Fandoms: The Avengers (film)
Characters/Relationships: Clint Barton/Natasha Romanov
Word count: 1,487
Content Advisory: A/B/O verse (Omega verse), mating cycles/in heat, knotting
Disclaimer: Not mine, just playing.
A/N: Written for a prompt from crazy4orcas.
Summary: Natasha Romanov never goes into heat unless she wants to. And when she does, she wants the best alpha around to care for her.
On Ao3 or below the cut
“We have eight guards on the way out, minimum,” Clint said, cutting one of Natasha’s arms free and handing her the knife to finish freeing herself. He turned to cover the doorway, bow at the ready for anyone foolish enough to show themselves.
“You couldn’t get them yourself?” Natasha asked, strain in her voice under the comfortable teasing banter. He turned just enough to give her a small smile, sharp with teeth, and she gave him a little pleased growl in return. Clint forced himself to look away, to look for danger, to look for anyone that might dare try to hurt her.
By the time the Avengers penetrated the lowest layer of AIM’s facility, Natasha had been singing Russian nursery rhymes. Clint had felt his heart clench when he heard her, hope and fear warring under the outward collected calm of mission focus. Hope, because Natasha’s training meant that those who tried to drag secrets out of her ended up with children’s stories. Fear because that meant someone was hurting her.
He had found her in a small cage in the middle of a small room, hands and feet tied to a bolted-down chair, an IV in her arm. Sweat was trickling down her face, turning her hair nearly black in places, and her smell was nearly overwhelming. The hope and fear had begun to burn up in a deeper, more primal fire. Whatever they’d given her in an attempt to access her mind had burned right through Natasha’s suppressants, and sheer bad luck in timing had meant she was going into heat right here, right now.
AIM wasn’t entirely stupid; they’d kept their agents out of the room as much as possible as they’d plied her with questions, most likely remembering Natasha’s code name and how that might not bode well for them if they tried to touch her. But no one used those kinds of chemicals unless they had more than one purpose in mind. If the Avengers hadn’t arrived, Clint was certain they would have moved on to cruder ways of extracting information.
Natasha looked up at him as she stood, the knife trembling slightly in her hand as she moved a pace behind him. Her catsuit was slick with moisture along the thighs and damp with sweat everywhere else and Clint took control of the powerful surge of protective anger that swept through him. The primal part of him growled at him to claim his omega, right now, before anyone else could. Clint deflected that caveman part of himself with the certain knowledge that enemies were close, and Natasha needed his bow arm and common sense right now, not his dick.
He knew, knew she hated this, hated feeling vulnerable and out of control without a safety net. Hated that she had to fall back on her Red Room training to force herself to coherency, hated that the heat tried to make her thighs loose and eager to spread and how she had to fight twice as hard just to remain effective. She’d had every choice taken away from her for so long, it was a miracle that she’d agreed to go with Clint at all when they’d first met.
He’d let her choose. And she’d chosen SHIELD, chosen the Avengers. Chosen him.
“I thought I’d leave some for you to kick their teeth in,” Clint said.
“Excellent,” she said, her voice sounding low, warm, throaty, and Clint checked himself to make sure he wasn’t going to poke anyone’s eye out by accident. Her eyes flicked to the front of his pants, at the bulge he really couldn’t hide, and very tip of her tongue slide out to wet her lips. Then they both took deep breaths in unison and focused on the door as AIM’s private army got the courage to storm the interrogation room. And there were a lot more than eight men.
Clint felt rage rising in him as he poured arrow after arrow into the musclebound meatheads, most of them forgetting their firearms in favor of raw physical power, drawn and overwhelmed by Natasha’s scent and the overdeveloped instincts AIM’s newest batch of nanites had given them along with their unusual strength and resilience. They were coming for her, abandoning their posts, fleeing from Thor and the Hulk, Iron Man and Captain America, burrowing deeper into the facility to try to escape out of the low tunnels, and each one hoping they’d get a chance at the vulnerable Black Widow, winning her over in her extremis of heat.
She proved them wrong with a blade to the brain, coldly slicing throats and piercing hearts and veins and arteries every time someone dodged Clint’s arrows. Natasha watched his back as he built a bulwark of bodies (unworthy, weak alphas, his inner caveman insisted) between Natasha and danger. The rest of the Avengers were coming. All they had to do was hold out. Ungodly loud bangs and crashes were echoing down from above, telling him that his teammates weren’t slacking, but that they might be delayed a bit. His quiver was getting light, and the rest of AIM’s personnel were not giving up, the experimental enhancements they’d been given not letting them back down.
Clint let the last two arrows fly, and then bashed another guard across the face with his bow, giving him room to draw his daggers. A few lonely, forgotten firearms littered the floor, but the red haze of rage had nearly engulfed him as fool after stupid, pathetic fool had dared to try him for Natasha. The fact that she was neatly dispatching some of them herself only made him fight all the harder, needing to see her safe, to punish those who’d dared to try to hurt her.
“I’ve got your back!”
Clint heard Natasha’s cry distantly, and out of the corner of his eye saw her take up the forgotten guns. Then the handles of his daggers were in his palms and the rut-shiny eyes of his rivals were climbing over the fallen to fight him, and there was nothing left but a battle roar, the precise flicks of his blades, the reports of bullets around him, and the thud of bodies hitting the floor as Clint’s inner alpha raged unchecked.
When the red haze lifted, the first thing Clint saw was Steve, standing on the other side of the doorway, outside the ring of the fallen wounded, unconscious, and dead, staring at him as if he couldn’t believe his eyes. Thor walked up next to him in the next moment, stopped, stared, and bowed deeply. Then he backed away slowly, dragging Steve with him.
Considering that there might have been upward of forty people on the floor, most of them bearing wounds from Clint’s arrows and knives, all of them between Clint and the door, they were very wise to clear out. Letting out a little snarl of satisfaction as he tried to breathe himself back to a calm center, he turned back inside the room.
Natasha was holding the last loaded gun, the floor around her littered with shell casings, soaked from exertion and heat alike. She was swaying on her feet, her scent so intoxicating it was nearly a weapon in and of itself, and looked utterly incredible. His impossible omega. Clint lifted his hands, skin and daggers alike stained in sticky red, body thrumming with adrenaline and desire. She looked up at him, a tiny smile on her face, and lifted her chin in invitation.
He was on her instantly, scarlet smearing her cheeks as he took her face in his hands, the blades flat and warm between them, kissing her, tasting her, learning that she was still here, still alive, still unbowed and unbroken and still able to choose. Clint had fought for her and fought beside her and she’d fought for him too, bullet wounds in some of the fallen showing she’d kept enemies from stabbing him in the back. He’d never wanted her more.
He’d have her right on the bloody floor if she wanted it, but Clint knew he could burn the world for her, and it was still her choice. That was what made her more than just a prize for his inner caveman, more infinitely precious than anything he could lay at her feet. Natasha brought him back, let him be human again.
“Take me home,” she whispered against his mouth, her hands burning hot on his cheeks, smelling of heat and gunpowder. “Take me home, Clint.” He breathed against her, and then took away the stained blades away, wiping them clean and sheathing them. “Take me home,” she said again, cheeks blushing against the smears of red and flush of heat, spine straight and proud, “and then take me.”
Clint felt the primitive part of himself howl in triumph, and Natasha bared her teeth in response, a feral grin that they both shared.