The view from their hotel room is spectacular. All of Paris spread out beneath them; its lights sparkling enticingly in the dark of the night. The view more than the luxury of the room (though it is considerable with a jacuzzi big enough to fit two in the marble and gold bathroom, and a vast bed with ridiculously high thread-count Egyptian cotton sheets) was the reason for Natasha picking it in the first place. Here, on the top floor of the tallest hotel she could find, with huge panorama windows making up the better part of one wall, Clint can get the perspective he needs to settle him. And god knows he needs settling.
Natasha loves Clint with all of her heart. No matter how much it pains her to use that word so explicitly. But, ever since she came back from the dead -- after he'd spent two weeks grieving her -- he's been driving her up the goddamn wall. It's not that she doesn't understand his need to know where she is at all times (preferably having her within his line of sight), because she understand just fine. It's that he is
( ... )
A month ago Clint had thought he had experienced the worst pain of his life. Knowing he was responsible for the death of twenty-seven of his friends and fellow agents and very nearly the death of his handler. A year later and he man still had weekly physical therapy sessions. That was before he'd gotten a phone-call from a sinking boat on what was supposed to be a routine security mission. That was before he listened to Nat die in his ear and forgot what it felt like to be human
( ... )
Underneath the annoyance, there's a cold pit of fear buried deep within Natasha. Clint can't function without her. Some girls might find that shit romantic; Natasha finds it terrifying. It's more responsibility than she ever asked for. But, what's more, he's a broken shadow of the man he used to be. This clingy, lost man is not at all who she fell for and the thought that she might never get her mouthy, confident Clint back scares her more than anything.
If she loved him a little less, if she wasn't so selfish, then she'd go. Disappear off the face of the Earth and let him sort himself out. Like tossing someone in the deep end of the pool and letting them sink or swim. Sometimes, in the dead of night with his arms tight like a vice around her, she thinks that'd probably be more healthy for them. A clean break. Maybe then he can remember the agent he is supposed to be
( ... )
He's skittering right on the edge of being fired, if he's honest with himself. It's purely the fact that Phil likes him an Fury still owes him a debt and that the public sees him as one of the Avengers that's keeping him employed in SHIELD, because right now--hell, for the past month, he's been mostly useless. And it grates on him, because there is nothing he hates more than being useless, helpless to do anything but listen to the demands of an addled and unstable brain. This is their Hail Mary. Their last hope. If this doesn't work, he doesn't know what will.
His throat works absently as she shifts against him, and his eyes, right before she slips the blindfold over them are impossibly thankful, desperately affectionate. And then his world is swathed in blackness.
As far as senses go, Clint relies most heavily on his sight. He is well aware of his others, of touch and taste and scent an sound, and he uses them all to his full advantage, but he uses his sight for everything. And he can see far better than most. So he's never been
( ... )
There's one more thing keeping Clint firmly employed by SHIELD despite his complete breakdown. If he's out, then Natasha will follow. When she joined the ranks of SHIELD, the prison sentence she no doubt would've gotten for her crimes if she'd been tried in court was commuted to ten years of service to the government. Those ten years are up and if she wants to go, there is nothing stopping her. Without Clint, there's nothing to keep her there and for all that Fury trusts her now, he doesn't want her going back to freelancing
( ... )
Because he's lost the use of his sight, every other sense he has is working on overdrive, so when her hands settle on his bare chest he sucks in a shuddering breath and tries to center all of his focus on the touch of her hands. Each muscle she moves over shudders in the wake of her passing, and he groans, lightly, into the kiss, seeking out more once she pulls away, kissing her chaste and gentle and sweet as he can manage
( ... )
Clint is gorgeous like this. Every inch of his body so beautifully responsive to her touch. If she wanted to, she could play him like an instrument. He'd be a violin under her fingertips, his muscles stretched so tight, and she could draw noises from him with the touch of her hands, as if she was plucking the strings with gentle care. If the success of this wasn't so important, she might've allowed herself a little time to play
( ... )
He would prefer that, if she were to just play with him. There's comfort there, because they've done games like this before, when they're fucking. He's tied her down before and they'd gotten through that. If he knew there was going to be good sex at the end of all of this, he might be doing a little bit better
( ... )
They push each other during sex. Always finding new limits and seeing how far they'll stretch. But, this unfortunately isn't about sex. Of course, that doesn't mean that they won't have absolutely amazing sex before the night is over. Natasha doesn't think that she can be noble enough to ignore the steady thrum of want pulsating through her body from the soles of her feet to the top of her head. This is all about control and trust and letting go and nothing gets her going quicker than that
( ... )
He wants to settle his hands on her hips--their standard place when they're sitting like this, and he pulls at the cuffs again, breath stuttering as they don't come loose. But he catches himself, breathes, and focuses on the touch of her hand against his chest
( ... )
Something inside Natasha loosens as Clint relaxes beneath her. There's a moment when the cuffs rattle and his heart-rate shoots straight back up again when she thinks that maybe this is doomed to fail. But then he settles and oh so slowly his body loosens and settles into what she's come to think of as his sniper-stance. He doesn't even have to be in position, sometimes, she'll just see it settling over him like a coat, this eerie sort of calm patience. The mouthy brat he can be falls away to something far more professional, and that he's finding that calm here and now is impressive.
Something like hope blossoms in Natasha's chest. This is the most relaxed she's gotten him in the blindfold and that is with the handcuffs. For the first time, it feels as if they're making actual progress. Her hands have settled on her own thighs in the silence, so she's not touching him beyond the fact that she's basically sitting on him. They're taking this nice and slow and she's giving him plenty of time to adjust to each new change
( ... )
"Yeah, like that," He agrees, because that was what it was. The first time he picked up a bow it felt like he was coming into himself. That he had finally found a place to shine, where no one could take his power away from him. It wasn't given or earned, it was just something he had. He'd named her Evangeline, and they were inseparable after that.
There's a moment when he comes out of the memory, leaning into her kiss, trying to reach for her again and finding his hands still cuffed. He frowns, forehead wrinkling. "Nat--"
But then she's talking again and he settles, tries to sink back into that space he'd found, the place where he'd found the steady thrum of his bow under his hand, her soft wood warmed by his hands, and the sound of each of his arrows finding home. And he has enough of that sound to last him a lifetime, the solid thunk, the bite of metal into whatever surface he wants it to land into.
Natasha presses a kiss against Clint's furrowed brow and she can feel it smoothing out beneath her lips as he falls back into the memory. "You always hit your mark." She leans back and watches him, her own brow creasing lightly. She should've known to bring up the bow earlier. Nothing she's said or done has settled him as much as the thought of it. "Like you're one with the bow and the target both."
She waits until he's fully in the sniper headspace again, and then she braces a hand against one of his shoulders, and smoothly moves to sit beside him rather than on top of him. The length of her closest thigh is pressed against his, and she settles a hand just above his knee. He can still feel her presence, only she's not touching him quite so much now.
"What about the first time you performed? Did you hit all your marks then?"
She is doing an amazing job of distraction, because it's been years since he thought about the first time he picked up a bow and he's settled so into that memory that he has yet to notice she's shifted off of his lap.
There's a laugh though at her question, a shake of his head.
"Stage fright? You? I have a hard time picturing that." Natasha's smile is fully audible in her voice, warming her tone. The truth is, she can all too easily picture a young version of Clint, lanky and awkward, still growing into all of his limbs, shoulders fraught with tension as he tries to show off for the crowd. The mental image strikes a chord deep within her, reverberates through her heart and chest and she nudges her shoulder lightly against his.
"But they let you back up again. The next night?" Reluctantly, she shifts her hand away from his thigh so now they're only touching from a hip down to a knee. And he's still calm as can be. This is really, really good.
He was that awkward teenager, all long arms and legs and graceful only when he was throwing things away from himself. Nothing like the man he was once he grew into his shoulders. And he was so nervous you could have bounced coins off his muscles, all tense and tangled and unsure of himself. He didn't know how to lose himself in the action of shooting, then. He was just some kid with a talent for shooting.
But they had let him back out. "Not the next night, too likely that it was the same crowd. But the next week, yeah. And I spent almost every hour in between my two performances practicing. So--I hit them all, the second time around."
And there had been thunderous applause. It had been the first time he'd learned how to bask, and for an affection-starved awkward teenager, finally stepping out of the shadows was like a cold drink of water on an Iowa summer day. He thinks that might have been why Barney hated him so much. He was that starved in his own way, but he never found where he fit.
Natasha loves Clint with all of her heart. No matter how much it pains her to use that word so explicitly. But, ever since she came back from the dead -- after he'd spent two weeks grieving her -- he's been driving her up the goddamn wall. It's not that she doesn't understand his need to know where she is at all times (preferably having her within his line of sight), because she understand just fine. It's that he is ( ... )
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If she loved him a little less, if she wasn't so selfish, then she'd go. Disappear off the face of the Earth and let him sort himself out. Like tossing someone in the deep end of the pool and letting them sink or swim. Sometimes, in the dead of night with his arms tight like a vice around her, she thinks that'd probably be more healthy for them. A clean break. Maybe then he can remember the agent he is supposed to be ( ... )
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His throat works absently as she shifts against him, and his eyes, right before she slips the blindfold over them are impossibly thankful, desperately affectionate. And then his world is swathed in blackness.
As far as senses go, Clint relies most heavily on his sight. He is well aware of his others, of touch and taste and scent an sound, and he uses them all to his full advantage, but he uses his sight for everything. And he can see far better than most. So he's never been ( ... )
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Something like hope blossoms in Natasha's chest. This is the most relaxed she's gotten him in the blindfold and that is with the handcuffs. For the first time, it feels as if they're making actual progress. Her hands have settled on her own thighs in the silence, so she's not touching him beyond the fact that she's basically sitting on him. They're taking this nice and slow and she's giving him plenty of time to adjust to each new change ( ... )
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There's a moment when he comes out of the memory, leaning into her kiss, trying to reach for her again and finding his hands still cuffed. He frowns, forehead wrinkling. "Nat--"
But then she's talking again and he settles, tries to sink back into that space he'd found, the place where he'd found the steady thrum of his bow under his hand, her soft wood warmed by his hands, and the sound of each of his arrows finding home. And he has enough of that sound to last him a lifetime, the solid thunk, the bite of metal into whatever surface he wants it to land into.
"It's--always been like that. Natural."
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She waits until he's fully in the sniper headspace again, and then she braces a hand against one of his shoulders, and smoothly moves to sit beside him rather than on top of him. The length of her closest thigh is pressed against his, and she settles a hand just above his knee. He can still feel her presence, only she's not touching him quite so much now.
"What about the first time you performed? Did you hit all your marks then?"
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There's a laugh though at her question, a shake of his head.
"I got stage fright. Missed almost half of them."
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"But they let you back up again. The next night?" Reluctantly, she shifts her hand away from his thigh so now they're only touching from a hip down to a knee. And he's still calm as can be. This is really, really good.
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But they had let him back out. "Not the next night, too likely that it was the same crowd. But the next week, yeah. And I spent almost every hour in between my two performances practicing. So--I hit them all, the second time around."
And there had been thunderous applause. It had been the first time he'd learned how to bask, and for an affection-starved awkward teenager, finally stepping out of the shadows was like a cold drink of water on an Iowa summer day. He thinks that might have been why Barney hated him so much. He was that starved in his own way, but he never found where he fit.
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