Orbit

May. 14th, 2012 09:32 pm
[personal profile] sapotefiction
Title: Orbit
Rating: Explicit
Fandom: The Avengers (2012 film)
Pairing: Clint/Natasha, Clint/Steve (offscreen)



1. Natasha and Barton slept in the same bed for about a week. The second night she woke up from a nightmare with her arm across his windpipe, her foot braced against the floor.

She apologized a couple of times, brusque with humiliation, and offered to sleep down the hall, and he told her no, and told her that he trusted her, and told her that he wanted her there.

She tried not to fall asleep at all the night after that, or the night after that. She'd gone five or six days without sleep before; she could do it again.

On the fourth night she woke up to find him crouched in the corner of the room, eyes wild, staring at nothing. She didn't try to touch him but when he came back to sit on the bed the small muscles in his hands and arms were shaking and his t-shirt was sticky with sweat.

She didn't ask him if he'd dreamed about Loki, and he didn't ask her what had happened in Moscow.

They slept in separate rooms after that, and knocked before going into each others' rooms.

2. At a point when they had effectively been together, for some value of together, for two and a half months, the most physical contact they had had yet was still when he'd tried to kill her and she'd tried to punch him unconscious. She ran over her memories of his body in the casual way she was used to doing with people she'd fought. His left arm, while stronger than his right, would be weakened in the joint by repetitive strain. If his right elbow were dislocated he would be essentially useless in a firefight. His wrists probably clicked; he wasn't as young as he'd used to be. They would be easy to break if she could pull him off balance.

She thought about which parts of his body he covered, or protected, or favored, and which parts he was comfortable with, or pleased with, or used. She worked out a hundred and fifteen things he would probably like in bed and didn't do any of them. As long as planning his seduction used essentially the same skills as planning his assassination she'd rather leave both out of it.

3. She'd offered to have sex with him immediately, the day he'd spared her life. To the victor went the spoils and it wouldn't be the first time it'd been useful to be spoils, and he was reasonably clean and seemed physically hearty and undemanding. It wasn't that she didn't like sex. She liked being competent, and she liked physical work. It would make him feel rewarded, she thought, looking at his broad shoulders and taciturn mouth. It would make her safer than not offering.

He turned her down immediately, and then a second time. By the time she'd planned to make her third offer - Natasha Romanov could find anyone's cracking point in most situations - she knew him better, and she wanted what they had instead, which involved relatively little talking and a fair amount of violence towards other people, though usually towards mass murderers. Other mass murderers. She knew he knew her score on that count.

They were good company. They sat next to each other on planes, silently. She stripped and cleaned her guns and he stripped and cleaned his crossbow and when she nodded towards a cloth or a bottle of machine oil he passed it over.

4. Clint tried to come up with something that they could do together that wouldn't remind her of work.

i. "What if you," he said, "did me with a strap-on."

She was sitting on his bed, and he was laying on it, on his side, his head propped on his hand. She looked at him and her brain made a neat chart of his offer, of his wish to please, and of the possible responses to it. She knew that she could do whatever he wanted, competently and convincingly and with very little exertion from her side. She felt it settle over her, that ability to reflect back what he wanted to see, to be what he wanted how he wanted. It took effort to shrug it off.

"Believe it or not," she said, "that would remind me of work too."

He nodded, and if he felt hurt he tried hard to hide it. That was the point at which she started to trust him on that front.

ii. "Why do you have a strap-on?" she asked one day, while she was in his room. She had her theories - it didn't have to mean anything, bodies were bodies, but in her experience most things that people wanted to do with their bodies were significant. She would normally go through his files until she figured it out, but it seemed friendlier to ask.

"Oh," He was doing basic maintenance on the crossbow he kept in his room, careful work that involved uncoiling and winding and checking over tiny gears and catches. Natasha had known what kind of crossbow it was, where he kept it, how it worked, and how long - in fractions of seconds - it took for him to reach for it, sight, and pull the trigger for a long time before he'd ever brought it out while she was there. "Steve and I had a thing for a while," he said, sighting at the doorframe. "Afterwards I missed it so I bought a dildo."

She would have worked that out but it might have taken her longer than it should have.

At one point she was sitting on the edge of his bed while he read on his tablet - she didn't like to lie down when she was in his room. Curious, she wrapped her hand around his wrist and pressed down. He looked at her, and then rolled onto his side, and said "Yes?." His breath hitched; his hips rolled, very slightly.

She slotted that together other observations and came up with some things that she would normally find extremely useful.

The fact that at one point Hawkeye had dated someone that liked to hold him down while he fucked him made her feel a little closer to him, honestly. Though he had liked it, and she had mostly put up with it in the service of securing information.

5. She hated laying still in a bed when she wasn't working and wasn't sleeping. There was nothing to do and her mind buzzed at her and all she could think of was where the doors were and where her arms needed to be to push her off the bed and into actual cover. She kept her feet on top of the cover at all times so that she could kick if she needed to. It was not her favorite thing.

Still, Clint had asked her to lay down with him, and she didn't do many things just because he asked.

They lay side by side, elbows touching. She turned on her side - she could see the door on her side - and looked at him. He lay on his back, comfortable, boots on the blanket and ankles crossed. His left hand was relaxed on his chest; his right arm was against the edge of the bed, on the door side. She knew that he lay like that because there was a crossbow within reach. She approved.

She slid her hand down his chest, down to his belt buckle.

"You don't have to," he said.

"You want me to," she said.

"There are other things I want more," he said.

"Like what?" she said, thinking of the hundred and fifteen items on her list.

"Like finding out what you want," he said. When she looked at him he was half-smiling.

6. In the sixth month they fucked, hard and dirty, against walls and on tables and in airplane bathrooms. Natasha hadn't had much sex as herself since she was a delicate ballerina who didn't know she could kill people with her hands. She was surprised to find that fucked like she fought - contained, competent, and a little mean.

Clint could handle it. He handled it when she wrapped her legs around his waist, her hands bracing her against the sills of the windows on either side, looked him in the eye, and said "Harder". He handled it when she turned him around and put her fingers in his ass until he moaned and begged, when she held him down with her hands and left bite marks down his sternum. She wore herself out against him, over and over, and he took it, he wanted it. He trusted her. It was - boundless. She didn't know exactly what word to put on it.

7. In the seventh month she went back to work. She had to ditch her cell phone at the last airport before she went in, crushing the chip under her boot heel in the bathroom in Heathrow. The words on the screen faded as she pried the battery out. Good luck, they said. Come home.
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August 2012

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