Apodyopsis: The act of mentally undressing someone.
"It's unfortunate, Bucky being like that," Clint says, as he lounges on their bed and watches Natasha tug on her black boots, getting ready for her shift as primary protector of the city. "Hopefully, Bruce and Tony can figure out something, so he's not, you know, always forgetting every time he goes wherever he goes when he's not here."
Natasha shrugs hopelessly. "It might be better if we could get him not to go at all, but you know what he's like. Headstrong. He's always been that way, and hell nor high water isn't going to stop him from what he sets out to do."
Clint snorts, rolling back into the pillows. "Headstrong. That's a nice way to put it. Stubborn is more like it," he comments, as he watches Natasha twirling in front of the mirror, tightening belts as needed, her hands settling into the curves of her waist.
His mind fast forwards a few hours, when she will come back, skin chilled from the cold night air, and he can peel those tight, restraining black clothes off, once after the other, one boot first, laces rough against his hands as it falls from his fingers over the other side of the bed. A zipper peeling to reveal smooth, creamy skin, inch by tantalising inch, until he loses patience and yanks it down, mouth darting down to press a slick, sweet kiss onto pebbled flesh; his hands flush against silk thighs, rubbing, stroking, pressing apart -
"You aren't even paying attention," Natasha says, nudging him in the chest with a toe, and he once again has to admire her flexibility. No amount of yoga classes could do the same for him. "You're thinking about sex again. You've got that look in your eye."
"What look?" Clint asks, trying to look as innocent as possible, and failing miserably.
Natasha rolls her eyes, smacks him lightly over the head, before climbing out their bedroom window and off into the night.