There's no sex in the field, period. Maybe there's a handjob or two, and once Clint did convince Phil to go down on him during what must have been hour thirty of a stakeout, but there's absolutely nothing else. Clint would blame it on Phil and Phil would blame it on Clint, but the simple fact is that they both know that it's not worth it. For one, having someone stumble upon them is always an option, and having to take out a bunch of hapless goons is easier if all you have to do is run around with your dick out, not completely disengage yourself from the middle of coitus. Two, it's simply impractical. Spit for lube, well, we've all been there, but it tends to lend itself to hard and fast, feel-it-the-next-day sex. When the next day you might be in a sniper's nest for six hours, you don't want to be feeling anything.
So no sex. Which means they have to emphatically make it up when the world's not ending.
Phil's definitely making up for it right now; he has Clint tied down to the oversized ottoman in their living room, both ankles and one wrist, and he's on his knees behind him, fucking him like there's no tomorrow. Clint can't stop the moans that are escaping him, which doesn't matter much, because he does not give a goddamn about the neighbors, about propriety, about anything but how good Phil's body feels over his, his cock driving into him.
Just when Clint's on the very edge, Phil shoves him down, holding him still, and Clint can feel him coming. He's so frustrated, but not necessarily disappointed. He knows exactly how this goes; a simple fuck is not the plan for this evening, not by a long shot, and by the time they're done, Clint knows he'll be more than satisfied.
Tell that to his dick, though.
Phil leaves him momentarily, just long enough to grab the towel and clean himself up, but then he's at Clint's side again. He strokes Clint's back, and Clint arches towards him. "I'm not done," Phil says. "But I do need a break." Clint can hear him picking something up, the sound of a bottle being uncapped, and he knows what's coming next. "Of course, just because I get a break doesn't mean you get one."
The plug is big, a lot bigger than Phil's cock; it's uncomfortable as Phil pushes it into him, but it feels so good once it's all the way in, a heavy weight, making it impossible to forget what Phil's done to him, what Phil's hopefully going to do again.
"How's that feel?" Phil asks, smacking Clint's ass, and Clint jumps. "You certainly look good. Of course, I'm mostly thinking about how you're still full of my come." Clint can't help it; he puts his forehead down on the ottoman, overwhelmed by it. Phil laughs. "I'm starting to think you like that."
"Yes, sir," Clint says, too gone to be ashamed.
"Good, because there's more where that came from," Phil assures him, standing up. He's walking around, and the next Clint sees him, he's settling into his armchair, too far away to touch even if Clint wasn't tied down. He's wearing his boxers again, which Clint supposes is a good idea when you're going to sit in a leather chair, and now he's dicking around on his laptop, checking his email, pulling up Netflix. What Clint really wants is to bang his head against the ottoman, but it really wouldn't get him anywhere.
Phil starts an episode of Alfred Hitchcock Presents, a show Phil's been mainlining and Clint doesn't understand. He's heard more than his fair share of creepy stories, and he doesn't really get the appeal of seeing them on TV. Clint knows very well, however, that saying anything is a bad idea. Phil loves his weird show, and Clint doesn't want to make fun of something he likes; more important than that, however, is the fact that Phil might just keep watching episode after episode if Clint decides to act up. Phil doesn't have to take the plug out. Phil doesn't have to fuck him again. Phil doesn't have to do anything at all that he doesn't want to, and the very last thing Clint wants is for Phil to decide that what he really wants is more time with Alfred Hitchcock.
Phil watches a few episodes- maybe three, maybe fifty- ignoring Clint. Thanks to his present mental state, Clint couldn't tell you the plot of any of these things even if he had the Cliff's Notes; most of his brainpower is taken up with his commitment to not rubbing off on the ottoman. It's a testament to how desperate Clint is to be good and get on with it that he doesn't even nag, doesn't try to tear Phil's attention away from the laptop. He doesn't see how talking is even necessary, given the sheer need that he's radiating right now, thick enough that it must look like heat lines.
Phil finally, finally closes the laptop, and Clint gives him the most pathetically hopeful look that he thinks he's ever given anyone in his entire life. But Phil, goddamn him, doesn't even look at Clint, walking away towards the kitchen; that time Clint really does bang his head against the ottoman. Soon enough, though, Phil is back, carrying a glass of water. "Give me your hand," he says, crouching down in front of Clint, and Clint unwraps his fingers from the leg of the ottoman, taking the glass and drinking messily. "Good?" Phil asks, and Clint nods. "Good."
Clint's pretty sure that's going to be the last courtesy he's offered, and he is not wrong about that. Phil walks out of his line of sight, and the first thing he does is slap Clint's ass hard, hard enough that he yells. "Just making sure you were still paying attention," Phil tells him. Clint can hear the rustle of clothing as he gets naked again, and then Phil is running his hands up his thighs, over his ass.
Phil doesn't pull the plug out all at once, because Phil can be kind of a bastard sometimes. He moves it in and out, back and forth, always managing to stay right there on the widest part of the damn thing. He finally takes it all the way out, though not before Clint starts to feel like it's gonna drive him crazy, and sets it aside somewhere.
"Are you sore?" Phil asks.
Clint gasps as Phil shoves three fingers into him, still harsh despite how much the plug stretched him. "Yes, sir."
"You'll still be feeling it in two days, won't you?" Phil says. "You're not going to forget I did this to you."
"Don't wanna forget," Clint groans.
"You don't have to worry about that," Phil says, twisting his fingers, making Clint bite back a scream. "You're not going to be able to walk once I get through with you. Maybe I'll even put my fist inside you this time," he says, curling his fingers, and a shiver runs through Clint. "You're going to be so loose and sore and you're going to know it was me."
Clint arches his back. "If you keep talking like that, I'm going to come."
"You better not," Phil says darkly. "That belongs to me, just like everything else."
"Yes, sir," Clint says. It's a struggle to get the words out, because Phil is pushing into him now, making no attempt to be gentle. Phil doesn't waste any time at all, setting a punishing rhythm from the start. Clint tries to keep up, rocking back against him, but the temptation to lay there and just take it, let Phil do whatever he wants, is very, very strong.
Phil grabs him by the shoulders, pulling his whole body back onto his cock. It's uncomfortable, his arms hurting from the strain of being pulled up like that, but Clint, God help him, is going absolutely wild for it. He's pretty sure he's screaming now, and he's certain he doesn't care. Nothing matters like Phil's cock inside of him, driving into him, making him helpless to resist.
He can tell Phil is getting close, fucking him as hard as he can, so hard that Clint swears his teeth rattle. "Come on, Clint," Phil says tightly, smacking his thigh. "Come on my cock. Show me how much you want it."
Clint doesn't need much encouragement at all; he bucks his hips and comes, groaning, his head hanging as Phil fucks him through it, moving faster, finally slamming in and coming. Clint feels so wet, so used, the feeling only increasing when Phil pulls out, leaving him feeling slick, stretched open for Phil's pleasure, just because Phil wants him that way.
Phil cleans him up some, untying his wrist and ankles, helping him get off of the ottoman; Clint needs it, because more of him than he realized is sore. They don't get far, despite their best efforts. Phil winds up on his back on the carpet, Clint draped over him; he runs his fingertips up Clint's spine idly, making Clint shiver. "I don't know about you, but I need a shower and a nap," Phil says.
"Mmhm," Clint says, cuddling closer. "Nap sounds good."
"I didn't mean right here," Phil says, yawning. "C'mon, up."
Somehow between the two of them they manage to get to their feet. Clint leans forward, wrapping his arms around Phil's waist and kissing him. "That was just what I needed."
Clint jumps as Phil grabs his ass. "I hope you need more," Phil says, "because we're not going back until Tuesday, unless the world is actively ending."
"I really won't be able to walk at the end of that," Clint says. "It'll be awesome."
Phil laughs, kissing him. "Come on. Shower and bed."
"Roger that," Clint says, letting Phil lead him away.