(MCU) Switched It Up
June 10th, 2015 21:55![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
salmon_pinkTitle: Switched It Up
Fandom: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Pairing: Clint/Pietro
Rating: NC-17
Words: 4093
Timeline: Post-Avengers: Age Of Ultron
Notes: Spoilers for Avengers: Age Of Ultron. Caning. Spanking. For![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
avengers_tables, prompt "unexpected", and a prompt at avengerkink.
Summary: In which Clint learns that if he's going to make idle threats, he better be prepared to follow through.
Mostly, it’s a joke when he makes those threats. Because Pietro doesn’t exactly do ‘obedient subordinate’, and Clint’s patience has been wearing thin for, oh, about a month now. Since Cap called him back in, led him to the labs, the real secretive ones that Cho gets pissy about people knowing about, and there was Pietro Pain-In-The-Ass Maximoff. Officially alive and looking down his nose at Clint, like Clint was the one who wasn’t supposed to be there.
People come back from the dead now. This is Clint’s world.
Once he shook off the shock, Clint kind of expected some crack about ‘seeing that coming’, some continuation of the little game they’d fallen into before Pietro went and got himself riddled with bullets.
Instead, Pietro had just smirked at him, like he was enjoying watching Clint freeze up in surprise, like this was fun, and that was maybe worse than any jibe or half-assed joke.
And then Steve had taken Clint aside, answered all his questions, and slapped one of those big, warm hands on his shoulder. Looked him in the eye, in that impossible-to-say-no-to way he has, and asked Clint to take care of the kid.
Hawkeye’s still in retirement, Steve had been real clear on that. But he just wanted someone to train Pietro, and he insisted that Clint was the only person he trusted who actually had a rapport with the kid. ‘And wasn’t already busy being an Avenger’ went unsaid.
“He’s shaky, still finding his bearings, and a familiar face would help with that,” Steve had said, and Clint didn’t miss that if anyone could speak from experience about that, it was Cap.
Made it real hard to turn him down, so Clint didn’t even try.
That’s not the moment Clint’s patience started running out on him. Oh no, that didn’t happen until the next day, when training kicked in, and Pietro started their first session by scoffing at how slow Clint was, and then stealing his arrows.
Granted, Clint wasn’t actually wearing the quiver at the time; Pietro wouldn’t have gotten it away from him if he had been. It was just sitting innocently against a bench, because it had been a while since Clint had worn it, and he was kind of working his way back up to it.
Not because it made him nervous. Because he knew he’d realise how much he missed it.
So Pietro had stolen his arrows, and those fast little hands were rifling through them before Clint could even yell a warning, and that’s how their first training session ended up with half the gym on fire, and how Clint’s patience started evaporating, to be replaced by a constant stress headache.
So mostly it’s a joke when he threatens to spank the kid.
Okay, sure, maybe there’s a part of him that actually wouldn’t mind bending Pietro over and smacking some respect into him. Get a little payback for what a brat Pietro is, for all the jokes about Clint’s age, for the way the whole damn compound knows that Clint’s got his hands full and is enjoying the show, and he knows about the jokes. Mainly because Natasha comes up with most of them, and she figures there’s no point in making fun of Clint behind his back, not when she could be doing it to his face and revelling in it.
Clint’s only been out of action a few months, but he missed her so damn much.
He missed Pietro, too, if he’s honest. All that time thinking the kid was dead, and trying not to get too caught up in his head, trying not to focus on what a waste of life it was.
And now Pietro’s back, and Clint kind of hates him for it.
It’s not that he’s unhappy that Pietro’s alive. But hindsight’s a beautiful thing, and the memory of Pietro’s sacrifice is kind of getting more and more overshadowed every day by the reality of what a little shit he is.
Like today, he’s got Pietro on the farm, because the kid isn’t really approved to leave the compound without supervision, and it’s clearly driving Pietro crazy to be cooped up. The farm is a compromise, somewhere other than the winding corridors and uniformed agents of the compound, but still safe, still somewhere Pietro can’t make trouble.
Plus it gives Clint an excuse to be at home with his family, which is the best kind of bonus.
They’re in the barn, and Clint’s basically let Pietro take the tractor’s engine apart, solely so he can put it back together. He’s found things like that keep the wheels in Pietro’s head from spinning as fast as the rest of him, and sometimes Clint can get as much as a full half-hour of peace.
Not today, though. Today’s one of those days where Pietro can’t stay still, and there are oil-smears and engine parts scattered everywhere, ignored as Pietro keeps finding excuses to circle the property, or head into the house, or generally get under Clint’s feet.
So Clint returns the favour. Shoves out with the broom next time he feels the telltale rustle of air approaching from the left, so it’s right under Pietro’s feet when he passes. At least Pietro’s getting better, he only stumbles when the wood connects with his ankle instead of falling on his ass. Because the kid was good when they first found him, had a decent handle on his powers, but his control is shockingly sloppy when he’s distracted or restless or just not in the mood to pay attention.
He skids to a halt, glaring at Clint, but it relaxes into something more exasperated as he shoves a hand through his hair. Breathing a little heavy, because he’s still working back up to the speeds he had before he died, before Cho’s Cradle fixed him up. Eyes bright and focused on Clint, and Clint just shakes his head and drops his gaze because that’s easier.
Because it isn’t only about him wanting to teach Pietro respect when he makes those jokes about spanking.
The first time he said it, threatened to teach Pietro some manners by bending the kid over his knee, Pietro promptly ran into a wall. Staggering back to stare at Clint with these impossibly wide eyes, and Clint had let himself laugh just as nasty as he wanted, enjoying the way Pietro got all huffy and averted his eyes.
He didn’t really look at Clint, not properly, for the rest of the training session, and he’d even followed orders without complaining or questioning them.
So it was only natural Clint would try that particular threat again.
Which got him Pietro actually blushing, and fidgeting restlessly, and being quiet for nearly a whole hour.
Hey, it’s only fair. Pietro wants to make jokes about Clint’s age? Well, Clint will throw it right back in Pietro’s face, and make jokes about him being a child.
Except it’s not about Pietro being a child, not entirely. Because, yeah, Clint isn’t just thinking about teaching Pietro respect. He’s thinking about the way Pietro’s chest heaves when he’s pushing himself, and the shift of muscles beneath his clothes, and the way Pietro gets under his skin like nobody else.
He’s thinking about how he wants to get his hands on Pietro, and how that absolutely shouldn’t be on his mind. So the spanking jokes, they’re a way of reminding them both about the fact that Clint is Pietro’s handler, and that they have a professional relationship. That Clint deserves a certain amount of respect, that age jokes go both ways. But they’re also a way of reminding Clint to keep it in his damn pants.
Laura isn’t helping. She’s officially gone from not-so-subtle hints to out-and-out telling Clint that he should just fuck Pietro and get it over with. Usually with requests that he tell her all the dirty details afterwards.
Clint loves his wife to pieces, and their relationship, their open marriage, it works perfectly for them. But sometimes it blows his mind at just how good she is at being both the angel and the devil on his shoulder.
Of course, he’s told her he won’t, even though she just rolls her eyes at him, clearly unconvinced. But if she saw it, saw how flustered Pietro gets over those innocent-except-for-the-part-where-they’re-not-really spanking jokes, she’d get it. Because from his reaction, Pietro must see it as a joke at his expense, a way for Clint to point out how young and inexperienced he is. Not in a sexual way, because that’s all on Clint that sometimes he thinks about it, thinks about the bow of Pietro’s back, the curve of his ass, thinks about the noises he might make.
The point is that, urgh, Clint’s a pervert, and so is his wife, and the latter is fine but not the former, and also Pietro’s a brat. That Clint isn’t going to spank. But he sure will keep threatening to.
So when Pietro just snorts and raises an unimpressed eyebrow at Clint telling him to start fixing the tractor already, his put-upon reserves of patience don’t last long.
“I don’t even know how that piece of junk’s still running,” Pietro bitches. “It must be even more ancient than you, old man.” Looking a little proud with himself, the same way he always does when he thinks he’s getting one over on Clint, or when he pulls off one of the trickier moves Clint makes him practice, or just in general all the time because Clint’s never met anyone so damn smug, and that’s including Tony Stark.
“Why don’t you take it down a notch before this old man takes you outside and makes you pick a switch?” Clint says, voice low with warning, even if it’s total bullshit. Crossing his arms and glaring right back, for about half a second. And then, huh, he’s glaring at nothing but empty space.
Doesn’t get a chance to feel kind of disappointed on missing out on the usual show of Pietro squirming over the remark, because then Pietro’s back again.
With a nice, thin branch held tightly in his hand.
Clint’s brain short-circuits, and he’s just kind of gaping, and Pietro’s staring right back at him with this tense look on his face, and everything is suddenly very, very quiet.
Well, shit.
Clint’s mouth is hanging open, but Pietro’s jaw is clenched tight enough that Clint can practically see the tic of his pulse.
Shit, shit, shit.
Pietro stomps closer, stalks closer, and he looks really fucking pissy. Not moving at superspeed, but still moving fast, so he’s right up in Clint’s personal space that damn quick, and Clint’s brain is still coming up empty.
The branch smacks against Clint’s palm, and Pietro’s other hand is curling Clint’s fingers around it in rough, angry little motions.
Pietro’s looking at him, pupils dilated. “Do it,” he hisses, and they’re close enough Clint can feel the warmth of his breath. “Fucking do it then, old man, because I can’t wait any longer, you keeping saying you’ll do it and you never fucking do, and I can’t -”
He’s panting around the words, stopping to lick his lips anxiously, gaze dropping to Clint’s mouth. Pietro’s hand slaps against his chest, like Pietro’s going to push him away, but instead he’s getting a death-grip on Clint’s t-shirt. God, Clint can feel him shaking.
“Do it,” he says again, eyes still on Clint’s mouth.
Clint feels like he’s swaying on the spot, like he’s standing on a high-wire with nothing but open space and too-warm air around him.
“Up against the tractor,” he hears himself croak, and Laura’s not even in the house, she’s taken the kids into town, but right now she’s probably laughing and she doesn’t know why.
That woman, she’s always right about everything.
Pietro takes a slow, deliberate step back. Then another. Watching Clint closely, like he doesn’t know if it’s a trick, like he’s expecting Clint to just walk away, like he’s expecting Clint to understand what the fuck is going on.
But then he’s turning, heading for the tractor, and Clint doesn’t miss the way Pietro’s hand drops, adjusting himself through his shorts and, shit, Clint can see how hard the kid already is. Moving until he’s against the side of the tractor, kicking engine parts away with distracted movements. Bracing himself against the chassis, hands flat against the metal, hips pushed back, head lowered a little, and Clint can see from the rise and fall of his shoulders that Pietro’s taking deep breaths and that they’re not doing a thing to calm him down.
Clint’s kind of moving on autopilot, because he’s not thinking about spanking, or sex, or anything but the fact that he’s never seen the kid this rattled. Moving up behind him to put a hand against his back, just instinctively looking to reassure him, but Pietro pushes back into the touch, fucking arches against Clint’s palm with this soft little huff of breath.
Clint’s cock pulses inside his jeans, and holy shit, this is actually happening.
“I’m not -” he starts, hand still on Pietro’s back. The kid’s radiating heat, t-shirt already a little damp under Clint’s palm, like just the thought of this has him sweating.
Clint has no idea what he’s going to say, but Pietro turns, looks at him through a messy curtain of white hair, and any words die in Clint’s throat.
Pietro’s flushed, teeth digging into his bottom lip, and his expression is so desperate, so raw, that Clint loses his breath.
“If I hurt you -” he grunts. This is happening, this is really happening, and the branch feels thin and reedy yet really fucking solid in his hand.
Pietro exhales pointedly through his nose, and for a second he’s the same arrogant brat who’s been getting on Clint’s last nerve since the day they met. “I’ll tell you,” he insists, like Clint’s the most annoying, exasperating person in the world.
Clint’s hand tightens around the switch.
“You should -” His voice doesn’t break or anything, but it rattles in his chest, and Clint clears his throat, ignores the way Pietro’s eyes have taken on that shine he gets when he’s doing a really shitty job of holding in his laughter. Clint lets his voice ring out firmer, closer to the way he sounds in training. “The shorts. Take them off.”
That kills all the humour on Pietro’s face. His mouth falls a little open, crescents in his lip from his teeth that make it look redder, fuller. Swallowing thick and obvious, and Clint thinks maybe he’s misread this, maybe that demand was a step too far, maybe he’s broken whatever spell is hanging between them.
But then Pietro’s pushing back from the tractor just enough to get his thumbs under his waistband and shove down. Shove everything down, shorts and boxer-briefs, and Clint tries not to swallow his own tongue.
He’s aware the kid has a nice ass; difficult not to notice when Pietro basically lives in athletic wear, thin material that clings to him when he moves. But there’s a difference between noticing that and having Pietro strip in front of him, inviting him to look, demanding it. Hands back against the tractor, and Clint can see the way the tips of his ears are turning redder and redder under all that hair.
This is really happening. Like, really happening.
Clint realises he’s turning the branch over in his hand, absently checking the weight of it.
“If I hurt you -” he tries again, because that seems damn important.
Pietro’s fingers curl against the tractor, nails digging into the peeling paintwork. “For fuck’s sake, old man, if you chicken out now I swear -”
Clint swings the branch.
It connects solidly with the back of Pietro’s thighs, and Clint doesn’t care what the kid says, it’s gotta sting like a bitch. Pietro lets out this quiet little noise, rocking forward a bit before he catches himself, biceps flexing, hands flat against the tractor again.
Clint watches as a thin strip of colour begins to flood the skin. It probably went pale first, but it’s high enough up Pietro’s legs that he’s already pale there, compared to how his calves have caught the sun.
There’s an itch between Clint’s shoulder blades where he’s starting to sweat, and he’s holding the switch so tightly his knuckles have turned white.
“You want -?” he asks, with no idea how finish the sentence.
Pietro’s eyes are squeezed shut, but he nods tightly. “Again.” His voice sounds husky and choked off.
So Clint hits him again. Higher this time, right under his ass, and that gets him a fucking whine, and Pietro pushing up on his toes. “God, please, please, I need, talk to me -”
“Should have done this before,” Clint blurts out, already feeling drunk on it, and Pietro gasps and arches his back more. Putting himself on display so perfectly, and the next swing of the switch hits him straight across the ass, making his hips jerk, and when he cries out it’s throaty and needy.
Clint watches like he’s forgotten how to blink. Stood to the side, close enough Pietro’s shoulder brushes against his chest with every swing of Clint’s arm. Like this, he can see Pietro’s profile, see the way he’s gasping, lips shiny with spit, hair curling across his forehead where it’s growing damp with sweat. Putting more weight into it as he swings the branch now, and he can see the thick, flushed curve of Pietro’s cock, even wetter than his mouth. Another blow just below Pietro’s ass, and Clint watches Pietro’s cock slap against his stomach with the way it snaps his hips forward, pre-come spitting against his abs.
“Should have fucking taken you over my lap, spanked you that very first day.” Clint’s voice doesn’t even sound like him anymore, gravelly and mean, never mind that he feels like he’s burning up, like he’s melting under the heat Pietro’s radiating, overwhelmed and breathless.
“Gloves,” Pietro manages to gasp, and Clint pauses at the image, catches Pietro extra hard on the next swing to make up for it.
“Yeah, you want me to wear my gloves for that?” he murmurs. “Want to feel the texture of them as I hit you?” Pietro’s nodding his head mindlessly, and Clint shifts his weight to the side to admire all the pink lines across the kid’s ass. “They’re armoured, you know - could spank you for hours with those on.” Pietro’s shaking constantly now, hips rocking into every blow. Clint chews at his lips, eyes raking over him. “Spread your legs.”
Pietro whimpers, sneakers shuffling across the dirt as he tries to spread wider with the shorts around his ankles. “Please, tell me I can come.”
Clint’s pretty sure he blacks out for a second, because everything gets slow and dark, then so bright it’s dazzling.
“Yes, fuck, yes, wanna see you lose it, come all over yourself -” Every word feeling like it’s pulled out of him, like he has no choice, like he has no control over himself or the situation or the way his arm is starting to burn with every swing.
And Pietro, God, he’s bending so low now his hair is brushing up against the tractor, and his skin is slick with sweat, and the sound he makes when he comes is fucking wrecked. Shaky and earnest and lost, echoing through the barn as he paints his stomach, his chest, and Clint brings the switch down again right under his ass, which at some point he’s apparently decided is his favourite place to aim for. Angling it up as it hits, and Pietro headbutts the side of the tractor as he jerks and spasms, the next spurt of come almost hitting his damn throat, and somehow Clint’s the one whose knees feel weak.
He staggers forward, switch falling forgotten to the floor, plasters himself across Pietro’s back, pulling the kid more upright with a firm hand on his chest that only slides a little through the mess Pietro’s made of himself. Rocking his hips against Pietro’s ass before he can tell himself not to, but Pietro just groans and arches back against him.
“C’mon, c’mon,” Pietro begs, one hand gripping Clint’s wrist right above his heart, the other like a claw against Clint’s hip, fingers digging in through his jeans. And the denim’s got to feel rough as hell right now, got to be the wrong side of sore against the bruised skin of his ass, but he rides every thrust as Clint grinds up against him.
There’s white hair in Clint’s face, and he can smell the sex on the kid, smell sweat and spunk and musk, and his cock feels like an steel girder in his jeans, trapped and aching. Clint gets a hand in that hair, pulls at it until he can tilt Pietro’s head, bury his face against his neck and inhale, and for all the ‘old man’ jokes Pietro likes to throw at him, Clint ends up coming in his jeans like a damn teenager.
He slams one hand out to catch himself against the tractor before they both fall forward, the other sliding around Pietro’s waist, and they just stand there as time stretches out around them. Breathing heavily, feeling Pietro’s heart hammering through his back where he’s pressed against Clint’s chest. Waiting and breathing, until Clint’s legs start to feel more solid, until Pietro’s shaking subsides.
Clint’s been complaining about how he never gets any peace since the day he got assigned as Pietro’s handler, but right now he’s the one looking to fill the silence. Except he has no idea what to say. “I -” he starts, and Pietro twitches against him, the movement so small Clint wouldn’t notice if they weren’t leaning against each other.
He sighs, already defeated by the prospect of what the hell he can say to explain what just happened. Doesn’t even realise he’s breathing right across the kid’s neck until Pietro shivers.
Clint’s arm tightens around his waist without his permission, and Pietro sighs as well.
“So,” Pietro murmurs, voice raspy, starting to fidget a little. The kid never could stay still for long. “Next time, you’ll use your gloves?”
Clint splutters at that, but when he tries to take a step back, Pietro’s hand clamps around his arm. Twisting a little at the waist so he can glare over his shoulder at Clint, and even with the pissy narrowing of his eyes, he still looks fucking debauched.
“You promised,” Pietro informs him bluntly. In that same tone he gets when he’s trying to wrangle Clint into letting him cut loose, doctor’s orders be damned, or pull off a manoeuvre Clint knows he’s not ready for during practice.
Still such a spoiled brat, and Clint rolls his eyes. “I don’t remember promising you anything, kid,” he intones, but then he leans in, lets his lips brush Pietro’s ear. “You want me in my gloves? My hand smacking down against your ass? You’re gonna have to earn that.”
Pietro shivers again, harder this time, and Clint digs his fingernails in a little against that toned stomach, just to feel him squirm.
He’s slow to disentangle himself, and Pietro’s kind of sluggish too. Pulling his shorts up over his ass, and Clint can see the pink welts already fading as the kid’s heightened metabolism kicks in.
Pietro catches him staring, smirks over his shoulder like the cat that got the cream, and now Clint’s thinking about it, he didn’t promise Pietro anything. Didn’t promise gloves and spanking, sure as shit talked about it, but didn’t commit to anything. Except now he kind of has committed to it, if Pietro behaves himself. Or winds Clint up too much. They haven’t exactly been clear on what ‘earning it’ means.
Clint has this creeping feeling he’s just been played.
Because he may have been handling the switch, but somehow Pietro was the one pulling the reins, and now the kid’s leaning back against the tractor, casual sprawl like Clint didn’t just cane his ass raw. Fucking grinning at him.
“You alright there, old man?” he teases. “You didn’t sprain something, did you?”
Clint already wants to grab his gloves and wipe that smile off Pietro’s face. Which he has a suspicion is exactly what Pietro wants him to feel.
Well, fuck.
Somewhere in town, Laura’s laughing herself sick.
Fandom: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Pairing: Clint/Pietro
Rating: NC-17
Words: 4093
Timeline: Post-Avengers: Age Of Ultron
Notes: Spoilers for Avengers: Age Of Ultron. Caning. Spanking. For
avengers_tables, prompt "unexpected", and a prompt at avengerkink.Summary: In which Clint learns that if he's going to make idle threats, he better be prepared to follow through.
Mostly, it’s a joke when he makes those threats. Because Pietro doesn’t exactly do ‘obedient subordinate’, and Clint’s patience has been wearing thin for, oh, about a month now. Since Cap called him back in, led him to the labs, the real secretive ones that Cho gets pissy about people knowing about, and there was Pietro Pain-In-The-Ass Maximoff. Officially alive and looking down his nose at Clint, like Clint was the one who wasn’t supposed to be there.
People come back from the dead now. This is Clint’s world.
Once he shook off the shock, Clint kind of expected some crack about ‘seeing that coming’, some continuation of the little game they’d fallen into before Pietro went and got himself riddled with bullets.
Instead, Pietro had just smirked at him, like he was enjoying watching Clint freeze up in surprise, like this was fun, and that was maybe worse than any jibe or half-assed joke.
And then Steve had taken Clint aside, answered all his questions, and slapped one of those big, warm hands on his shoulder. Looked him in the eye, in that impossible-to-say-no-to way he has, and asked Clint to take care of the kid.
Hawkeye’s still in retirement, Steve had been real clear on that. But he just wanted someone to train Pietro, and he insisted that Clint was the only person he trusted who actually had a rapport with the kid. ‘And wasn’t already busy being an Avenger’ went unsaid.
“He’s shaky, still finding his bearings, and a familiar face would help with that,” Steve had said, and Clint didn’t miss that if anyone could speak from experience about that, it was Cap.
Made it real hard to turn him down, so Clint didn’t even try.
That’s not the moment Clint’s patience started running out on him. Oh no, that didn’t happen until the next day, when training kicked in, and Pietro started their first session by scoffing at how slow Clint was, and then stealing his arrows.
Granted, Clint wasn’t actually wearing the quiver at the time; Pietro wouldn’t have gotten it away from him if he had been. It was just sitting innocently against a bench, because it had been a while since Clint had worn it, and he was kind of working his way back up to it.
Not because it made him nervous. Because he knew he’d realise how much he missed it.
So Pietro had stolen his arrows, and those fast little hands were rifling through them before Clint could even yell a warning, and that’s how their first training session ended up with half the gym on fire, and how Clint’s patience started evaporating, to be replaced by a constant stress headache.
So mostly it’s a joke when he threatens to spank the kid.
Okay, sure, maybe there’s a part of him that actually wouldn’t mind bending Pietro over and smacking some respect into him. Get a little payback for what a brat Pietro is, for all the jokes about Clint’s age, for the way the whole damn compound knows that Clint’s got his hands full and is enjoying the show, and he knows about the jokes. Mainly because Natasha comes up with most of them, and she figures there’s no point in making fun of Clint behind his back, not when she could be doing it to his face and revelling in it.
Clint’s only been out of action a few months, but he missed her so damn much.
He missed Pietro, too, if he’s honest. All that time thinking the kid was dead, and trying not to get too caught up in his head, trying not to focus on what a waste of life it was.
And now Pietro’s back, and Clint kind of hates him for it.
It’s not that he’s unhappy that Pietro’s alive. But hindsight’s a beautiful thing, and the memory of Pietro’s sacrifice is kind of getting more and more overshadowed every day by the reality of what a little shit he is.
Like today, he’s got Pietro on the farm, because the kid isn’t really approved to leave the compound without supervision, and it’s clearly driving Pietro crazy to be cooped up. The farm is a compromise, somewhere other than the winding corridors and uniformed agents of the compound, but still safe, still somewhere Pietro can’t make trouble.
Plus it gives Clint an excuse to be at home with his family, which is the best kind of bonus.
They’re in the barn, and Clint’s basically let Pietro take the tractor’s engine apart, solely so he can put it back together. He’s found things like that keep the wheels in Pietro’s head from spinning as fast as the rest of him, and sometimes Clint can get as much as a full half-hour of peace.
Not today, though. Today’s one of those days where Pietro can’t stay still, and there are oil-smears and engine parts scattered everywhere, ignored as Pietro keeps finding excuses to circle the property, or head into the house, or generally get under Clint’s feet.
So Clint returns the favour. Shoves out with the broom next time he feels the telltale rustle of air approaching from the left, so it’s right under Pietro’s feet when he passes. At least Pietro’s getting better, he only stumbles when the wood connects with his ankle instead of falling on his ass. Because the kid was good when they first found him, had a decent handle on his powers, but his control is shockingly sloppy when he’s distracted or restless or just not in the mood to pay attention.
He skids to a halt, glaring at Clint, but it relaxes into something more exasperated as he shoves a hand through his hair. Breathing a little heavy, because he’s still working back up to the speeds he had before he died, before Cho’s Cradle fixed him up. Eyes bright and focused on Clint, and Clint just shakes his head and drops his gaze because that’s easier.
Because it isn’t only about him wanting to teach Pietro respect when he makes those jokes about spanking.
The first time he said it, threatened to teach Pietro some manners by bending the kid over his knee, Pietro promptly ran into a wall. Staggering back to stare at Clint with these impossibly wide eyes, and Clint had let himself laugh just as nasty as he wanted, enjoying the way Pietro got all huffy and averted his eyes.
He didn’t really look at Clint, not properly, for the rest of the training session, and he’d even followed orders without complaining or questioning them.
So it was only natural Clint would try that particular threat again.
Which got him Pietro actually blushing, and fidgeting restlessly, and being quiet for nearly a whole hour.
Hey, it’s only fair. Pietro wants to make jokes about Clint’s age? Well, Clint will throw it right back in Pietro’s face, and make jokes about him being a child.
Except it’s not about Pietro being a child, not entirely. Because, yeah, Clint isn’t just thinking about teaching Pietro respect. He’s thinking about the way Pietro’s chest heaves when he’s pushing himself, and the shift of muscles beneath his clothes, and the way Pietro gets under his skin like nobody else.
He’s thinking about how he wants to get his hands on Pietro, and how that absolutely shouldn’t be on his mind. So the spanking jokes, they’re a way of reminding them both about the fact that Clint is Pietro’s handler, and that they have a professional relationship. That Clint deserves a certain amount of respect, that age jokes go both ways. But they’re also a way of reminding Clint to keep it in his damn pants.
Laura isn’t helping. She’s officially gone from not-so-subtle hints to out-and-out telling Clint that he should just fuck Pietro and get it over with. Usually with requests that he tell her all the dirty details afterwards.
Clint loves his wife to pieces, and their relationship, their open marriage, it works perfectly for them. But sometimes it blows his mind at just how good she is at being both the angel and the devil on his shoulder.
Of course, he’s told her he won’t, even though she just rolls her eyes at him, clearly unconvinced. But if she saw it, saw how flustered Pietro gets over those innocent-except-for-the-part-where-they’re-not-really spanking jokes, she’d get it. Because from his reaction, Pietro must see it as a joke at his expense, a way for Clint to point out how young and inexperienced he is. Not in a sexual way, because that’s all on Clint that sometimes he thinks about it, thinks about the bow of Pietro’s back, the curve of his ass, thinks about the noises he might make.
The point is that, urgh, Clint’s a pervert, and so is his wife, and the latter is fine but not the former, and also Pietro’s a brat. That Clint isn’t going to spank. But he sure will keep threatening to.
So when Pietro just snorts and raises an unimpressed eyebrow at Clint telling him to start fixing the tractor already, his put-upon reserves of patience don’t last long.
“I don’t even know how that piece of junk’s still running,” Pietro bitches. “It must be even more ancient than you, old man.” Looking a little proud with himself, the same way he always does when he thinks he’s getting one over on Clint, or when he pulls off one of the trickier moves Clint makes him practice, or just in general all the time because Clint’s never met anyone so damn smug, and that’s including Tony Stark.
“Why don’t you take it down a notch before this old man takes you outside and makes you pick a switch?” Clint says, voice low with warning, even if it’s total bullshit. Crossing his arms and glaring right back, for about half a second. And then, huh, he’s glaring at nothing but empty space.
Doesn’t get a chance to feel kind of disappointed on missing out on the usual show of Pietro squirming over the remark, because then Pietro’s back again.
With a nice, thin branch held tightly in his hand.
Clint’s brain short-circuits, and he’s just kind of gaping, and Pietro’s staring right back at him with this tense look on his face, and everything is suddenly very, very quiet.
Well, shit.
Clint’s mouth is hanging open, but Pietro’s jaw is clenched tight enough that Clint can practically see the tic of his pulse.
Shit, shit, shit.
Pietro stomps closer, stalks closer, and he looks really fucking pissy. Not moving at superspeed, but still moving fast, so he’s right up in Clint’s personal space that damn quick, and Clint’s brain is still coming up empty.
The branch smacks against Clint’s palm, and Pietro’s other hand is curling Clint’s fingers around it in rough, angry little motions.
Pietro’s looking at him, pupils dilated. “Do it,” he hisses, and they’re close enough Clint can feel the warmth of his breath. “Fucking do it then, old man, because I can’t wait any longer, you keeping saying you’ll do it and you never fucking do, and I can’t -”
He’s panting around the words, stopping to lick his lips anxiously, gaze dropping to Clint’s mouth. Pietro’s hand slaps against his chest, like Pietro’s going to push him away, but instead he’s getting a death-grip on Clint’s t-shirt. God, Clint can feel him shaking.
“Do it,” he says again, eyes still on Clint’s mouth.
Clint feels like he’s swaying on the spot, like he’s standing on a high-wire with nothing but open space and too-warm air around him.
“Up against the tractor,” he hears himself croak, and Laura’s not even in the house, she’s taken the kids into town, but right now she’s probably laughing and she doesn’t know why.
That woman, she’s always right about everything.
Pietro takes a slow, deliberate step back. Then another. Watching Clint closely, like he doesn’t know if it’s a trick, like he’s expecting Clint to just walk away, like he’s expecting Clint to understand what the fuck is going on.
But then he’s turning, heading for the tractor, and Clint doesn’t miss the way Pietro’s hand drops, adjusting himself through his shorts and, shit, Clint can see how hard the kid already is. Moving until he’s against the side of the tractor, kicking engine parts away with distracted movements. Bracing himself against the chassis, hands flat against the metal, hips pushed back, head lowered a little, and Clint can see from the rise and fall of his shoulders that Pietro’s taking deep breaths and that they’re not doing a thing to calm him down.
Clint’s kind of moving on autopilot, because he’s not thinking about spanking, or sex, or anything but the fact that he’s never seen the kid this rattled. Moving up behind him to put a hand against his back, just instinctively looking to reassure him, but Pietro pushes back into the touch, fucking arches against Clint’s palm with this soft little huff of breath.
Clint’s cock pulses inside his jeans, and holy shit, this is actually happening.
“I’m not -” he starts, hand still on Pietro’s back. The kid’s radiating heat, t-shirt already a little damp under Clint’s palm, like just the thought of this has him sweating.
Clint has no idea what he’s going to say, but Pietro turns, looks at him through a messy curtain of white hair, and any words die in Clint’s throat.
Pietro’s flushed, teeth digging into his bottom lip, and his expression is so desperate, so raw, that Clint loses his breath.
“If I hurt you -” he grunts. This is happening, this is really happening, and the branch feels thin and reedy yet really fucking solid in his hand.
Pietro exhales pointedly through his nose, and for a second he’s the same arrogant brat who’s been getting on Clint’s last nerve since the day they met. “I’ll tell you,” he insists, like Clint’s the most annoying, exasperating person in the world.
Clint’s hand tightens around the switch.
“You should -” His voice doesn’t break or anything, but it rattles in his chest, and Clint clears his throat, ignores the way Pietro’s eyes have taken on that shine he gets when he’s doing a really shitty job of holding in his laughter. Clint lets his voice ring out firmer, closer to the way he sounds in training. “The shorts. Take them off.”
That kills all the humour on Pietro’s face. His mouth falls a little open, crescents in his lip from his teeth that make it look redder, fuller. Swallowing thick and obvious, and Clint thinks maybe he’s misread this, maybe that demand was a step too far, maybe he’s broken whatever spell is hanging between them.
But then Pietro’s pushing back from the tractor just enough to get his thumbs under his waistband and shove down. Shove everything down, shorts and boxer-briefs, and Clint tries not to swallow his own tongue.
He’s aware the kid has a nice ass; difficult not to notice when Pietro basically lives in athletic wear, thin material that clings to him when he moves. But there’s a difference between noticing that and having Pietro strip in front of him, inviting him to look, demanding it. Hands back against the tractor, and Clint can see the way the tips of his ears are turning redder and redder under all that hair.
This is really happening. Like, really happening.
Clint realises he’s turning the branch over in his hand, absently checking the weight of it.
“If I hurt you -” he tries again, because that seems damn important.
Pietro’s fingers curl against the tractor, nails digging into the peeling paintwork. “For fuck’s sake, old man, if you chicken out now I swear -”
Clint swings the branch.
It connects solidly with the back of Pietro’s thighs, and Clint doesn’t care what the kid says, it’s gotta sting like a bitch. Pietro lets out this quiet little noise, rocking forward a bit before he catches himself, biceps flexing, hands flat against the tractor again.
Clint watches as a thin strip of colour begins to flood the skin. It probably went pale first, but it’s high enough up Pietro’s legs that he’s already pale there, compared to how his calves have caught the sun.
There’s an itch between Clint’s shoulder blades where he’s starting to sweat, and he’s holding the switch so tightly his knuckles have turned white.
“You want -?” he asks, with no idea how finish the sentence.
Pietro’s eyes are squeezed shut, but he nods tightly. “Again.” His voice sounds husky and choked off.
So Clint hits him again. Higher this time, right under his ass, and that gets him a fucking whine, and Pietro pushing up on his toes. “God, please, please, I need, talk to me -”
“Should have done this before,” Clint blurts out, already feeling drunk on it, and Pietro gasps and arches his back more. Putting himself on display so perfectly, and the next swing of the switch hits him straight across the ass, making his hips jerk, and when he cries out it’s throaty and needy.
Clint watches like he’s forgotten how to blink. Stood to the side, close enough Pietro’s shoulder brushes against his chest with every swing of Clint’s arm. Like this, he can see Pietro’s profile, see the way he’s gasping, lips shiny with spit, hair curling across his forehead where it’s growing damp with sweat. Putting more weight into it as he swings the branch now, and he can see the thick, flushed curve of Pietro’s cock, even wetter than his mouth. Another blow just below Pietro’s ass, and Clint watches Pietro’s cock slap against his stomach with the way it snaps his hips forward, pre-come spitting against his abs.
“Should have fucking taken you over my lap, spanked you that very first day.” Clint’s voice doesn’t even sound like him anymore, gravelly and mean, never mind that he feels like he’s burning up, like he’s melting under the heat Pietro’s radiating, overwhelmed and breathless.
“Gloves,” Pietro manages to gasp, and Clint pauses at the image, catches Pietro extra hard on the next swing to make up for it.
“Yeah, you want me to wear my gloves for that?” he murmurs. “Want to feel the texture of them as I hit you?” Pietro’s nodding his head mindlessly, and Clint shifts his weight to the side to admire all the pink lines across the kid’s ass. “They’re armoured, you know - could spank you for hours with those on.” Pietro’s shaking constantly now, hips rocking into every blow. Clint chews at his lips, eyes raking over him. “Spread your legs.”
Pietro whimpers, sneakers shuffling across the dirt as he tries to spread wider with the shorts around his ankles. “Please, tell me I can come.”
Clint’s pretty sure he blacks out for a second, because everything gets slow and dark, then so bright it’s dazzling.
“Yes, fuck, yes, wanna see you lose it, come all over yourself -” Every word feeling like it’s pulled out of him, like he has no choice, like he has no control over himself or the situation or the way his arm is starting to burn with every swing.
And Pietro, God, he’s bending so low now his hair is brushing up against the tractor, and his skin is slick with sweat, and the sound he makes when he comes is fucking wrecked. Shaky and earnest and lost, echoing through the barn as he paints his stomach, his chest, and Clint brings the switch down again right under his ass, which at some point he’s apparently decided is his favourite place to aim for. Angling it up as it hits, and Pietro headbutts the side of the tractor as he jerks and spasms, the next spurt of come almost hitting his damn throat, and somehow Clint’s the one whose knees feel weak.
He staggers forward, switch falling forgotten to the floor, plasters himself across Pietro’s back, pulling the kid more upright with a firm hand on his chest that only slides a little through the mess Pietro’s made of himself. Rocking his hips against Pietro’s ass before he can tell himself not to, but Pietro just groans and arches back against him.
“C’mon, c’mon,” Pietro begs, one hand gripping Clint’s wrist right above his heart, the other like a claw against Clint’s hip, fingers digging in through his jeans. And the denim’s got to feel rough as hell right now, got to be the wrong side of sore against the bruised skin of his ass, but he rides every thrust as Clint grinds up against him.
There’s white hair in Clint’s face, and he can smell the sex on the kid, smell sweat and spunk and musk, and his cock feels like an steel girder in his jeans, trapped and aching. Clint gets a hand in that hair, pulls at it until he can tilt Pietro’s head, bury his face against his neck and inhale, and for all the ‘old man’ jokes Pietro likes to throw at him, Clint ends up coming in his jeans like a damn teenager.
He slams one hand out to catch himself against the tractor before they both fall forward, the other sliding around Pietro’s waist, and they just stand there as time stretches out around them. Breathing heavily, feeling Pietro’s heart hammering through his back where he’s pressed against Clint’s chest. Waiting and breathing, until Clint’s legs start to feel more solid, until Pietro’s shaking subsides.
Clint’s been complaining about how he never gets any peace since the day he got assigned as Pietro’s handler, but right now he’s the one looking to fill the silence. Except he has no idea what to say. “I -” he starts, and Pietro twitches against him, the movement so small Clint wouldn’t notice if they weren’t leaning against each other.
He sighs, already defeated by the prospect of what the hell he can say to explain what just happened. Doesn’t even realise he’s breathing right across the kid’s neck until Pietro shivers.
Clint’s arm tightens around his waist without his permission, and Pietro sighs as well.
“So,” Pietro murmurs, voice raspy, starting to fidget a little. The kid never could stay still for long. “Next time, you’ll use your gloves?”
Clint splutters at that, but when he tries to take a step back, Pietro’s hand clamps around his arm. Twisting a little at the waist so he can glare over his shoulder at Clint, and even with the pissy narrowing of his eyes, he still looks fucking debauched.
“You promised,” Pietro informs him bluntly. In that same tone he gets when he’s trying to wrangle Clint into letting him cut loose, doctor’s orders be damned, or pull off a manoeuvre Clint knows he’s not ready for during practice.
Still such a spoiled brat, and Clint rolls his eyes. “I don’t remember promising you anything, kid,” he intones, but then he leans in, lets his lips brush Pietro’s ear. “You want me in my gloves? My hand smacking down against your ass? You’re gonna have to earn that.”
Pietro shivers again, harder this time, and Clint digs his fingernails in a little against that toned stomach, just to feel him squirm.
He’s slow to disentangle himself, and Pietro’s kind of sluggish too. Pulling his shorts up over his ass, and Clint can see the pink welts already fading as the kid’s heightened metabolism kicks in.
Pietro catches him staring, smirks over his shoulder like the cat that got the cream, and now Clint’s thinking about it, he didn’t promise Pietro anything. Didn’t promise gloves and spanking, sure as shit talked about it, but didn’t commit to anything. Except now he kind of has committed to it, if Pietro behaves himself. Or winds Clint up too much. They haven’t exactly been clear on what ‘earning it’ means.
Clint has this creeping feeling he’s just been played.
Because he may have been handling the switch, but somehow Pietro was the one pulling the reins, and now the kid’s leaning back against the tractor, casual sprawl like Clint didn’t just cane his ass raw. Fucking grinning at him.
“You alright there, old man?” he teases. “You didn’t sprain something, did you?”
Clint already wants to grab his gloves and wipe that smile off Pietro’s face. Which he has a suspicion is exactly what Pietro wants him to feel.
Well, fuck.
Somewhere in town, Laura’s laughing herself sick.
