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Title: I Love You As Certain Dark Things Are To Be Loved
Author: redbrunja
Rating: R
Characters: Clint/Natasha.
Warning: sexual content.
Author's Note: written for![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
be_compromised's Promptathon. Prompt was from Pablo Neruda's Sonnet XVII:
I do not love you as if you were salt-rose, or topaz,
or the arrow of carnations the fire shoots off.
I love you as certain dark things are to be loved,
in secret, between the shadow and the soul.
Summary: "The first time was a run-down hotel in St. Petersburg, Natasha's eyes empty and her mouth twisted in a practiced smile. He'd pinned her wrists to the bed and she'd wrapped her legs around him like gravity had gone AWOL and he was the only steady thing she had."
The first time was a run-down hotel in St. Petersburg, Natasha's eyes empty and her mouth twisted in a practiced smile. He'd pinned her wrists to the bed and she'd wrapped her legs around him like gravity had gone AWOL and he was the only steady thing she had. He'd left bruises and bite marks and she'd twisted under him and demanded more, harder, there, again, and he'd breathed, yes, ma'am, into her ear and fucked her until that horrible, blank look was out of her eyes.
Then there was Minneapolis in January, the perfect weather for corporate espionage and freezing his balls off. Minneapolis in January, and Natasha waiting in his hotel room. She'd teased him about being thin-blooded, moving over him, her long curls hanging down like a curtain of fire. Sex with Natasha were the only times that entire mission that he wasn't cold.
After that it was a habit. They screwed in the backseat of his Charger, laughing and giddy like the careless teenagers neither of them had ever been and there were countless sparring sessions that ended with Natasha's lovely, lethal thighs around his neck and his mouth on her sex.
And then Milan, crisp, cool cotton sheets, the windows open, and Natasha riding him lazily in the sultry evening, their hands laced together. She was flushed, glowing,
hair sticking to her neck, eyes delighted.
He shifted his hips, thrust a little, and Nat gave a small gasp, her sex and her hands both clenching. He loved seeing her like this, loved seeing her slim, lethal fingers clutching at his thick, scarred ones.
He loved her so much he could hardly breath for it, sometimes.
"What is it?" she asked, almost panting. She was close and Clint's lips twisted into a grin, already anticipating how she'll feel, how she'll look when she came.
"What are you wondering?" Her green eyes were bright, pupils dilated. She sat back a touch and she felt so fucking good, slick and hot and all his, even only for just now, just this, but for right now, he's hers and she's his.
If he were a lesser man, he'd be telling her every last secret he owned. Clint wanted to; he wanted to tell her that she's beautiful, that he loves her, he wanted to say all those things she'd heard from a dozen different men who'd meant them to the bottom of their souls and been in desperately love with a woman she wasn't.
He loved his Nat, his Black Widow, the best call he ever made. He loved Natasha Alianovna Romanoff, who still has weeks where she doesn't believe she has a self, who brings down dictatorships and still doubts her morals, and nothing, nothing he could do would take that look of happy abandon off her face faster than telling her he loved her.
So Clint dug his heels into the bed, fucked up into her with intent, the scarred pad of his thumb running across the side of her palm. That did it, that tipped her over the edge and she climaxed around him.
He reversed their positions while she was still shuddering, got her under him and kept thrusting, hard enough that she moaned and braced her hands against the headboard.
She tucked her knees high up on his sides, opening her thighs even wider to him, deliriously wanton.
"I was wondering," Clint said hoarsely into her ear, "how hard I'm going to have to work to get you to scream."
Natasha chuckled and did something positively debauched with her cunt. He almost lost it right then, swore and slowed to keep from climaxing.
He sucked in a couple of desperate breaths and then kissed her, hard and greedy.
"You're a liar," she breathed into his mouth and bit his bottom lip hard enough to draw blood.
Author: redbrunja
Rating: R
Characters: Clint/Natasha.
Warning: sexual content.
Author's Note: written for
be_compromised's Promptathon. Prompt was from Pablo Neruda's Sonnet XVII:I do not love you as if you were salt-rose, or topaz,
or the arrow of carnations the fire shoots off.
I love you as certain dark things are to be loved,
in secret, between the shadow and the soul.
Summary: "The first time was a run-down hotel in St. Petersburg, Natasha's eyes empty and her mouth twisted in a practiced smile. He'd pinned her wrists to the bed and she'd wrapped her legs around him like gravity had gone AWOL and he was the only steady thing she had."
The first time was a run-down hotel in St. Petersburg, Natasha's eyes empty and her mouth twisted in a practiced smile. He'd pinned her wrists to the bed and she'd wrapped her legs around him like gravity had gone AWOL and he was the only steady thing she had. He'd left bruises and bite marks and she'd twisted under him and demanded more, harder, there, again, and he'd breathed, yes, ma'am, into her ear and fucked her until that horrible, blank look was out of her eyes.
Then there was Minneapolis in January, the perfect weather for corporate espionage and freezing his balls off. Minneapolis in January, and Natasha waiting in his hotel room. She'd teased him about being thin-blooded, moving over him, her long curls hanging down like a curtain of fire. Sex with Natasha were the only times that entire mission that he wasn't cold.
After that it was a habit. They screwed in the backseat of his Charger, laughing and giddy like the careless teenagers neither of them had ever been and there were countless sparring sessions that ended with Natasha's lovely, lethal thighs around his neck and his mouth on her sex.
And then Milan, crisp, cool cotton sheets, the windows open, and Natasha riding him lazily in the sultry evening, their hands laced together. She was flushed, glowing,
hair sticking to her neck, eyes delighted.
He shifted his hips, thrust a little, and Nat gave a small gasp, her sex and her hands both clenching. He loved seeing her like this, loved seeing her slim, lethal fingers clutching at his thick, scarred ones.
He loved her so much he could hardly breath for it, sometimes.
"What is it?" she asked, almost panting. She was close and Clint's lips twisted into a grin, already anticipating how she'll feel, how she'll look when she came.
"What are you wondering?" Her green eyes were bright, pupils dilated. She sat back a touch and she felt so fucking good, slick and hot and all his, even only for just now, just this, but for right now, he's hers and she's his.
If he were a lesser man, he'd be telling her every last secret he owned. Clint wanted to; he wanted to tell her that she's beautiful, that he loves her, he wanted to say all those things she'd heard from a dozen different men who'd meant them to the bottom of their souls and been in desperately love with a woman she wasn't.
He loved his Nat, his Black Widow, the best call he ever made. He loved Natasha Alianovna Romanoff, who still has weeks where she doesn't believe she has a self, who brings down dictatorships and still doubts her morals, and nothing, nothing he could do would take that look of happy abandon off her face faster than telling her he loved her.
So Clint dug his heels into the bed, fucked up into her with intent, the scarred pad of his thumb running across the side of her palm. That did it, that tipped her over the edge and she climaxed around him.
He reversed their positions while she was still shuddering, got her under him and kept thrusting, hard enough that she moaned and braced her hands against the headboard.
She tucked her knees high up on his sides, opening her thighs even wider to him, deliriously wanton.
"I was wondering," Clint said hoarsely into her ear, "how hard I'm going to have to work to get you to scream."
Natasha chuckled and did something positively debauched with her cunt. He almost lost it right then, swore and slowed to keep from climaxing.
He sucked in a couple of desperate breaths and then kissed her, hard and greedy.
"You're a liar," she breathed into his mouth and bit his bottom lip hard enough to draw blood.
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OH NO IT'S OKAY RED IT'S NOT LIKE I WAS DOING ANYTHING WITH THOSE FEELS.
/ Seriously though, I just love this. I love Clint's reverence, and Natasha doubting herself. In addition to having excellent characterization, it's sexy.
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Two of my favorite things! I did my best to jam a whole bunch of things I loved into this fic.
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OH AND ALSO IT WAS HOT AS FUCK *FANS SELF*
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No, wait, I can't.
AWESOME GLORIOUS STUFF. And so hot. And ALL THE FEELS.
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Loved it.
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with Clint's love and Natasha's secrets and doubts.
Them in a nutshell. ^_^