The wall is cold metal. Unyielding to the warmth of his body, it sends chills down his spine and peaks sore nipples. Rough material drags across his skin, the firm stitching of a S.H.I.E.L.D.-issue tactical suit on his bare back, his arms.
A hand closes around both his wrists and presses them into the wall above his head in silent request, command. He listens, obeys, keeps his wrists crossed. The hand moves and the contrast between warm skin and sleeve draws his attention sharply. It’s a slow tease, steady hand and calloused fingertips on his bicep, shoulder, back, just carefully drawing out his anticipation.
He squirms. His breathing becomes ragged and the hand stops, silently demanding more control. In, out, and he only shivers once, the imagined Bring it in, Barton ringing in his left ear. Instead of the usual field command, his handler’s voice getting him hard and desperate after thirteen hours of radio silence and waiting, there’s just a huff of warm breath against his shoulder and Clint knows he’s being read like an open book. It should bother him. With anyone else, it would.
He controls his breathing and the hand is at his hip, drawing him back from the wall. Clint leans his weight against his forearms, arching his back and sticking his ass out. The hand guides him into position, rests at his hip afterward in what should be a warning. For him, it’s a whole ten seconds longer of anticipation than he wants.
In, out, and he lets his head sag, forehead coming to rest between his open elbows against the cold wall. From this vantage point, he can see his own cock, desperately hard and leaking. More importantly, he can see one tactical boot, almost on the edge of his peripheral vision, and it’s more pornographic than his erection ever could be.
His teeth clamp down on his bottom lip, stifling the noise that rises to his throat when the boot shifts out of view. He almost misses the slide-click of extending metal.
Then it’s there, following the contour of his ass and thighs, a cool strip of metal running horizontal over his skin. His cock jumps with anticipation, with all the desperate desire he maintains a firm control over otherwise, and it’s his only tell.
Everything else falls away while he waits. The metal comes to rest lengthwise across the middle of his ass and he focuses on the way it warms to his skin, almost disappearing the nearer it gets to body temperature. But he feels when it’s gone, hears the way it sings through the air.
Contact. And the sound startles him more than the feeling. It’s sharp and echoes in the tight space between two bulkheads he’s been pushed into. Then the feeling surfaces, hot and perfect and he can almost see, behind his eyelids, a red line forming from cheek to cheek.
His hips rock back into the warm metal, a signal they’ve never consciously established but one they each know so well, and he gets another. A sharp sound, a hot jolt of pleasure and pain and relief .
Feelings curl and uncurl inside him. Mounting pressure and abatement. All the stress and uncertainty fall away, while the single focus of one particular brand of tension pools and tightens low in his belly.
Soon enough, the sharp sing of metal falls away, too, and all he has connecting him to the moment is the heat and throbbing criss-cross of marks rising to the surface of his skin. He doesn’t even hear his own voice, but his throat is rough and he knows he’s begging. His patience wears thin and he’s too close for control, for silence.
Once more and his hips jerk forward in an abortive thrust. He splatters the wall when he comes, his orgasm wrenched out of him without the simplest touch. Then he slumps forward, chest hitting the cold surface again, dripping and breathless and too far gone to maintain the arched back pose. He shivers with the force of trying to catch his breath, with the shock of everything rushing back.
Another slide-click, which he hears loud and poignant even over his own heavy breathing, and the collapsible pointer is one more innocuous accessory in Phil Coulson’s impressive array of office supplies.
“Bring it in, Barton,” Coulson murmurs softly in his left ear, pressing along his back. One arm snakes around him for support, the weight of Coulson’s gun-calloused hand against his chest, right over his heart, a reassurance. With Coulson a solid weight behind him, the tactical uniform doesn’t even feel rough anymore, just warm.
Clint leans away from the cold wall and into Phil’s embrace. He relaxes. He lets his breathing slow, syncing with the rise and fall of the chest pressed against his back.
“Yes, sir,” he finally answers.