The bite of the needle moving across his skin is more irritating than painful. Clint, never fond of putting himself at the mercy of strangers, leans forward onto the chair and tries to relax. It's been months since Natasha revealed the tattoo on her hip to him and he's spent much of the time between then and now thinking of what he can do to return the gesture.
The permanence of her action isn't lost on him, not in the slightest, and that is what makes it so hard to think of something equal. Getting a tattoo of his own was perhaps the obvious answer, the problem was that he didn't know what to get. The obvious choice would be a spider, something to signify her role with SHIELD but it would be too obvious, too easily read by others. He considered other things a spider's web, an hourglass, cyrillic lettering … but none of the designs felt right.
"This mean something to you?" asks the bearded man wielding the needle.
Clint doesn't really want to encourage conversation, he simply wants to get the inking over with and be on his way but he somehow feels that he owes this stranger an explanation so he nods his head. "I travel a lot," he explains, "figure this will always help me to find the way home."
The design came to him one night when he was sitting alone at a back alley bar enjoying a post mission beer. It wasn't something he did often, particularly when he was working solo, but that night he had needed something to take the edge off. The first draft was little more than a doodle in black ink on what might have passed for a cocktail napkin, simple lines that mapped out the first incarnation of what he's currently having etched into the skin at the back of his shoulder.
"Done a couple like this before," the tattoo artist continues, "almost always on guys who travel a lot. This one's a little different though, guess everybody sees it differently."
"Makes sense," Clint replies thoughtfully, "not everybody's heading in the same direction."
The guy guides him towards the mirror set onto the far wall and encourages him to check the finished article before he covers it. Clint stares at the reflected image of his back, at the design that now adorns the lightly tanned skin. The compass is exactly as he imagined it, maybe three inches of black ink set into his skin. The design is simple, the four cardinal points and the inter-cardinals shown using simple lines, the latter shorter than the former. The only line with any detail to it is the one marking North to South, the one which he has had recorded as an arrow complete with fletching and arrowhead. An elaborate N sits above the arrowpoint, nothing obvious.
The arrow is Clint, the northern bearing is her. She is all that he needs to bring him home safe.
He hands over a handful of bills to the man kind enough to give him a permanent reminder of the most complicated relationship he's ever had and allows him to tape a simple dressing over the area so that he can put his shirt back on.
"So you're happy with it?" he asks, obviously proud of his work.
Clint grins. "It's perfect," he replies and means it. Nobody can give an archer grief for having a tattoo that reflects his skillset. Nobody needs to know that Natasha is his compass point, his north star; nobody but her.
It's another two weeks or so before they meet up, the rendezvous pre-arranged in a small hotel that they've stayed in once or twice before. She's on her way to a STRIKE mission with Rogers, he's heading to Fury and a long range assassination job somewhere in South Africa. The night that they squeeze in together is just a pitstop to take the edge off until they take the leave that they've scheduled.
The sex is fast and hard, refreshing when they spend so much time holding back around the people around them. She tastes of adrenaline, her fingers tearing at his clothing and digging into his skin as soon as the door swings shut behind them. Clint, half starved for the taste of her, responds in kind.
In the aftermath they stumble toward the shower, Natasha half tripping over his feet as their tongues duel with one another. They've gone a couple of rounds, both more aggressive than normal in light of the situation in which they find themselves. It's always desperate when they know that they might not see one another again for weeks, the bruises, hand prints and bite marks are like badges of honour, physical reminders of one another imprinted in flesh.
They've been in the tub for about three minutes before he has her pinned up against the wall. She squeals in a delightfully feminine way at the cold tile against heated skin, helps him to support her slippery weight by gripping his hips with her thighs. Her words fall in a rush, urging him on in russian, each syllable a caress of her mother tongue that he doesn't need his linguistic skills to interpret.
With every push and pull, slip and slide, he plants heated words against throat and breast, the movement of his hips stroking her deep inside. The sound of his name on her lips, her taste on his tongue, gives rise to an animal urge to claim her, to mark her. He wants the world to know that they are a pair.
"Faster," she manages to say, fingers tightening in his hair, hips rolling in time with his own.
He smiles against her mouth, repositions her slightly so that he can slip a hand between them and stroke her. Her moan is the stuff that wet dreams are made of, the bite of her nails in his shoulder exactly what he wants. "You just try and keep up."
He drives her hard, hips slamming against hers with every thrust and causing her to bounce off the tile at her back. In response she chuckles darkly and kisses the breath out of him. The touch of her mouth, and the bite of her teeth in his lower lip, brings on a madness that tears all restraint from him.
Body surging, he concentrates on the rhythm of his advance and retreat, pulling back as far as he can bear before slamming his hips forward into hers. Inarticulate sounds fall from both of their mouths to punctuate the movement of their bodies, the slapping of flesh competing with the sound of falling water and heavy breathing. Clint has always loved bathroom acoustics.
He knows when she's close, it's a subtle change in rhythm, a wild look in her eye that tells him where she's at. He wants her to finish first, to feel her inner walls milk him of everything he has. He knows exactly how to get them there.
She shatters apart as his fingers work their magic, her body gripping and releasing his own in waves. He guides her through the first part of her orgasm, finger dexterity allowing him to push her further and faster than he generally advertises, and then repositions her in his arms, spreading her legs wider and gripping her thighs hard enough to leave bruises as he slams himself home with a series of punishing thrusts. The orgasm tears through him like a wildfire, a blistering rush of chemical chaos that makes his body move of its own volition, faster and harder until he spills himself in a rush inside of her.
Still breathing hard, she looks up at him through pleasure glazed eyes, her heartbeat hammering against his own as he collapses against her and pins her once again to the wall. The hurricane passes with a series of lingering kisses and all is calm. The fall of water on porcelain is the only sound.
He gives her some room to clean herself up, quickly washing himself down and stepping out of the tub. Examining the bruises and the bite marks in the mirror, he wraps a towel around his hips and waits for her. Natasha hums tunelessly behind him as she washes the soap from her hair. He barely hears the water shut off or sees the hand reach for the towel before she spots it.
"That's new," she exclaims, surprise evident in spite of the casual way in which the words escape her.
Clint raises his eyes to find her reflected in the glass above the handbasin. As expected, her eyes are locked onto the back of his shoulder. "You like?" he asks.
Natasha steps lithely out of the tub and crosses the tile until she's standing close enough for him to feel the warmth of her at his back. Her fingers ghost over the design, following the lines and making him shiver. Her eyes appear over the top of his shoulder and hold his for a second, her fingers still moving over the ink.
"Natasha?" He worries that perhaps she hasn't realised the significance of the design or correctly interpreted the meaning of the N at the top of the compass.
Her lips press against the skin gently, her eyes still holding his. "You wrote me into your skin," she breathes, her hands sliding around his waist until she leans fully into his back, " and that might be the hottest thing I've ever seen."
Her fingers toy with the edge of his towel, flirting with the possibility of slipping beneath and showing him just how much she appreciates the gesture. Clint lets his head drop and a strangled groan escapes him. Natasha takes this response as consent, dropping her own towel to the floor and kissing his shoulder again. Her hands wander up and across his torso, lingering here and there on the marks that she has made. He can feel the weight of her breasts against his back and the stirrings of arousal as his body responds to her proximity.
"Early start in the morning," he reminds her, "you sure you want to do this again?" His tone is light, teasing. They both know that if he turns around and puts his hands on her they'll be up the rest of the night. Neither of them seem to care.
In response she loosens his towel and lets it drop to the floor beside her own, fingers giving an experimental tug at an already promising erection. "Oh I can go as often as you can," she whispers, husky and direct, "probably more."
With a whoop of laughter he turns and scoops her up in his arms, striding out into the room and toward the bed. "Challenge accepted."
He's often thought that she'll be the death of him but if he's right then he'll go out with a smile.