fic: i've been raised to kill
title: i've been raised to kill [AO3]
fandom: Avengers [MCU]
pairing: Clint/Natasha
warnings: violence/gore
rating: R
summary: SHIELD keeps a file on them; sometimes they read it over and chuckle at the details the field agents have missed or gotten wrong.
notes: ~1000 words, first fic in a new fandom meep. written for be_compromised's Clint/Natasha Promptathon from the prompt "serial killer AU." Originally posted here.
[i've been raised to kill]
They meet in the dark on a Tuesday, both their hands drenched in the blood of their enemies, dripping to the ground in a cold Russian rain. He shoots first, one simple fiberglass arrow singing through the sky in her direction; she dodges with a speed he's never seen before and then in return charges towards him, her red hair whipping behind her like a whirlwind.
That night sets the tone of their entire relationship.
~
They start small, at first. Clint likes to watch for a target for a bit, lazily drift along sight line to sight line until he settles on one that tickles his fancy just right, then lets off a single arrow that dissolves upon completing its mission, no muss no fuss. Clint is neat, Clint is precise, Clint is cold and calculating.
Somewhere around Abidjan, things get a little bigger. Natasha likes to charge in without a plan, her head already swimming in a picture of the kill, her whole body humming with only one purpose, knives at the ready, widow's bite charged. Natasha is not neat, Natasha is not precise, Natasha gets the job done and doesn't care about the mess.
As it happens, they balance each other out just fine.
~
"You want this one?" Clint asks, enunciation muffled by the arrow he's holding in between his teeth, his hands busy holding on to a little girl near the same age Natasha was when she made her first kill.
"Nyet," Natasha responds, glancing at the girl and then using the girl's clothes to wipe blood off her knife before trying to decide her next move.
"She looks like you," he says.
"If you want to kill her, go right ahead. Don't let me stop you from hashing out your deep dark emotional problems, Clint."
He chuckles and wraps a hand around the girl's throat and watches as Natasha's expression slides into neutral, a face he's learned means she's anything but detached from the situation. "Aw, Nat, did I hit a nerve?"
"Fuck you," she growls, lashing out at him with her newly cleaned knife, opening a nice fresh gash on his cheek. Clint responds by first dropping the arrow then dropping the girl, and then trapping Natasha's knife hand with his arm and twisting until he hears a pop, all in a matter of seconds.
"You always underestimate you quick I am, don't you, baby?"
Even as he's finishing his sentence she's twisting away, dislocated shoulder but a small price to pay. They twist and fight and dance around each other, a nearly choreographed routine that happens after nearly every kill with little hint of actual malice. Adrenaline and training are still in high gear, still not quite satisfied; this is their foreplay.
~
In Budapest they create a trail of bodies miles long, bathe in their blood and swim in their entrails. At least that's what the news programs say; they don't really pay much attention to the media anymore, especially not any news they may create, too busy wrapped up in each other, Clint's hands all over Natasha's body and her legs wrapped around his. They fuck in an alley before the authorities show up, ditching their bloody clothes as they go, hands stained in the red of their victims. Natasha's lip is split where a stray knuckle from a struggling victim collided and Clint's is a bloody mess from a flailing knee of someone else, and it hurts when they kiss, pain and pleasure all mingling together as one.
It takes them a while to get out of the city, every task force and bounty hunter in the area looking for them. There’s no force in the world that’s a match for a couple of trained master assassins, especially not these particular two, and Clint and Natasha pick them off one by one, making a game out of their murder count, each one hoping to push their kill count higher than the other's. In the end, it's Clint who wins. Natasha lets him choose his prize; he chooses her. He will always choose her.
~
SHIELD keeps a file on them; sometimes they read it over and chuckle at the details the field agents have missed or gotten wrong. For a while the file said it was two women doing all the killing; Natasha got a good laugh over that at Clint's expense. He was certain to leave some blatant clues to his masculinity on their next outing, and the description in the files changed shortly thereafter, of course. Sometimes Natasha spends a lot of time studying in the file, reliving the past as it were, and Clint gives her space; he knows how her memory works, knows that sometimes she has to be unmade to be whole again, that there are things she's done she doesn't remember. Clint's memory is pristine and he remembers every kill and how much he loved sharing it with her; he never wants to forget those moments.
~
When Loki comes and rips them apart for a time, Natasha stops at nothing to get Clint back. It's not so much that it's Loki or that Clint's doing things not of his own control. It's that he might be having fun without her, that his body count is growing larger than hers and that isn't how they operate. They are a team, they are always a team, and not even a mystical god can keep them apart.
"I thought I'd lost you for a minute," Natasha says when they're back together, knee deep in their next big mess.
"Shut the fuck up, you don't give a shit about me," Clint says in return, taking a swing at her face.
"You're right," she says, smiling and catching his hand by the wrist and twisting until it pops, "why would I ever put up with a mudak like you?"
fandom: Avengers [MCU]
pairing: Clint/Natasha
warnings: violence/gore
rating: R
summary: SHIELD keeps a file on them; sometimes they read it over and chuckle at the details the field agents have missed or gotten wrong.
notes: ~1000 words, first fic in a new fandom meep. written for be_compromised's Clint/Natasha Promptathon from the prompt "serial killer AU." Originally posted here.
[i've been raised to kill]
They meet in the dark on a Tuesday, both their hands drenched in the blood of their enemies, dripping to the ground in a cold Russian rain. He shoots first, one simple fiberglass arrow singing through the sky in her direction; she dodges with a speed he's never seen before and then in return charges towards him, her red hair whipping behind her like a whirlwind.
That night sets the tone of their entire relationship.
~
They start small, at first. Clint likes to watch for a target for a bit, lazily drift along sight line to sight line until he settles on one that tickles his fancy just right, then lets off a single arrow that dissolves upon completing its mission, no muss no fuss. Clint is neat, Clint is precise, Clint is cold and calculating.
Somewhere around Abidjan, things get a little bigger. Natasha likes to charge in without a plan, her head already swimming in a picture of the kill, her whole body humming with only one purpose, knives at the ready, widow's bite charged. Natasha is not neat, Natasha is not precise, Natasha gets the job done and doesn't care about the mess.
As it happens, they balance each other out just fine.
~
"You want this one?" Clint asks, enunciation muffled by the arrow he's holding in between his teeth, his hands busy holding on to a little girl near the same age Natasha was when she made her first kill.
"Nyet," Natasha responds, glancing at the girl and then using the girl's clothes to wipe blood off her knife before trying to decide her next move.
"She looks like you," he says.
"If you want to kill her, go right ahead. Don't let me stop you from hashing out your deep dark emotional problems, Clint."
He chuckles and wraps a hand around the girl's throat and watches as Natasha's expression slides into neutral, a face he's learned means she's anything but detached from the situation. "Aw, Nat, did I hit a nerve?"
"Fuck you," she growls, lashing out at him with her newly cleaned knife, opening a nice fresh gash on his cheek. Clint responds by first dropping the arrow then dropping the girl, and then trapping Natasha's knife hand with his arm and twisting until he hears a pop, all in a matter of seconds.
"You always underestimate you quick I am, don't you, baby?"
Even as he's finishing his sentence she's twisting away, dislocated shoulder but a small price to pay. They twist and fight and dance around each other, a nearly choreographed routine that happens after nearly every kill with little hint of actual malice. Adrenaline and training are still in high gear, still not quite satisfied; this is their foreplay.
~
In Budapest they create a trail of bodies miles long, bathe in their blood and swim in their entrails. At least that's what the news programs say; they don't really pay much attention to the media anymore, especially not any news they may create, too busy wrapped up in each other, Clint's hands all over Natasha's body and her legs wrapped around his. They fuck in an alley before the authorities show up, ditching their bloody clothes as they go, hands stained in the red of their victims. Natasha's lip is split where a stray knuckle from a struggling victim collided and Clint's is a bloody mess from a flailing knee of someone else, and it hurts when they kiss, pain and pleasure all mingling together as one.
It takes them a while to get out of the city, every task force and bounty hunter in the area looking for them. There’s no force in the world that’s a match for a couple of trained master assassins, especially not these particular two, and Clint and Natasha pick them off one by one, making a game out of their murder count, each one hoping to push their kill count higher than the other's. In the end, it's Clint who wins. Natasha lets him choose his prize; he chooses her. He will always choose her.
~
SHIELD keeps a file on them; sometimes they read it over and chuckle at the details the field agents have missed or gotten wrong. For a while the file said it was two women doing all the killing; Natasha got a good laugh over that at Clint's expense. He was certain to leave some blatant clues to his masculinity on their next outing, and the description in the files changed shortly thereafter, of course. Sometimes Natasha spends a lot of time studying in the file, reliving the past as it were, and Clint gives her space; he knows how her memory works, knows that sometimes she has to be unmade to be whole again, that there are things she's done she doesn't remember. Clint's memory is pristine and he remembers every kill and how much he loved sharing it with her; he never wants to forget those moments.
~
When Loki comes and rips them apart for a time, Natasha stops at nothing to get Clint back. It's not so much that it's Loki or that Clint's doing things not of his own control. It's that he might be having fun without her, that his body count is growing larger than hers and that isn't how they operate. They are a team, they are always a team, and not even a mystical god can keep them apart.
"I thought I'd lost you for a minute," Natasha says when they're back together, knee deep in their next big mess.
"Shut the fuck up, you don't give a shit about me," Clint says in return, taking a swing at her face.
"You're right," she says, smiling and catching his hand by the wrist and twisting until it pops, "why would I ever put up with a mudak like you?"