Chapter Text
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.