A/N: For Kink Bingo, "collars".


Phil doesn't like anyone messing with what's his.

It starts with the mundane - everyone at SHIELD knows, for example, which coffee cup not to touch unless they want to find themselves on Phil's bad side. The cleaning staff has learned not to move any of the furniture in his office or to shift anything about and Clint will definitely never dare to lay a finger on a single, solitary leaf of the potted plant on his desk. (He can't help it if his green thumb is more like a black one, can he?)

Phil's like that about his people, though, too. There is only one thing more terrifying than Phil coming down on a bunch of HYDRA agents who have just shot Natasha and that is Phil when Clint's the one who's been shot. Well, terrifying for the people who have done the shooting, anyway. Clint just finds it hot. (Natasha claims this is an indication of how messed-up he is. Clint helpfully points out that he's seen the way she looks at Steve. Tasha is not amused.)

It doesn't have to be other people doing the hurting. Phil is quite willing to make his displeasure known when they get themselves into trouble. You see, Clint has a tendency to do stupid, reckless things that generally work out but that also frequently result in injuries of varying degrees of severity. Phil does not appreciate this. At all.

In addition to the inevitable shouting and lecturing, however, there is the touching. Before they became Phil and Clint, when they were only Coulson and Barton, it was like the times Clint got hurt were the only times Phil felt like he was able to touch. He would run his hands all over like reassurance, giving and receiving comfort, and it was one of those times when they finally made the shift to something more. Phil was leaning in with his hand on Clint's shoulder and Clint was high on pain medication and it had seemed like a really good idea to kiss Phil. So he had.

He still remembers it, the way everything had seemed a bit hazy around the edges, the soft, startled press of Phil's mouth against his and the feel of his palm against Clint's cheek. He remembers the warmth in Phil's eyes when they'd parted. And then Clint had passed out.

They were really good drugs.

Being them, they'd still been stupid about it for a while, but they'd figured it out eventually. And now Clint belongs to Phil in a way no one else does.

Clint is just about positive that he doesn't want to ever belong to anyone else. (No, actually, he's all the way positive. Definitely.)

And that's really what it is - belonging. Clint belongs to Phil. He doesn't think he'd be okay with that were it anyone else, but with Phil it's just... different.

It isn't that he simply doesn't mind when Phil gets possessive, it's that he loves it. He loves it when Phil marks him in bed, bites and bruises that frequently end up in visible places and that Clint never bothers to try to cover up. He loves it when Phil fucks him so hard he can't sit down without feeling it. He loves the edge to Phil's expression when Clint purposely turns on the charm with someone while Phil's watching and he loves the way Phil takes his revenge afterward.

And he especially loves the moment Phil opens a flat box to reveal a thin metal collar. "Will you wear it for me?" Phil asks and he doesn't even have to explain.

"Jesus," Clint says, eyes focusing on the collar and then lingering on Phil's face. "Fuck, yeah."

The only thing better than the feel of the collar against his skin when Phil snaps it around his neck is the look in Phil's eyes. Clint wants to jump him right now.

So obviously he does. They kiss with their mouths open and it's as much foreplay as any touching could be. Clint thinks this is about the extent of foreplay they're going to get around to.

He realizes that Phil has been moving him inexorably towards the bed and they fall onto it, mouths barely parting until Phil slides his down across Clint's jaw. Clint pushes his hands underneath Phil's shirt and skates them up and down his back and then sticks his fingers as far as they fit underneath the waistband of Phil's pants.

Their clothes come off in a tangle of limbs and sleeves and the metal of the collar is refreshingly cool against Clint's heated skin. He wants Phil inside him, needs Phil inside him right the fuck now, needs him like a desperate ache, needs him like air. He spreads his legs and crooks a knee around Phil's hips, urges him in closer, tighter.

Phil slicks him with nothing more than spit and the pre-come leaking from his cock and when he pushes in it's just that little bit too hard, too much, but it's fucking perfect. Clint feels like he belongs, like he's owned, and he thinks he's never wanted anything this much. They're panting into each other's mouths and Phil is touching his collar and Clint thinks maybe this is the most right thing he's ever done.

He's done enough wrong things to know what right feels like.

"Mine," Phil says, his fingers curving over the edge of the collar and onto Clint's skin.

"Yours," Clint agrees.