Many apologies for neglecting Clintasha this month - I've been writing an original work for Camp NaNoWriMo, and it's been taking up all my free time! I felt really bad about that, so I asked over on tumblr (I'm SidheRa there, if you're interested - stop by and say hi!) if anyone had anything in particular they'd like to see from me, and this fic is the result.
Many thanks to the Hive, and especially Amanda for helping me brainstorm all aspects of this fic and for listening to me gripe about certain synonyms. Love you guys! All mistakes and absurdities, as ever, are mine.
If you have a moment, I'd love to hear what you think!
Two days had passed since they went off into the woods and fucked like there was no tomorrow (there wasn't), and Natasha hadn't said more than a handful of words to him since.
Clint had tried, of course, to strike up a conversation with her because he was Clint and he liked to talk and he liked her, but each time he'd tried, she'd given him a strange, inscrutable look and had busied herself elsewhere.
If she wanted to play it that way then, sure, he could do it, too. He sure as hell wasn't going to hang on her every word, tailing her around like goddamn Marc Spector, hoping she would throw him a bone. He'd played that part before, thank you very much, and what had it gotten him? Nothing but a broken heart and a really fucked up track record with redheads.
He wasn't going to spend what could be his last days on Earth (the last days of Earth, at least for their kind) moping, so he did what he did best – he joked around with Peter, practiced with the arrows he'd fashioned out of scrap, and helped Logan loot the bombed out SHIELD base they'd found.
There was a surprising amount of loot to be had, in fact, and Logan suspected that the base hadn't been as abandoned as everyone had been led to believe. Of course, what might have been suspicious once upon a (less radioactive) time, was good fortune now, and they'd found enough clean water to last them, well, certainly longer than they needed.
Picking through a cubicle farm, Clint had even found a pack of Marlboros tucked in alongside a fifth of bourbon in a desk drawer, and maybe he wasn't a Reds man before, but what was the worst tobacco could do to him at this point? He'd pocketed both items and moved along.
Later that night, after they'd gotten back to camp (with a hog-sized lizard thing for dinner, to boot), he'd noticed Natasha was staring at him through the fire, wearing that same expression she'd been wearing for the past two damn days.
The look made him itch, like there was something crawling all over his body and overtaking him because goddammit, it didn't matter how many times he got tangled up in her, how many times she'd played with his heart or how much she made him want to swear off women forever. None of it mattered because he wanted her now like he'd wanted her when he was nothing more than an ex-carnie with delusions of grandeur. He'd always been an idiot for her, and apparently the robot apocalypse had done little to change that.
He chucked the bone of whatever the hell he'd been eating into the fire and headed off into the jungle for a smoke. Suddenly, he wasn't in much of a people mood.
He went far enough into the jungle that he could smoke without anyone (well, anyone other than Logan) could smell it, stepping out of the dense undergrowth into a little clearing. He sat heavily on the first flat rock he found and lit up.
The tobacco was a little stale, but the harshness of the smoke felt good in his lungs, made him feel like he was alive, and he relished the burn as he breathed in and out. Looking up at the stars where they peeked through the trees, he could almost pretend that he was camping with friends, that he'd stepped away to enjoy a little quiet time and a smoke, that he could return to New York and find his apartment the way he'd left it, that nothing had changed and everything was fine.
That Natasha wasn't being weird and would at least fucking talk to him.
It was a nice fantasy.
A fantasy that he was just starting to really get into when a twig snapped behind him. Hand on his bow (never far away now, not even when he was pretending he got to take breaks), he whirled.
Natasha stepped out into the little clearing, her hands raised to chest level.
"Don't shoot, hot shot. I'm not armed."
That particular statement was a lie and a half, he knew, but the nicotine coursing through his blood made him feel kind, so he wasn't going to call her on it.
She sauntered over to him like she had the right to approach him after she'd given him the fucking silent treatment. Hell, maybe she did have the right because he just lowered his bow and made room on the rock beside him.
"So we're talking again," he said, not quite able to keep the vitriol out of his voice. This was ever the way with them, though. One of them would do something to fuck it up (if she hadn't already, he would have by now), and then they would be angry at each other.
Sometimes, if he was lucky, there was make up sex.
Make up sex with Natasha had to be in his top, maybe, two favorite things to do ever. Right after (before) shooting things.
"We never weren't," she lied, reaching for his cigarette.
He watched her, a moth to the flame, as she put the slim roll to her mouth, covering the spot he'd touched with his lips with her own, delicately breathing in through the filter. The tip of the cigarette glowed brilliant with her inhalation, and then she handed it back, letting the smoke curl out of her mouth slowly as she exhaled.
Fuck, everything about her was perfect.
He'd maintained enough of a hold on his wits to say, "Don't tell anyone I've got smokes. Wouldn't want word to get out."
She cracked a grin at that, the motion pulling harshly at the twisted skin on the side of her face, and the grin faded to a grimace.
"Fuck," she said. "Still not used to that."
She didn't have to clarify what she meant – that the scar tissue was new enough that she could still forget it existed, that it hurt her in ways other than the physical when she was reminded that she no longer could claim to have a face that would launch a thousand ships (she always would to him).
One shared cigarette led to two, then a third, and when he'd lit the fourth and taken the first drag, he turned to pass it to Natasha, only to find her staring open-mouthed at his finger and thumb with which he held the filter.
"What are you . . .?" he started to ask, but then she went to the ground between his thighs and he suddenly got a very sure picture of just where this was headed.
Holy fuck.
She made quick work of his belt, smacking the side of his ass until he stood, and she tugged his pants and underwear down past his knees, freeing his cock, which (surprise!) was already at full attention. He made to put out the cigarette because even if it was one of the last of its kind (like him), he didn't want to burn her.
She shook her head and bit her lip.
"No, keep doing that," she said, and he thought he understood.
He tried to draw slowly on the cigarette, but her hands were on his thighs then and he could feel her breath on his cock, and without any more warning than that, she swallowed him down, pulling him so far inside he could feel the back of her throat.
He groaned out her name loudly, and he half-wished he'd stopped farther from the campsite because there was no way that noise could be mistaken for anything else. Not that he was going to stop making it just because of a chance at getting caught.
He brought his free hand down to the top of Natasha's bobbing head for support. When she looked up at the pressure, he'd expected to find annoyance in her eyes.
Instead, she dropped one hand between her legs and started humming.
Jesus fucking Christ, he'd forgotten what this felt like, forgotten how it felt to be eaten by this woman, and even if it took the end of the world for it to happen, he couldn't help but be grateful that he had her here with him.
She let go of him then, dropped him from her mouth, and the cool air against his wet flesh was a shock, though a good one.
"I need you on your back," she said, pumping his cock lazily. "Lay down."
He wasted no time, got on his back on the already trampled grass beneath them, heedless of everything but the sight of her panting.
She parted his legs when he lay down, settled herself between them, and grabbing his dick in one sure hand, she licked the underside from base to tip.
He bit the inside of his mouth until it bled not to come just from the sight.
She dropped her mouth down around him, sucking and bobbing, swirling the tip of her tongue around his glans, and maybe he was already dead and didn't know it yet.
He thought a week, a month, a year had passed, but when he looked at the half-crumpled cigarette clutched between his fingers, he realized not more than a minute had gone by since he lit the damn thing. She'd driven him to the point of madness that quickly?
If he was honest with himself, he wasn't surprised.
He dragged heavily once more, and put his free hand underneath his head, propping himself up just enough that he could watch her at work, so he could watch his cock disappear into her mouth over and over.
Just when he thought he could take no more, she let go long enough to spit into her palm.
Shit, he knew where this was going.
She was trying to kill him.
He spread his legs further to help her along, and she smiled wickedly at him in response.
"Good boy."
If you'd asked him on a regular day, or really at any time he didn't have this woman between his legs, giving him what surely was the best blow job he'd ever have, he'd have said that he didn't appreciate being treated like a pet.
Now, he just felt the last remnants of his blood leave his head to rush to his crotch, and his cock grew impossibly harder with anticipation.
She dropped her head back down, and it was a damn good thing that he'd taken a moment to take the cigarette from his mouth because her fingers chose that moment to move between his ass cheeks, running over his hole and dispelling all thought from his brain. Her spit-slicked index finger teased at his entrance, circling it, pressing slightly at the opening as she worked his cock with her mouth, and then at last, finally, she slid inside him.
His hands flew back, clutching at the grass, tearing it up from the roots, and he writhed beneath her sure hands. He felt wild, unhinged, completely lost to the sensation of her mouth and her fingers, and oh, Jesus fucking Christ, he was going to come.
Dimly, off somewhere else, he could hear someone calling out Natasha's name, harshly, loudly, wildly, and it took him more time than he would ever admit to recognize his own voice. He felt a pressure inside of him, felt her rubbing and pressing and oh, fuck, he didn't think he could hold back any longer.
Gasping, he came, erupting from the base of his spine outward, going blind from the sensation. He felt her swallow once, maybe twice, but at some point her mouth fell away, and he didn't give a fuck because he'd never come so hard, so long, and the world was spinning out of control.
He came back to himself to the sound of his own panting.
"Fuck, woman," he said, only now realizing that the cigarette had burned to ash in his hand. "I think you drained me dry."
She laughed, a low, sultry tone that made him want to roll her underneath him and kiss her senseless, and what hell, here he was and there she was, and he figured what the hell.
He pulled her up to the level of his face, and he brushed the traces of his semen off her face, sharing a soft smile with her. She leaned down and kissed him, letting him roll her onto her back, letting him thrust his tongue inside her mouth and lick every last trace of his fluid from her. Shit, she drove him wild.
He knew the feeling was mutual because her legs found their way around his, and it was her turn to moan wantonly beneath him, her turn to grind up against him.
"Please," she breathed, as if there was a chance in hell that he would leave her hanging after an orgasm like that.
"Don't worry, sweatheart," he murmured against the side of her neck. "I've got you."
He was halfway down her body and pulling down her pants when he noticed the movement in the trees. He froze for half an instant, his hand on Natasha's thigh as he squinted into the darkness.
A moon beam glanced off the figure watching them, fittingly enough, as it was just enough light for his eyes to make out Marc's gaping face staring at them from afar.
Natasha was too far gone to notice herself (unlikely), or maybe she was just too aroused and focused to care, trusting that Clint would alert her to any serious problem. He also seemed to remember that she had a penchant for exhibitionism, the same as him, one that had manifested itself sporadically in their years long, on-again, off-again, pseudo-relationship.
Well, if she didn't mind, he sure as hell didn't.
She was so wet he could smell her, could smell the damage he'd done when she'd been sucking on his cock. Natasha was impatient when she got like this, he knew, so he didn't waste time. Her shoes and pants discarded, he dropped down to his stomach and hauled her legs over his shoulders.
She fixed her good eye on him, watching him at work just like he'd done when their roles were reversed, and then he leaned in and licked along the length of her slit, keeping his eyes trained on her every movement and feeling her shudder against his tongue.
She moaned his name through gritted teeth, her voice impatient, and when she fisted her hands in his hair, he knew better than to keep the good woman waiting.
He pulled her close, sucking her clit into his mouth and keeping the pressure on, just like he knew she liked, and the mewling sounds she made only encouraged him to suck harder, to run his tongue faster.
He strained his eyes to look up to where Marc had been watching them, over the heaving swell of Natasha's chest, and Clint found him still standing there, though he no longer looked shocked at the sight. No, he was definitely not shocked, not at all, but instead he had his pants undone, and Clint could see his arm working furiously in the moonlight.
Well, if they were giving him a free show, might as well make it good.
He reached up Natasha's body to palm her tits through her shirt, and she arched into him, grabbed his hand to help him touch her the way she needed. With his other hand, he slid his first two fingers inside of her, stretching her as he pumped, adding a third when she asked (begged). The animalistic noises she was making coupled with the idea that Marc was watching them - Marc, who'd been eying Clint like a traitor since he and Natasha had joined up with the rest of them – Clint felt his cock twitch with arousal.
Yeah, that's right, asshole, he thought. You watch me fuck her. Pretend it's you, but know that it's not.
The thoughts were unkind at best, but Clint didn't give a shit. Making Natasha lose control this way had always made him feel powerful, in control, and to have an audience while he did it was the ultimate high.
He must not have been paying close enough attention to his partner, though, because she twisted her hands painfully in his hair and said, "Got that cock of yours back up yet?"
He pulled away from her cunt with a wet pop, the taste of her thick in his mouth, and he nodded.
"Oh, yeah, it's up."
She used the strength of her legs to pin him to the ground, and then she climbed on top of him, straddling him and grabbing his cock to guide herself down onto him. She leaned her head back and raised an affirmation to the sky as he filled her, and he could feel her quiver around him, felt her walls contract as she took him in.
He reached up under her shirt to play with her as she rode him, stroking her tits and pinching her nipples, rolling the peaked flesh between his fingers as she cried out, and he knew she was close when she slapped his hands away and leaned downward.
"I want to come with your finger in my ass," she ordered, and what could he do but obey?
She sucked his first finger into her mouth, coating it with her saliva, and he didn't quite understand how, but he could feel the familiar tension coiling underneath his spine, like he was somehow going to come again.
She guided his hand back down and around her body, and he had to sit up a bit to make the angle work, but he managed to slide his finger inside of her, fucking her with his hand and his cock, and it was almost too much.
She fell forward against him for support, wrapping her arms around his shoulders and twitching, and over the curve of her shoulder, he could see Marc still watching them, still working himself.
Asshole.
Speaking of which, Natasha was starting to pulse around him, and she was making the noises he knew heralded her release, so he sped up his hand as she ground her hips artlessly against him. She was so beautiful as she moved, so ethereal, and he knew he'd had that thought before, but it struck him like it always had, as if it were some deep, sacred revelation.
Beyond a shadow of a doubt, he knew he still loved her.
Why the hell did he have such shitty timing when it came to all things Natasha?
Seizing the moment for what it was, he swiveled his hips as much as he could to increase her pleasure, watching her face carefully for her reaction. It didn't take much more effort before she stiffened, her breath caught in her chest, and when she came apart, she threw her head back, exposing her throat to him, leaving herself vulnerable. He licked along the long column of her neck while she came, and when her eye cleared, she bent to kiss him as her body moved back to a more usual state.
She blinked at him for a second or two, but then she brought her hands to the side of his face, kissing him sweetly, thoroughly, like she meant it, and she laughed with him as they untangled themselves from each other.
They got dressed slowly, helping each other back into discarded pants and shoes, sneaking touches and kisses along the way, and for the first time in a while, it didn't feel like the goddamn world was ending. They shared another cigarette afterward, passing it back and forth, and Natasha must have been feeling pretty good, too, because she let him put his arm around her shoulders and hold her close while they smoked.
"You saw him, too, right?" Natasha asked when they passed the tree where Marc had been. He was long gone, thankfully, leaving no sign that he'd ever been there.
Clint laughed. "Yeah, I figured you'd noticed."
She shrugged, reaching down to twine her fingers with his, and he had to physically restrain himself from reacting. He didn't think they'd ever held hands, not even back at the beginning when they'd both been a little younger and a lot dumber (okay, so those two adjectives were mostly applied to him).
"I liked him watching you fuck me like that," she said calmly. "I liked that he saw you make me come."
Leaving that bombshell hang in the air behind her, she dropped his hand and strode into the clearing where the last few holdouts were still hanging around the campfire.
Logan looked up when they returned. He sniffed.
"I hope you two washed your hands."
Natasha's laugh echoed off into the night.