Fic: the temple of bondage, Ch. 1 & 2
Jun. 20th, 2012 12:59 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
sabinetzinTitle: the temple of bondage, Ch. 1 & 2
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: 7369
Rating/Contents: NC-17, D/s, painplay, whips, SSC, bondage (held down), sane people acting sane, everybody always has to go undercover in sex clubs
Pairing: Clint/Coulson
Policies: Read my archiving, feedback, and warnings policies here.
A/N: So like a billion years ago,coffeesuperhero and I went on this weird tangent about Indiana Jones? And it spawned two really different stories, raiders of the lost leather pants, which she wrote almost all of, and this one, which I wrote. There was going to be a third one, the last something something, but we never worked it out. This story was supposed to be over, but a series of events, a little bit of Because Fuck You writing, and now there's a second chapter. Maybe a third? Possibly a fourth? That or this is done, because it does come to a logical stopping point. Who can say?
Ch. 3 | Ch. 4
Undercover ops are not Clint's specialty, but this one- Clint isn't even sure what he thinks about it.
"So we have to infiltrate a sex club?" Clint asked incredulously, looking at the dossier.
"Dungeon," Coulson corrected, as if it wasn't strange at all that he knew the difference and felt the need to make sure Clint's terminology was correct. He gave Clint a look. "You know what this means."
"Every damn time," Clint sighed, leaning back in his chair. Seventy-five percent of SHIELD undercover assignments hinge upon somebody pretending to be involved with somebody else- married is a favorite, and Clint couldn't decide if this was better or worse. "Of course I'm the-" Clint made a vague motion with his hand- "the top, or whatever."
Coulson raised an eyebrow at him. "Why is that?"
"Because it's not believable the other way around," he said. "It can't be you. The business guys, they're always the ones who want to crawl on the floor and lick boots."
Coulson's face twitched, and Clint couldn't decide if he was trying not to burst out laughing or trying not to punch Clint in the face. "We'll try it that way, then."
That didn't seem to bode well, but Clint went with it; so now here they are, and the situation has not improved.
Clint doesn't know who bought this whip; he doesn't understand why, but the idea that someone special ordered it for this situation is somehow way less weird than the idea that they just had one lying around. It's stiff, though, like it's not broken in, which is a point towards less weird.
It's really hard to get accustomed to; it's not like anything Clint's ever tried before. He's used to straight lines, windspeed and the archer's paradox being the only things that keep him from going directly from point A to point B. This thing, not only is it not really straight, but there aren't any damn points at all. It's not like he won't be able to do it, mind, it's just that he already knows it's going to be a challenge- not a problem, just a challenge.
He's been working with the whip for maybe forty-five minutes or so, trying to get the hang of it. Clint spent all day watching instructional videos on YouTube, except for the hour or two he lost to mashups and Krav Maga demos; he's learned everything else he knows by seeing other people do it, and this shouldn't be any different. It is, though. Maybe he was watching the wrong kind, because this whip is shorter than any of those, and it doesn't want to act the same way. It also didn't really occur to him that maybe he should be watching videos where people actually got hit with whips- but frankly, the idea is still scary.
He tries it again, circling the whip around his head to crack it, but it still won't work. Coulson is getting increasingly more irritated, and Clint can easily tell. It's just that Clint can't tell what he's doing wrong. He's trying his level best with the whip, and it's not like Coulson could do any better.
"For Christ's sake, Barton," Coulson snaps. "It's a signal whip, not a bullwhip. You don't spin it over your head and hope for the best. If you're going to crack it, crack it and stop screwing around."
That was an oddly specific criticism, and Clint isn't quite sure how to interpret it. "Look, I'm doing what I can over here."
Coulson pushes off the wall, walking over; he puts his palm out, and Clint hands him the whip, just to see where this is going. Coulson just stands there for a minute, looking at him, before Clint takes the hint and backs away- this is why Coulson is the one who makes plans. He raises the whip, and just like that he cracks it, like it's the most natural thing in the world, like he's done it a thousand times. It is really loud, a lot louder than Clint expected, almost as loud as a gunshot.
Coulson lowers his arm and cracks it again, then once more; he hands it back to Clint, and Clint just stares at him. "Um," he says. "So, that's new."
"Not exactly," Coulson tells him; he's blushing very faintly, but he's still looking Clint in the eye, as if nothing is wrong. "Here," he says. "Put the handle in your right hand." When he does it, Coulson bends his arm up for him and raises it so his hand is about level with his ear. "Other hand here," he says, taking the other one and putting it on the other side of his neck, fingers open. Coulson puts the other end of the whip in Clint's free hand. "Now straighten your elbow. Too slow and it won't crack, too fast and you'll hit yourself."
Clint tries it once, but still nothing happens. "Too slow. Again," Coulson says, and this time when Clint does it, it cracks, satisfyingly crisp and clear. Now that he gets it, he realizes that it's like firing a bow in a lot of ways, load and release. "See?"
"Not bad," Clint says, cracking it a few more times.
"Good," Coulson says. He takes his jacket off, unbuttoning his shirt. "Let's move on."
Clint stares at him for a minute. "Are we, uh-"
"You're not going to get anywhere standing around cracking it," Coulson tells him, pulling off his undershirt. "You've got to be ready to actually hit people with it."
Clint looks down at the whip in his hand. "Are you sure you actually want me to do this?"
"You can't hurt me with that," Coulson says, in a way that makes Clint really want to try- which he suspects was Coulson's goal all along. "Don't hit me in the face and we're fine. It's not the same as you just did, when you want to pop someone with it. Let me show you."
Clint is about to hand the whip over, but he stops. "I don't want to do this."
Coulson's face gets very serious. "Barton, I need you to answer me truthfully: have you ever been in a situation-"
"No, no, god no," Clint says, cutting him off, and Coulson relaxes. "It's not like that. I just don't want to hurt someone unless I'm supposed to."
Coulson raises an eyebrow at him. "You're supposed to."
"That came out wrong," Clint says, shutting his eyes. "I don't want to hurt someone unless they're a target. This doesn't feel right."
Coulson gives him a considering look. "I think we're just going to have to teach you to flog instead."
"I'm starting to think I'm not the one who should worry about training," Clint mutters, licking his lip; all this is very strange, but the way Coulson's handling it, like it's second nature, is very attractive, for some reason.
"Teaching and training are two different things, Barton," Coulson says, and his voice has gotten deeper. "If you're going to be ready for this job, you've got to do one or the other. Up to you."
Clint swallows. "So you teach me to use the whip, or you train me to take it?"
"Among other things," Coulson says, and Clint realizes that they're pretty close together, that it's a pretty small room. The door is shut, and it locks on voice command; the security cameras are on, but Clint's pretty sure Coulson has authorization to turn them off. He's not really sure why he's taking stock of all this, but it suddenly seems really important to know what he's working with here.
It clicks for him, right then. "You already knew," Clint says, narrowing his eyes. "You knew you were going to end up on top."
"I thought I'd give you a fair chance," he says innocently, but Clint's not buying it.
"You were just screwing with me," Clint says.
"You're the one who decided which of us would do what," Coulson reminds him. "Maybe you needed to learn a lesson about underestimating me."
Coulson really cannot go around saying shit like that and expect Clint to function. "I don't want to learn," Clint says, before he can overthink it, and he holds the whip out. "I'd rather be trained."
Clint is expecting something to happen then, for Coulson to force him to his knees or call him his bitch or something, but Coulson just nods. "Let's do the easy part first," he says, taking the whip away from Clint. "Take your shirt off and brace yourself against the wall. I'm going to whip you-" that sends a shiver up Clint's spine, and he really doesn't know if it's a good one or a bad one- "until I think you've had enough, or until you tell me to stop- I really will stop if you tell me to. Do you understand?"
"How is this the easy part?" Clint manages to say.
"All you have to do is stand still," Coulson tells him. "Do you want to do this? This only happens if you want it to happen."
"I'm fine," Clint says, pulling off his shirt and tossing it onto the floor. "Let's just go."
"Get in position," Coulson says, and Clint goes. There's some padding on the wall, and Clint puts his hands on it, his fingertips pressing in a little. Coulson is moving around behind him, fussing with something; Clint jumps about a foot when Coulson puts a hand on his shoulder. "Just me," he says, sounding amused.
Coulson smooths his hands across Clint's back, his touch warm and comforting- two things that Clint was pretty sure would never apply to the man. Clint is aware that he's tense, possibly shaking a little, but he's earned it on this one. He's done and been willing to do some pretty strange and scary shit for this job, but this is a completely different matter.
When Clint's relaxed a little, Coulson steps away. "Get ready," he says, and Clint tries not to tense right up again. "I'm going to start now. I may not make contact the first few times."
Clint's pretty sure he should have some smartass comment to make, but he doesn't. He just waits for it, his fingers digging into the padding. Coulson is moving the whip and it's making noises, but Clint's still not feeling anything.
And suddenly Coulson hits it just right. "Jesus Christ!" Clint yelps, jumping.
"Too much?" Coulson asks, and Clint can hear the amusement in his voice.
"That shit stings," he says. "I wasn't expecting it."
"First one's always the worst," Coulson says mildly, and Clint knows somehow that that is a total lie. "More?"
Clint rounds his shoulders, trying to be ready for it this time. "Yeah, hit me."
Coulson isn't given to casual swearing, usually saves it for his very, very occasional tirades; so when he mutters, "Fucking hell," under his breath, Clint knows something non-work-related is definitely going on here- he had an idea, wasn't a hundred percent, but yeah, now it's clear.
It is not a problem.
Before he can do a whole lot more thinking, Coulson pops him again, on the other side, up near his shoulder blade. It really doesn't hurt as much as it did before, though it still hurts pretty badly. He does it again and again, peppering Clint's back with marks. He's got really good aim with that thing, because then he picks out a spot and starts hitting it over and over, dead on. It sucks really badly, and Clint grits his teeth; he's trying to take it, mostly to prove that he can, also because it feels good in this really weird way, like he's never felt before.
Determination only lasts so long, though. "Shit," he hisses, balling his hand into a fist and pounding on the wall. "Shit, shit, okay, fuck, uncle, fucking uncle!"
Coulson immediately stops; he steps forward, putting his hand on the back of Clint's neck and leaning in to look him the face. "Are you okay?"
Clint laughs breathlessly. "You're a dick with that thing, Coulson."
"You always think I'm a dick," he points out.
"Yeah, well, it's really obvious right now," Clint says. "More than usual."
Coulson grins, but then he's all business again. "Do you want to stop?"
"Um," Clint says. His head is starting to feel a little foggy- it's not bad, not bad enough that he's worried about it too much. It actually feels weirdly good. "No, yeah, I'm good to go," Clint tells him. He grins back at him. "Just don't hit me there again, dick."
Coulson snorts. "I'm going to do something different now," he says. "The whip is going to come across your back on the diagonal." He runs his finger over Clint's back, illustrating, and even though Coulson's just been whipping him so they can go to a sex dungeon or whatever, the touch of his finger is somehow way more charged. "It's probably going to hurt more. If you need or want to, stop me."
"Got it," Clint says; he's getting a little tired of how Coulson keeps telling him that over and over again, like Clint doesn't know or expect it. Then he realizes what it would be like if Coulson didn't say that, if he wasn't quite so sure that Coulson always has his best interests in mind, and suddenly it doesn't seem so unnecessary.
Coulson runs his hands up through Clint's hair for a moment before he steps away, and if Clint leans into it, well, that's between him and god.
"Starting now," Coulson says, and he barely wastes any time in bringing the whip down on Clint's back. It actually doesn't hurt nearly as badly as Clint was expecting; some of the tension goes out of his shoulders, and he settles himself a little more firmly against the wall. It's not like the other way, because Coulson doesn't have to stop in between strikes, can just keep laying down stripes on Clint's back. Even without seeing, Clint can feel how carefully he's doing it, the lines falling next to one another instead of crisscrossing.
"Why're you so good at this?" Clint says, and he's slurring a little, he can tell.
"Story for another time, Barton," Coulson says, sounding a little embarrassed.
Clint's starting to really get into this, and he wonders if that's a bad thing or not. The idea that someone is hurting him and he likes it, that's a pretty big idea to get a grip on, especially when he's spent a very long time working in a place where getting hurt is more or less part of the job description. There's something different about it, though, something that separates the two. He's never really been tortured, just beaten up- god bless bad guys with no imagination- so it's not like he has any bad memories associated with it. If Coulson wanted to punch him or something, that would probably be different; this is something completely unrelated, something that has nothing to do with work at all.
There is the fact that his handler's giving it to him, but, well, fraternization is something that Clint is already well-versed in.
Coulson stops, and Clint feels like protesting. "Are you with me, Clint?" he asks, rubbing circles at the small of Clint's back.
"Yes, sir," he says; it takes him a second to catch up to what that sounded like. "Shit, sorry, reflex."
"It's fine," Coulson says, in that "I'm trying not to sound upset" voice that he has; Clint can't tell if he's upset that Clint said it or upset that Clint didn't mean it. If Coulson would just share with the rest of the class, Clint could fix it pretty quickly. If he doesn't want Clint to say it, he'll make sure he doesn't, but Clint will sir him all day long if it makes him happy. He already does it, and it doesn't bother him at all to do it. Clint's a smartass, but he does what Coulson says, because he respects him, because he trusts him, because Coulson is way better at not fucking up than Clint is.
"I'm good for more," Clint says, shamelessly arching his back- a little to distract Coulson, and a little for himself, because it just feels good, the pain sort of moving around with his muscles. "Come on, hit me again."
Coulson sighs, sounding exasperated and turned on in equal measure, but provoking that response is one of Clint's specialties. "Just a little more," he says, and before Clint is ready, Coulson hits him; it hurts more this time, the pain singing across his skin. It's pretty bad, but it's starting to be good that it hurts, and that doesn't make any sense, but Clint's okay with rolling with that. As far as Clint is concerned, Coulson can keep doing this just as long as he likes, until he's good and done, because Clint is fine and dandy right here.
But then it doesn't hurt as much, and then it hurts less, and then Coulson isn't doing anything at all. More would be so nice, but it's also nice to stand here and put his head against the wall, letting it take his weight; Clint is feeling very agreeable right at the moment.
Coulson steps in close to him again, running his hands over Clint's back. It hurts, but it's worth it, the comfort of a nice, warm Coulson; he turns, and he knows he's clinging, but he doesn't care much. Coulson just lets Clint hang onto him, keeps stroking his back.
"We're going to walk over there," Coulson says. "Be careful," he adds, and Clint is kind of shocked when they get all the way back to their clothes without Clint falling over or making a smart comment. Coulson sits down, bringing Clint with him, and Clint doesn't feel bad at all about huddling up against him. Coulson leans over, grabbing the sleeve of his suit jacket and tugging it towards him. Clint's pretty shocked when Coulson tucks it in around him; he hadn't even realized he was cold.
"Am I bleeding onto your jacket?" Clint asks blearily.
"No," Coulson tells him, rubbing his hands up and down Clint's arms. "I didn't cut you."
"That's pretty cool," Clint says, because it feels like he did, the way his skin hurts.
"Thanks," Coulson says, and his voice isn't nearly as sarcastic as Clint knows it could be.
Clint tilts his head back, so he can look at Coulson, albeit kind of awkwardly and sort of upside down. He's trying to articulate how he feels, how impressed he is by Coulson, how mindblowingly hot that was, how much he wants to do it again, how connected he feels they are at this moment; of course, what comes out is, "I really want to suck your dick right now."
Coulson lets out a sigh; it sounds like he's been holding it back for a while. "I really want to let you," he admits, stroking Clint's hair, "but I can't. That's the endorphins talking."
"That's the Barton talking," Clint says, and it's really funny, but he doesn't giggle, because that doesn't seem like it would help his case. "The endorphins are just along for the ride."
Coulson pauses for a moment, his hand stilling on Clint's hair. "Tell the Barton to come talk to me without the endorphins, and we'll see what we can do."
"Ten-four," Clint says, grabbing one of his hands and wrapping Coulson's arm around himself. He looks vaguely off into the middle distance, and he thinks about nothing.
This mission is going to be awesome.
Clint knows what he likes in bed. He likes simple: he likes a nice long blowjob, he likes a good solid fuck, he doesn't like to be on top because it's a lot of work and he always feels uncomfortable, he likes the warm weight of someone holding him down with their body.
Scratch that- until three days ago, Clint knew what he liked in bed.
And then his handler got after him with a whip, and now he has no idea.
It takes two of those days to work up the courage; it takes most of the third one to actually find Phil- because, of course, once Clint goes to look for him, Phil's nowhere to be found. Clint ends up lying in wait for him at the vending machine where he gets his afternoon snack, usually some atrocious artificially-sweetened baked good.
Phil finally turns up around three-thirty, making a beeline for the machine and dropping in his quarters. "Afternoon, Barton," he says, and Clint didn't even know he'd laid eyes on him; then again, that's Phil.
"Hey," Clint says. He's down to now-or-never time, but still he's stalling. "That stuff I said the other day," he says, and Phil freezes, lifting an eyebrow at him. "I still mean it."
Phil looks around- not in a 'I'm checking for listeners' kind of way, but in a 'what the fuck, Barton' kind of way, which Clint is very familiar with. "This is where you chose to bring it up?"
"Did you really want to get an email like that?" Clint asks.
"Point," Phil allows. "Come over tonight and we'll talk about it."
Clint nods, swallowing. "Nineteen-hundred okay?"
"Make it twenty," Phil says, opening his sticky bun and taking a bite.
"Will do," Clint says, and that's that, with that totally mundane conversation, Clint's fate is more or less sealed.
Clint's five minutes late getting to Phil's, which isn't like him at all, but a lot of this isn't like him at all. He's only been to Phil's apartment a handful of times, and he feels kind of awkward standing at the door of this totally mundane-looking apartment in this totally mundane-looking building, given what the hell he's about to do here.
"Clint," Phil says, when he opens the door- Clint, not Barton, and that means something. "Come in. Have you eaten?"
"Uh, no, actually," Clint says, and Phil sits him down and makes him a ham sandwich, which does a surprising amount to calm his stomach and his nerves. They make small talk while they eat, which suits Clint just fine; he could really use something to take the edge off, and he gets the feeling alcohol should not be involved in this situation.
"We need to go over this mission a little better first," Clint says, pushing his plate away, "because I'm not clear on what all this, uh, training is supposed to consist of."
"Two things," Phil says, popping the last bit of his sandwich into his mouth and chewing. "These people we're going to have contact with, they don't fuck around. They're not weekend warriors. If we're doing this, I need to train you to take it and make it look good. That's the part for work."
"Did you get trained?" Clint asks.
"A long time ago," Phil says. "Shouldn't dish it out if you don't know what it feels like to take it."
"And then there's the part that's not for work," Clint says.
"That's the part that's harder," Phil says. "Lots of options, there."
"I'm not good with options, not for this." Clint says, and Phil gets a funny smile on his face. "So I guess you won the coin toss."
Phil's face turns serious. "I know we were messing around earlier, but if you think this is about me winning and you losing, then we're not doing this. Nobody loses, Clint. This isn't a zero-sum game."
"I still don't quite get it," Clint tells him.
"The reason to do this is to get what you need," Phil says. "If you do it right, everybody gets what they need, everybody wins."
"Gotcha," Clint says, though he still kinda doesn't. "So you need-"
"I like to be in control," Phil says, like it's nothing. "That's what I need."
"So what do I need?" Clint asks.
Phil shakes his head. "That's up to you."
Clint gives him a look. "I know you have an idea."
"Honestly? I think nobody's ever expected you to be good in your entire life," Phil tells him. "I think you want to be."
Clint's on the edge of the 'where the fuck do you get off' speech that comes up when anybody says anything about his past, but he stops. He's the one who asked the question; he's the one who wanted an honest answer. He thinks about it instead, and it's hard to deny that the first part is true. It's just the second part, the things that it implies, that's the big problem. "What do I get if I'm good?"
"You get what I say you get," Phil says, and something about that touches something shivery inside Clint. "If you're good, I'll take care of you, and we can go down this road. If you don't want to be good, then this is where it stops. I don't deal with angry brats. Smart-asses, on the other hand, I have no problem with."
"That's a damn good thing," Clint says. "So this is where we draw up a contract, right?"
"Here's rule one," Phil says. "You are not to believe a goddamn word you read on the internet. You will read decent books and talk to people who aren't morons." It's very, very hard for Clint to retain his composure. "You don't have to pretend it's not funny when I'm fucking around," Phil says, smiling. "It's a little early for that. Maybe we'll never do that. We're not on the clock."
"Makes sense," Clint says. Something's been bothering him, and this seems as good a time as any. "I need to know something."
"You need to know a lot of things," Phil tells him.
"You're not as cute as you think you are," Clint says, and Phil smirks. "The other day- does it bother you if I call you sir?"
Phil's face shuts down. "That's not a word you use when you don't mean it. That's serious."
"Look, I already trust you with my life, I'm trusting you to beat the shit out of me and take care of me," Clint says, a little annoyed at having to explain. "You're already 'sir.'"
Phil looks amazed. He shakes his head. "Sorry," he says. "Nobody's called me that outside of work in a very long time."
"Good," Clint says coldly. "I don't know if you knew, but I'm the jealous type," he adds, apologetically.
The corner of Phil's mouth ticks up. "We'll make a dangerous pair, then. God help us if somebody looks at one of us wrong."
"God help us if somebody looks at both of us wrong," Clint says.
"God help everybody else," Phil says, and Clint laughs. "This doesn't have to be sex," Phil tells him seriously. "If that's not what you want-"
"No, no, I want sex," Clint says hurriedly. "There should definitely be sex."
"There's plenty we need to work out, and it's going to take a while," Phil tells him, "but I heard something about you sucking my dick, and I think that's a better use of our time right now. Come on. Bed."
Clint laughs, but he lets himself be more or less pulled into Phil's bedroom. "Straight to the point."
"Have I ever not been?" Phil points out.
Clint just smiles in response. "So, um, do I get a safeword?" he asks cautiously.
Phil frowns. "Do you need a safeword to suck my dick?" Clint can feel himself blush. "That was a bad question, sorry," Phil says, shaking his head. "Would you feel better if you had a safeword?"
"Maybe?" Clint admits.
"Yellow means slow down, and red means stop," Phil tells him. "Or you can just say 'Stop.' I'm not going to be mean about it."
Clint can very clearly hear the yet at the end of that sentence. He finds he doesn't have a problem with it. "Got it," Clint says. He grins, feeling a little better now, like he's gotten some of his own back. "Course, I try not to talk with my mouth full-"
"Clint," Phil says firmly, though he still looks amused. "Get on your knees."
It's hard to do, it's much harder to do than he thought. He had this sort of idea in his head that this was all sorted out now, that he wouldn't have to worry about a thing. And yeah, Phil has his shit together, just like always, but it's hard for Clint to get his brain moving.
"Clint," Phil says, and now his voice is softer, concerned. "This ends when you need it to end, but right now I need you to make a decision. I'm not going to hold your answer against you."
Clint takes a deep breath; there's no time like the present. He carefully lowers himself to his knees, looking up at Phil, who seems really, really tall from this angle. This is all kind of ridiculous, honestly, his hesitation. He's been in this position before, he's gotten on his knees for people; it's just that he's never gotten on his knees for anyone, and that's really different. It feels scary and it feels good, like it's a step in the right direction.
"Good," Phil says, and he cards his hand through Clint's hair. "Scared?"
"Oh yeah," Clint tells him.
"Still want to do this?" Phil asks. "We can stop if you want."
"Coulson," Clint snaps, suddenly irritated. "If you keep giving me all these outs, I'm going to take one of them."
"That's not my name," Phil says; his voice doesn't sound different, but he tightens his hand in Clint's hair. "You decided that."
"Sorry, sir," Clint mutters.
"But point taken," Phil says, petting down his hair. "Just haven't done this in a while. And you haven't done this ever."
"I want to," Clint says, shutting his eyes. "Please let me."
Before he realizes what's going on, Phil is kissing him; he had all but decided that was a thing that Phil didn't do, maybe that people didn't do in these situations at all, but now he gets it. Phil's kisses are kind of devastating, hard, quite literally breathtaking, and withholding them is very effective.
Unfortunately, it takes Phil pulling away from him for him to understand this. Clint makes a disappointed noise, but it only makes Phil smile; that's going to be a problem, given that Clint's repertoire of saddened faces and disappointed sounds is extensive, specifically developed for occasions such as these. Or hey, maybe it's going to be an asset, in a backward kind of way, if he learns how to play Phil just right.
"You think loudly," Phil says. "The point is not thinking."
"Right," Clint says. "Not thinking." Clint looks up at him. "That's a really tall order, sir."
Phil shakes his head. "Never said it was going to be easy." He unbuckles his belt, pulling it out of the loops, and for a second Clint's heart stops; but no, he just throws it over the chair. "Take your shirt off," he says, as he unbuttons his fly, zipping down his pants; he lets them drop, stepping out of them and kicking them away. Clint tosses his shirt on top of them, and this is really happening now, this is actually happening, he's really going to suck Phil's cock.
Not Phil.
Sir.
"Take me out and stroke me," Phil tells him, and Clint tugs Phil's boxer briefs down, wrapping his hand around Phil's cock. It feels good in Clint's hand, big and heavy and hot; it's been a long time since he's had anybody to do this for, and it's nice. "Tighten your grip and do it faster than that," Phil says. Phil's never been one for micromanagement, but this is apparently where he gets it out. Clint's oddly okay with that, right at the moment; he's only halfway sure what he's doing, and it beats the hell out of flying blind.
"That's enough," Phil says, when it's just getting good, when his cock starts to drip precome onto Clint's fingers, and Clint wonders if he might be a little bit of a masochist too. Phil reaches down, running his thumb along Clint's bottom lip for a moment, and Clint kisses it, just to mess with him. "Stop fucking around and suck me off," Phil orders, but he's smiling when he says it.
Clint leans forward, holding Phil's cock steady so that he can get his mouth around it. He shuts his eyes, just holding it there for a moment, working his tongue against it. Goddamn but he loves doing this; it feels good, familiar, something to hold onto while he's in the middle of something so scary, so-
But it's not scary, is it? Despite his nerves, he's having a good time, Phil's having a good time, everything is okay, at least for the moment. He relaxes, taking more of Phil's dick into his mouth, moving his head up and down on it. "See?" Phil says, like he can read Clint's thoughts. "Nothing to worry about. Don't think about it."
Phil has his hand in Clint's hair, and he starts to guide him with it, slowly at first; Clint takes his hand away, letting Phil have him, letting him do what he wants- Clint was always going to do whatever Phil wanted, because that's the name of the game, that's the entire point of this exercise.
Phil starts moving faster, pushing deeper into Clint's mouth, and Clint doesn't do a thing to stop him. It's good, so good to let somebody fuck his mouth like that, and wow, there were definitely warning signs that Clint should have seen before now. He opens his eyes, looking up at Phil, and Phil is looking down at him, his face serious. It's not easy, but Clint winks at him, and Phil snorts in amusement. "I told you to stop fucking around," Phil says, voice strained.
With perfect innocence in his eyes, Clint says, "Yes, sir," right around Phil's dick, and Phil moans.
"Remind me to tell you what a SAM is," Phil says, pushing harder into Clint's mouth. "But not right now."
It's easy to get back into it; they're good together, easy and natural already, which bodes oh-so-well for the future. Clint hopes very much that there is a future; it's not often that so much is riding on a blowjob. Then again, this isn't really like anything else he's done, so maybe it's not that strange in context.
"Stop," Phil says, pulling Clint's head away. He's breathing heavy, and he looks satisfied, so satisfied, in a way that goes beyond sex. "Two choices: you can finish me now, or I can fuck you. This once, it's your decision."
Those are two very attractive options, but it's kind of hard to think it all the way through when he's feeling sort of hazy, relaxed. Either way, he's pretty sure Phil's not going to leave him hanging, so that's not a factor. "I want to do what you want," Clint says truthfully.
Phil raises his eyebrows, looking like he didn't expect that one. "Right now, I want you to make a decision," he says. "Ask me for what you want."
Clint thinks about it; to be perfectly frank, right now he just wants more of Phil's dick, and that seems secondary to how he gets it. "Fuck me," Clint says, looking up at him.
"That's not asking," Phil says. "That's telling."
"This is a lot of thinking," Clint protests; he'd like to think he's not whining, but that might work in his favor, actually. "You said no thinking."
Phil shrugs. "I'm mean."
"Please fuck me," Clint says; it isn't exactly a comfortable feeling, though he figures that's the point. "Please? Come on, just give me your cock, I'll do what you want."
"You are something else," Phil says, shaking his head. "Go on, get undressed and get on the bed."
Clint hops up, losing the rest of his clothes and heading for the bed, when a thought occurs. "How do you want me, sir?"
Phil looks like him speculatively. "On your back. Knees bent, and spread your legs."
Clint climbs onto the bed, and even though he was going to end up looking like this anyway, it's so dirty like this, having to do it to himself, having to prove that he wants it. Phil leaves him like that for a minute, and that's worse, waiting for it. The bedroom door is open, and even though he knows the house is locked up, even though he could get up in a split second, it feels like he's stuck there, like anybody could come in and catch him like this.
It bothers him that it's kinda turning him on, the squirmy embarrassment of it, the wrongness. Phil comes back, and nope, he was wrong, having Phil looking at him like this is worse than waiting for it.
Phil sets the lube and condoms down on the bed, climbing up between Clint's legs; Phil leans over him, close enough to whisper in his ear. "You look good," he says, and before Clint's ready for it, he grips Clint's cock, moving his hand slowly as he kisses him.
Clint fumbles around, hunting blindly on the bed until he lands on the Astroglide; he sort of hits Phil's arm with it until he gets Phil's attention. "Here," he says, breaking away from Phil's mouth. "Please."
Phil smiles, and Clint senses that he is going to be in a world of trouble once Phil decides to stop being so nice to him. As it stands now, though, Phil might just be merciful. He clicks open the bottle, spreading the lube on his fingers; a little drips onto Clint's stomach, but he is so, so far past caring about that.
Phil leans down and starts kissing him again, and Clint spreads his legs wider as Phil's slick fingers find their way to his hole; for a while, he's just messing around, fingertips stroking over him, dipping in slightly. Clint wiggles, trying to get more, and Phil finally takes pity on him, sliding one finger into him and then two, rocking them back and forth. Clint pushes back encouragingly, but Phil is taking his sweet damn time, mostly because, Clint suspects, he knows he can.
But finally Phil is done playing around; he pulls his fingers out slowly, and Clint gives him an unamused look when he wipes them off on Clint's thigh before reaching for a condom. Clint's indignation lasts about a minute, because that's how long it takes before Phil is lining his cock up and pushing inside of him. It still hurts, even with the prep, too long since he did this; he'll feel it tomorrow, but it's completely worth it.
Phil slowly presses in, opening him up, until he's all the way inside; he's biting his lip, eyes shut like he's trying to hang on, and Clint doesn't blame him. He knows how worked up he is, and he wasn't the one getting a blowjob five minutes ago. Clint tries not move, trying to let Phil get it together, but it's really hard, when all he wants is Phil fucking him.
Phil sighs, like he's got it back under control, and he slowly moves his hips, sliding in and out; Clint makes a noise that might be a whimper. "You're going to hold off until I tell you," Phil tells him. Clint gives him a skeptical look. "Try it for me." He's moving a little faster now, harder, and it looks like it sucks to talk, but he's doing it anyway, carefully getting everything out of the way; Phil is, once again, a much better man than Clint is. "If I held you down-"
"Pretty sure that would be awesome," Clint says quickly.
"Thank god," Phil says, grabbing Clint's hands and lacing their fingers together, pulling them up over Clint's head and pressing them into the mattress. He bends in, kissing Clint hard, just once, and then they're off. Clint doesn't know if Phil is always like this, take-no-prisoners, hard and rough, but if he is, Clint doesn't think he'll have a problem with that. The only problem Clint is going to have is not coming before Phil tells him he can; there's almost certainly no way he can handle that on the first try. He doesn't think Phil will fault him for it, but that's not what really matters. What matters is that it'll matter to Clint, not doing it right, not doing it perfect.
All this stuff is hard and weird, and Clint is starting to think he was supposed to have been doing it all along.
Then he isn't thinking about anything, because Phil is hitting him just right, just the perfect spot; he squeezes Phil's hands, and Phil just pushes him down harder. He's driving into Clint now, fast, and Clint looks up into his eyes. That same satisfaction is there, darker this time, and it sparks something in Clint, something that makes him want to move towards it, makes him want to make Phil feel like that all the time.
"Please kiss me," Clint says, and his voice sounds small- not bad, just small, to match the way he's feeling, the way Phil is making him feel. He feels overtaken, covered up, but he doesn't feel smothered; he feels protected instead. "Sir, please."
Phil makes a noise that Clint didn't know he could make, something snarling, and somehow it goes straight to Clint's dick. Phil crushes their mouths together, hard enough that it hurts a little; he bites at Clint's lips, and Clint moans brokenly.
"If I let you," Phil says, "could you?"
That's a serious question; Clint doesn't want to disappoint- and it's fucked up that a minute ago he was wondering if he could hold out and now he's wondering if he could go. "Yeah," he says, nodding, even though he's only about seventy-five percent sure, "yessir, yes, please."
"Then do it for me," Phil says, thrusting into him harder, faster. "Come for me."
Clint shuts his eyes; something about those words does it for him, the idea that this is something he's giving up to Phil, something Phil is demanding out of him. He rolls his hips, moving just so, so that Phil's hitting just the right place, and he groans loudly, coming hard, all over his stomach. He's barely finished before Phil is right there with him, his rhythm stuttering to a stop, ending with him buried all the way in Clint's ass, moaning as he comes.
Clint opens right up for his kiss; this time it's unhurried, still controlling but relaxed, calm. Phil tears himself away just long enough to toss the condom into the trash, and then he's back, lying down beside Clint and pulling him over for more kisses. Phil's a little smaller than Clint is, maybe an inch shorter, not nearly as built, but for some reason that just makes getting manhandled by him better, more attractive, like Clint's giving up more. Clint didn't know four days ago that he wanted to give anything up to Phil, but here they are.
"So that was great," Clint says, when they finally break for air.
Phil smiles. "No complaints here."
"Good," Clint says, "because we need to do that a lot more."
He kisses Clint on the forehead. "I think that can be arranged."
Clint moves a little closer, putting an arm around Phil. "So what does SAM mean, anyway?"
"Smart-Ass Masochist," Phil says, grinning.
"Is that a good thing or a bad thing?" Clint asks.
"Depends on your perspective," Phil tells him, "but I've got no problem with it."
"Cool," Clint says. "No promises, but that doesn't sound unlikely."
"I know," Phil says, and he doesn't look surprised at all when Clint hits him playfully.
"So, lots of stuff to talk about," Clint says.
"Yep," Phil says. "Not gonna be easy." He leans in, kissing Clint again. "But it'll be worth it."
Clint is starting to sense a theme.
On to Chapter 3
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: 7369
Rating/Contents: NC-17, D/s, painplay, whips, SSC, bondage (held down), sane people acting sane, everybody always has to go undercover in sex clubs
Pairing: Clint/Coulson
Policies: Read my archiving, feedback, and warnings policies here.
A/N: So like a billion years ago,
coffeesuperhero and I went on this weird tangent about Indiana Jones? And it spawned two really different stories, raiders of the lost leather pants, which she wrote almost all of, and this one, which I wrote. There was going to be a third one, the last something something, but we never worked it out. This story was supposed to be over, but a series of events, a little bit of Because Fuck You writing, and now there's a second chapter. Maybe a third? Possibly a fourth? That or this is done, because it does come to a logical stopping point. Who can say?Ch. 3 | Ch. 4
Undercover ops are not Clint's specialty, but this one- Clint isn't even sure what he thinks about it.
"So we have to infiltrate a sex club?" Clint asked incredulously, looking at the dossier.
"Dungeon," Coulson corrected, as if it wasn't strange at all that he knew the difference and felt the need to make sure Clint's terminology was correct. He gave Clint a look. "You know what this means."
"Every damn time," Clint sighed, leaning back in his chair. Seventy-five percent of SHIELD undercover assignments hinge upon somebody pretending to be involved with somebody else- married is a favorite, and Clint couldn't decide if this was better or worse. "Of course I'm the-" Clint made a vague motion with his hand- "the top, or whatever."
Coulson raised an eyebrow at him. "Why is that?"
"Because it's not believable the other way around," he said. "It can't be you. The business guys, they're always the ones who want to crawl on the floor and lick boots."
Coulson's face twitched, and Clint couldn't decide if he was trying not to burst out laughing or trying not to punch Clint in the face. "We'll try it that way, then."
That didn't seem to bode well, but Clint went with it; so now here they are, and the situation has not improved.
Clint doesn't know who bought this whip; he doesn't understand why, but the idea that someone special ordered it for this situation is somehow way less weird than the idea that they just had one lying around. It's stiff, though, like it's not broken in, which is a point towards less weird.
It's really hard to get accustomed to; it's not like anything Clint's ever tried before. He's used to straight lines, windspeed and the archer's paradox being the only things that keep him from going directly from point A to point B. This thing, not only is it not really straight, but there aren't any damn points at all. It's not like he won't be able to do it, mind, it's just that he already knows it's going to be a challenge- not a problem, just a challenge.
He's been working with the whip for maybe forty-five minutes or so, trying to get the hang of it. Clint spent all day watching instructional videos on YouTube, except for the hour or two he lost to mashups and Krav Maga demos; he's learned everything else he knows by seeing other people do it, and this shouldn't be any different. It is, though. Maybe he was watching the wrong kind, because this whip is shorter than any of those, and it doesn't want to act the same way. It also didn't really occur to him that maybe he should be watching videos where people actually got hit with whips- but frankly, the idea is still scary.
He tries it again, circling the whip around his head to crack it, but it still won't work. Coulson is getting increasingly more irritated, and Clint can easily tell. It's just that Clint can't tell what he's doing wrong. He's trying his level best with the whip, and it's not like Coulson could do any better.
"For Christ's sake, Barton," Coulson snaps. "It's a signal whip, not a bullwhip. You don't spin it over your head and hope for the best. If you're going to crack it, crack it and stop screwing around."
That was an oddly specific criticism, and Clint isn't quite sure how to interpret it. "Look, I'm doing what I can over here."
Coulson pushes off the wall, walking over; he puts his palm out, and Clint hands him the whip, just to see where this is going. Coulson just stands there for a minute, looking at him, before Clint takes the hint and backs away- this is why Coulson is the one who makes plans. He raises the whip, and just like that he cracks it, like it's the most natural thing in the world, like he's done it a thousand times. It is really loud, a lot louder than Clint expected, almost as loud as a gunshot.
Coulson lowers his arm and cracks it again, then once more; he hands it back to Clint, and Clint just stares at him. "Um," he says. "So, that's new."
"Not exactly," Coulson tells him; he's blushing very faintly, but he's still looking Clint in the eye, as if nothing is wrong. "Here," he says. "Put the handle in your right hand." When he does it, Coulson bends his arm up for him and raises it so his hand is about level with his ear. "Other hand here," he says, taking the other one and putting it on the other side of his neck, fingers open. Coulson puts the other end of the whip in Clint's free hand. "Now straighten your elbow. Too slow and it won't crack, too fast and you'll hit yourself."
Clint tries it once, but still nothing happens. "Too slow. Again," Coulson says, and this time when Clint does it, it cracks, satisfyingly crisp and clear. Now that he gets it, he realizes that it's like firing a bow in a lot of ways, load and release. "See?"
"Not bad," Clint says, cracking it a few more times.
"Good," Coulson says. He takes his jacket off, unbuttoning his shirt. "Let's move on."
Clint stares at him for a minute. "Are we, uh-"
"You're not going to get anywhere standing around cracking it," Coulson tells him, pulling off his undershirt. "You've got to be ready to actually hit people with it."
Clint looks down at the whip in his hand. "Are you sure you actually want me to do this?"
"You can't hurt me with that," Coulson says, in a way that makes Clint really want to try- which he suspects was Coulson's goal all along. "Don't hit me in the face and we're fine. It's not the same as you just did, when you want to pop someone with it. Let me show you."
Clint is about to hand the whip over, but he stops. "I don't want to do this."
Coulson's face gets very serious. "Barton, I need you to answer me truthfully: have you ever been in a situation-"
"No, no, god no," Clint says, cutting him off, and Coulson relaxes. "It's not like that. I just don't want to hurt someone unless I'm supposed to."
Coulson raises an eyebrow at him. "You're supposed to."
"That came out wrong," Clint says, shutting his eyes. "I don't want to hurt someone unless they're a target. This doesn't feel right."
Coulson gives him a considering look. "I think we're just going to have to teach you to flog instead."
"I'm starting to think I'm not the one who should worry about training," Clint mutters, licking his lip; all this is very strange, but the way Coulson's handling it, like it's second nature, is very attractive, for some reason.
"Teaching and training are two different things, Barton," Coulson says, and his voice has gotten deeper. "If you're going to be ready for this job, you've got to do one or the other. Up to you."
Clint swallows. "So you teach me to use the whip, or you train me to take it?"
"Among other things," Coulson says, and Clint realizes that they're pretty close together, that it's a pretty small room. The door is shut, and it locks on voice command; the security cameras are on, but Clint's pretty sure Coulson has authorization to turn them off. He's not really sure why he's taking stock of all this, but it suddenly seems really important to know what he's working with here.
It clicks for him, right then. "You already knew," Clint says, narrowing his eyes. "You knew you were going to end up on top."
"I thought I'd give you a fair chance," he says innocently, but Clint's not buying it.
"You were just screwing with me," Clint says.
"You're the one who decided which of us would do what," Coulson reminds him. "Maybe you needed to learn a lesson about underestimating me."
Coulson really cannot go around saying shit like that and expect Clint to function. "I don't want to learn," Clint says, before he can overthink it, and he holds the whip out. "I'd rather be trained."
Clint is expecting something to happen then, for Coulson to force him to his knees or call him his bitch or something, but Coulson just nods. "Let's do the easy part first," he says, taking the whip away from Clint. "Take your shirt off and brace yourself against the wall. I'm going to whip you-" that sends a shiver up Clint's spine, and he really doesn't know if it's a good one or a bad one- "until I think you've had enough, or until you tell me to stop- I really will stop if you tell me to. Do you understand?"
"How is this the easy part?" Clint manages to say.
"All you have to do is stand still," Coulson tells him. "Do you want to do this? This only happens if you want it to happen."
"I'm fine," Clint says, pulling off his shirt and tossing it onto the floor. "Let's just go."
"Get in position," Coulson says, and Clint goes. There's some padding on the wall, and Clint puts his hands on it, his fingertips pressing in a little. Coulson is moving around behind him, fussing with something; Clint jumps about a foot when Coulson puts a hand on his shoulder. "Just me," he says, sounding amused.
Coulson smooths his hands across Clint's back, his touch warm and comforting- two things that Clint was pretty sure would never apply to the man. Clint is aware that he's tense, possibly shaking a little, but he's earned it on this one. He's done and been willing to do some pretty strange and scary shit for this job, but this is a completely different matter.
When Clint's relaxed a little, Coulson steps away. "Get ready," he says, and Clint tries not to tense right up again. "I'm going to start now. I may not make contact the first few times."
Clint's pretty sure he should have some smartass comment to make, but he doesn't. He just waits for it, his fingers digging into the padding. Coulson is moving the whip and it's making noises, but Clint's still not feeling anything.
And suddenly Coulson hits it just right. "Jesus Christ!" Clint yelps, jumping.
"Too much?" Coulson asks, and Clint can hear the amusement in his voice.
"That shit stings," he says. "I wasn't expecting it."
"First one's always the worst," Coulson says mildly, and Clint knows somehow that that is a total lie. "More?"
Clint rounds his shoulders, trying to be ready for it this time. "Yeah, hit me."
Coulson isn't given to casual swearing, usually saves it for his very, very occasional tirades; so when he mutters, "Fucking hell," under his breath, Clint knows something non-work-related is definitely going on here- he had an idea, wasn't a hundred percent, but yeah, now it's clear.
It is not a problem.
Before he can do a whole lot more thinking, Coulson pops him again, on the other side, up near his shoulder blade. It really doesn't hurt as much as it did before, though it still hurts pretty badly. He does it again and again, peppering Clint's back with marks. He's got really good aim with that thing, because then he picks out a spot and starts hitting it over and over, dead on. It sucks really badly, and Clint grits his teeth; he's trying to take it, mostly to prove that he can, also because it feels good in this really weird way, like he's never felt before.
Determination only lasts so long, though. "Shit," he hisses, balling his hand into a fist and pounding on the wall. "Shit, shit, okay, fuck, uncle, fucking uncle!"
Coulson immediately stops; he steps forward, putting his hand on the back of Clint's neck and leaning in to look him the face. "Are you okay?"
Clint laughs breathlessly. "You're a dick with that thing, Coulson."
"You always think I'm a dick," he points out.
"Yeah, well, it's really obvious right now," Clint says. "More than usual."
Coulson grins, but then he's all business again. "Do you want to stop?"
"Um," Clint says. His head is starting to feel a little foggy- it's not bad, not bad enough that he's worried about it too much. It actually feels weirdly good. "No, yeah, I'm good to go," Clint tells him. He grins back at him. "Just don't hit me there again, dick."
Coulson snorts. "I'm going to do something different now," he says. "The whip is going to come across your back on the diagonal." He runs his finger over Clint's back, illustrating, and even though Coulson's just been whipping him so they can go to a sex dungeon or whatever, the touch of his finger is somehow way more charged. "It's probably going to hurt more. If you need or want to, stop me."
"Got it," Clint says; he's getting a little tired of how Coulson keeps telling him that over and over again, like Clint doesn't know or expect it. Then he realizes what it would be like if Coulson didn't say that, if he wasn't quite so sure that Coulson always has his best interests in mind, and suddenly it doesn't seem so unnecessary.
Coulson runs his hands up through Clint's hair for a moment before he steps away, and if Clint leans into it, well, that's between him and god.
"Starting now," Coulson says, and he barely wastes any time in bringing the whip down on Clint's back. It actually doesn't hurt nearly as badly as Clint was expecting; some of the tension goes out of his shoulders, and he settles himself a little more firmly against the wall. It's not like the other way, because Coulson doesn't have to stop in between strikes, can just keep laying down stripes on Clint's back. Even without seeing, Clint can feel how carefully he's doing it, the lines falling next to one another instead of crisscrossing.
"Why're you so good at this?" Clint says, and he's slurring a little, he can tell.
"Story for another time, Barton," Coulson says, sounding a little embarrassed.
Clint's starting to really get into this, and he wonders if that's a bad thing or not. The idea that someone is hurting him and he likes it, that's a pretty big idea to get a grip on, especially when he's spent a very long time working in a place where getting hurt is more or less part of the job description. There's something different about it, though, something that separates the two. He's never really been tortured, just beaten up- god bless bad guys with no imagination- so it's not like he has any bad memories associated with it. If Coulson wanted to punch him or something, that would probably be different; this is something completely unrelated, something that has nothing to do with work at all.
There is the fact that his handler's giving it to him, but, well, fraternization is something that Clint is already well-versed in.
Coulson stops, and Clint feels like protesting. "Are you with me, Clint?" he asks, rubbing circles at the small of Clint's back.
"Yes, sir," he says; it takes him a second to catch up to what that sounded like. "Shit, sorry, reflex."
"It's fine," Coulson says, in that "I'm trying not to sound upset" voice that he has; Clint can't tell if he's upset that Clint said it or upset that Clint didn't mean it. If Coulson would just share with the rest of the class, Clint could fix it pretty quickly. If he doesn't want Clint to say it, he'll make sure he doesn't, but Clint will sir him all day long if it makes him happy. He already does it, and it doesn't bother him at all to do it. Clint's a smartass, but he does what Coulson says, because he respects him, because he trusts him, because Coulson is way better at not fucking up than Clint is.
"I'm good for more," Clint says, shamelessly arching his back- a little to distract Coulson, and a little for himself, because it just feels good, the pain sort of moving around with his muscles. "Come on, hit me again."
Coulson sighs, sounding exasperated and turned on in equal measure, but provoking that response is one of Clint's specialties. "Just a little more," he says, and before Clint is ready, Coulson hits him; it hurts more this time, the pain singing across his skin. It's pretty bad, but it's starting to be good that it hurts, and that doesn't make any sense, but Clint's okay with rolling with that. As far as Clint is concerned, Coulson can keep doing this just as long as he likes, until he's good and done, because Clint is fine and dandy right here.
But then it doesn't hurt as much, and then it hurts less, and then Coulson isn't doing anything at all. More would be so nice, but it's also nice to stand here and put his head against the wall, letting it take his weight; Clint is feeling very agreeable right at the moment.
Coulson steps in close to him again, running his hands over Clint's back. It hurts, but it's worth it, the comfort of a nice, warm Coulson; he turns, and he knows he's clinging, but he doesn't care much. Coulson just lets Clint hang onto him, keeps stroking his back.
"We're going to walk over there," Coulson says. "Be careful," he adds, and Clint is kind of shocked when they get all the way back to their clothes without Clint falling over or making a smart comment. Coulson sits down, bringing Clint with him, and Clint doesn't feel bad at all about huddling up against him. Coulson leans over, grabbing the sleeve of his suit jacket and tugging it towards him. Clint's pretty shocked when Coulson tucks it in around him; he hadn't even realized he was cold.
"Am I bleeding onto your jacket?" Clint asks blearily.
"No," Coulson tells him, rubbing his hands up and down Clint's arms. "I didn't cut you."
"That's pretty cool," Clint says, because it feels like he did, the way his skin hurts.
"Thanks," Coulson says, and his voice isn't nearly as sarcastic as Clint knows it could be.
Clint tilts his head back, so he can look at Coulson, albeit kind of awkwardly and sort of upside down. He's trying to articulate how he feels, how impressed he is by Coulson, how mindblowingly hot that was, how much he wants to do it again, how connected he feels they are at this moment; of course, what comes out is, "I really want to suck your dick right now."
Coulson lets out a sigh; it sounds like he's been holding it back for a while. "I really want to let you," he admits, stroking Clint's hair, "but I can't. That's the endorphins talking."
"That's the Barton talking," Clint says, and it's really funny, but he doesn't giggle, because that doesn't seem like it would help his case. "The endorphins are just along for the ride."
Coulson pauses for a moment, his hand stilling on Clint's hair. "Tell the Barton to come talk to me without the endorphins, and we'll see what we can do."
"Ten-four," Clint says, grabbing one of his hands and wrapping Coulson's arm around himself. He looks vaguely off into the middle distance, and he thinks about nothing.
This mission is going to be awesome.
Clint knows what he likes in bed. He likes simple: he likes a nice long blowjob, he likes a good solid fuck, he doesn't like to be on top because it's a lot of work and he always feels uncomfortable, he likes the warm weight of someone holding him down with their body.
Scratch that- until three days ago, Clint knew what he liked in bed.
And then his handler got after him with a whip, and now he has no idea.
It takes two of those days to work up the courage; it takes most of the third one to actually find Phil- because, of course, once Clint goes to look for him, Phil's nowhere to be found. Clint ends up lying in wait for him at the vending machine where he gets his afternoon snack, usually some atrocious artificially-sweetened baked good.
Phil finally turns up around three-thirty, making a beeline for the machine and dropping in his quarters. "Afternoon, Barton," he says, and Clint didn't even know he'd laid eyes on him; then again, that's Phil.
"Hey," Clint says. He's down to now-or-never time, but still he's stalling. "That stuff I said the other day," he says, and Phil freezes, lifting an eyebrow at him. "I still mean it."
Phil looks around- not in a 'I'm checking for listeners' kind of way, but in a 'what the fuck, Barton' kind of way, which Clint is very familiar with. "This is where you chose to bring it up?"
"Did you really want to get an email like that?" Clint asks.
"Point," Phil allows. "Come over tonight and we'll talk about it."
Clint nods, swallowing. "Nineteen-hundred okay?"
"Make it twenty," Phil says, opening his sticky bun and taking a bite.
"Will do," Clint says, and that's that, with that totally mundane conversation, Clint's fate is more or less sealed.
Clint's five minutes late getting to Phil's, which isn't like him at all, but a lot of this isn't like him at all. He's only been to Phil's apartment a handful of times, and he feels kind of awkward standing at the door of this totally mundane-looking apartment in this totally mundane-looking building, given what the hell he's about to do here.
"Clint," Phil says, when he opens the door- Clint, not Barton, and that means something. "Come in. Have you eaten?"
"Uh, no, actually," Clint says, and Phil sits him down and makes him a ham sandwich, which does a surprising amount to calm his stomach and his nerves. They make small talk while they eat, which suits Clint just fine; he could really use something to take the edge off, and he gets the feeling alcohol should not be involved in this situation.
"We need to go over this mission a little better first," Clint says, pushing his plate away, "because I'm not clear on what all this, uh, training is supposed to consist of."
"Two things," Phil says, popping the last bit of his sandwich into his mouth and chewing. "These people we're going to have contact with, they don't fuck around. They're not weekend warriors. If we're doing this, I need to train you to take it and make it look good. That's the part for work."
"Did you get trained?" Clint asks.
"A long time ago," Phil says. "Shouldn't dish it out if you don't know what it feels like to take it."
"And then there's the part that's not for work," Clint says.
"That's the part that's harder," Phil says. "Lots of options, there."
"I'm not good with options, not for this." Clint says, and Phil gets a funny smile on his face. "So I guess you won the coin toss."
Phil's face turns serious. "I know we were messing around earlier, but if you think this is about me winning and you losing, then we're not doing this. Nobody loses, Clint. This isn't a zero-sum game."
"I still don't quite get it," Clint tells him.
"The reason to do this is to get what you need," Phil says. "If you do it right, everybody gets what they need, everybody wins."
"Gotcha," Clint says, though he still kinda doesn't. "So you need-"
"I like to be in control," Phil says, like it's nothing. "That's what I need."
"So what do I need?" Clint asks.
Phil shakes his head. "That's up to you."
Clint gives him a look. "I know you have an idea."
"Honestly? I think nobody's ever expected you to be good in your entire life," Phil tells him. "I think you want to be."
Clint's on the edge of the 'where the fuck do you get off' speech that comes up when anybody says anything about his past, but he stops. He's the one who asked the question; he's the one who wanted an honest answer. He thinks about it instead, and it's hard to deny that the first part is true. It's just the second part, the things that it implies, that's the big problem. "What do I get if I'm good?"
"You get what I say you get," Phil says, and something about that touches something shivery inside Clint. "If you're good, I'll take care of you, and we can go down this road. If you don't want to be good, then this is where it stops. I don't deal with angry brats. Smart-asses, on the other hand, I have no problem with."
"That's a damn good thing," Clint says. "So this is where we draw up a contract, right?"
"Here's rule one," Phil says. "You are not to believe a goddamn word you read on the internet. You will read decent books and talk to people who aren't morons." It's very, very hard for Clint to retain his composure. "You don't have to pretend it's not funny when I'm fucking around," Phil says, smiling. "It's a little early for that. Maybe we'll never do that. We're not on the clock."
"Makes sense," Clint says. Something's been bothering him, and this seems as good a time as any. "I need to know something."
"You need to know a lot of things," Phil tells him.
"You're not as cute as you think you are," Clint says, and Phil smirks. "The other day- does it bother you if I call you sir?"
Phil's face shuts down. "That's not a word you use when you don't mean it. That's serious."
"Look, I already trust you with my life, I'm trusting you to beat the shit out of me and take care of me," Clint says, a little annoyed at having to explain. "You're already 'sir.'"
Phil looks amazed. He shakes his head. "Sorry," he says. "Nobody's called me that outside of work in a very long time."
"Good," Clint says coldly. "I don't know if you knew, but I'm the jealous type," he adds, apologetically.
The corner of Phil's mouth ticks up. "We'll make a dangerous pair, then. God help us if somebody looks at one of us wrong."
"God help us if somebody looks at both of us wrong," Clint says.
"God help everybody else," Phil says, and Clint laughs. "This doesn't have to be sex," Phil tells him seriously. "If that's not what you want-"
"No, no, I want sex," Clint says hurriedly. "There should definitely be sex."
"There's plenty we need to work out, and it's going to take a while," Phil tells him, "but I heard something about you sucking my dick, and I think that's a better use of our time right now. Come on. Bed."
Clint laughs, but he lets himself be more or less pulled into Phil's bedroom. "Straight to the point."
"Have I ever not been?" Phil points out.
Clint just smiles in response. "So, um, do I get a safeword?" he asks cautiously.
Phil frowns. "Do you need a safeword to suck my dick?" Clint can feel himself blush. "That was a bad question, sorry," Phil says, shaking his head. "Would you feel better if you had a safeword?"
"Maybe?" Clint admits.
"Yellow means slow down, and red means stop," Phil tells him. "Or you can just say 'Stop.' I'm not going to be mean about it."
Clint can very clearly hear the yet at the end of that sentence. He finds he doesn't have a problem with it. "Got it," Clint says. He grins, feeling a little better now, like he's gotten some of his own back. "Course, I try not to talk with my mouth full-"
"Clint," Phil says firmly, though he still looks amused. "Get on your knees."
It's hard to do, it's much harder to do than he thought. He had this sort of idea in his head that this was all sorted out now, that he wouldn't have to worry about a thing. And yeah, Phil has his shit together, just like always, but it's hard for Clint to get his brain moving.
"Clint," Phil says, and now his voice is softer, concerned. "This ends when you need it to end, but right now I need you to make a decision. I'm not going to hold your answer against you."
Clint takes a deep breath; there's no time like the present. He carefully lowers himself to his knees, looking up at Phil, who seems really, really tall from this angle. This is all kind of ridiculous, honestly, his hesitation. He's been in this position before, he's gotten on his knees for people; it's just that he's never gotten on his knees for anyone, and that's really different. It feels scary and it feels good, like it's a step in the right direction.
"Good," Phil says, and he cards his hand through Clint's hair. "Scared?"
"Oh yeah," Clint tells him.
"Still want to do this?" Phil asks. "We can stop if you want."
"Coulson," Clint snaps, suddenly irritated. "If you keep giving me all these outs, I'm going to take one of them."
"That's not my name," Phil says; his voice doesn't sound different, but he tightens his hand in Clint's hair. "You decided that."
"Sorry, sir," Clint mutters.
"But point taken," Phil says, petting down his hair. "Just haven't done this in a while. And you haven't done this ever."
"I want to," Clint says, shutting his eyes. "Please let me."
Before he realizes what's going on, Phil is kissing him; he had all but decided that was a thing that Phil didn't do, maybe that people didn't do in these situations at all, but now he gets it. Phil's kisses are kind of devastating, hard, quite literally breathtaking, and withholding them is very effective.
Unfortunately, it takes Phil pulling away from him for him to understand this. Clint makes a disappointed noise, but it only makes Phil smile; that's going to be a problem, given that Clint's repertoire of saddened faces and disappointed sounds is extensive, specifically developed for occasions such as these. Or hey, maybe it's going to be an asset, in a backward kind of way, if he learns how to play Phil just right.
"You think loudly," Phil says. "The point is not thinking."
"Right," Clint says. "Not thinking." Clint looks up at him. "That's a really tall order, sir."
Phil shakes his head. "Never said it was going to be easy." He unbuckles his belt, pulling it out of the loops, and for a second Clint's heart stops; but no, he just throws it over the chair. "Take your shirt off," he says, as he unbuttons his fly, zipping down his pants; he lets them drop, stepping out of them and kicking them away. Clint tosses his shirt on top of them, and this is really happening now, this is actually happening, he's really going to suck Phil's cock.
Not Phil.
Sir.
"Take me out and stroke me," Phil tells him, and Clint tugs Phil's boxer briefs down, wrapping his hand around Phil's cock. It feels good in Clint's hand, big and heavy and hot; it's been a long time since he's had anybody to do this for, and it's nice. "Tighten your grip and do it faster than that," Phil says. Phil's never been one for micromanagement, but this is apparently where he gets it out. Clint's oddly okay with that, right at the moment; he's only halfway sure what he's doing, and it beats the hell out of flying blind.
"That's enough," Phil says, when it's just getting good, when his cock starts to drip precome onto Clint's fingers, and Clint wonders if he might be a little bit of a masochist too. Phil reaches down, running his thumb along Clint's bottom lip for a moment, and Clint kisses it, just to mess with him. "Stop fucking around and suck me off," Phil orders, but he's smiling when he says it.
Clint leans forward, holding Phil's cock steady so that he can get his mouth around it. He shuts his eyes, just holding it there for a moment, working his tongue against it. Goddamn but he loves doing this; it feels good, familiar, something to hold onto while he's in the middle of something so scary, so-
But it's not scary, is it? Despite his nerves, he's having a good time, Phil's having a good time, everything is okay, at least for the moment. He relaxes, taking more of Phil's dick into his mouth, moving his head up and down on it. "See?" Phil says, like he can read Clint's thoughts. "Nothing to worry about. Don't think about it."
Phil has his hand in Clint's hair, and he starts to guide him with it, slowly at first; Clint takes his hand away, letting Phil have him, letting him do what he wants- Clint was always going to do whatever Phil wanted, because that's the name of the game, that's the entire point of this exercise.
Phil starts moving faster, pushing deeper into Clint's mouth, and Clint doesn't do a thing to stop him. It's good, so good to let somebody fuck his mouth like that, and wow, there were definitely warning signs that Clint should have seen before now. He opens his eyes, looking up at Phil, and Phil is looking down at him, his face serious. It's not easy, but Clint winks at him, and Phil snorts in amusement. "I told you to stop fucking around," Phil says, voice strained.
With perfect innocence in his eyes, Clint says, "Yes, sir," right around Phil's dick, and Phil moans.
"Remind me to tell you what a SAM is," Phil says, pushing harder into Clint's mouth. "But not right now."
It's easy to get back into it; they're good together, easy and natural already, which bodes oh-so-well for the future. Clint hopes very much that there is a future; it's not often that so much is riding on a blowjob. Then again, this isn't really like anything else he's done, so maybe it's not that strange in context.
"Stop," Phil says, pulling Clint's head away. He's breathing heavy, and he looks satisfied, so satisfied, in a way that goes beyond sex. "Two choices: you can finish me now, or I can fuck you. This once, it's your decision."
Those are two very attractive options, but it's kind of hard to think it all the way through when he's feeling sort of hazy, relaxed. Either way, he's pretty sure Phil's not going to leave him hanging, so that's not a factor. "I want to do what you want," Clint says truthfully.
Phil raises his eyebrows, looking like he didn't expect that one. "Right now, I want you to make a decision," he says. "Ask me for what you want."
Clint thinks about it; to be perfectly frank, right now he just wants more of Phil's dick, and that seems secondary to how he gets it. "Fuck me," Clint says, looking up at him.
"That's not asking," Phil says. "That's telling."
"This is a lot of thinking," Clint protests; he'd like to think he's not whining, but that might work in his favor, actually. "You said no thinking."
Phil shrugs. "I'm mean."
"Please fuck me," Clint says; it isn't exactly a comfortable feeling, though he figures that's the point. "Please? Come on, just give me your cock, I'll do what you want."
"You are something else," Phil says, shaking his head. "Go on, get undressed and get on the bed."
Clint hops up, losing the rest of his clothes and heading for the bed, when a thought occurs. "How do you want me, sir?"
Phil looks like him speculatively. "On your back. Knees bent, and spread your legs."
Clint climbs onto the bed, and even though he was going to end up looking like this anyway, it's so dirty like this, having to do it to himself, having to prove that he wants it. Phil leaves him like that for a minute, and that's worse, waiting for it. The bedroom door is open, and even though he knows the house is locked up, even though he could get up in a split second, it feels like he's stuck there, like anybody could come in and catch him like this.
It bothers him that it's kinda turning him on, the squirmy embarrassment of it, the wrongness. Phil comes back, and nope, he was wrong, having Phil looking at him like this is worse than waiting for it.
Phil sets the lube and condoms down on the bed, climbing up between Clint's legs; Phil leans over him, close enough to whisper in his ear. "You look good," he says, and before Clint's ready for it, he grips Clint's cock, moving his hand slowly as he kisses him.
Clint fumbles around, hunting blindly on the bed until he lands on the Astroglide; he sort of hits Phil's arm with it until he gets Phil's attention. "Here," he says, breaking away from Phil's mouth. "Please."
Phil smiles, and Clint senses that he is going to be in a world of trouble once Phil decides to stop being so nice to him. As it stands now, though, Phil might just be merciful. He clicks open the bottle, spreading the lube on his fingers; a little drips onto Clint's stomach, but he is so, so far past caring about that.
Phil leans down and starts kissing him again, and Clint spreads his legs wider as Phil's slick fingers find their way to his hole; for a while, he's just messing around, fingertips stroking over him, dipping in slightly. Clint wiggles, trying to get more, and Phil finally takes pity on him, sliding one finger into him and then two, rocking them back and forth. Clint pushes back encouragingly, but Phil is taking his sweet damn time, mostly because, Clint suspects, he knows he can.
But finally Phil is done playing around; he pulls his fingers out slowly, and Clint gives him an unamused look when he wipes them off on Clint's thigh before reaching for a condom. Clint's indignation lasts about a minute, because that's how long it takes before Phil is lining his cock up and pushing inside of him. It still hurts, even with the prep, too long since he did this; he'll feel it tomorrow, but it's completely worth it.
Phil slowly presses in, opening him up, until he's all the way inside; he's biting his lip, eyes shut like he's trying to hang on, and Clint doesn't blame him. He knows how worked up he is, and he wasn't the one getting a blowjob five minutes ago. Clint tries not move, trying to let Phil get it together, but it's really hard, when all he wants is Phil fucking him.
Phil sighs, like he's got it back under control, and he slowly moves his hips, sliding in and out; Clint makes a noise that might be a whimper. "You're going to hold off until I tell you," Phil tells him. Clint gives him a skeptical look. "Try it for me." He's moving a little faster now, harder, and it looks like it sucks to talk, but he's doing it anyway, carefully getting everything out of the way; Phil is, once again, a much better man than Clint is. "If I held you down-"
"Pretty sure that would be awesome," Clint says quickly.
"Thank god," Phil says, grabbing Clint's hands and lacing their fingers together, pulling them up over Clint's head and pressing them into the mattress. He bends in, kissing Clint hard, just once, and then they're off. Clint doesn't know if Phil is always like this, take-no-prisoners, hard and rough, but if he is, Clint doesn't think he'll have a problem with that. The only problem Clint is going to have is not coming before Phil tells him he can; there's almost certainly no way he can handle that on the first try. He doesn't think Phil will fault him for it, but that's not what really matters. What matters is that it'll matter to Clint, not doing it right, not doing it perfect.
All this stuff is hard and weird, and Clint is starting to think he was supposed to have been doing it all along.
Then he isn't thinking about anything, because Phil is hitting him just right, just the perfect spot; he squeezes Phil's hands, and Phil just pushes him down harder. He's driving into Clint now, fast, and Clint looks up into his eyes. That same satisfaction is there, darker this time, and it sparks something in Clint, something that makes him want to move towards it, makes him want to make Phil feel like that all the time.
"Please kiss me," Clint says, and his voice sounds small- not bad, just small, to match the way he's feeling, the way Phil is making him feel. He feels overtaken, covered up, but he doesn't feel smothered; he feels protected instead. "Sir, please."
Phil makes a noise that Clint didn't know he could make, something snarling, and somehow it goes straight to Clint's dick. Phil crushes their mouths together, hard enough that it hurts a little; he bites at Clint's lips, and Clint moans brokenly.
"If I let you," Phil says, "could you?"
That's a serious question; Clint doesn't want to disappoint- and it's fucked up that a minute ago he was wondering if he could hold out and now he's wondering if he could go. "Yeah," he says, nodding, even though he's only about seventy-five percent sure, "yessir, yes, please."
"Then do it for me," Phil says, thrusting into him harder, faster. "Come for me."
Clint shuts his eyes; something about those words does it for him, the idea that this is something he's giving up to Phil, something Phil is demanding out of him. He rolls his hips, moving just so, so that Phil's hitting just the right place, and he groans loudly, coming hard, all over his stomach. He's barely finished before Phil is right there with him, his rhythm stuttering to a stop, ending with him buried all the way in Clint's ass, moaning as he comes.
Clint opens right up for his kiss; this time it's unhurried, still controlling but relaxed, calm. Phil tears himself away just long enough to toss the condom into the trash, and then he's back, lying down beside Clint and pulling him over for more kisses. Phil's a little smaller than Clint is, maybe an inch shorter, not nearly as built, but for some reason that just makes getting manhandled by him better, more attractive, like Clint's giving up more. Clint didn't know four days ago that he wanted to give anything up to Phil, but here they are.
"So that was great," Clint says, when they finally break for air.
Phil smiles. "No complaints here."
"Good," Clint says, "because we need to do that a lot more."
He kisses Clint on the forehead. "I think that can be arranged."
Clint moves a little closer, putting an arm around Phil. "So what does SAM mean, anyway?"
"Smart-Ass Masochist," Phil says, grinning.
"Is that a good thing or a bad thing?" Clint asks.
"Depends on your perspective," Phil tells him, "but I've got no problem with it."
"Cool," Clint says. "No promises, but that doesn't sound unlikely."
"I know," Phil says, and he doesn't look surprised at all when Clint hits him playfully.
"So, lots of stuff to talk about," Clint says.
"Yep," Phil says. "Not gonna be easy." He leans in, kissing Clint again. "But it'll be worth it."
Clint is starting to sense a theme.
On to Chapter 3
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Date: 2012-06-20 08:24 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2012-06-20 10:09 pm (UTC)