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Title: That time Clint punched a guy in the face for Natasha.
Author/Artist:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
anillogicalmind
Characters: Clint Barton/Natasha Romanov, Random Douchebag.
Word Count: 704
Rating: Uhm, PG? Someone gets punched.
Warnings: ^See above^
Author's Note: This is all, entirely,workerbee73's fault. She wanted valiant!Clint, which is apparently a thing I do now. Big hugs to im_ridiculousfor looking over this for me. All mistakes and general shoddiness are my own.
Disclaimer: I don't own the Avengers. Clearly.
Summary: The title pretty much sums it all up.
Clint only realised he was biting the inside of his cheek too hard when the coppery tang of blood in his mouth started to make him feel a little sick. Although that might have also been caused by the potent mix of anger, jealousy and sheer territoriality that was currently rolling around his stomach and making waves at the back of his throat.
He flexed his right hand convulsively as he watched the man slime all over Natasha.
Normally, it wouldn’t be an issue. Well, in so much that it had to become a non-issue. He could usually detach himself from his feelings, remove the woman he loved from the one seducing the mark.
But tonight was different.
And this guy, this one in particular -- with his little pretty-boy face and his city-boy friends -- was trampling all over his very last nerve.
Clint had, of course, noticed him noticing her from the moment they’d stepped into the bar.
Irritation had begun to seep in when he noted that pretty-city-boy hadn’t stopped noticing her, all damn night. And now, of course, the little creep had managed to waylay her in between the distance from the ladies room back to their table.
Their table.
Because they’d come in together. Because they were together.
And Clint was getting really tired of people interrupting date-night.
He could see the irritation written all over Natasha’s face too, carefully hidden under a mask of polite indifference as the little toad blocked her way back to Clint once more.
She could deal with him; that was a given, but the fact was that sometimes it was nice to just pretend to be normal for a while, to not have to utilise the ability to kill a man unless absolutely necessary. Even being able to dislocate a mans wrist was pretty noticeable in a crowded bar on a Friday night, and it simply wasn’t worth blowing her cover for.
However, in Clint’s mind, the pros were rapidly outweighing the cons.
Solely out of respect for Natasha though, he remained seated, watching the scene unfold.
That is, until the guy grabbed her ass when she managed to sidestep him.
Natasha froze, and Clint sprang into action.
He crossed the crowded space in record time, his natural agility enabling him to avoid the veritable minefield of chairs, bags and people. He was by Natasha’s side within seconds, pulling her round and behind him, instinctively shielding her with his body whilst turning his full attention to the lecherous idiot in front of him.
“You do not,” He growled, every sound laced with threat, an inherent promise of retribution shot through every word, “Do. Not. Touch my wife. Ever.”
The man swaggered, and squared up against Clint. Poor fool. Then, encouraged by his now hooting pack of friends, inevitably buoyed up with alcohol and further deceived by his slight height advantage over Clint, he said -- in the cliche to end all cliches --
“Oh yeah? What are you gonna do about it?” And leaned around Clint to poke Natasha in the shoulder.
The list of things that Clint could do about it was pretty extensive, and began sometime between ramming an arrow through his ear and ended up somewhere at the bottom of the Hudson river.
He settled for punching him solidly in the jaw.
“That.” He said flatly, as the man reeled back, saved only from landing flat on his ass by the wooden table behind him.
Let it never be said that Clint Barton was above snazzy one-liners.
He turned to face Natasha, who was looking decidedly amused by the whole situation and she tilted her head in the direction of the door, ignoring the uproar around them. He nodded once, and placed a possessive hand at the small of her back, steering her towards the exit.
No-one tried to stop them.
She laughed as he held the door open for her, but didn’t protest when he wrapped her in his jacket as they waited for a cab.
And as he tucked her into his side on the journey home, she nestled closer to him, kissing along his swollen knuckles as she caught his hand in hers and kept it there.
Author/Artist:
anillogicalmindCharacters: Clint Barton/Natasha Romanov, Random Douchebag.
Word Count: 704
Rating: Uhm, PG? Someone gets punched.
Warnings: ^See above^
Author's Note: This is all, entirely,
workerbee73's fault. She wanted valiant!Clint, which is apparently a thing I do now. Big hugs to im_ridiculousfor looking over this for me. All mistakes and general shoddiness are my own.Disclaimer: I don't own the Avengers. Clearly.
Summary: The title pretty much sums it all up.
Clint only realised he was biting the inside of his cheek too hard when the coppery tang of blood in his mouth started to make him feel a little sick. Although that might have also been caused by the potent mix of anger, jealousy and sheer territoriality that was currently rolling around his stomach and making waves at the back of his throat.
He flexed his right hand convulsively as he watched the man slime all over Natasha.
Normally, it wouldn’t be an issue. Well, in so much that it had to become a non-issue. He could usually detach himself from his feelings, remove the woman he loved from the one seducing the mark.
But tonight was different.
And this guy, this one in particular -- with his little pretty-boy face and his city-boy friends -- was trampling all over his very last nerve.
Clint had, of course, noticed him noticing her from the moment they’d stepped into the bar.
Irritation had begun to seep in when he noted that pretty-city-boy hadn’t stopped noticing her, all damn night. And now, of course, the little creep had managed to waylay her in between the distance from the ladies room back to their table.
Their table.
Because they’d come in together. Because they were together.
And Clint was getting really tired of people interrupting date-night.
He could see the irritation written all over Natasha’s face too, carefully hidden under a mask of polite indifference as the little toad blocked her way back to Clint once more.
She could deal with him; that was a given, but the fact was that sometimes it was nice to just pretend to be normal for a while, to not have to utilise the ability to kill a man unless absolutely necessary. Even being able to dislocate a mans wrist was pretty noticeable in a crowded bar on a Friday night, and it simply wasn’t worth blowing her cover for.
However, in Clint’s mind, the pros were rapidly outweighing the cons.
Solely out of respect for Natasha though, he remained seated, watching the scene unfold.
That is, until the guy grabbed her ass when she managed to sidestep him.
Natasha froze, and Clint sprang into action.
He crossed the crowded space in record time, his natural agility enabling him to avoid the veritable minefield of chairs, bags and people. He was by Natasha’s side within seconds, pulling her round and behind him, instinctively shielding her with his body whilst turning his full attention to the lecherous idiot in front of him.
“You do not,” He growled, every sound laced with threat, an inherent promise of retribution shot through every word, “Do. Not. Touch my wife. Ever.”
The man swaggered, and squared up against Clint. Poor fool. Then, encouraged by his now hooting pack of friends, inevitably buoyed up with alcohol and further deceived by his slight height advantage over Clint, he said -- in the cliche to end all cliches --
“Oh yeah? What are you gonna do about it?” And leaned around Clint to poke Natasha in the shoulder.
The list of things that Clint could do about it was pretty extensive, and began sometime between ramming an arrow through his ear and ended up somewhere at the bottom of the Hudson river.
He settled for punching him solidly in the jaw.
“That.” He said flatly, as the man reeled back, saved only from landing flat on his ass by the wooden table behind him.
Let it never be said that Clint Barton was above snazzy one-liners.
He turned to face Natasha, who was looking decidedly amused by the whole situation and she tilted her head in the direction of the door, ignoring the uproar around them. He nodded once, and placed a possessive hand at the small of her back, steering her towards the exit.
No-one tried to stop them.
She laughed as he held the door open for her, but didn’t protest when he wrapped her in his jacket as they waited for a cab.
And as he tucked her into his side on the journey home, she nestled closer to him, kissing along his swollen knuckles as she caught his hand in hers and kept it there.
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