Posted mostly because everyone in this bar is awesome, and I am SO thrilled to bits about the wonderfulness of my Secret Santa fic! Just hope whoever gets mine likes it even half as much!

Now, to explain....

New Year’s Day: it’s stinking hot outside (Australian, remember) and I have nowhere to be, so I ended up not working on a story but somehow idly starting up a typing session that turned into stream-of-consiousness smut starring Clint and Natasha.

A few hours later: these have barely been edited – I’ve moved some punctuation, and substituted some synonyms, but that’s all - and probably still count as a first draft. I have now re-read them and added some reflective notes about how the two and a half ficlets formed, and tried to work out where some of this stuff came from!

Now: There’s no plot and nothing resembling an ending, but I thought I’d toss them out anyway, because this has actually been both fun to write, and quite interesting to analyse. The half-ficlet really does need some more work first – unless someone wants me to put it up for unfinished fic Wednesday?


I'm pretty sure these will both be mined for an actual story later; even re-reading this entry in preview, I found myself coming up with adjustments - rearranging the order of some of the paragraphs, for example. I use the word 'good' far too much, and some sentences run on so much they're downright Arendish. But I thought it might still be interesting to my fellow scribes?

Just a warning: in case the above didn't make it clear, both these ficlets are NC-17

The Night Garden

(mental image; Natasha and Clint on a summer’s evening, sitting on a swingset / outdoor cane couch, in a messy but lush garden)


They’re facing away from the house, and it’s just far enough away that they can’t see it, although if anyone was standing on the back porch they could see Clint and Natasha clearly, under one of the shadecloth squares that’s rigged up here and there all over the garden. Natasha’s reading Agatha Christie – one of the $3 paperbacks she tends to pick up everytime they go through a street market – by the light of the outdoor lamp that’s standing on the end table next to the old squishy cane couch they’re sprawled on.

It’s warm and still and quiet, and Natasha’s laying there all long, slender limbs and her beautiful boobs clearly displayed in her thin camisole even though no skin’s showing, and she’s not trying to allure him in the least, which is why she looks sexy as Aphrodite come to earth and on the prowl. He doesn’t even realise that he’s hard until he realises he’s opened his old cargo shorts and is absently stroking his cock. Natasha’s still got the book covering her face, so she can’t see it, but she still has her calves and ankles resting on his thighs, so when she lifts one leg off his lap and over his head, resting it on top of the cushions behind his back so he can feel her warm skin and firm muscles against the back of his shoulders, it might just be because she can feel him moving, and thinks he’s shifting to get more comfortable.

He can see the skin of her inner thighs, now, pale and smooth as fresh cream, and warm from the air around them even though it’s not quite hot enough to make them sweat, and because he’s a lefty he’s only using that hand on his dick, and his free hand is between him and Natasha. So he gently slides his hand up her inner thigh – his whole hand, so he can feel as much of her as possible – and slips two fingers into her pussy. She’s just as warm inside as she is out, and just slick enough for his fingers to move easily if he keeps it slow and easy, but he only wants it slow and easy anyway.

Natasha lets out a humming sigh, low and soft and content, and it could be just because she feels good, because she’s so caught up in following Miss Marple’s footsteps that she might not even realise that Clint’s finger-fucking her. But she feels good around his fingers and his other hand feels good on his cock, so Clint keeps both hands moving at a slow and steady pace while he looks at the skin of Natasha’s thighs and watches the best tits in the world move underneath silk the colour of his eyes.

He doesn’t know how much later it is – it could be minutes, or hours – when the lamplight gleams off opaque metallic nail polish, that makes it look like Natasha’s painted her nails with liquid gold and let it harden. Clint looks up at Natasha’s face again, and her eyes are closed now, her right arm curved over her head, her book turned in her hand so it lies closed on the armrest but her thumb is tucked inside so she doesn’t lose her place. Her left hand is now just above his, lazily stroking her clit, and Clint gets just a little harder now because that’s fucking hot.

Her right leg slides off his thighs and her calf swings free before her foot settles flat on the grass, and now her thighs are wide open and her pussy beckons him like a siren’s song, so Clint pivots on the couch, now he has one leg folded beneath him and another still on the ground, his foot planted beside hers for leverage.

He pushes his hips forward and doesn’t stop until he’s fully seated inside her. Natasha’s eyes are still closed, but her pelvis tilts just a little so his dick rubs against the place where she really needs him. Her pussy’s wet now, and she’s pulsing around him in time to a slow, resting heartbeat.

From inside the house, Clint can catch the high-pitch whine of Gollum’s voice, and distantly realises that the others are already moved onto The Two Towers.

He flexes his hips back and forth, in the same slow easy rhythym that he used with his fingers, and Nat’s pussy throbs around him at the same pace but in counter-point time.

It’s a warm summer night and there’s no annoying insects around. No one has any injuries, they’re on vacation and he’s balls-deep in the most beautiful girl in the world and Clint’s never felt quite this good in his life.

He and Steve moved the really big screen TV into the glassed-in porch earlier, so they could watch the movies with all the sliding doors open to let in the breeze. Even with the lights off, if any of the others turns their head away long enough to look into the garden, they’ll see him and Nat on the couch, and even with the high back it’ll be absolutely obvious what they’re doing. It matters less than nothing to him.

Even as Natasha rocks her hips in time with his, she never, ever, loses her page in her book.

Clint’s ears vaguely catch a roar that he’s pretty sure is Gandalf doing some epic smiting, and a distant thought flitters through his mind that he hopes Nat finishes her book in time for them to catch the battle with the giant trees, because it’s one of his favorite parts.

And this is why when they’re together and off-duty, Natasha often wears skirts and never wears panties. Because she’s his woman and he’s her man, and he wants her like he breathes, with the same natural animal need that makes him reach for the water bottle when he’s working outside.

Afterthoughts: okay, I still have no idea whether this is mostly-canon, or a look into the future after ‘Bred for War, Born to Love You.’ I’m fairly sure that Nat was reading Agatha Christie partly because I watched a Poirot telemovie last night, and a couple of hours afterward I read a ‘Literary Ladies Meme’ about Jane Marple. I had no idea the others were even there, let alone watching TTT until Clint heard Gollum’s whining.



Heading Nowhere Fast (Companion to above)

Mental Image: Clint and Nat driving in the middle of nowhere.


Natasha leans her head back against the head rest and closes her eyes, letting everything soak in. Springsteen’s on the radio, a little down but nowhere near out, and she’s pretty sure the Beatles are up next. There’s a lovely cool breeze carressing her face as they drive, but the air around her body is warm and her muscles are relaxed. The efficient, precisely tuned engine of the car purrs, and she wonders if the car is as happy to be handled by Clint as she always is.

She spreads her legs a little, feeling cradled by the luxurious cushioning of the car seat, and her inner thighs hum with the memory of Clint between them.

That odd song that Lindt was listening to down in the Nerd Cave flitters through her mind, and Natasha really wishes that Clint had a detachable penis, so she could keep it snug and deep in her pussy all the time. With the sensory feedback streaming back to him, of course, so they could both constantly be horny and satisfied at once. (Maybe Stark can come up with something?)

Natasha is very happy right now, not in a way that makes her laugh and cheer, but in a way that makes a smile curve her lips and feels like it won’t ever come off.

She cracks open her eyes just enough to look at Clint in the driver’s side, his thin Tshirt clinging to that wonderfuly sculpted chest and baring most of the biceps that the uniform division refers to as divine art.

Natasha quite agrees. They’d go into even more raptures about his penis, but they’ll never see it.

Natasha wants to ride Clint’s cock. She always wants him inside her, but she really wants to ride his cock right now.

Why?

Because she was strong enough and smart enough and knew her own heart well enough to find and win her rightful mate before she was old enough to legally drink alcohol in the US.

Because her mate is beside her now, and they have nowhere else they need to be anytime soon. Because she’s a healthy woman with a sexual appetite that never gets enough of her man. Because her mate has a very large cock, and unless he’s injured and on painkillers he will always get hard for her as many times as she wants, and he always, always, stays hard until she’s satisfied.

Why not?

Her voice is low and warm and content as she asks, “Clint?”

He tilts his head so she knows he’s listening, but doesn’t take his eyes off the road. “Yeah, Nat?”

“Park the car and take out your cock.”

Clint looks around for hazards, puts on the indicator, and pulls over.

This isn’t a rest stop or anything, just a hard dirt shoulder on the road, but they’re so deep in the middle of nowhere that Natasha can’t tell whether the road is surrounded by fields or desert.

He doesn’t ask questions, already knows that she wants this for no other reason than she wants it and wants him. He simply unlatches the seat belt, reaches down to lower the seat back as far as he can, and undoes his jeans, pushing them down almost to his knees, because the pair he’s wearing fasten with a zipper and she’s not desperately horny enough to bear metal teeth scratching her down there.

The fact that he’s commando beneath just illustrates what a perfect man she has.

Natasha licks her lips as she sees his cock, already starting to stir and swell under her gaze, because she loves watching Clint get hard for her almost as much as she loves what he does with it once it is. Natasha hikes up her denim mini-skirt all the way, exposing her bare hips and naked pussy and everything in between, and grins as he hardens even faster in reaction.

As she clambers over the centre console, Natasha has a brief impulse to impale herself on the gearshift instead, to fuck herself into ecstasy as Clint watches hungrily, making a personal sex toy out of this car that Clint spent years restoring until it was perfectly tuned and gleaming and so damn cool that Tony’s offered it a permanent berth in the Tower garage next to his first Ferrari and the car James Bond drove in You Only Live Twice. It’s his most prized possesion after his bows and the guitar signed by Johnny Cash that they stole from the Rock n Roll Hall of Fame when they were on assignment in Memphis once.

(Natasha herself doesn’t count, because even though she belongs to him and he belongs to her, ownership has nothing to do with it.)

By why bother using the car, when Clint’s right there, blood-hot and throbbing and bigger than most of the gearshift anyway?

As she sinks down on him, slowly so that she can feel every delicious inch, Natasha lets out a long, loud moan, the kind that porn stars try to make during filming but never get quite right, because they don’t – can’t - enjoy sex nearly as much as she does with Clint. She moans because she’s hot and horny for her mate and she feels so good, and she’s going to feel even better because they’ve just started.

She badly wants to feel Clint’s calloused hands on her breasts, his steel-strong fingers rolling and plucking her nipples. So before she starts moving, Natasha lifts her arms and takes off the loose embroidered peasant blouse she’s wearing. Natalie Rushman found it in a vintage clothes store in Malibu, bought it because she knew William Brandt would love it and get hard in his pants the first time he saw her wearing it, knowing her breasts were bare and waiting for him underneath the cotton, and he’d get hard all over again every time he saw her wearing it since, from the memory as much as the view.

Clint’s still wearing his sunglasses, but it doesn’t matter because she already knows by heart exactly what his eyes look like whenever they have sex, just as she knows what his eyes look like when they fuck or make love.

She can see the reflection of her face in the dark lens, and the two women in the tiny cloudy mirrors look utterly wanton, and superior as a cat who’s run a successful night raid on the refrigerator. Natasha smirks at them and they smirk back, lusty and vicious and smug, because they all know exactly what a privilege it is to ride Clint Barton’s cock, and they’ve goddamned earned it.

Clint’s lips, those wonderful lips that can tease pleasure from any part of her body, make her hot for him just by sliding along her fingers as he kisses her hand, tilt and curve in a smirk of his own, every bit as pleased with himself as she is. She doesn’t know why Clint considers filling her pussy to be just as much of a privilege, but it’s just one of the multitude of reasons she loves him so.

Aftermath: Okay, so I know the ‘Lindt’ came from the box of Christmas choccies on my computer desk, but I have no idea what the Nerd Cave is! And I haven’t heard ‘Detachable Penis’ in years! *scratches head* Though Lindt (whatever gender they may be) is definitely from a fanfic I read NYE/very early NYD, which opened with Natasha helping to teach SHIELD’s beginners self-defense class to the techs/R&D/analyst types. I remember commenting that I bet that Nat had a legion of fans in the science departments who quietly make sure that anyone who insults Natasha has to fill out every one of their health care, insurance and payroll forms again – in triplicate – and occasionally gets early Britney Spears or Justin Beiber piped into their quarters at 2AM.

I’d almost forgotten this bar’s collective head!canon-slash-fantasy about a greasy Clint and muscle cars, spawned during the 2012 Promptathon of Epicness; right up until my fingers typed out the bit about Clint spending years restoring the car, I thought they’d stolen one of Tony’s. *shakes head*

And I have no idea if the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame/museum is really in Memphis, Tennessee, or I’m just thinking of the song. Or if they have a guitar used by Johnny Cash. Anyone? Bueller?

And while it’s part of my head!canon that William Brandt (Clint’s longtime but sporadic undercover mission in IMF) had been dating Natalie Rushman (Pepper Potts’ personal assistant specifically for legal matters) for over a year by the time Ghost Protocol happened, I have no freaking idea how that slipped into this ficlet. Now I want to write an account of Will and Natalie at dinner, because they constantly play psychological/manipulative sexual-headgames, with the loser being whoever gives way and demands sex first.

And I now I really want to know what the Nerd Cave is, and whether Lindt is played by Aaron Stanford or Ellen Page.