reach out to my weakness and don't let go
Title: reach out to my weakness and don’t let go
Fandom: Marvel Cinematic Univers (Thor, Iron Man 2, Avengers)
Characters: Phil Coulson/Clint Barton, Natasha Romanoff/Nick Fury
Rating: R (S&M slavery, referenced dub-con, humiliation)
Summary: Natasha and Clint go on an undercover op where Clint has to pretend to be Natasha's slave. This is a dark, less-nice followup to sexyspork's amusing fic to adorn and adore, which is necessary reading. Not for this fic, really, but because sporkie's awesome.
Notes: This is not how safe/sane/consensual BDSM works, people. Title paraphrased from Vienna Teng's 'The Tower'. Also partially inspired by this ficlet/image by flatbear.
Mistress Nicole's slave was possibly the prettiest piece of meat Darryl had ever seen.
He knelt at his owner's feet with the poise of a well-trained submissive, his head bowed, eyes closed as his mistress' fingers combed through short dirty-blond hair. The only things he wore were a pair of tight leather pants and a collar wrapped snugly around his neck, the attached leash hooked around Nicole's wrist. They made a gorgeous pair, the slave leanly muscled and handsome; the mistress darkly beautiful. Darryl wasn't surprised Mr. Mahoney wanted to bring them into the fold.
Darryl was just a guard; he didn't get all the weird dynamics Mr. Mahoney and the Associates had. Owners interacting with owners, owners interacting with their slaves; owners interacting with other owners' slaves... All he did was make sure no spies or feds got past-and maybe had some fun when the occasion allowed.
The door to the offices opened and Mr. Mahoney strode out, flanked by his two goons. Nicole rose to her feet gracefully, the leash still in her hand as she walked forward to greet the Irish mob boss. Her slave crawled forward on his hands and knees, obedient and docile, and Darryl couldn't help but leer. The man had a fantastic ass, and the muscles of his shoulders moved like a sleek cat's as he was tugged forward.
"Mistress Fuller," Mr. Mahoney greeted warmly, taking the woman's hand and raising it to his lips. She chuckled, low and sensual.
"Please, call me Nicole," she murmured, voice with just a twinge of Boston in it.
"Then you have to call me William," Mr. Mahoney replied with a broad smile. Darryl resisted the urge to roll his eyes. The boss never could resist a pretty face.
"And what is this?" Mr. Mahoney continued, looking down at the slave kneeling at Nicole's side. She smiled fondly, reaching down to lay a hand on the back of her pet's neck. The man shivered, shoulders slumping easily. That was one of the things Darryl liked about working for Mr. Mahoney: all the people he made friends with had no compunction about breaking people the way they wanted. Every new Associate that came in had at least one slave at their side, some poor shattered soul that would do anything for a bit of attention. It had made for some memorable times while their owners were occupied.
"This is Philippe," Nicole replied. She wrapped the leash around her hand and tugged, forcing her slave to raise his head toward the two masters. He was well trained enough not to meet their eyes, keeping his gaze lowered. "I've had him since he was just street trash working for the circus. The prize of my collection."
"May I?" Mr. Mahoney requested. His eyes were sharp behind the easy veneer; he wasn't a fool to be taken in by some spook trying to get intel on their operation. The feds that regularly tried to sneak in couldn't manage to pull off the kind of mindsets the Associates had-they were always caught, and their bodies usually ended up in the Hudson a few days later.
"Of course," Nicole said agreeably. She unhooked the leash before leaning down to grasp her slave's chin firmly in her hand. "Obey William as you would me," she ordered, her voice low and cool. "Do you understand?"
Philippe nodded mutely, eyes submissively lowered. Nicole pressed a kiss to his temple.
"Good boy."
Darryl folded his arms across his chest with a grin. Mr. Mahoney was ruthless when it came to screening potential Associates.
"Slave," he barked, "Present."
Philippe immediately followed the command, hands dropping to the front of his leather pants. He shimmied out of them while still on his knees-commando, nice-and folded them neatly, laying them on the floor in front of him before sitting back on his knees. His legs were spread, back straight, hands resting on his thighs as he looked straight ahead. There was no flush to his skin: no sign of embarrassment that often marked the wannabes who tried to sneak their way in. And Darryl couldn't help but salivate at all that bared skin and lean muscle on display; there were old scars littered on Philippe's body, a sign of the brutality his mistress had regularly subjected him to over the years.
Mr. Mahoney walked around the kneeling slave, nodding his head approvingly. Occasionally he would reach out and touch the man: taking a fistful of hair to yank his head back, feeling the rounded curve of his ass, pinching a pierced nipple. He shoved two fingers between Philippe's lips and the slave took them easily, licking around them obediently. Darryl grinned as he saw Philippe growing hard, an automatic response to pain and humiliation that all the slaves tended to have.
As the inspection came to an end Mr. Mahoney reached down to grip Philippe's neck with one hand, shoving him down until his forehead rested against the tops of Mr. Mahoney's shiny dress shoes.
"Lick," he ordered, dark and commanding. If there was any hesitation...
But there wasn't. Philippe's tongue darted out, stroking across the soft black leather. Mr. Mahoney held him down for a few minutes, watching as the slave laved his shoes with a pink tongue. After a while he chuckled and pulled Philippe back up, letting him sit back on his heels.
"He truly is beautiful," Mr. Mahoney said expansively, and Darryl knew Nicole and her pet had passed the test. The woman in question smirked, secure in her knowledge that her slave was well and truly broken to her whims.
"Why don't we retire to my office to discuss business plans?" Mr. Mahoney suggested as Nicole clipped the leash back to her pet's collar. "I'm afraid you will have to leave your delightful slave here, however."
"Of course," Nicole replied as Darryl stepped forward, trying to hide his eagerness. He took the leash from the woman and led Philippe over to the row of hooks set into one wall, looping the leash over one of them. Philippe settled down on his knees, eyes sliding shut as he waited obediently for his mistress to return. Mr. Mahoney offered his arm and Nicole took it gracefully, the two of them striding back into the offices with the goons at their heels, the door shutting behind them.
Darryl leaned against the wall near the door, exchanging a grin with his partner, Brendan. They were both in a mood to play today.
He took a long while to drink in the sight of all that exposed, tanned flesh before leaving his post and moving toward the docile slave.
In the ten minutes it takes Natasha to retrieve the necessary information linking the Irish mob to AIM, quietly subdue Mahoney and dispose of his two guards, Clint has already managed to get himself into trouble.
"-I don't care what the Directorate says about staying in character! There are lines, Clint, lines that you can't think can be let crossed-"
"Oh, for fuck's sake, Phil," Clint rolls his eyes, zipping up a pair of jeans as Natasha emerges from the office. The two meathead guards are laying in pools of blood in the antechamber, and a quick examination says that they were Phil's work, not Clint. As other SHIELD agents slip past her to take Mahoney into custody and clean up the mess, she walks over to where Clint and Phil are arguing in the corner. Clint's stripped of his trappings, the leash and collar lying on the ground near his feet, and by the red mark around his neck, Phil had ripped the strip of leather off him.
"Tasha needed the time," Clint shrugs. His lips are swollen and slick and Natasha's eyes narrow as fury rises in her chest.
"What did they do?" she demands in a low hiss, stalking forward. Clint jerks, startled, and casts her a guilty look.
"Nothing, christ, you two are-"
Natasha grabs Clint's chin in a manner completely unrelated to dominance but having everything to do with the fact that Clint was absolute shit at taking care of himself. She tilts his head up to the light, taking note of the way his mouth is red at the corners before dropping her gaze, skimming over the rest of his body. There are scratches over his shoulders and his nipples are swollen and red and Natasha decides right then and there that she is never going on an undercover op without comm units again, no matter how thorough the checks they have to pass or how delicate the situation.
She looks back into Clint's eyes, taking in the deeply buried shame, and the rage softens, just a little. She sighs and leans forward to kiss his cheeks, murmuring softly in his ear.
"You are more important than any mission, solnyshko. Remember that."
Clint ducks his head and allows Natasha to press him into Phil's arms. The anger and fear and panic in Phil's eyes are palpable, but as soon as Clint tucks his face into his neck, that all fades. Natasha reaches up to comb her fingers through her partner's hair as Phil holds him close, and the tension in Clint's body gradually flows away.
"When are you going to understand that you aren't replaceable?" Phil murmurs, voice soft and gently chiding. "You're worth everything, Clint. You're worthy of everything."
"Sorry," Clint mumbles, the words muffled by Phil's shirt. "I'll try to remember."
Phil just shakes his head and presses a kiss to Clint's temple.
"I'll just have to do a better job of reminding you."
"That's it, no more double-duty undercover ops while you're part of the Avengers."
Natasha turns around at the sound of Nick's voice, a wry smile curving her lips. His eye is still narrowed at the corset and tight leather miniskirt and fishnets she's wearing-and the fact that people other than him got to see her in them-but his gaze shifts over to Clint and Natasha can see the worry that's mirrored in her own eyes. She crosses the room to fit herself against his side, his arm wrapping protectively around her waist as Phil and Clint follow more slowly.
"Movie night?" Clint asks hopefully, lifting his head from Phil's shoulder.
"I managed to get my hands on a remastered version of Star Wars," Nick offers. "Without all the added extra shit that Lucas keeps trying to shove at us."
"Oh?" Natasha perks up. "I thought they didn't even make them without it."
Nick smirks, the expression smug.
"I have connections."
"And Stark just bought that antique popcorn maker from Coney Island for Steve," Phil muses.
"Movie night," Clint concludes decisively. He presses a little closer to Phil's side and no one mentions anything. A SHIELD agent wordlessly stops to hand Phil a t-shirt before moving on, and Phil helps Clint tug it on before pulling him toward the door, Nick and Natasha following behind.
They'll take over the Avengers' rec room until either the movies are over or Natasha and Clint fall asleep curled up together between their lovers, and in the morning popcorn will be strewn on the floor and SHIELD maintenance will halfheartedly complain about having to clean it up. Natasha and Phil and Nick will all be overprotective of Clint for another few weeks before he finally snaps and yells at them, and when the Avengers next face off against AIM there will be less subdued handcuffing arrests and more screaming trips to the hospital to repair broken bones before jailing.
And Phil will continue to try to convince Clint that he isn't expendable, convince him of his worthiness and importance-and, eventually, Clint will believe him.
Fandom: Marvel Cinematic Univers (Thor, Iron Man 2, Avengers)
Characters: Phil Coulson/Clint Barton, Natasha Romanoff/Nick Fury
Rating: R (S&M slavery, referenced dub-con, humiliation)
Summary: Natasha and Clint go on an undercover op where Clint has to pretend to be Natasha's slave. This is a dark, less-nice followup to sexyspork's amusing fic to adorn and adore, which is necessary reading. Not for this fic, really, but because sporkie's awesome.
Notes: This is not how safe/sane/consensual BDSM works, people. Title paraphrased from Vienna Teng's 'The Tower'. Also partially inspired by this ficlet/image by flatbear.
Mistress Nicole's slave was possibly the prettiest piece of meat Darryl had ever seen.
He knelt at his owner's feet with the poise of a well-trained submissive, his head bowed, eyes closed as his mistress' fingers combed through short dirty-blond hair. The only things he wore were a pair of tight leather pants and a collar wrapped snugly around his neck, the attached leash hooked around Nicole's wrist. They made a gorgeous pair, the slave leanly muscled and handsome; the mistress darkly beautiful. Darryl wasn't surprised Mr. Mahoney wanted to bring them into the fold.
Darryl was just a guard; he didn't get all the weird dynamics Mr. Mahoney and the Associates had. Owners interacting with owners, owners interacting with their slaves; owners interacting with other owners' slaves... All he did was make sure no spies or feds got past-and maybe had some fun when the occasion allowed.
The door to the offices opened and Mr. Mahoney strode out, flanked by his two goons. Nicole rose to her feet gracefully, the leash still in her hand as she walked forward to greet the Irish mob boss. Her slave crawled forward on his hands and knees, obedient and docile, and Darryl couldn't help but leer. The man had a fantastic ass, and the muscles of his shoulders moved like a sleek cat's as he was tugged forward.
"Mistress Fuller," Mr. Mahoney greeted warmly, taking the woman's hand and raising it to his lips. She chuckled, low and sensual.
"Please, call me Nicole," she murmured, voice with just a twinge of Boston in it.
"Then you have to call me William," Mr. Mahoney replied with a broad smile. Darryl resisted the urge to roll his eyes. The boss never could resist a pretty face.
"And what is this?" Mr. Mahoney continued, looking down at the slave kneeling at Nicole's side. She smiled fondly, reaching down to lay a hand on the back of her pet's neck. The man shivered, shoulders slumping easily. That was one of the things Darryl liked about working for Mr. Mahoney: all the people he made friends with had no compunction about breaking people the way they wanted. Every new Associate that came in had at least one slave at their side, some poor shattered soul that would do anything for a bit of attention. It had made for some memorable times while their owners were occupied.
"This is Philippe," Nicole replied. She wrapped the leash around her hand and tugged, forcing her slave to raise his head toward the two masters. He was well trained enough not to meet their eyes, keeping his gaze lowered. "I've had him since he was just street trash working for the circus. The prize of my collection."
"May I?" Mr. Mahoney requested. His eyes were sharp behind the easy veneer; he wasn't a fool to be taken in by some spook trying to get intel on their operation. The feds that regularly tried to sneak in couldn't manage to pull off the kind of mindsets the Associates had-they were always caught, and their bodies usually ended up in the Hudson a few days later.
"Of course," Nicole said agreeably. She unhooked the leash before leaning down to grasp her slave's chin firmly in her hand. "Obey William as you would me," she ordered, her voice low and cool. "Do you understand?"
Philippe nodded mutely, eyes submissively lowered. Nicole pressed a kiss to his temple.
"Good boy."
Darryl folded his arms across his chest with a grin. Mr. Mahoney was ruthless when it came to screening potential Associates.
"Slave," he barked, "Present."
Philippe immediately followed the command, hands dropping to the front of his leather pants. He shimmied out of them while still on his knees-commando, nice-and folded them neatly, laying them on the floor in front of him before sitting back on his knees. His legs were spread, back straight, hands resting on his thighs as he looked straight ahead. There was no flush to his skin: no sign of embarrassment that often marked the wannabes who tried to sneak their way in. And Darryl couldn't help but salivate at all that bared skin and lean muscle on display; there were old scars littered on Philippe's body, a sign of the brutality his mistress had regularly subjected him to over the years.
Mr. Mahoney walked around the kneeling slave, nodding his head approvingly. Occasionally he would reach out and touch the man: taking a fistful of hair to yank his head back, feeling the rounded curve of his ass, pinching a pierced nipple. He shoved two fingers between Philippe's lips and the slave took them easily, licking around them obediently. Darryl grinned as he saw Philippe growing hard, an automatic response to pain and humiliation that all the slaves tended to have.
As the inspection came to an end Mr. Mahoney reached down to grip Philippe's neck with one hand, shoving him down until his forehead rested against the tops of Mr. Mahoney's shiny dress shoes.
"Lick," he ordered, dark and commanding. If there was any hesitation...
But there wasn't. Philippe's tongue darted out, stroking across the soft black leather. Mr. Mahoney held him down for a few minutes, watching as the slave laved his shoes with a pink tongue. After a while he chuckled and pulled Philippe back up, letting him sit back on his heels.
"He truly is beautiful," Mr. Mahoney said expansively, and Darryl knew Nicole and her pet had passed the test. The woman in question smirked, secure in her knowledge that her slave was well and truly broken to her whims.
"Why don't we retire to my office to discuss business plans?" Mr. Mahoney suggested as Nicole clipped the leash back to her pet's collar. "I'm afraid you will have to leave your delightful slave here, however."
"Of course," Nicole replied as Darryl stepped forward, trying to hide his eagerness. He took the leash from the woman and led Philippe over to the row of hooks set into one wall, looping the leash over one of them. Philippe settled down on his knees, eyes sliding shut as he waited obediently for his mistress to return. Mr. Mahoney offered his arm and Nicole took it gracefully, the two of them striding back into the offices with the goons at their heels, the door shutting behind them.
Darryl leaned against the wall near the door, exchanging a grin with his partner, Brendan. They were both in a mood to play today.
He took a long while to drink in the sight of all that exposed, tanned flesh before leaving his post and moving toward the docile slave.
In the ten minutes it takes Natasha to retrieve the necessary information linking the Irish mob to AIM, quietly subdue Mahoney and dispose of his two guards, Clint has already managed to get himself into trouble.
"-I don't care what the Directorate says about staying in character! There are lines, Clint, lines that you can't think can be let crossed-"
"Oh, for fuck's sake, Phil," Clint rolls his eyes, zipping up a pair of jeans as Natasha emerges from the office. The two meathead guards are laying in pools of blood in the antechamber, and a quick examination says that they were Phil's work, not Clint. As other SHIELD agents slip past her to take Mahoney into custody and clean up the mess, she walks over to where Clint and Phil are arguing in the corner. Clint's stripped of his trappings, the leash and collar lying on the ground near his feet, and by the red mark around his neck, Phil had ripped the strip of leather off him.
"Tasha needed the time," Clint shrugs. His lips are swollen and slick and Natasha's eyes narrow as fury rises in her chest.
"What did they do?" she demands in a low hiss, stalking forward. Clint jerks, startled, and casts her a guilty look.
"Nothing, christ, you two are-"
Natasha grabs Clint's chin in a manner completely unrelated to dominance but having everything to do with the fact that Clint was absolute shit at taking care of himself. She tilts his head up to the light, taking note of the way his mouth is red at the corners before dropping her gaze, skimming over the rest of his body. There are scratches over his shoulders and his nipples are swollen and red and Natasha decides right then and there that she is never going on an undercover op without comm units again, no matter how thorough the checks they have to pass or how delicate the situation.
She looks back into Clint's eyes, taking in the deeply buried shame, and the rage softens, just a little. She sighs and leans forward to kiss his cheeks, murmuring softly in his ear.
"You are more important than any mission, solnyshko. Remember that."
Clint ducks his head and allows Natasha to press him into Phil's arms. The anger and fear and panic in Phil's eyes are palpable, but as soon as Clint tucks his face into his neck, that all fades. Natasha reaches up to comb her fingers through her partner's hair as Phil holds him close, and the tension in Clint's body gradually flows away.
"When are you going to understand that you aren't replaceable?" Phil murmurs, voice soft and gently chiding. "You're worth everything, Clint. You're worthy of everything."
"Sorry," Clint mumbles, the words muffled by Phil's shirt. "I'll try to remember."
Phil just shakes his head and presses a kiss to Clint's temple.
"I'll just have to do a better job of reminding you."
"That's it, no more double-duty undercover ops while you're part of the Avengers."
Natasha turns around at the sound of Nick's voice, a wry smile curving her lips. His eye is still narrowed at the corset and tight leather miniskirt and fishnets she's wearing-and the fact that people other than him got to see her in them-but his gaze shifts over to Clint and Natasha can see the worry that's mirrored in her own eyes. She crosses the room to fit herself against his side, his arm wrapping protectively around her waist as Phil and Clint follow more slowly.
"Movie night?" Clint asks hopefully, lifting his head from Phil's shoulder.
"I managed to get my hands on a remastered version of Star Wars," Nick offers. "Without all the added extra shit that Lucas keeps trying to shove at us."
"Oh?" Natasha perks up. "I thought they didn't even make them without it."
Nick smirks, the expression smug.
"I have connections."
"And Stark just bought that antique popcorn maker from Coney Island for Steve," Phil muses.
"Movie night," Clint concludes decisively. He presses a little closer to Phil's side and no one mentions anything. A SHIELD agent wordlessly stops to hand Phil a t-shirt before moving on, and Phil helps Clint tug it on before pulling him toward the door, Nick and Natasha following behind.
They'll take over the Avengers' rec room until either the movies are over or Natasha and Clint fall asleep curled up together between their lovers, and in the morning popcorn will be strewn on the floor and SHIELD maintenance will halfheartedly complain about having to clean it up. Natasha and Phil and Nick will all be overprotective of Clint for another few weeks before he finally snaps and yells at them, and when the Avengers next face off against AIM there will be less subdued handcuffing arrests and more screaming trips to the hospital to repair broken bones before jailing.
And Phil will continue to try to convince Clint that he isn't expendable, convince him of his worthiness and importance-and, eventually, Clint will believe him.