bakerstreet | (no subject)

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Hurt/Comfort - Hurt/comfort is a fan fiction genre that involves the physical pain or emotional distress of one character, who is cared for by another character. The injury, sickness or other kind of hurt allows an exploration of the characters and their relationship.

- Post with Character Name | Series in the subject.
- Others respond.
- Roll 1-10 at RNG for a scene, play it out and have fun!

1. INJURY. You've been injured. Broken bones or bleeding out or maybe just a tiny little papercut. The choice is yours.
2. SICKNESS. You're sick and laid up in bed, at home or in a hospital. The severity is up to you.
3. FEAR/ANXIETY. Something is happening and you're scared beyond belief.
4. LOSS OF SENSES. Sight, touch, taste, hearing, smell, etc. You've lost some important sense or ability and now you're left to deal with it.
5. DESPAIR. Nothing is good or right anymore and you can't shake the depression. Maybe that friend of yours can help though...
6. BREAKUP. You've been dumped. You need someone to comfort you, possibly by the one who dumped you.
7. MAKE UP. Fight or break up, it's time to makeup.
8. RESCUED. You've just been held captive and/or tortured for however long and finally, someone has come to the rescue.
9. BAD ROMANCE. Fight, cheated on, abused, whatever the case is, someone else can clearly see you need comfort from someone who isn't your terrible lover tonight.
10. LOSS. You've experience a loss of some kind and need help getting through it.
11. INSANITY. You're seeing things that aren't really there, hearing voices, or you're just convinced you're at your wit's end finally and you're going to crack. Maybe someone can give you a helping hand.
12. TIRED. You've had a heard life recently and you're just worn too thin to really care anymore. There's no fight left in you anymore. Can someone help change your mind?
13. ADDICTION. Drugs, alcohol, sex, gambling, or any other type of addiction has got you in its grasp. First time or relapse. Will someone be able to save you?
14. INSOMNIA. You can't sleep anymore, no matter how hard you try. Maybe someone can give you company.
15. NIGHTMARES. Or, on the other end of the spectrum, you can't sleep without gruesome, horrible nightmares. Either someone is stuck in your dream with you, witnessing it or they're just waking you up, soothing you out of it.
16. BLACKMAIL. You've been caught doing something you shouldn't and you were blackmailed because of it
17. SEPARATION. You're going to be separated for awhile or were separated for a long time. Either make up for lost time or try to spend every last moment together.
18. VIOLATED. You've been violated in some way. Can include sexual overtones or not. Can someone help you through it?
19. STRANDED. You've been stranded somewhere remote, with no help of anyone finding you for awhile. Can you survive this together?
20. SINS. You're feeling the weight of your sins and guilt clearer than ever. Can someone give you absolution or lessen the ache any?
21. SECRET. It's difficult having to keep that secret of yours, be it a relationship or something you just don't want to share with anybody else. Maybe it's okay to talk about it now though...
22. ADDITION. Babies should be joyous things unless you're in a situation where you know you won't be able to care for them. Either you've adopted or found out you're pregnant.

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Clint's grateful that she's trying to distract him away from his own mind, when she nips and bites and there's warm then cold over his cock and then she just sits there, looks up at him and god damn. He feels like an awkward teenager all over again, the way she only has to do tiny, subtle things to get him hard because that's what's happening. She's not even moving and yet his cock twitches and his mouth goes dry.

He reaches down with both hands, cards them through her hair and pushes the curls back so there's nothing in the way of his view and yeah, this is slightly amusing and with anybody else he'd be embarrassed with how quickly his dick is listening to his brain but with Natasha he's not all that bothered. Hell, all she has to do is flash him a smile and show him a peek of her garters and he's ready for her.

"Tasha, baby..." His voice dies and his hips twitch as he trusts slowly, just a small lift of his hips to get a little more.

She relents, just a little. The head of his cock rolls just past her lips, the view pornographic rather than anything else; her pupils blown, lips wrapped around his cock, the slightest hollowing of her cheeks as she sucks lightly, shallowly. His hips twitch and Natasha's eyes glint with amusement again, fingertip just brushing against his balls -- she doesn't have any particularly strong feelings about sucking cock but she does, she decides, like how easy it is to see Clint like this. The twitches in his body, the way his jaw tenses and untenses.

It's a good look.

She doesn't stay there. Her mouth takes him down once, twice, and then she's off him again, lips shiny with spit as she cranes up his body to kiss him. (It's easier, like this, to just-- keep focused, keep moving, because she'd meant what she said. They can have this talk tomorrow, when they both know what the answer is.

When they're both sure of what they're feeling.)

"Say it again," She breathes the request against his lips, the barest brush of a kiss as her hand travels down, slowly fists his cock in her hand. "My name."

This is better than any porn, not that Clint watches it much, not since their patterns shifted and they started invading each other's beds. He's pretty certain that if he recorded her doing this he wouldn't share it for all the money in the world.

He grunts, has to school his body into not pushing her head down and fucking her mouth until she can't breath, so his fingers flex against her scalp and run through her hair, anything to distract him away.

She worms her way back up his body, his lips meet hers and he kisses her like he's trying to steal her air, when she breaks away he sighs, pushing his hips into her hand. Say her name, he can do that. He cranes, lips coming to her ear, "Tasha, wanna get my tongue on your clit, so take your pants off for me.." He pulls back enough to smile, brushing his lips against hers.

"Say please." She exhales a laugh, the stretch of her smile ruining the kiss a little. Natasha's body is still bent over him, flickers of red as she hovers just out of his reach every time he tries to kiss her again, eventually disappearing from his field of vision just to kick off her jeans.

Her panties are satin, smooth against her skin and cut at the wing of her hips. She crawls up his body, nothing self-conscious about the way she straddles his hips -- she's wet and warm even through the fabric, sighs and makes a halfway greedy noise when she rolls her hips over his cock.

She wants him to touch her, wants him to make her come, but it's not just about wanting. It's-- complicated, and maybe it always will be. But it doesn't have to be right now.

She's teasing him, his jaw is open leaving him looking like a guppy. She wants him to beg and Clint has nothing against begging at all, not when it comes to her, but right now he really just wants to watch her come.

He purses his lips, watches her move and maybe when her pants are off and she's moving against him and his hands find her hips to rock her, just a little more friction. "Please...", He's not waiting for a response, his hands flex on the smooth skin of her hips and eventually tighten, muscles twitch in his arms until he's dragged her forward, lifting his knees up so she can't escape backwards and pulls her towards his mouth.

Wrapping arms around her thighs, balancing her above him while his tongue rolls over the crotch of her panties, she tastes good even through the gauzy material and a muffled groan leaves his lips.

Warmth floods through her, pools in the center of her hips. She likes that he's hard for her, likes the way he uses his mouth and his hands, and she can't help the way her breathing picks up when he drags her towards his mouth. It's where she wants to be -- she wants to fall apart, wants to let go, wants him to see not how she is because he already knows that, but the fact that she trusts him, that even after Loki and their talk about love none of that has to change.

"Clint." Her voice is low, smoky, the way it gets strained and turns breathy when she's wired up. She's impatient, now, to feel him, yanks her panties out of the way rather than stop and take them off.

"Since you asked so nicely."

She leans forward, one hand curled around around the bedframe. Wets her lips because that touch, that first touch, is always what sends her spiraling into wanting more. Wanting everything.

Clint could get off from just doing this, the way she feels against her mouth, how warm and wet she is, the taste of her! it's intoxicating and it all keeps him grounded! reinforces the fact she's here.

He helps move her panties with his fingers from one hand, grazing through her wetness, through her folds, spreads her open for his tongue to take over, to tease sensitive places. He teases her clit, trails down to slip his tongue inside of her. When she moves he keeps her steady, eyes watch her through everything, watching her reactions, waiting for her to start keening.

All he wants is to watch her fall apart.

A whimper leaves her lips at the first touch, the blunt of his fingers grazing against her. But she wants more, and her breath catches in her throat when he finally puts his tongue over her, hips bucking against him in no time. Natasha doesn't-- usually like this, doesn't like getting head because it feels too personal, but she's never said no to him. She whines when he stops touching her clit but is rewarded with the way he slips his tongue inside her, her hand shifting up her own body to paw at her own breasts.

"Yes," and it comes out on the end of a sigh, like she's finally relaxed and comfortable at the same time the need grows. She can't help the twitch of her hips, the occasional buck against his mouth even though she tries to stay still, sounds falling from her lips that sound like both pleasure and pain.

"Just like that. Just like that." Her voice is barely above a whisper, her back arched and as taut as a bow, knees dipping the mattress.

Oh she's even more stunning like this. Clint's seen some of the worlds most gorgeous views with his job, over the years, traveling from country to country in separate continents. But no view measures up to this.

He smooths his free hand up her side, from her hip up to dance fingers over her ribs, he counteracts the grounding touch by nudging his nose against her clit and slipping fingers easily inside of her, curling and seeking out that spot. He knows her body just as well as he knows his own.

A chuckle at her words, not daring a reply, not while he's got her like this, perfectly breaking down above him.

She keens then, the sound high-pitched and breathless. Thick, skilled fingers that slide and hook into her, search out that cluster of nerves that makes her buck harshly against his touches -- she tips forward unexpectedly, the air punched out of her chest as she twists, fucking herself on his fingers.

Her grip goes white-knuckled around the frame of the bed. Lips parted, she sucks in shallow breaths, and she must be close to letting herself go because she's started to murmur Russian at him, nonsense things that are hard to make out.

One hand reaches to grip his hand, stop the trail of his fingers up her ribs and links their fingers together. A quiet, silent plea.

(Don't stop. Don't go. Don't leave me alone. Just-- don't.)

The white noise is hard to hear over the sounds of her breath ripping out of her body, every little noise she makes, she chases away what little remains of Loki's grip like a beacon in the dark. She pulls him back when the waves get too much.

He grips her hand and squeezes. The Russian makes no sense to him right now, he's not listening that intently and he's not quick to translate it. But subconsciously it must sink in, because the way he's gripping her hand back must tell her something.

He twists his fingers, flicks his tongue over her clit and pushes down on that bundle of nerves.

Clint's willing her to come, willing her to break and smash and get lost in what she's feeling.

Natasha missed this. Missed him. The way he pushes her to the edge and keeps her there, that feeling of being on the tip of a knife and not knowing which way to fall. It's a moment of oblivion, one where she forgets about everything -- all her secrets, the lies she's told, the people she's been -- because it's Clint, and he's never asked her to be anyone other than herself.

He twists his fingers and she's completely silent for a split second, then comes with a sharp moan. She clenches and shivers and shudders, the hot flex of her body against his fingers like she wants more, pants through the aftershocks. Natasha's willing, more than willing, to do this. To give him a part of herself, maybe forever, so that when Clint falls asleep he doesn't dream of blue and demigods, that he gets the same peace he brings to her.

She comes down slowly, her breathing evening out a length later. Just-- arched over him, her grip almost-bruising with the way she'd held his hand a minute ago, eyes closed.

Clint missed this, missed being him and not some god damn hollowed out shell. But in regards to her, Clint doesn't want her to fake anything, not with him, never with him. He doesn't want her to disappear into another persona, to melt away. He loves her for what she is, for Natasha, the girl he saved from self-destruction and watched transform herself into a woman who can trust and care. She's his chosen family.

It's moments like this that reaffirm his love for her, the way she shatters so beautifully thanks to him, how he can get her to the edge and push her right over and still be there to catch her when she falls. Like now, he licks the wetness from her, removes his fingers and cleans them, shimmies out from under her bent legs and comes up behind her, presses into her back and curls arms around her waist.

"Do you see? Do you feel it?" His words as like silk, feather light over the shell of her ear. "You and me Natasha, we're bonded, the proof is here.."

Oh he knows he promised to talk it over tomorrow, but he's riding high from watching her come and he can't help himself.

She's just caught her breath when he wraps his arms around her, can feel how hard he is against the round of her ass. Her head tips back when he speaks to her; her skin feels sensitive, raw, and the tiniest brush of his breath across her skin makes her shudder. Natasha reaches back for him, her fist loose around his cock. She doesn't say anything, thinks yes instead, lines him up just at her entrance. Smears her come and slick and his spit all over them both, wants nothing more than to sink down on him but she-- wants to see him, his face. Wants to see the way his expression twists when he loses himself.

So she doesn't, not yet, not just yet. Her other hand reaches back to twist in his hair, pressing him closer with a sigh.

"Clint," And his name sounds different held in her mouth, like it means so much more than just I want you. "I want to-- I want to see you."

When she grips him he groans, her hand is like fire, moving over sensitive flesh and he can't help but swallow back the need and want in his throat. His hands slip upwards in response, covering her breasts, fingers grazing peaked nipples and pinching them softly.

He swallows again at her words, grazes his lips down her neck, pressing kisses here and there. He wants to see her too, wants to watch her face when he fills her up, when he moves. So Clint moves her slowly, carefully, pushing her back softly until he could sit back and stare at her. He catches her foot, lifts it to press kisses to her ankle joint, leans forward to wrap it around his waist, lips and teeth taking a nipple in his mouth, bathing it with his tongue and releasing with a pop.

"Don't let me go... " he nods, rolls eyes to look up at her from his position before his hips shift and he slowly sinks into her warmth, aided by how wet she still is, by his own saliva.

It's almost too much-- the feeling of his bow-callused fingers across her breasts, the soft way he presses kisses into her skin, shifts her around his waist. She lets him, goes pliant under him, moans at the hot lave of his tongue. She almost jerks from wanting, twists her hand in his hair but doesn't pull, and when he presses into her -- slowly, too slowly -- she feels every inch of him. They don't normally have sex with a condom (there's no point, they don't sleep with anyone else) but this is so good, different, and looking at him in the eye while he slowly fucks into her is almost too much. Her lashes flutter, her lips drop open in a small o.

But she holds on, doesn't let go. Her body lets him in completely, clenching down on instinct, and she sighs at the feeling -- of being full, of being stretched open. One hand travels down his shoulder blades and the other cups his cheek, nudges at his jaw until he's within reach to kiss again.

Slowly, chaste, just a brush of her lips against his. Intimate, in a way their hurried adrenaline-filled nights have never been.

This is so different to how they usually are, they come at each other hard, rough and fast. It's filthy while they ride high off of adrenaline, while they reaffirm their partnership. While they celebrate that they're alive.

The way she's looking at him, the way her body feels. It's so familiar but the pace is what changes everything. She kisses him and he bottoms out inside of her, let's everything settle while they share lazy kisses and Clint wraps himself up in her warmth, the heat of her body, how tight and slick she is.

He presses into her, breaths softly and groans against her lips as he moves. This is intimate, it's scarily intimate yet it feels amazing as they share this connection they have. "Tasha... Jesus you're so good..."

She's wordless. Has nothing else to say, could never put to words exactly what this is. It feels different in a way she can't quite place, or maybe in a way she doesn't want to think about -- they don't usually do slow and sweet. But here they are, here she is, with the only man she ever lets undress her because he knows what that means.

It's funny. She saw Clint out on that ledge and thought he was the one that needed saving, that needed something to keep him himself. But she needed, needs, him too. It's the only thing she feels like will comfort her, will keep her head on straight.

Maybe it was a long time coming after all.

She moans at the first thrust, the way it catches something deep inside her. Her nails dig into his back, just the once, her thighs tensing around his waist. (Natasha can't remember why she used to be so afraid of this.)

"Please," and it comes out breathless, her lips touching his, sharing breath. Her hand skates up the side of his face, presses her palm to his cheek. "Stay here, with me, don't--"

Clint can't function. Nothing is computing except for her. From the moment he found her, tracked her down, the moment he took her away and gave her a choice to follow or to run. The countless times he's gave her that choice and it led up to this and it feels right. This feels right.

He groans, presses into her and catches every kiss she shares. They're so close, he steals her breath and she steals in back. She speaks, hushed words against his lips and he closes his eyes in return, rocks into her, doesn't give her a moment to catch her breath or hold it, just continues a slow, steady pace while they're like this.

If she decides in the morning that it was too much, well, at least he'll have this.

"Not leaving you, never. Love you Tasha, couldn't leave you."

He didn't mean to say it, but it's like a weight off his mind. Two words, if she freaks out he'll understand. If she pushes him away he'll get why. But like this? Here? Everything is perfect and he feels complete and why shouldn't he say it when it's true?

She exhales, breath shuddering as she just grows still underneath him. Her eyes are closed, and for a moment it looks like she might take the words back, kiss him so she can swallow the words away like they never happened. But instead she just reaches up to touch his face, the movement so gentle, her thumb tracing the edge of his cheekbone.

"I know." Because she does, and she's always known, but it's taken her a long time to look at the truth of it. Her heel digs into his lower back, urging him on -- sex has always been about release, for Natasha. From adrenaline, from danger, and now this is a release too. A release of everything they've shared together. Their history. The memories that they made.

She kisses him again, open-mouthed and thorough. She pulls away with a small keen, her breath stuck in her chest as he sets a rhythm, and Natasha, she says something in return. Something quiet and hushed and in Russian, but it means the same. I love you too, in whatever way the Black Widow knows how.

Clint's grateful she hasn't torn herself away, but he didn't expect her to touch him like that. He knew that she knew. He tried to hide it all, over the years, over time it got easier to just play neutral. He's good at that, schooling his body into listening to him, military life does that, loosing people you love helps. Clint's never been one to display openly how he feels, he shuts himself off and disconnects and thinks of beauty spots around the world. He dreams up silly ideas of cutting and running, living out his days on a secluded island. It's easier than facing the truth.

His world is a shifting pattern, he predicts what people are going to do before they do it, but he could never have predicted her response.

He picks up bits of her broken Russian. He can speak the language but here, no, like this? He doesn't let it sink in fully so he kisses her, catches her lips and kisses her with love weighing heavily on his mind. He smothers her, presses her close and picks up his pace, seeking a release which is building and building.

When he comes it's hard, a shudder racking through his body, lips pressed to hers and groans flooding her mouth while he clings onto her. He can't breath, he's suffocating under the intimacy.

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