Fic: The red thread, part one
title: the red thread, part one (natasha)
tandom: the avengers
pairing: clint/natasha
rating: explicit
genre: romance, drama, introspection. dark-ish and playing with symbolism.
timeframe: set before the avengers (2012), and also before iron man2 and thor.
series: this is part of the same universe as unwrapped/ unwrapping, and it's going to be a series.
warnings: see the rating. Also, vague references of physical violence and assassins being assassins.
disclaimer: I don't won them, they own me.
author's note: i don't even know how to explain this one? it started as one of the discussions between cybermathwitch and me, and turned into another instance of overlapping headcanons and then a challenge between two of us - for each part i come up with, she will provide the POV of other person. the symbols we're playing with here are, obviously, color red (red hair, red thread), the tale of ariadne from greek mythology (who was a mistress of minotaur's maze, and gave theseus a golden thread so he could find his way out of it). also, if i may suggest music to go with this? una musica brutal and vuelvo al sur by gotan project (because tango is a perfect metaphor for this story and two of them and their dynamic, the power shifts, the trust - besides, tango constantly changes rhythm, just like a maze changes it's appearance, but it also has a distinct pattern and structure, and clint is all about noticing things like patterns).
(also! we may have figured out clint's superpower - being able to read natasha like an open book.)
*
For me, when I think of the best leaders I've danced with, I've noticed a commonality between all of them which is an apparent lack of ego or bravado. Instead of thinking about themselves, they just surrender to the music and to the pleasure of having a woman in their arms, no matter if she's experienced or not. They are the kind who would never let a woman feel incompetent or humiliated but instead as though it's been a sublime privilege to share this wonderful thing called tango with them. - Caroline Polack
*
It begins with red.
*
She begins (again) when she cuts off the dyed hair. All of it, the artificial faded blond hanging around her shoulders. She cuts it off mercilessly, because it makes her feel faded as well, like a picture without a face.
In days to come she watches (gleefully) how red reappears.
*
She is red. Strands of red, swirling around her like snakes, winding like ropes, a beautiful warning - her hair, the only thing that was always hers.
She knows she is red in the blur of things and choices; different kinds of bread and different ways to have your coffee; a variety of fabrics under her hand while she touches and tests them under her palm. She wonders what would the girl from two months ago like, the last one among the fake girls. It would be like flicking a switch and then, this would be easy.
*
She is the thread, the labyrinth and the death waiting inside. She is the perfect trap, designed to kill with closeness, once you underestimated the danger. They send the man with arrows to kill the beast, and even she thinks it's smart. Only, she doesn't expect him to come close; this man with steady eyes and strong arms, and minimalistic grace in his walk. You don't send an archer into the maze.
She smiles, because that's what she does, that's what her mission right now is, but her smile doesn't touch him. Her lips are red and her dress is black, his arm is steady around her back as they dance, just two people among so many others.
It's wrong, everything is wrong, but this man doesn't kill with his hands.
“Why are you here?” she asks. He doesn't look like he's lying when he gives her his answer.
“Because I have no desire to put an arrow through your heart.”
*
It's not that he makes her try. Again and again and again, and sometimes she lets herself be frustrated over it (and that's new).
It's not even how he treats her like he isn't afraid (which he isn't), even though that's a large part of why she feels calmer around him than anywhere else.
“This one,” he insists and pokes the box in her direction, and it's ridiculous. She picks up the piece of chocolate and tries it. It's sweet, it's good, but they're all good, and she's confused. He smiles over his coffee and points with his finger to the corner of his lips.
She wipes the chocolate smudge away.
“I like them all,” she says and expects him to make her choose.
(Before, she had to be certain. You died if you weren't certain, if you weren't on alert and knew the right answer, the right move. He is a man who notices things, who sees them long before others do.
He is the man who isn't afraid to take a look inside the labyrinth.)
Instead he just smiles.
“That's okay,” he says.
*
Their first time is her choice and her doing. She leads and he follows.
She is aware of the attraction. He doesn't hide from her, ever - he makes himself easy to read instead, and yet he doesn't ask for more than she's willing to give him.
After the days and weeks and months, after learning the sound of his steps (and closing her eyes to the sound of his voice) she does this. It's impulsive and when she gathers her nerve she doesn't allow herself to think. She straddles him and he watches and when she leans down to kiss him, calculated and measured and testing, he doesn't push her away.
He lets her.
She wants to learn how soft his mouth is, and he opens beneath her, warmth and desire and steady wall of muscle. She kisses him with her eyes open, and he's looking back at her. She tests his mouth carefully, learns his taste, considers the way his hands rest on her hips. She presses her body down against his and feels him harden, the helpless impulse that makes her feel powerful over him. She pulls away and looks at him, rocks against him and he closes his eyes. It's new and different, but it's not bad. His hands are there, waiting, and she knows he won't take if she's not ready.
She kisses the side of his neck and he shudders, and she can feel the change in his breath, the different beat of his heart. It's not the first time a man has reacted to her hands and lips, but it's the first time when she is herself. The red thread of her horrors is wrapped around his hand, and it lead him to her and guided her to him. She takes his face between her palms and drowns in the feel of his mouth, invites him inside and he follows. He slowly strokes and explores and takes, and her breath is caught in her chest. She wants his hands as well, wants to feel those perfect weapons of aim and precision on herself, and she guides his palms to her breasts. Their mouths part and he looks at her, carefully searching her expression.
“Are you sure?” he asks softly. She waits and looks at him and there's something tight and painful in her chest, something that doesn't let her look away. She nods and he nods as well, like he knows what to do, like he understands everything. “You can tell me to stop,” he says and pulls her closer. It's okay, okay, she tells herself when his lips trail up her neck.
It feels different. Different than anything before, even though she is hardly inexperienced. It makes her close her eyes and arch into him when his hands stroke her sides and pull her closer. “Tell me what feels good,” he says, and she nods, breathless and guides his mouth back to hers.
Now it's give and take and she can feel his strength in his desire. She loves that, loves how he doesn't shy away from her, how he's not afraid to push her and see if she would break. He leaves her mouth for her neck, drags a hot path toward her collarbone, and she feels her body turning warm and liquid, almost like quicksilver, like she could lose the sharp edges and dark shadows she is made of. He stops at the opening of her shirt, fingers stroking at the base of her throat. No one touches her there.
“Is this okay?” he asks and she considers the sensation, and how fast her heart is beating. She's learned to trust his hands, his voice, his eyes. He looks at her with blatant desire on his face, and looking at him like this, eyes bright and dark, feels like looking at the mirror. “Can I do this?” he asks in soft whisper and the first button gives under his fingers. She shivers, but it feels good and she almost moans her permission and looks at him as he goes. One button after another, and then lips, hot on her skin, and he asks. She loves how he asks, how he gives her power over this, but she also loves the newness of it all, the way she's allowed to react without planning. Her shirt hangs open, she can feel the warmth of his palms through the thin material of her bra. He looks up and her hands reach for his shirt, and he's looking at her all the while.
She's seen him naked before, but she never allowed herself to touch him like this.
“God, Tash,” he says when she starts kissing everywhere she can reach from her position. His breath turns shorter, quicker and she can feel his heartbeat beneath her hand. She wants to see him reacting, because when he looks at her, he sees her; not a picture she's been ordered to paint, but everything she is, the bad and the frightening, and the girl hidden in the maze, he sees it all. He doesn’t hide how she's affecting him, and her breath is short and her body pulled taut and ready as she watches how his eyes close and his mouth drops when her hands reach for his belt and the fastening of his jeans.
He feels smooth and hot and hard in her hand. She strokes him slowly, carefully and he shudders and moans, rocking into her palm. She tugs on his jeans and releases him and he hisses, face pressed against her breasts as she works him. She cradles the back of his head and closes her eyes, feeling every moan against her skin and drowning in the broken sounds that fall from his lips, because they are for her. She normally doesn't have this; she doesn't have to trick him to have him in her arms like this, whispering her name and coming all over her hand. Then he relaxes and it feels like he's melting into her, face pressed against hers.
It takes a couple of moments and then his breathing evens and his hands move onto her sides. He nudges her nose with his, coaxes her mouth to open and she lets him kiss her slowly, until everything starts to spiral away from her mind. Hands slide under her shirt, around her back and he waits until she nods to unfasten her bra. It's her turn to give, and she watches even as it scares her. His face looks awed, reverent when he uncovers her breasts. She's been touched there before, but watching his face and what he does to her makes all the difference.
She grinds against him, focused on the tension he's creating and aching for resolution. He releases her breast for her mouth, kisses her until she's left gasping and slides his hands down onto her hips. They're powerful and warm and heavy and she wants more now. He looks at her, breathing hard and waiting, and she takes his hand and guides it inside her pants and her underwear.
His aim is steady and his fingers feel so different than hers do, and he watches her keenly as he tests her response. One finger slides into her and she gasps, eyes closed when he starts touching her. She's holding onto his shoulders as he slowly sends her higher; and the climb is inevitable and unforgiving and she realizes she won't hold out long, won't be able to keep herself in control.
“Shh,” he says, lips against her cheek. “'It's okay. Let go,” as if he can read her mind. (Sometimes she's convinced he can.) “It's okay, Tash,” he says, repeats it and she clings onto the rough tone of his voice, the sensation of his lips on hers as she's rocking into his hand.
The orgasm hits her hard and uncontrolled and she gasps into his mouth. She shakes and moans and falls into his hands. His shoulders feel like an anchor as she's coming down from her high, reminding herself that it's okay, and this is him, and that he gave her this because he wanted to.
She doesn't stay with him. She goes back to her room and longs for him all through the night.
*
The aftermath of the adrenaline leaves her shaky and too open for her liking. Sure, she's made near escapes before, but she was used to doing them on her own. Her strengths, her assets, her doing; she was the sole master of her complicated, ever shifting universe.
It's a steady pattern now, hers to determine, like wrapping the thread around her palm and seeing where it leads her. She is the maze and the maze is hers.
The van is hurrying through unseen streets. She is grateful for the extraction team, for the fact that she can collapse on herself after it all, the rush, the fight that wasn't supposed to happen. Clint sits across from her, a dark silhouette. His bow lies still near him and she looks at it, at the hand resting over the weapon as a gleam of light streams from the driver's compartment into the space they're sharing.
She can't see him, but she can sense him in every other way, a solid, familiar pattern she is used to now. The way he breathes, the way he smells, the way his movements sound (and the fact she knows how he's feeling, how he's slowly dropping from the adrenaline high, and can picture the look in his eyes). He took out the man on top of her, his arrow was silent and quicker than the gun, and she doesn't know what's more unnerving - the fact that she brushed hands with death, or her faith that he will be there to snatch her back.
A trail of red rests between them, a bond forged in bloodshed, solidified between their lips. She looks towards him and thinks how they are not so far apart and of how she is beginning to see herself.
tandom: the avengers
pairing: clint/natasha
rating: explicit
genre: romance, drama, introspection. dark-ish and playing with symbolism.
timeframe: set before the avengers (2012), and also before iron man2 and thor.
series: this is part of the same universe as unwrapped/ unwrapping, and it's going to be a series.
warnings: see the rating. Also, vague references of physical violence and assassins being assassins.
disclaimer: I don't won them, they own me.
author's note: i don't even know how to explain this one? it started as one of the discussions between cybermathwitch and me, and turned into another instance of overlapping headcanons and then a challenge between two of us - for each part i come up with, she will provide the POV of other person. the symbols we're playing with here are, obviously, color red (red hair, red thread), the tale of ariadne from greek mythology (who was a mistress of minotaur's maze, and gave theseus a golden thread so he could find his way out of it). also, if i may suggest music to go with this? una musica brutal and vuelvo al sur by gotan project (because tango is a perfect metaphor for this story and two of them and their dynamic, the power shifts, the trust - besides, tango constantly changes rhythm, just like a maze changes it's appearance, but it also has a distinct pattern and structure, and clint is all about noticing things like patterns).
(also! we may have figured out clint's superpower - being able to read natasha like an open book.)
*
For me, when I think of the best leaders I've danced with, I've noticed a commonality between all of them which is an apparent lack of ego or bravado. Instead of thinking about themselves, they just surrender to the music and to the pleasure of having a woman in their arms, no matter if she's experienced or not. They are the kind who would never let a woman feel incompetent or humiliated but instead as though it's been a sublime privilege to share this wonderful thing called tango with them. - Caroline Polack
*
It begins with red.
*
She begins (again) when she cuts off the dyed hair. All of it, the artificial faded blond hanging around her shoulders. She cuts it off mercilessly, because it makes her feel faded as well, like a picture without a face.
In days to come she watches (gleefully) how red reappears.
*
She is red. Strands of red, swirling around her like snakes, winding like ropes, a beautiful warning - her hair, the only thing that was always hers.
She knows she is red in the blur of things and choices; different kinds of bread and different ways to have your coffee; a variety of fabrics under her hand while she touches and tests them under her palm. She wonders what would the girl from two months ago like, the last one among the fake girls. It would be like flicking a switch and then, this would be easy.
*
She is the thread, the labyrinth and the death waiting inside. She is the perfect trap, designed to kill with closeness, once you underestimated the danger. They send the man with arrows to kill the beast, and even she thinks it's smart. Only, she doesn't expect him to come close; this man with steady eyes and strong arms, and minimalistic grace in his walk. You don't send an archer into the maze.
She smiles, because that's what she does, that's what her mission right now is, but her smile doesn't touch him. Her lips are red and her dress is black, his arm is steady around her back as they dance, just two people among so many others.
It's wrong, everything is wrong, but this man doesn't kill with his hands.
“Why are you here?” she asks. He doesn't look like he's lying when he gives her his answer.
“Because I have no desire to put an arrow through your heart.”
*
It's not that he makes her try. Again and again and again, and sometimes she lets herself be frustrated over it (and that's new).
It's not even how he treats her like he isn't afraid (which he isn't), even though that's a large part of why she feels calmer around him than anywhere else.
“This one,” he insists and pokes the box in her direction, and it's ridiculous. She picks up the piece of chocolate and tries it. It's sweet, it's good, but they're all good, and she's confused. He smiles over his coffee and points with his finger to the corner of his lips.
She wipes the chocolate smudge away.
“I like them all,” she says and expects him to make her choose.
(Before, she had to be certain. You died if you weren't certain, if you weren't on alert and knew the right answer, the right move. He is a man who notices things, who sees them long before others do.
He is the man who isn't afraid to take a look inside the labyrinth.)
Instead he just smiles.
“That's okay,” he says.
*
Their first time is her choice and her doing. She leads and he follows.
She is aware of the attraction. He doesn't hide from her, ever - he makes himself easy to read instead, and yet he doesn't ask for more than she's willing to give him.
After the days and weeks and months, after learning the sound of his steps (and closing her eyes to the sound of his voice) she does this. It's impulsive and when she gathers her nerve she doesn't allow herself to think. She straddles him and he watches and when she leans down to kiss him, calculated and measured and testing, he doesn't push her away.
He lets her.
She wants to learn how soft his mouth is, and he opens beneath her, warmth and desire and steady wall of muscle. She kisses him with her eyes open, and he's looking back at her. She tests his mouth carefully, learns his taste, considers the way his hands rest on her hips. She presses her body down against his and feels him harden, the helpless impulse that makes her feel powerful over him. She pulls away and looks at him, rocks against him and he closes his eyes. It's new and different, but it's not bad. His hands are there, waiting, and she knows he won't take if she's not ready.
She kisses the side of his neck and he shudders, and she can feel the change in his breath, the different beat of his heart. It's not the first time a man has reacted to her hands and lips, but it's the first time when she is herself. The red thread of her horrors is wrapped around his hand, and it lead him to her and guided her to him. She takes his face between her palms and drowns in the feel of his mouth, invites him inside and he follows. He slowly strokes and explores and takes, and her breath is caught in her chest. She wants his hands as well, wants to feel those perfect weapons of aim and precision on herself, and she guides his palms to her breasts. Their mouths part and he looks at her, carefully searching her expression.
“Are you sure?” he asks softly. She waits and looks at him and there's something tight and painful in her chest, something that doesn't let her look away. She nods and he nods as well, like he knows what to do, like he understands everything. “You can tell me to stop,” he says and pulls her closer. It's okay, okay, she tells herself when his lips trail up her neck.
It feels different. Different than anything before, even though she is hardly inexperienced. It makes her close her eyes and arch into him when his hands stroke her sides and pull her closer. “Tell me what feels good,” he says, and she nods, breathless and guides his mouth back to hers.
Now it's give and take and she can feel his strength in his desire. She loves that, loves how he doesn't shy away from her, how he's not afraid to push her and see if she would break. He leaves her mouth for her neck, drags a hot path toward her collarbone, and she feels her body turning warm and liquid, almost like quicksilver, like she could lose the sharp edges and dark shadows she is made of. He stops at the opening of her shirt, fingers stroking at the base of her throat. No one touches her there.
“Is this okay?” he asks and she considers the sensation, and how fast her heart is beating. She's learned to trust his hands, his voice, his eyes. He looks at her with blatant desire on his face, and looking at him like this, eyes bright and dark, feels like looking at the mirror. “Can I do this?” he asks in soft whisper and the first button gives under his fingers. She shivers, but it feels good and she almost moans her permission and looks at him as he goes. One button after another, and then lips, hot on her skin, and he asks. She loves how he asks, how he gives her power over this, but she also loves the newness of it all, the way she's allowed to react without planning. Her shirt hangs open, she can feel the warmth of his palms through the thin material of her bra. He looks up and her hands reach for his shirt, and he's looking at her all the while.
She's seen him naked before, but she never allowed herself to touch him like this.
“God, Tash,” he says when she starts kissing everywhere she can reach from her position. His breath turns shorter, quicker and she can feel his heartbeat beneath her hand. She wants to see him reacting, because when he looks at her, he sees her; not a picture she's been ordered to paint, but everything she is, the bad and the frightening, and the girl hidden in the maze, he sees it all. He doesn’t hide how she's affecting him, and her breath is short and her body pulled taut and ready as she watches how his eyes close and his mouth drops when her hands reach for his belt and the fastening of his jeans.
He feels smooth and hot and hard in her hand. She strokes him slowly, carefully and he shudders and moans, rocking into her palm. She tugs on his jeans and releases him and he hisses, face pressed against her breasts as she works him. She cradles the back of his head and closes her eyes, feeling every moan against her skin and drowning in the broken sounds that fall from his lips, because they are for her. She normally doesn't have this; she doesn't have to trick him to have him in her arms like this, whispering her name and coming all over her hand. Then he relaxes and it feels like he's melting into her, face pressed against hers.
It takes a couple of moments and then his breathing evens and his hands move onto her sides. He nudges her nose with his, coaxes her mouth to open and she lets him kiss her slowly, until everything starts to spiral away from her mind. Hands slide under her shirt, around her back and he waits until she nods to unfasten her bra. It's her turn to give, and she watches even as it scares her. His face looks awed, reverent when he uncovers her breasts. She's been touched there before, but watching his face and what he does to her makes all the difference.
She grinds against him, focused on the tension he's creating and aching for resolution. He releases her breast for her mouth, kisses her until she's left gasping and slides his hands down onto her hips. They're powerful and warm and heavy and she wants more now. He looks at her, breathing hard and waiting, and she takes his hand and guides it inside her pants and her underwear.
His aim is steady and his fingers feel so different than hers do, and he watches her keenly as he tests her response. One finger slides into her and she gasps, eyes closed when he starts touching her. She's holding onto his shoulders as he slowly sends her higher; and the climb is inevitable and unforgiving and she realizes she won't hold out long, won't be able to keep herself in control.
“Shh,” he says, lips against her cheek. “'It's okay. Let go,” as if he can read her mind. (Sometimes she's convinced he can.) “It's okay, Tash,” he says, repeats it and she clings onto the rough tone of his voice, the sensation of his lips on hers as she's rocking into his hand.
The orgasm hits her hard and uncontrolled and she gasps into his mouth. She shakes and moans and falls into his hands. His shoulders feel like an anchor as she's coming down from her high, reminding herself that it's okay, and this is him, and that he gave her this because he wanted to.
She doesn't stay with him. She goes back to her room and longs for him all through the night.
*
The aftermath of the adrenaline leaves her shaky and too open for her liking. Sure, she's made near escapes before, but she was used to doing them on her own. Her strengths, her assets, her doing; she was the sole master of her complicated, ever shifting universe.
It's a steady pattern now, hers to determine, like wrapping the thread around her palm and seeing where it leads her. She is the maze and the maze is hers.
The van is hurrying through unseen streets. She is grateful for the extraction team, for the fact that she can collapse on herself after it all, the rush, the fight that wasn't supposed to happen. Clint sits across from her, a dark silhouette. His bow lies still near him and she looks at it, at the hand resting over the weapon as a gleam of light streams from the driver's compartment into the space they're sharing.
She can't see him, but she can sense him in every other way, a solid, familiar pattern she is used to now. The way he breathes, the way he smells, the way his movements sound (and the fact she knows how he's feeling, how he's slowly dropping from the adrenaline high, and can picture the look in his eyes). He took out the man on top of her, his arrow was silent and quicker than the gun, and she doesn't know what's more unnerving - the fact that she brushed hands with death, or her faith that he will be there to snatch her back.
A trail of red rests between them, a bond forged in bloodshed, solidified between their lips. She looks towards him and thinks how they are not so far apart and of how she is beginning to see herself.