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“Look, it’s not you, it’s me, okay? I mean, I get enough of … that … at work and it just doesn’t do it for me.”
Phil paused outside the locker room, brushing a bead of sweat that rolled down his face, torn between not intruding and letting the guys inside know they had an audience.
“Not me. Right. Like I haven’t heard that line before.” That was Clint’s voice; Phil stepped out of line of sight. He should just back away, but if it was Clint then that was Agent Madison and, damn it, Clint had been pretty happy while they’d been dating. “I should never have said anything.”
“I don’t understand how you can … it’s just too much. That shit is … not what I want.”
“Shit. Yeah, I get it” Clint’s voice dripped with sarcasm, retreating into his deep well of self-doubt to handle the situation. “Best get out now before things get really weird.”
“God, I knew this wasn’t going to go well. You’ve got issues, you know that? Not the kinky stuff, this passive aggressive thing for one. Jesus, Clint I’m being nice here. Let it go.”
Madison stormed out, a virtual black cloud trailing after him as he turned the other way and didn’t see Phil. Seconds later, Clint followed, practically running right into Phil. His face was clouded and angry as he jumped back in surprise.
“Sir, hey, sorry about that,” he stumbled over his words. “Yeah, nothing like a little personal drama to end a sucktastic day, eh?”
“Clint. If you need to talk about it …” Phil started to offer.
“Oh, hell no. Nothing personal, sir, just … no.” He forced a grin on his face and tried for nonchalant, failing miserably. “I’ll find Tasha and we’ll do vodka shots. That should work.”
“But if you do …” Phil tried again.
“Know where to find you.” Clint retreated fast down the hall, back pedaling to make sure Phil wasn’t following him.
Phil couldn’t help replaying the conversation in his head later that night, lying in his bed all alone, wide awake as the clock ticked over to 3 a.m. It wasn’t the fact that Clint was passive aggressive and sabotaged every relationship he’d had during his time at SHIELD; no, Phil had been around for all of that and knew Clint’s issues. What he couldn’t forget was Madison’s phrase “the kinky stuff.” Far too many fantasies jumped to mind for that general statement, fantasies that kept Phil from getting to sleep for a number of nights to come.
Five oval bruises, four in a line and the last on the other side of the bicep. Phil couldn’t stop looking at the way they moved as the muscles flexed when Clint drew back on his bow. The span of a male hand, holding tight; thing was, the bruises were fresh, made in the last two days or so and Clint had been off rotation. In fact, Clint hadn’t been on base since Thursday.
“Are you watching or are you going to do some shooting?” Clint didn’t turn around, eyeing the targets moving down range, concentrating.
“You’ve been dodging your annual eval with psych,” Phil said. Clint’s black shirt rode up as he reached back for another arrow; thin red lines marred the curve of Clint’s back. Ragged scratches made from fingernails. Phil almost lost the thread of the conversation. “If you don’t have clearance, I’ll have to pull you off rotation.”
“Been busy. I’ll make an appointment.” Clint was an excellent liar; it had taken Phil years to learn Clint’s tells. He knew Clint hated talking to the doctors, prying open his past. “Today.”
Clint was wearing full gloves with his arm guards. Phil wondered if another set of purple ringed Clint’s wrists, hidden beneath the material. Would it be mottled from a hand’s grip holding him down or smooth from handcuffs locking him in?
“Yes, sir, I’ll do it right now,” Clint turned and caught the direction of Phil’s gaze. Flushing, he tugged his shirt into the waistband of his pants. Ducking his head, he gathered up his things and left the range, glancing back once or twice.
It took a whole clip before Phil could get the image of those five bruises out of his head. He empted a second and still his brain turned the long scratches into the red welt of his whip, neatly criss-crossed across the expanse of Clint’s skin. Even thirty minutes later, Phil was wondering about leather versus metal cuffs and which one he’d use first. A long cold shower helped get through the rest of the day, but not the dark of the night as he wondered who had given Clint those marks and if it had been rough sex or something more.
“Can I buy you a drink?”
Watching the feed on the monitor, Phil saw Clint turn on his barstool and blatantly eye the mark up and down. He hoped this worked; so far, the whole mission had been one bad break after another, and today was no better. Their original target, an arms dealer, had baled, sending an intermediary, the tall sallow woman who was tied up in the room next door. Then Brian Jackson, the military scientist who was trying to sell new technology, had turned up late and at the wrong hotel, the Bellagio instead of Aria. They’d had to scramble to get things set up only to have him blow off the meeting and head to Cleopatra’s Barge in Caesar’s Palace. With Natasha already in place over at the Rouge in the MGM, Clint had volunteered to keep an eye on the Navy lieutenant. No one expected the guy to hit on Clint so fast.
“Sure.” Clint shrugged, keeping his body angled so the camera had a clear side view. He tilted his almost empty glass. “Jamison and ginger.”
“Ah, a whiskey man. I can appreciate that.” Jackson turned to the bartender. “Another for my friend here and I’ll take an old fashioned. You here for the band? I hear they do great covers of old ‘80s songs.”
“Just grabbing a quick drink before I go back to the tables,” Clint said, leaning in closer. “A little Texas Hold ‘em is calling my name.”
“I’m more a blackjack man myself. Just like to say hit me, I think.” Jackson put emphasis on the word hit and made a show of looking at the bruises on Clint’s forearm. They were from sparring with Natasha three days ago, but Jackson was reading something else entirely.
“Hit, stay, hold, The game is enticing, isn’t it?” As the drinks arrived, Clint bent his head, looked up through his lashes and flirted shamelessly as he slipped a tracker into Jackson’s whiskey. Mesmerized by Clint’s submissive posture, Jackson put his hand on Clint’s arm and whispered something in his ear before picking up his glass and taking a drink.
“Tracker engaged,” Roberts said from his place in front of the equipment.
“Stop. Run that back for me,” Phil instructed the agent. “There, when he touched Clint. Go slow.” Frame-by-frame the video progressed. “Did you see it? Can we blow that up?”
As Jackson’s palm slid along Clint’s skin, there was a flicker of something catching the light. Up close, Phil could see a faint mark.
“Clear patch,” Angelo said. “Maybe a tracker or a drug delivery mechanism.”
Phil’s stomach churned; he didn’t know what Jackson was up to, and he wasn’t going to leave Clint hanging. “Natasha? What’s your E.T.A.?”
“Damn traffic. I’m on foot, maybe seven minutes out,” came the answer.
Without another thought, Phil decided. Yanking his tie loose, he took it off and tossed it on the bed. “Get the med kit,” he ordered as he headed for the door. “I’ll have him up here in minutes. If it’s fast-acting …” He didn’t stop to think about the worst case scenario, just pushed out the doorway. A young couple, the woman draped across the man, both with drinks in their hands, exited the closest elevator; Phil caught the door and stepped inside, punching the button. He undid the first two buttons of his shirt, opened his jacket and slipped on his glasses. After a moment’s hesitation, he adjusted himself, making his cock more obvious in his suit pants.
The door opened; it was a short walk to the bar, and Phil took the time to sink into his dominant side, let it rise to the surface. He hit his stride as he pushed the heavy red doors open and made his entrance. Heads turned -- it was all in the attitude, take command, walk with purpose, focus on what he wanted -- and people subconsciously got out of his way as he lasered in on Clint.
He knew the second Clint saw him over Jackson’s shoulder; Clint’s eyes widened and his pupils dilated as he stared at Phil’s face. Nostrils flared and Clint hunched his shoulders, an instinctive act of submission. Aware of something happening, Jackson turned and looked back, catching sight of Phil; the man raised an eyebrow, cutting his eyes to Clint’s flushed face.
“There you are.” Coulson never took his eyes off of Clint, didn’t even acknowledge Jackson’s presence. “I thought you were going to be at the tables.”
“I hit the limit you set for losses.” Clint rubbed his palms on his thighs, his adam’s apple bobbing up and down as he swallowed. “So I thought I’d grab a drink while I waited.”
The cotton of Clint’s t-shirt was soft under Phil’s fingers; he slid his hand over Clint’s wide shoulder and settled it around Clint’s throat, his thumb in front and his fingers wrapped around the back of his neck. “Just a drink?”
Clint drew in a shaky breath and shuddered slightly at the weight of Phil’s hand. “A drink, I swear, sir.”
“Don’t make me regret bringing you,” Phil said, biting back the low growl that threatened to rise in his throat. He tightened his grip, ever so slightly, and Clint caught his lower lip with his teeth.
“No, sir. I won’t.” Clint’s eyes drifted closed for a second, and he leaned into Phil’s hand. “I promise.”
The temptation was too much; Phil squeezed enough to get a wince and sigh. He knew his cock was stirring, that Jackson was watching the whole scene play out with an interested expression. In the back of his mind, he knew the cameras were trained on him, and he didn’t care. Clint gave so quickly under the pressure, his “sir” a perfect punch to Phil’s gut. Pulling himself under control, he eased his hand away from the pleasure of Clint’s skin.
“Room. Now.” Phil issued the order, expecting to be obeyed.
Clint ducked his head in response and slid off his stool. For the first time, Jackson spoke. “Nice meeting you,” he said to Clint, flicking his eyes down and back up, taking in Clint’s aroused state. Jackson grinned at Phil. “I hope you have a good evening.”
He kept a hand on Clint’s back the whole way to the door and didn’t move it until they got into the elevator. Guiding Clint to the corner, Phil stood in front of him, blocking the camera’s view. “Breathe,” Phil murmured to Clint, low enough the three other people who crowded in with them couldn’t hear. “Don’t drop. Not here.”
Blinking, Clint tried to focus, his hands clenched on the silver bars. He nodded instead of speaking, but couldn’t stop himself from looking at Phil’s crotch as if to reassure himself that Phil was affected too. Wide eyes turned up, filled with a kind of need that Phil had dreamed about seeing. “Phil,” Clint sighed the name.
The door opened on their floor; as soon as they were in the room, Roberts jumped up and grabbed Clint’s hand, swabbing across the skin and then swiping it on the scanner.
“He dosed you with something,” Phil explained. “If it’s a tracker, he’ll see you’re in the room. If it’s something else …”
“Not a tracker,” Roberts injected. “Looks like benzodiazepine, absorbed through the skin; the effects will be faster acting, but it’s not high enough of a dose to do more than make him sleepy and very compliant.”
“A date rape drug?” Clint asked. “He roofied me? What kind of guy is this?”
“Someone we’re going to take down. I’ll get Natasha on his tail, make sure he doesn’t try to pick up someone else,” Phil promised. “You are going into the other room and get some sleep. Someone will be here to watch you.”
“I can help,” Clint started to protest; one look from Phil and Clint gave up. “Okay, bed. Sir.”
The last word went right to Phil’s cock, but he did no more than glare at Clint before he got to business. “Get that tracker online,” he ordered. “Natasha, did you copy?”
Clint disappeared through the adjoining door as Phil organized the op. The mark made a beeline for another bar, identified a pretty blonde in a beaded sheath dress and tried a second time; Natasha intervened and saw to it that he didn’t succeed. A few minutes of flirting, a quick elevator ride to a room, and she had him unconscious and tied up for interrogation later.
After they shut down the equipment, Phil crossed over into the other room; Clint was a lump in the furthest bed, curled under the sheet, the heavy comforter tossed down at his feet. Phil slipped out of his jacket, hanging it up in the closet by the light that filtered in through the crack in the drapes. He still had a lot to do, paperwork and follow up and planning for tomorrow; sleep would have to wait.
“It wasn’t the drug,” Clint said quietly, his eyes still closed.
“I know,” Phil replied, shutting the door behind him as he went back to work.
“Agent Coulson, thank you for coming.”
Dr. Angela Spenser offered Phil her hand as he came into the office. Three months since the Las Vegas op, and Phil had to threaten Clint’s active status via email to get him to go to his evaluation. Not that Phil had seen Clint in person more than twice; Clint had been busy, gone for weeks on jobs working with other handlers and teams. Volunteering right and left, Clint’s message was clear. He was avoiding either the psych team or Phil himself. That left Phil with very few options and was why he was here.
“Normally, I couldn’t share anything that came from a session -- client/therapist privilege -- but this is SHIELD and the rules are different.” A woman in her fifties, Dr. Spenser was the very opposite of threatening. Sitting in one of the chairs in front of her desk, she crossed her legs and swung her kitten heeled grey suede pump. “Please, sit down, Agent.”
Despite his urge to take control of the meeting, Phil didn’t. He asked his question and waited for the answer. “So. Agent Barton?”
“Yes. As you know, I met with him last Friday; I haven’t sent my report to anyone yet; I wanted to speak to you first.” Her tablet was on the table; she picked it up, reading from the screen. “Are you aware that Agent Barton has been lying for years on his EPES and his SHQ-R? He’s convinced his preferences are weird and make him a risk.”
“Are they? A danger to the organization?” Phil was as interested in the answer for himself as for Clint. He’d always been so careful, channeling his own needs into acceptable outlets including his job, but he wasn’t above rigging the results to downplay his own status.
“If my guess is right, he’s on the high end of the submissive scale; nothing to worry about if he was dealing with it in a healthy manner. I’m more concerned about his mental state; suppressing his needs could be harmful in the long term.”
“You’re worried he’ll drop during a mission.” Phil had seen first hand how easily Clint went down in Vegas.
“No. I concerned about him dropping afterwards all by himself somewhere. He’s under such tight reins that it will be outside of work.” She cocked her head and looked at Phil. “What he needs is a partner, someone he can trust, someone with high enough clearance to make the matter moot. But first, I need him to actually talk to me so we can get a read on his needs. Any ideas how to make him do that?”
Oh, Phil knew exactly how to get Barton to take the test again. The question was if Phil was willing to give up his own secrets. “I’ll have him in here by the end of the week,” he promised Dr. Spenser.
“That’s what I thought.” The doctor rose and shook Phil’s offered hand. “And I hope to see you soon as well.”
Phil knew well enough to know when he’d been played. “I imagine you will,” he agreed.
“You wanted to see me, Sir?” Clint stopped just inside the doorway. Phil didn’t look up from the file he was reading, holding a finger up to tell Clint to wait then circling it so he’d shut the door.
Phil had planned this meeting, playing out the various scenarios in his head, going over every word of his prepared speech. He made Clint stand still for eighteen agonizing minutes as he flipped through the paperwork in front of him, occasionally switching over to his tablet. Clint fidgeted for a bit then settled into a parade rest stance, eyes going unfocused as he let his mind wander. Tension strained Clint’s muscles with each passing second; Phil wanted to make his point from the very beginning.
He’d draped his jacket over the back of his chair, rolled up his sleeves and loosened his tie. His navy blue vest was chosen on purpose; it should be odd, realizing that he knew exactly what turned Clint on, but it really wasn’t. Even if he hadn’t been aware of it, Phil had been cataloguing Clint’s behavior for so long he knew every nuance.
Finally, he put down his pen and looked at Clint, peering over the edge of his black frames as he tilted his head up. He took in every detail -- the scuffed black boots, snug black jeans that were worn and soft, plain black underarmor shirt a size too small, spiky hair. The new wrinkles around Clint’s slightly dilated eyes. Thick knobby fingers twitching slightly. Quicker than usual, shallower breaths.
“Sit.” An order, not a suggestion. Clint’s eyes widened, but he obeyed, hands on his knees, back straight. Phil leaned in his chair, steepled his fingers and gazed at Clint, watching his reactions. “I had a meeting with Dr. Spenser about your lack of transparency in your evaluation.”
A second of silence and Phil could almost see Clint composing an acceptable answer. “I knew she didn’t buy it,” Clint settled on. “She’s smarter than the others, would make a great interrogator.”
Deflect the question, an old technique that Phil was more than fluent in. “You lied on the tests and in your interview. That’s grounds for revoking your active status if not permanent dismissal.” No questions, just statements of fact. Leave Clint no room to obfuscate.
“Sir, I didn’t lie. It was … fudging. You know I don’t like to dwell on my past, have people digging around in my head.” He tried again, turn the subject away from the point and into a discussion of the old argument about the value of psychological methodology.
“We are not playing a game, Clint. You intentionally misleaded a SHIELD approved psychiatrist about your mental condition. You could be compromised. A security risk. A danger to yourself and others. Until I know the reason, I cannot sign off on your evaluation.” Phil held up his finger again to stall Clint’s next glib answer. “Think carefully before you speak. This is the last chance I’m giving you. If I don’t get the truth, we’ll have to talk about punishment.”
Clint bit hard on his lower lip to stop words from tumbling out; he took a deep breath and Phil saw his hands tremble just a tiny bit. As if it would help, Clint closed his eyes before he spoke. “You already know; you were there that day outside the locker room and I know you’ve seen the bruises. And then there was Vegas. I thought I was obvious.”
“You’re a submissive masochist. Yes, I got that. What I want to hear is why you feel the need to keep that fact a secret.” This was the tipping point, Phil was sure. Clint was either going to come clean or retreat into avoiding Phil again.
“Seriously? You don’t know why? Damn it Phil, it’s hard enough being a circus freak with no formal education without advertising I’m the subbiest sub ever. I work so damn hard to get people to think of me as an equal; why would I give them ammunition to think I can’t handle myself?” The words burst out as if Clint couldn’t hold them in anymore. “I’d be challenged all the time if some of these guys found out that I’m gay and I like to be held down and fucked hard.”
“We have rules against discrimination,” Phil said but even he knew that was weak. SHIELD recruited people with very specific profiles; dominates and sadist tendencies could be very useful traits for successful agents. Phil was an example of that himself. “But more than that the problem is one of trust; the least you could do is go to Natasha.”
“Yeah, I tried that.” Clint shook his head in frustration. “Look, it’s just … Nat’s my friend and I know what she’s been through. She can put me down, make sure I don’t hurt myself and come out of it safely, but sex is off the table for us.”
“ And you need that to be part of your care.” Phil saw the way Clint winced; there was so much to be examined in his statements. Layers of self-loathing, family dynamics, childhood fears, and trust issues.
“Yes. Do you want me to say it out loud?” Clint sighed; Phil said nothing, just waited, never taking his gaze off of Clint’s face. “Fine. Alright. I like to be held down by someone stronger than me. Take a few hits, maybe a whip or a flogger, but fists will do. I want bruises that hurt the next day when I press on them. To be tied up and made to kneel and told what to do and how to think and when to get off. Handcuffs, silk ties, doesn’t matter; just make me immobile and leave me there until you’re ready. I like being used, taken, and left wanting more. I want to choke on your thick cock, with your hands around my throat until I black out as you come …”
Phil knew the second Clint realized what he’d done; like a puppet on a string, Clint jerked up out of the chair and started to back away. “No, I mean, I don’t … I’m sorry, Sir. It was just a slip of the tongue. I’ll leave now and I’ll go see the Doc right away. Tomorrow. I won’t lie. I promise I’ll …”
“Clint.” One word, imbued with all his strength, and Phil stood slowly; there was no way Clint could miss Phil’s state of arousal as he came around and leaned against the desk, putting his feelings on display.
Clint blinked, slowed, and looked into Phil’s eyes, hope dawning on his face. “Sir. That’s why I didn’t tell you. I couldn’t stand it if you looked at me like I was perverted or broken. After Vegas, I hoped, but …”
“Stop talking, Barton.” Phil crossed his arms across his chest; Clint swallowed nervously. “I’ve made an appointment on Thursday with Dr. Spenser for you. I expect nothing but honesty. Once I have both of our evaluations, we’ll sit down and talk about how this is going to proceed.”
“Both?” Clint blurted the question out.
“Both. I haven’t been completely forthcoming on my end either, although I, at least, knew enough to not try to hide everything.” He glared on that statement. “You went down so easily in Vegas that you worried me. And I don’t like to be worried.”
“Because it was you. That’s why. I wouldn’t have for anyone else,” Clint explained.
“You were drugged.” Phil brooked no argument. “We don’t know what would have happened.” Clint opened his mouth and Phil merely raised an eyebrow. “Understand this, Clint. If we enter into a relationship, it will be after we discuss limits and safewords. And it will include sex, no question. You’re not the only one who wants things; I plan to have my collar on your neck and my cock in your tight ass often.”
“Oh, God.” Clint closed his eyes and shuddered. “Yes, sir. I’ll be at that appointment.”
“Good. You’re dismissed.” Phil went back to his desk; Clint hesitated in the doorway. “Yes?”
“When you say relationship, do you mean just … servicing each other? Or …” Clint trailed off.
“I mean a relationship, Clint. You sleeping on my couch, us watching bad sci-fi movies, and you baking in my kitchen. Dinners, dates, and drinks. Coming home to you tied up and waiting for me. The whole package.”
“Yes.” Clint said with a smile. “Yes to all of it.”
“Get your damn self in here first thing in the morning," Nick said. "You're the one who wanted this interagency program so you can put up with the F.B.I. director's snide remarks."
"I'll be there," Phil promised. He closed his laptop and put it on the end table.
“You better be,” Nick said then paused. “Phil. Whatever you and Barton are doing? I don’t want to know. But you’re happier than I’ve ever seen you. Both of you.”
Phil smiled. “Yes. Yes we are.”
He hung up the phone and stood, stretching. Too much time bent over paperwork. HIs phone dinged when he saw the text. Smiling he headed back the hallway and came into the bedroom.
“Your dexterity never ceases to amaze me,” he said.
Clint could do no more than grunt in reply, the gag in his mouth muffling the sound. Ropes looped around his body in an intricate pattern, holding him perfectly in place. A series of knots ran down Clint’s chest, and his arms were secured in the small of his back, wrists tied together. The ropes looped around his hard, flushed cock and under his balls, tension just enough that he tried to stretch out, they would tighten, creating friction. Each leg had ropes down to the knee; Phil had plans on pulling those knots up and spreading Clint wide open.
Taking the phone from Clint’s hands, he rolled Clint over onto chest. Clint turned his head, ropes around his eyes rubbing against the soft towel beneath him as he moaned. With a series of efficient moves, Phil had Clint’s knees under him, connecting the rope on his thighs to the lengths across his chest. The purple handle of the dildo that filled Clint bobbed as Clint clenched his muscles in anticipation.
“You think you deserve to be fucked? What you need is a good spanking.” Phil took his time taking off his jacket and shoes, pulling his belt out of the loops slowly so Clint could hear the rasp of leather against fabric. Clint’s cock jumped; this was what he wanted. He pushed Phil when he needed the hard edge against his skin.
Phil dug the red and green squishy balls from the bedside table drawer along with the lube and a condom. Putting the red in the left and the green in Clint’s right hand, Phil unzipped his pants and gave himself a few strokes to ease the ache that had been constant the whole time he was gone.
“Red or green?” he asked. Clint immediately squeezed the green one. “Good. Remember, drop the red one if you want to stop.” Clint rapidly squeezed the green in response and Phil laughed. “Subby sub, my ass,” he grumbled just as the folded leather of his belt came down across the soft curve of Clint’s ass. The thwack was satisfying and arousing as was the red line that appeared. “Oh yes, you need a few more of these before I fuck you.” He layered them across both cheeks, crisscrossing them in a hatchwork pattern.
Each blow made Clint jump and groan, his cock bobbing obscenely between his spread thighs. He had to be reaching his limit; this was the longest they’d gone with delayed orgasm. Still, Clint pushed back into the fall of the belt, silently begging for more. Phil gave him twelve and that was all he could wait himself. Dragging on a condom, Phil unbuttoned his shirt but left it on, his pants pooled around his knees as he knelt behind Clint and pulled the knob on the end of the toy. He started to pull it out then spun it around and pressed it back in; Clint bucked and squeezed the green ball faster.
“Greedy for it, I know.” Phil tugged it out in one smooth motion and tossed in on the towel he’d left on the floor for that purpose. “Going to leave bruises, Clint. Going to fuck you so hard, you’ll remember for days.”
He pushed inside, his cock sinking deep, Clint still slick and open from earlier. Pressing his fingers into Clint’s skin, he held onto Clint’s hips, being sure his thumbs were on the already bright red marks from his belt. Then Phil began to thrust in earnest, reveling in Clint’s tight ass and his muted cries that mixed pleasure and frustration. Phil wasn’t young anymore, but Clint made him want to last longer, to keep his own climax at bay until Clint was a writhing sweaty mess beneath him. He managed to hold out that long before his own balls drew up and he came, using his weight to pin Clint against the mattress.
“So good,” Phil praised him, petting Clint’s hair. “You took your punishment well.”
Withdrawing, Phil tossed the condom and cleaned himself up with a wet wipe before he cleaned up Clint. Every second had to be agony for Clint; his cock was purple on the head and leaking steady drops of white liquid. So Phil untied Clint’s hands and unhooked the gag -- Phil loved to hear the sound Clint made when him came, a high whine of such perfect release -- then he rolled him over on his back.
“Hands stay palms down on the bed,” he ordered. “You can’t come until I tell you to. If you come earlier, I’ll tie you right back up and leave you this way all night.”
Slowly, he loosened the ropes around Clint’s balls and then unraveled it from his cock. By the time he was done, Clint was shaking with tension, whole body sweating with the effort to control himself.
“You know what I want? I want to see you covered in come, all over your chest. That’s it, baby. Get dirty for me.”
Two strokes was enough and Clint exploded, come spurting all the way up to his chin and spattering across the ropes covering his body. He whined and clenched his jaw, hands twisting in the coverlet.
Crawling up Clint’s body, Phil licked a dab of white from Clint’s jawline before he kissed him, slow and leisurely. Clint went down easily, slipping into subspace, his whole body relaxing into bonelessness. He made no resistance as Phil unwound the rope from around his eyes, but he huffed in his throat when Phil started in on his body.
“Leave ‘em,” Clint murmured. “I want to wear them for a while longer. The marks will be beautiful.”
“Yes, yes they will,” Phil agreed, running a hand over the knots. “Everyone will know you’re mine.”
“Always, Phil. Always.”
Phil held Clint for a long time before he got up to fix them dinner.