FIC: Ink & Wash (for noblealice) - NC-17
Title: Ink & Wash
Author: bob5fic
A Gift For: noblealice
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Language; violence; sexual themes
Pairings: Clint/Natasha
Summary/Prompt Used: What is our story now? In the aftermath of a mission, Natasha decides on a different route.
Author’s Notes: I was inspired by a request to have Natasha in stockings and suspenders (and for them to remain on during sex). This is the result. I really hope you enjoy. Also, many thanks to my darling beta for saving my sorry ass once more.
Banner by inkvoices
***
The knife slides through skin like butter.
Human flesh is so vulnerable, she thinks. We are made of paper and surrounded by fire. We are fragile.
She feels the warm slick of blood against her hand.
The mark splutters and jerks beneath her. This is not neat. There is no tidy way to go.
Make it violent, she was told. Make a scene.
She watches him die. Shredded paper between her thighs.
Her hands are sticky as she walks back to the safe house. Her thighs ache. She needs something. A blank page waiting to be written upon. There are so many stories. How do you make them your own? How do you get some release?
My body is a weapon. It is a tool. I want to feel more than this. Death has lost its luster. What does it feel like to live?
She takes longer than she should. She lets herself get lost in deserted streets. If anyone was to confront her, would she kill them or fuck them? It is a strange question to ask. Her mind goes to strange places when she is on her own like this.
You cannot voice these thoughts out loud. There is no one to share them with. There is just your partner in the safe house, waiting for you. Standing; no, pacing about the room. Always so patient but he does not like it when you are late.
What time do you call this, Tash?
She can picture his face.
She opens the door. He sits on the edge of the bed, a gun disassembled beside him as he cleans the parts. It is her weapon. He always takes it upon himself. I am always the one waiting, he says. Better to make myself useful. You are always useful, she thinks.
He looks up. Say it. He says nothing. She closes the door behind her and places her knife on the table.
“Dead?” he says. He’s smiling.
“Tired,” she says.
“Why the detour?”
“What do you mean?”
“You felt like catching the sights?”
She turns to look at him. “Does it matter?”
“No. Not to me.” He pieces her gun back together. “We have six hours till evac.”
I’m bored, she thinks. I am always bored. She reaches for her dress. “I need to get out of this thing.”
She struggles with the zipper and breaks it in her frustration, letting it slip from her body. The fabric pools at her feet.
“You got a change of clothes?” he says. He studies her face. She feels the cool air caress her exposed skin.
“Hope so,” she says.
He laughs. She disappears inside the bathroom.
There is blood on her skin. There is still an ache between her thighs. She washes the blood away and looks in the mirror. Her hair is pinned and coming loose. She lets it down. It rests like blood across her shoulders.
“You want a drink, Tash?” he calls through the door.
“Bourbon,” she says. They only ever bring bourbon.
She steps out, hair loose, bra strapless, stockings and suspenders and a matching garter belt, her heels tight and her feet sore. She likes the height they give her. She is nearly eye level with him when she accepts the proffered glass.
“To seeing the sights,” he says.
She smiles. “To seeing the sights.”
He sits on the edge of the bed. She lifts a heel and plants it on the mattress beside him. “Hungry?” she says.
“I already ate.” He watches her face as she adjusts the straps of her suspenders. “You?”
“Ravenous,” she says.
This is their game. She will ask him outright when she is ready.
“What do you need?”
He reads her so well.
“A distraction.”
She tilts her body towards him, parting her legs fully.
“Be more specific.”
“Eat me, Barton.”
He laughs. “Say please.”
She grips his hair. His hand caresses her thigh, her ass, pulling her towards him.
He presses his face between her legs, breathing her in before kissing her there.
“Tash,” he says. “How attached are you to these?”
“Not much,” she says.
“Good.” He rips apart her panties, peeling them off like a gift wrapped in paper.
She moves to unfasten her suspenders. He stills her hands. “No. They stay.”
Her hands in his hair, she holds him to her as his tongue delves into her cunt. He grips her ass, sucks on her clit as she moulds him to her. There is no room for air; turns out Clint Barton can hold his breath for a really long time.
He is unsatisfied. He slides a hand beneath her knee and positions her leg over his shoulder. She is balanced on a single stiletto heel. His body is her anchor. It is strong and warm. His hands hold her steady. His mouth makes her forget.
Her thighs ache but in a different way. A tension in her stomach is building. Her blank page is blotted with ink, hieroglyphics that spell out what is to come.
Clint Barton makes you orgasm. There is your story.
The waves break. The spasms pulse. He opens his mouth against her and swallows them down. You are good. You are so good to me. She melts like butter in his arms; a tender throat bleeding out against a knife.
“Do you always eat out your partners?” she says, spread across his lap.
“Only the ones that ask me to.” He brushes the hair from her face. Only you. She kisses him once simply to know what she tastes like.
She has never kissed him before. She does not kiss anyone. Not on the mouth. It’s like that movie, he says. I am not a prostitute. No. We kill instead of screw people for money. We are something much worse.
“How do you taste?”
He knows why she did it. He will give it no more meaning that the meaning it deserves.
“Like bourbon,” she says.
“Romanoff whiskey?” He’s grinning as she removes herself from his lap. “We could make a killing.”
She rummages through their belongings, finding his things. An old shirt. She slips it over her head, turning back to face him.
We already do, she thinks but the words sound too obvious. We already kill and drink and you eat me out when I ask you to. What does that mean? What is our story now?
His smile is gone, replaced by something else. You wear my things. She plays with the hem as she stands before him.
Do you taste like bourbon too?
Author: bob5fic
A Gift For: noblealice
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Language; violence; sexual themes
Pairings: Clint/Natasha
Summary/Prompt Used: What is our story now? In the aftermath of a mission, Natasha decides on a different route.
Author’s Notes: I was inspired by a request to have Natasha in stockings and suspenders (and for them to remain on during sex). This is the result. I really hope you enjoy. Also, many thanks to my darling beta for saving my sorry ass once more.
Banner by inkvoices
***
The knife slides through skin like butter.
Human flesh is so vulnerable, she thinks. We are made of paper and surrounded by fire. We are fragile.
She feels the warm slick of blood against her hand.
The mark splutters and jerks beneath her. This is not neat. There is no tidy way to go.
Make it violent, she was told. Make a scene.
She watches him die. Shredded paper between her thighs.
Her hands are sticky as she walks back to the safe house. Her thighs ache. She needs something. A blank page waiting to be written upon. There are so many stories. How do you make them your own? How do you get some release?
My body is a weapon. It is a tool. I want to feel more than this. Death has lost its luster. What does it feel like to live?
She takes longer than she should. She lets herself get lost in deserted streets. If anyone was to confront her, would she kill them or fuck them? It is a strange question to ask. Her mind goes to strange places when she is on her own like this.
You cannot voice these thoughts out loud. There is no one to share them with. There is just your partner in the safe house, waiting for you. Standing; no, pacing about the room. Always so patient but he does not like it when you are late.
What time do you call this, Tash?
She can picture his face.
She opens the door. He sits on the edge of the bed, a gun disassembled beside him as he cleans the parts. It is her weapon. He always takes it upon himself. I am always the one waiting, he says. Better to make myself useful. You are always useful, she thinks.
He looks up. Say it. He says nothing. She closes the door behind her and places her knife on the table.
“Dead?” he says. He’s smiling.
“Tired,” she says.
“Why the detour?”
“What do you mean?”
“You felt like catching the sights?”
She turns to look at him. “Does it matter?”
“No. Not to me.” He pieces her gun back together. “We have six hours till evac.”
I’m bored, she thinks. I am always bored. She reaches for her dress. “I need to get out of this thing.”
She struggles with the zipper and breaks it in her frustration, letting it slip from her body. The fabric pools at her feet.
“You got a change of clothes?” he says. He studies her face. She feels the cool air caress her exposed skin.
“Hope so,” she says.
He laughs. She disappears inside the bathroom.
There is blood on her skin. There is still an ache between her thighs. She washes the blood away and looks in the mirror. Her hair is pinned and coming loose. She lets it down. It rests like blood across her shoulders.
“You want a drink, Tash?” he calls through the door.
“Bourbon,” she says. They only ever bring bourbon.
She steps out, hair loose, bra strapless, stockings and suspenders and a matching garter belt, her heels tight and her feet sore. She likes the height they give her. She is nearly eye level with him when she accepts the proffered glass.
“To seeing the sights,” he says.
She smiles. “To seeing the sights.”
He sits on the edge of the bed. She lifts a heel and plants it on the mattress beside him. “Hungry?” she says.
“I already ate.” He watches her face as she adjusts the straps of her suspenders. “You?”
“Ravenous,” she says.
This is their game. She will ask him outright when she is ready.
“What do you need?”
He reads her so well.
“A distraction.”
She tilts her body towards him, parting her legs fully.
“Be more specific.”
“Eat me, Barton.”
He laughs. “Say please.”
She grips his hair. His hand caresses her thigh, her ass, pulling her towards him.
He presses his face between her legs, breathing her in before kissing her there.
“Tash,” he says. “How attached are you to these?”
“Not much,” she says.
“Good.” He rips apart her panties, peeling them off like a gift wrapped in paper.
She moves to unfasten her suspenders. He stills her hands. “No. They stay.”
Her hands in his hair, she holds him to her as his tongue delves into her cunt. He grips her ass, sucks on her clit as she moulds him to her. There is no room for air; turns out Clint Barton can hold his breath for a really long time.
He is unsatisfied. He slides a hand beneath her knee and positions her leg over his shoulder. She is balanced on a single stiletto heel. His body is her anchor. It is strong and warm. His hands hold her steady. His mouth makes her forget.
Her thighs ache but in a different way. A tension in her stomach is building. Her blank page is blotted with ink, hieroglyphics that spell out what is to come.
Clint Barton makes you orgasm. There is your story.
The waves break. The spasms pulse. He opens his mouth against her and swallows them down. You are good. You are so good to me. She melts like butter in his arms; a tender throat bleeding out against a knife.
“Do you always eat out your partners?” she says, spread across his lap.
“Only the ones that ask me to.” He brushes the hair from her face. Only you. She kisses him once simply to know what she tastes like.
She has never kissed him before. She does not kiss anyone. Not on the mouth. It’s like that movie, he says. I am not a prostitute. No. We kill instead of screw people for money. We are something much worse.
“How do you taste?”
He knows why she did it. He will give it no more meaning that the meaning it deserves.
“Like bourbon,” she says.
“Romanoff whiskey?” He’s grinning as she removes herself from his lap. “We could make a killing.”
She rummages through their belongings, finding his things. An old shirt. She slips it over her head, turning back to face him.
We already do, she thinks but the words sound too obvious. We already kill and drink and you eat me out when I ask you to. What does that mean? What is our story now?
His smile is gone, replaced by something else. You wear my things. She plays with the hem as she stands before him.
Do you taste like bourbon too?