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.
The question startles him though and he tilts his head at it, and if the blindfold was gone, she could see the speculative look in his gaze. But, well, she's calling the shots here, and he can manage that without slipping back into the panic from before. This is just reciting facts about himself.
"I'd been working with the Swordsman for about a year, maybe a year and a half. Learning how to throw the knives. When, ah, Trickshot--that was the guy who did the bows--noticed me. Offered to teach me how to shoot. So he handed me a bow and I hit a bullseye on my first shot--" he pauses for a moment, and then admits something he's never admitted to anyone before. "It was the first time I actually felt like I had control of my life. The first time I knew I could beat someone who was trying to force me to do something."
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.
Her hand slips away from the now-steady beat of his heart and she paints swirling patterns across his bare chest with her fingertips as he speaks. She doesn't know if he knows it, but talking about his bow always settles him a little. She supposes the reminder of it pushes him into the sniper-mindset. There's a steadiness there that they can take advantage of. If she can only get him there completely.
Of course, Natasha has heard the story about how Clint moved from knives to arrows, but she's never heard the last bit, and she tilts her head at it. "That's why you favor the bow. For the control of it." The fact resonates with her and her own need for control. "Try to remember the feeling of the bow in your hands that day. The way the ground felt beneath your feet. The way it smelled there." Her hand slips down to his hip, resting loosely against the soft material of his underwear. "Call it back to your mind's eye. As detailed as you can."
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.
As she instructs him to remember the first time he held his bow, his eyes slip shut behind the blindfold, breath coming out in a shuddering exhale, hands wrapping together around the cuffs, stabilizing. He does what he can to pull up the memory.
It was early morning, and they'd set up in somewhere North, he can't remember the exact city now but he knows it was north because he could smell pine trees and they'd had to stop and get scarves to keep warm during the night and there had been more fires than usual, as people used them for warmth instead of just cooking.
He'd been standing in the sideshow tent, under the blue and white canopy, ill-fitting shoes on feet that were too big for them, already outgrowing the clothes one of the women had given him when her son outgrew them, but neither he nor Barney had any money to replace them. At least his costumes fit--
--ill-fitting shoes standing on sawdust that they used to keep the dirt down, but ended up kicking up twice as much dust and always smelled of horses and barns no matter how fresh they got it and he'd looked over Trickshot's bows and picked up the smallest one. She was black wood and sleek and barely used, but she curved in his hand like she was made to be there. He'd swallowed, lifted her up as he fitted an arrow on her notch and aimed at the target.
Thumb against his neck. Draw of breath. The twang of string snapping free against his ear and the steady 'thunk' of an arrow-point hitting a target.
He can't tell, lost in the memory as he is, but as he pictures the shot, he's settled almost completely against her, breath and heartbeat slow and steady and strong, muscles tense in a completely different way, but not singing with strain, and the lines in his face have smoothed out, hands loose against his back.
"I'd never been able to do anything without someone teaching me first--" The 'until then' is obviously implied. "First five arrows I put in the air all hit center."
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.
"You were a natural," Natasha says and has to curl her hands into fists to resist the urge to touch his face and feel the lack of tension there. "Like you were made to use that bow. It wasn't a tool or a weapon, it was an extension of you." She steals another soft and sweet kiss. "Hold on to that feeling of seeing each of your arrows hit their marks."
"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.
Sometimes, Natasha thinks it a shame that she didn't know Clint when he was younger. Of course, if they'd gotten to know each other earlier, then he probably would've been dead by her hand by now. Not because she would've wanted to kill her, but because she would've been younger too and unable to hide her bond with him. When the Red Room found out-- When Ivan found out, she has no doubts that she'd be ordered to kill him. And she would have to. Probably would've cried herself to sleep after, but she would've done it. Because orders are orders.
Keeping herself from touching Clint is surprisingly difficult. Ever since Loki returned her to Clint, they've been in pretty much constant physical contact and giving it up now leaves a steady ache beneath her ribs. Instead of running a hand over his shoulders, she curls her hands up into fists against her thighs and keeps them there.
"I bet you did, and I bet you were the most impressive thing there that night." Briefly, she wonders if he's aware of the fact that they're actually having a normal conversation while he's handcuffed and blindfolded. But she's not going to point it out because they have a ways to go still and she can't afford him losing the calm he has just found.
Carefully, the mattress just barely dipping beneath them as she moves, she shifts away from Clint so they're not touching at all. "The audience must've loved you. You're such a show-off..."
His life would likely have gone a completely different way if he'd gotten to know her earlier. If it was Nat that stepped into his life instead of Phil--there's no telling where either of them would be. Likely dead under SHIELD's hands, because he would have been so impossibly infatuated with her when he was younger, he would have followed her around the globe. And they would have killed people together, sunk deeper into that spiral they both took separately, except there wouldn't be someone waiting to pull them out.
It would have been nice to have her as a friend though, in that time in his life when he was so unsure of where he fit. As his brother withdrew from him and he tried to imagine a world without Barney calling the shots.
He can feel though, the jarring difference when she's suddenly not touching him at all. The muscles in his arms tighten against the cuffs, fingers splaying wide before clenching again, as if he's trying to physically grab and keep the memory that's managed to settle him this far. They have to do this. He has to get through this. Part of him wants to panic, to demand she come back, to plead with her if she doesn't listen to demands, and to beg if he has too, but the part of him, and amazingly for the first time since they began this, the slightly larger part forces him to breathe, to focus on her voice, to keep his eyes closed behind the blindfold and concentrate on getting the story out. If he can get Nat to thirty minutes of being tied up and completely under his control, he can trust her enough to get him to the same length of time blindfolded.
She's not gone, he reminds himself almost desperately, he can still hear her breathing, here her voice. She wouldn't be breathing if she were dead.
"They did." he finally manages after a silence that was likely a little too long for comfort. "I'm not sure if I was the most impressive--we had a lion tamer who was smaller than you, maybe--ninety pounds soaking wet and she was always the crowd favorite, watching her make lions and tigers dance when she was barely bigger than the size of their paws."
Back in the day, Natasha probably would've made a pretty crap friend for an uncertain teenager trying to find his place in life. She was always selfish and not accustomed to playing nice with others. She would've pushed all of his boundaries and made him prove over and over again that he'd do anything for her with the threat of their friendship being revoked hanging over his head. But, knowing him might've changed all that with time.
When Clint stiffens next to her, his breaths turning quick and ragged, Natasha doesn't hold her breath -- she's come to realise that it's one of the quickest ways to send Clint into a panic, quickly spiraling out of control -- but her heart does still painfully in her chest. Her own tension-level skyrockets as the silence stretches out between them and in all honesty she's just waiting for him to blurt out "Budapest" and end this. Despite the disappointment already tightening her chest, she waits patiently for him to make a decision. End this or continue.
The relief she feels when he opts to continue knows no bounds, and it sends her heart skittering in her chest. "She sounds pretty amazing," she says and her wide smile is definitely audible in her voice. "I hope her story doesn't end with her being eaten by one of her lions or tigers." Ever so cautiously, she pushes up from the bed, making the mattress dip and then spring back up into shape. She stays close though, just standing there. "What other acts did you guys have?"
She would have been a disaster for him, because he would have done anything for her friendship. He would have gone to the edge time and time again for her, proving as much as he could that he was hers so very completely, that he would do anything she asked and all he would have taken in payment and retribution was her affection and praise. He was so starved for affection and wanted so desperately for someone to tell him he was doing something right.
"Nat--" He starts as she pulls away completely from the bed, and he can feel the dip of the mattress before it lacks her weight completely. There's a moment, a brief panicked flash where he wants to reach out for her and he knows that he can't, and instead of the memory of the circus in his mind's eye, it's her trapped under a beam as water rises around her, as it laps over her chin, leaving her to crane her head back as she tried to keep speaking for a second longer--the muscles in his shoulders bunch as he braces himself to break out of the cuffs. And then, in the quiet of the room, he hears her breath, low, steady, and real and with a desperate wrench of his mental space he pulls himself back to a dusty arena with a tiny woman and dancing tigers.
"She was," he manages, though it's strained, "and no, never. One of them tried, once--she had scars that crossed from her shoulder to her hip, claw marks, but she just--kept at it. After she survived that, I don't know, they were like kittens around her. She had no fear."
His willingness to cross every line and break every rule for her would only have urged her on. They would've left a path of destruction a mile wide in their wake and anyone wanting to find them need only follow the bodies. It wouldn't have ended well for the two of them, but they would've had a lot of fun together at least.
"I'm right here, Clint," Natasha promises softly. Though the dark fabric of the blindfold covers a good third of his face, she can still see the panic twisting up his features. It's evident to the tightness of his jaw and the lines around his mouth. Hell, she can see it written across his whole body. In the way his shoulders strain and hunch, in the tension of his fingers.
Normally, she'd soothe him with her touch, run a hand across his back or his tense arms and reassure him. But, this time she can't. He needs to calm himself. She hates watching him tethering on the brink of panic but this really is their last recourse and he's been doing so good up until now.
"That sounds hot." Staying close to the bed, she begins pacing around, just to get him used to her in movement. Though she usually walks softly without making a sound, now she makes sure that he can hear each step she takes across the lush wall-to-wall carpet. "Did you sleep with her?" Natasha has no trouble conjuring an image of a teenage Clint with a tiny woman with impressive scars and a talent for keeping wild beasts at bay. It's sorta hot, actually. She really wouldn't have minded seeing that.
It wouldn't have ended well, but in the meantime they would have had the pleasure of watching the world burn between them. And he would have done trick after trick for her, taken shot after shot and killed more and more if it meant that she smiled at him, that she gave him that approval and her friendship which he would have so desired. So craved. It is, most likely, better that they didn't meet that way. Or their foray with SHIELD would have likely ended much faster, and much more suddenly than it did.
The promise does more to soothe him than anything else, the slow,steady, familiar cadence of her voice that he maintains can't be faked. Not to him at least. It's her and she's here and she's alive and he has to get through this. He swallows, tries to refocus, tries to drag himself to the thought of Sofia and her tigers, the swipe of scars that crossed her olive skin. Christ, but he hasn't thought of her in years.
Clint lets out a snort at her second question--settling now, because he can hear her walking (even as he knows she's doing it for his benefit), he can hear her voice and her breath. She's alive, she's here, he hasn't lost her--and shrugs his shoulders.
"She was my first, actually. I was--Christ, must have been fifteen or just turned sixteen? She was twenty or something like that. She certainly was the more experience of the two of us."
The question startles him though and he tilts his head at it, and if the blindfold was gone, she could see the speculative look in his gaze. But, well, she's calling the shots here, and he can manage that without slipping back into the panic from before. This is just reciting facts about himself.
"I'd been working with the Swordsman for about a year, maybe a year and a half. Learning how to throw the knives. When, ah, Trickshot--that was the guy who did the bows--noticed me. Offered to teach me how to shoot. So he handed me a bow and I hit a bullseye on my first shot--" he pauses for a moment, and then admits something he's never admitted to anyone before. "It was the first time I actually felt like I had control of my life. The first time I knew I could beat someone who was trying to force me to do something."
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Her hand slips away from the now-steady beat of his heart and she paints swirling patterns across his bare chest with her fingertips as he speaks. She doesn't know if he knows it, but talking about his bow always settles him a little. She supposes the reminder of it pushes him into the sniper-mindset. There's a steadiness there that they can take advantage of. If she can only get him there completely.
Of course, Natasha has heard the story about how Clint moved from knives to arrows, but she's never heard the last bit, and she tilts her head at it. "That's why you favor the bow. For the control of it." The fact resonates with her and her own need for control. "Try to remember the feeling of the bow in your hands that day. The way the ground felt beneath your feet. The way it smelled there." Her hand slips down to his hip, resting loosely against the soft material of his underwear. "Call it back to your mind's eye. As detailed as you can."
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As she instructs him to remember the first time he held his bow, his eyes slip shut behind the blindfold, breath coming out in a shuddering exhale, hands wrapping together around the cuffs, stabilizing. He does what he can to pull up the memory.
It was early morning, and they'd set up in somewhere North, he can't remember the exact city now but he knows it was north because he could smell pine trees and they'd had to stop and get scarves to keep warm during the night and there had been more fires than usual, as people used them for warmth instead of just cooking.
He'd been standing in the sideshow tent, under the blue and white canopy, ill-fitting shoes on feet that were too big for them, already outgrowing the clothes one of the women had given him when her son outgrew them, but neither he nor Barney had any money to replace them. At least his costumes fit--
--ill-fitting shoes standing on sawdust that they used to keep the dirt down, but ended up kicking up twice as much dust and always smelled of horses and barns no matter how fresh they got it and he'd looked over Trickshot's bows and picked up the smallest one. She was black wood and sleek and barely used, but she curved in his hand like she was made to be there. He'd swallowed, lifted her up as he fitted an arrow on her notch and aimed at the target.
Thumb against his neck. Draw of breath. The twang of string snapping free against his ear and the steady 'thunk' of an arrow-point hitting a target.
He can't tell, lost in the memory as he is, but as he pictures the shot, he's settled almost completely against her, breath and heartbeat slow and steady and strong, muscles tense in a completely different way, but not singing with strain, and the lines in his face have smoothed out, hands loose against his back.
"I'd never been able to do anything without someone teaching me first--" The 'until then' is obviously implied. "First five arrows I put in the air all hit center."
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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.
"You were a natural," Natasha says and has to curl her hands into fists to resist the urge to touch his face and feel the lack of tension there. "Like you were made to use that bow. It wasn't a tool or a weapon, it was an extension of you." She steals another soft and sweet kiss. "Hold on to that feeling of seeing each of your arrows hit their marks."
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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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Keeping herself from touching Clint is surprisingly difficult. Ever since Loki returned her to Clint, they've been in pretty much constant physical contact and giving it up now leaves a steady ache beneath her ribs. Instead of running a hand over his shoulders, she curls her hands up into fists against her thighs and keeps them there.
"I bet you did, and I bet you were the most impressive thing there that night." Briefly, she wonders if he's aware of the fact that they're actually having a normal conversation while he's handcuffed and blindfolded. But she's not going to point it out because they have a ways to go still and she can't afford him losing the calm he has just found.
Carefully, the mattress just barely dipping beneath them as she moves, she shifts away from Clint so they're not touching at all. "The audience must've loved you. You're such a show-off..."
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It would have been nice to have her as a friend though, in that time in his life when he was so unsure of where he fit. As his brother withdrew from him and he tried to imagine a world without Barney calling the shots.
He can feel though, the jarring difference when she's suddenly not touching him at all. The muscles in his arms tighten against the cuffs, fingers splaying wide before clenching again, as if he's trying to physically grab and keep the memory that's managed to settle him this far. They have to do this. He has to get through this. Part of him wants to panic, to demand she come back, to plead with her if she doesn't listen to demands, and to beg if he has too, but the part of him, and amazingly for the first time since they began this, the slightly larger part forces him to breathe, to focus on her voice, to keep his eyes closed behind the blindfold and concentrate on getting the story out. If he can get Nat to thirty minutes of being tied up and completely under his control, he can trust her enough to get him to the same length of time blindfolded.
She's not gone, he reminds himself almost desperately, he can still hear her breathing, here her voice. She wouldn't be breathing if she were dead.
"They did." he finally manages after a silence that was likely a little too long for comfort. "I'm not sure if I was the most impressive--we had a lion tamer who was smaller than you, maybe--ninety pounds soaking wet and she was always the crowd favorite, watching her make lions and tigers dance when she was barely bigger than the size of their paws."
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When Clint stiffens next to her, his breaths turning quick and ragged, Natasha doesn't hold her breath -- she's come to realise that it's one of the quickest ways to send Clint into a panic, quickly spiraling out of control -- but her heart does still painfully in her chest. Her own tension-level skyrockets as the silence stretches out between them and in all honesty she's just waiting for him to blurt out "Budapest" and end this. Despite the disappointment already tightening her chest, she waits patiently for him to make a decision. End this or continue.
The relief she feels when he opts to continue knows no bounds, and it sends her heart skittering in her chest. "She sounds pretty amazing," she says and her wide smile is definitely audible in her voice. "I hope her story doesn't end with her being eaten by one of her lions or tigers." Ever so cautiously, she pushes up from the bed, making the mattress dip and then spring back up into shape. She stays close though, just standing there. "What other acts did you guys have?"
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"Nat--" He starts as she pulls away completely from the bed, and he can feel the dip of the mattress before it lacks her weight completely. There's a moment, a brief panicked flash where he wants to reach out for her and he knows that he can't, and instead of the memory of the circus in his mind's eye, it's her trapped under a beam as water rises around her, as it laps over her chin, leaving her to crane her head back as she tried to keep speaking for a second longer--the muscles in his shoulders bunch as he braces himself to break out of the cuffs. And then, in the quiet of the room, he hears her breath, low, steady, and real and with a desperate wrench of his mental space he pulls himself back to a dusty arena with a tiny woman and dancing tigers.
"She was," he manages, though it's strained, "and no, never. One of them tried, once--she had scars that crossed from her shoulder to her hip, claw marks, but she just--kept at it. After she survived that, I don't know, they were like kittens around her. She had no fear."
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"I'm right here, Clint," Natasha promises softly. Though the dark fabric of the blindfold covers a good third of his face, she can still see the panic twisting up his features. It's evident to the tightness of his jaw and the lines around his mouth. Hell, she can see it written across his whole body. In the way his shoulders strain and hunch, in the tension of his fingers.
Normally, she'd soothe him with her touch, run a hand across his back or his tense arms and reassure him. But, this time she can't. He needs to calm himself. She hates watching him tethering on the brink of panic but this really is their last recourse and he's been doing so good up until now.
"That sounds hot." Staying close to the bed, she begins pacing around, just to get him used to her in movement. Though she usually walks softly without making a sound, now she makes sure that he can hear each step she takes across the lush wall-to-wall carpet. "Did you sleep with her?" Natasha has no trouble conjuring an image of a teenage Clint with a tiny woman with impressive scars and a talent for keeping wild beasts at bay. It's sorta hot, actually. She really wouldn't have minded seeing that.
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The promise does more to soothe him than anything else, the slow,steady, familiar cadence of her voice that he maintains can't be faked. Not to him at least. It's her and she's here and she's alive and he has to get through this. He swallows, tries to refocus, tries to drag himself to the thought of Sofia and her tigers, the swipe of scars that crossed her olive skin. Christ, but he hasn't thought of her in years.
Clint lets out a snort at her second question--settling now, because he can hear her walking (even as he knows she's doing it for his benefit), he can hear her voice and her breath. She's alive, she's here, he hasn't lost her--and shrugs his shoulders.
"She was my first, actually. I was--Christ, must have been fifteen or just turned sixteen? She was twenty or something like that. She certainly was the more experience of the two of us."
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