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Do You Wanna Feel A Little Beautiful, Baby?

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The thing about Phil is, he doesn't seem like such a badass! He looks--well, Clint's not sure what a... bad boy, he supposes, is supposed to look like, truth be told, but he doesn't think they normally look like Phil. With his soft face and normal hair and that smile that always makes it look like he has a particularly amusing secret he's not sharing.

And sure, Clint's noticed him, of course he's noticed him. He's Paige's older brother, always wearing a soft-looking leather jacket, jeans that have holes at the knees, and heavy boots on his feet. Clint notices these kinds of things. But while it gives Phil an edge, it also doesn't immediately scream delinquent either.

But then one day he'd come to pick Paige up from practice, a red bruise blooming on his jaw, a smear of fresh blood under his nose and a horrifyingly attractive black eye, and Clint had gotten so flustered he'd literally walked into a trash can.

"Ugh, Phil, again?" Paige had asked, "Mom is going to kill you!"

Phil's immediate response had been a grin, wiping more blood from his nose with the sleeve of his leather jacket.

"Hey," he had said, looking undeniably proud of himself, "at least that drunken asshole won't be an issue for Laura anymore. I deserve some credit for that, right?"

So. Since then, well--it's been an issue for Clint.

Clint has a type, and he knows what he likes. The fact that Phil Coulson apparently turns his crank in a major way isn't at all surprising, once he learns about Phil's penchant for getting into trouble. Even less surprising once Clint learns that Phil apparently dropped out of college and resisted getting sent to boot camp by his parents. The disdain for authority is obvious. No, Clint's--thing for Phil isn't surprising. But what it is, is terribly distracting!

"Are you waiting for someone?" Paige asks, and Clint jumps a little at the curb by the parking lot. Practice ended half an hour ago, and he is certainly not willing to admit he was hanging around for a specific reason.

"What? No. Just. No," Clint says, then adds as casually as he can manage, "Is your brother picking you up today?"

Hefting her bag higher on her shoulder, Paige rolls her eyes and shakes her head. "Phil? Nah, he called me and ditched my ass, so Jessica is dropping me off. He's gonna be in so much fucking trouble when Mom finds out. Loser," she says on a sigh. "Do you want to see if there's room for you in the car too, or are you two still...?"

Clint winces. "We're still," he confirms. "I'll just take the bus."

"Ouch," Paige says, adjusting her braid before giving a small wave. "Well, I'm sure it'll be better soon. See you tomorrow, Clint."

"Bye," Clint mumbles, watching her go, before heading in the opposite direction. The bus stop is a ways away and the bus itself is almost always late, but it beats being stuck in a car with Jessica Drew at the moment. (Though for the record, Clint maintains his innocence; it's not his fault she hit on him and made things awkward? What was he gonna do, stop being gay for her?)

Cutting across the field and through the woods beyond, Clint shifts his bag onto his other shoulder and squints up at the afternoon sunlight filtering through the trees. It's getting colder now; pretty soon they'll move to exclusively indoor training. Clint doesn't like indoor training nearly as much.

Cheerleading wasn't exactly the sport he'd envisioned himself doing in high school, but Aunt May had suggested he join an activity, and the tryouts had been that day, and Clint still had some skills from the circus, and here he is now.

So yeah, he stumbled into it more or less by accident, but he had found himself greatly enjoying it. Okay, sometimes idiots makes fun of him in the hallways, but it's not nearly as bad as the movies had tried to convince him it would be--plus, it's comforting in the way it reminds him of the circus. Clint loves stunting, he loves challenging himself, he loves the discipline and strength involved in making sure his teammates don't fall on their face. The first time he had Natasha's slim frame balancing on the palms of his hands, he felt like he could do anything.

The trophies are just an awesome bonus.

Clint's about halfway through the wooded area when there's suddenly a loud cough coming from somewhere to his left, and he jumps, not having expected anyone to be nearby. His heart practically leaps into his throat when he looks, and sees Phil emerge from between the trees, a cigarette between his lips and a fading bruise on his temple.

Stopping a few feet away, Phil arches an eyebrow at Clint before taking another drag off his cigarette.

"Hi," Clint says dumbly.

"Hello," Phil says, sounding amused.

"Sorry, you startled me," Clint says awkwardly, suddenly feeling really dumb, standing there in his cheerleading uniform and jacket.

Phil shrugs and exhales smoke out of the corner of his mouth. "Sorry, I guess?"

To his horror, Clint feels his face heat up. "Not a big deal," he mumbles. "I'll just, uh--" He gestures vaguely in the direction of the bus stop.

"Clint, right?" Phil says, which makes Clint stop again, and he can't prevent his surprise from showing on his face. Phil knows his name?

"You cheerlead with my sister, I think? I'm Phil."

Unable to speak, Clint just nods, because of course he knows who Phil is. He's still stuck on how Phil knows his name!

"Why cheerleading? Football tryouts not go so well for you?" Phil asks with a wide grin. It reveals to Clint that one of his canines are chipped, just a little. It makes Clint want to put his mouth over Phil's and trace the tooth with his tongue.

Still, the jab is unappreciated. "Wasn't interested in the football team," Clint says honestly.

"Why not?"

"They don't win enough trophies," Clint snaps back, and Phil's eyebrows move upwards.

"Hit a nerve?" Phil asks, but he sounds faintly impressed for a second. Then his eyebrows lower and he nods a little, smirking. "Yeah, I suppose that makes sense."

Clint frowns. "If you have something to say, say it."

"Nothing," Phil says, puffing on his cigarette. "I just--well, you seem to be the type to care about that kind of stuff."

Clint arches an eyebrow and waits for him to go on.

"Trophies," Phil clarifies. "You know. Winning. Good grades. Stay out of trouble, do your homework, eight hours of sleep every night, off to an ivy league college with a full ride, and finally raking in cash in a nine to five job in a suit and tie."

"Something wrong with a suit and tie?" Clint asks, even though that's kind of the last thing he wants in life.

"Not for some people," Phil shrugs, smiling blandly. "Me, on the other hand, I don't think I'm cut out for that kinda thing."

"Well, neither am I!" Clint insists. There's a tugging in his chest, an odd sort of need to make Phil realize that Clint isn't some lame goody two-shoes. "I don't want--that stuff."

"Sure you don't," Phil says, with a complete lack of conviction.

It makes annoyance flare in Clint, and he carefully doesn't think about Barney and the circus, or how the Parker family were the first people who really ever gave him a chance. Clint does care about good grades and staying out of trouble, but it has more to do with not wanting to be relocated to yet another foster home, wanting to be good to the first people to be good to him, than it has to do with anything else.

"You don't know anything about me," Clint bites out.

"Really?" Phil asks, but he sounds oddly curious. "I know you startle at the drop of a hat. I know you cheerlead." He takes the cigarette dangling from his lips and points it at Clint with an amused glint in his eyes. "In fact, I bet you've probably never stepped a toe over the line in your life."

"I've stepped toes!" Clint says indignantly.

Smoke goes out Phil's nostrils as he chuckles dryly. "Oh yeah?" he challenges, teasingly. It makes Clint's face grow hot. "Like, what? Did you write with pen when the instructions said pencil, once?"

It's at the tip of Clint's tongue, everything he's done, everything he's been through, the circus, Barney, everything--but he stops himself at the last second. He barely knows Phil, he reminds himself, and he's trying to turn over a new leaf with the Parker family.

Clearly mistaking his silence for agreement, Phil nods and looks Clint up and down. "That's what I thought." Then suddenly, his smirk grows and becomes almost predatory. Taking the cigarette and crushing it against a nearby tree trunk, Phil steps closer to Clint. "Unless," Phil says, invading Clint's personal space. Clint fights the urge to step back, and swallows as he focuses on just breathing evenly.

"Unless," Phil repeats, slowly, "you secretly want to?"

Clint's brain blanks out for a moment, and he struggles to come up with a retort.

"Yeah," Phil says, mostly to himself it seems, "I bet you're just secretly longing to do something crazy. Sex, drugs, rock ‘n’ roll. Maybe all three. That kind of thing."

Clint opens and closes his mouth twice, trying to respond.

"I could have fun showing you," Phil says, and Clint gets lost in the idea of Phil showing him sex, drugs, rock ‘n’ roll for a moment. "What do you say? Wanna break a few rules with me?"

"I've broken enough rules before," Clint says, a lump in his throat growing until it's hard to breathe.

"Is that so?" Phil asks, leaning closer still. "I'm not sure I believe you."

Clint's heart is positively thundering in his chest and when Phil gets so close Clint can feel his breath on his face, warm and tinged with the smell of cigarettes, Clint suddenly realizes how rock hard he is. He swallows heavily, and can't help but look at Phil's lips when Phil's tongue darts out to wet them. "Prove it," Phil says.

It's like a command, and something in Clint responds instinctively to it, to Phil's smooth voice, to the tone he's using. "H-how?" Clint asks, before he can help himself.

"I don't know, got any ideas?" Phil says, and Clint stumbles a little when he realizes he's somehow backed into a tree, Phil crowding him against the tree trunk. Clint's entire body just sort of--spasms, and his gym bag falls to the forest floor with a dull thump. Phil's close enough to kiss, Clint wouldn't even have to do much more than purse his lips.

"Why?" Clint asks, the word barely audible as he's struggling to find his voice. "Why me?"

Phil shrugs and pulls back just the tiniest bit; just enough for Clint to properly see his face. "What can I say, I like corrupting the youth of America." It sounds like a challenge. Leaning back in, Phil puts his lips on Clint's, barely touching them, not quite a kiss. "Tell me," he murmurs into Clint's mouth, "that you don't actually want this, and I'll stop."

Clint almost twitches away in disbelief, because--what the what? "If I--" he sputters against Phil's lips, all the different times Phil has picked Paige up from practice with a cheeky grin and a cigarette behind his ears, flashing in Clint's mind. "If I don't want this? If I don't--Phil, are you fucking kidding me?"

With a growl, Clint practically mashes their faces together, kissing Phil properly now, and Phil laughs into the kiss, the bastard. Phil's tongue pushes its way into Clint's mouth almost immediately, and Clint's arms flail up to claw desperately at Phil's shoulders, one hand running through his hair before fisting in the soft leather of his jacket. There's a light scratch of stubble on Phil's chin that rasps against Clint's skin. Phil's chest pushes against his, and the tree trunk is digging uncomfortably into his back, and Clint doesn't give a shit, because Phil's mouth is on his and Phil's tongue is in his mouth, and Phil tastes like cigarettes and cool air.

Clint does what he wanted, he runs his tongue over the chipped tooth in Phil's mouth and loves the noise that draws from Phil. Briefly pulling apart, they pant and gasp for breath, and Phil looks wide-eyed and wild and unbelievably hot. Clint wonders what he looks like to Phil.

He doesn't have time to dwell on it before Phil's on him again, and it feels like his heart stutters and actually stops beating for a moment when Phil's hands go straight for his crotch.

"Phil," he tries to say into the scorching kisses, but Phil silences him with his tongue again, palming the curve of Clint's erection through his pants. One of Phil's legs pushes its way between Clint's, and he grinds the heel of his hand into Clint's cock, drawing a groan from Clint. His eyes screw shut and he feels dizzy with it, with Phil's hands on his cock, with Phil's lips on his.

Phil licks out of Clint's mouth to ask, "You ever suck cock before, Clint?" and Clint feels like he's gone blind. There's a ringing in his ears that won't quit, and he takes a shuddering breath as his dick twitches and starts leaking in his pants. Gonna have to wash the uniform, he realizes numbly.

He doesn't so much hear Phil's chuckle, as feel it; a faint rumbling that reverberates through their chests. "I take it that's a no," Phil murmurs directly into Clint's ear, before sucking Clint's earlobe into his mouth.

Clint feels like he's going to come in his pants. Phil's hand rubs insistently over the bulge, and it's already faintly building in his balls, his orgasm. Pressure and heat and something else that's hard to pin down but that makes him want to chase it; Clint can feel it.

"Would you like to?" Phil asks, and sweat has broken out on Clint's forehead now, he can feel it. Forcing his eyes open, Clint tries to focus on the trees beyond Phil's shoulder, but all he can see is his own hand, white-knuckled in its grip on Phil's jacket. "Would you like to suck cock?" Phil asks again, low and nasty, and Clint gasps and whimpers and writhes against the tree trunk, hips jerking forward to get more pressure on his dick. "I could show you," Phil says, "I could show you how. I could suck you first, if you wanted."

Phil's palm pushes against Clint's cock and his breath is hot against the side of Clint's face and he smells like leather and cigarettes. Phil makes an appreciative sound in his throat and attaches his lips over the side of Clint's neck to suck a hickey into the skin there--and just like that, all the air rushes out of Clint's lungs and his eyes slide shut again, as he comes in his pants.

The force of his orgasm makes Clint go up on his toes as spots dance behind his closed eyelids; he bites his own lip so hard he might draw blood, he's not even sure. There's a keening sound that he doesn't immediately realize comes from him. When he finally comes down, trembling and dazed, Phil chuckles into Clint's skin and licks along his jaw to capture his slack mouth in another kiss.

"Mmm," Phil says, even as his hand is still rubbing carefully over the front of Clint's pants, dampness seeping through the material. "You're pretty when you come for me."

Clint peels his eyes open slowly. His brain isn't fully functional yet, and he's still shivering, sensitive to the touch and sticky in a not-quite-but-almost unpleasant way.

"Tsk, tsk," Phil says, peeling his chest away from Clint to look down between their bodies. "That's gotta be uncomfortable."

Clint hasn't even really gotten his breath back before Phil sinks to his knees in front of him, and Clint's heart rate spikes again. "Phil, you--Phil," he stutters out, but then Phil's carefully peeling down both Clint's boxers and the slightly stretchy material of Clint's pants to expose his wet and messy cock, right here in the open.

"Mm," Phil says, sounding--pleased? Clint's trying to clear his head when Phil looks up at him, and it's a heady image: Phil on his knees in front of him, fully clothed, Phil's face only inches from his dick. Clint feels dizzy again, and the feeling only intensifies when Phil smirks at him, eyebrows creeping up. The bruise on his forehead completes the image, and Clint's cock twitches and starts to fill again.

"Nice," Phil says to Clint's crotch, and Clint's not sure what Phil's referring to, if he's talking about the come that's dropping off Clint's cock to land on the forest floor, or the size of Clint's cock, or what--but he's certain he's happy no matter what.

Then, before Clint has the chance to really wrap his mind around what Phil wants from him, Phil leans forward and sucks Clint's half-hard cock into his mouth, mess and all, and Clint nearly jumps out of his skin. "Jesus, fuck, Jesus," Clint moans loudly, hands scrambling for purchase in thin air, before settling behind him to grasp at the tree. "Oh God, fuck, Phil, fuck!"

Phil's mouth is wet and warm and the suction is unlike anything Clint's ever experienced before, and nothing has ever felt this good, ever. Phil's tongue licks up his shaft to catch on the rim of his cockhead, and Clint bites down on his bottom lip again, whimpering.

Humming appreciatively again, Phil takes Clint deeper, one hand cupping and caressing his balls. Clint's head knocks painfully against the tree as he jerks it backwards, but the pain becomes an afterthought, his entire worldview narrowing down to Phil's mouth on his cock, Phil's hands on his wet skin. It's messy. Clint's crotch was messy beforehand, but Phil's tongue keeps darting out to lap at the come already there, smearing it further.

Clint's cock is fully hard again. His hips are restless; he wants to thrust, he wants more, already chasing another orgasm. Phil pulls off with a wet slurp that makes Clint go half out of his mind with want, and he misses whatever Phil says next. "W-what?" he pants, looking down and then promptly almost loses it again.

Phil's looking up at him, same as before, rough and smirking and on his knees for Clint, except his eyes are shiny with horniness, and there's saliva and come all over his chin, smeared up one cheek, as he jerks Clint slowly with one hand. "I said," Phil says, voice like gravel, "can you come again?"

Clint's not even sure he's hearing Phil right, because his pulse is rushing so loudly in his ears. "Yes," he breathes, then groans as Phil's thumb drags over his slit. "Fuck, yes, yes!"

Phil almost-laughs against Clint's crotch, a puff of air around a grin that makes Clint's cock jump in Phil's grip. "Ah, the wonders of youth," Phil says, and it's not like Phil is some ancient, old man either, but it still makes something burn in Clint's belly, a heat that licks through him and makes it hard to breathe.

Phil puts his mouth back over Clint's cock, slowly, a little at a time, taking a few extra moments to suckle the head and swipe his tongue against the underside, before sliding his lips further down. Clint feels like he can't get enough air into his lungs, and he gasps for it, inhaling and exhaling with a wheezing sound that sounds distressingly loud between the trees. His cock hits the back of Phil's throat, and then Phil makes a small sound before he just keeps sliding down, and Clint's hands ball so tightly into fists that his fingernails dig into his skin.

Pulling back, Phil starts bobbing his head up and down, and Clint can't hold back more noises; they're torn from his throat as his dick disappears down and down into Phil's throat, over and over, and he's so dizzy he has to fight to keep upright.

"Phil," he moans, tries to warn, because that's what you're supposed to do, right? You're supposed to warn? And Phil's mouth is so wet and warm and when Clint looks down, Phil hollows his cheeks as he sucks. It's downright obscene, and then Phil pushes his thumb in behind Clint's balls and presses against the patch of skin there, at the same time as Phil looks up and meets Clint's eyes--

Clint doesn't really realize that his eyes close again, but they must, because he can't see Phil anymore. His orgasm starts somewhere deep in his groin and then punches its way out of him. Clint can feel it physically leave his body, as he's spurting and spurting into Phil's mouth, unrelenting even now. Clint pushes onto his toes again and he thinks he might be shouting something, but he's really not sure; his throat and his chest feel sore.

When the waves of pleasure finally subside and Clint manage to get his eyes open again, it's just in time to see Phil slowly pull off his cock with a wet sound, and he briefly glimpses himself in Phil's mouth before Phil just swallows it all down, like it's nothing. Like he loves it.

Clint can't draw breath to speak. He wants to, but then his knees buckle and before he really registers it, he slides down along the tree and lands on his ass in front of Phil, legs splayed out on either side of him.

Phil looks at him for a moment, then tilts his head and laughs. His chin is still glistening with come and spit, and he uses one arm to swipe at it. Briefly, Clint recalls Phil doing the exact same thing to the blood under his nose, and his heart stutters in his chest.

"You okay, kid?" Phil asks.

"'m not a kid," Clint says on reflex, and then almost startles at what his voice sounds like; hoarse and rough and deeper than normal.

Phil smirks and wipes at the residual moisture on his face again. "Sure," he says, like he's humoring Clint. "So how 'bout it, then?"

Clint's trying to keep track of the conversation, but he can't help but feeling like he's missing something. "...what?"

Phil's still on his knees, but he leans forward, bracing his hands on the tree behind Clint. "Would you," he says, and his breath smells like sex, "like to suck my cock?"

Heart still pounding in Clint's chest, he's frozen, rooted to the spot. His fingers twitch against his thigh, he can't help it, and he can still see Phil on his knees, cheeks hollowed, and he tries to imagine himself in that position. He wants to, he wants to, but he's terrified to, and he can't make a sound.

Phil's smirk grows, and he leans closer. "You have to say the words," Phil says, and then kisses Clint again.

Kissing helps. They've done kissing. Phil tastes different now, and Clint's breath hitches when he realizes it's because he's tasting himself. Phil had his cock in his mouth and he swallowed his come and that's what Clint's tasting now. Between his legs, his cock makes a valiant attempt at fattening up again, and before he can think too hard about it, Clint nods.

"Yes," he practically sighs into Phil's mouth, groaning when Phil licks along his bottom lip. "Yes," he repeats, "I'd--I'd like to."

"What would you like to?" Phil asks, teasing.

Clint's face is burning, but he forces the words out anyway. "I'd--like to suck your cock."

Phil moves his head a little, laughs against the side of Clint's face, before pressing a sloppy kiss to his cheek. "Thought so," he murmurs, before standing up and undoing his pants without a trace of shame.

Clint can't do much but stare, jaw dropping a little as Phil tips out his cock. It's hard and fat and leaking from the head, and Clint has never seen anyone's cock up close in real life, and it's--breathtaking.

Clumsily getting his legs underneath himself, Clint gets up into a crouch so his head's level with Phil's cock, and he presses his back against the tree, using it for balance. Above him, Phil leans forward, one hand braced against the trunk as well, and when Clint looks up briefly, Phil's smirking down at him.

"Well?" Phil asks, and it's an obvious challenge.

It's strange, how his mouth seems to have watered, but when Clint gapes and gets his lips over the head of Phil's cock, red and leaking, it slides in easily. It feels a lot bigger in his mouth than it looked beforehand--and it didn't look small beforehand.

Sucking carefully and trying to bob his head like Phil did, Clint tests his own limits; how far in he can take Phil before his throat protests. It feels deep, but when Clint lifts a hand to stroke what he can't fit in his mouth, he can still fit pretty much his whole hand around Phil's dick, so he can't possibly be taking him as deep as Clint would like to. It's strange from this perspective, but it's also hot. Phil tastes vaguely salty, and he's warm and twitching occasionally against Clint's tongue. Licking experimentally over the head, Clint's encouraged by the strangled sound Phil makes above him.

Moving his head again, it takes him a few moments to figure it out, but Clint soon gets in a rhythm--a clumsy one, but a rhythm none the less--of sucking on Phil's cockhead and stroking the root of his cock.

"That's good," Phil breathes, and Clint's head's swimming. Good? Him? He wonders how many blowjobs Phil has had in his life. Probably a lot? Yet he thinks Clint is good?

The idea of other people doing this to Phil, of other men doing this better than he can, makes something dark twist in Clint, and he sucks harder; presses a little firmer with his tongue. He tries twisting his head a little on each upstroke, because he wants to make this good for Phil, he doesn't want to be some clumsy first timer. He wants to make Phil feel the same way he did, he wants to make Phil come apart at the seams and taste his come.

Above him, Phil's breathing harder again, and Clint tries to make it sloppy, tries to make it wet, remembering how good that felt, the ghost of Phil's lips still on his own cock.

On an instroke it's as if something loosens, and he almost gags, surprised to find the head of Phil's cock further in than he thought he could take it. It's not in his throat, not by a long shot, but it must feel good nonetheless, because Phil's breathing stutters above him and Phil says, "God, yes," like Clint's done something right.

Clint's other hand, the hand that's not stroking the root of Phil's cock, is clutching at Phil's thigh, but when Phil starts making little groaning noises, just little barely-there sounds, Clint's cock makes another valiant attempt at getting hard again, and he has to take himself in hand, just for a moment.

"Are you--" Phil huffs from above him, and Clint looks up to find Phil watching him with wide eyes, almost feverish. "Are you fucking--are you serious, are you fucking going again," he babbles, even though Clint's really not, "that's so fucking--Clint, I'm close, I'm--"

He realizes what Phil's saying, but the words somehow don't quite register, so it's still a surprise when Clint's mouth suddenly floods with Phil's come. Above him, Phil's head falls back and he groans, long and low, and his cock twitches as it keeps spurting. Phil's come is warm and bitter and a little salty. It's difficult to keep it all in; Clint thinks he might dribble some down his chin, but he does his best. When Phil's breathing starts slowing down and his cock has stopped twitching, Clint carefully pulls off and for a moment wonders if he should spit or swallow.

"Clint," Phil croaks from above him, and without thinking about it, Clint looks up and meets Phil's eyes--and then swallows.

"Holy fuck," Phil says, amazement on his face for a moment, before the cheeky grin comes back in place. "You're something, Clint."

As Phil zips himself up again, Clint starts coming down from whatever hormone or endorphin fueled high he's been on, and he suddenly feels very awkward, sitting in the woods with his cock hanging out of his messy pants. Carefully tucking himself away, grimacing at the cold, wet, slimy feeling, Clint resigns himself to walking all the way home, unwilling to be seen on the bus with what's very obviously come stains on the front of his pants. He just hopes he can get into the house without Aunt May noticing--or worse, Peter. He'd never hear the end of it.

Standing up, Clint rubs his thighs a little to get circulation back in them, before finally daring to look at Phil.

Phil's leaning against the tree now, fiddling with his cigarette pack and his lighter, but he's looking directly at Clint with an unreadable expression on his face.

"So," Clint says, hesitantly, and finds his voice hoarse still. "Um."

Phil smirks.

"...thanks?" Clint tries, and then immediately wants to smack himself.

"Thanks?" Phil asks, sounding slightly incredulous and very amused.

Scowling, Clint can feel himself blushing, and he grabs his bag and hefts it onto his shoulder. "Shut up," he mutters, embarrassed.

"Whatever you say," Phil says easily, and Clint's face gets even hotter.

For a few long moments, they just stand there, looking at each other, and then Clint takes a deep breath. "Well," he says. "I'll see you around."

Slowly, he turns around, but he's barely taken a step when Phil's voice rings out behind him. "Were you really in the circus?" Phil asks.

Clint freezes. He's both furious and embarrassed and humiliated all at once. Turning back around, he looks at Phil and tries to glean anything from the look Phil's wearing, anything at all, but all he gets is plain curiosity.

"You--you knew?" he gets out.

Phil shrugs. "You've been cheerleading with my sister for like a year now. We do talk, you know."

Something stings in Clint's eyes and he resists the urge to rub them. "Why all this, then?" he asks. "Why the song and dance?"

Laughing, Phil crosses the distance between them and pops a cigarette in his mouth. "I like you," he says, and the way he says it sounds like it's just an observation, unrelated to anything.

Clint blinks and tries to understand the game Phil's playing. He's not sure of anything right now. "Why--you like me--I don't...?" he gets out, before finally blurting out, "Fuck you!"

"'Kay," Phil says, casually as you please, and Clint's dick twitches in the mess in his pants, completely against his will. For a moment all he can see is Phil, getting Phil naked, properly naked, getting to slide into his ass or maybe Phil would want to fuck him, and he knows, he knows it would be good, that Phil would make it good--

Jerking out of the images flooding his brain, Clint gasps.

Phil's looking at him with a knowing smirk. Lighting his cigarette, Phil blows smoke out his nostrils and says, far too pleased with himself, "I do so love corrupting the youth of America."

Throwing an arm over Clint's shoulders, he starts leading him out of the wooded area. "Come on," he says happily, "I'll give you a ride home."

Clint briefly considers protesting, but then he considers the cold, slimy mess in his pants and lets himself be led along.

"If you're really good," Phil murmurs into his ear as they approach the end of the trees, "we can go parking later. I'll let you fuck me. After I show you how, of course."

Clint shivers.

*

The thing about Phil is, he doesn't seem like a crazy sex God, but apparently looks can be deceiving.

End