Betrayed
Title: Betrayed
Prompt: Slash/Femslash - 04. Watched (mission_insane)
Character/Pairing: Clint Barton/Phil Coulson
Rating: R
Warnings: dark, dub-con
Word count: 1,262
Summary: Serial Killer!AU; Det. Coulson hasn't got a single lead on the Hawk. That doesn't stop the man himself coming for a night-time visit.
Disclaimer: Not mine; I'm just using them for a while.
A/N: Partly inspired by this prompt, but mostly inspired by a comment_fic prompt, which is where I originally posted the piece.
The woman in the photograph stared up at the camera, her eyes glassy and unseeing. Lifeless. Phil Coulson tore his own eyes away, scrubbing a hand over his face before he glanced at the clock. One in the morning. Great. The case file was strewn across his coffee table, paper and photos everywhere. There was no way he was getting any further on this tonight.
The photo next to her face showed her upper body and the arrow protruding from her throat. Coulson picked this one up and leaned back into the couch. Irritation and frustration prickled just under the surface of his weariness; irritation at the hawk feathers that fletched the arrows, frustration at the fact he knew the bastard was laughing at him.
They called him the Hawk because, well, what else could they; but Coulson knew he was out there somewhere. He had to be. He'd killed five women they knew of and always the same way - an arrow to the throat. No one saw him, but then, Coulson reasoned, there was no indication that he ever approached his victims. It was unlikely he knew them and it didn't seem that there was a definitive reason why he chose one woman over another.
All five had been killed in broad daylight and panic was starting to spread through his city. They couldn't quell it, not without dragging the bastard in, but he was proving impossible to find. Coulson dropped the photo back onto the table in disgust. Whether the disgust was directed at himself or the Hawk, he didn't know. He couldn't be sure anymore.
There was no point in staying up all night dwelling on it, not when fresh eyes might provide better results, so Coulson cleared the table, all the papers and photos going back in order. He swallowed the last of a (very cold) cup of coffee and powered down his laptop before he stood, swaying a little. It was only one thirty now, but he'd been running on nothing but coffee and determination for two days straight. Bed, Fury had told him, and Coulson had, reluctantly agreed - though he'd made sure to smuggle out a copy of the case file first.
He suspected Fury knew, but indulged him. It was why they worked so well together.
Coulson wandered into the bathroom, shrugging off his shirt and dropping it into the hamper. His pants followed. He eyed the shower for a minute, then decided it could wait until morning. He brushed his teeth and finally, clad only in his boxers, slipped between the sheets, falling asleep almost as soon as his head hit the pillow.
When Coulson woke, he knew something was wrong. He could see the dull glow of his laptop in the other room. The window was open, curtains blowing in on a light breeze. Most importantly - there was a pressure on his chest, a man leaning over him.
Something cold and metallic settled in the hollow of his throat and Coulson opened his eyes fully, trying to make out the man's features in the darkness. He caught the hint of a smile and the sparkle of dark eyes, but not much else.
"I've gotta say, it's good to finally meet the man who's been hunting my ass," the man - the Hawk, Coulson realised, as he recognised that the cold metal object pressing against him was an arrowhead - said. He sounded cocky and confident and far younger than Coulson had been expecting.
"You're the Hawk," was all Coulson could say - all he could think to say. His gun was on the nightstand, but he knew he didn't have a chance in hell of reaching it, not if he didn't want an arrow to the neck.
The Hawk let out a huff of laughter. "I'd be impressed, but it's not like it takes a lot of figuring out, huh?"
"Not really, no." There was no way to get the guy off him, either; the hand that wasn't holding the arrow was bearing down on Coulson's chest, pinning him to the bed along with strong thighs either side of his hips. He was, for all intents and purposes, trapped.
"What do you want?" Coulson asked, after the silence had dragged on for too long.
"Just wanted to see how you were getting along, Phil," the Hawk said, grin a little too smug. "You're not even close, are you?"
Frustration bubbled to the surface and Coulson almost lifted his head but, remembering the arrow, sank back into the pillows instead. "No," he admitted.
The Hawk was silent again and this time, Coulson fancied he could feel eyes roaming over his bare chest. The Hawk hummed out a little sound and his fingertips tightened for a moment, pressing into skin.
"I am curious about you, Phil Coulson," the Hawk admitted at last, suddenly much closer than Coulson had anticipated. Fingertips stroked at his chest, though the pressure didn't let up. "You look like…" Eyes definitely wandering, "Like some kind of accountant. A paper pusher - but I've seen you. I saw you take down the Widow-"
There was something in his voice - something Coulson didn't want to acknowledge because of the way it made fear (and something else) curl deep in his gut. He remembered the Widow and her dark, dark eyes. She was young too, like the Hawk, and Coulson remembered the day he finally took her in.
He'd had two broken ribs, an almost-cracked skull and figured he'd got off lightly, all things considered.
"I'd never seen anyone move like that in a suit," the Hawk said and those fingers were definitely moving, one ghosting over a nipple in a way that made Coulson arch up, ever so slightly.
He tensed when he realised and felt a puff of air against his cheek as the Hawk laughed. "Relax, Phil. I don't plan on taking too much, not tonight. I just wanted to introduce myself."
He bit down on Coulson's earlobe, more gentle than Coulson expected and when he spoke, his voice came out deeper, his body determined to betray him. "Oh yeah, kid? You gonna tell me your name?"
"Where's the fun in that?" the Hawk asked and the arrowhead bit briefly against his skin. Coulson resisted the urge to arch up again. "No, this is just a courtesy call, Phil Coulson. Carry on looking for me, if you have to - but don't expect to find me."
Brave, Coulson thought, but then, they all were. "As soon as you let me go, you know I'll call them. I'll come after you."
The Hawk laughed and his hand started a steady slide down Coulson's body. "Oh, I'm counting on that," he said, before capturing Coulson's lips in a rough, biting kiss. When Coulson gasped, the Hawk's tongue slid into his mouth and when his body betrayed him, his tongue flicking back almost experimentally, the hand slid into his boxers, palming his already half-hard cock.
Above it all was the pressure at his neck, where the arrowhead remained, firm and unmoving. When Coulson came, gasping and cursing, he felt the press of a smile against his chest.
"When you want this again," the Hawk whispered - and God, he sounded wrecked, too, "Let me know."
With that, he was up and off Coulson, over to the window and out of it in less than half a minute. Coulson lay still. He should call Fury, he knew that.
Instead he lifted the arrow from his chest with a minutely-shaking hand.
He wondered how long it would be before he gave in.
Prompt: Slash/Femslash - 04. Watched (mission_insane)
Character/Pairing: Clint Barton/Phil Coulson
Rating: R
Warnings: dark, dub-con
Word count: 1,262
Summary: Serial Killer!AU; Det. Coulson hasn't got a single lead on the Hawk. That doesn't stop the man himself coming for a night-time visit.
Disclaimer: Not mine; I'm just using them for a while.
A/N: Partly inspired by this prompt, but mostly inspired by a comment_fic prompt, which is where I originally posted the piece.
The woman in the photograph stared up at the camera, her eyes glassy and unseeing. Lifeless. Phil Coulson tore his own eyes away, scrubbing a hand over his face before he glanced at the clock. One in the morning. Great. The case file was strewn across his coffee table, paper and photos everywhere. There was no way he was getting any further on this tonight.
The photo next to her face showed her upper body and the arrow protruding from her throat. Coulson picked this one up and leaned back into the couch. Irritation and frustration prickled just under the surface of his weariness; irritation at the hawk feathers that fletched the arrows, frustration at the fact he knew the bastard was laughing at him.
They called him the Hawk because, well, what else could they; but Coulson knew he was out there somewhere. He had to be. He'd killed five women they knew of and always the same way - an arrow to the throat. No one saw him, but then, Coulson reasoned, there was no indication that he ever approached his victims. It was unlikely he knew them and it didn't seem that there was a definitive reason why he chose one woman over another.
All five had been killed in broad daylight and panic was starting to spread through his city. They couldn't quell it, not without dragging the bastard in, but he was proving impossible to find. Coulson dropped the photo back onto the table in disgust. Whether the disgust was directed at himself or the Hawk, he didn't know. He couldn't be sure anymore.
There was no point in staying up all night dwelling on it, not when fresh eyes might provide better results, so Coulson cleared the table, all the papers and photos going back in order. He swallowed the last of a (very cold) cup of coffee and powered down his laptop before he stood, swaying a little. It was only one thirty now, but he'd been running on nothing but coffee and determination for two days straight. Bed, Fury had told him, and Coulson had, reluctantly agreed - though he'd made sure to smuggle out a copy of the case file first.
He suspected Fury knew, but indulged him. It was why they worked so well together.
Coulson wandered into the bathroom, shrugging off his shirt and dropping it into the hamper. His pants followed. He eyed the shower for a minute, then decided it could wait until morning. He brushed his teeth and finally, clad only in his boxers, slipped between the sheets, falling asleep almost as soon as his head hit the pillow.
When Coulson woke, he knew something was wrong. He could see the dull glow of his laptop in the other room. The window was open, curtains blowing in on a light breeze. Most importantly - there was a pressure on his chest, a man leaning over him.
Something cold and metallic settled in the hollow of his throat and Coulson opened his eyes fully, trying to make out the man's features in the darkness. He caught the hint of a smile and the sparkle of dark eyes, but not much else.
"I've gotta say, it's good to finally meet the man who's been hunting my ass," the man - the Hawk, Coulson realised, as he recognised that the cold metal object pressing against him was an arrowhead - said. He sounded cocky and confident and far younger than Coulson had been expecting.
"You're the Hawk," was all Coulson could say - all he could think to say. His gun was on the nightstand, but he knew he didn't have a chance in hell of reaching it, not if he didn't want an arrow to the neck.
The Hawk let out a huff of laughter. "I'd be impressed, but it's not like it takes a lot of figuring out, huh?"
"Not really, no." There was no way to get the guy off him, either; the hand that wasn't holding the arrow was bearing down on Coulson's chest, pinning him to the bed along with strong thighs either side of his hips. He was, for all intents and purposes, trapped.
"What do you want?" Coulson asked, after the silence had dragged on for too long.
"Just wanted to see how you were getting along, Phil," the Hawk said, grin a little too smug. "You're not even close, are you?"
Frustration bubbled to the surface and Coulson almost lifted his head but, remembering the arrow, sank back into the pillows instead. "No," he admitted.
The Hawk was silent again and this time, Coulson fancied he could feel eyes roaming over his bare chest. The Hawk hummed out a little sound and his fingertips tightened for a moment, pressing into skin.
"I am curious about you, Phil Coulson," the Hawk admitted at last, suddenly much closer than Coulson had anticipated. Fingertips stroked at his chest, though the pressure didn't let up. "You look like…" Eyes definitely wandering, "Like some kind of accountant. A paper pusher - but I've seen you. I saw you take down the Widow-"
There was something in his voice - something Coulson didn't want to acknowledge because of the way it made fear (and something else) curl deep in his gut. He remembered the Widow and her dark, dark eyes. She was young too, like the Hawk, and Coulson remembered the day he finally took her in.
He'd had two broken ribs, an almost-cracked skull and figured he'd got off lightly, all things considered.
"I'd never seen anyone move like that in a suit," the Hawk said and those fingers were definitely moving, one ghosting over a nipple in a way that made Coulson arch up, ever so slightly.
He tensed when he realised and felt a puff of air against his cheek as the Hawk laughed. "Relax, Phil. I don't plan on taking too much, not tonight. I just wanted to introduce myself."
He bit down on Coulson's earlobe, more gentle than Coulson expected and when he spoke, his voice came out deeper, his body determined to betray him. "Oh yeah, kid? You gonna tell me your name?"
"Where's the fun in that?" the Hawk asked and the arrowhead bit briefly against his skin. Coulson resisted the urge to arch up again. "No, this is just a courtesy call, Phil Coulson. Carry on looking for me, if you have to - but don't expect to find me."
Brave, Coulson thought, but then, they all were. "As soon as you let me go, you know I'll call them. I'll come after you."
The Hawk laughed and his hand started a steady slide down Coulson's body. "Oh, I'm counting on that," he said, before capturing Coulson's lips in a rough, biting kiss. When Coulson gasped, the Hawk's tongue slid into his mouth and when his body betrayed him, his tongue flicking back almost experimentally, the hand slid into his boxers, palming his already half-hard cock.
Above it all was the pressure at his neck, where the arrowhead remained, firm and unmoving. When Coulson came, gasping and cursing, he felt the press of a smile against his chest.
"When you want this again," the Hawk whispered - and God, he sounded wrecked, too, "Let me know."
With that, he was up and off Coulson, over to the window and out of it in less than half a minute. Coulson lay still. He should call Fury, he knew that.
Instead he lifted the arrow from his chest with a minutely-shaking hand.
He wondered how long it would be before he gave in.