boxes of pizza. She grabbed a plain cheese pizza (she and Clint both could only tolerate so much grease), a couple of beers and headed back to her spot on the couch.
The six of them ate in relative silence as was their after mission custom, focusing on the movie and the quiet camaraderie. It was nice, and Natasha had been surprised to find that communal meals with whomever was in town had turned into one of the grounding centers of her life, right up there with her daily run and sparring with Clint.
She finished first, as usual. Even though she wasn't the fastest eater (that dubious award went to Thor), she didn't eat as much as her teammates. Frankly, she's not sure anyone ate as much as Thor, but she's been wrong before.
She shifted around Clint, nudging him forward on the couch so she could sit on her knees behind him while he finished his beer. She wasn't as good at it as he was, but she knew his neck and shoulder muscles would tense up like nobody's business if he wasn't careful, so she returned his earlier favor as best she could.
She could feel the tension roll out of him as she rubbed, and eventually his head sagged and he leaned forward with his elbows on his knees. She was certain that the others had noticed her odd position, but thankfully, it appeared that no one had the energy to care tonight.
Tony was starting to snore in his rocking chair when Clint stood and signed, "Switch?" at her. After a bit of rearrangement, Clint was working on her shoulders and good lord, it was better than sex.
Well, maybe not better, but surely it was pretty fucking great. Natasha had to bite her lips together to prevent herself from groaning as Clint worked over the stiff muscles in her neck. Three minutes later, she was putty in his hands as he worked out knots she wasn't even aware she had. He pressed and thumped all along her spine, then down lower, at the small of her back. Like clockwork, she felt the familiar warmth begin to pool in the pit of her stomach, deepening with every swipe of Clint's hands.
She had to get out of there, or this was going to get embarrassing, fast.
Natasha stood suddenly, grabbing the empty pizza box and beer bottles and took them back through the narrow corridor that led to the kitchen on this floor. Tossing the boxes in the trash and the bottles in the recycling bin, she breathed deep a few times, resting her hands on the counter. Every synapse in her body was firing on full thrusters, and she needed a few minutes before she could safely head back in to hang out with the guys.
Of course, Clint followed her into the kitchen.
"You okay?" Clint flicked on his hearing aids as he spoke. Natasha nodded.
"Just needed a minute," she replied with a smile.
Clint smirked, clearly aware of her reasons. He crossed the room in two long strides, and with a quick glance to the door, he closed the distance between them.
"You want to finish this upstairs?" He asked quietly.
There really was no debate to be had.
They headed back to the TV room, and Natasha peeked out into the room, looking at the faces of her teammates as they glowed a faint blue in the light of the television. Tony was still asleep, Steve was well on his way there, and Bruce and Thor appeared to be thoroughly engrossed in the adventures of Luke Skywalker.
She signaled to Clint, and the two of them slipped silently away and to the elevator. She let him draw her into his arms on the ride up to her floor, content to feel his arms around her and to rest her head against his shoulder.
They entered her rooms in the same state, comfortable with their silence. It was one of the things she appreciated most about Clint; he welcomed the quiet whenever possible, and Natasha had never felt the need to fill the air with empty words.
As soon as the door clicked shut behind them, Clint took out his hearing aids with a deep sigh of relief.
"Better?" She asked, making sure she was facing him. He gave her a lazy smile.
"So much better."
He never wore his hearing aids when it was just the two of them, preferring to let her tell him if there was anything amiss. His partial deafness never hindered their one on one conversation; he could read lips just fine, and it wasn't like he magically lost the ability to speak when he took his aids out. They were both naturally quiet people though, and the activities they got up to during their down time didn't require a lot of back and forth.
They wandered back through her apartment, and when they entered her bedroom, Clint dropped his aids in their customary spot on an end table by the door.
They didn't need to speak as they quickly stripped down to their underwear, peeling out of their heavy Kevlar and leather uniforms. Stripped down to her bra and panties, Natasha crawled onto the bed, sinking face first into her pillow while Clint grabbed a bottle of oil from the nightstand.
Natasha twisted up on her elbows to look at him, but he shook a finger at her.
"No cheating, Tash. Lay face down." He sat down on the edge of the bed next to her. "Relax."
She resumed her prone position, and moments later she felt a trickle of oil on her back, the coolness feeling pleasant against her skin. His hands followed soon after, pressing and manipulating the painful ropes that wound across her back.
She groaned loudly as he worked through a particularly vicious lump below her left shoulder, and he chuckled when he felt the noise move through her body.
"Like that?"
Natasha nodded, then moved her hands to rest underneath her head while he continued his ministrations. She hadn't felt this relaxed in a long time, and the mental relief was just as good as the physical.
She felt a glorious release around her chest as Clint unhooked her bra, and she felt like she could breathe just a little better. He slipped the straps down her shoulders, and Natasha lifted herself slightly to remove the offending material.
Clint was straddling her rear now, shunting off some of his weight in his knees on either side of her hips. The bulk of him though, rested squarely on her ass, but the weight felt good and she could feel the lowest bones in her spine pop into place when he shifted over her.
He applied even, firm pressure all over her back and shoulders, then slid further down his legs to work on her lower extremities. He poured more of the oil onto the backs of her thighs, working it slowly into her skin. She could feel the pressure shift and focus as he found and dispelled the knots and kinks in her legs; this was the tensest part of her body, in large part because of her fighting style. Whenever Clint worked her over, her legs were always where he spent the most time.
And man, was it was delightful. She finally felt like she could breathe again as he banished the last bits of stiffness from the backs of her thighs.
His touch changed then, and he began running his hands over her limp body with a new purpose, though not an unexpected one. Natasha heard his breathing change as he dragged his palms up the backs of her thighs, slowing over the curve of her ass. She squirmed against his hands, eager for the touch.
He kept moving, and when his fingers ghosted up her sides he said in a low voice, "Turn over."
She twisted around, Clint shifting his weight to allow her the room to flip, and then his hands were back on her. He started his massage at her hips this time, working each thigh in turn, and Natasha watched his every movement with hooded eyes.
He kneaded her slowly, yet avoided all the spots that craved his attention the most, and Natasha felt herself grow wetter by the moment. His hands skimmed up her sides, then to her shoulders, massaging the flesh around her neck. But instead of moving on to her rigid peaks, he drew his hands together, dragged them down between the valley of her breasts to work on her abdomen.
Natasha found it hard to contain herself, but took reassurance in the prominent bulge poking at the front of Clint's boxer briefs. She touched the back of his hand to get his attention.
"Touch me."
He quirked his lips. "I am."
Natasha scowled, or rather, tried to, but she was thwarted by an involuntary sigh as Clint slipped his fingers under the sides of her panties and brushed his thumbs over her mound.
"Please!" Her plea came out strained, and she arched her back, tried to shift her pelvis closer to him, desperate for the contact but impeded by his body on her legs.
"Impatient?" He teased even as moved off her and slid her soaked panties down her legs. Natasha wiggled down the bed, closer to where he now knelt, spreading her legs and placing them on either side of him.
His gaze became more serious as she opened in front of him, as if he couldn't tear himself away. She practically purred as his fingers finally found her core, and he inserted one finger, then a second into her.
"Clint!" His name clawed its way out of her throat as he slid his fingers in and out of her, and it was wonderful and amazing and it felt so good to have him there, but it still wasn't enough.
She panted his name again, hating that he could reduce her to this. There was a part of her though, one that seemed to grow larger every time they came together, that loved the loss of control and the uncertainty that came with it. For someone who founded her entire life on certainties, it felt reckless and wild, and Clint was the only person she'd ever felt comfortable enough to act this way around.
Natasha bent her legs, dragged her feet up to his hips and plucked at his underwear with her toes.
"Off," she said firmly as he looked at her. He was quick to comply, standing swiftly and shucking the garment with haste.
His cock was red and swollen, glistening at the tip as it bobbed gently up and down with his movements. She could see bruises forming over his ribs where the Doombot had hit him, and she knew he would be hurting tomorrow.
He stood there for a long moment, or maybe it just seemed like it to her, staring down at her with a mix of lust and something else indefinable floating around in his eyes. She never got enough of seeing him like this, fully nude and straining for her, and it made her feel powerful to see the state she'd worked him into.
Clint fumbled in the drawer of the nightstand, eventually coming up with a condom. Normally, she would have taken it from him, rolled it down over him as part of their coupling, taking her own thrills in feeling his hardness in her hands, but tonight, she was floating boneless and more than willing to watch him take care of it himself. Pleasure swept across his face when he rolled the membrane down, and her breath caught in the back of her throat at the sight.
Somehow sensing that she was too at ease to be her normally active self, Clint knelt onto the bed between her open knees. He dragged her closer then, her ass sliding up onto his thighs and her legs moving almost of their own accord to clutch his waist. Natasha watched as he grabbed himself with one sure hand, then used his other to spread her open. And then slowly, deliberately he pushed into her, filling her up and stretching her. Little tremors rippled through her body as he seated himself fully in her, and she felt him twitch in turn.
"Fuck, Natasha," he moaned. "You're so tight." And then he bent down low over her body and kissed her, invading her mouth with his tongue as he stroked.
It had been too long since they'd had the time to fool around like this, calmly, slowly, with nowhere else they had to be. They were almost always too busy to take their time or prolong their pleasure, relegated to quick fucks in the supply closet or screwing their way down from an adrenaline high in the short minutes before their ride arrived.
She lost track of time there as he moved in and out of her; her entire world narrowed down to this room, this moment, this man. Clint's hands never stopped moving, running over her stomach and breasts, pinching and teasing, still massaging even as he pumped in and out of her.
At last though, she felt her orgasm start to build, rising first in the pit of her stomach, the heat radiating outward and spreading through her chest up to her head, then down to the tips of her toes. He sped up his movements then, attuned to the way her body reacted in the throes of passion, and at last she felt herself explode, going cross-eyed underneath closed lids as she spasmed around him.
Even as she came back to herself, Natasha could feel that he was still hard inside her, and she looked up him with a stupid smile as he kept on stroking, feeding the little aftershocks that swept through her body.
He leaned in for a kiss once more, but as he made to pull away, she hooked her arms tightly around his neck so that she went with him. The angle was different from her new seated position on top of him, and she used her heels to give her the leverage to start moving on top of him.
Clint moaned, then wrapped his arms low around her back, holding her to him as she writhed on top of him.
She took his chin in one hand and brought his mouth to hers; she loved the feel of his lips running over hers, the way his teeth would gently nip her own lips. Unexpectedly, she felt a second orgasm building inside of her, and she tore her mouth from his to bury her face against his neck.
They were rocking together now, the motion strangely exciting. Even as she started to slip back over the edge, she felt Clint tense and swear, his arms dragged her somehow tighter against his torso and then they were both climaxing, pitching off into the abyss together.
They came back down slowly, reality starting to fade in around the edges, minutes or maybe months later.
They'd landed the wrong way on the bed, with the pillows at their feet, but she didn't mind since it gave her the excuse to fold herself under his arm and tuck her head on his shoulder.
Sleep was threatening, so Clint rolled out of bed to take care of the condom in the bathroom, bringing back a warm cloth for her to clean up with and a cup of water. She left half the water for him, then turned around so she could climb under the sheet, turning back the outer edge so Clint could slide in beside her.
She nestled right up against him when he climbed in, finding her place back under his arm, despite now having access to pillows.
After a long moment, he asked, "Better?" He turned so he could see her mouth.
Natasha gave him a sleepy smile. "Perfect."