"Oh c'mon, I'm sure it's not that small, Phil."
"eyes on target, Barton."
This had been going on for hours now, weeks before this too: Clint had to do something to entertain himself during the hours of laying motionless on endless rooftops.
It started a few months ago when he'd been scoping out a hotel suite in Vegas, the target had just walked out of the shower, naked. "Jesus lord! The size of that thing! And it's not even hard!" He'd blurted out, not to get a reaction, particularly: it wasn't unusual for him to point out odd little things he noticed during his hours of watching and waiting, and this was worthy of note. It was pretty big.
"Coulson you gotta get a look at this guy's schlong! It's massive! Do you have binoculars? How long do you think that is?"
He was met with nothing more than light static.
"Sir? C'mon, look!"
"I have no interest in seeing a terrorist's penis, Barton."
"No but it's really big!"
Clint frowned. Phil was usually happy enough to look when he'd spotted other unusual things, a guy in Florida who must have weighed at least 500 lbs, a woman in Reno with tits the size of watermelons, once a two-headed cat in Ohio. Sure, he mostly just tersely said things like, he sure is a large fellow; she must have terrible back problems; that belongs in Ripley's Believe It Or Not. It was their thing, Clint would be kind of a goofy jackass and Coulson would humour him; he'd call the shot, Clint would make it, they'd pack up and go home.
"Aren't you gonna at least take a look? It's freakish! How does this guy even walk?"
A long suffering, 'what are you, five years old?' sigh huffed into his ear.
"If I look, you be quiet for the next couple of hours?"
"sure, ok, whatever."
Clint lifted his head from the scope to look over to the hotel room where Coulson was stationed by the window, angled between the hotel Clint was on top of and the one the mark was in. "Sure, it's huge." Coulson said flatly over the comms. He wasn't even facing the window.
"Sir! I'm looking right at you! You fucking liar!"
"oh for-..." Clint heard and saw Coulson cut of a swear word and move away from the window, returning with field lenses to look down at the suite.
"Huh? Big right?"
"'eh?!' It's a giant salami!"
"it's really not that impressive."
"making you feel inadequate, sir?"
"No! I- quiet time now."
Clint sighed, looked back down at the target and waited for the call. It was big, screw what Coulson said. Maybe he had a micro-penis, Clint thought to himself. It would kind of explain a lot.
But the call didn't come: other units were working on further intel before they could finally finish up and in Clint's words, "nuke this douche", so they were back the next day, Clint scoping out the same room, with at least another 12 hours to go. The first day had the usual level of tedium a long-range scope-out mission entailed but a second day and it was starting to get boring.
"Target is back in the room."
"Ooh... it looks like he's gonna take a shower again, got your binoculars ready?"
"Eyes on target, Barton."
"This guy's target's hard to miss."
Sure enough the target was stripping off, shucking on a hotel bathrobe. Clint sucked on his teeth.
"How big do you think that thing gets when it's hard?" He mused, as much to himself as to get another rise out of Phil. There was no response forthcoming.
"Sir? You there?"
Nothing. The target was looking out of the window down to the street below.
"Are you giving me the silent treatment?"
He broke away from the scope to look over to the room Phil was still holed up in. Maybe something untoward was going on. But Phil was there at the window, and Clint felt a shiver to see Phil looking directly at him. Clint's instinct was to reach for the scope to get a better look, try to decipher what that look on his face was, but before he could, Phil broke his silence.
"Eyes on target, Clint."
What the hell? Weird.
He should have left it alone, talked about the weather or tried again to get Coulson to agree to play poker at one of the casinos after the mission. He never agreed, said it would be 'potentially detrimental to their cover'. There wasn't anything to do but pick at it, Clint had nothing much else on his mind to distract himself with after all.
"I'm sure yours isn't super tiny. They have procedures, Phil... pills, prosthesis... prosthesises? Prosth... Fake dicks."
Clint just made out the sound of Phil drawing in breath again, could swear he could hear his jaw tensing. There's no way he even could have heard it but he at least imagined Phil's nostrils flaring.
"I mean, most people say it's not the size of the boat-"
"Clint, if you don't pipe down I'll have your uniform modified to include a skirt."
He was shocked that he'd gotten any response at all, let alone one that included his first name. And from Coulson! Ice cold, super cool Coulson. Agent Death-Stare. He wanted to press on, push more, pull at this thread so much it itched, but knew better than to call his bluff. Agent Phil Coulson never really bluffed. Maybe that's why he wouldn't play poker. So he shut up.
He claimed innocence when a little while later he started humming My Ding-A-Ling.
Over the next dozen or so missions he would get in at least one comment or question about Coulson's dick during each assignment. He never got much of a response, didn't push too hard but still pushed, trying to work out... What? Why was he even so obsessed with this anyway?
They didn't have another out of state mission for a while, both shuttling intermittently between the Helicarrier and SHIELD HQ. Clint worked out, got in some good time at the range, teamed up with Stark on some new arrow blueprints, and left the subject of penises alone. He didn't really work closely with his handler when they weren't on assignment anyway, only meeting with him for the odd review or training session.
But he kept finding his eyes drifting downwards whenever Coulson was in the room, idly pondering what exactly was underneath those flawlessly pressed wool blends. How big was he? Was he circumcised? What kind of underwear did he wear? Tighty whities? Captain America boxers? A thong? And why the fuck did he even care?
It wasn't til the third time he 'accidentally' went to the bathroom at the same time as Coulson that anything was said. From inside a stall (always a stall!! What secrets was he hiding in there?!), he heard "Barton. My office in ten minutes." And only Agent Coulson could sound that commanding whilst sitting on a toilet.
Phil was already seated behind his huge desk with it's neat stacks of papers and files arranged on one end when Clint came in, his head bowed slightly, giving him the air of a kid who'd been summoned to the principal's office.
"Wanted to see me, sir?"
"Close the door and take a seat."
Clint pushed the door closed before sitting on one of the two hard plastic chairs opposite his superior, leaning back and spreading his legs.
"is this about the C6-whatever forms? I swear I gave them to Sitwell, it's not my fault if he's a jack-"
"You know full well this isn't about your terrible paperwork, Operative."
'Operative'?! He really was in the shit this time.
Coulson placed his elbows on the desk, clasped his hands together, spoke evenly:
"This is about your... ridiculous obsession with my penis."
Like he'd just said 'you have a new uniform', or 'you're going on assignment to Toledo.' Just a simple statement.
Clint's mouth wasn't working. The snappy comebacks (of which there were literally hundreds) that he had prepared for a moment exactly like this just turned to ash before they could make their way to his lips.
"I uh.. I don't... I didn't..."
Coulson just looked at him over his now tented fingers, silently calling Clint the biggest idiot on the planet.
"I don't know what you're talking about, sir." He eventually stammered out, feeling hot, hoping he wasn't blushing. The 'sir' came out petulant and haughty. What was he, a 9 year old girl?
"Well, you insist I look at every penis you see when we're on missions. You look at my crotch every opportunity you get. You follow me into the bathroom..."
Clint reflexively swallowed and tried to play it off by snorting.
"Oh, sure, are you kidding me? As if I... look at your crotch all the time! Like I don't have other things to look at!" It was an awkward argument, not really an argument at all. And it wasn't even true. It really had become something of a fixation. But he wasn't about to admit that.
"Let's see." Coulson picked up the top sheet from one of the piles of paper on his desk and started reading. "October 12th, you asked me if I used Magnums or just, and I quote, 'those rubber things you put over the end of your fingers to go through stacks of paper.'" There were two of them sitting on Phil's desk, mocking him. "On October 18th you asked, 'are you cut or uncut? Or do you even have a penis at all? I bet you had it removed by SHIELD so it doesn't interfere with your paperwork.'"
Jesus he wrote that shit down!? Coulson kept reading from his typed out list all the stupid crap Clint had said and done over the last couple of months. Half of it he didn't even remember.
Clint could tell he was definitely bright red now. He wanted to crawl out of his skin. And he knew Coulson knew he would react this way. The only way to maybe play this off was to act defensive, angry. Turn it around somehow.
"And?! So what?!" He cried, jumping up. "If you weren't such a fucking tight ass about everything! As if I give a fuck about your dick! Your fucking miniscule pencil dick that you probably, fucking, write reports with!" What was he saying?
"Agent! What the hell is the matter with you? Sit down. Remember where you are."
Clint was breathing heavily and clenching his fists. Phil didn't look worried. He never looked worried, the asshole. He didn't even look annoyed. Just looked his normal po-faced self.
He continued. "November 2nd, 'I bet you're way smaller than me, bro.'" Had he really said bro? Jesus. "Also on November 2nd, you took your eyes off target 13 separate times to look towards me, at one point stating you were trying to determine if I 'hung to the left or the right.'"
"Me look at you?! You're the one who's always looking at my ass! You think I don't notice you staring at me from whatever vantage point you're at when you're telling me to keep my eyes on target, Barton? You want this!" He slapped his own ass in a far less macho way than he had intended to. "You can deny it but I know you do! You probably fantasize about sliding your fucking tiny penis into me. Go ahead! Go wild! I probably wouldn't even feel it since it's the size of a, of a mosquito!"
A mosquito? What are you saying? What are you doing, Clint?! He was screaming, inwardly.
Phil was suddenly standing. "Agent, you don't know what you're talking about."
"Oh yeah? Then show me! Show me how fucking huge your cock is you, you prick!"
His nostrils flared. "And then what? Huh? Why are you so desperate to see my dick, Barton?"
Something flipped in Clint's brain. Something took over and lined up a bunch of sarcastic reasons that he'd totally not thought about seriously at all. A bunch of nonsense that he definitely didn't mean.
"Oh cause I totally want to suck it, sir. I wanna kneel down and feel your massive cock in my mouth. I just dream about you bending me over your stupidly massive desk and fucking my ass raw. I think about it all fucking day when I'm stuck on a roof with you boring me to death and telling me to shut up every ten minutes."
Somehow, Coulson had moved around the desk and was barely two feet away from him now, eyes narrowed. How had he got there?
"You don't know what you're saying, Barton." He said in a suddenly low voice.
Clint's hands clenched and unclenched, his chest rising and falling rapidly. He was so... angry! Yes! Go with angry and sarcastic, his brain told him. Those are the emotions you're feeling right now.
"No. Really. I want you to bend me over the desk and fuck me with your-"
And then Coulson was on him.
His hands gripped his head and pulled him in, mashing their lips and teeth together painfully. Clint let out a surprised grunt, almost falling backwards into a chair before pushing back against his handler, bringing his hands up to his chest, meaning to push him away, off of him, to yell at him some more and keep saying exactly what he wanted under his impenetrable guise of sarcasm. But now that his hands were on Coulson's chest, so much warmer under his palms than he'd imagined, not that he had imagined, of course, he couldn't do it. Couldn't push away, couldn't stop this. This was... he melted into the kiss, shifting his head to the left as Phil did the opposite, slanting their lips together and licking into his mouth. He pulled his hands around to Phil's sides, under his jacket, brushing against the ever present shoulder holster. This was... what was this?
"What do you want, Agent?" Phil rasped against his neck before scraping his teeth along his skin. Clint was pretty sure he was being sarcastic still, blurting out: "I want your fucking cock in me Phil"
He was assaulted with another kiss, deeper and filthier, Phil drawing away to tear down the other side of his neck. "Yeah? You want it? You want my 'pathetic pencil-dick'?" Clint pulled his arms back from where they'd been roving under Phil's jacket to push against his chest to get the space to yank at his belt. "I wanna see it." he said, resolutely. This was what it had all been about. Kind of.
Phil didn't even break away from his neck as he grabbed Clint's arms and pushed them roughly behind his back.
"You first." He demanded.
Clint swallowed. He realised how hard he was - god he was so confused - Phil pulled away and stared into his eyes, not looking away as his hands yanked down Clint's fly, reached inside past pants and underwear to pull his dick out. He still didn't break eye contact as he rubbed the length of it twice, reaching back in to wrench his balls free too.
Eventually he broke eye contact to look down. Clint took the opportunity to stare at the ceiling in... despair? Elation? Definitely confusion.
"Eh. Not bad. After all your talk I was expecting something out of the ordinary."
That got Clint's attention.
"Ordinary!? My dick isn't ordinary! Fuck you! Fuck you!"
He brought his hands back around. What was he even doing, holding his hands behind him like that? He pushed Coulson back against his desk and grabbed the lapels of his jacket, bringing them down to the middle of his arms, vaguely restricting him in the most perfunctory way. He pushed on Coulson's chest to crowd him further onto the desk, making another grab for his belt, this time managing to undo it and pop the button of his pants before he was grabbed by Phil's legs (stupid legs! Stupid Phil) and fucking squeezed. It stopped him long enough for Phil to somehow maneuver them so that he was at a sitting position on the desk with Clint kneeling on the floor, face a few inches from the crotch he had been stalking for the last god knows how long. Though Phil probably had that typed up neatly and filed away somewhere.
"I thought you said you wanted to get on your knees and suck me off." Coulson said, looking down at him. Clint saw red again. "You fucking asshole!" He grabbed a final time at Phil's zip, pulling it down before finally, finally! grabbing the top of both his trousers and underwear.
"You're only such an asshole because you have such a fucking micro-di..."
His words died in his mouth as Phil's cock flopped out infront oh him. It was huge. Forget that terrorist guy. This was a fucking beast.
His mouth wouldn't work. All he could do was stare at it. What the ever living fuck was this thing!? He made the mistake of looking up at Phil's face, which was the dictionary definition of smug.
"Well what are you waiting for? Get on with it. Barton."
"Hell No! That is not going inside me, no way! It's too big, I can't take it!"
"You can, and you will." Phil said, stepping down from the desk and looming over Clint.
"Are you fucking kidding me!? It's a fucking leviathan!"
Phil responded by simply cocking an eyebrow and taking his huge dick in one hand. It wasn't even half hard and it was already the biggest dick Clint had ever seen that wasn't made out of some kind of rubber. Phil started to rub up and down, it looked heavy, solid. Dangerous.
"Open your mouth, Agent."
Clint's brain was fried. He couldn't form a coherent thought let alone a sentence. He opened his mouth.
"This'll be a hell of a lot easier if you get my dick wet." he was saying, from somewhere far away, where maybe the world made some kind of sense. Down here on his knees, underneath Phil fucking Coulson, holder of the biggest dick in the world, nothing made any sense.
Clint's cock throbbed despite himself. Traitor.
He didn't even realise he'd started sucking Phil's dick. It would barely fit into his mouth girth-wise, forget about length. It was all he could do to suck on the head and maybe an inch of the length. He brought his hands up to... to steady himself, he rationalised. Sure, that makes sense. Why not. It's not like I'm jerking Agent Coulson's Mjolnir sized cock into my mouth or anything.
Maybe he'd stolen some extra super soldier serum or hulk juice or whatever it was Bruce had created, Clint thought to himself as he sucked away. Phil's comically normal-sized hands came down to stroke his hair, his lips, feel himself though Clint's hollowed out cheek.
"You love it, don't you. My huge fat dick in your mouth. Not so sarcastic now huh?" He said with a thrust that hit the back of Clint's throat and felt like it bruised something. Clint broke away.
"Fuck you, Coulson. This is what you wanted all along isn't it? Egging me on with your refusal to, fucking... to look at dicks!" Yeah, nice work Barton, he thought to himself. That made total sense. You're totally in control of this situation.
Coulson took his cock in his hand once more, pulling out of Clint's mouth with a pop before slapping him in the face with it. It hurt in a blunt sort of way. Clint fumed with outrage and... and horniness. He had no idea what was happening to him, felt sure he should get out, go anywhere else but here, but here was where he'd basically been aiming for the last few months. On his knees, doing whatever the hell his handler told him to. And he knew beneath it all that it wasn't even the last few months, it was the last few years he'd been circling this inevitable conclusion.
"Get up" Phil ordered, after a few more wet, heavy dick slaps. He grabbed the collar of Clint's shirt to heave him up faster, hand fisting in it as he pulled him into another brutal kiss.
"Remind me of what else you wanted to do, Clint?" He said against his lips.
"There's, there's no way I-"
"Barton." And there it was, that tone that was so particular to Coulson, that made Clint's brain shut down and blindly do whatever it said. It had been sending shivers down his spine for... Ever since they'd been working together? Who knew. But this was a whole different ball game.
"I." he swallowed. "I want you to b- bend me over the desk and, f- fuck my ass. Sir."
With that, Clint's shirt was gone. His trousers following them to the floor. His boots kicked away. Coulson was still in his suit jacket and shirt, his trousers crumpled around his knees. He still somehow looked the very picture of authority, even with his fucking ridiculous penis taking centre stage. He shrugged out of his jacket and placed it to the side. Woe betide a crease, Clint thought.
The desk was solid wood, Clint found himself thinking, eyes inches away from it. Not a laminate like the desks in most of the offices here. But then this wasn't most offices. This was Phil Coulson's office. Who was currently bending him over it and pushing a spit-slick finger into his asshole.
Ok, he'd been around. He knew the drill. One finger, two fingers, three, maybe four, then a dick and blam, you're having anal sex. But he'd never even seen anything as big as Phil's cock, let alone fucked something that size.
"I can't... No one can take a cock that big, Phil!"
"I told you, you can, and you will."
Another finger was added, and Phil must have some lube stashed away back there because everything was so smooth and wet. And the thought of Phil Coulson keeping lube in his office kind of broke his brain.
"you're really gonna do this?"
Another finger, scissoring out now and Clint was starting to feel a little burn, but nothing he couldn't handle. Honestly it was kind of feeling great, Phil teasing over his prostate every now and again, sending ripples through his entire body. But it was so wrong. But that only made it hotter. But it was so wrong.
His erection was trapped between him and the desk, not really doing anything other than twitching slightly every now and again to remind Clint how turned on he was despite of- because of everything.
"You're, you're actually going to fuck my ass with that, that tentacle?"
"I really am, Clint. And you're going to like it." Coulson sounded so fucking cool about this whole thing, like he wasn't breaking about a hundred SHIELD guidelines right now. Like he wasn't about to fuck his operative across the desk. Like this was OK. Clint couldn't do much more than whimper.
Four fingers now, maybe a thumb? He'd lost count. Was Phil going to fist him?
Suddenly the fingers were gone and a blunt weight was there, nudging him. Clint reached back to feel it, confirm to himself that yes, this was really happening. Coulson's dick felt different to how it had before, slick, smooth. "What the fuck condoms do they make that even fit you?!"
"I order them from a special website."
"Of course. Of course you do."
Clint felt wetness drip over his hand. Lube. He suddenly realised if this was actually going to happen, he wanted to see it.
"Wait! Let me. Please. Let me turn over?" It sounded so much more polite than he wanted it to. 'if you wouldn't mind ever so, might I bother you to turn me over so I might watch you ream my asshole?'
Phil stepped back to let Clint roll over and catch his breath. Hitched his legs up and made Clint grab onto them. He felt more exposed like this, thought maybe he should ask to turn back over.
"This is happening, Clint." Phil said, like he was ordering him to eat his vegetables. Like Clint was trying to stall, to delay the inevitable.
"I wasn't... I- I know." He swallowed hard. "Do it."
The head of Phil's cock was there, butting up against Clint's ring of tight muscle once more. Surely there was no way he could be stretched enough for this thing. Clint tensed up, scared.
"Trust me, Clint. I won't hurt you." And that was enough.
Phil gently pushed in. After a tense moment that felt like eons, Clint's hole relented, relaxing enough to allow the head to slide in about an inch and a half.
"Ok?" Phil asked after a moment of Clint writhing under him with his eyes screwed shut, breathing raggedly through his nose.
Clint tried to get his breathing under control, eventually nodding tentatively. "Ok. Keep going."
It was easier going from then on, the slow slide of cock driving deeper into him, slick with lube. Not hurting per se, but burning slightly, and touching places inside him that had definitely never been touched before.
"Breathe, Clint", Coulson said, gently, hands wrapped around Clint's thighs. He hadn't even realised he'd been holding his breath the entire time Phil had been pressing into him. Into his ass. He gasped, any pretense of not being utterly ruined blowing out of him with his exhaled breath.
He still wasn't even all the way in, a good four inches to go.
"I'm going to make you take all of it, Clint", Coulson said, levelly. Cool as always, though Clint could just make out something in his voice that told him that Phil must be about as wrecked as he was.
Clint kept breathing shallowly as the rest of Phil's dick was pushed inside him, letting a small whimper escape when he felt Phil's front press against the backs of his legs, the end of his still-pristine tie ghosting over his balls.
"You like that? You like having my pencil dick in your ass?"
Clint couldn't speak if he wanted to. This was his life now. Laying here, impaled on this thing. Forever and ever amen.
Phil didn't move.
"Talk to me, Barton."
He came to his senses enough to grab for the oh-so-perfect tie and pull down, pulling Coulson close enough to at least try to kiss him, yelping at the sensation of Phil's cock pulling slightly out of him as his angle changed and his legs fell either side of Phil's body.
Too wrecked to really do much other than lay there and have Phil kiss into his mouth, Clint groaned and whimpered, grabbing at Phil's hand and threading their fingers together. He had no idea what he was doing, just needed to hold onto something, ground himself with something vaguely familiar. Phil held on tightly as he straightened up again, not letting go even as he started pulling back out, slowly. Oh so slowly.
About halfway back out, Phil pushed back in. Then he did it again. And again. Not changing pace, like a machine. Clint slowly came back to his senses, at least somewhat. A tiny bit.
"Faster, Phil. Fuck me faster." His voice was saying, "It feels so good. I fucking love your cock in my ass, baby-" What? "Yeah fill it. Fill my ass with your cock, please," Who the fuck was saying this shit? It was his voice, coming out of his mouth but Clint had no idea where these words were coming from.
Phil wasn't making it any easier for him either.
"You want it? You want my cock deep inside you? You like it don't you Clint? You've wanted my dick for years haven't you?"
"Fuck yes, I've wanted you to fuck me since I first got assigned to you. Since Tucson. Oh yes, fuck my ass!"
"Your ass is so tight, Barton. So tight around my cock, so stretched around me-"
"Feels so good, so good Phil. I need your cum in me-"
Clint gave up at this point. His mouth was just going to town spreading his brain's secrets around and his cock was like a gossipy old woman, jumping up and down at each filthy exchange of salacious rumour come true.
"Don't stop, Phil, I've wanted this for so long. I love your fat fucking cock in me, stretching me out, splitting me open. I think about it all day when your eyes are on me, think about you fucking me-"
"I've wanted this since I first saw you Clint. Wanted to bend you over and open you up, fuck you til you couldn't walk, couldn't fucking aim straight"
Clint groaned. Wanting to fuck him til he couldn't aim? Jesus christ Phil. Why did that concept turn him on so much?
He suddenly remembered that he had a free hand and should totally be jerking off right now, reaching down to get to work, ease some of this pressure, but his hand was batted away. Coulson bringing his hand up to Clint's mouth and shoving his fingers in. Clint sucked on them while Phil muttered something about finally having figured out how to shut him up, then took them out, dragged them down Clint's chest to curl around his dick.
Thrusting shallowly now, still buried deep inside Clint, Phil started pumping his cock in tandem with his thrusts. Every pass of his prostate was echoed by Phil's thumb passing over the soft spot under the head of his dick. He felt bright energy sucking out of every atom of his body, gradually pooling in the base of his abdomen. He opened his eyes; hadn't realised they were closed, could see Phil above him, sweating, dark, dangerous eyes boring into him. He squeezed the hand he was still holding.
"I'm gonna-, oh god Phil!"
"Are you gonna come on my cock, Barton?"
He nodded, gripped on tightly and felt those atoms of energy fly together, zoom up and burst behind his eyes. Fireworks inside his body. He felt himself clamp down on Phil as he imploded, his stretched asshole clenching and sending even more electric sparks shooting through him. Warm, wet splashes raining down on his chest, his stomach. He felt Phil's pumping grow erratic as he thrust in all the way again, juddering back out and in twice more as he came, crushing Clint's hand in his, eyes screwed shut with Clint's name on his lips.
He fell forward over Clint, stopping himself on an elbow before smacking into him. Face to face once more, Phil softly kissed up Clint's cheek, over his eyelids, his ears, his forehead, sweet, almost a mockery of innocence, laying here covered in come and lube on a desk. Clint couldn't move. Couldn't do anything. Was this was it was like to be in a coma? He could only communicate via his right hand, clasped in Phil's. He squeezed again, gently. His was squeezed in return. So he was alive, at least.
Clint opened his eyes and stared at the ceiling as Phil kissed down his neck, his shoulders, his chest. Phil let go of his hand.
"Hi." He said, looking up Clint's chest.
"Are you ok?"
"I think so."
"I'm gonna pull out now, alright?"
Clint nodded, slightly scared. They'd gotten into this mess, how could they ever hope to get back out of it?
Phil leaned up, straightening himself and holding onto Clint's hips. He slowly withdrew, eventually pulling free with a wet sucking sound. The emptiness felt like grief. Barton couldn't help but whimper at the sudden void.
"I need- I need your- Coulson. Please."
Phil frowned slightly, "Ok." And gently pushed the tip back in.
"Just for a minute?" Clint asked, not wanting to be done just yet. Just for a minute.
Coulson brushed his hands down Clint's body, fingers skidding through the cum on his abdomen.
"You're beautiful, you know that?" Coulson said, out of fucking nowhere. Who was this man? Sweet, soft, kind. Maybe he should get laid more often.
Clint didn't know what to say, so he said nothing.
Phil reached over him to the box of tissues that always sat on one corner of the desk, grabbing a bunch to wipe up the mess on Clint's chest. So efficient. So Coulson.
"I'm gonna pull out for good now, ok?"
"but then- "
"but what, Clint?"
But then it would be over.
He frowned again as he pulled out. It was slightly less heartbreaking this time. Clint's ring of muscle pulsed, hummed with his heartbeat, but warmly, gently. This was ok. He was completely wrecked but it was alright.
Phil pulled off the condom and wrapped it in a tissue, threw it into the trash can to one side of his desk. He sat up, looking down to Clint who was still laying there studying the ceiling. He straightened his tie before sliding off the desk and pulling his trousers back up, the layers of Agent Phil Coulson falling back into place. He started neatening the stacks of papers that had been jostled out of place, reached a hand down to brush through Clint's hair briefly before pulling away, moving back to his side of the desk. Clint still sprawled, ruined across the desk.
"You ok, Barton?"
Clint laughed, little more than a hoarse breath.
"Good." He sat down, pulling the closest stack of papers towards him. "Now get the hell out of my office."