Avengers (2012): "I Loved You Before I Knew You (Clint)" (Clint/Natasha)
Title: I Loved You Before I Knew You (Clint)
Author/Artist: Koren M. (cybermathwitch)
Disclaimer: Not mine. If they were, there'd already be a Black Widow/Hawkeye movie.
Pairing: Clint/Natasha
Rating: Adult 17+ (No, really)
Warnings: sexual content, language, canon-typical references to violence
Word Count: 2,316
Summary: "he should take the thread to mark his path. Instead he ties himself more surely to the labyrinth"
Author's Notes: As promised, Clint's POV of part one of The Red Thread by anuna_81. Many thanks to her for the beta as well!
It's in the same universe as Unwrapped / Unwrapping, though this takes place before those stories.
The Red Thread
Part 1: The Red Thread (Natasha)
The first thing that he notices isn't how beautiful she is. Or, rather, her appearance is one of the things he notices, but it's not the first thing about her that captivates him.
No, the first thing that captivates him is watching how she works the room, how easily and thoroughly she plays her different rolls for different people, how cleanly she picks the pocket of another guest (Clint was watching for it and almost missed it) and how easily she works out the key code when she slips from the room and lets herself into the host's study.
He waits until she comes back, still showing no outward sign of what she's just done (even though he wasn't in the room, he can imagine) and then he does something he shouldn't do: he approaches her and asks her to dance.
There's no hint in her expression or her body language that she's at all nervous, or has any desire to leave. Nothing to give away the violence she's just done, or the true reason that she's there. She reacts as he would suspect any confident, socially adept woman might: she smiles, takes his hand, and lets him lead her to the dance floor.
There's a Argentinian tango playing, and he leads as effortlessly as she follows. The only indication that she suspects who and what he is, is when he lets his own mask slip for just a second, lets her see the hunter rather than the man, and her grip on his shoulder tightens painfully. Then it relaxes and her face never changes; there's no hint of fear.
"Why are you here?" Her voice is calm and she sounds almost bored.
He meets her eyes steadily for a minute before leaning in, close enough to smell her perfume and the hint of blood under the roses, close enough he knows his breath is warm against her ear.
“Because I have no desire to put an arrow through your heart.”
*****
He looks at her and he sees the whole - the maze from the archer's point of view.
It should've been easy, being sent after the Monster - all those secrets buried inside of a maze shaped like a girl. Just crack the surface, glimpse inside, take aim and fire, but he was taken aback by the beauty of the maze. How intricate, how graceful - how engulfing: the maze, her eyes, it was something to get lost in.
He steps inside, closes the distance, gives his ground, because he wants to see the maze. Others focus on the monster. They don't appreciate the whole.
There's a trail of red - red blood, red hair, red thread - he should take it to mark his path, to remind him of who he is and where he is - instead, he winds it around his wrist to hold it close, binds himself more surely to the labyrinth.
The red thread that should have led him back home.
Maybe, in the end, it does.
******
He tugs on the thread and she follows him. Maybe she's afraid if she doesn't, she'll unravel.
Maybe she's right.
The presence of another draws the monster out of the heart of the maze. He tugs on the thread and she starts to explore her own shape, her own skin. He wants to know things about her even she doesn't know (do you like this? what do you think of that?) things she hasn't been able to know because she was always moving through someone else's design. The shape of the labyrinth, always twisting, changing, suddenly becomes static and still.
The pattern is hers to determine, there are no wrong answers.
******
He shouldn't be surprised it would come to this.
When she slips her leg over his, climbs into his lap and tastes his lips - hasn't he been guiding (nudging, leading) her to something like this?
He's never made any secret of his attraction - he hasn't pushed, but he hasn't hidden it, either. He's always made it clear - let her know all the ways in which he appreciates her. Her skill with words, with a blade, with a gun, her brilliant tactics and her graceful body. So when she kisses him, he goes into it with eyes open, watching her watch him react.
And react he does, in predictable ways. She grinds down on his cock and he hardens, his heart rate increases, his breathing becomes ragged, his eyes finally close. He can still feel her watching him, knows she's evaluating this, testing it to see what she likes. Just like the chocolate, just like everything else in this new world of hers.
The thing is, as close as she is? He can tell it's effecting her, too. Her mouth leaves his neck and then she's kissing him again, more intimately this time. She's exploring his mouth, and maybe she doesn't realize, doesn't think about the fact that he can feel the change in her breathing, in the rise and fall of her chest against his, and he can feel that this is effecting her, too. If it wasn't, he wouldn't be here, he would walk away.
Her hands grab his and drag them up to her breasts and he breaks away so he can see her face.
"Are you sure?" he asks, because he needs to make sure, wants to know she realizes she doesn't have to do this. She nods, and the look on her face is a strange amalgamation of overwhelmed and in control. "You can tell me to stop," he reminds her, then buries his face against her neck, dragging his lips along her throat and up to her jaw. He smiles against her skin when his touch causes her to bow her back and gasp and he pulls her tighter. "Tell me what feels good," he urges and instead she shows him, bringing her mouth back down to his.
He likes the angle of this, likes having her over his lap and slightly above him, he knows it gives her a sense of control and he just plain loves the look of her on top of him. He'll let her take the lead but he won't hold back what this is doing to him, he'll push forward up until the edge where she pushes back. He respects her too much to do anything less, knows she is strong and meets strength for strength, not just physical but mental, personality, will.
He can't get enough of the taste of her skin, and pulls away from her mouth to lick at her throat. He works his way down her pulse point to her collarbone, and there's a huge rush to how she suddenly goes liquid and pliant in his arms. She's still wearing the blouse from her mission and he runs his fingers along the visible skin, lightly at the end of the fabric, with a little more pressure as he traces back up her throat, just stroking her there for a moment and feeling the push/pull in her muscles as she decides whether to feel threat or arousal. He would bet good money she doesn't let anyone get this close and knowing she's allowing it almost pushes him over the edge. He locks himself in place, prays she won't shift her hips, because he feels like if she does it's all over.
"Is this okay?" he manages, because he can feel how rapid her pulse is fluttering just under his fingers. "Can I do this?" he asks even as he flicks open the first button and she manages a yes as a strangled moan. The darkness in her eyes locks with his and a part of his mind suggests he should be frightened by the intensity of this Thing that is forming between them. He has to break the spell, to look away, and follows his fingers with his lips, mumbling "can I?" and "please?" and this?" against her as he goes, until her blouse is hanging off her shoulders and he's cupping her silk and lace covered breasts in his palms.
It's like he's flipped a switch, and her hands reach frantically for the edge of his shirt and she fights to get it up and off over his head. Then she's kissing and touching him, everywhere, and he's mumbling against her but it all sounds like nonsense in his head. It's just bare skin to bare skin, his grip on her back and her hip and her hands working open his belt and his jeans and he has to close his eyes when she wraps her fingers around his cock.
She knows the right ways to touch him, seems to shift and adjust based on how he reacts and he presses hot open mouthed kisses against the swell of her breasts and then he's coming suddenly, sharply in her grasp while she anchors him to her body with her other hand in his hair, holding him together even while she breaks him apart. She drops her face to his, presses her cheek alongside his own and they just breathe, just for a minute while he comes down.
He can feel her heart slow and her breathing settle but there's still tension coiled and waiting under her skin, and he wants her to come apart like he did. In motions designed to arouse as much as soothe, he makes long strokes up and down her sides, around to her back and he takes a second to push her shirt away. His fingers tease the catch on her bra and he waits for her nod before slipping it open and easing the straps down her arms.
She's full and round, soft and firm and he runs his thumbs over her tightly drawn nipples as he cups her weight. He looks up at her eyes even as he takes one into his mouth so he can see her reaction, see what she likes and what takes her breath away. She's back to the edge quickly and the ways she's grinding against him is going to get him hard again. He switches from her breast to her mouth, drawing her into another kind of kiss even as he grips her hips to try and brace his own control. His fingers dig into her hips and she jerks involuntarily. Then she grabs his wrist, hard enough to bruise and drags his hand over, urges him to slip beneath her pants and her underwear.
She's hot and wet all over his fingers, slick and soft and perfect. He takes his time, explores her folds, takes just a moment with his free hand to unzip her slacks and give himself more room to maneuver, trusting her balance as she braces against his shoulders. He watches her closely, for the slightest change in her breath, her expression, the set of her jaw, loves watching the call and response as he discovers what she likes best, what makes her wild and what calms her down. He's winding her higher and tighter, slipping one finger inside her body and starting a gentle motion. This is the slow build, intensity over ferocity, the counterpoint to her hands on him. Her eyes are closed but her jaw is tight and he can see that she's fighting with herself for control.
He wonders, abruptly, if she's ever come like this, for real, at someone else's hand? The thought that she hasn't, that he is her first and her only, a different kind of virgin, but a virgin nonetheless would put him on his knees if he wasn't sitting down.
"Shh," he whispers against her skin, pressing a kiss to her cheek. "It's okay. Let go. It's okay, Tash," he repeats it like a litany until his mouth mets hers and he pushes her over.
She gasps as she shudders, digs her nails into his shoulders, moans into his mouth and he takes it all, holds her together just like she did for him, cradling her head against his forehead to forehead and slowly slipping free of her skin and her clothes, reveling in the aftershocks as he leaves her body.
She makes a noise like she's trying to say something, but it sounds trapped in her throat and doesn't come out. Sinking back fully onto his lap, she struggles to breathe until she finally makes it to her feet and steps away. As inviting as she seemed just moments ago, there's a wall there now, and he doesn't reach out, even though he's already back to hard and wanting. Instead he watches as she reassembles her armor, her walls, maybe not as completely as before, but she has to regroup, rebuild.
The words he'd been thinking, invitations to say, never leave his throat and he watches her walk out the door.
*****
There is a man above her, pinning her to the concrete, and he's trained, the hold is solid, he's good, but most importantly, he has a gun. Clint sees her go still, sees the man's hand on her throat and the gun at her head and there is no moment of decision, just instinct, loose the arrow, protect, defend.
The man slips soundlessly to the street and she's up and away like a flash, the red of her hair barely reflecting in the flickering streetlights as she glances, briefly, in his direction. They reach the van but no one's left alive to follow her, he made sure of that. He stops her at the door with a hand on her chin, tilting her head to see the bruise already forming against her skin. He brushes his fingers over it instead, erasing one touch for another, one memory for a better one, and reminding her that she's his. Saying without words that he will always protect her, always have her back. Death cannot have her, because she is already spoken for.
Author/Artist: Koren M. (cybermathwitch)
Disclaimer: Not mine. If they were, there'd already be a Black Widow/Hawkeye movie.
Pairing: Clint/Natasha
Rating: Adult 17+ (No, really)
Warnings: sexual content, language, canon-typical references to violence
Word Count: 2,316
Summary: "he should take the thread to mark his path. Instead he ties himself more surely to the labyrinth"
Author's Notes: As promised, Clint's POV of part one of The Red Thread by anuna_81. Many thanks to her for the beta as well!
It's in the same universe as Unwrapped / Unwrapping, though this takes place before those stories.
The Red Thread
Part 1: The Red Thread (Natasha)
The first thing that he notices isn't how beautiful she is. Or, rather, her appearance is one of the things he notices, but it's not the first thing about her that captivates him.
No, the first thing that captivates him is watching how she works the room, how easily and thoroughly she plays her different rolls for different people, how cleanly she picks the pocket of another guest (Clint was watching for it and almost missed it) and how easily she works out the key code when she slips from the room and lets herself into the host's study.
He waits until she comes back, still showing no outward sign of what she's just done (even though he wasn't in the room, he can imagine) and then he does something he shouldn't do: he approaches her and asks her to dance.
There's no hint in her expression or her body language that she's at all nervous, or has any desire to leave. Nothing to give away the violence she's just done, or the true reason that she's there. She reacts as he would suspect any confident, socially adept woman might: she smiles, takes his hand, and lets him lead her to the dance floor.
There's a Argentinian tango playing, and he leads as effortlessly as she follows. The only indication that she suspects who and what he is, is when he lets his own mask slip for just a second, lets her see the hunter rather than the man, and her grip on his shoulder tightens painfully. Then it relaxes and her face never changes; there's no hint of fear.
"Why are you here?" Her voice is calm and she sounds almost bored.
He meets her eyes steadily for a minute before leaning in, close enough to smell her perfume and the hint of blood under the roses, close enough he knows his breath is warm against her ear.
“Because I have no desire to put an arrow through your heart.”
*****
He looks at her and he sees the whole - the maze from the archer's point of view.
It should've been easy, being sent after the Monster - all those secrets buried inside of a maze shaped like a girl. Just crack the surface, glimpse inside, take aim and fire, but he was taken aback by the beauty of the maze. How intricate, how graceful - how engulfing: the maze, her eyes, it was something to get lost in.
He steps inside, closes the distance, gives his ground, because he wants to see the maze. Others focus on the monster. They don't appreciate the whole.
There's a trail of red - red blood, red hair, red thread - he should take it to mark his path, to remind him of who he is and where he is - instead, he winds it around his wrist to hold it close, binds himself more surely to the labyrinth.
The red thread that should have led him back home.
Maybe, in the end, it does.
******
He tugs on the thread and she follows him. Maybe she's afraid if she doesn't, she'll unravel.
Maybe she's right.
The presence of another draws the monster out of the heart of the maze. He tugs on the thread and she starts to explore her own shape, her own skin. He wants to know things about her even she doesn't know (do you like this? what do you think of that?) things she hasn't been able to know because she was always moving through someone else's design. The shape of the labyrinth, always twisting, changing, suddenly becomes static and still.
The pattern is hers to determine, there are no wrong answers.
******
He shouldn't be surprised it would come to this.
When she slips her leg over his, climbs into his lap and tastes his lips - hasn't he been guiding (nudging, leading) her to something like this?
He's never made any secret of his attraction - he hasn't pushed, but he hasn't hidden it, either. He's always made it clear - let her know all the ways in which he appreciates her. Her skill with words, with a blade, with a gun, her brilliant tactics and her graceful body. So when she kisses him, he goes into it with eyes open, watching her watch him react.
And react he does, in predictable ways. She grinds down on his cock and he hardens, his heart rate increases, his breathing becomes ragged, his eyes finally close. He can still feel her watching him, knows she's evaluating this, testing it to see what she likes. Just like the chocolate, just like everything else in this new world of hers.
The thing is, as close as she is? He can tell it's effecting her, too. Her mouth leaves his neck and then she's kissing him again, more intimately this time. She's exploring his mouth, and maybe she doesn't realize, doesn't think about the fact that he can feel the change in her breathing, in the rise and fall of her chest against his, and he can feel that this is effecting her, too. If it wasn't, he wouldn't be here, he would walk away.
Her hands grab his and drag them up to her breasts and he breaks away so he can see her face.
"Are you sure?" he asks, because he needs to make sure, wants to know she realizes she doesn't have to do this. She nods, and the look on her face is a strange amalgamation of overwhelmed and in control. "You can tell me to stop," he reminds her, then buries his face against her neck, dragging his lips along her throat and up to her jaw. He smiles against her skin when his touch causes her to bow her back and gasp and he pulls her tighter. "Tell me what feels good," he urges and instead she shows him, bringing her mouth back down to his.
He likes the angle of this, likes having her over his lap and slightly above him, he knows it gives her a sense of control and he just plain loves the look of her on top of him. He'll let her take the lead but he won't hold back what this is doing to him, he'll push forward up until the edge where she pushes back. He respects her too much to do anything less, knows she is strong and meets strength for strength, not just physical but mental, personality, will.
He can't get enough of the taste of her skin, and pulls away from her mouth to lick at her throat. He works his way down her pulse point to her collarbone, and there's a huge rush to how she suddenly goes liquid and pliant in his arms. She's still wearing the blouse from her mission and he runs his fingers along the visible skin, lightly at the end of the fabric, with a little more pressure as he traces back up her throat, just stroking her there for a moment and feeling the push/pull in her muscles as she decides whether to feel threat or arousal. He would bet good money she doesn't let anyone get this close and knowing she's allowing it almost pushes him over the edge. He locks himself in place, prays she won't shift her hips, because he feels like if she does it's all over.
"Is this okay?" he manages, because he can feel how rapid her pulse is fluttering just under his fingers. "Can I do this?" he asks even as he flicks open the first button and she manages a yes as a strangled moan. The darkness in her eyes locks with his and a part of his mind suggests he should be frightened by the intensity of this Thing that is forming between them. He has to break the spell, to look away, and follows his fingers with his lips, mumbling "can I?" and "please?" and this?" against her as he goes, until her blouse is hanging off her shoulders and he's cupping her silk and lace covered breasts in his palms.
It's like he's flipped a switch, and her hands reach frantically for the edge of his shirt and she fights to get it up and off over his head. Then she's kissing and touching him, everywhere, and he's mumbling against her but it all sounds like nonsense in his head. It's just bare skin to bare skin, his grip on her back and her hip and her hands working open his belt and his jeans and he has to close his eyes when she wraps her fingers around his cock.
She knows the right ways to touch him, seems to shift and adjust based on how he reacts and he presses hot open mouthed kisses against the swell of her breasts and then he's coming suddenly, sharply in her grasp while she anchors him to her body with her other hand in his hair, holding him together even while she breaks him apart. She drops her face to his, presses her cheek alongside his own and they just breathe, just for a minute while he comes down.
He can feel her heart slow and her breathing settle but there's still tension coiled and waiting under her skin, and he wants her to come apart like he did. In motions designed to arouse as much as soothe, he makes long strokes up and down her sides, around to her back and he takes a second to push her shirt away. His fingers tease the catch on her bra and he waits for her nod before slipping it open and easing the straps down her arms.
She's full and round, soft and firm and he runs his thumbs over her tightly drawn nipples as he cups her weight. He looks up at her eyes even as he takes one into his mouth so he can see her reaction, see what she likes and what takes her breath away. She's back to the edge quickly and the ways she's grinding against him is going to get him hard again. He switches from her breast to her mouth, drawing her into another kind of kiss even as he grips her hips to try and brace his own control. His fingers dig into her hips and she jerks involuntarily. Then she grabs his wrist, hard enough to bruise and drags his hand over, urges him to slip beneath her pants and her underwear.
She's hot and wet all over his fingers, slick and soft and perfect. He takes his time, explores her folds, takes just a moment with his free hand to unzip her slacks and give himself more room to maneuver, trusting her balance as she braces against his shoulders. He watches her closely, for the slightest change in her breath, her expression, the set of her jaw, loves watching the call and response as he discovers what she likes best, what makes her wild and what calms her down. He's winding her higher and tighter, slipping one finger inside her body and starting a gentle motion. This is the slow build, intensity over ferocity, the counterpoint to her hands on him. Her eyes are closed but her jaw is tight and he can see that she's fighting with herself for control.
He wonders, abruptly, if she's ever come like this, for real, at someone else's hand? The thought that she hasn't, that he is her first and her only, a different kind of virgin, but a virgin nonetheless would put him on his knees if he wasn't sitting down.
"Shh," he whispers against her skin, pressing a kiss to her cheek. "It's okay. Let go. It's okay, Tash," he repeats it like a litany until his mouth mets hers and he pushes her over.
She gasps as she shudders, digs her nails into his shoulders, moans into his mouth and he takes it all, holds her together just like she did for him, cradling her head against his forehead to forehead and slowly slipping free of her skin and her clothes, reveling in the aftershocks as he leaves her body.
She makes a noise like she's trying to say something, but it sounds trapped in her throat and doesn't come out. Sinking back fully onto his lap, she struggles to breathe until she finally makes it to her feet and steps away. As inviting as she seemed just moments ago, there's a wall there now, and he doesn't reach out, even though he's already back to hard and wanting. Instead he watches as she reassembles her armor, her walls, maybe not as completely as before, but she has to regroup, rebuild.
The words he'd been thinking, invitations to say, never leave his throat and he watches her walk out the door.
*****
There is a man above her, pinning her to the concrete, and he's trained, the hold is solid, he's good, but most importantly, he has a gun. Clint sees her go still, sees the man's hand on her throat and the gun at her head and there is no moment of decision, just instinct, loose the arrow, protect, defend.
The man slips soundlessly to the street and she's up and away like a flash, the red of her hair barely reflecting in the flickering streetlights as she glances, briefly, in his direction. They reach the van but no one's left alive to follow her, he made sure of that. He stops her at the door with a hand on her chin, tilting her head to see the bruise already forming against her skin. He brushes his fingers over it instead, erasing one touch for another, one memory for a better one, and reminding her that she's his. Saying without words that he will always protect her, always have her back. Death cannot have her, because she is already spoken for.