A Clintasha gift fic for marvelousgamora
Natasha steps back, resting one hand on her hip and tapping her lips with the other. Anyone else would see that as a pose of Serious Contemplation, but Clint knows better. This is the I'm-about-to-fuck-with-you-and-there's-nothing-you-can-do-to-stop-it face. He can see it in the way the right corner of her mouth is about two-point-five millimeters higher than the left.
"Is it?" his partner does one final circle, brushing away a crumb here, plucking at a loose thread there. "Seems to me it's old hat. About time we got a mark with some different preferences."
"Says you," Clint grumbles, frowning at his reflection in the floor-to-ceiling mirror that hangs in the suite's luxurious bedroom. He isn't sure about the cut; something about the way the fabric pulls across his pecs is…distracting. The nearly invisible seam feels too delicate, like it could tear at any time.
"Yeah, says me," Natasha eyes him up and down again, and the right corner of her mouth ticks up another three millimeters. If they weren't five minutes away from insertion, Clint thinks she would laugh. And if the circumstances were different—if he weren't the one wearing the salmon-pink cocktail dress with strategic cutouts over the hard lines of his obliques—he would want her to laugh.
Natasha's laugh is a rare and beautiful thing; enough to put wings on friggin' angels.
"I think I wore something similar to this in Abu Dhabi. So you can't say turnabout isn't fair play."
"It looked better on you," Clint scratches gently around the base of his wig, and understands suddenly why chronic wig-wearers prefer being bald. The sting of his own sweat is going to drive him nuts under there!
"Mm-hmm," she agrees, pulling his hand away from the wig she'd spent half an hour styling, "you told me at the time. But you don't look bad either, believe me."
Three minutes to insertion, he reminds himself, but he still can't help but say, "If memory serves, I didn't just tell you so."
It's never a good idea to tease the Black Widow. Now her smile is wide and wicked; it's the sort of expression that strikes fear into the hearts of every hapless henchman who gets in her way, every boss who makes the mistake of thinking they've got the Widow pinned. And no matter how many missions he's run with her, that smile still makes his heart pound with a mix of fear and…
He clamps down hard on that thought. Neither the dress nor the flimsy underwear underneath it provides any sort of barrier to showing the world what else her smile does to him.
She sidles closer, leather and Kevlar doing nothing to damp the fluid grace in her stride. She could be on stage at the Bolshoi in that get-up and look right at home.
Clint shivers, the feeling vibrating through the pores of his skin as she leans against him. He might as well be naked for all the good the satin cocktail dress does to defend him against the feel of her leather and the strength of her body.
"Just get through this mission," she murmurs in his ear, "and I'll be happy to show you."