InsaneJournal

Tweak says, "Let me feel my oats! "

. (hourglasss) wrote in snapthread,
@ 2019-05-03 13:30:00

Entry tags:

clint barton (616), natasha romanoff (mcu)

Who: Clint Barton and Natasha Romanoff
What: Sleepover, complete with nail-painting.
When: Night-time, post emotioning.
Where: Clint's nest lol get it that's a bird joke.
Rating: ~~Probably starting mild, will updated if need be!~~ Updated to "need be". Also WARNINGS FOR ENDGAME SPOILERS, againsies.

Natasha didn't know where along the line she'd started to think of peaceful moments as something she needed to claw out. Using the verb "claw out" in reference to "peaceful moment" was probably anathema to the entire concept of peace itself. Still: in an epic understatement, it had been a lot. James's fury when combined with the news that he remembered her was so much in and of itself; she couldn't get it out of her head, the look on his face, the way his voice had broken over the words. Maybe it wouldn't have made a difference: she'd lost him more than once anyway, with the Snap being the most final out of those, and it had been five years ago. If he had told her before it happened, maybe it would have only made the situation worse. Maybe it wouldn't have. None of that mattered as much as the place it came back to, which was that today, she had finally learned, and even after all this time - after decades and other lives and countless things that filled the times between, her reaction to hearing it, seeing it, touching it was so powerfully visceral that it was shocking.

So there was that. There was still that whole death thing to deal with, and the Tony of it all, and the fact that she hadn't told Steve, and she needed things in her brain to feel - quiet. To still, just a little. She needed to feel safe.

And here she was. Because this was Clint, one of the people in the world she had always felt safest around, and this was a Clint who was so much the same in so many ways, but without quite the same level of baggage her cliff-dive was bringing to the rest of the people she loved. It was Clint without the last miserable few years. It was a Clint who made her feel almost guilty for how much she liked him this way, like it was a disservice to her own, but really - they were the same enough that it came out in the wash, right? His apartment was eons away from a farmhouse, and something in her chest had unlocked the moment she'd asked if she could come and he had said yes. A sleepover. In a giant nest of blankets and in the enormous zip-front hoodie that Jan had somehow managed to procure for her at her request - it would have fit Steve comfortably, which meant it was the perfect size for her to sleep in. It was quiet, now that it was night, and everything in his apartment still smelled a little like coffee. He hadn't been lying about the Avengers-as-mermaids art on the walls.

He hadn't been lying about the nail polish, either, the smile that had lit her face when he'd shown her that had probably been stupid. She had no idea how he'd gone and done that, but he had.

She had one of his hands cradled in her lap, fingers against her leg and spread apart because it was easier to get close enough for precision work than it would have been on a table. (It would have been just as easy. Natasha wanted him to touch her, though, and she didn't know how to say that she wanted him to touch her, so: this.) She dipped the brush back into the bottle and turned it on its side to thin it out a little, carefully tracing the shape of an arrow onto his middle finger. "I think we were right," she said, head bent in concentration, stray wisps of hair curling out of her braid. "I do think this is going to look excellent when we finish. Maybe this should be my calling here."

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today_sucks
2019-05-19 04:49 pm UTC (link)

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.

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hourglasss
2019-05-20 08:14 am UTC (link)

It stilled her, for a moment. That look. That look and the way his voice sounded, something like - longing, in it, that was what struck her; that he looked like he wanted her, and that he wanted her words along with it. He wanted to learn, but he wanted her - openness, too, open in a way he knew Natasha enough to know that she wasn't, usually, or at least she had never used to be, and her fingers were shaking, just a little, as she reached out to stroke his face again, tenderness written in the gesture that she couldn't have concealed if she wanted to. If she'd known his thoughts, she would have echoed them: it did feel big.

Bigger than she had expected, because if it was chemistry and hormones and a lot of other things that had carried them this far, here in this moment, it was only - them. The way they both kept laughing. This ridiculous reverence in both of them, that felt like it wasn't intentional but kept spilling over. It did not feel the way it would've if it was only fueled by bodies wanting things they'd been missing. Maybe Clint had saved up his love as long as she had, hoarded it, because this was how it felt to her: all these years she had stockpiled it and now she was finally allowed to spend it on him.

It shouldn't have felt so right. It shouldn't have been so easy for them to decide I don't care if you're from some other universe, you're still mine, but that was such a hallmark of how it had been with them: it was easy, it didn't bear overthinking, it was what happened when something was just - the right fit. Like a key had turned in a lock.

"I was right," she told him, her chest ached with it, in a good way, the best way. "I was so right when I told you I still loved you, Clint. Here and now and like this, I was right. I want you to make me come. And I want you to know you're the first person I've wanted to make me do that in - actual years. I want you to watch it happen and when it does, I want that to drive you out of your goddamn mind knowing that nobody's gotten to watch it but you in ages. And I want to see you fall apart on top of me. I want you to show me how we'll fit and how we'll keep on fitting now that we've learned. I want to hear you laugh like this all the time."

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today_sucks
2019-05-25 09:21 pm UTC (link)

Clint didn't know if it was a stockpile -- he was simply the sort of person who had a lot to give when he felt like there was someone worth giving it to. This wasn't going to be a one time deal by any means, not even when the awe of being able to do it wore off. If it ever did wear off. It was hard to know.

The point was, Clint was eager and aimed to please.

He grinned, soppy and a little stupid over her reply, which was just -- so in the moment but also wonderful and something he was going to try his hardest to commit to memory because he wasn't sure anyone had ever talked to him like this before - not another version of her, not Bobbi, not anyone else.

And it was probably bad to giggle, but he did it anyway because he was giddy with it. "Yeah. Okay. I can -- let's do that," he suggested, scooting back in order to undo the button of his jeans, to shimmy them off in a way that was no sexy so much as awkward and a little unbalanced but it didn't matter because the end result was the same and both of them being naked was a win. His penis thanked him for it on brand new levels. Freedom was amazing. God bless America.

Now that he wasn't quite directly on top of her anymore, he let himself look her over, fingers grazing over the scar at her stomach -- and he didn't look worried so much as curious, before moving on -- hips, thighs, that spot behind her knees before he leaned down to kiss at her lower stomach, inching downward. "Starklandia doesn't have a drug store. Or vending machines," he pointed out, because he was a goddamned twenty first century gentleman, okay. Even if he hadn't always been the most faithful or lovers, he was still into getting permission. "I don't really have, y'know. Protection."

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hourglasss
2019-05-27 02:54 am UTC (link)

That laugh was going to be the end of her. Well - the laugh, and how good he looked when his jeans were off, because the way Natasha's eyes traveled over him...nothing to call that but frank, straightforward appreciation and admiration. She liked the view and there was no reason to be shy about showing it. When his fingertips traveled along her scar, her legs, her whole body, she lifted her own hands to glide them along his chest, his stomach. She worked with a literal god. She worked with a supersoldier who had been designed to be the peak of human perfection.

No one could have ever held a candle to the very breakable, mortal man in front of her. A couple bruises and scrapes and scars, maybe, but that added character. The cut of his stomach, his hips, his thighs - for a moment, her mouth watered. Actually watered, like a character in a cartoon. She had to press her thighs together in a wave of arousal, though moments later, his mouth was trailing over her stomach in a way that meant it was impossible to keep them that way.

She buried her hands in his hair, gentler this time, stroking his scalp, scratching a little, curling strands around her fingers and releasing. "Isn't that such a you move, work me up this hard, get me this wet, and then start pressing the brakes," she teased, but there was a laugh in her voice while she said it, nothing but fondness for him. "I don't have any STDs," she said, her straightforward Natasha way. "If you do, we can walk this back and hold off until we find protection through the doors. Though I'd still like to at least jerk you off tonight, if you'd let me."

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today_sucks
2019-05-30 12:53 am UTC (link)

"I don't have anything!" Clint said, definitely some yelly punctuation in his words, although no real panic. He didn't think that Natasha thought that he had anything, they were just being careful. Nearly retrospectively careful. But to his credit, at least he'd thought to ask. That had to count for something.

"We're good," he soothed, kissing below her stomach and moving fingers - calloused, sure, but clever too because that was what Hawkeye worked with the most - to stroke between her thighs, feeling a little giddy at how obvious, how wet she was. If she hadn't said it'd been years, he might have just skipped this step altogether and just dicked right on in. Instead, he thumbed at her clit, playful, and pressed one finger into her opening and peeked up to watch her face. "You can keep it up. With the hair thing." If she needed something to do with her hands.

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hourglasss
2019-06-01 04:58 am UTC (link)

Natasha grinned, a ridiculously fond grin because he was so stupidly charming, especially with that added little burst of indignation. It made her want to tease him in that same fond way, to let him know she'd liked that he'd asked, that she appreciated it - she loved it so much that they kept laughing through this, it was rapidly becoming her favorite thing about it. How much delight they were both taking in each other, in the act itself.

She opened her mouth, right on the verge of some silly, teasing response - and then he drove the words out of her brain altogether with the work of his hands. Obvious, yes, that was one word for it, they both knew where this had been heading, this was the point. It should not have been a surprise to be touched like this, it was so - small, it was just leadup, wasn't it, just foreplay and fairly straightforward. Still. It was enough to shut her up, entirely, enough to make her hips pitch up and it was - God, one touch and it was so clear how much she got from it.

The noise she made when he dragged his thumb was something guttural and wordless and so embarrassing that she let go of his hair to cover her face with both hands, a move that got her laughing, again, mostly at herself, her own reaction, before she lowered them again to look at him, openly delighted, a little bit amazed. "I'm pretty into this, in case it wasn't - patently obvious that you're doing great," she said, slightly breathless, lowering her hands back into his hair, the way he'd requested.

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