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Clint Barton is going back to bed. (today_sucks) wrote in snapthread,

He'd always liked that about Natasha -- the fact that she could so easily take the upper hand. Sure, she could so easily kick his ass most days, but it was more special that she could move them with hardly any effort at all until she was on top of him and looking down. And the way she just looked, like she was studying something wonderful and almost foreign was --

Clint didn't know what to do with it, not really. Because he didn't get looks like that, like he was something important and precious. But he loved it, like he loved her. And when she kissed him he couldn't possibly do anything but kiss back like he meant it, like he'd never been more sincere about anything in his entire fucked up life. Maybe he hadn't, either. This felt big.

And then they were back to where they'd started with zero warning and Clint let out a laugh too, breathless and stupid and only laughed harder when she said he ought to just tear her panties off like some kind of man on a mission.

Obviously, he wasn't going to do that. Instead he shifted, kissing his way down her stomach until he was low enough to hook his fingers in the fabric and slide them down, not really slow because he didn't care to make a show of it but not so fast that it seemed like he was just racing to some unseen finish line either. "Tell me what you want," he implored, looking up and away toward her face, expression wanting, but curiously earnest as well.