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Title: None yet
Author:  [livejournal.com profile] thefrogg
Fandom:  The Avengers (2012)
Beta:  None
Pairings:  Clint/Everyone, OT6, Tony/Natasha
Warnings:  One small spoiler for what most of fandom insists didn't actually happen.
Author's Note:  Because this is an excerpt, I'll go ahead and say that the only person on the team who knew Clint's an Omega before the story starts is Clint.
Summary:  Clint's perfectly happy being the only Omega on a team of Alphas. They're all on suppressants anyways.

At least until the villain-of-the-week invents a weaponized neutralizer.



The morning after

Natasha's the only one with him when he wakes, and somehow that doesn't bother him half as much as it should (or at all, Clint's subconscious whispers). She's on her stomach, curled around his upper body like a lioness guarding a cub, or maybe an injured member of her pride.

(...nails digging into his back, teeth clamping on his shoulder, his dick buried in her as her body shudders through orgasm...)

Clint clenches his fists, shakes his head, the memory fragment dissolving in a haze of blurry pleasure.

"Clint?" The prompt comes soft, almost hesitant, fingers brushing over the curve of his neck, down one prominent shoulder blade; last time he'd been aware, it would have sparked a surge of arousal, spurred him to roll her - someone - beneath him -

"Yeah?" The touch on his back firms, testing, prodding at once-oversensitive nerves. Now it just feels good, and he arches up into it, groaning softly as his body protests.

"You okay?" It's not a question she asks him.

'Do you need to fuck?' he hears instead. He doesn't bother answering, stretching instead; she grabs his wrists, giving him resistance as he works overtaxed muscles. It's slow, leisurely, drawing a soft laugh of amazement. "What?"

"Just you." She gives him a small smile when he finally bothers to open his eyes. "You're coherent. And your reaction time is shot to hell."

Clint huffs out a breath of laughter, propping himself up on his elbows so he can see her clearly. She's all curves and lean muscle, bruises painting her skin in a rainbow of purple-blue-green-yellow, fingerprints on hips and shoulders and thighs, bitemarks all down her neck and across her collarbones, one on the inner curve of her breast like a misplaced flower blossom. The sight is gorgeous, stirring a deep sense of contentment and smug satisfaction, but nothing else - his libido is down for the count and won't wake up for a least a week.

"No snappy comeback?" Natasha raises an eyebrow.

"Omega. Eighteen years on supressants." Clint meets her shocked gaze squarely. She's right about his response time though, her startled "Clint!" and subsequent attack, flipping him to his back and pinning him down meeting no resistance. He laughs up at her, tugging gently at his wrists. "What? You know my past, sweetheart, it doesn't come with 'privacy.'" Or a few other things he won't mention.

"How many," she snarls.

"Tasha."

"How many cycles have you had? Suppressants aren't supposed to just--"

"Including this one? Two."

Natasha stares at him in disbelief for a moment before her face crumples into something that looks like grief, her body going limp.

"Tasha." Clint pulls his wrists free, meeting no resistance, and repositions her arms more comfortably, hands skimming back up over the swell of her ass, the lines of her spine.

(...teeth closing on his nipple, someone else's hands pinning his wrists until he's twisting against them, Natasha riding him all the way down..)

"You could have said--"

He blinks clear of the flashback. "Tasha."

"Alpha, damnit, I would have--"

"Natasha." He cups her face, thumb brushing bitten lips. "There's a difference between trusting you and being helpless."

She drops her gaze and tenses, preparing to push off of him, get away.

Clint locked his arms around her before she has the chance. "Tell me you would have been enough. Tell me it didn't take all five of you."

"Ten years, not eighteen."

"It wouldn't have made enough of a difference. One of you, Phil's a Beta, and nobody to keep watch." She only stares at him until he heaves a sigh and adds, "There is no evidence whatsoever that long term use causes damage, it takes too damn much to overdose, and I'd really like to be given the chance to enjoy the afterglow, especially since the last one left me jittery as hell."

"And you never wanted...?" The question is whispered, unfinished.

"I never had enough to want it."

The implication is enough to soften her expression, make her bend down for a kiss. They fall into it with an ease borne of too many years watching each other's backs, too many times saving each other's lives, too much trust and history and the memory of Clint's heat cycle burning pleasantly between them. An aching sound of want escapes her, and she shifts, thighs clenching around him until she breaks the kiss, pushing herself far enough away to stare down in confusion.

Clint only grins knowingly at her. "Sorry, darling, that's out of commission for a bit. If you want I could--"

Natasha chokes out a laugh, blushing, and shakes her head. "No, no--I'm actually a little--" and hides her face in his neck.

"Sore?" Clint doesn't even make it teasing; his own body is one huge ache, pleasurable though it is.

She hums noncommitally and settles back down, letting Clint take her weight and basking in their shared warmth until his empty stomach makes itself known.

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