"In Your Face, Birthday Boy"

by WaterMe (ao3)

“You know, when I followed you in here, this wasn’t what I had in mind.” 

Clint was bravely hiding the waver in his voice, but being strapped hand-and-foot (and thigh-and-bicep) into an OBGYN chair by Natasha Romanoff in one of the Tower’s more out-of-the-way medical rooms was… cause for mild concern.

On the 'Clint Barton Precarious and Scary' scale, it ranked around a six (for reference, ‘fighting aliens on a rooftop in New York City’ and ‘diving into the ocean to evade being shot by Russian gangsters’ both ranked at nine, and ‘just being in a room with Natasha' a three, minimum). 

Oh, did he mention he was strapped down and naked?

Yeah, let’s jack that right up that to a seven on the ‘Precarious and Scary’ scale.

But, in Clint’s defense: anyone who had seen Natasha poured into that white latex nurse uniform would have followed her shiny, rubber-clad ass down even the most ominously-lit hallway.

Look, those curves could slice a man to the bone.

And anyone would have stripped naked under her assessing gaze. Clint thought there was usually a curtain in these scenarios, or at the very least a flimsy paper gown. But he wasn’t going to press the issue, and no person in their right mind would have, either.

C’mon, there wasn't a single person in the greater New York area who wouldn't have climbed into that chair and kept their damn mouth shut as Natasha tightened the leather straps, her smile as sweet and fake as aspartame. 

What Clint was saying, was: absolutely none of this was his fault.

And also that, when he’d followed her in here, this wasn’t quite what he’d had in mind.

Natasha looked over her shoulder and flashed him a glossy, magazine-cover smirk. “Did you think I put on this sexy nurse costume for fun?” she asked, a flirty hand on her hip. 

She was exactly as subtle as her latex stockings, going all-in on the honeypot act, and he knew it. And she fucking knew he knew it, but the whole thing was her schtick because she was damn good at it. So even though Clint was mad as hell (as a man, and as a professional) that her fake-ass sexy Barbie persona was working — it was still fucking working. 

“I mean,” Clint swallowed hard, “I'm still kinda hoping it’s for fun?”

“Oh! Let me clarify.” Her smile was suddenly a lot more predatory, eyes hungry as they slowly dragged up and down his body. “I’m not wearing this for your fun.”

Clint nervously tried to squeeze his knees together in the stirrups, scanning the room for exit points. Obviously there were none, just like there wasn't any give in the thick leather straps digging into his arms. He craned his neck, trying to see what she was moving around on that metal tray. “So, uh, what’s the plan?” 

“Don’t you want it to be a surprise?” she asked. “Birthdays are about surprises, and you did say I could have anything I wanted.”

Clint had said no such thing. He was dumb, but he wasn't suicidal. 

“Anything you… wait.” Clint’s brain caught up with him just as Natasha turned to reveal a line of shiny silver rods in perfect parallel. They were all shapes and sizes: straight, and curved, and with bulbous, rosebud tips. Some of them were alarmingly thin and pokey, others big enough to club a seal. But they all had one thing in common — they were all designed to go somewhere that was not designed to accommodate a thick rod of metal. “No. Nope. No…”

“But it’s my birthday,” she pouted.

Clint’s head thunked against the padded headrest. “Your birthday.” Fake. Fake. She was such a fucking phony. “It’s not your birthday.”

She looked at him with wide, wet eyes, and goddammit that was cheating. “I don’t know my actual birthday. Don’t you think I should be allowed to choose?”

“You’ve already chosen your birthday. You’ve already chosen three birthdays. This year. It’s only June.”

“None of them felt right.” She was really gunning for that Oscar. Bitch. “I don’t know exactly what a birthday should feel like, on account of never getting to have one before, but I don’t think I’ve found it yet.” Her expression brightened. “So I figured I’d try this Thursday, see if that feels right!”

“Wait!” sputtered Clint. “Thursday’s my birthday!”

“I know,” Natasha crooned. “And it’s just so sweet of you to share it with me since I didn’t get to have one growing up.”

Clint opened his mouth to argue and… aw, crap. She was giving him the puppy-dog eyes again. He sighed heavily. “Yup. Sharing is caring…”

“Great!” she trilled, clapping her hands. “Anything I want, right?”

Clint sighed again. 

Natasha was already sliding on a pair of medical gloves with a menacing snap. “Fine,” Clint whimpered. “Just please don’t perforate my dick.”

Consent (dubiously) acquired, the Little Orphan Anushka act dropped faster and with greater consequence than the Berlin Wall. Her face was empty, unsettlingly so, and blank like a mask, but Clint knew that this — this blank neutrality, this complete and utter lack — this was the real deal. The feeling of ‘not-quite-sure-I’m-a-real-girl’ that he knew scared the shit out of Natasha if she let herself think about it too hard, the vacuum that she covered up with wigs and push-up bras and sly in-jokes. She couldn’t have gotten more naked if she’d just taken all her clothes off.

(( He wished she would at least take all her clothes off. Give him the dignity of one last stiffy before she obliterated his ability to ever get one again.

Instead, he realized, she had pulled the black latex medical gloves over top of her white latex opera gloves. What the actual fuck, Natasha. )) 

“Dick perforation won’t be a problem,” she said as she picked up a long cotton swab, its spongy tip wet with disinfectant. Clint clenched his eyes tight, jumping when her hand pressed hard on his forehead. “Take a deep breath in through your mouth… and out…”

The swab went straight up his nose.

Clint convulsed with a frantic yelp. Dammit. If Natasha mindfucked him any harder, she was gonna give him an actual concussion. His eyes shot open to meet her cool gaze, swab held delicately between two gloved fingers. 

“I won’t perforate your dick, but I might perforate your sinuses if you don’t hold still,” she said. “Do I need to strap your head down?”

“I thought we were gonna do sounding!” Clint sputtered.

“We are,” she said. He blinked. She blinked back. “I never said urethral sounding. You just assumed.”

Clint had been double crossed. Betrayed.

Who would have expected such treachery and torture from a former KGB triple agent?!

“Now, unless you have any other questions?” Clint shook his head, resigned. “Then let’s continue. Deep breath in through your mouth…” 

The swab dropped in, uncomfortable but not overly painful. It just felt — weird. He chanced a shallow breath in, shakily releasing it. He had never (not even once) felt the desire to have the back of his sinuses touched, sexually or otherwise. He wasn't sure he liked the intimacy of someone poking around that deep in his face. 

‘Half-inch from the brain,’ his mind thoughtfully supplied. ‘Ice pick, 30° angle, seizure, target determined dead of natural causes.’ Thanks, brain. Thanks for that. 

“Good,” said Natasha and then slowly, deliberately, pulled the swab back out.

“Hhnng!”

The swab coming out was worse. Way worse. At first it was a sweet relief, a promise that the torture was close to its end. It was actually kinda satisfying, like ducking around a corner to surreptitiously pick your nose. But then… then it just kept going. Clint had a hysterical vision of the swab just pulling out of his nose forever, like a magician’s scarf. He owed those carny blockheads a huge apology for calling them, well, ‘blockheads.’

“What’s it feel like?” asked Natasha when the swab was finally out. She pressed his chin between her fingers, turning his face this way and that as she scrutinized his runny nose and watery eyes. 

Clint swallowed hard around the bitter taste of disinfectant. “Like that kid in elementary school who would sneeze spaghetti out his nose to gross everyone out.”

“Huh,” said Natasha. She shrugged. “I never went to elementary school,” and then she was going back in, so fast Clint barely had time to suck in a breath before the cotton was pressing in mercilessly.

“Okay,” he gasped, once the swab was finally, excruciatingly out. “Okay, so, that one sucked a lot more.”

Natasha grabbed one of the cold steel rods from the tray. “Huh. Neat.” Cold, like her horrible, tiny heart.

Okay, so, yeah, Clint could now confirm that having the Black Widow come at your face with something metal and pointy was fucking terrifying, no matter the context.

The sound went in easier than the swab had, and that was both better and worse. It left her free to really slide around in there, pressing curiously against places that did not want to be explored. He was shaking like a leaf by the time she pulled it out, tears rolling down his cheeks. When she came for his other nostril, he couldn’t help but jerk away. She slapped his cheek.

“I can’t,” he gasped. “I’m sorry, ma’am, I can’t do it again, it’s too much.”

“Do I need to restrain your head?” she asked, voice as cold as Siberian winter.

“Please,” he whimpered. “I can’t, please…”

“Weak,” she muttered, swearing under her breath in Russian as she produced a small, u-shaped piece of metal. The ends of each prong were curved, and they fit perfectly into his nostrils.

“No-no-no-no,” chanted Clint as she placed the device, threading a piece of cord through the loop at the top and yanking it back. Clint squawked as his head pressed into the headrest, nose stretched uncomfortably up and open by the hook. 

“Huh.” She pursed her lips. “Little pig.”

Right. Because in addition to the discomfort and the physical vulnerability, a nose hook also just made him look fucking ridiculous. Great. May as well bust out the nasal speculum and really get a good look up in there, make this a well-rounded humiliation.

Oh god. He hoped she didn’t bust out the nasal speculum.

The new angle gave her unfettered access, and it also gave him a whole new predicament. Because, while he had no chance of escaping her, he could move. Just the tiniest bit, but every twitch and wiggle dug the metal hook harshly into tender cartilage. It was a horrific balancing act — teetering between the pain of the hook and the hostility of the sounds, nothing but willpower to stop him from damaging himself against the restraining and invading steel. 

She poked and prodded, massaged and scraped, changing her angle and using different shaped sounds to see what each one would do. She narrated as she worked, telling him how she wanted to know how far into his sinuses she could slide, wanted to see what happened when she slid in deep and fucked his nose in short, mean thrusts. Her gloved fingers were iron-tight on his jaw, stingy when she slapped his face, bruises blooming on bruises on bruises.

“Scream like that again,” she ordered. “I like the way it feels under my fingers.”

Clint was crying by the second incursion, and screaming uncontrollably by the fifth. It was the kind of insidious sensation that layered. The first time had been uncomfortable, but tolerable. Interesting, even. Now, it was unbearable. The sight of one of the sounds coming towards his face set his teeth on edge, made him want to crawl off the table and right out of his skin. He couldn’t speak when the sound was in, too busy holding his throat lax and relaxed, afraid to tense a single muscle in his face or neck. His hands pushed the pain out, grasping at the armrests until his forearms cramped. And when it slid out, the words that poured out of his throat didn’t even sound like language to his ears — just babbling, animalistic pleas. 

Natasha was flushed and glorious. Her shiny little hat was neat as a pin, not a curl out of place, but her lips were parted, eyes shiny and intent, like Clint was her prey and she was coming in for the kill. He didn’t feel like she was looking at him, for all that she was staring at his face; she eyed him like he was a piece of meat, or a doll that made funny noises when you pressed it just so.

This, too, was a glimpse of honesty. It wasn’t often that she legitimately let her control slip, even a little. Only a few people in this world got to see her put her damage on a leash and take it for a walk.

It should have been completely fucking terrifying. And it was. But Clint wouldn’t trade it for the world.

Art by WaterMe

Or at least, that’s what he’d be thinking after this was all over. Right now, with her frenzied gaze hovering wide-eyed somewhere in the vicinity of his right nostril, all he could think was ‘no, nope, and hell fucking no,’ as she carefully rolled the hem of her dress up her thighs, just enough that she wouldn’t tear the thin rubber when she swung a leg to straddle his thigh. Her shiny stockings slid against his sweat, and he could feel her wet through her panties against his bare skin.

“Noooo,” Clint whined.

“Don’t you want me to have a good time?” Natasha asked, breathlessly, and it was subtle, but it was real breathless, it was so-turned-on-she-was-crazy-with-it breathless.

Which was so fucking hot.

And cause for a great deal of alarm.

“You get so much meaner when you’re close,” he whimpered.

“Shut the fuck up,” she gasped, shoving her fingers into his mouth and hooking them behind his bottom teeth. The taste of latex bloomed across his tongue, mingling with disinfectant and salty tears and snot. She pressed into the pressure points under his tongue, hard, and he screamed as pain shot through his jaw, and her body ground against him. A startled moan escaped her mouth, like she’d surprised herself with her own movement.

Then she slid the sound back into his nose.

Clint kinda lost track of everything after that. 

Things may have gotten a little intense. Fingers may have ended up down his throat until he gagged so forcefully he bruised his nostrils against the nose hook, and he was definitely going to cry whenever he sneezed for the next week.

Eventually, Natasha’s harsh, frantic undulations reached a peak. She was quiet, so quiet that he could barely hear her over the static in the ears and the noise of his strangled screams echoing through his skull. But he heard it crystal clear when she collapsed against him with a shaky, drawn-out whimper, quiet and genuine. She rested, quivering, against his chest, sweaty in her latex, her shiny nurse hat finally, finally knocked askew.

Clint found her bliss a little hard to appreciate, what with her fingers still digging in under his tongue and the fucking chunk of metal that was still halfway to his brain. He whimpered pathetically.

“Oh,” Natasha said. “Right.”

She sat up a little, fingers still hooked behind his teeth, and slowly slid the sound out. Clint couldn’t quite muffle his sob, and she ground reflexively against his leg at the wounded noise. 

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” she whispered, letting the sound slip back in just a bit, thighs clamping around him as she worked herself through another orgasm, cunt grinding harder with every one of his pained whimpers.

After, once she had her breath back, Natasha sat up straight, fresh and cheery as a candy striper. She peeled off her gloves, straightened her little nurse hat, and then shoved the used gloves into Clint’s mouth. Leaning over to the side table, she wiped her hands down with sanitizer before snapping on a fresh pair.

Clint’s confused squawk was muffled by the rubber.

“What was that?” she asked, casually.

“I thought we were done,” Clint mumbled, pushing the wadded up gloves towards his cheek with his tongue.

“Oh, no,” she said. “No, no, no. See, you looked so disappointed when you realized we weren’t doing urethral sounding. I’d hate to let you down.”

A carelessly sensual flip of her hair and Clint’s eyes widened, because, oh god, that was Femme Fatale Barbie back out to play, and he was definitely about to die. 

She grinned as she held his terrified gaze. “It is your birthday, after all.”