bakerstreet | (no subject)

Okay.

[ So she doesn't pull away. She just— talks to him, about nothing, about everything; I missed you, I'm sorry, I never meant to hurt you. They're things that sound empty but Natasha isn't lying, isn't using them as a vehicle to hold another agenda — she's sorry, and she's after his forgiveness. Because she was scared. Because they were both scared.

She kisses his throat, his jaw, his cheek. One eye, then the other, then his forehead, then his mouth. It's— not like her, that kiss. It's so soft, barely parting his lips with her tongue and tasting water, barely turning it rough and heated despite how close her body is to his.

She's— she's trying. ]

( She talks and Clint just, breaths, swallows and listens. It's hard because he didn't - he didn't want to hear her apologising for something that couldn't be changed. Much like most things they both apologised for. It felt trivial now, he felt childish and stupid that doing something simple like being acutely aware and shutting off his vision made him feel so lost.

Still - he pressed fingers into her hip, let her kiss him, let her keep him here and stop him freaking out.

And then it gets too much - he's the one that deepens the kiss, he's the one that kisses her like there's something he wants from her core. He presses his hips closer and eventually he opens his eyes just to blink away the water on his lashes and keeps them open. )

Stop apologising to me. It's okay. It's fine.

( He cards fingers through her wet hair, kisses her softly and rests his forehead against hers. She's forgiven, more than forgiven. )

I want to.

[ But she does stop, eventually. He asks and she does it; it's never like that, never her being the one to give him something, to take as much as he wants her to. But she does, this time round. Natasha lets him pick up the pace, slot their hips together, and she wonders what it would be like, the day they kiss and neither of them feels so desperate.

She exhales, long and low. Their foreheads touch and Natasha kisses him again, lets the back of her hand skim down his chest, curl loosely around his cock. It's followed by her knees until she's there, on the tiled floor, looking up at him through wet lashes.

Softly: ]

Close your eyes.

( There won't be a day when the kisses don't feel desperate, when they don't cling to each other like they need something. There won't be a day because neither of them will commit to something more than this; they can't commit, not when they have jobs to do and missions to run. Not when death is waiting in the shadows for the moment either of them slips a fraction.

It's a dream, one of those things that Clint knows will never happen but he likes to think on it from time to time. The dream of a normal life - it's for people better than them.

He follows her with his eyes, swallows back the lump in his throat as she curls her hand around his cock and when she's on his knees he can do nothing more than choke back a groan. His fingers find her scalp, wraps her hair around them and rests his head back against the tiles.

He can do this; he can close his eyes this time and try to hold on to himself. )

Fuck, you're gonna kill me one of these days.

[ Her palms skate up his thighs, nails biting into his hips. She presses a kiss to the jutt of his hipbone, licks around it as she strokes him lightly, the water making it only just a little easier. ]

One day.

[ Agreement. Or just being realistic, maybe. Natasha smiles and presses a kiss to the inside of his thigh, bites at tender flesh with her teeth. A little bit of push and pull, pain and pleasure; two sides, same coin. ]

But not today.

( Clint isn't like her and she knows it. She knows that the imprint of teeth she's left in his thigh will be there for days - a widows bite, indented into his flesh - the image is not lost on him and he's happy with it.

However much he rarely admits it, he belongs to her and he likes to belong. )

That's fine with me.

( He gives her hair a tug, keeps his eyes closed like she told him to and waits even though his muscles twitch and he wants nothing more than to pull her up and press her back into the tiles. )

[ A hum. That little tug is— good, and just what she wants right now, soothes the ache between her legs for a moment. She uses the flat of her tongue to lick a long stripe over him, uses her tongue and her lips to chase away the water before she really starts to do more than lick. Light, light sucks, her thumb trailing small circles at his hip.

Natasha doesn't have a problem with sucking cock. It is what it is, and it's not demeaning when you're the person in control, here. But she can take it or leave it and it's not really about the fact she's on her knees; he's got his eyes closed, too, and that's.

That's more than they've ever given anybody else. ]

( In control.

Natasha is always in control, she holds the pass cards to whatever they do, the small silent stares or gasps that leave her lips. Clint tells by her cues what she wants, doesn't want.

But he's blind; he can't tell by the tiny expressions that cross her face, so he waits on her touch and her sounds. Her thumb stops him falling off the precipice into oblivion. He hisses, blinks the water from his eyelashes but for that brief period his eyes lock on the ceiling, not on her, not looking down.

They're closed again within a second and it's, it's easy with her, to loose this, to loose control.

He trusts her. That's nothing anyone can take away from them. )

[ She pulls off him only for a moment. A short one, just enough to press a kiss to his hip. ]

You can fuck my mouth, if you want.

[ Permission that she's never really given anyone before. It's not what Natasha usually likes -- reminds her too much of when she was still a little girl -- but that was years ago, and she's grown. So has her trust in Clint. She sinks down on him again, rolls her lips over him at the same time she presses her tongue flat against the underside, tracing that vein.

And she's looking right up at him as she swallows him down, all the way until he nudges the back of her throat. ]

( That, that makes him open his eyes.

He opens his eyes and blinks away the water and just stares at her, watches while she swallows him down. The string of curses that leave his lips are clumsy and garbled because she's doing that with her mouth and she'd just said those words and his brain is struggling to compute.

It takes him a good minute, maybe two before he twists and turns one hand in her hair, the other dances fingers along her cheek, to her jaw, traces the stretch. His hips twitch, but he doesn't, he doesn't want this.

Most guys? They'd be happy to come in a girls mouth. Clint? )

Get up.

( Naw, he's not that keen. )

[ She closes her eyes. Her jaw aches because it's been a long time since she did this, sank down on her knees and sucked cock. It's not the principle of the thing -- it just doesn't happen often, and for a moment the ache between her legs grows hotter, stronger, just at the noises he makes. Clint's fingers trace her jaw and the stretch of her lips and Natasha closes her eyes, has to, because sometimes she's still not used to the kindness he shows her. Like he believes, after everything, that she's still human.

Slowly, she rocks her weight back. The sound her mouth makes is obscene, only amplified by the glass stall of the shower. She presses a kiss to his hip before straightening, arms at her sides, and-- just looks at him.

Softly, quietly: ]

What do you want?

( That's always been the crux of every matter; she doesn't think she deserves people showing her emotion, because she believes she's devoid of that, that she's not human. But Clint knows, from the minute he saw something in her eyes that made him believe she wanted to live, the minute he brought her in.

She hadn't been human - feral - but now she was regaining humanity bit by bit each day.

He exhales, long and hard as she straightens, lets himself catch a breath without grunt and groans flooding past his lips and reaches for her, fingers slipping up along the wet skin of her sides, slick and easy as he pushes off the wall to steal a kiss from her lips. )

You. I want you.

( It's easy, simple, said as if she should know, (and maybe she does) and he leans back in to kiss her again, long, slow, soft. Soft; something neither of them are. )

[ It's easy. Simple.

She lets him.

She sighs into the kiss. Her whole frame seems to relax, her hands traveling to his shoulders, fingers curling around them. Natasha's mouth is pliant under his and she's warm all the way down, still-wet, relaxed under the warm spray of the shower and the way he touches her. It doesn't feel like forgiveness, not exactly, because she's not really looking for that. But it does feel like the cabin, their weekend away in the woods and that lake, and it's--

It's nice.

Her arms lock around him as she angles their mouths closer, closes her eyes and lets herself want this. ]

( This is what it feels like when the desperation runs out ; when reality hits that they're alone and there's no war to fight and they're both breathing and smiling and content.

Sometimes it's just nice to take things slowly and enjoy every inch of her skin, the taste of her mouth, relearning the brush of her lips.

It's, it's okay to want slow and steady, it's good.

His hand trails down to her thigh, the bend of her knee, pulling her leg up to wrap it around his waist. She's giving him more than he could ask for, she's letting him treat her like she's expensive china but he's certain that's because of the whole 'eyes closed' deal.

Natasha is anything but fragile.

But he turns them slowly and when he presses her back into the tiled wall it's with one hand bracing her shoulder to keep the shock of the cold away from her warm skin. He likes her warm, pliant, comfortable. )

[ She lets him. Lets him push her thigh back, wraps it around his waist; keens when her back hits the wall. The ache between her legs is strong and it's been so long since they've been able to do it like this, fit right, take their time. The water doesn't help too much but Natasha's wet enough that it doesn't matter. Her palm wraps around him, guides his cock into her.

The first touch is electrifying. The second makes her moan, the steady pressure of him sliding home; the third makes her gasp, clench down on him unwillingly.

Her palms rest at his back, run up and down the expanse of his skin until she reaches to cup his face in her hands. ]

I love you.

[ You know that, don't you? ]

( It's not often she tells him that, not often she speaks of love because she can't. Clint? He understands that, he understands how hard it can be to love,how scary it sounds forming the words and he wouldn't take it for granted.

He presses into her, groans at the tight, slick heat that surrounds his cock, presses his lips to hers carefully and smiles after although it's shaky and disorganised because he's breathing hard and trying to find some composure. )

I know.

( He does, he knows how much she cares even when she doesn't say it. He sees it written in her body language when they're alone. He rocks hips, slips in and out with an easy, steady glide and presses his forehead to hers, nudges his nose against her nose. )

I love you too.

[ She shudders even though it's impossibly warm here, surrounded by him and heat and the warmth of the water. The press of his body, the easy slide between their bodies and it's hard no to feel like she's drowning, hemmed in.

But it's not confinement. She knows that, lets her eyes close as her fingertips press into the meat of his back. Her mouth falling open, just a little, tasting water and steam and how much she wants to come on his cock, to feel him inside her and shatter. ]

I missed this.

[ She murmurs, soft. ]

( He's not going to last long; not after the build up, she makes him loose his mind in the best of ways. He's no fool, but for her he is. For her he's a god damn idiot because what they're doing is far more dangerous than any mission they've faced.

He hushes her, steals her words in a crash of lips and tongue, one hand pins her hip to the wall, the other slips down between them to circle the pad of his finger around her clit.

When she comes he wants it to be with him, share the same rhythm, share the loss of control. )

[ Water and slick means the press of his finger at her clit just isn't enough; it makes her gasp and shudder and clench down on him again, but the friction is lost in just how wet she is. Natasha tries to angle herself so she can press back, encourage him; moans at the next drag out and push back in, can feel the head of him just brush again that bundle of nerves inside her. ]

More.

[ It comes out quiet, on the heel of a soft keen. ]

Please.

( She asked for more and Clint indulges, growls in frustration and somehow manages to lift her up, gets enough leverage to adjust his angle. He wraps her up in his arms, buries his face in her neck and groans.

She's, she's perfect, she feels perfect and Clint does love her. Natasha is his match in every way.

He licks the water from her neck, nips at the soft skin gently and he's skirting the lines of loosing control. )

Always.