So, I did a thing.
This is my first ever official fanfic, and I hold the Be-Compromised Promtathon entirely responsible. Be nice. Or at least constructive. Please? *wibbles*
It based off of this prompt by larlaughs :
Okay, I have an idea for a type of kiss that needs a story...
It's the kiss that one person gives to the other almost as an afterthought. The one getting the kiss isn't expecting it and it just floors them.
And then, you know, things happen. *grins*
Natalia Romanova, now more commonly known as Natasha Romanoff, has seen too much, done too much and been too many people to be shocked anymore.
And sure, the Alien invasion led by an honest-to-Odin Norse God would have thrown her off a little, but she was too busy attempting to reclaim her partner to actually stop and process it all. But then the aforementioned partner goes ahead and does something like this and she's floored.
"What...What was that for?"
An awkward shrug, an embarrassed flush staining his cheeks; An almost imperceptible tremor in his hands as he moves to turn away.
She hastily dumps the mug of tea she's been clutching in both hands onto the countertop, catching by his wrist and spinning him back to face her. "Clint."
He runs a hand through his hair, dejection and reluctance practically seeping through his pores. "I don't know Tash. It was nothing. An impulse. I'm sorry. Forget it."
How the hell can she forget it? What the hell does it mean? And it's not nothing, Clint Barton doesn't do nothing, which means that it meant something. And it's not a cover, it's not a mission... it's a kiss. And They. Don't. Kiss.
Too late, she realises that she's rambling aloud while he watches her, eyes shuttered against the emotions he's hiding underneath.
She slides her hand down, slipping her fingers through his; nervous herself. (Bloody Clint Barton knocking down all her walls with his stupid bow and his stupid arms and making her laugh when she doesn't want to and a thousand other things that she doesn't have the words for and these feelings are for children but he makes her feel childish maybe it's okay to just...)
"We could." She says quietly, squeezing his hand. He looks bewildered.
"We could what?" He asks, staring at their interlocked fingers in confusion.
The bastard's going to make her explain.
"We could...kiss. And... other stuff." Does she sound as pathetic to his ears as she does to her own? She sucks in her breath.
"When Loki... took you..." She waits for his reflexive frown to pass before she continues. "When he took you, there were too many things we hadn't done, hadn't said... that I wanted, needed, to share with you. I had to get you back, and then I did, and there was Manhattan, and clean-up and Stark and all of a sudden life got in the way again and I couldn't do it, I couldn't say it, even though I wanted to, there's just too much stuff in the way..."
Natasha trails off, steadily looking at the ground, willing it to swallow her up. She continues again meekly in order to fill the gaping silence. She wishes Clint would say something, anything, so she can gauge his reaction and how to take the words back, to smooth them over and go back to pretending, to being safe in their compartments, but she can't stop her mouth it seems, can't regain the Widow's control.
Perhaps because right now she is not the Black Widow, she is Natasha and he is Clint, and they've been edging towards this cliff-top for years.
"So I'm saying we could. If you want to. Be an... us."
He pulls his hand away from hers, and the heart that she's only just acknowledged manages to break as soon as it came into being.
But then his hand is reaching up to cup her face, and his lips are on hers, and
oh isn't this nice.
And so she mirrors his movement, a swift stroke of his cheekbone, running her fingers through his short hair.
She wants more and she gets it. They wrap themselves around each other, immerse themselves within each other, and gleefully shatter every boundary they've ever established, leaving behind a glorious mess and a broken headboard when they force themselves to emerge at the call to Assemble three days later.
It based off of this prompt by larlaughs :
Okay, I have an idea for a type of kiss that needs a story...
It's the kiss that one person gives to the other almost as an afterthought. The one getting the kiss isn't expecting it and it just floors them.
And then, you know, things happen. *grins*
Natalia Romanova, now more commonly known as Natasha Romanoff, has seen too much, done too much and been too many people to be shocked anymore.
And sure, the Alien invasion led by an honest-to-Odin Norse God would have thrown her off a little, but she was too busy attempting to reclaim her partner to actually stop and process it all. But then the aforementioned partner goes ahead and does something like this and she's floored.
"What...What was that for?"
An awkward shrug, an embarrassed flush staining his cheeks; An almost imperceptible tremor in his hands as he moves to turn away.
She hastily dumps the mug of tea she's been clutching in both hands onto the countertop, catching by his wrist and spinning him back to face her. "Clint."
He runs a hand through his hair, dejection and reluctance practically seeping through his pores. "I don't know Tash. It was nothing. An impulse. I'm sorry. Forget it."
How the hell can she forget it? What the hell does it mean? And it's not nothing, Clint Barton doesn't do nothing, which means that it meant something. And it's not a cover, it's not a mission... it's a kiss. And They. Don't. Kiss.
Too late, she realises that she's rambling aloud while he watches her, eyes shuttered against the emotions he's hiding underneath.
She slides her hand down, slipping her fingers through his; nervous herself. (Bloody Clint Barton knocking down all her walls with his stupid bow and his stupid arms and making her laugh when she doesn't want to and a thousand other things that she doesn't have the words for and these feelings are for children but he makes her feel childish maybe it's okay to just...)
"We could." She says quietly, squeezing his hand. He looks bewildered.
"We could what?" He asks, staring at their interlocked fingers in confusion.
The bastard's going to make her explain.
"We could...kiss. And... other stuff." Does she sound as pathetic to his ears as she does to her own? She sucks in her breath.
"When Loki... took you..." She waits for his reflexive frown to pass before she continues. "When he took you, there were too many things we hadn't done, hadn't said... that I wanted, needed, to share with you. I had to get you back, and then I did, and there was Manhattan, and clean-up and Stark and all of a sudden life got in the way again and I couldn't do it, I couldn't say it, even though I wanted to, there's just too much stuff in the way..."
Natasha trails off, steadily looking at the ground, willing it to swallow her up. She continues again meekly in order to fill the gaping silence. She wishes Clint would say something, anything, so she can gauge his reaction and how to take the words back, to smooth them over and go back to pretending, to being safe in their compartments, but she can't stop her mouth it seems, can't regain the Widow's control.
Perhaps because right now she is not the Black Widow, she is Natasha and he is Clint, and they've been edging towards this cliff-top for years.
"So I'm saying we could. If you want to. Be an... us."
He pulls his hand away from hers, and the heart that she's only just acknowledged manages to break as soon as it came into being.
But then his hand is reaching up to cup her face, and his lips are on hers, and
oh isn't this nice.
And so she mirrors his movement, a swift stroke of his cheekbone, running her fingers through his short hair.
She wants more and she gets it. They wrap themselves around each other, immerse themselves within each other, and gleefully shatter every boundary they've ever established, leaving behind a glorious mess and a broken headboard when they force themselves to emerge at the call to Assemble three days later.