harcourt

FOR THIS:

What about a D/s verse fic where, as part of the marriage ceremony (or collaring, whatever you wanna call it), the sub gets hustled off after the party by their equivalent of bridesmaids/groomsmen, oiled up, blindfolded and then tied to the marriage bed where they’re left for the Dom to come find them. It’d be one of those ‘silly’ traditions that are weird and problematic and everyone professes to think they’re old fashioned despite still secretly loving them and doing them anyway.

D/s-verse, Clint/Coulson, silly but sort of iffy marriage tradition thing. Explicit sex.

Also for my longfic bingo card "bondage" square.

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Clint could go quietly, but really where's the fun in that. Also, he's probably had a champagne too many, so making Steve chase him around a table of fingerfood and expensive crockery seems like a lot more fun. Steve deserves the challenge, and since Clint's a lot better at surreptitious evasion than Steve is surreptitious chasing, Clint's pretty sure that he's getting a good run for his money.

And also earning his keep as Phil's best man. Clint really wouldn't want him to feel like he hadn't done enough.

"Clint," Steve half-snaps, after it's gone on awhile and the chase has covered most of the area of the venue, including the lamp-lit tea garden outside. Clint can tell he's trying to not be frustrated. That he's trying to keep a good sense of humor, but probably a party full of half-drunk heroes and SHIELD agents and Coulsons is a lot less entertaining to sober Steve than it is to Clint and the rest of the tipsy posse. Possibly, Steve wants to hustle him off before Tony decides he can no longer deal with the music selection and commandeers the mike or the sound system or both.

"What's going on, Steve? It's almost like you're tailing me around because you're up to something."

Steve sets his teeth. Steve might be a little bit averse to even fakey, symbolic sub abduction, and what all that stands for, but he's playing along. Even down to the not mentioning what this is all about. Keeping it all low-key and semi-stealth, even if a good third of the party's figured out what's going on and is trying to unobtrusively help. Getting out of Steve's way, or getting into Clint's, stepping into his escape paths, or just plain trying to trip him up.

He's keeping an eye out for Nat, who's been making insinuating, goofy eyebrow expressions at him all night, which is why he's not prepared to stumble right into Tony.

"Uh-oh."

"Hi, Barton," Tony purrs, smirking and confident and probably trashed. He wears trashed well, but it still makes him slow. Or at least, slow enough that Clint manages to dodge away right before Tony can grab him by the collar.

Or right after Tony grabs him, really. He's hooked a finger into the metal loop on Clint's collar, because Tony is an idiot, and it catches and gets jerked hard, pulling a yelp out of him, and a quick, urgent, "Barton. Barton, don't move. I'm stuck in your d-ring thing."

"Damn it." It's comes out as a bit of a whine. He'd meant to get caught in a much cooler way than holding still while Tony extricates his jammed index finger. "This better not be a trap."

"I was planning to tackle you into the punch bowl, so no." Tony says, wiggling his hand, and pulling at Clint's collar with the other. "Honeymoon related amputation: not cool." He gets his swollen knuckle free, and grins, but tightens the grip he has on Clint's collar. "But coincidentally. I do have you now, so letting go would be kinda--"

Clint ducks and twists and pulls himself free and tries to dodge around Steve. Slipping by, only to bounce off Bruce. Goddamn. They're taken the opportunity of the delay to surround him, but--

Steve gets him by the collar with one hand and by the hair with the other, but doesn't push him to his knees--this suit cost so much, both he and Clint might lose their minds if it got ruined--and growls, "Behave."

There's a smatter of nearby applause, quickly silenced by a round of shushing, so as to not give things away. Clint kicks a little for the hell of it, then subsides. Grumbles, "Aw, man. Snagged."

"Look at my finger," Tony says, holding it up. "You are in so much trouble. Literally, I mean. I need this hand to push buttons and operate screwdrivers and things. If we come under attack, we are all dead."

Clint grins. "Injury is good luck."

"I think they mean scraped knees and things like that. And on you."

"Oh well," Clint starts, but Steve gives him a little shake and he shuts up. He's all hopped up on adrenaline and on not having been even close to Phil for too long, and he'd wanted a more impressive chase, but getting on with things is good too.

Tony gets his hands together for Bruce to tie with a napkin or table runner or something else that probably belongs to the caterers. Clint's not sure how that works or what happens if they lose it, but he doesn't mention it and lets them stuff another into his mouth as a gag.

Abduction's a go. Countdown to Phil.

Now that he's caught, Clint means to be perfect and good. Just put on a stellar showing all around, but he can't help squirming a little in Steve's grip, weirdly nervous.

"Go, go," Tony hisses, looking around like no one is watching, even though Clint's sure that by now everybody is. He's catching restrained smiles and winks and through the crowd, on the other side of the room, Phil pretending to not notice the commotion while he, Hill and a younger girl who Clint doesn't know, but who might be an extended Coulson, listen as Thor provides ancient wedding saga distraction.

Steve drags him backwards, like some kind of abduction phantom, and almost trips over a speaker cable. Bruce laughs like a kid while he and Tony try to provide kidnap cover. It's all making Clint feel ridiculous and happy and the music is loud near the speaker and he can't really hear anything that clearly, and then there's Nat, gesturing like she's waving down a jet, indicating their escape route.

The Avengers are shit kidnappers, Clint thinks, right before he gets pulled into the hall, and down it, then shoved up hard next to an elevator control panel and his head pulled back.

He swallows. Waits while Tony and Bruce argue about how to get the blindfold out of Steve's pocket without giving Clint a chance at escape, but the elevator pings while they're still at it. Steve sighs and pushes him inside and they all follow, then spend most of a minute arguing about keycards and floor numbers.

The whole thing had seemed a lot more dignified in theory, but it gets less bumbly once they get upstairs and Tony stops whining about how much easier this would all have been if they'd held the event at his tower or mansion or any JARVIS facilitated facility and Bruce and Natasha stop talking about the greatness of the penthouse furniture and view. If he didn't have a mouth full of soggy napkin, Clint would thank Steve for staying on point.

And for managing to shed Avengers as he hustles Clint into the bedroom. It's dim, with the only light coming from the hall and the large window, and it gets darker when Steve swings the door nearly-shut behind them. Clint's heart thumps. Even in the mostly-dark, he can still easily make out items set on the bed. Not cuffs, but just coils of thick cord. Too soft looking to be rope.

Solemn dark colors, and all Coulson traditional.

Steve gives him a nudge further into the room. Asks, "You okay?"

Hell yeah, he's okay. Fired up enough that his brain is insisting on Phil Phil Phil. He nods, and Steve frees his hands and steps back and for a second, things are a little awkward. This is probably why friends of the dom usually do the abduction and 'breaking in prep' song and dance, but Clint and Phil's circles of trust kind of overlap these days, and Clint can't imagine trusting anyone else with this.

Can't imagine Phil trusting anyone else.

"Undress," Steve orders, sounding calm but firm. Clint had been half preparing to be stripped and thrown down--tradition's rough--but he should have known that wouldn't be Steve's style. "Leave the gag."

Clint glares over his shoulder and spits the thing out. Steve laughs. "Worth a shot," he says.

The door opens, letting in more light as Clint slips out of his shirt. Tony takes it from him while Clint's still considering whether or not it would be more inappropriate to take the time to hang or fold it, or to just drop it on the floor. Other than that, they stay out of his way and out of his sight, silent somewhere behind him.

It's not awkward or goofy anymore, but kind of--

There's no word for it that isn't sappy as fuck, so Clint lets himself go with 'beautiful' and lets himself feel warm and safe and happy.

And Phil's. He's officially Phil's now, and the Avengers are his family, but they're here as agents of Phil's, even if the whole exercise is based on a ridiculous farce that no one except Tony and possibly Nat is drunk enough for.

Clint has no fucking clue how it's turning into this. All weirdly trusting and reverent like Steve's orders were Phil's own. He can feel himself sinking into a feeling of calm submission, sure that Steve's got him and all he needs to do is follow orders.

He toes his shoes off and then goes down to one knee and then the other to get his socks off. Tucks them together before handing it all over.

"All the way, Clint," Steve says.

He half expects Nat to say something like before we sober up, but there's just silence, even from Tony. Clint takes a breath. Lets it out slowly to steady himself, and says, "Yes, sir."

Steve saves the "Good boy" until after Clint's out of his pants and underwear and is standing there in nothing but his collar, still with his back to them. He's not even sure if they're all still there, or if Tony's lost interest and gone to raid the actual, full size bar out in the main room of the suite, but then Bruce steps past him and picks up the cord, unwinding a length of it and offering an encouraging smile that Clint doesn't really need.

He makes quick work of making a good, solid cuff around each of Clint's wrists. Wide, with loops to thread more cord through. Clint grins a little, because he's fairly sure Bruce hadn't already had that specific skill. That he's learned and practiced it for this specific purpose and Clint's buzzed on bubbly and good feelings anyway, so he leans over and kisses Bruce on the cheek.

Bruce pats him. "Save it for Coulson, huh?"

"Sure."

Steve lets them have their moment, then says, "On your knees. End of the bed."

Clint nods. Buys himself a couple of seconds by saying, "Yes, sir," again, and takes a last look out the window and around the room--making sure that his spatial awareness is solid and he won't lose sense of where he is--before climbing onto the bed and settling into place. Letting his knees slide apart until he's steady, and placing his hands at his sides for that bit of extra balance as he bows his head.

"Easy," Steve warns, stepping up behind him, close enough that Clint can feel the warmth radiating off him. His hand touches the back of Clint's head. A gentle pat before he lets go again.

They've managed to get the blindfold out of Steve's pocket--go team--and a second later Steve's sliding it over his eyes. Hands firm and restraining. Not letting Clint pull away, but keeping a hand on the back of his neck after. Giving him time to orient before saying, "Down. Onto your stomach."

His hand stays in place as Clint goes, following until he's flat on his belly, then holding him there until he relaxes with a long sigh.

And then it's goofy again. Tony half-shouting "Hog tying time," from sudden closeness at Clint's side, and then the muted scuffle of activity all around him. Clint tries to track everyone's locations, then gives it up. Lets someone--Nat. He can tell it's her fingers. Careful and smaller than the others--pull one of his arms out and away from his body. Stretching it towards the headboard.

"Keep it there," she says.

Someone's already fastening it in place--Tony or Bruce--but Clint murmurs a respectful, "Yes, ma'am," anyway, because anyone's actual leanings are temporarily beside the point, and for now he's counting as the only sub there.

That and because telling Nat he loves her is too stupid when Tony's climbing over the bed and flopping over Clint to get his other wrist into position. Ordering, "String 'em up, Cap. Let's move before someone suggests a waltz and people figure out what's gone missing.

Clint struggles. Mostly against Tony's obnoxiousness, but all it does is get his hair ruffled before Tony rolls off to shift around noisily. Bouncing the mattress. "Feet? Are we getting his feet? Steve?"

There's no way for Clint to kick him, so mostly he wriggles around and tries to scowl threateningly in what's hopefully close to Tony's location, until Steve--or Bruce. One of those two--puts a hand on his back. "Clint?"

That's Steve, and he's already got a hand on Clint's calf, but being spread totally out is just a smidge too close to inescapable. A little unnerving, if he's going to be left that way. "Ixnay on the eetsfay."

Tony puffs, but it's sort of a safeword. "Okeedokey. I think our work here is done." The whole bed bounces as Tony scrambles across it, then gets up and swats Clint's ass once. Hard. "Be good. Behave."

Clint doesn't swear, but he doesn't answer Tony either, the jackass.

"And don't move," Tony goes on, trailing something down his back. Coiling the remainder of the cord in the small of Clint's back for Phil to decide what to do with. "Keep that there."

That makes Clint grin again. "Yes, sir."

"In the sir club." Tony declares, and after a pause, "High fives later?"

"Finishing touch." Nat, directed away, at the others instead of at Clint.

There's soft laughing and the scuff of movement and maybe tousling. The undignified sound of Bruce snorting back giggles. And then soft, tickly small things settle on him and around him. He can hear the funny-gross nose sound Natasha makes when she's trying not to break into hysterics. She's definitely as potted as Tony.

Someone swats his butt again. It's hard to tell who, this time, and the surprise makes Clint yelp and jerk, but he catches himself before the loops of cord can slide off his back and makes himself stay still at the next playful hit.

There's more laughing and low, babbled conversation, and scuffling, and then the room is silent. Clint hears a door. Another door, further away. Tony calling, "Take care now," from what feels like a far distance, and then a thump, someone saying, "--those cake things--" and then nothing.

Clint's half tempted to ask, "Guys?" but he doesn't. He knows they're gone, and this is the part that's really shady. Leaving a sub actually tied up and alone. It's sort of scary and dangerous, and even if he's sure there's a bug or something monitoring the room, it's not like he's seen it. He could as easily be really alone, and the ties, when he gives his wrist a few experimental tugs, hold firm. Bruce really took that knot trying seriously.

In the quiet, the air conditioner starts to sounds loud, but he can't hear the traffic sounds from outside and below, or anyone talking. Maybe there's an elevator ping every now and then. Clint tugs again, but he's pretty firmly fastened to the headboard, and thrashing his head around doesn't do anything to loosen the blindfold and only threatens to topple the pile of cord on his back.

Fuck.

Where the hell is Phil? Clint wouldn't put it past Nat to demand a dance out of him, just to stall and make Clint stew longer. Phil's got to know what's happened to him. It's not like stealth had ever been an Avenger strong suit, but it's also possible that he's wringing every last second out of Captain America is my best man that he can.

Maybe Phil is the one wringing dances out of Steve.

Clint tries another pull. Carefully, this time. Trying to stay at least a little still. Downstairs, Tony's probably getting even drunker and rowdier and maybe making speeches, and Phil's maybe listening to Steve tell some story and watching him look handsome in his dress uniform. Laughing and talking and accepting congratulatory drinks while Clint waits for him.

Coulson had better fucking hurry. Just the thought of having to wait for him is making it hard to wait. At least he'd been tied up in their own suite and not in some joke location Phil would have to hunt down first.

Although being left for Phil in some place less safe and more exposed--

Clint licks his lips. Shifts a bit more, impatient. If Tony hadn't left him a damn job, he'd be trying to rub himself off, but now there's risk involved in that, if Phil's being briefed on just what the parameters for good behavior Clint had been left with.

He takes a breath. Rolls his hips experimentally. Really, really hopes the Avengers are really all gone.

"Oh fuck, Phil. Come on," Clint groans. The whole pre-ceremony keep-apart is killing him now that all he has to wait for the party to end.

He's going to die.

It takes forever for Phil to show up. Clint kills time by alternating trying to rock against the sheets with trying to not rub against the sheet. Both options are driving him a little nuts. He can hear himself panting, hard enough to cover the sound of the air conditioner.

Hard enough to cover the sound of Phil coming in, because the hand on the back of one thigh makes him jump.

His heart pounds in his ears. It's got to be Phil. No one else would have a keycard. No one else would just sit there--the mattress dips--with one hand on Clint, fingers wrapped around the curve of his leg. Clint takes a breath. Holds it.

Keeps holding it while Phil touches him, carefully feeling over his back and arms. Examining the handiwork of Bruce's knots, maybe. His lungs starts to burn as Phil picks up the cords from his back, and then leans over to kiss his shoulder.

Clint wheezes the breath out. The laugh that comes after is definitely Phil's.

"Sir," Clint says.

"Clint." He can hear the fond smile in it. Phil keeps touching him. Stroking his hair and tracing the edge of the blindfold. Dragging a finger down Clint's spine to the cleft of his ass.

"Yours," Clint murmurs, being good and agreeable and not rushing or pushing or being an otherwise shit. Letting Phil take his time touching and teasing and exploring like he'd never had Clint to himself or tied up before. Like Clint's new.

Phil presses his lips against the back of Clint's shoulder again. Hums an "Mm-hm," against his skin, one hand firmly cupping Clint's ass. "Finally."

"Took your time."

"Had to play to the crowd." Clint's seen the whole dom side go down before. He's just as glad to not have seen Phil exit the remainder of the party to applause and drunken jokes and whoops. "It's thinning out," he admits, "But I wanted to hear the whole thing be explained to Thor again."

"And make me wait."

"Well. You're supposed to wait." Phil's hand lifts and drops again. Not as hard a smack as Tony had landed, but enough to make Clint hiss in surprise, then buck when Phil lands a blow to the other side before caressing the skin. The stroking moves back to his thigh, and then Phil's cupping down between Clint's legs. Inspecting him like this isn't a done deal.

"Hello," Clint smirks. "Can I see you?"

"In a minute. Let me--You know you're covered in rose petals?" Phil shifts, and a second later is lying pressed up against Clint, holding his nuts and stroking his thumb idly along the side of his cock. Kissing randomly every so often--arms, face, leaning in to nip at Clint's throat, nuzzling in around the collar to do it.

"Phil--"

"Mm."

"Sir."

"Be quiet.

"I can't. You keep doing that."

Phil laughs. Phil might be too drunk for this. Another shady part of the tradition is everyone being a little too partied out to cover all their bases.

"Oh, hey," Clint says, remembering, "Is there a bug those assholes are listening in on?"

"Already disabled."

"There was a--catering napkin or something."

"Clint."

"Don't they bill for lost--"

Phil gives him a squeeze. Clint shuts up.

Then says, "At least kiss me before you pass out."

"I'm not--" Phil puffs, then shifts away and fiddles, tugging at Clint's wrist until his right arm is free. "I was looking, but if you're going to be impatient, then," Phil swats his thigh, "get up on your knees."

Clint shuffles into position, keeping his head down because Phil is threading some of the spare cord through the collar. Securing him to the headboard by makeshift leash, before catching his free wrist and squirting lube into his hand. "Get yourself ready."

"Not romantic, Phil."

"I was happy to look," Phil says, "at you all laid out for me."

"Covered in rose petals."

"That part was a bit much."

Clint gets a good grip on the headboard with his still-tied hand, using it for leverage as he starts working fingers into himself. Thinking of Phil watching. Maybe with his bow-tie loose around his neck, sitting back next to the bed, his feet up on the edge of the mattress. Glasses sliding down his face a little. Maybe licking his lip as Clint gets two fingers all the way in and forces a low moan out of himself.

"All worked up already?" Phil sounds far. Damn it.

"Yessir."

A chuckle. Phil's in the fucking bathroom. Damn it, damn it. Clint's just been waiting for Phil, getting himself ready for Phil, and now that papers are signed and everything is official, he really is Phil's. To use, to keep, to drive over the damn brink.

Clint groans. Works another finger in, and rocks his hips against the pressure. Panting with his mouth open. Managing an intelligent, "Uh," as the bed bounces again, just a little. Phil, back and putting his feet up.

Yes.

"Such a good boy," Phil murmurs.

Double yes.

"You just gonna--whatever it is you're doing there."

Phil makes a warm amused sound. Not quite a laugh. "Just watching." There's fingertips on Clint's side, briefly tracing the line of a muscle or scar before falling away again. "Tell me when you're ready."

"I'm ready now. I've been ready all night." He's been ready for days. How Phil is managing to just sit there is a fucking mystery. Clint swallows and starts to straighten, forgetting that his collar is tied to the headboard. "Oof. Damn it."

It brings Phil's hand back, smoothing up his back and neck until he's pressing Clint's head down. "Shh. You know better."

"Phil."

Phil doesn't make a sound, but Clint can tell he's smiling. "Phil."

Clint's left arm tugs, and comes free, and then Phil's kissing him and Clint's untied enough to fall onto his side and hook a leg over both of Phil's, grabbing on and forgetting about the lube he might be getting on Phil's clothes until he realizes Phil's tux is gone and he's almost as naked as Clint. "Thanks for finding me."

"Someone had to stage a rescue."

Clint lays a careful, solemn kiss against whatever part of Phil his mouth happens to hit when he leans back in. It's something awkward and bony. The knob of Phil's shoulder. His head bumps Phil's chin or jaw as he does it. "Did it tear you away from your dance with Steve?"

Phil makes a thoughtful sound, fingers in Clint's hair, then behind his head. Undoing the blindfold. Fucking finally. Clint blinks as the fabric eases away, waiting for his eyes adjust to the dim lighting and for Phil's face to come into lazy focus.

"Hello," Clint grins.

"I don't want to dance with Steve," Phil tells him solemnly, "I want to be here."

"Okay. Wanna dance with me?"

"No." The cord tying his collar is loose. Phil wraps it twice around his hand before giving it an experimental tug, that Clint resists, just a little. Just to do it, and just so Phil will pull a little harder, and then he goes. Letting himself be pulled up and shifted until he's straddling Phil's hips.

He's not sure how Phil's managed to get there from the armchair he'd been sitting in by the bed, but he doesn't care too much, either, because Phil's under him in nothing but briefs and the bed is covered in rose petals. Way too many rose petals.

"Huh," Clint says. Phil laughs.

"I couldn't decide if it was sexy or funny," he admits, free hand stroking Clint's side, the other still holding the makeshift leash.

"Sexy," Clint decides, not because of the flowers, but because Phil is sprawled underneath him. He leans to kiss him, then slides down Phil's body. He can hear the cord whispering through Phil's hand as he pulls it. Hears Phil sigh. His stomach rises and falls away with the breath of it. Clint drops a kiss to his sternum, the hollow under his ribs, his navel. Scrapes teeth against Phil's hipbone, presses lips to the skin just above Phil's cock, tugging his underwear down and out of his way.

He doesn't take him into his mouth right away. Instead he plants little kisses down Phil's length, working his way to its head, then glances up. "Sir?"

"Go ahead."

The granting of permission makes Clint squirm. He's not sure why, but it's better than orders or being made to obey or Phil just handling him, and those are all great things. Clint kisses Phil's cock again, and murmurs, "Thank you," against it--mostly to make Phil jump at the feeling of lips and vibration--then wets his lips and sucks Phil in.

Phil whispers, "Clint," but nothing else. There's just his breath and soft groans, muffled into his arm or a pillow, and short tugs on the leash whenever Clint takes him deeper or tries to massage Phil with his tongue.

Phil's trying to be careful and gentle, but he should take what he wants. Clint tries to pass on the message by following the pull on his collar or the press of the hand Phil drops to his head, but Phil doesn't take control. Lets Clint provide the service, and just runs fingers lazily against Clint's head, so Clint keeps it slow. Bobbing his head smoothly. Picking up the pace only when Phil starts making desperate, gaspy noises.

He swallows when Phil comes, and tries not to make too much of a face in case Phil's looking, but stays put. Holding Phil in his mouth and stroking him with his tongue while Phil's breath evens out and he pats Clint's head in a series of tired thumps.

Clint hums, pleased. Waits for Phil's, "C'mere," before he lets Phil's cock slide from his mouth and give it one last kiss before he fixes Phil's briefs and lets himself be pulled up to lie against Phil's side.

Phil looks tired. Danced and congratulatory speeched out. His eyes are half closed already, but he's smiling. Looking soft and gentle and Clint grins. Settles in.

"You--" Phil starts.

"M'kay." He is. There's the buzz of arousal that's been building during the whole lead-up to the ceremony--the period of traditional separation--but it's been a long day and now Clint can't manage anything more energetic than rocking himself against Phil's hip.

"Wanted to wreck you," Phil mumbles, "God. All day, all I could think--"

"Yeah."

He's ready to be fucked, too. Open and slick, but Phil doesn't let it go to waste. Sliding fingers in while Clint rubs off against him. "Fuck."

"Shh."

"Tomorrow, after we've slept," Phil promises, then pauses to twist a moan out of Clint, "I'm going to take you down properly."

"Okay."

Phil grins. "I don't need your permission."

Oh, hell. Clint nods in jerky agreement. Tries to find a rhythm between rocking against Phil and pressing back into his hand, but Phil isn't helping. Twisting his hand away or making Clint gasp and cry out at exactly the wrong moments. Not letting him work it up into anything.

"Fuck. Okay. I mean. Yeah. Yes sir. Oh, fuck."

"And you'll be good for me," Phil says, not really a question. "Won't you?"

"Yeah. Yes."

Phil wraps another length of cord around his hand. Holding almost right by the collar now in a solid, controlling grip. "Ask."

"Please let me come?" There's no answer. Clint tries, "Please, Phil."

"When I say, or not at all."

"Fuck. Fuck, okay." It's playing dirty. He's not quite ready, and he really hopes Phil isn't setting him up to make him wait some more. Also sort of hopes Phil is. Imagines Phil keeping him waiting and on edge for days, just because. "Please, please."

Phil adds a finger. Clint arches against it. Says, "Please," again.

"Come."

For a second, Clint doesn't think he will, but then it slams through him, almost taking him by surprise, and he grabs onto Phil, bucking and trying not to bite into his shoulder as he muffles himself. Coming against Phil and making a mess of him.

"Huh," Clint manages, after a minute, but his next words also come out as harsh panting, so he gives up and concentrates on breathing and hanging on to Phil and on the sensation of Phil pumping fingers in and out of him carefully while he cools down and his heart slows back to normal speed.

"Lie still," Phil mumbles, "And I'll clean us up in a minute."

Clint takes a breath. Another. "Who cares," he says.

They're quiet for a minute, holding on to each other. Phil's fingers press into one last time, making Clint whine, then slide out. "You're mine now," Phil says, sounding thoughtful and pleased and like that thought hadn't been on both their minds for weeks.

Clint smirks into his skin. "Yep."

"Guess I don't need this then," Phil says, and carefully unties the cord from his collar.

Clint's promise was to submit, not to behave, but he mm-s anyway and lets Phil enjoy the thought. For the few seconds it takes Phil to come back to reality. Then he sighs and sits up, then stumbles out of the room. Comes back having lost his underwear somewhere, and with a towel that he uses to wipe Clint down.

"Tomorrow," he says, "Tomorrow I'll have all day to show you your place."

"Eh. Do your worst," Clint says. Then, as Phil collapses back down next to him, "Bruce tied me up with a thing from the catering--"

"You said."

"They'll charge if we lose--"

"It's fine. Go to sleep."

"Excuse me if I worry about event scams."

Phil gives him a drowsy swat. "Go to sleep, Clint."

Clint rolls, closing the distance between them and fitting himself against Phil. There's a flower petal stuck to his arm. Phil peels it off and rolls it between his fingers, smiling. Picturing how Clint had looked, tied up and waiting for him, maybe. Clint kind of wishes he hadn't been blindfolded, so he'd have a mental image of Phil leaning in the doorway in his tux and undone tie to file away.

"While you're showing me what’s what tomorrow," Clint says, picking up his head to give Phil a serious look, "You should wear that fancy shirt you had before."

Phil laughs. Tries to pat Clint's hair into place, or maybe just wants to stroke his head. "Okay," he says.

"Good. And--"

"Go to sleep."

Clint settles onto his elbows, looking down at Phil's half-asleep face, and reaches to trace the crinkles next to his eye. "Thanks for the collar."

Phil's eyes blink back to properly open. "Thank you for accepting it."

"And for not letting Thor drink you under a table and forgetting me up here."

Phil snorts a laugh. Mumbles something garbled as his eyes slide shut. Clint strokes his face, but there's no response other than a faint twitch. "I've got you too," Clint says, and throws a protective arm over Phil as he lies back down, tucked close enough that he can't hear anything over the sound of Phil's breathing.