Work Text:
"Upstairs. Now." It was as close to a growl as anyone except Clint had ever heard come out of Agent Coulson's mouth, and Clint knew better than to disobey.
"Do you want--" Tony didn't even flinch as the earpiece hit him square in the chest. He just caught it with his hand, not surprised that Agent could hit him without looking at him or breaking stride. "--dinner? We were going to do Chinese. No? Okay, maybe later," He called to the quickly disappearing backs.
Steve looked over at Tony with a small smile. "I think he wants you to make it better."
"Hmm." Tony looked at the equipment in his hand, and his face grew distant as he headed down to the workshop. Steve didn't even bother to try to stop him, knowing the man was already a million miles away. He just went to the phone to call in their order.
As the two S.H.I.E.L.D. agents made the way to their room, Phil's hand found its way to the back of Clint's neck holding it, holding him, in a way that made Barton feel firmly possessed.
"Couls--"
"No" The hand was a bit more urgent guiding him all the way into the room, and the door was kicked closed behind him.
"Couls--"
"No"
"Phil!" Clint winced at the urgent sound in his voice, but it did the trick. Finally, he saw the mask of reserve that his handler wore so well slip just enough, but he realized that he had no idea what to say.
Coulson spoke instead, "3 hours"
Clint couldn't quite understand the tone he heard in his handler's voice. "It wasn't --"
"3 Hours" this time Phil's voice held a stern note that Clint knew exactly how to define.
"You are not being fair, Sir. It was an equipment malfunction." Clint swallowed. "Phil, I wouldn't do that to you, not anymore. I swear I wanted to hear your voice too."
Phil took a breath. "Clint, I know it wasn't your fault." He leveled a look that made the younger man flinch. "If it was, you and I would be having a very different conversation right now." Clint felt his mouth go a little dry. "It wasn't your fault and I am not going to punish you, but it was three hours. Three hours that I didn't see your face, and I didn't hear your voice, and I didn't even know if you were alive." Phil's hand snaked out and grabbed Clint's wrist, "I lost you for three hours, little boy, and I will reclaim you." He pulled Clint to him. "And, just so you are perfectly clear, there is not a damn thing that is going to be fair about it." Clint felt a spike of fear underpinned with arousal shoot straight up his spine, and then he was being kissed so hard he felt the room spin.
"Get undressed." The tight order was accompanied with one of the older agent's hands turning him around and the other one delivering a sharp slap to his thigh to get him moving. Clint's hands were flying, peeling off pieces of the uniform quickly, practice keeping it neat and sharp. Then he turned to his handler. Phil had removed his jacket and hung it up and was rolling up his sleeves in a way that made Barton bite back a moan.
"Pick something out." Phil's voice was calm and sure. Clint was glad to see that the older man's shoulders had finally begun to relax. "I plan on taking my time," Phil warned.
Clint nodded and went to the closet, sifting through some things until he found the maple paddle that was one of their favorites. It had a bite he well knew, and he had a feeling that they were both in the mood for the familiar right now. He came back and handed it to Phil, receiving a suprisingly gentle kiss for his efforts. He then lowered himself on the bed, over the pillows that Phil had laid out for him, and settled in.
Phil didn't begin right away. He gave himself time to relearn and admire every curve of his archer's body. He knew every scar, every muscle, without having to look, but he still enjoyed the looking. He ghosted his hand over Clint's back and ran it down to his bottom. "Relax, little boy, it is all out of your hands." He heard Clint's breathing pattern deepen. He ran the paddle over the waiting cheeks, letting the edge play along the tender crease, knowing exactly the effect it was having. "Who is in control of what happens here, Clint?"
"You are, Sir." The answer came easily off the agent's tongue.
"Quite correct." Phil put one hand in the small of Clint's back and with the other he brought the paddle down hard on the center of his bottom. He gave Clint a few breaths before bringing it down again a bit lower. And so he continued with slow firm strokes again and again until Clint started to whimper and rock against the bed. "Beautiful," Phil smiled and ran his fingernails along the reddened skin, "but you had better behave." The rocking stopped abruptly. "Good boy." He studied the form in front of him, and pressed a spot that looked rather tender, giving an evil little smile at the noise he elicited. "Ten more, I think. And sweetheart," He knelt down so his breath ran across Clint ear when he spoke, "these are going to hurt."
Clint didn't bother to stifle the moan at that. Nor did he try to muffle the cries that followed as wood met punished skin again and again. He was right on the edge in so many ways and his handler knew it.
After the tenth stroke landed, Phil let the paddle slide to the floor and made quick work of his clothes. Both men's needs were obvious and Phil had the perfect plan of attack. He climbed on top of the archer, his hands sliding on top of Clint's as he murmured in his ear again. "So damn beautiful." He kissed a spot near the juncture of Clint's neck and shoulder, giving the man beneath him warning about the finishing touch. He smiled when Clint tilted his head to grant better access. "To whom do you belong?"
It took every effort Clint had to give voice to his response, "To You, Sir!" His answer was breathy and intense. "Only You."
Phil kissed the spot again, the kiss this time deepening into a bruising bite. Clint knew he was being marked, being claimed, and the thought nearly drove him over the edge.
Luckily, his handler was nothing if not the perfect multi-tasker. Phil prepared himself and slipped inside Clint, his mouth never ceasing its mission. The cry that escaped the archer was music to Phil's ears. Phil released the bite and blew soft air across the bruised skin, even as he reached around Clint's waist and gave his boy the permission he needed for release.
When they both were spent, Coulson lay back on the bed and pulled Clint's rather languid body to him. "Mine" he said with a sleepy tone to his voice.
"Yours," Clint agreed, closing his eyes. Both of them were fully relaxed, finally, for the first time since they had lost the sight and sound of each other in the midst of the fray. And there was no doubt that Clint was back right where he belonged.