A fill for the cottoncandy-bingo prompt "Gifts/Gifting".

Many thanks to Bees, eiluned, and Amanda for helping me with this at various stages throughout the writing process, and extra special thanks to them for putting up with my near constant complaining about it. 3!

For those of you wondering, I'm three fics away from blacking out my cottoncandy-bingo card, so look for three more ficlets from me this week! Enjoy! As always, I'd love to hear what you think!

It was about giving, she knew, that he took her out for her birthday every year. There were few things she would accept, few things she wanted, but Clint had figured that out early on. He'd then proceeded to figure out what she did want, and he came up with a way to give her a taste of normalcy every year on the day she'd selected as her birthday.

Once, the first year they'd been partners, he'd taken her dancing in a club in Rome, a fancy little hole in the wall in Trastevere frequented by no one in particular. He'd bought her all the overpriced, watered down vodka she could drink, and then he'd danced with her until the club closed. Afterward, they'd waited on the night bus, huddled together in the light rain.

She'd attacked him when they made it back to the safe house, shoved him down onto the bed and consumed him, took him inside of her and rode him until they both could forget who they were.

Thus started a pattern. As such things went, it was a pretty good one.

He took her somewhere every year, always spur of the moment because they weren't the sort of people who could make plans, but the pattern was something special, something she treasured, something that was just between them that she could secret away and keep forever, close to her heart.

This year, her birthday fell three days after they'd sent Loki back to Asgard with his tail between his legs. Something frantic had grown up between her and Clint in the intervening days, desperate and clingy and hot, and they'd barely pried themselves out of bed except to use the bathroom. By mutual agreement, they weren't talking about what had happened, how he'd been played with like a puppet and she'd torn the world apart looking for him. Maybe they'd get around to talking about it someday. Maybe they wouldn't. For the present, she was trying her damnedest to forget everything but the taste of Clint's skin, the feel of him in her arms and between her legs. Even if the situation they'd been in was something out of the ordinary, their reaction to it was well-established, familiar, easy.

It was nice to feel normal after all of … that.

Eventually, though, even they grew tired of the endless days in bed, and when Clint had asked if she wanted to go out to celebrate this year, she'd agreed without giving it much thought. A change of scenery would do then both good. Besides, it was possible that they were celebrating more than just her success in surviving another revolution around the sun. Maybe they both had a few things to celebrate.


She wasn't feeling up to anything special, but really, neither was he. They were both still covered in bruises, her back a battlefield from being smashed into a bulkhead, his the same from crashing through a plate glass window.

So he took her to a diner, one of the few in the area that hadn't been damaged in the fight, one that was open all night and served breakfast at any hour.

In typical fashion, Clint couldn't keep his hands to himself when they got there, couldn't stop himself from groping her thigh underneath the table. By all rights, the inferno between them should be cooling by now; it should be going dormant to lay in wait for the next inevitable crisis they would face.

It hadn't.

His unquenchable lust for her excited her, made her heart race, set her blood to boil most of all because this was Clint, a man so tightly controlled most SHIELD agents doubted whether he smiled. She knew she drove him to this, knew that he was only so brazen because of the way she affected him, made him forget that they were in public, or, more likely, made him not give a shit.

Their food came, looking just as greasy and fattening as she'd hoped, and she tucked in with Clint's fingers worrying the inside of her thigh.

"If you keep doing that," she said in between a fry and a sip of coffee. "I won't get to eat my food."

Clint raised his eyebrow and snagged one of her fries. Munching thoughtfully, he asked, "Why would that be?"

She knew he was playing with her from the way his fingers strayed closer to her center, but then, she didn't really care, enjoying the banter almost as much as she was enjoying his touch. She went with it.

"Well, you want me to keep my strength up," she said, hating the way the end of it came out a little breathless.

"I do?" he asked, and then he brushed against the fabric of her panties.

She bit her lip, tamping down the sudden urge to moan, and in the process ruined the charade. The world slipped out of focus as he caressed her, pressing his palm firmly against her, and she had to screw her eyes shut to maintain her composure. When she opened her eyes, she saw Clint staring back at her, a cocky grin plastered all over his face.

Of course the bastard knew exactly what he was doing to her.

Fuck it.

She dropped her mug onto the table with a clatter, the contents sloshing over the sides, but she didn't notice. She felt like a different person, the kind of girl she never had been, the kind who took her boyfriend (was that what he was? Did people like them get to use those terms?) to a diner at 1 am and let him finger her under the table. It was a heady feeling.

She leaned in close, pressed her lips against his ear and whispered, "I am going to the ladies room. You will follow me in precisely two minutes."

She slid out of the booth, reluctantly moving away from him and his clever hands. He would follow her. There was no question about that. Still, she threw a heated glance over her shoulder as she walked away, and she felt a satisfied grin stretch her mouth as she saw the expression on his face.

Oh, yes, he would come.

Mercifully, it was still that strange hour between the crowds of people that would surely ebb and flow out of this place over the course of the night - too early for the post-club crowd, but too late for the hordes of students from the nearby university.

Clint was on her heels far closer than she would have expected, closer than she would have liked because she was pretty sure that if the waitress had even been paying half a mind to them, she would have already figured out what the two of them were up to.

He didn't talk when he pushed through the door behind, just grabbed her, pulled her flush against him and kissed the breath out of her. Their teeth knocked together, clacking from the force of impact, but she didn't care, not about that, not about anything except getting closer to him, wrapping herself around him, latching on to him and not letting go.

He seemed to be of a similar mind.

He backed them up blindly, held her firmly against the door in the cage of his arms, and she might chastise herself for it later, but for the moment she felt small, fragile, and she wanted him to take control of this.

She moaned against his mouth, writhed against him in sweet agony when he thrust his erection against her, the hardness pressing into her, making her wetter, making her want him impossibly more.

"Clint," she managed between gritted teeth. "I need you to fuck me right now."

The words were coarser than she intended, coarser than she normally favored, but he made her lose her mind, turned her into some wild creature without a shred of control or the inclination to attend to it. He was right there with her, bucking against the curve of her hip even as his hands wandered all over her body, squeezing her through her clothes.

His hand shot out, reaching blindly for something, and it took several long seconds after she heard the door lock to even register that he'd had the presence of mind to look for such a thing. Then again, he'd always been better at this, at keeping a cool head under pressure. She didn't know how he could think that much when they were like this, how he could keep his wits about him while they were grinding against each other, while the world was on fire and the only thing that could quench it was their joining. She was lost to this, lost to him, and he'd barely touched her.

Another noise escaped her throat, echoing on the tile in the bathroom, but then his hands were at her waist, underneath her skirt, searching out and finding the waistband of her panties, and before she knew it, he had drawn them down her legs and was helping her step out of them. She returned the favor, watching him shove her panties into his pocket while she fumbled with the fastenings of his jeans, desperate to free him, and gasping in delight as he filled her hands. He was warm and smooth, deliciously hard, and she pumped him teasingly, bringing him to full attention. She grinned against his mouth at the hitch in his breath.

"Tash," he muttered, nipping at her lower lip. "Want you …"

"You can have me," she murmured, and then it was all she could do to nod, and then he was lifting her, hefting her up with a grunt that she found inexplicably sexy. He had his arms hitched up underneath her legs, his hands wrapped low around her back, resting on the curve of her ass, and she delighted in the way the thick cords of muscle on his forearms and biceps stood out with the strain.

Slowly, so slowly as to border on the sadistic, he lowered her onto him, and she cried out in a wordless moan that he only partially stifled with his lips. He thrust up into her until she couldn't remember her own name, much less why she needed to be quiet, and then he hit that spot, that one and without any further warning she was coming, clenching around him and clawing at his shoulders.

She pressed her face into his neck as she came back down, still sensitive and quivering as he continued to work toward his release. Now that she was more herself, she noticed the strain apparent in his body, the sweat coating his shoulders, his face, his chest. She knew the signs well enough to know that this wouldn't work for him, however mind blowing it had been from her, so she tapped his shoulder, told him to put her down.

She grabbed his hand once he'd slipped out of her and her feet hit the floor, and then she dragged him along with her until they stood in front of the mirror. She met his gaze in the reflection of the mirror and braced her hands on the counter by the sink. Taking his cue, he moved in, flipping up the edge of her skirt, drawing his hand along the swell of her ass and dipping his first two fingers into her briefly.

"Like that?" he asked when she groaned, and his voice was rough with desire and disuse. He didn't wait for her verbal response, but took his cue from the way she pressed herself back onto him, fucking herself on his hand, and he replaced his fingers with his cock, filling her without quarry, pushing himself in all the way to the hilt, right up to the very edge of discomfort.

He flattened one palm on the small of her back, holding her down, and she watched his reflection pant as he looked down at himself thrusting in and out of her, relentlessly and inelegantly driving himself toward completion. He reached beneath her, snaked a hand along her torso and plucked at her chest through the fabric of her dress, and she found herself tightening up again, spiraling again toward release alongside him.

The hand on her back slipped around her body then, found her clit and started a counter-tempo to the rhythm he was beating out between her breasts. Even as he started to lose it, as his breathing changed and his thrusts became still more erratic, she felt herself toppling with him, falling over the edge into the abyss. He came with a shout, her name filling the room, echoing too loudly off the walls, and his fingers dug painfully, possessively into the flesh of her hips. Since she was just Nat right now, she forgave herself the accompanying clench that rippled through her chest.

Clint leaned over her, sagged against her and pressed his lips to her shoulders and the base of her neck, and when he pulled out it was far too soon.

"Jesus, Nat," he murmured into her hair, and then he pulled her upright, turned her in his embrace, and hugged her to him.

Pulling her dress back down, she asked, "You think we have a shot at finishing our fries?"

He chuckled, running a finger along her nose and tucking a stray hair behind her ear.

"Not a chance."