Chapter Text
There's a pile of contract requests six inches deep sitting on his desk when Clint opens the door to his office. He's exhausted, and he knows that it's showing around his eyes and shoulders, in the way he's dragging his feet as he closes the door, and for a moment, he just stands there and looks at the stack, because those are the requests his assistant has already screened and passed to him because he thinks they might be interesting.
Six inches.
He flexes his fingers, still sore from the amount of time they've spent clenched around a flogger for the past three weeks. The contract had sounded good in theory, cut and dry, three weeks of instructing a Dominant on the finer points of impact play, and he'd even had the naivety to believe that it would be enjoyable.
Clint's forte isn't impact play. He specializes in handling, bondage, edging, and overstimulation, and while he's not deficient or inexperienced with impact play, he doesn't lean much towards it naturally, so he doesn't often take contracts that request it. But this one... he'd looked past it on this one, because it had been in California and the heat and beach sounded so good.
What was supposed to be a two-hour daily session on technique had ended up being a more or less 24/7 session on administering punishments and maintaining control via overt displays of dominance. And Clint gets it, gets that everyone has their own style and that every relationship is unique, but three weeks of never getting to see a bruise fade have taken a toll on him, and he's tired. He wants to curl up in his bathtub at home and not touch another striking implement for a good month.
But before he can do that, he has contracts to sort through.
Clint Barton loves his assistant. He really, really does. He's jet-lagged enough that he forgot to get coffee on the way to the office, but he's barely been sitting there for ten minutes before the guy walks in with a steaming mug of it in one hand and a manila folder in the other. Clint's eyes dart between the two, because the coffee means somewhat clearer thoughts, but the folder means a new contract request, and really, he's not sure if one is worth the other.
His assistant is a submissive, but here, in the office, he's the one who runs things, and Clint trusts Barnes with his life. More importantly, he trusts him with his business, and really, he should listen to the other man more often, because Bucky had warned him away from the California contract, but had he listened? No, of course not.
And right now, Bucky doesn't look all that amused. “I told you,” he says, setting the coffee down first, and okay, maybe Clint loves him just a little. He wraps his fingers around the hot mug and steels himself for a lecture, but Barnes just sighs and shakes his head a little before holding out the folder. “Here. This just came in yesterday. I was going to suggest it, but you're more wiped than I thought you'd be, so my suggestion is officially changed to 'go the fuck home and get some sleep'.”
Yeah, Bucky Barnes is a submissive, but he's got a spine, and the collar around his neck dictates nothing about how he acts around other Dominants. Even if the collar is a new development.
“You finally agreed to the contract with Rogers, then?”
Barnes ducks his head just a little, and there's a bit of a flush staining his cheeks, and Clint knows that's as close as he's going to get to a typical reaction. “Yeah,” the guy says, a bit gruffly, shrugging one shoulder. “Short thing. Two weeks. Test things out.”
“Uh huh. It's about fucking time, you know that, right? You two have been dancing around each other since the second fucking grade.” Clint pauses. “Congrats, anyway. You're good together. Match up pretty damn perfectly, and that's rare.”
Barnes flashes a grin, all white teeth, and it's predatory in a way that made Clint pin him as a Dom the first time they met. He remains one of the handful of people Clint's characterized incorrectly upon meeting them, and Barnes' good-natured way of never letting him forget it was the basis for the friendship that led to them working together. It's odd, and Clint knows it is, but it works, and if Bucky and Steve, one of the other professional Dominants at the firm, have finally gotten their heads out of their asses, well, he's pretty sure it's going to work even better.
“Steve's great,” the brunet says, and it's almost a purr, and that voice is a promise of all the gory details that Clint doesn't want to hear (which is a lie, because he does).
So he laughs under his breath and shakes his head and gestures at the folder. “You want to give me the lowdown on that? If I have to read one more introductory bio, I might need something stronger than coffee.”
The folder's got two names written on the front in Barnes' messy handwriting: Strucker & Maximoff. Having two names is a little strange, because pairs who have a current contract only list one name, that of whoever the attention is going to be on in the sessions. Clint personally doesn't deal with underage Doms, and Barnes knows that, so it shouldn't be a case of a student and a guardian, but there aren't many other options.
“Sure,” Barnes says easily, hands in his pockets. “The actual client is Pietro Maximoff. Had to call around and ask about him, because I couldn't fuckin' believe what they'd put down. He's had more than 10 training contracts initiated, but none of them have been carried through to the end. Not one, Clint. And he's never been the one to call it off.”
Clint's eyebrows draw together, because that's... weird, to say the least. “How old is he?”
“Just turned 21. The other name's his adoptive dad. Kid's legal, but hasn't been able to finish a proper training, so he's not recognized as a Dom by law. It's a fuckin' weird situation.”
“Yeah,” Clint says slowly, reaching out to pull the folder closer. Some cases are hard, he knows that, but 10 contracts? The kid's either really fucking edgy, or he's a pain in the ass that refuses to be taught. And seeing some of the names of the Doms Maximoff has entered into contracts with, Clint's leaning a little more toward the 'pain in the ass' option. “Is that... they're asking for a three-month term.”
Barnes shrugs. “It's not 24/7, and it's close to home. Like, you'd be able to drive there every day, if you wanted to, but Strucker mentioned that he'd be more than willing to provide a place for you to stay, as well as board. Also, because the situation's a little... out there, he's willing to pay double your usual rate.”
Clint does the math. Depending on the number of hours and the topic being focused on, he varies between $100-$500 a day, and from what he's seen in the file and what Barnes has said, he's leaning a little more toward $400-$450. Double that, and he gets $800-$900 a day, without having to worry about finding a place to stay close to the property.
“What's the catch?” he asks.
Barnes grins again, and Clint braces himself.
“No catch. 'nother incentive, actually. Romanov's his twin's contract.”
Yeah, that's an all right incentive. Clint hasn't seen Nat in months, because she's the most popular Dom at Stark’s agency, and he's the second, and getting schedules like theirs to line up is a bitch and a half. But that's good, that Nat's already there. She's already scoped out the situation, and that makes Clint feel a hell of a lot better.
“The twin as stubborn as him?”
Barnes shakes his head. “Nah. She got her certification the day she turned 18. Think Romanov's doing some specialty thing with humiliation and edge play.” He pauses. “Fraternal twins, I think.”
“Yeah,” Clint agrees. If there's that much of a marked difference in the twins getting their certifications, then he's pretty sure they're not identical twins. “I... I think I'll take it. Will you make the call?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Can it, Barnes.”
Wolfgang von Strucker's house is a good hour-and-a-half ride from Clint's office, but it takes him out into the country, and getting away from the hustle and bustle of New York City is a little nice. It's easily the longest ride he's been on in months, and while he could have taken a company car, there are some first impressions that he likes to make that are much easier to do when he's clad in leather, head to toe. It's shameless, but it works, especially when he's dealing with Doms who are less than cooperative.
Clint's going to reserve judgment on Pietro Maximoff until he meets him, because he knows that there are special cases. Clint himself didn't get his certification until he was nearly twenty, because the Dom his family had hired was shit at explaining about the head space Dominants went into. And because of that, the first time Clint had tried to scene with someone and had melted a little into the urge to control, he'd gotten scared and safeworded, and that had been the end of that.
Then a friend had referred him to a man named Phil Coulson, and Clint had learned everything from him. He'd taken a job at Stark's company because of Coulson (and Natasha, but he'd never tell her that), and actively strove to be the kind of Dom that Coulson was: kind, understanding, and damn good at his job.
So it's possible that Maximoff just hadn't found a Dom that worked with his natural style, but with ten canceled contracts under his belt, Clint's thinking that there might be some sort of underlying problem. He might be a switch, like Coulson. That, or the kid's got some sort of heavy kink, like intense sadism, that most Doms just can't work with. Clint didn't see anything mentioned in the contract, but he makes a mental note to ask about that, because he's got his own limits, and as much as he'd hate to be the eleventh Dom to break the contract, he's got his own sanity to think about.
The house, when he pulls up to it, isn't even really a house. It's more along the lines of a mansion, complete with a wrought iron gate and a half-mile driveway that leads to the actual house. Clint remembers Barnes saying something about Strucker being well-off, but Barnes' definition of 'well-off' apparently means 'really fucking rich'. Which explains why the guy can afford to pay Clint double his normal rates.
He taps the button on the intercom with a gloved hand and pulls his helmet off so whoever's on the other side can see his face. He has the sinking feeling that this is going to be the kind of place that makes him hyper-aware of the fact that he's dusty and dirty from his ride, and for a moment he wishes he'd taken the car, first impressions aside, but before he can think about that too much, the intercom buzzes.
“Do you have an appointment?”
Fuck, Clint thinks, and then rolls his shoulders back and sits up a little straighter. “Yeah,” he says. “About a three-month long one. I'm Clint Barton, the Dom that was hired?”
There's a pause, and then, “Please come inside,” crackles over the speaker, and the gates lurch backwards. They move slowly, and Clint eyes them distrustfully until they open wide enough to let his bike through, and then guns it just enough to be heard by the people inside the house.
Clint Barton is an excellent Dom. That doesn't mean, necessarily, that he's mature.
He parks his bike in front of the entrance to the house and slides off it, dusting off his thighs best he can. He hangs his helmet on the handle, and before he can stand there and wonder what the hell to do, the big wooden door opens and a man in a bespoke suit walks out.
Yeah, Clint can taste how woefully under-dressed he is.
But it doesn't matter, because the contract has been signed, and though Clint can tell immediately that the man standing on the steps is a Dom, he can also tell that he's definitely not active. He's probably close to Clint's own age, but there's a stiffness in his shoulders and gait that belies a lack of serious playtime, and it makes Clint wonder if the reason his son is having issues is because he doesn't know how the fuck a Dominant is supposed to act.
“Strucker?” he asks, walking up the steps, and the man nods, holding out his hand. Clint shakes it. “Clint Barton. Pleasure to meet you.”
“The pleasure,” Strucker says, smoothly, “is all mine.”
Clint kind of dislikes him immediately, but he smiles anyway and gestures towards the house. “'s a nice place you've got here. Good for privacy, I bet.”
“It does serve its purpose.” Strucker smiles thinly, and Clint starts to hope that he doesn't have to deal with the man on the regular. Three months is a long time to put up with thinly veiled condescension. God, three months. He hopes he hasn't fucked up again with this contract.
“I will have your motorbike stored in one of the garages,” Strucker says, and while Clint bristles a little at the thought of someone else touching his bike, he nods his thanks, because turning that offer down is just dumb. “If you'll follow me, Pietro is waiting inside.”
Pietro. Clint's seen a picture of the kid, and he knows he's handsome, with a shock of white hair and broad shoulders and a 'try me' expression that makes Clint chuckle every time he looks at it. He remembers being young and cocksure, definitely, but this kid's got the cockiness down to an art, and Clint knows that without ever meeting him.
“Yeah, sounds great,” he says, and follows Strucker inside, hefting his bag on his shoulder. It's got a change of clothes, something a little easier to move in, and some of his basic tools, the ones he doesn't like borrowing from other people: a few lengths of rope, a TENS unit, a cock ring, and other paraphernalia. He doesn't know what the kid has or doesn't have, but he suspects they'll be making a few trips to the store as they figure out what Pietro's style is.
Strucker leads him down a hallway, and then up a staircase, and the whole time, Clint's painfully aware of the rocks and pebbles embedded in his boots, but Strucker doesn't comment on it, so Clint doesn't either. He feels a little sorry for the hardwood, though, even though he's pretty sure Strucker has the kind of money that would let him re-floor the whole house without so much as a second thought. If Clint were the type to be intimidated by money, he'd be shaking in his boots.
But the worst Strucker, or the kid, for that matter, can do is terminate the contract. Clint's not worried.
The man stops in front of a door, and Clint's aware that they're pretty deep in the house, though he's not sure he could find his way back out if pressed. It's a big house. But he doesn't have much time to think about that, because Strucker's opening the door a moment later and saying, “Your charge, Mr. Barton.”
Clint looks and sees Pietro Maximoff on the other side of the door, and the first phrase that pops into his head is 'caged animal'. There's a bit of wildness in the kid's eyes, the same tension in his shoulders that Strucker has, though it's a little more pronounced in Pietro. He's standing in the middle of the room, frozen, fingers laced behind his neck and legs parted, like he was pacing before they opened the door.
He meets Clint's eyes, defiance and curiosity all wrapped up in one look, and then gives him a once-over. The leather makes the impression Clint had hoped it would, and the kid's eyes go a little wide before flicking back up to the older man's face, wary now. Pietro himself is in a pair of track pants and a tight-fitting workout shirt, at odds with everything in the house, at odds with the way Strucker's dressed, and Clint wonders a little if that's the only way they clash.
“Due to the circumstances surrounding his last failed contract, he's been confined to his room.” Strucker's voice is smooth and even a little... disappointed, Clint thinks, but that's not quite the right word. It's like disappointment, but it's mixed in with the same condescension he'd used when speaking to Clint, earlier, and it's now directed at Pietro. “It will be up to you how to handle him, now. I invite you to take a day or two to settle in.”
Pietro's shoulders stiffen, and the action makes Clint ask, “Just for reference, how long's he been in solitary?”
Strucker laughs, like the fact that his kid's obviously not in a good head space is funny. “Nearly a month. I've found that it is the only thing short of corporal punishment that gets his attention properly.” Strucker chuckles again. “And I'm afraid I'm no longer hands-on enough to administer those.”
No longer hands-on enough. Fucking hell.
“Yeah,” Clint says, because Strucker is looking at him and he has to say something. “Not all that fond of spanking, myself.” And it's apparently the right thing to say, because Strucker laughs under his breath, but it's also the wrong thing because Pietro's eyes narrow and the corner of his mouth curls downwards. “If you don't mind, I think I'll clean up a little first, but I would like to start on some things tonight. That all right with everyone?”
Strucker waves a hand before Pietro can answer, nodding. “Yes, of course. Your room is next door.” He motions to the left of the door, and Clint shifts his pack on his shoulder, hoping the message that he wants to get inside as soon as possible gets across. “I believe I told your secretary this, but I know how unreliable they can be, especially when... well.” Strucker smiles, and Clint returns it, even it feels tight across his cheeks.
Do it, he thinks. Fucking insult Bucky, or submissives. Give me a reason.
But Strucker doesn't, just waves a hand with a dismissive little noise. “I don't need to be informed about what you are doing with him. I would prefer not to be, in fact. The boy needs to learn, however you see fit.”
Clint knows how this works. He hasn't done a beginner's training in a while, but they all kind of flow the same. The instructor gets a feel for the kind of Dom the student is, and then the student submits to the instructor until they get a handle on what the domination looks and feels like. Once they've got that, the relationship becomes less about submission and more about instruction, until the student is capable of carrying on a scene by themselves.
So he knows, objectively, that he's going to be in control of the kid until he figures how to run scenes on his own. But the way Strucker's phrasing it, what he's getting at... Christ, he's going to have to have a long talk with Pietro. Because if Strucker's been hiring the kind of Doms that would like that kind of permission, then Clint's got his work cut out for him. And Pietro's distrust of him probably runs deep.
“Great,” he says, still smiling the smile that feels wrong on his face.
Strucker claps him on the shoulder, and Clint's obviously passed some sort of test, because the man's considerably warmer towards him. “Excellent,” he says. “I'll send someone to call you for supper, later.”
Clint will deal with the idea of sharing a meal with Strucker later. For now, he lets the man close the door to Pietro's room without so much as a 'goodbye', and then goes over to his own room. It's spacious, and furnished expensively, but he doesn't give it much more than a cursory glance before he's stripping out of his leathers and walking into the bathroom.
It's a wet room, all tiled, and the shower's got a half-dozen shower heads scattered over three walls, and when Clint steps under the streams of water, he's pretty sure the sound he lets out is obscene. A bit of the tension drains out of his neck, and for a moment, he just stands there, one hand braced against the wall, letting the water cascade down over him.
This contract is going to be hard.