“Um.” Pepper cleared her throat a little too politely and didn’t finish her sentence.
Phil glanced up from where he was diligently typing up notes for an upcoming history test. He loved having his study hall hour with Pepper; she believed in using every minute of a study hour to actually study, and Phil always got tons of work done with her around.
Which was why her abrupt pause and sudden doodling made him wary. “What’s up?”
She tapped her notebook with her pencil, clearing her throat again before leaning over the library desk and the top of Phil’s MacBook, saying in a low, almost conspiratorial voice, “What is that on your neck?”
Phil frowned. “My neck?” He reached up to take stock, and his nails scraped over a patch of tender skin just below his jaw. It was warm, like a fresh bruise.
His eyes went wide. Shit. “I...cut myself shaving,” he said, quickly going back to his typing. “Hey, so, d’you think we’ll be quizzed over the Treaty of Versailles this time, or—”
“Phil.” Pepper stood up and dragged her chair around the table until she was right next to him, an extremely serious look in her eyes. “I know what a hickey looks like, and that—” She pointed a finger at Phil’s neck. “—is a hickey. When did it happen? Who the heck are you making out with?”
Phil clenched his jaw. He’d managed to go several hours without thinking about his kitchen and the ruined pair of practice shorts still sitting in his washing machine. He couldn’t say the same for the night before, but Phil wasn’t going to tell a living soul about how he’d laid wide awake with the taste of angry kisses still in his mouth, rubbing his thumb over his sore lips and imagining the sounds Clint had made when Phil had kissed him back.
“It’s nothing, just...messed around with someone. Not a big deal.”
Pepper sat back and folded her arms over her chest. “Since when do you ‘mess around’ with anyone? You haven’t even kissed—”
“Jesus, Pep,” Phil hissed, scrunching down in his chair. “You don’t have to say it so loud.”
“Oh please, no one cares.”
“I didn’t see you running around telling the world about how you’d never been kissed before you and Tony started dating.”
At least she was polite enough to look contrite. “This isn’t about me, but nice play at changing the subject. What I’m trying to say is, you don’t exactly have the reputation of playing the field. I didn’t even know you had a crush on someone.”
“It’s not a crush,” Phil muttered, swallowing tightly. He didn’t know what it was; every time he tried to wrap his head around it all, his chest started to hurt at the image of Clint staring down at him with dark eyes and mussed hair. Crushes didn’t make your lungs ache with lack of air.
Pepper swatted his shoulder, but it was playful, affectionate. “So...who is it?” she asked with a wide smile, ducking her head close like she expected Phil to whisper the name in her ear.
Phil stared straight ahead at his laptop screen and replied, “It’s no one you know.”
Out of the corner of his eye, he caught sight of Clint pushing through the library doors. He had on a raggedy-looking long-sleeved gray t-shirt, the cuffs all frayed where they hung too low over his hands.
Phil bit the inside of his bottom lip and resolutely kept his eyes on his history notes. He heard Mrs. Lawson, the school librarian, say, “Can I help with something, Mr. Barton? I don’t believe you have study period this hour.”
“Uh, yeah, I’m supposed to be making up a chemistry test.” Phil heard rustling of paper. “Mr. Calls is doing a lab thing with my class, he said I could take it in here and you could sign off on it?”
“Just be sure to sit at one of the tables in front where I can see you. And no cell phone funny business,” Mrs. Lawson replied, and that would’ve been that except the tables in front were also where Phil and Pepper were sitting.
And because Phil apparently liked to torture himself, his eyes flicked up and met Clint’s for a split second as Clint sat down across from Phil at the opposite table. Clint looked away, unfazed, but Phil saw a tick in his jaw.
Phil bit his lip harder. Damn it.
“Hey, c’mon,” Pepper hissed, oblivious to Phil’s quiet meltdown. “I know it’s got to be someone who goes to school with us—unless you hooked up with a soccer guy from another school?”
Phil wanted the floor to swallow him whole. He could see Clint go very still for a moment before he pulled a pencil out of his backpack. “Look, I’m not getting into this right now, it’s seriously not a big deal.”
“Was it a girl or a guy?”
Clint spread his test out on the table, head bowed. There were thumb holes cut in the cuffs of his shirt, and he toyed with the frayed edges, fingers light and graceful. It made Phil think of that time in his room when he’d watch Clint clean his arrows.
“Hello? Earth to Phil?”
Clint blinked slowly, and suddenly he was looking at Phil from under his lashes, his expression completely unreadable.
“It wasn’t a girl,” Phil said, tearing his eyes away as he typed a stream of nonsensical words into his history notes. “It was just some guy. It didn’t mean anything, trust me.”
Pepper snorted. “That’s not like you at all. Tony once told me he’d pegged you as a one-time true love guy, and I kind of agree with him.”
God, couldn’t she stop talking for five minutes? Phil wanted to throw up. Clint, meanwhile, was hunched over his chemistry test, like he could care less that Phil was dying of embarrassment.
“People change,” Phil muttered. “And I don’t like Tony making me out to sound like a Disney princess.”
“If anyone’s a princess, it’s Tony.” She sighed and held up her hands in defeat. “Fine, okay, I’ll drop it. But if I see anymore hickeys, I’m not going to let you off this easy next time.”
“There won’t be a next time,” Phil said tightly.
Clint rubbed his sleeve over the fading bruise on his cheekbone and kept working on his test. He didn’t look up again.
Phil had never felt so relieved to finally hear the bell ring for end of period.
“By the way,” Pepper said as they packed up their laptops. “I’m glad to see you didn’t even blink when Clint sat down over there. It’s about time you two started learning how to be civilized human beings around each other.”
Phil shrugged. “Sure,” he replied nonchalantly. He glanced over to the spot where Clint had been, but Clint was already gone.
“Tell me what happened.”
Clint very carefully did not meet Nat’s eyes. “Nothing happened. We had a discussion.”
Nat had a stern tilt to her mouth. She leaned against the locker beside Clint’s and cocked her hip, which always meant she knew Clint was full of shit. Clint kept his head down and continued getting his stuff together for practice.
“Phil didn’t come to school with a black eye to match yours, so I’m assuming there’s a hint of truth in that. But you’re acting strange. What did Phil say to you?”
He paused, taking a deep breath. There was only so much he could keep from her, because Nat could read him like a fucking book. It wasn’t like he never shared his sexual exploits with her, but this was...different. Way different. He didn’t even know what to call it. Or why the hell he couldn’t stop thinking about it.
“We just...talked,” Clint said, and for some reason he immediately had a flash of Phil gasping and shaking underneath him, all pink cheeks and stupidly bright blue eyes. His stomach clenched in that hot, spiky way Clint usually loved, but not now. Not when it was associated with Phil Coulson. It didn’t mean anything, trust me.
Nat’s eyes narrowed. “Did you...you didn’t do anything with him, did you?” she asked in a low voice.
Clint slammed his locker closed. “Why would you even think that? The guy hates my guts.”
“That’s decidedly not true, and I don’t know how else to explain why you’re so distracted. Please tell me you didn’t kiss him just to make a point, or to teach him a lesson. He’s not like the guys you normally hook up with.”
“And what, exactly, are the guys like that I hook up with, huh?”
Nat rolled her eyes. “Seriously, Clint, does Phil strike you as the type of guy who would have sex with someone just for fun?”
“For fuck’s sake, we didn’t have sex,” Clint muttered, although strictly speaking that wasn’t exactly true. He didn’t consider coming in his jeans from dry humping to be sex, but some people might. Phil probably did. A one-time true love guy.
Clint suddenly wondered if Phil had ever come with a guy before.
“So you did makeout with him,” Nat hissed, poking Clint hard in the chest with her index finger. “Clint, don’t do this. It’s not fair.”
“Do what, it’s not like—it’s not like he didn’t kiss me back.” Clint winced as his voice dropped into a whisper. He remembered how gentle Phil had been, how he’d kissed almost like he was terrified he’d screw it all up. The guys Clint had been with didn’t kiss like that. Kissing was always a means to an end.
Nat shook her head and put both hands on Clint’s shoulders. “You need to be friends first,” she said quietly.
Clint didn’t understand what she was getting at. They couldn’t be friends, and they definitely would never be...more. Messy kisses on kitchen floors didn’t mean shit. Phil at least had that right.
He stepped out of her hold, hefting his quiver and backpack onto his shoulder. “I’m gonna be late to practice,” he said, forcing a smile. He tugged on a strand of her hair and winked. “I’ll call you later?”
“Aren’t you going to Phil’s this evening?” she asked, one eyebrow raised.
Fuck, he’d tried to forget about that. But he couldn’t afford to miss another week; they were already behind on the project as it was. “Yeah, yeah, sure, but we’ll only be a couple hours, tops.”
Nat made an unimpressed noise. “Try not to kiss him again, please,” she drawled.
Clint beamed obnoxiously. “The thought never crossed my mind, darling.”
Nat smirked, patted his arm, then turned on her heel and sashayed back down the hallway to her own locker. He heard her mumble something exasperated in Russian.
As much as Clint wanted to act like the...the thing between him and Phil meant absolutely nothing, he couldn’t help the way his palms began to sweat as he rang Phil’s doorbell. It was close to impossible to stand there and not think about the last time he’d been there, shaking with anger and ready to punch Phil as many times as it took to make the shaking stop.
Funny how, even though the punching never happened, it was something else entirely that had somehow calmed Clint down.
He chewed the corner of his lip as the door opened and Phil leaned against the doorway, arms hugged across his chest. He was dressed this time, but his hair and t-shirt looked slightly damp, like he’d just gotten out of the shower.
“Hey,” Phil said quietly.
“Hey,” Clint replied, because he couldn’t think of anything else to say. Sorry I bolted after getting you off wasn’t really all that appropriate, and besides, it wasn’t as if Phil wanted to talk about it. Clint wasn’t stupid, he’d heard the conversation with Pepper; Phil wanted to forget everything. Clint wished he could.
Phil shifted from foot to foot. “Your eye looks better,” he finally said.
“Thanks.” Clint could smell hints of soap and shampoo. The collar of Phil’s shirt was sticking to his neck, right below a dark smudge of—
Oh. Fuck. Clint hadn’t even realized he’d—marked him.
A flare of heat pooled low in his stomach, making Clint’s teeth clench. God, what was wrong with him? He didn’t want Phil, he’d never wanted Phil, it was just—his head was all fucked up over Lucky, and he hadn’t gotten laid in months, and Phil had suddenly started being nice to him, which was—not something Clint wanted to be dealing with on top of everything.
Phil cleared his throat and ducked his head, his left hand cupping the side of his neck, right over the hickey. Clint was staring too much. “So...come on up, I guess, if you’re staying.”
“Yeah, okay,” Clint said, irritated that he couldn’t stop being stupid about this. He followed Phil upstairs to his room, telling himself over and over that he’d had one-time flings with guys all the time and they never tied him into knots. And those guys had actually wanted Clint to kiss them, to make them come, to—
He shoved a hand through his hair as he dumped his bag on the floor by Phil’s bed. “What did Fury say to you last week?” Clint asked, desperate to think about anything but Phil naked and gasping into his mouth.
Phil shrugged, folding himself onto his desk chair, one knee hugged to his chest. “Nothing, as usual. Just grunted a lot and told us to keep working on stuff.”
“Does he even give a shit about what we’re doing?”
“Honestly? I have no clue. Who knows, this might all be, like, a social experiment he’s conducting and we’re both his lab rats.” Phil gave him a tentative smile, his damp hair clinging to his forehead.
“It’s not a very creative experiment,” Clint said and looked away to rummage in his bag for a pen. How did Phil manage to smile like that, all sweet and secretive? It was unsettling. It made Clint’s skin grow warm.
Phil sighed. “Whatever, I guess we should just keep going. If he totally hated it, he’d say so. He kind of made a pleased sound when he saw the sketch you made of the jerseys.”
Clint blinked in surprise. “Yeah? D’you think he’ll go for them?”
“If we can keep the price low, I don’t see why not. It’s unique. Not many camps have that.” Phil opened his laptop and started typing.
“We should, uh, start narrowing down the team clinics,” Clint said. “See how many players we’re going to need. The sooner we let everyone know the schedule, the better.”
“I was just thinking that. I made a spreadsheet of all the varsity teams and their main players.” Phil turned his laptop around, displaying a perfectly organized, color-coded index.
Clint frowned. “Why is the archery team in pink?”
Phil rolled his eyes. “Seriously? The soccer team’s in purple. I thought you were secure in your masculinity.” The second he said the words, he bit his lip and went back to typing.
“I go for purple myself, actually,” Clint drawled, and for some weird reason, that made the corner of Phil’s mouth quirk upward.
“Fine, I’ll change it, you big whiner.”
“Kate will definitely want in. You can put a checkmark by her name. She loves kids.”
“What if she’s busy next summer?”
Clint waved a hand. “I’ll talk her into it. She’s a sucker for me, I know how to work my charm.”
There was a tick in Phil’s jaw. The half-smile disappeared. “Do you always flirt to get your way?” he asked softly.
It doesn’t work with you, so no, Clint thought, wondering what the hell Phil was getting at. He started to make a snarky comment, but the buzzing of his cell cut him off. Clint dug his phone out of his jeans pocket, read Jamie S. on the caller ID. Jamie was a college freshman who’d interned at the shelter last summer; he and Clint had madeout several times in the supply closet behind the cat kennels, and occasionally he’d call Clint for a quick hook-up whenever he was in town. The guy was gorgeous and gave fantastic head.
“Heeeeeey there, Santorelli, what’s up?” Clint answered, letting his voice go all low and sultry. Fuck it, if Phil wanted to accuse him of being a flirt, he’d show him how it was done.
“Not much, dude, you free tonight? I’m apartment-sitting for a buddy of mine who’s out of town. He’s got a shitload of beer and a 54-inch flat screen. Wanna party?” It was Jamie-code for wanna fuck?
Clint knew he shouldn’t. He was treading on thin ice with Terrance and couldn’t risk sneaking in late for a while, not until he got the Lucky situation under control. Getting drunk and getting laid were about the last things he should’ve been concerned about.
He glanced across the room at Phil, who’d moved from his desk chair to the bed, still clacking away at his laptop like he couldn’t care less that Clint was getting a booty call. It made Clint’s stomach twist up tight.
“I could probably be persuaded,” Clint drawled, stretching one arm out along the edge of the bed behind his head. “Are we talking a single condom party, or do I need to stock up?” Out of the corner of his eye he saw Phil lick his lips, but he didn’t look away from his screen.
Jamie laughed. “I’m horny as fuck, so come prepared. You still got that awesome lube?”
“Tons of it. I can get cherry-flavored, too, if you want.” He really only had half a bottle, and he had no clue how to get flavored lube. “But, ah, we’ll need to be fairly quick about it. I’ve got curfew. Think you can fuck me to your satisfaction in a couple hours?”
“Oh, you know I can, Barton. Been thinking about that hot little ass of yours for weeks.”
“Give me a half hour and I’ll be there. Just text me the directions.”
“Done. See you then, gorgeous.”
Clint hung up and waited to feel the usual giddy shiver of anticipation that came every time Jamie called him something ridiculous—gorgeous was his favorite endearment—but instead he couldn’t stop staring at Phil and the way he kept typing without any reaction at all.
“Sorry ‘bout that,” Clint said lazily, just to get something out of him.
Phil shrugged, distracted. “I just sent you a copy of the spreadsheet. If you’ve got a Google account you should be able to—”
“So, like, can we cut this short tonight? In case you didn’t hear, I sort of have a date.”
Finally, Phil stopped typing. “Yeah, I heard,” he said, quiet but without any inflection.
“His name’s Jamie. He’s a college guy, so we don’t hang out a lot.” Clint had no idea why he was telling Phil any of this.
Phil shrugged again. “Okay. Did you want to finalize those jersey designs before you leave?”
What the hell was Phil’s problem? It was as if he was completely used to guys planning hook-ups over the phone in his bedroom. What, like he got action all the time? For being a “one-time true love guy” like Pepper claimed he was, Phil should be...well, pissed off. Angry. Not all blasé like Clint was talking to his grandma.
“He gives really, really awesome head,” Clint blurted out. “I mean, it’s seriously the best I’ve ever had, and I’ve gotten my dick sucked a lot.”
Phil stared at his laptop and didn’t say anything. But he also wasn’t typing anymore.
“Have you ever had an amazing blowjob, Coulson? Like the kind that just whites everything out and makes you wanna die, but in a good way?”
He watched as Phil’s throat bobbed. The tops of his ears had gone a little pink. “That’s none of your business, Barton,” he replied, voice barely louder than a whisper.
Clint felt a sudden, overwhelming rush of satisfaction. His heart had begun to race. “If you had, you’d be talking about it. You’d tell everyone about how amazing your dick felt, and if the guy swallowed, it’s even better.”
Phil’s shoulders twitched. “I don’t need to brag about the notches on my bedpost.”
“You don’t even have a bedpost. Don’t get all high and mighty on me; you’re only saying that ‘cause you don’t know. And I bet you’ve never even had your mouth near a guy’s dick before, yeah?”
“Get on your knees? Oh, you don’t always have to.” Clint turned and leaned against the bed, and yeah, now he had Phil’s attention. Those stupidly pretty blue eyes were wide now, a little darker than usual, and Clint wasn’t thinking anymore about Jamie or cherry-flavored lube or an empty apartment. “Sometimes you can lay on a bed, side by side, or you can even have ‘em kneel over you, as long as you don’t mind getting your throat fucked.”
Phil’s tongue flicked out over his lips. “Stop it,” he whispered.
“Or, y’know, if blowjobs aren’t your thing, there’s always hands. Hands are good. I once had a guy come in my hand and we didn’t stop kissing once. He bit my lip so hard it bled for like an hour.”
“Shut up, Barton.” Phil’s mouth twisted up into a sneer, but his cheeks were turning red.
“But Jamie, man, Jamie’ll suck your brains out and then just bend you over and fuck you so hard you don’t even know which way’s up—”
Clint didn’t know what he was expecting. Fuck, he didn’t even know what he was doing, letting all this shit spill out of him just to see Phil’s eyes go dark and his blush deepen. He didn’t even want Phil; he just wanted to fuck with him, that was all.
But he hadn’t counted on Phil shoving his laptop aside and tackling Clint to the floor, pinning him to the carpet much like Clint had pinned him the day before in Phil’s kitchen. Their hips collided, and holy fuck Phil was hard. Even worse, Clint was, too, and he hadn’t even realized it until now.
He didn’t want this. He wanted to leave and go see Jamie and have lots of uncomplicated sex that didn’t mess him up inside, make him wonder about things that didn’t matter. Clint didn’t want to know what it was like to have Phil’s weight—solid weight, heavy in the right places—pressing him down while Phil looked at him with his lips all slick and parted, panting like he’d run a fucking marathon. He kept staring at Clint’s mouth, a helpless, terrified look in his eyes, and Clint thought, He wants me to kiss him again.
Something fragile and warm opened up inside Clint, like the feeling he sometimes got when Lucky pushed his head against Clint’s hand when he was starved for affection. Only there was an ache to it, an edge of something more that Clint couldn’t identify, and didn’t want to. He knew one thing, though: he wouldn’t kiss Phil. Not again. Whatever they were about to do would happen and Clint would live with it, but without the kissing. Kissing complicated things.
So when Phil’s eyes—unfairly gorgeous, God, Clint hated being this close and seeing just how blue they really were, how his lashes were long and delicate—fluttered shut and he started to lean into Clint, Clint whispered, “No.”
Said gorgeous eyes flew open, startled. “What?” Phil breathed.
Clint swallowed. “Just—I—” Then he bit his lip and rolled his hips up, grinding into Phil, who gasped loudly, just like he had the day before. It was a high, shuddery sound that made Clint’s heart pound. He pulled his hands free from Phil’s hold and rolled them over until Phil was under him again. His pupils were now almost complete black, and his hips twitched against Clint like he couldn’t help himself.
Clint stretched out over Phil, mouthed over the fading shadow on Phil’s neck. It wasn’t kissing, Clint told himself. “Tell me one thing, Weasel,” he whispered in Phil’s ear. He didn’t know why he chose that moment to use the stupid nickname, but for some weird reason, it felt like a shared secret between them. Private.
Phil huffed out a breath and shivered. Clint felt a hand splay tentatively over his back, fingertips barely curled into his t-shirt. “Okay,” Phil said, deep and growly. Jesus, when did he learn to sound like that?
Clint scraped his teeth over the line of Phil’s jaw. He smiled when that growl turned into a moan. “Have you ever had anyone suck your dick?”
“Fuck you,” Phil hissed, his nails digging into Clint’s back.
It sounded like a no to Clint.
He suddenly wanted to ask more questions—Was I your first kiss? Had you gotten off with a guy before me? How many people have touched you like this?—but it wasn’t any of Clint’s business. He didn’t care. So what if he got Phil off again? He wasn’t any different from the all the other guys Clint had been with.
Clint slid down Phil’s body, slowly, waiting for Phil to stop him. But Phil only made a tight little groaning noise when Clint pushed his hands up under the edge of Phil’s t-shirt, exposing his stomach and that dark trail disappearing past Phil’s fly. It made Clint’s mouth water and his thoughts sort of fuzz out for a second; without thinking, he licked at the baby-fine hair dusted over Phil’s skin. Phil arched into the touch, a short, strangled noise caught in his throat. Clint could feel the heat of him pulsing through his jeans, a stark, thick outline twitching against denim.
With just the tip of his finger, Clint gently traced the curve of Phil’s cock. Phil jerked against his hand and whimpered, grabbing Clint by the wrist.
“S-Stop, I’m gonna—don’t—”
Clint glanced up the length of Phil’s body. His eyes were squeezed shut, cheeks flushed dark pink, his jaw clenched so tight it looked like it had to almost hurt. He looked desperate, his fingers trembling slightly against Clint’s wrist. Clint had barely touched him and Phil was already close. Normally Clint would’ve rolled his eyes at the lameness of it all—he had no interest in guys with no stamina, in virgins—but now, here, Clint felt his heart beat double-time, his blood thrumming straight to his own dick.
He’d done this to Phil. Perfect, straight-laced Phil Coulson was on the verge of coming from nothing but Clint’s hands on him. Last time, Clint didn’t really have time to think about what was happening, to think about what it meant to make Phil come apart so easily.
Clint badly wanted to make him come again.
Ignoring Phil’s hold, Clint carefully pulled the button free from its hole on the fly of Phil’s jeans, slid the zipper down in slow, incremental movements. Phil made another sharp moan, but he didn’t tell Clint to stop. Instead, he dropped his hand onto the carpet and held perfectly still, his chest rising and falling in shallow bursts. Clint parted his jeans and—fuck, Phil was wet, the whole front of his boxer briefs dark with precome, sticking to the thick head of his cock.
It was—it was possibly the hottest thing Clint had ever seen. He swallowed, suddenly a little dizzy. Phil was...big. Really big. Long, round, and fat, and even through Phil’s briefs Clint could see the large, heavy outline of his balls. Clint had never considered himself to be much of a size queen, but just looking at Phil was making him salivate. God, what the hell was the matter with him?
Clint didn’t want to think anymore. He licked his lips, peeled back the waistband of Phil’s briefs, and bit his tongue when Phil’s cock bobbed free, bouncing against his stomach. The head was slick-shiny, dark red, and all Clint wanted to do in that moment was taste it.
He took Phil into his mouth in one quick, wet slide. Phil made a harsh growl, deep and feral-sounding, and Clint felt a hand shove into his hair, holding on. Clint sucked hard, swiped his tongue over the slit, and that was enough make Phil splinter and come.
“Oh—fuck.” Phil’s voice broke, his hips spasming as his whole body shook. Clint shut his eyes and swallowed everything, even as he told himself he never did this, never took a guy’s come all the way in. The hand in Clint’s hair twitched and eventually fell away, and when Clint finally pulled off and wiped the back of his hand across his lips, he looked up and found Phil kind of wrecked and soft-looking, sweat shining on his upper lip. His eyes were closed, and he was panting softly.
Clint was still rock hard, but that didn’t seem to matter. He tucked Phil back into his briefs, which made Phil whimper and try to curl away from him. Clint’s chest clenched tight, and he found himself crawling back up Phil’s body to nuzzle at his cheek.
“Hey,” he whispered—and since when did Clint ever whisper after blowing a guy? “You okay?”
Phil gave a weak, breathless laugh. “Not really,” he whispered back. “I...can’t really form words right now.”
For some reason, Clint grinned against Phil’s temple. He could still feel small tremors shivering through Phil’s body; Clint sunk his weight down against Phil’s side, letting his arm drape across Phil’s stomach, their legs tangled together. For several long, quiet moments they laid there while Phil’s breathing evened out.
“Don’t you have to get to Jamie’s?” Phil asked softly, his eyes still closed.
Clint didn’t really want to go anywhere right now. The thought kind of scared him a little. “Yeah. Soon,” he said.
Phil shifted against him, rolling his hip along Clint’s erection. Clint bit back a groan, so instantly on edge he gasped, and suddenly he was on his back again with Phil leaning over him. His eyes were open now, still a dark, intense blue, but there was a flicker of something else there now, a fierceness Clint had never seen before.
“Can you...stay for ten more minutes?” Phil asked in a rumbly, sex-drenched voice, like he was deliberately trying to turn Clint on even more. It didn’t help that he punctuated his words with tugging at Clint’s fly. He got his hand around Clint’s cock before Clint could barely comprehend what was happening, and all it took was seeing the head of his dick push through Phil’s long, graceful fingers and Clint was gone. There was come all over his shirt and Phil’s hand, and Clint couldn’t find the words to tell Phil that he wouldn’t be going to Jamie’s tonight.
Downstairs, the front door slammed. “Phil, are you there?” a female voice called.
“Shit! My mom’s home early.” Phil scrambled to his feet, wiping one hand off on a random pair of socks as he zipped his fly with the other. Clint, still hazy from his orgasm, sat up and ran both hands through his hair. He glanced down at his shirt and laughed.
“Fuck, dude,” he snorted. “Think she’ll notice?”
Phil made a face, wrinkling his nose all primly. “Jesus, yes, she’s not—here.” He grabbed a t-shirt off the back of his desk chair and threw it at Clint. “At least you won’t be obvious.”
Clint held the shirt in his hands. It was really soft, frayed along the sleeves. The front said something about a soccer clinic. “Thanks,” he said.
Phil shrugged as he paused at the door to his room. “I’m just gonna—” He waved toward the stairs. “I haven’t seen her since Monday, so…”
“Sure. Whatever.” Once Phil disappeared, Clint stripped out of his ruined shirt and stuffed it into his backpack. He pulled on Phil’s t-shirt; it was a little too small in the shoulders, and it smelled like Phil’s aftershave. Clint rubbed a hand over his chest. He could still feel his pulse thumping low around his cock, his heartbeat not quite steady.
When he came downstairs, Phil’s mom was petting his hair and smiling at him like he was the sun. Clint stopped on the bottom stair, tugging at the strap of his backpack.
“Oh, Clint! I didn’t realize you were here, too!” She turned that same brilliant smile toward him, and Clint felt himself flush with a weird, embarrassed pleasure.
“I was just leaving,” Clint said awkwardly, hoping his hair wasn’t a complete disaster. It was bad enough he was wearing her son’s shirt.
“No, no, stick around! I’ll order you boys some pizza.”
“Clint can’t stay,” Phil said. “He’s got a date.” He stuffed his hands in the back pockets of his jeans and didn’t meet Clint’s eyes.
“Yeah, sorry. Thanks, though.” He gave her a stupid little wave as he slipped past Phil, careful not to touch him. “Have a good night, Ms. Coulson.”
“You, too, Clint.” Just as he was out the door, he heard her say to Phil, “I’m seriously so pleased you two are friends now. He really does seem like a sweet guy.”
Sweet. Sure. He still had the taste of come in his mouth.
Clint went straight home and immediately took off Phil’s t-shirt, leaving it in a heap on the floor of his room by his running shoes. But then he pictured Margo putting the thing in the wash, or scooping it up to be put in the trash, like it was just another random, useless thing of Clint’s; he grabbed the shirt and shoved it under his pillow. He’d give it back to Phil tomorrow.
He eventually went to bed with an old battered copy of The Shining and read late into the night. His phone buzzed with three separate texts, all of them from Jamie.
Clint never answered them.