Avengers (2012): "Unwrapping (Unwrapped Remixed)" (Clint/Natasha)
Title: Unwrapping ( Unwrapped Remixed)
Author/Artist: Koren M. (cybermathwitch)
Disclaimer: Not mine. If they were, there'd already be a Black Widow/Hawkeye movie. But Marvel has owned my loyalty since I was about 3, so...
Pairing: Clint/Natasha
Rating: Adult, 17+
Warnings: Sexual content. No, really.
Spoilers: None
Type: Remix
Word Count: 1,922
Summary: A remix of anuna_81's amazing " Unwrapped" - Clint's POV.
Author's Notes: Because we share headcanon and all sorts of other things. ;-) For the best twin, ever.
The first thing he notices is the sound of her footsteps in the hallway outside his apartment. He's always aware of things like that, but it's been ten days since he heard them as she left, and it's supposed to be another two before he hears them again. They're as loud as gunshots, one after another in a rhythm that's uniquely her own.
She'd hate knowing that. Or rather, he's pretty sure she'd hate the idea that she was in any way predictable. Predictable gets you killed in their line of work.
He has to believe that it's different, when it's your partner, but that's something he's only just beginning to get her to see, let alone to believe. If your partner can recognize you, can figure out your patterns, that's good, it can save your life just as surely as the bad guy predicting your actions can get you killed.
His thoughts are racing because she's just outside his door, and he's already there with his hand on the lock, turning it a fraction of a second before she turns the knob. He sees her face, her tired eyes and slightly tangled hair, but that's all he sees before the door closes behind her and she's crowded back against it and he's sinking his fingers into the swell of her hips. He tastes the skin of her neck and finds a hint of fading perfume, then takes her mouth just in time to catch the soft noise she makes as his thumbs press against just the right spots next to her hip bones, the ones he knows make her clench around him when he's inside of her.
"About damn time," he manages. His heart is pounding and she tips her head back so he works his way down her throat to her pulse point so he can feel how hard hers is beating in return.
"Impatient, Agent Barton?"
The voice she uses is confident and seductive - it's seventy-five percent Black Widow talking but when he pulls just enough away to see her eyes it's nothing but Tasha looking back at him, in all her raw strength and insecurity. He isn't sure how much she can see on his face, but he's never tried to hide himself from her. First, because he knew how good she was at reading people and there didn't seem to be any point to it, later because it made him different. It made him stand out to her and that mattered to him as she began to matter to him.
So when he tells her she has no idea how impatient he is, how much he's missed her, missed this: the way she tastes, the way she feels, the sounds she makes and the way she smells - but most of all the look in her eyes when he has her like this - he doesn't hide from her at all.
He could kiss her forever. He likes to kiss her slow and deep - the kind of kissing that makes everything else fall away in a slow spiral, makes you feel like you're drowning, but she likes them sharp, likes to feel his teeth sink just slightly into her lips and that's good, too.
She shifts against him just right, presses her hips more firmly against his erection and his hands tighten on her ass. He wonders briefly if she'll have marks tomorrow morning.
"You're ruining my skirt," she whispers against his ear as he lifts her away from the door and turns - the skirt in question is too tight for his liking, the material too stiff and she can't wrap her legs around his waist so he can carry her. She's kicking away her shoes even as he's walking her backwards - he wants to feel her heat and wetness and the clothes are getting in the way. They're not even her clothes, she doesn't like clothes like this. These are from her mission and whoever it was that she was this time and they're suddenly symbolic of everything that kept them apart.
"I'll rip it away," he growls. He wants to, so much. His hands tighten further on the fabric to seal the promise; she shudders and grips his shoulders and he loves it.
The dining room table is right there, so he boosts her up and takes a moment for a deep breath and to just look at her.
Her hair was tangled from travel and whatever it was she'd been doing before, but now it's even more disheveled. Her skin is flushed and her eyes are wide, bright and dilated. He can see the world there, because right now she's letting him in and letting him see her in a way she seldom does.
"Tash..." it's completely overwhelming and he finds he's the one who has to look away and he buries his face against her neck. "Oh, God, Tash."
He feels hands on his back, pulling him in closer; he wants to sink into her in so many ways. She's in his blood, under his skin - no one has ever been like this before.
The shirt she's wearing is silk and it's soft and smooth under his fingertips but not nearly smooth enough. He wants to feel her skin. The fabric catches against his calluses but he's careful with the buttons. She's never said anything outright, but he's watched her work enough times to know that she doesn't let just anyone undress her. On a mission, the most she might allow is for someone else to unzip her dress, but after that it's always a step away, always her in control of what she reveals and when.
She understands the same thing he does - that trusting someone else with your life is the easy part. There's nothing easy about this.
She pulls away and looks down as he reveals her, as he peels back the blouse and strokes his fingers along her skin and brushes his lips across her pulse points as he works his way down. "Gorgeous," he breathes and smiles when her hands tighten - he continues murmuring endearments against her flesh as he reveals more if it. It's a litany of how much he's missed her, how much he thinks about her, how beautiful she is and god, how she takes his breath away. She's all softness and heat as he unfastens the clasp of her bra and pushes aside the lace to reveal her breasts, first one and then the other, taking his time with each one. He ghosts his knuckles across one just enough for the peak to tighten, then leans down and takes her into his mouth. He circles her nipple with his tongue, causing it to draw impossibly tighter while his thumb mirrors the movement on the other side.
She moans and he grins against her when her hands fall away to grip the table. He looks up as best he can, and expects to see her head thrown back, but she's looking down at him, watching what he's doing to her and all he can think is how fucking hot that is, how amazing the look on her face is as she watches him.
His hands find her knees and trace up her thighs, and after the bare skin of her chest and abdomen the fabric covering her legs is frustrating. He can run his hands up under her skirt high enough to feel the heat coming from her center but there's little give in the material and he groans. He seriously considers trying to tear them, then his fingers find the edge and hook over it, tugging down on both her hose and her panties, and she lefts her hips enough to free them. The offending pieces are tossed aside, and then he's back where he wants to be and wastes no time in slipping his hand between her legs and she's so fucking wet it takes his breath away. Her legs spread as much as the skirt will allow and his thumb slides into her causing her to moan. He loves that sound, loves making her make that sound - he'll never get tired of hearing it, even though he takes her mouth again and swallows all the sounds she's making.
Natasha bucks against his hand when he switches to two fingers inside of her and rubs his thumb across her clit, building up a rhythm in counter-point to the trail his mouth is making from her mouth to her throat to her breasts, nipping slightly as he goes. She's getting close, but he stops, looking down at her and taking her in. One more stroke through her folds and he pulls his hand away, letting all his desire show plainly on his face.
"Clint?" her voice breaks a silence he wasn't aware they were cultivating, speaking as loudly as they were without words he hadn't realized they were missing.
"Can I go down on you?"
He's watching her eyes when he asks her, because he's painfully aware this is a line they haven't crossed. If asked, he wouldn't be able to explain quite why it feels so much more intimate, so much larger than intercourse alone, but there's a greater degree of trust here than what they've done before. He's felt how she's reacted when he's gotten close before - a telltale tension that runs through her body when his mouth trails across her stomach or up her thighs. Maybe she hasn't had anyone that way at all, it wouldn't surprise him in the least, but the idea that he would be the first could easily bring him to his knees.
He's making soft circles on the inside of her thighs, calming more than arousing, soothing her as best he can even though he's drawn so tight it hurts, because he suddenly wants to give her this: as an act of reverance, an act of worship, an act of love.
She nods and he releases a breath he didn't realize he was holding - he's sinking to his knees even as she's taking the hem of the skirt in her hands and pulling it up, out of the way and he knows she's going to watch him do this. Or try to.
He brushes her folds with his tongue and he can tell from the change in the arch of her back under his hands that she's thrown her head back in an arch, groaning. He's surrounded by her taste, her smell - he circles her clit and find the spot just to one side that brings her up off the table towards his mouth. Over and over, again and again - he anchors her with one hand so he can slide the fingers of the other back inside of her to stroke in counterpoint. He's surrounded by her, her legs on his shoulders now, her hands back in his hair, he's bringing her up and carrying her over and she shatters in his hands.
He nearly comes just from that, from feeling and tasting her lose control. His control breaks when she does and he rises up in front of her to take her mouth again, sharing her taste, lacing one hand through her hair even as he's using the other to guide himself into her still shuddering body. Now it's hard and fast, wild and out of control and she's holding onto him as tightly as she ever has - she's his anchor even as he drowns within her.
Author/Artist: Koren M. (cybermathwitch)
Disclaimer: Not mine. If they were, there'd already be a Black Widow/Hawkeye movie. But Marvel has owned my loyalty since I was about 3, so...
Pairing: Clint/Natasha
Rating: Adult, 17+
Warnings: Sexual content. No, really.
Spoilers: None
Type: Remix
Word Count: 1,922
Summary: A remix of anuna_81's amazing " Unwrapped" - Clint's POV.
Author's Notes: Because we share headcanon and all sorts of other things. ;-) For the best twin, ever.
The first thing he notices is the sound of her footsteps in the hallway outside his apartment. He's always aware of things like that, but it's been ten days since he heard them as she left, and it's supposed to be another two before he hears them again. They're as loud as gunshots, one after another in a rhythm that's uniquely her own.
She'd hate knowing that. Or rather, he's pretty sure she'd hate the idea that she was in any way predictable. Predictable gets you killed in their line of work.
He has to believe that it's different, when it's your partner, but that's something he's only just beginning to get her to see, let alone to believe. If your partner can recognize you, can figure out your patterns, that's good, it can save your life just as surely as the bad guy predicting your actions can get you killed.
His thoughts are racing because she's just outside his door, and he's already there with his hand on the lock, turning it a fraction of a second before she turns the knob. He sees her face, her tired eyes and slightly tangled hair, but that's all he sees before the door closes behind her and she's crowded back against it and he's sinking his fingers into the swell of her hips. He tastes the skin of her neck and finds a hint of fading perfume, then takes her mouth just in time to catch the soft noise she makes as his thumbs press against just the right spots next to her hip bones, the ones he knows make her clench around him when he's inside of her.
"About damn time," he manages. His heart is pounding and she tips her head back so he works his way down her throat to her pulse point so he can feel how hard hers is beating in return.
"Impatient, Agent Barton?"
The voice she uses is confident and seductive - it's seventy-five percent Black Widow talking but when he pulls just enough away to see her eyes it's nothing but Tasha looking back at him, in all her raw strength and insecurity. He isn't sure how much she can see on his face, but he's never tried to hide himself from her. First, because he knew how good she was at reading people and there didn't seem to be any point to it, later because it made him different. It made him stand out to her and that mattered to him as she began to matter to him.
So when he tells her she has no idea how impatient he is, how much he's missed her, missed this: the way she tastes, the way she feels, the sounds she makes and the way she smells - but most of all the look in her eyes when he has her like this - he doesn't hide from her at all.
He could kiss her forever. He likes to kiss her slow and deep - the kind of kissing that makes everything else fall away in a slow spiral, makes you feel like you're drowning, but she likes them sharp, likes to feel his teeth sink just slightly into her lips and that's good, too.
She shifts against him just right, presses her hips more firmly against his erection and his hands tighten on her ass. He wonders briefly if she'll have marks tomorrow morning.
"You're ruining my skirt," she whispers against his ear as he lifts her away from the door and turns - the skirt in question is too tight for his liking, the material too stiff and she can't wrap her legs around his waist so he can carry her. She's kicking away her shoes even as he's walking her backwards - he wants to feel her heat and wetness and the clothes are getting in the way. They're not even her clothes, she doesn't like clothes like this. These are from her mission and whoever it was that she was this time and they're suddenly symbolic of everything that kept them apart.
"I'll rip it away," he growls. He wants to, so much. His hands tighten further on the fabric to seal the promise; she shudders and grips his shoulders and he loves it.
The dining room table is right there, so he boosts her up and takes a moment for a deep breath and to just look at her.
Her hair was tangled from travel and whatever it was she'd been doing before, but now it's even more disheveled. Her skin is flushed and her eyes are wide, bright and dilated. He can see the world there, because right now she's letting him in and letting him see her in a way she seldom does.
"Tash..." it's completely overwhelming and he finds he's the one who has to look away and he buries his face against her neck. "Oh, God, Tash."
He feels hands on his back, pulling him in closer; he wants to sink into her in so many ways. She's in his blood, under his skin - no one has ever been like this before.
The shirt she's wearing is silk and it's soft and smooth under his fingertips but not nearly smooth enough. He wants to feel her skin. The fabric catches against his calluses but he's careful with the buttons. She's never said anything outright, but he's watched her work enough times to know that she doesn't let just anyone undress her. On a mission, the most she might allow is for someone else to unzip her dress, but after that it's always a step away, always her in control of what she reveals and when.
She understands the same thing he does - that trusting someone else with your life is the easy part. There's nothing easy about this.
She pulls away and looks down as he reveals her, as he peels back the blouse and strokes his fingers along her skin and brushes his lips across her pulse points as he works his way down. "Gorgeous," he breathes and smiles when her hands tighten - he continues murmuring endearments against her flesh as he reveals more if it. It's a litany of how much he's missed her, how much he thinks about her, how beautiful she is and god, how she takes his breath away. She's all softness and heat as he unfastens the clasp of her bra and pushes aside the lace to reveal her breasts, first one and then the other, taking his time with each one. He ghosts his knuckles across one just enough for the peak to tighten, then leans down and takes her into his mouth. He circles her nipple with his tongue, causing it to draw impossibly tighter while his thumb mirrors the movement on the other side.
She moans and he grins against her when her hands fall away to grip the table. He looks up as best he can, and expects to see her head thrown back, but she's looking down at him, watching what he's doing to her and all he can think is how fucking hot that is, how amazing the look on her face is as she watches him.
His hands find her knees and trace up her thighs, and after the bare skin of her chest and abdomen the fabric covering her legs is frustrating. He can run his hands up under her skirt high enough to feel the heat coming from her center but there's little give in the material and he groans. He seriously considers trying to tear them, then his fingers find the edge and hook over it, tugging down on both her hose and her panties, and she lefts her hips enough to free them. The offending pieces are tossed aside, and then he's back where he wants to be and wastes no time in slipping his hand between her legs and she's so fucking wet it takes his breath away. Her legs spread as much as the skirt will allow and his thumb slides into her causing her to moan. He loves that sound, loves making her make that sound - he'll never get tired of hearing it, even though he takes her mouth again and swallows all the sounds she's making.
Natasha bucks against his hand when he switches to two fingers inside of her and rubs his thumb across her clit, building up a rhythm in counter-point to the trail his mouth is making from her mouth to her throat to her breasts, nipping slightly as he goes. She's getting close, but he stops, looking down at her and taking her in. One more stroke through her folds and he pulls his hand away, letting all his desire show plainly on his face.
"Clint?" her voice breaks a silence he wasn't aware they were cultivating, speaking as loudly as they were without words he hadn't realized they were missing.
"Can I go down on you?"
He's watching her eyes when he asks her, because he's painfully aware this is a line they haven't crossed. If asked, he wouldn't be able to explain quite why it feels so much more intimate, so much larger than intercourse alone, but there's a greater degree of trust here than what they've done before. He's felt how she's reacted when he's gotten close before - a telltale tension that runs through her body when his mouth trails across her stomach or up her thighs. Maybe she hasn't had anyone that way at all, it wouldn't surprise him in the least, but the idea that he would be the first could easily bring him to his knees.
He's making soft circles on the inside of her thighs, calming more than arousing, soothing her as best he can even though he's drawn so tight it hurts, because he suddenly wants to give her this: as an act of reverance, an act of worship, an act of love.
She nods and he releases a breath he didn't realize he was holding - he's sinking to his knees even as she's taking the hem of the skirt in her hands and pulling it up, out of the way and he knows she's going to watch him do this. Or try to.
He brushes her folds with his tongue and he can tell from the change in the arch of her back under his hands that she's thrown her head back in an arch, groaning. He's surrounded by her taste, her smell - he circles her clit and find the spot just to one side that brings her up off the table towards his mouth. Over and over, again and again - he anchors her with one hand so he can slide the fingers of the other back inside of her to stroke in counterpoint. He's surrounded by her, her legs on his shoulders now, her hands back in his hair, he's bringing her up and carrying her over and she shatters in his hands.
He nearly comes just from that, from feeling and tasting her lose control. His control breaks when she does and he rises up in front of her to take her mouth again, sharing her taste, lacing one hand through her hair even as he's using the other to guide himself into her still shuddering body. Now it's hard and fast, wild and out of control and she's holding onto him as tightly as she ever has - she's his anchor even as he drowns within her.