FIC: good wine is drunk; the only tears shed are happy ones (MCU, Clint/Natasha, PG-13)
TITLE: good wine is drunk; the only tears shed are happy ones
RATING: PG-13
FANDOM: Avengers
PAIRING: Natasha Romanoff/Clint Barton
SUMMARY: After New York: date night.
AUTHOR’S NOTES: Written for perpetual from her prompt living weapon. Title from Neil Gaiman's Raining Blood.
After Loki, there had been a headache like a bruise, which might have been Natasha's cognitive recalibration but might also have been a side effect of some part of the rest of it. Or all the rest of it.
Not that a headache wasn't warranted. Because it sure as hell was.
Also warranted: a little shore leave. Clint put on a suit-or, at least, the parts of it he could find in the back of his closet-just to see how Natasha would counter. As usual, she brought her A-game. She met him at the door in a black silk dress, stockings, and the kind of heels that, Clint thought, were generally referred to as fuck me pumps.
They were going to be late for their reservations.
Clint had red lipstick on the pulse point of his neck, and he realized as Natasha was unbuckling his belt that he had forgotten underwear. Luckily, Natasha hadn't; she was wearing some of the impractical, lacy lingerie that he liked. It was kind of funny, like a knife with a bow on it, and sexy as hell, the way the dark lace contrasted with her pale skin, the way the underwear gave her these soft, feminine curves. And Clint never forgot, even for a second, that she was a woman, but sometimes it was easy to forget that Natasha wasn't just a weapon.
Also, Clint knew that Natasha only brought out that lacy shit for him, and that was the best part.
Actually, the best part was removing it. Which he planned to do now, with his teeth, maybe. But then he noticed that Natasha's lip was still split, and her ribs were bruised, and she wasn't fragile, really-except sometimes she was. So instead he scooped her up in his arms and carried her, bride style, to the bed. Clint laid Natasha out beneath him, tracing the line of her cheek with his knuckles.
Natasha's brow pinched, and she studied Clint's face. “Not going soft on me now, are you, Barton?”
Clint looked down briefly, just to check. “No, we're good.”
Natasha laughed, showing her teeth, then wove her fingers through Clint's hair, pulled him down to kiss her.
They were going to be really, really late for their reservations.
I am still taking prompts here.