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Ain't No Other Man

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He couldn’t help himself like this, not with Clint pressed up against his back like he was made to fit around Phil, whispering hot in his ear after the admission, a product of a few too many beers, and of Clint and his lips and of him proving to be the one person who wouldn’t tease Phil for it, not in the way the others did. There was a tease, sure, but in the way Clint was thrusting against him, voice pitched entirely different from his own, calling him things like ‘soldier’, making Phil’s skin sing, his hips stutter.

The question had been simple enough, as easy enough as it got with Clint covering his body, licking at pulse points. Who did it for you, Clint had asked and Phil had paused not really understanding the question until Clint sucked at his neck, whispered rough in his ear, ‘you know, who got you going first, who got you hot’, and Phil couldn’t think straight, asked instead who had done it for Clint, expected some flippant answer or half truth or anything but Clint telling him he’d never really known what he wanted until Phil. Phil had tried to look away, overwhelmed and a little freaked out by unusual vulnerability, but then Clint was working over his zipper and and touching and stroking and Phil choked on his words, an honest reply.

Clint had paused, smiled at Phil, rolled him onto his stomach and hovered above him, all heat and arousal and willingness to please as he lowered himself down to Phil as a different man, slower and softer than Clint might himself. Phil hadn’t known what to say, how to react, but Clint kept on, coaxing and rubbing and drawing out a little bit of Phil’s fantasy until Phil was shuddering beneath him, quiet but for the gasp of breath that might otherwise be Clint’s name.

Clint asked if it was okay, after, in the dark, and Phil didn’t know how to answer, or how to thank him, or how to ask if they could do it again. He told Clint quietly, yeah, yeah it was okay. Clint had rubbed up against him and told him it was hot, that he wanted to do it again, that he wanted to hear Phil say it in that broken voice, cry out Captain as he fell apart but all Phil could think as he stroked heated flesh was Clint Clint Clint.

It became a regular thing in their bedroom, Clint acting as Captain America and working Phil over, Phil closing his eyes and imagining, even if he never could call Clint by someone else’s name. Phil would ask if he could be somebody else for Clint, anyone at all but Clint would always shake his head, kiss him, his hand over Phil’s heart when he told him no. Phil would always decide then that their charade was ridiculous, Clint letting him have this fantasy when Clint himself was all Phil really ever wanted since maybe the moment he laid eyes on him but the words get stuck in his chest and Clint would go to his knees, and Phil would be lost.

He was going to tell Clint that night, tell him that the real Captain America would be there at headquarters in less than twenty four hours, that Steve freaking Rogers had been found, preserved and perfect, and that this whole stupid role playing thing had to end anyway because who needs Captain America when you’ve got Clint Barton. He went to Clint’s quarters and let himself in, saw his sketches of Captain America’s suit there on Clint’s table, saw the scraps of fabric scattered around the old sewing machine that Phil had found for him when Clint told him that he’d enjoyed making his own costumes back in his circus days. He called out for Clint, s little out of breath when he told him he could come back later, that it wasn’t important, that he was going to make an early night of it and then Clint stepped into the room and Phil’s mouth went dry.

Clint was draped head to toe in Phil’s designs and red, white, and blue had never looked so full of sin. Phil had never seen any man so perfect as Clint, there in a get up that Phil created and Clint brought to life. He stared, unable to speak, unwilling to move, heart full of something he’d never felt before.

‘Is it good?’, Clint asked him, ‘I tore my favorite page out of your book, I hope it’s okay...’

Phil tried to laugh, waved his hand in Clint’s direction, gestured up and down as Clint advanced on him.

‘It’s kind of ridiculous,’ Clint had said playfully, leaning into Phil, pushing him towards the wall. ‘Isn’t it?’

Phil looked him up and down and thought yes, yes it’s ridiculous, you’re ridiculous and he’d cleared his throat and told him ‘yes’ as he leaned in for a kiss, reached around Clint’s back for a zipper and pulled, breaking away only to help get Clint out of sleeves. He whispered ‘yes’ again as he sank to his knees, mouthed hot over blue fabric, grabbed two fistfuls of Clint’s behind and pulled forward so hard Clint had to grab at the wall. Phil looked up at Clint then, found another zipper, slid pants down and whispered ‘yes’ one more time before he got his mouth around a stripped bare Clint.

Phil wanted to tell Clint to use him, to fuck his mouth, he wanted to say Clint’s name over and over again but he couldn’t pull away, loved the feel of Clint hitting the back of his throat, needed the taste of Clint on his tongue. It felt like worship, there on his knees, and Phil quickened at that, moaned when Clint laid a hand on his head, moaned right around him and took him deeper with a vague thought that maybe he did worship this, worship everything about Clint.

Clint swore and tugged on Phil’s hair, a warning that he was close but Phil couldn’t stop, didn’t stop until Clint’s thighs were shaking and he was pulsing hot down Phil’s throat, didn’t stop until his own hand stopped jerking himself and white striped across the fabric pooled around his knees.

Clint dropped to his knees next to Phil. ‘So you like the suit?’, he asked.

‘I like the suit,’ Phil told him, head coming back to rest on the wall. ‘But I like you better,’ he added, with a glance to the time. Phil and his own hero would be meeting the real Captain America in twenty three hours. He wondered if Clint would mind lending him his suit.