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Skid Right Into a Fall

800 | Clint Barton/Bruce Banner | NC-17 (KB: torture/interrogation

Clint watches Bruce, cataloguing him like he's done for every subject in every interrogation Clint has ever done. He’s blindfolded, and he has Bruce’s legs strapped to the chair. He doesn’t know how to do this without making it feel real, at least partially. His legs are bound, but his feet are bare because Clint likes the threat of leaving something that vulnerable exposed.

Bruce shifts again, and the chair creaks. There’s a greenish mottling on his hands, where he has them balled up on his knees.

“You know we’re in the tower,” he says, and he slides the gloves, letting them snap so Bruce can hear it. “You know that right below us are at least ten floors of innocent people. You lose control, and some of them are going to die.”

Bruce nods, licking his lips. Clint slides on another pair of gloves, a lightweight neoprene. He’ll do this, but he won’t risk himself getting gamma poisoning. He ignores the niggling reminder at how much he thinks about this, goes over scenarios in his head.

“You don’t want them to die, do you, Dr. Banner?” Clint says, and he picks up a scalpel. He pushes the blade against Bruce’s skin, against the speeding pulse in his throat. “You’re going to be good for me, right? I’d hate to see someone die because you couldn’t keep it together.”

“You’ll die too,” Bruce growls, and there’s just a thread of the Hulk there. The green mottling is gone. It’s working already, and Clint tries not to feel just a touch... disappointed.

“You let me lead you down here. You don’t know what I have in store to save my ass.” He lets the blade dig in, the first welling of blood on the blade. “I was trained by some of the people that Ross trained, Banner. I know what I need to do to stay alive.”

The growl that Bruce lets out as Ross’ name is impressive, scary even. He doesn’t seem to notice that he’s bleeding, just infuriated at the mention of the general. “Did I strike a nerve, Doc? You still mad at old Ross?”

Bruce shakes his head. “Move on, Barton,” he says. The mottling is back.

Clint puts down the scalpel for a lighter and a candle. If this was real, he’d smoke, leave scars, but he doesn’t know how much Bruce is into that yet. Instead he lights the candle and grabs Bruce’s left arm, holding his wrist so tight that the bones feel like they’re shifting under his grip. “You don’t make the rules, Banner.” Clint hisses, and he lets the wax drip on the inside of Bruce’s wrist. The candle is close enough that Bruce has to feel the heat. “I want to talk about Ross.”

Bruce hisses, and Clint keeps the wax dripping, watching it build over the skin. He has to keep moving so the wax won’t become too thick. Bruce needs to feel the pain. He hisses and growls, but he doesn’t tell Clint to stop.

“What about him?” It still isn’t Bruce’s normal voice, but he’ll take it.

“Was he an asshole to you before? When it was just you, all mild-mannered, and his daughter? Were you never good enough for Daddy’s little girl? Was that it?” He rights the candle, to give Bruce a chance to speak.

Bruce doesn’t, and Clint lets the wax drip closer to his palm, to the softer skin. Things hurt worse on the palms and the balls of the feet. Bruce knows that.

“It wasn’t the explosion, but now that I’m a monster, he had his excuse. And he knows I’m dangerous,” Bruce grinds out, and he keeps his face turned away. Clint knows that’s how Bruce sees the Hulk. He doesn’t need to press there. It’s not the soft spot he’s going after.

He sets down the candle and picks up the scalpel again, starting to pry the wax loose. He lets the blade dig down just a little too much, and Bruce can’t pull away, not unless he wants worse than this. “You’re not a monster, Banner. Say it.”

Bruce shakes his head. “That wasn’t what we agreed to,” he says, and there’s something strange in his tone.

Clint presses a hand to Bruce’s crotch, where he’s half hard from being treated like this. He knows the flushed look to Bruce’s skin, and he knows that it’s not just a session for him. He has to like this a little to keep asking Clint to put him in the chair. “You’re not a monster. Say it, because I only want truth. I can get the candle again.”

“I’m a freak,” Bruce says, and his voice comes out breathy. It’s his voice. It’s a good sign.

“You’re a freak and a painslut, but you’re not a monster. Say you’re not a monster, Banner, or I’ll start on the other wrist.”

Bruce draws himself up and he swallows, but he stays quiet. Clint isn’t sorry that he has to slap Bruce hard enough across the face that his hand hurts.


locketofyourhair: loki! (Default)

June 2013

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