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So I am posting this here before I hit any of the comms out there because.. I dunno. Feelings. and because I may end up saying a lot of stuff in comments at first. And, well, ffs. I wrote this because I thought the first fill for the prompt was way too generic and didn't really do what it was set out to do. that probably says too much about me.

Title: Swansong
Rating: M / NC-17
Summary: Response to a kink meme challenge: Loki's threat to Natasha comes true; she is destroyed by the one closest to her
Characters: Clint, Natasha, brief appearance by Loki
Pairing: Clint/Natasha
Warnings, holy mother of warnings: Character death, non-con, graphic violent torture, mind-control, psychological torture, anything else I should mention that you see, please let me know. If you want any of the warnings elaborated, feel free to ask.
Author's Note: I have a lot of feels about this fic and how I wanted to explore the intimacy part of Loki's threat and the psychological implications of what precisely would movie!Natasha fear the most? I don't feel I've succeeded 100% but I believe this fic stands on its own.



It starts with the music.

it’s not the small, dark cell; it is not the restraints or the cold.

It’s the music, hauntingly familiar, piped through some unseen means that first strikes a chink in her armour.

Swan Lake, on average, is a performance that lasts two hours and ten minutes not counting the intermission.

Somehow, the music seems to stretch out for an eternity. Hours, days, months.

And then it cuts out, just before the final and starts anew.

Clint, she thinks sharply. This is his doing.

**

He is not smiling when he breaks the first of the bones in her foot. The pain makes her grit her teeth and she looks him in the eye, seeing only the blue sheen of the Tessecrat and not the man she knows.

**

When his fingers close around her wrist and wrench, cracking bone and tearing ligament she bites her lip and does not scream. not when he smiles, his eyes bearing only the smallest hint of unnatural blue. “Tasha,” he whispers, softly and lifts his free hand to caress her cheek.

**

She knows that even if by miracle she will get out of here, she is unlikely to ever walk again

**

The music does not stop.

She can’t hear anything in the darkness.

**

Clint is there, with the knives. Small, sharp, like a child’s toys in their brightness but what hurts more is the soft smile on his lips as he hums along, the blades cutting cleanly through the soft skin of her face. So sharp, there’s barely a sting and then a gush of blood.

**

She’s slowly willing herself to die. to not to give them the satisfaction of killing her. She will not eat nor drink, but something is keeping her alive. It feels worse than death.

**

He takes her left eye brutally and with no warning; one moment his hand is soft on her cheek, a mockery of a lover’s caress while he’s whispering sweet, terrible nothings in her ear “forever, Tasha, just you and me, like this until the end of the time... nothing but your heart beat and mine, no more bullshit...”

His thumb gouges into her skull in a burst of pain. She screams.

**
This time, she is left alone in her cell in bright light: light she would have called blinding before her face was coated in blood and vitreous fluid.

**

Clint is kissing her gently, like it’s the first kiss of lovers not the adrenaline and blood-fueled clash of hungry mouths. “Forever,” he whispers.
She knows there are no pliers nor knives here because she’s had more than one tooth lost in interrogation and it’s not something she fears. not any more.
The way he looks at her, tender and without a hint of blue as he breaks her half-healed fingers breaks something inside her.

**

She wakes up in a room, not a cell. She is not tied down but her body is too broken for her to move. The bed is soft and when she opens her - eye - she can see, barely, the soft red light and the room the exact replica of the one in Budapest.

Maybe they are in Budapest.

Clint is there. and so is Loki.

‘Natasha starts and pain jolts through her. She has not seen him since - since everything fell apart. Since Loki foiled them all, since Clint took her down in that corridor.

Clint is smiling at her, softly, hungrily as he approaches her.

“Tasha,” he whispers before he leans in to kiss her, burying a hand in her hair and pressing more soft kisses on her face, on her lips, in her hair.

Something inside her shatters; the last thread holding her together. There’s tears on her face as Clint kisses her, tenderly and softly.

“Forever,” he whispers.

“Please,” the word is a croak, barely audible from her bitten lips.

Clint smiles. and it’s the ugly razor slash she’s seen before, when he’s faced his targets.

His hands in her hair are rough and the urgency with which he tears his new pressed uniform trousers open not surprising.

This is the one thing he has not done to her; this final violation. His eyes are glazed-over blue as he murmurs endearments, his movements needy and too-soft. he’s making love to her like they never did and something inside Natasha finishes breaking as she starts hearing the notes that cue the final of the Swan Lake.

She does not see the knife. She does not see Clint’s beatific smile as he slices it expertly between her ribs. She only feels the brilliant stab of pain but not as keenly as she feels his release in her body.

Clint’s eyes are wide and free of blue when he opens them again.

“... Tasha...”

Then, there is nothing.

**
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