12 Days Of Christmas Ficlets

𝔟𝔞𝔟𝔶, 𝔦𝔱'𝔰 𝔠𝔬𝔩𝔡 𝔬𝔲𝔱𝔰𝔦𝔡𝔢

Natasha watches the snow flurry outside, blanketing the grounds of the compound in a film of white. Her fingers seek warmth in the sleeves of her cardigan, hiding from the shiver the image elicits. With Tony's budget, the compound is well-insulated, but the spacious rooms and high ceilings, even strung thickly with tinsel and bunting and multi-coloured lights, create an ever-inexplicable impression of draught. That's one thing they have in common. Neither are fond of the cold.

"You ready, Nat?"

She turns, for once not pulling back her grin when she sees Steve, armed with Mary Berry's Baking Bible and sporting a gaudy plastic apron over his even gaudier Christmas jumper. An electric mixer and scales are laid out neatly on the work top, beside all new packets of ingredients and other miscellaneous utensils Natasha has never seen before.

Out of all the festive tasks on the rota Pepper had created, Natasha figured baking required the least amount of effort. How hard could it be? Lump a bit of flour and sugar together, the cookies would spend most of the time in the oven, which meant she and Steve could do...other things while they waited.

Natasha vacates her post at the window and strolls over to help, withdrawing her fingers.
"Cinamon sugar twists? Don't you think that's a little intricate for us amateurs?"
"I think we can pull it off."

His optimism does not translate to practice. Their measurements are unsystematic and sloppy, but maybe her hand would be a little steadier if he wasn't kissing her neck, or ghosting his hands under her cardigan and up her shirt the whole time.  Her eye was allowed to be a little out on whether that tablespoon was overflowing or not. The mixing was also probably inconsistent, since the electric one lay unused but hey, handing him that wooden spoon was good thinking on her part. She got to dangle her feet over the counter and 'sample' the mixture while he worked, so there was that.

"I think your confidence was a little unfounded." She says, arching an eyebrow at the tray in front of them after they're done. The dough is clumped in irregular dollops all over it, not in even remotely twisted shapes. "But at least they taste good."
"Well, you did eat half the mixture." She smirks, sliding her finger over the spatula to gather the last of it, but Steve grabs her wrist on her way to her mouth and sucks on her finger, eyes dark, running his tongue along to get every bit of sweetness. Natasha bites her lip and grips the counter. He lets her finger go with a pop, and there's barely a second before he rises up to her lips, slotting between her open knees that immediately anchor his hips. Steve's tongue still seeks the cinnamon dough inside her mouth, licking into her wetly while she groans and gasps and makes distinctly un-Natasha-like sounds that are now so familiar, but still make his fingers tremble on her skin and fumble the buttons between them.

It's intoxicating. This. Them. And unhealthily addictive.

"FRIDAY," she breathes, mastering her voice. "activate protoc-"

"No, FRIDAY. Don't activate protocol 69, turn on the oven." A clipped voice sounds from the doorway, and they separate. Uh oh.

"Something you need, Pepper?"
"Just checking in. Please remember to actually bake that tray of dough, not just leave it to fossilise."

Natasha drops off the worktop, adjusts the temperature knob and pushes the tray in impatiently, sighing at the interruption. Steve gives Pepper a sheepish thumbs up, and she simply strides from the room, rolling her eyes.

They sit on the floor in the kitchen after her departure, kissing and touching like teenagers until the timer goes off, and Steve considers it a damn miracle when the biscuits don't come out blackened for all of their distractions.