Fic: the temple of bondage, Ch. 4
Jul. 9th, 2012 05:41 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
sabinetzinTitle: the temple of bondage, Ch. 4
Summary: For the mission to go off, someone's got to top, and someone's got to bottom. Clint's got ideas as to who is who. Clint is wrong.
Fandom: Avengers
Word Count: 14327
Rating/Contents: NC-17, dungeons and such, SSC, D/s
Pairing: Clint/Coulson
Policies: Read my archiving, feedback, and warnings policies here.
A/N: Finally this story is finished. I got stuck on the last chapter for ten forever, and I just couldn't push through, but I sat down and just pounded it out.
Ch. 1 & 2 | Ch. 3
In all, Clint gets a solid month of training. Except for all the sex, it's really not that different from training for any undercover mission that requires extra skills. They're skills he never knew he didn't know, but that's not really different, either. He still balks at the whip, but he learns to flog just in case; he won't do it to Phil, but he puts the fear of God into some pillows.
He spends a lot of time in crafting his false identity, making sure he knows enough to be convincing; maybe he spends more time than it strictly necessary, because it's cooler than learning the ins and outs of political hierarchies. For the first time in his entire life Clint has a profile on a social networking site, albeit FetLife, and he even has seventeen friends. Granted, three of them are people- presumably guys- with nothing but pictures of their dicks in their profiles, so maybe he's friends with fourteen people and three penises.
It's stupid, but every time he sees trgtprctc is owned by Whiplash64 on his profile, he feels a little thrill; sometimes he leaves notes on Phil's wall, partially to build credibility, but mostly for the thought of Phil checking his email in the middle of the day and finding them. It's even worse- for Phil- when Clint figures out what email address Phil used to sign up and strategically sends him ridiculous things, particularly when they're in the same room; Phil's reactions would be invisible to someone else, but they're hilarious to Clint.
At the same time, it's different from training for any mission he's ever been on, because he's never been on a mission that meant something like this one. Then again, maybe that's the same, too; his ass is always on the line, his future and safety always in doubt, and it's just that there's more to it this time.
Soon enough, they're rolling out. The dungeon's not far from the base, just on the other side of the city, but they check into a hotel; definitely better to get followed back there than get followed back to base. By the time they finish dinner, it's already time to get ready to go out. Their clothing is and isn't what Clint expected; Phil gets all black, of course, because what in the hell else was he going to wear. Clint's clothes- well, honestly, he didn't know they made purple shirts with buckles on them, and if he moves the wrong way he'll pop a seam on these pants, but it could be so much worse. He's seen pictures.
Thankfully, they don't meet anyone in the hall or in the elevator to the parking garage; right now they just look like they're on their way to a gay bar, but that's probably bad enough. "There's another thing," Phil says, as they approach the car, and Clint doesn't like his tone, the 'I don't like what has to happen' one.
"Hit me with it," Clint tells him.
Phil reaches into a pocket of the suitcase and comes out with a collar; it's a big, black, imposing thing, a huge ring hanging off the front. It looks scary and uncomfortable, and Clint suspects that's the point.
"I need you to wear this," Phil says, and there's a pause just long enough that both of them hear it, "while we're on the mission."
Clint swallows, nodding, trying to keep his head in the game. "Sure."
"There's a leash, too," Phil tells him, sounding apologetic.
"Just try not to choke me." Clint takes the collar from him and puts it on, and he was right; it is uncomfortable, making him keep his neck straighter than he's used to. He's very aware of it as he picks up the bags and puts them in the car, sliding into the driver's seat. Phil climbs in beside him, leaning over and taking him by the back of his hair, pulling him in to kiss him. That makes things a little better, a little less scary.
Clint starts the car, and they're off.
The target's name is Jean-Baptiste. The guy's running coke, but that's FBI stuff, stuff where SHIELD's involvement will just be a bonus. No, SHIELD's concerned about the guns he's got; some of it's old Stark tech, but they're much more concerned with what his engineers have done with it, redefining the BFG and passing it out like candy in places where the biggest gun wins.
SHIELD would kinda like for half the world not to go up in flames.
"The owner's a friendly," Phil tells him. "Willing to take the hit to her revenue if it means the bastard goes down."
Clint raises an eyebrow. "Not exactly what I expected from a lady who runs a sex club."
"How many times do I have to tell you that this isn't a sex club?" Phil says, amused more than exasperated. "The sex club is too shady for words."
"Sorry, sir," Clint says. "I just get confused, what with all the sex people have there."
"Sometimes I can't tell if you're genuinely confused or just being a smart-ass for the sake of being a smart-ass."
"Can't I be confused and a smart-ass?"
"You often are."
Clint rolls his eyes. "Thanks for that, sir."
Phil's directions lead him into an industrial district and up to a boxy white building. Except for the address on the mailbox, the building is unmarked; apart from the low thump of bass that's audible from outside, it could be anything at all, a shoe factory, a place where they print Bibles. It adds a little something all on its own, the secrecy.
When they get out of the car, Phil puts the leash on him, putting the loop around his hand; but then he looks towards the trunk of the car, frowning. "Open up," he says, and Clint opens his mouth, wondering where he's going with this; Phil puts the leash between his lips. "Close. Now get the gear."
Clint gives him an unamused look, but he can't start bratting this early in the game. He pops the trunk, pulling the bags out and setting them on the pavement. As he does it, he looks up, taking in the landscape, possible escape points, possible vantage points.
"Got it?" Phil asks, watching him look, and Clint nods. "Good." Phil takes the leash, and Clint smacks his lips, trying to make the taste of leather go away. "Pick up the bags and let's go."
Clint follows Phil up to the door, where Phil knocks; after a long moment, a woman in a shirt that says SECURITY answers, showing them in. The entryway is tiny, a desk and a few chairs, and a a woman in a red corset and a long skirt is saying something to the youngish man sitting behind the desk. She looks up, taking the two of them in. "Can I help you?"
"Mistress Gwendolyn," Phil says, extending his hand. "We haven't had the pleasure. I'm Whiplash64."
"Anthony, so nice to finally meet you," she says, shaking it.
"Likewise," Phil says, and Clint kind of feels like busting up; the idea of Phil having to call himself that is just too funny. "This is my boy, Gavin." She doesn't move for a moment, not until Phil tugs on his leash and nods, and then she reaches out and shakes Clint's hand too.
"Ascalon here will help you with these forms, then I can show you around," she tells him, "and there's no charge for first-time guests."
The man at the desk cards them, and Phil hands over their fake IDs with the matter-of-fact air of someone who uses fake ones far more than he uses his real one- does Phil even have a real non-SHIELD ID? Clint can't imagine him going to the DMV. Clint's never had one himself, so it's not like he could throw stones.
Thinking about all this is easier than thinking about his surroundings, about what he's going to find here, though there isn't much yet. The foyer is just a box, a little crowded even with just five people in it. The walls are glass, but there are curtains blocking all of them, hiding the good stuff from whoever- probably people like him.
Clint signs on the dotted line- he was really hoping for Gavin Rossdale or Gavin MacLeod, but no, he's Gavin Jennings, the hell kind of a name is that- and hands his clipboard back to Ascalon. "Won't you come on back?" Mistress Gwendolyn says; Ascalon presses a button, and Clint hears the bolts on the door thump. She pushes it open, waving Phil and Clint on, and Clint steels himself and walks through.
He is relieved and disappointed by what he sees; all it is is a lounge, comfortable-looking sofas and low tables, pillows on the floor, mellow music playing. People are talking, laughing, snacking on things, and if it weren't for the people in collars and the various states of undress, it would look like a totally normal club.
"This is our social area," she tells them. "No play out here, just hanging out. List of rules there on the wall, but you saw those on our website. There are the bathrooms- no sex in the bathrooms, by the way, please keep it in the play area. It's not fair to the voyeurs or the people who need to pee. Come on, I'll show you the good stuff."
There's a big fire door that someone's painted green, and she opens it, holding it for Clint and Phil. Despite how little he actually likes undercover work, Clint has perfected his ability not to let shock or confusion show, his ability to be blasé about things he's supposed to be blasé about; he is so very glad he doesn't have to worry about it right now.
There are definitely people fucking, and there is definitely a huge X-shaped cross in the corner, and a woman at the back wall is definitely beating the holy fuck out of somebody. It's kind of overwhelming, but it's all very tidy and well-spaced and attractively lit, like someone's taken real care in setting it up. He looks over at Phil, and Phil just looks impressed, like it isn't new but it is very appealing.
Clint knows that look very well, because he's been at the receiving end of it more than once. It's a good look on him.
Mistress Gwendolyn is pointing out features, and Clint is still trying to wrap his head around exactly what he's seeing. She's pointing out the fire extinguisher and the AED and the first aid kit and this is in absolutely no way what Clint expected from this mission, even after all his preparation.
Welcome the fuck to SHIELD.
"You can put your bags on the rack here," she tells them, and Clint hoists them up, glad to be done toting them around. "Jean-Baptiste is the one wearing the white shirt and the purple vest," she says; she's still smiling and looking at them like nothing's wrong, but her voice is lowered. He's seen junior agents who weren't this cool and collected when it comes to secrecy, but then again, that's probably a huge part of her line of work. "Doesn't usually come out on a Friday, but here we are. The man with him, the thin one, that's his slave. The main reason I didn't kick him out as soon as he got here is so I could check up on the poor guy. You want to live under a contract, that's your business, but you treat somebody that bad and bring it into my club, you make it my business."
"We thank you for your cooperation," Phil tells her.
"My pleasure," she says. She gives Phil a hard, searching look. "I don't know if you're one of us or not, Anthony, but you should know that every single time we find a bad apple and throw it out, everything gets a little bit better for all of us."
Phil smiles. "Believe me, Mistress, I am very well aware."
She nods, and Clint gets the feeling Phil has just passed some test. "I'll leave you to it, then," she tells them. "If you have any questions, I'll be around to help."
Phil sees the way Clint is still kind of boggling; he's keeping his eyes peeled, watching Jean-Baptiste, but he's spending the rest of his brainpower wondering what the fuck. "Let's go out front," he says, giving the leash a little tug. "We've got all night."
"We need to play," Clint says, his eyes straying to the target again. "If he's here tonight, no telling if he'll come again this weekend. We need to draw his attention as soon as we can."
"Read my mind," Phil says, running his hand along Clint's back.
"Doing my job, sir," he replies, and Phil pulls him forward to kiss him before walking away. It takes him a second to remember he's on a leash, and he gets jerked forward before he gets his shit together.
They find a spot on one of the couches in the front. There are pillows on the floor, and Phil snaps at him, pointing to one of them and then the spot between his feet; Clint drags it over and sets up camp, arranging himself between Phil's legs. Phil's talking to a slightly giggly girl who's wearing a skirt that's so short it's practically a belt; the guy next to her is drawing circles on her bare shoulder with his fingertips, only halfway listening to the conversation, and Clint's with him. She and Phil are talking about stuff that would be mortifying elsewhere, about the finer points of handcuffs- Phil's told her he knows so much because he's a locksmith, this just keeps getting better. Now they're talking about bruises, about how well they stand out; the girl is pulling down the front of her blouse to show him the teeth marks on her breasts, and he doesn't understand these people, how they can just talk like this, be like this and be so okay with it.
Suddenly, he has the totally bizarre realization that he is these people, that what they do isn't foreign to him at all; he can't decide if it's a good feeling or not, knowing that unfamiliar is familiar, that he's become something other than what he used to be.
At least, what he thought he used to be. It's mixed up in his head, whether this was always something in him or something he accidentally made himself into, whether that matters at all, which one would be worse.
He wraps an arm around Phil's leg, letting himself cling a little- he's been known to cling occasionally, and if there ever was a situation where it was totally normal, this is it. Phil doesn't stop talking, but he puts a hand on Clint's shoulder, his thumb tracking across his collarbone.
Clint frowns, realizing something. There's a lull in conversation, and Clint looks up at Phil. "Are you wearing leather jeans, sir?"
"Yes," Phil says, and Clint's going to have to learn that trick, the 'why would that be odd' look he does so well. "Why?"
"I just didn't notice until now," he says. He presses his face against Phil's knee, just to mess with him. "They smell nice."
The girl laughs, and the guy stands up, holding out a hand. She takes it and lets him pull her up, pausing to peel herself off the pleather of the couch.
"Come up here and sit beside me, boy," Phil says, patting the couch next to him, and Clint unfolds himself, coming to sit next to him. Phil puts a possessive hand on his leg, like anybody could possibly be confused about what's going on here. "What are you seeing?" Phil says, leaning over to talk into his ear.
"Not a whole lot," Clint says. "Either he's got very subtle associates or he's here alone. Maybe he'll have somebody outside, but I didn't see anything."
"Air support will handle that," Phil tells him. "We've got ground, too."
As they're talking, Jean-Baptiste's slave comes walking by, headed towards the kitchen area, and he turns his head, not so subtly sizing Phil and Clint up.
Clint tracks him, all the way into the kitchen and all the way back to the door. "I got a weird feeling some shit's gonna go down, sir," Clint says.
"Then keep an eye out," Phil tells him, not trying to talk him out of it; Clint's weird feelings, while not always reliable, have proven useful in the past. He squeezes Clint's knee. "Let's get this show on the road."
Phil leads him into the back; they grab the bags, and Phil pulls him over towards the corner, right where Clint wasn't entirely sure he wanted to go. The cross is massive, set at an angle so that one of the top points is resting on each wall; it's not bolted down, but Clint doesn't think he could possibly shift it, not without help. There are ropes and clips on it, the better to secure him with, something they haven't screwed around with much. Phil unclips his leash and points, and Clint drags over some chairs, setting up.
"No sex," Clint says firmly, taking his shirt off.
"Wasn't even going to suggest it," Phil says, putting the suitcase up on a chair. He's got a golf bag tonight, too, for carrying canes, as well as the foam bat that is oddly effective. "It'll be the whip tonight. We want to attract the right audience."
"Yes, sir," Clint says, stripping out of his pants; after hesitating for a good minute, he pulls off his underwear as well. If they're trying to put on a show, then by god he'll put one on.
Phil takes a pair of soft cuffs out of the suitcase, taking them off the ring they're clipped to. "Hold out your wrists," Phil says, and Clint does; he puts a cuff around each of them; they've each got a clip on them, in order to hook them to each other or something else. "Feeling good? Ready to start?"
"Yeah, I'm good," Clint replies. He's still jittery about doing this in front of all these people, most of whom he's never even spoken to, but he's not backing down. Phil takes ahold of his hair, tugging on it, smiling in that particularly attractive way that he does when he's going to do something bad to Clint. No sooner than he's done it, though, he lets Clint go, moving past him and reaching into the suitcase and coming out with his pistol, pulling the magazine out and slapping it in. All Clint sees is the emergency door swinging shut, but if Phil's making a beeline for it, then that's all he needs to see. He pulls his rifle out of the bag with the canes, ignoring the horrified gasps around him; he's already out the door before he realizes that he didn't even put on any pants, but there's no time for that now.
Jean-Baptiste is running across the parking lot; he runs straight past the cars and on down the street. Phil goes after him, and Clint goes after Phil, even though he's not remotely sure he'll be able to keep up. Phil doesn't look it, but he's one of those weird people who thinks running is enjoyable; this is exactly the kind- pretty much the only kind- of situation that Clint cares to run in, and if he could get out of it he would.
Clint doesn't see the cop car until Phil and the target go flying past it, but the siren doesn't whoop until Clint goes by.
"Stop right there!" one of them yells.
"Sorry!" Clint yells back, and he keeps right on running. He hears the police car's doors open and shut again, loud footsteps on the pavement behind him. They're following, but they're not firing, which is kind of a miracle considering that Clint is butt naked and carrying a sniper rifle, so Clint just keeps right on going.
The police are gaining on him, but Phil is gaining on the target. They reach a dead end, and the target makes a turn; Phil follows and Clint doesn't, going for a ladder on the nearest building. He jumps for it, getting a hand on the bottom rung, and that's when the cops take him down.
So that's how Clint ends up face-down on the hood of a police car, naked, wearing a collar; the LEOs have a sense of humor, though, because they've just clipped the cuffs he's already wearing together, which is a lot more comfortable than zip ties. He courteously doesn't slip them, because he can see Phil talking to them, flashing his ID; Sitwell is pushing the target into the back of a SHIELD sedan, no doubt just keeping him there until the helicopter shows up.
The cops unclip his wrists and let him up, turning him over to Phil, who hands him a blanket. "You okay?" Phil asks, as Clint wraps it around his waist.
"I just got tackled naked, you figure it out," Clint says.
"I just chased a guy five blocks in leather pants, how do you think I feel?"
"Worth it," Clint says firmly.
"Definitely," Phil agrees. "I'm gonna go back and pick up our stuff, and then we'll debrief," Phil tells him. "Please don't make a pun, I've already had enough tonight."
"Way too easy anyway," Clint says.
Phil smiles at him fondly, and they go their separate ways.
They have their briefing at SHIELD almost as soon as they get back. There seem to be more people than necessary in attendance, but they must be disappointed; Fury has no interest in the stuff that's interesting, and Clint and Phil have no interest in divulging it. They have the meeting that's interesting at home, alone. Phil likes it when they check in, so they're both on the same page; Clint's not so much a talker by nature, and neither is Phil, but they're so used to briefings and debriefings and rebriefings that it's nothing at all.
"You should wear those leather pants again," Clint says.
"You didn't even know they were leather," Phil points out.
Clint shrugs. "Doesn't mean they didn't look hot."
"We'll see," Phil says. "I might have to have them repaired after that chase."
"Everything about that sounds uncomfortable," Clint says.
"You have no idea," Phil tells him.
"I actually did rip a seam in my pants trying to take them off," Clint says.
"Let's just wear jeans from now on," Phil says.
"Agreed," Clint says. There's a pause. "We should probably move on to the stuff that's not pants."
"Right," Phil says. "I like those cuffs on you," he offers.
"We can do that," Clint allows. "Clipping them to things, I'm still not that sure about."
"It's fine," Phil says. "They're just a good look."
"No problem, then," Clint tells him. "But I'm not doing the leash again. It's a pain in the ass."
Phil smirks. "Not a pain in the neck?" Clint gives him a look. "But agreed. Pain from this end, too."
Here comes the big thing, the thing Clint is most unsure of. "That collar, I." He pauses, trying to tread lightly. "I can't do it. Not yet."
Phil doesn't say anything for a moment. "Wasn't your color, anyway," he says finally. Clint laughs, the tension breaking. "If that's not what you want, then we won't. Not until you're ready. Maybe never."
"Maybe never's going too far," Clint says.
"We'll figure it out," Phil tells him.
"For now," Clint says, grinning. "I seem to remember that I was gonna get whipped, sir."
"We were rudely interrupted," Phil says.
"Damn us for having jobs," Clint says.
"Definitely gets in the way," Phil says.
"Come on, before they expect us to save the world again," Clint says, standing up and holding out his hand.
"Bossy," Phil chides.
Clint smiles. "Then come on and show me the error of my ways."
"Don't worry," Phil tells him. "I intend to."
--
Clint has to ditch Gavin's FetLife when the mission ends, which is kind of a shame, because he can't put any pictures of his face on the new one- not exactly the most appropriate thing in the world for someone in his line of work to do. By now, it doesn't surprise him whatsoever that Phil already has his own personal account. A lot of things about Phil don't surprise him anymore, but they only seem to be good things.
When he sees MovingTarget is being considered by suit_yourself, it's good, but it's not the same kind of feeling as it was before. Right underneath it, though, it says MovingTarget is considering suit_yourself, and that makes it feel better. He's told that's not how you're supposed to do it, that it's not what that really means, that it only ever goes one way, lead and follow, call and response. He's told that he's not supposed to have a choice, that he's being ungrateful, that he'll never get anyone to keep him that way.
But why should he start caring now? It works for them, and that's all that matters.
Summary: For the mission to go off, someone's got to top, and someone's got to bottom. Clint's got ideas as to who is who. Clint is wrong.
Fandom: Avengers
Word Count: 14327
Rating/Contents: NC-17, dungeons and such, SSC, D/s
Pairing: Clint/Coulson
Policies: Read my archiving, feedback, and warnings policies here.
A/N: Finally this story is finished. I got stuck on the last chapter for ten forever, and I just couldn't push through, but I sat down and just pounded it out.
Ch. 1 & 2 | Ch. 3
In all, Clint gets a solid month of training. Except for all the sex, it's really not that different from training for any undercover mission that requires extra skills. They're skills he never knew he didn't know, but that's not really different, either. He still balks at the whip, but he learns to flog just in case; he won't do it to Phil, but he puts the fear of God into some pillows.
He spends a lot of time in crafting his false identity, making sure he knows enough to be convincing; maybe he spends more time than it strictly necessary, because it's cooler than learning the ins and outs of political hierarchies. For the first time in his entire life Clint has a profile on a social networking site, albeit FetLife, and he even has seventeen friends. Granted, three of them are people- presumably guys- with nothing but pictures of their dicks in their profiles, so maybe he's friends with fourteen people and three penises.
It's stupid, but every time he sees trgtprctc is owned by Whiplash64 on his profile, he feels a little thrill; sometimes he leaves notes on Phil's wall, partially to build credibility, but mostly for the thought of Phil checking his email in the middle of the day and finding them. It's even worse- for Phil- when Clint figures out what email address Phil used to sign up and strategically sends him ridiculous things, particularly when they're in the same room; Phil's reactions would be invisible to someone else, but they're hilarious to Clint.
At the same time, it's different from training for any mission he's ever been on, because he's never been on a mission that meant something like this one. Then again, maybe that's the same, too; his ass is always on the line, his future and safety always in doubt, and it's just that there's more to it this time.
Soon enough, they're rolling out. The dungeon's not far from the base, just on the other side of the city, but they check into a hotel; definitely better to get followed back there than get followed back to base. By the time they finish dinner, it's already time to get ready to go out. Their clothing is and isn't what Clint expected; Phil gets all black, of course, because what in the hell else was he going to wear. Clint's clothes- well, honestly, he didn't know they made purple shirts with buckles on them, and if he moves the wrong way he'll pop a seam on these pants, but it could be so much worse. He's seen pictures.
Thankfully, they don't meet anyone in the hall or in the elevator to the parking garage; right now they just look like they're on their way to a gay bar, but that's probably bad enough. "There's another thing," Phil says, as they approach the car, and Clint doesn't like his tone, the 'I don't like what has to happen' one.
"Hit me with it," Clint tells him.
Phil reaches into a pocket of the suitcase and comes out with a collar; it's a big, black, imposing thing, a huge ring hanging off the front. It looks scary and uncomfortable, and Clint suspects that's the point.
"I need you to wear this," Phil says, and there's a pause just long enough that both of them hear it, "while we're on the mission."
Clint swallows, nodding, trying to keep his head in the game. "Sure."
"There's a leash, too," Phil tells him, sounding apologetic.
"Just try not to choke me." Clint takes the collar from him and puts it on, and he was right; it is uncomfortable, making him keep his neck straighter than he's used to. He's very aware of it as he picks up the bags and puts them in the car, sliding into the driver's seat. Phil climbs in beside him, leaning over and taking him by the back of his hair, pulling him in to kiss him. That makes things a little better, a little less scary.
Clint starts the car, and they're off.
The target's name is Jean-Baptiste. The guy's running coke, but that's FBI stuff, stuff where SHIELD's involvement will just be a bonus. No, SHIELD's concerned about the guns he's got; some of it's old Stark tech, but they're much more concerned with what his engineers have done with it, redefining the BFG and passing it out like candy in places where the biggest gun wins.
SHIELD would kinda like for half the world not to go up in flames.
"The owner's a friendly," Phil tells him. "Willing to take the hit to her revenue if it means the bastard goes down."
Clint raises an eyebrow. "Not exactly what I expected from a lady who runs a sex club."
"How many times do I have to tell you that this isn't a sex club?" Phil says, amused more than exasperated. "The sex club is too shady for words."
"Sorry, sir," Clint says. "I just get confused, what with all the sex people have there."
"Sometimes I can't tell if you're genuinely confused or just being a smart-ass for the sake of being a smart-ass."
"Can't I be confused and a smart-ass?"
"You often are."
Clint rolls his eyes. "Thanks for that, sir."
Phil's directions lead him into an industrial district and up to a boxy white building. Except for the address on the mailbox, the building is unmarked; apart from the low thump of bass that's audible from outside, it could be anything at all, a shoe factory, a place where they print Bibles. It adds a little something all on its own, the secrecy.
When they get out of the car, Phil puts the leash on him, putting the loop around his hand; but then he looks towards the trunk of the car, frowning. "Open up," he says, and Clint opens his mouth, wondering where he's going with this; Phil puts the leash between his lips. "Close. Now get the gear."
Clint gives him an unamused look, but he can't start bratting this early in the game. He pops the trunk, pulling the bags out and setting them on the pavement. As he does it, he looks up, taking in the landscape, possible escape points, possible vantage points.
"Got it?" Phil asks, watching him look, and Clint nods. "Good." Phil takes the leash, and Clint smacks his lips, trying to make the taste of leather go away. "Pick up the bags and let's go."
Clint follows Phil up to the door, where Phil knocks; after a long moment, a woman in a shirt that says SECURITY answers, showing them in. The entryway is tiny, a desk and a few chairs, and a a woman in a red corset and a long skirt is saying something to the youngish man sitting behind the desk. She looks up, taking the two of them in. "Can I help you?"
"Mistress Gwendolyn," Phil says, extending his hand. "We haven't had the pleasure. I'm Whiplash64."
"Anthony, so nice to finally meet you," she says, shaking it.
"Likewise," Phil says, and Clint kind of feels like busting up; the idea of Phil having to call himself that is just too funny. "This is my boy, Gavin." She doesn't move for a moment, not until Phil tugs on his leash and nods, and then she reaches out and shakes Clint's hand too.
"Ascalon here will help you with these forms, then I can show you around," she tells him, "and there's no charge for first-time guests."
The man at the desk cards them, and Phil hands over their fake IDs with the matter-of-fact air of someone who uses fake ones far more than he uses his real one- does Phil even have a real non-SHIELD ID? Clint can't imagine him going to the DMV. Clint's never had one himself, so it's not like he could throw stones.
Thinking about all this is easier than thinking about his surroundings, about what he's going to find here, though there isn't much yet. The foyer is just a box, a little crowded even with just five people in it. The walls are glass, but there are curtains blocking all of them, hiding the good stuff from whoever- probably people like him.
Clint signs on the dotted line- he was really hoping for Gavin Rossdale or Gavin MacLeod, but no, he's Gavin Jennings, the hell kind of a name is that- and hands his clipboard back to Ascalon. "Won't you come on back?" Mistress Gwendolyn says; Ascalon presses a button, and Clint hears the bolts on the door thump. She pushes it open, waving Phil and Clint on, and Clint steels himself and walks through.
He is relieved and disappointed by what he sees; all it is is a lounge, comfortable-looking sofas and low tables, pillows on the floor, mellow music playing. People are talking, laughing, snacking on things, and if it weren't for the people in collars and the various states of undress, it would look like a totally normal club.
"This is our social area," she tells them. "No play out here, just hanging out. List of rules there on the wall, but you saw those on our website. There are the bathrooms- no sex in the bathrooms, by the way, please keep it in the play area. It's not fair to the voyeurs or the people who need to pee. Come on, I'll show you the good stuff."
There's a big fire door that someone's painted green, and she opens it, holding it for Clint and Phil. Despite how little he actually likes undercover work, Clint has perfected his ability not to let shock or confusion show, his ability to be blasé about things he's supposed to be blasé about; he is so very glad he doesn't have to worry about it right now.
There are definitely people fucking, and there is definitely a huge X-shaped cross in the corner, and a woman at the back wall is definitely beating the holy fuck out of somebody. It's kind of overwhelming, but it's all very tidy and well-spaced and attractively lit, like someone's taken real care in setting it up. He looks over at Phil, and Phil just looks impressed, like it isn't new but it is very appealing.
Clint knows that look very well, because he's been at the receiving end of it more than once. It's a good look on him.
Mistress Gwendolyn is pointing out features, and Clint is still trying to wrap his head around exactly what he's seeing. She's pointing out the fire extinguisher and the AED and the first aid kit and this is in absolutely no way what Clint expected from this mission, even after all his preparation.
Welcome the fuck to SHIELD.
"You can put your bags on the rack here," she tells them, and Clint hoists them up, glad to be done toting them around. "Jean-Baptiste is the one wearing the white shirt and the purple vest," she says; she's still smiling and looking at them like nothing's wrong, but her voice is lowered. He's seen junior agents who weren't this cool and collected when it comes to secrecy, but then again, that's probably a huge part of her line of work. "Doesn't usually come out on a Friday, but here we are. The man with him, the thin one, that's his slave. The main reason I didn't kick him out as soon as he got here is so I could check up on the poor guy. You want to live under a contract, that's your business, but you treat somebody that bad and bring it into my club, you make it my business."
"We thank you for your cooperation," Phil tells her.
"My pleasure," she says. She gives Phil a hard, searching look. "I don't know if you're one of us or not, Anthony, but you should know that every single time we find a bad apple and throw it out, everything gets a little bit better for all of us."
Phil smiles. "Believe me, Mistress, I am very well aware."
She nods, and Clint gets the feeling Phil has just passed some test. "I'll leave you to it, then," she tells them. "If you have any questions, I'll be around to help."
Phil sees the way Clint is still kind of boggling; he's keeping his eyes peeled, watching Jean-Baptiste, but he's spending the rest of his brainpower wondering what the fuck. "Let's go out front," he says, giving the leash a little tug. "We've got all night."
"We need to play," Clint says, his eyes straying to the target again. "If he's here tonight, no telling if he'll come again this weekend. We need to draw his attention as soon as we can."
"Read my mind," Phil says, running his hand along Clint's back.
"Doing my job, sir," he replies, and Phil pulls him forward to kiss him before walking away. It takes him a second to remember he's on a leash, and he gets jerked forward before he gets his shit together.
They find a spot on one of the couches in the front. There are pillows on the floor, and Phil snaps at him, pointing to one of them and then the spot between his feet; Clint drags it over and sets up camp, arranging himself between Phil's legs. Phil's talking to a slightly giggly girl who's wearing a skirt that's so short it's practically a belt; the guy next to her is drawing circles on her bare shoulder with his fingertips, only halfway listening to the conversation, and Clint's with him. She and Phil are talking about stuff that would be mortifying elsewhere, about the finer points of handcuffs- Phil's told her he knows so much because he's a locksmith, this just keeps getting better. Now they're talking about bruises, about how well they stand out; the girl is pulling down the front of her blouse to show him the teeth marks on her breasts, and he doesn't understand these people, how they can just talk like this, be like this and be so okay with it.
Suddenly, he has the totally bizarre realization that he is these people, that what they do isn't foreign to him at all; he can't decide if it's a good feeling or not, knowing that unfamiliar is familiar, that he's become something other than what he used to be.
At least, what he thought he used to be. It's mixed up in his head, whether this was always something in him or something he accidentally made himself into, whether that matters at all, which one would be worse.
He wraps an arm around Phil's leg, letting himself cling a little- he's been known to cling occasionally, and if there ever was a situation where it was totally normal, this is it. Phil doesn't stop talking, but he puts a hand on Clint's shoulder, his thumb tracking across his collarbone.
Clint frowns, realizing something. There's a lull in conversation, and Clint looks up at Phil. "Are you wearing leather jeans, sir?"
"Yes," Phil says, and Clint's going to have to learn that trick, the 'why would that be odd' look he does so well. "Why?"
"I just didn't notice until now," he says. He presses his face against Phil's knee, just to mess with him. "They smell nice."
The girl laughs, and the guy stands up, holding out a hand. She takes it and lets him pull her up, pausing to peel herself off the pleather of the couch.
"Come up here and sit beside me, boy," Phil says, patting the couch next to him, and Clint unfolds himself, coming to sit next to him. Phil puts a possessive hand on his leg, like anybody could possibly be confused about what's going on here. "What are you seeing?" Phil says, leaning over to talk into his ear.
"Not a whole lot," Clint says. "Either he's got very subtle associates or he's here alone. Maybe he'll have somebody outside, but I didn't see anything."
"Air support will handle that," Phil tells him. "We've got ground, too."
As they're talking, Jean-Baptiste's slave comes walking by, headed towards the kitchen area, and he turns his head, not so subtly sizing Phil and Clint up.
Clint tracks him, all the way into the kitchen and all the way back to the door. "I got a weird feeling some shit's gonna go down, sir," Clint says.
"Then keep an eye out," Phil tells him, not trying to talk him out of it; Clint's weird feelings, while not always reliable, have proven useful in the past. He squeezes Clint's knee. "Let's get this show on the road."
Phil leads him into the back; they grab the bags, and Phil pulls him over towards the corner, right where Clint wasn't entirely sure he wanted to go. The cross is massive, set at an angle so that one of the top points is resting on each wall; it's not bolted down, but Clint doesn't think he could possibly shift it, not without help. There are ropes and clips on it, the better to secure him with, something they haven't screwed around with much. Phil unclips his leash and points, and Clint drags over some chairs, setting up.
"No sex," Clint says firmly, taking his shirt off.
"Wasn't even going to suggest it," Phil says, putting the suitcase up on a chair. He's got a golf bag tonight, too, for carrying canes, as well as the foam bat that is oddly effective. "It'll be the whip tonight. We want to attract the right audience."
"Yes, sir," Clint says, stripping out of his pants; after hesitating for a good minute, he pulls off his underwear as well. If they're trying to put on a show, then by god he'll put one on.
Phil takes a pair of soft cuffs out of the suitcase, taking them off the ring they're clipped to. "Hold out your wrists," Phil says, and Clint does; he puts a cuff around each of them; they've each got a clip on them, in order to hook them to each other or something else. "Feeling good? Ready to start?"
"Yeah, I'm good," Clint replies. He's still jittery about doing this in front of all these people, most of whom he's never even spoken to, but he's not backing down. Phil takes ahold of his hair, tugging on it, smiling in that particularly attractive way that he does when he's going to do something bad to Clint. No sooner than he's done it, though, he lets Clint go, moving past him and reaching into the suitcase and coming out with his pistol, pulling the magazine out and slapping it in. All Clint sees is the emergency door swinging shut, but if Phil's making a beeline for it, then that's all he needs to see. He pulls his rifle out of the bag with the canes, ignoring the horrified gasps around him; he's already out the door before he realizes that he didn't even put on any pants, but there's no time for that now.
Jean-Baptiste is running across the parking lot; he runs straight past the cars and on down the street. Phil goes after him, and Clint goes after Phil, even though he's not remotely sure he'll be able to keep up. Phil doesn't look it, but he's one of those weird people who thinks running is enjoyable; this is exactly the kind- pretty much the only kind- of situation that Clint cares to run in, and if he could get out of it he would.
Clint doesn't see the cop car until Phil and the target go flying past it, but the siren doesn't whoop until Clint goes by.
"Stop right there!" one of them yells.
"Sorry!" Clint yells back, and he keeps right on running. He hears the police car's doors open and shut again, loud footsteps on the pavement behind him. They're following, but they're not firing, which is kind of a miracle considering that Clint is butt naked and carrying a sniper rifle, so Clint just keeps right on going.
The police are gaining on him, but Phil is gaining on the target. They reach a dead end, and the target makes a turn; Phil follows and Clint doesn't, going for a ladder on the nearest building. He jumps for it, getting a hand on the bottom rung, and that's when the cops take him down.
So that's how Clint ends up face-down on the hood of a police car, naked, wearing a collar; the LEOs have a sense of humor, though, because they've just clipped the cuffs he's already wearing together, which is a lot more comfortable than zip ties. He courteously doesn't slip them, because he can see Phil talking to them, flashing his ID; Sitwell is pushing the target into the back of a SHIELD sedan, no doubt just keeping him there until the helicopter shows up.
The cops unclip his wrists and let him up, turning him over to Phil, who hands him a blanket. "You okay?" Phil asks, as Clint wraps it around his waist.
"I just got tackled naked, you figure it out," Clint says.
"I just chased a guy five blocks in leather pants, how do you think I feel?"
"Worth it," Clint says firmly.
"Definitely," Phil agrees. "I'm gonna go back and pick up our stuff, and then we'll debrief," Phil tells him. "Please don't make a pun, I've already had enough tonight."
"Way too easy anyway," Clint says.
Phil smiles at him fondly, and they go their separate ways.
They have their briefing at SHIELD almost as soon as they get back. There seem to be more people than necessary in attendance, but they must be disappointed; Fury has no interest in the stuff that's interesting, and Clint and Phil have no interest in divulging it. They have the meeting that's interesting at home, alone. Phil likes it when they check in, so they're both on the same page; Clint's not so much a talker by nature, and neither is Phil, but they're so used to briefings and debriefings and rebriefings that it's nothing at all.
"You should wear those leather pants again," Clint says.
"You didn't even know they were leather," Phil points out.
Clint shrugs. "Doesn't mean they didn't look hot."
"We'll see," Phil says. "I might have to have them repaired after that chase."
"Everything about that sounds uncomfortable," Clint says.
"You have no idea," Phil tells him.
"I actually did rip a seam in my pants trying to take them off," Clint says.
"Let's just wear jeans from now on," Phil says.
"Agreed," Clint says. There's a pause. "We should probably move on to the stuff that's not pants."
"Right," Phil says. "I like those cuffs on you," he offers.
"We can do that," Clint allows. "Clipping them to things, I'm still not that sure about."
"It's fine," Phil says. "They're just a good look."
"No problem, then," Clint tells him. "But I'm not doing the leash again. It's a pain in the ass."
Phil smirks. "Not a pain in the neck?" Clint gives him a look. "But agreed. Pain from this end, too."
Here comes the big thing, the thing Clint is most unsure of. "That collar, I." He pauses, trying to tread lightly. "I can't do it. Not yet."
Phil doesn't say anything for a moment. "Wasn't your color, anyway," he says finally. Clint laughs, the tension breaking. "If that's not what you want, then we won't. Not until you're ready. Maybe never."
"Maybe never's going too far," Clint says.
"We'll figure it out," Phil tells him.
"For now," Clint says, grinning. "I seem to remember that I was gonna get whipped, sir."
"We were rudely interrupted," Phil says.
"Damn us for having jobs," Clint says.
"Definitely gets in the way," Phil says.
"Come on, before they expect us to save the world again," Clint says, standing up and holding out his hand.
"Bossy," Phil chides.
Clint smiles. "Then come on and show me the error of my ways."
"Don't worry," Phil tells him. "I intend to."
--
Clint has to ditch Gavin's FetLife when the mission ends, which is kind of a shame, because he can't put any pictures of his face on the new one- not exactly the most appropriate thing in the world for someone in his line of work to do. By now, it doesn't surprise him whatsoever that Phil already has his own personal account. A lot of things about Phil don't surprise him anymore, but they only seem to be good things.
When he sees MovingTarget is being considered by suit_yourself, it's good, but it's not the same kind of feeling as it was before. Right underneath it, though, it says MovingTarget is considering suit_yourself, and that makes it feel better. He's told that's not how you're supposed to do it, that it's not what that really means, that it only ever goes one way, lead and follow, call and response. He's told that he's not supposed to have a choice, that he's being ungrateful, that he'll never get anyone to keep him that way.
But why should he start caring now? It works for them, and that's all that matters.