Fic: kiss her 'til your lips are scorched
Title: kiss her 'til your lips are scorched
Summary: Anyone who's never been in her line of work would be shocked by how much of her life is spent waiting.
Fandom: Avengers/XMFC
Word Count: 1204
Rating/Contents: NC-17, timelines what timelines
Pairing: Raven/Natasha
Policies: Read my archiving, feedback, and warnings policies here.
A/N: It's a week for expanding things from memes, so here is a thing what I wrote for
schmerica, because I never write enough femmeslash, and also this pairing, it is delicious.
Natasha's pretty sure Magneto doesn't know she's on this job, though she knows Magneto knows who she is; she's pretty sure there's a lot Magneto doesn't know about, that Mystique doesn't tell him. They're a united public front, the savior of mutantkind and his blue-skinned lover-warrior, but Natasha gets the sense that all that stops at a certain point, that there are cracks that they've both learned not to let show.
Magneto wouldn't approve of her in general; she's human, or near enough that it wouldn't matter to him. She's polluting the purity of his mission, his grand vision, the one that never seems to jibe with the fact that he spends so much time doing so much bad that has nothing to do with it.
It's fine. Natasha doesn't mind bad, just as long as she gets paid for it.
She and Mystique are waiting, presently. Anyone who's never been in her line of work would be shocked by how much of her life is spent waiting around for this or that to happen, waiting for the next job offer, waiting for the target to show itself, waiting for the right introduction. Today they're just waiting for morning, waiting for the next phase of the plan to start.
Anyone who's never been in her line of work would have no trouble imagining how much she drinks, or that they're doing it now. It's cliche and she knows it, but when she's with someone who actually knows who she is, she always drinks vodka. Nothing in her life is ever the same twice, but vodka is, the burn of the cheapest swill up to the delicate flavor of the finest in the world. Mystique made a little bit of a face when Natasha poured it out for her straight up, but to her credit, she's drinking it now, no complaints, not even wincing.
Mystique's interesting. Natasha can't decide if she likes her or not, but she gets the feeling Mystique inspires that in people, at least people who are paying attention. Natasha knows a whole lot about being other people; she knows what it does to a person, the way you hollow yourself out to make room for all of them. She knows exactly how little you can trust someone like that, how transparent so much secrecy can make them. She knows what's coming and doesn't stop it; hell, she invites it. It's been too long, way too long since it wasn't with a target, since it was with somebody she actually wanted.
They're not done with the first drink before Mystique is in her lap, straddling her thighs. Her hair is slick and coarse between Natasha's fingers, and Natasha drags her closer with it, the other hand reaching down to grab her ass.
Vodka's vastly overrated.
Mystique's good at this, smooth and hot; Natasha's been with too many people who think that biting people is necessary when you're a badass- and Natasha almost always sticks with badasses, the kind that don't waste their time proclaiming that they are. She doesn't let Natasha take control, but she doesn't try and force her to give up either, which is a very good idea on her part.
Natasha's the one who ups the ante, palming Mystique's breast; Mystique pushes into it, like she's been waiting, like she can't wait for more. She sounds desperate, done holding back, and that's what Natasha loves to hear, someone going mad for her. It makes it easy to ignore the thumping in her blood, the need that swells inside of her, the things about this that make her vulnerable.
Natasha honestly doesn't know exactly how this works, what Mystique's like down there. Mystique's in what Natasha's given to believe is her natural form, all blue scales, and this entire time she's been naked, as far as Natasha can see; if everything is normal, it must take a whole lot of balls to walk around with your pussy showing.
She pushes Mystique off her lap, guiding her until she's sitting on the edge of the table in front of them. Natasha pushes Mystique's thighs open, and thank god, other than being purple it's everything she hoped it would be; she gets just the same reaction as usual when she licks her way up the length of her, all the way up to her clit. Natasha flicks her tongue over it, and Mystique groans softly, lacing her fingers into Natasha's hair.
It's been a while, but she always likes doing this, the control of it, the sensation of being so completely in control of someone using just her mouth. The rest of it's not exactly bad either, the taste, the sensation of sliding her fingers into another woman's body, slick and hot, just as dark and sinful as when she thought there was such a thing as sin.
She leans back just so that she can look up, see what she's doing to Mystique, how she's wrecking her. Mystique's head is thrown back, her back arched, her hips moving against Natasha's fingers; the light from above surrounds her like a halo, light and shadow playing on her dark skin.
She lowers her mouth to Mystique's clit again, getting her free hand in between her own thighs; she presses her palm against the seam of her pants, rocking her hips for friction, needing to get off even more than she needs to get Mystique off. The second one's going to happen sooner, though, because Mystique is moaning now, nice and loud, gratifyingly so. Natasha sucks on her clit, pushing her fingers in deeper, spreading them wide, and Mystique comes for her, crying out, the reverberation of her voice coloring it, turning it into something rich and entirely inhuman.
She pushes Natasha's head away, quickly but gently. There's no blush on her skin, nothing at all, but it tells in her eyes, the glassy satisfaction in them. "Is there anything I can do for you?" she says, voice husky, and Natasha's not even sure what she wants. She tugs Mystique forward, sitting her down on her lap again and kissing her, harder this time. Mystique's quick; she unzips Natasha's pants, slipping her hand underneath the waistband of her panties and stroking her clit; she shifts, reaching down until she can push her fingers inside, the back of her thumb pressed up tight against her. It's fast and it's good and Natasha doesn't even pretend like she's going to help, just sits back and lets her, lets Mystique kiss her and touch her and fuck her until she comes.
When it's done, Mystique leans back; she raises her hand to her mouth and licks it clean, her eyes on Natasha's, and Natasha smiles, feeling sated and amused; Mystique might think she's gained ground, but it's going to take more than a little fluid exchange for that to happen.
When she's done, she gives Natasha one more kiss before standing up. "You can take first watch," she says, turning and walking into the bedroom. Maybe Natasha does like her after all; she doesn't trust her, no, no father than she could throw her, but she's interesting.
In her line of work, that counts for a lot.
This entry was automagically crossposted from http://sabinetzin.dreamwidth.org/417430.html.
comments over there.
Summary: Anyone who's never been in her line of work would be shocked by how much of her life is spent waiting.
Fandom: Avengers/XMFC
Word Count: 1204
Rating/Contents: NC-17, timelines what timelines
Pairing: Raven/Natasha
Policies: Read my archiving, feedback, and warnings policies here.
A/N: It's a week for expanding things from memes, so here is a thing what I wrote for
schmerica, because I never write enough femmeslash, and also this pairing, it is delicious.
Natasha's pretty sure Magneto doesn't know she's on this job, though she knows Magneto knows who she is; she's pretty sure there's a lot Magneto doesn't know about, that Mystique doesn't tell him. They're a united public front, the savior of mutantkind and his blue-skinned lover-warrior, but Natasha gets the sense that all that stops at a certain point, that there are cracks that they've both learned not to let show.
Magneto wouldn't approve of her in general; she's human, or near enough that it wouldn't matter to him. She's polluting the purity of his mission, his grand vision, the one that never seems to jibe with the fact that he spends so much time doing so much bad that has nothing to do with it.
It's fine. Natasha doesn't mind bad, just as long as she gets paid for it.
She and Mystique are waiting, presently. Anyone who's never been in her line of work would be shocked by how much of her life is spent waiting around for this or that to happen, waiting for the next job offer, waiting for the target to show itself, waiting for the right introduction. Today they're just waiting for morning, waiting for the next phase of the plan to start.
Anyone who's never been in her line of work would have no trouble imagining how much she drinks, or that they're doing it now. It's cliche and she knows it, but when she's with someone who actually knows who she is, she always drinks vodka. Nothing in her life is ever the same twice, but vodka is, the burn of the cheapest swill up to the delicate flavor of the finest in the world. Mystique made a little bit of a face when Natasha poured it out for her straight up, but to her credit, she's drinking it now, no complaints, not even wincing.
Mystique's interesting. Natasha can't decide if she likes her or not, but she gets the feeling Mystique inspires that in people, at least people who are paying attention. Natasha knows a whole lot about being other people; she knows what it does to a person, the way you hollow yourself out to make room for all of them. She knows exactly how little you can trust someone like that, how transparent so much secrecy can make them. She knows what's coming and doesn't stop it; hell, she invites it. It's been too long, way too long since it wasn't with a target, since it was with somebody she actually wanted.
They're not done with the first drink before Mystique is in her lap, straddling her thighs. Her hair is slick and coarse between Natasha's fingers, and Natasha drags her closer with it, the other hand reaching down to grab her ass.
Vodka's vastly overrated.
Mystique's good at this, smooth and hot; Natasha's been with too many people who think that biting people is necessary when you're a badass- and Natasha almost always sticks with badasses, the kind that don't waste their time proclaiming that they are. She doesn't let Natasha take control, but she doesn't try and force her to give up either, which is a very good idea on her part.
Natasha's the one who ups the ante, palming Mystique's breast; Mystique pushes into it, like she's been waiting, like she can't wait for more. She sounds desperate, done holding back, and that's what Natasha loves to hear, someone going mad for her. It makes it easy to ignore the thumping in her blood, the need that swells inside of her, the things about this that make her vulnerable.
Natasha honestly doesn't know exactly how this works, what Mystique's like down there. Mystique's in what Natasha's given to believe is her natural form, all blue scales, and this entire time she's been naked, as far as Natasha can see; if everything is normal, it must take a whole lot of balls to walk around with your pussy showing.
She pushes Mystique off her lap, guiding her until she's sitting on the edge of the table in front of them. Natasha pushes Mystique's thighs open, and thank god, other than being purple it's everything she hoped it would be; she gets just the same reaction as usual when she licks her way up the length of her, all the way up to her clit. Natasha flicks her tongue over it, and Mystique groans softly, lacing her fingers into Natasha's hair.
It's been a while, but she always likes doing this, the control of it, the sensation of being so completely in control of someone using just her mouth. The rest of it's not exactly bad either, the taste, the sensation of sliding her fingers into another woman's body, slick and hot, just as dark and sinful as when she thought there was such a thing as sin.
She leans back just so that she can look up, see what she's doing to Mystique, how she's wrecking her. Mystique's head is thrown back, her back arched, her hips moving against Natasha's fingers; the light from above surrounds her like a halo, light and shadow playing on her dark skin.
She lowers her mouth to Mystique's clit again, getting her free hand in between her own thighs; she presses her palm against the seam of her pants, rocking her hips for friction, needing to get off even more than she needs to get Mystique off. The second one's going to happen sooner, though, because Mystique is moaning now, nice and loud, gratifyingly so. Natasha sucks on her clit, pushing her fingers in deeper, spreading them wide, and Mystique comes for her, crying out, the reverberation of her voice coloring it, turning it into something rich and entirely inhuman.
She pushes Natasha's head away, quickly but gently. There's no blush on her skin, nothing at all, but it tells in her eyes, the glassy satisfaction in them. "Is there anything I can do for you?" she says, voice husky, and Natasha's not even sure what she wants. She tugs Mystique forward, sitting her down on her lap again and kissing her, harder this time. Mystique's quick; she unzips Natasha's pants, slipping her hand underneath the waistband of her panties and stroking her clit; she shifts, reaching down until she can push her fingers inside, the back of her thumb pressed up tight against her. It's fast and it's good and Natasha doesn't even pretend like she's going to help, just sits back and lets her, lets Mystique kiss her and touch her and fuck her until she comes.
When it's done, Mystique leans back; she raises her hand to her mouth and licks it clean, her eyes on Natasha's, and Natasha smiles, feeling sated and amused; Mystique might think she's gained ground, but it's going to take more than a little fluid exchange for that to happen.
When she's done, she gives Natasha one more kiss before standing up. "You can take first watch," she says, turning and walking into the bedroom. Maybe Natasha does like her after all; she doesn't trust her, no, no father than she could throw her, but she's interesting.
In her line of work, that counts for a lot.
This entry was automagically crossposted from http://sabinetzin.dreamwidth.org/417430.html.
comments over there.