FIC: Kyrie Elaison, snippet one
I've been writing up a storm for the be_compromised promptathon of abso-fucking-lutely EPICNESS!! (and fills 'officially' end today).This is one of several peeks at 'Kyrie Elaison', an Avengers (movieverse)/Supernatural fusion of sorts, because I'm not sure about the whole, y'know, structure thing. It might just end up being a bunch of connected ficlets.
Oh, and in this universe, the 'S' in SHEILD stands for 'Supernatural'. Not sure about the other letters yet.
TITLE: Kyrie Elaison
FANDOM: The Avengers (2012 movie), fusion with Supernatural.
SUMMARY: (AU) When he left the Army, Clint Barton never thought he’d end up finding his calling hunting monsters. But then, he never thought the brilliant, cursed and sinfully gorgeous teenager he saved from insanity would become his lover, either.
RATING: R for violence, gore, supernatural themes, swearing, adult themes, (mostly) consensual sex.
SPOILERS: character background.
A/N: After ashen_key came out with her own Supernatural fusion, (and did it brilliantly as usual) I was going to make this Clint and Natasha ghost hunters instead, but she talked me back into my original idea. The ghost hunters idea works better as a one or two-shot anyway.
PROMPT: for the be_compromised promptathon of epicness (2012).
look at that girl, she's love in motion (ashen_key)
At times like this, Clint couldn’t figure out how the hell his life ended up like this.
When he left the Army, he had ideas about going into private security, maybe, or even following his cousin Jason into the police force. Hell, maybe even trying college on the GI Bill. But he’d definitely find someplace to settle down, and put down roots for the first time since he was six and his parents died.
That had all changed when he put an arrow in each eye of the thing that had once been his brother.
Clint winced as he put the ice bag down for a minute to reach for the glass of bourbon on the bedside table. Christ, he hated poltergeists, they all acted like invisible pissy tweens. Probably because they were nearly always spawned by teenagers.
“Put that ice bag back right now.”
At the sharply-worded order, Clint rolled his eyes.
“And don’t you roll your eyes at me.”
“Are you sure you don’t have eyes in the back of your head?” Clint asked his partner suspiciously. “There was that thing in Alabama...”
Natasha rolled hers back. “No, Clint. But when you share your personal space with someone for roughly twenty-three hours a day, awake and asleep, you do get to know them rather well.”
She was right about that - Clint knew Natasha pretty well by now too, and he was getting some disctinct hints about the evening to come, from the way she twisted her hips as she automatically moved to the music issuing from her iPod, the dock on the table next to his glass.
Clint put the ice bag back on his ribs obediently, and shuffled around to sit against the wooden headboard, stretching his legs out in front of him on the bed. At the feel of the soft pillow behind his back, Clint almost groaned in appreciation. Joining up with SHEILD might not have felt like much of a choice at the time, and sometimes it still rankled that they had to go where they were sent and investigate (and usually kill) what they were told a lot of the time, but he couldn’t deny that there were a hell of a lot of benefits, too, that far outweighed the resentment.
The first two years of their partnership, they’d existed mostly on his Army pension and the income from her Matheson family inheritance; at that point, Clint was still sure that she’d leave him for college one day, and was determined that he wouldn’t drain her future. So they’d stayed in backpacker hostels in cities and budget hotels on the road. Instead of a proper van, they criss-crossed the country in Barney’s 1967 Impala, hunting equipment - some of it jury-rigged - carefully packed in the trunk and half their personal luggage stowed behind the front seats on the floor, which meant backseat sex took even more careful manuevering than it normally would. Hell, half the time they’d just climbed out and either leaned against or bent over the car as they fucked on the side of the road, right out in the open.
After they got onto SHEILD’s radar - and then their payroll - things became a lot easier. Staying in two or even three-star hotels with ensuite bathrooms and double beds beat the hell out of sharing four-person dorms where there was always at least one person who snored like a fucking buzzsaw, and communal bathrooms where only same-sex couples got to fuck in the shower. Also? Not only did they have quality equipment now, as much as they needed, but it all fit in the storage area of the truck that their dispatcher Maria Hill had laughingly nicknamed ‘the Mystery Machine’. So they had all the room they wanted to stretch out in the back seat when they couldn’t keep their hands off each other any longer (which was at least once every three days).
Having drained his glass and the pain pills finally kicking in, Clint happily settled into his favourite - well, second favourite - pastime. Watching Natasha Romanoff move.
He’d thought the phrase ‘poetry in motion’ was bullshit until he’d met Natasha. His lover had spent most of her life training in ballet and martial arts, and it showed in every movement of her body. Being ungraceful or awkward was as impossible for her as Clint missing a target.
Natasha Alia Matheson Romanoff was beautiful enough to make angels weep, and possessed a natural, enchanting sensuality that could make straight men beg and gay woman drool. She had a near-genius IQ, and an innate elegance that showed through whether she was covered in a designer dress or coated in slime from a Yogoso demon. She was now the sole heiress to one of the oldest and richest families in the South, even though her early upbringing meant she’d never picked up the drawl.
Natasha shot him a look of concern under her eyelashes, and just like always, Clint felt more loved than he knew was possible before her. He still wasn’t sure Nat realized just how huge her own heart was - and he was the blessed sonuvabitch she’d given it to. Once she’d learned to control her curse, Nat could have literally have had anyone she wanted. But she’d chosen him.
At times like this, Clint couldn’t figure out how the hell his life ended up like this. But he’s so fucking grateful that it has.
Oh, and in this universe, the 'S' in SHEILD stands for 'Supernatural'. Not sure about the other letters yet.
TITLE: Kyrie Elaison
FANDOM: The Avengers (2012 movie), fusion with Supernatural.
SUMMARY: (AU) When he left the Army, Clint Barton never thought he’d end up finding his calling hunting monsters. But then, he never thought the brilliant, cursed and sinfully gorgeous teenager he saved from insanity would become his lover, either.
RATING: R for violence, gore, supernatural themes, swearing, adult themes, (mostly) consensual sex.
SPOILERS: character background.
A/N: After ashen_key came out with her own Supernatural fusion, (and did it brilliantly as usual) I was going to make this Clint and Natasha ghost hunters instead, but she talked me back into my original idea. The ghost hunters idea works better as a one or two-shot anyway.
PROMPT: for the be_compromised promptathon of epicness (2012).
look at that girl, she's love in motion (ashen_key)
At times like this, Clint couldn’t figure out how the hell his life ended up like this.
When he left the Army, he had ideas about going into private security, maybe, or even following his cousin Jason into the police force. Hell, maybe even trying college on the GI Bill. But he’d definitely find someplace to settle down, and put down roots for the first time since he was six and his parents died.
That had all changed when he put an arrow in each eye of the thing that had once been his brother.
Clint winced as he put the ice bag down for a minute to reach for the glass of bourbon on the bedside table. Christ, he hated poltergeists, they all acted like invisible pissy tweens. Probably because they were nearly always spawned by teenagers.
“Put that ice bag back right now.”
At the sharply-worded order, Clint rolled his eyes.
“And don’t you roll your eyes at me.”
“Are you sure you don’t have eyes in the back of your head?” Clint asked his partner suspiciously. “There was that thing in Alabama...”
Natasha rolled hers back. “No, Clint. But when you share your personal space with someone for roughly twenty-three hours a day, awake and asleep, you do get to know them rather well.”
She was right about that - Clint knew Natasha pretty well by now too, and he was getting some disctinct hints about the evening to come, from the way she twisted her hips as she automatically moved to the music issuing from her iPod, the dock on the table next to his glass.
Clint put the ice bag back on his ribs obediently, and shuffled around to sit against the wooden headboard, stretching his legs out in front of him on the bed. At the feel of the soft pillow behind his back, Clint almost groaned in appreciation. Joining up with SHEILD might not have felt like much of a choice at the time, and sometimes it still rankled that they had to go where they were sent and investigate (and usually kill) what they were told a lot of the time, but he couldn’t deny that there were a hell of a lot of benefits, too, that far outweighed the resentment.
The first two years of their partnership, they’d existed mostly on his Army pension and the income from her Matheson family inheritance; at that point, Clint was still sure that she’d leave him for college one day, and was determined that he wouldn’t drain her future. So they’d stayed in backpacker hostels in cities and budget hotels on the road. Instead of a proper van, they criss-crossed the country in Barney’s 1967 Impala, hunting equipment - some of it jury-rigged - carefully packed in the trunk and half their personal luggage stowed behind the front seats on the floor, which meant backseat sex took even more careful manuevering than it normally would. Hell, half the time they’d just climbed out and either leaned against or bent over the car as they fucked on the side of the road, right out in the open.
After they got onto SHEILD’s radar - and then their payroll - things became a lot easier. Staying in two or even three-star hotels with ensuite bathrooms and double beds beat the hell out of sharing four-person dorms where there was always at least one person who snored like a fucking buzzsaw, and communal bathrooms where only same-sex couples got to fuck in the shower. Also? Not only did they have quality equipment now, as much as they needed, but it all fit in the storage area of the truck that their dispatcher Maria Hill had laughingly nicknamed ‘the Mystery Machine’. So they had all the room they wanted to stretch out in the back seat when they couldn’t keep their hands off each other any longer (which was at least once every three days).
Having drained his glass and the pain pills finally kicking in, Clint happily settled into his favourite - well, second favourite - pastime. Watching Natasha Romanoff move.
He’d thought the phrase ‘poetry in motion’ was bullshit until he’d met Natasha. His lover had spent most of her life training in ballet and martial arts, and it showed in every movement of her body. Being ungraceful or awkward was as impossible for her as Clint missing a target.
Natasha Alia Matheson Romanoff was beautiful enough to make angels weep, and possessed a natural, enchanting sensuality that could make straight men beg and gay woman drool. She had a near-genius IQ, and an innate elegance that showed through whether she was covered in a designer dress or coated in slime from a Yogoso demon. She was now the sole heiress to one of the oldest and richest families in the South, even though her early upbringing meant she’d never picked up the drawl.
Natasha shot him a look of concern under her eyelashes, and just like always, Clint felt more loved than he knew was possible before her. He still wasn’t sure Nat realized just how huge her own heart was - and he was the blessed sonuvabitch she’d given it to. Once she’d learned to control her curse, Nat could have literally have had anyone she wanted. But she’d chosen him.
At times like this, Clint couldn’t figure out how the hell his life ended up like this. But he’s so fucking grateful that it has.