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That Boy Is A Monster

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Clint doesn't know how the hell this happened.

No, wait. That's a lie. He knows exactly how this happened. When it happened, too. He can date this absurd obsession straight back to that night he and Nat had gone to Coulson's for Chinese takeaway and a movie, and the bastard had opened the door dressed in jeans and the softest sweater Clint could have imagined. He hadn't even noticed it at first; not until Coulson walked towards the dining table, boxes of food and chopsticks loaded in his hands, and Clint had followed the line of his body down and down and down and—

It had taken him ten minutes and Natasha pounding him on his back to stop choking and force his lungs to suck in a decent breath again. He had avoided Coulson’s eyes for as much of the night as he had managed, but he hadn’t quite been able to avoid looking at – other parts of him. He’d felt… betrayed, somehow. How had he not known this?? He’d thought he’d figured out everything there was to know about the guy after nearly five years of covert (and not so much) observation, yet he’d missed such a massive huge enormous glaring part of him.

It wasn’t as if the fact made that much of a difference. So Coulson had a big cock. So what?

Except Coulson had cornered him, when Natasha had gone to the bathroom, with a soft “You okay?” and that rare kind, concerned look in his eyes – the one that melts Clint’s insides even though he’d deny it forever – and Clint had blurted, “Yes, please,” and flushed to the tips of his hair and then had had to cover that Freudian slip with as much misdirection as he could manage when this thrown off his game.

That had been three weeks ago. This is now, in a meeting ran by Fury, with Coulson sitting directly across from Clint, diligently taking notes in his white legal pad, one large, beautiful hand curled around his pen and the other lying flat and relaxed on the table.

Look, Clint wants to make one thing clear. He isn’t a size queen. He really isn’t. He doesn’t, for example, lie awake at night thinking what a monster Fury must have in his pants, because, fucking hell no. But just the thought of what Coulson’s packing down the front of his tailored slacks is enough to have him breaking out in fresh sweat, gut cramping and ass twitching.

Clint wants that cock inside him with a desperation that is frankly a little frightening.

He zones briefly back to the meeting when the asshat the World Security Council sent in to lecture them on media sensitivity interrupts Director Fury with a pissy nitpick about the way he lays down the facts and basically takes over the meeting, at which point Clint feels justified in zoning right the fuck out again in the interest of not skewering the dickhead. There’s a vein pulsing in Fury’s temple. Clint sits back and enjoys the daydream of Fury snapping and throwing the self-important little shit out of the window.

Well, and, you know, the one of Coulson bending him over the boardroom table and fucking right into him, the thick head of his cock spreading his ass open as it pushes in. But he cuts that out pretty quickly once he remembers he’s going to have to walk out of the room after the meeting with a giant hard-on of his own if he keeps it up.

Heh. Keeping it up.

This whole restraint thing isn’t really working.

Oh god, himself restrained to the bed, Coulson behind him, spreading him open and spearing him with his fat dick…

Shit. Clint needs out of this meeting, and fast.

Mercifully, the whole fiasco draws to a close soon after Clint forcibly wrenches his attention back to the speaker, which is good for said speaker because any longer and it would be Clint doing the spearing. He’ll bet no one knows about the retractable arrows he’d cajoled R&D into developing for him, not yet.

“That guy was a giant dick, sir,” he says when he falls into step with Coulson outside the meeting room.

And then he promptly blushes scarlet all the way down to his knees.

Coulson side-eyes him. “What the fuck is wrong with you now, Barton?” he asks in that calm manner of his that makes Clint want to do unspeakably debauched things to him.

“Nothing, sir,” he says, staring straight ahead. “He was, though.”

Coulson sighs. He sounds put-upon, but Clint knows him, and correctly deduces the fast diminishing level of his patience.

“This meeting was a waste of time,” Coulson says scathingly. He keeps walking purposefully down the corridor towards his office, and Clint, for lack of anything better to do, follows. He enjoys the way agents innocently minding their own business take one look at Coulson’s face and melt away from his warpath. It’s hot as ten hells.

“Come inside,” Coulson says, leaving the door open and stalking to his desk while Clint tries not to swallow his own tongue at his choice of words. “We should discuss tomorrow’s mission.”

Clint dutifully does as he’s told, sprawling in the visitors chair in front of the desk while Coulson flips open a file and rubs at the bridge of his nose. Clint wishes they had the kind of relationship where Clint could get up and go to stand behind him, close his hands on Coulson’s shoulders and squeeze and rub and massage until the strain was gone from his face…

But they don’t. So Clint stays where he is, and does his best to focus on the task at hand and not on how Coulson’s vast shoulders would feel under his hands, because there’s only so much his fragile self-preservation instincts can take.


Which is, of course, how they end up here, in the tiniest of tiny closets on the third floor of a building overrun with AIM goons, Clint mashed against the door, and Coulson… mashed into his back, basically. They barely fit inside, and the doorknob is digging into the side of Clint’s groin, and the shelves behind Coulson must be leaving indentations in his back, but Clint cannot think about any of this, because—

Well, because Coulson is pressed against him from knee to neck, jacket open for ease of access to his weapons, leaving the thin layers of cotton and merino wool and Clint’s field suit everything that stands between Clint feeling the weight and girth of Coulson’s cock pressed directly between his ass cheeks.

He shudders. He can’t stop it; all the control in the world could not help him ignore what he’s feeling, what is making his nerve endings tingle and twitch and his skin prickle with oversensitivity and his whole body break out in a thin layer of sweat. Coulson breathes out against the shell of his ear, and Clint bites his lip hard, harder still when Coulson shifts the tiniest bit against him and the heat of his groin slides against Clint’s ass. Clint feels the tang of blood in his mouth, but doesn’t stop, daren’t stop, because there is no way that either of them is going to survive Clint losing it in the middle of this base with a hundred-plus goons right behind the two inches of wood currently between the two of them and the world.

Coulson shifts his arm to give them a tiny bit more space; his lovely hand comes to rest against the door, right next to Clint’s face. Clint’s eyes swivel to it helplessly, trace the strong fingers, the arch of his palm flowing into his thumb and wrist, and his control falters for just a second. His breath hitches with want, and comes out on a short huff, the slightest whimper. He wants to kick himself.

“Barton? You okay?” Coulson asks immediately, because Coulson is not the kind of field agent to miss Clint’s lapse and let it go, not when they’re out here in the field.

“Just peachy,” Clint grunts.

Coulson stays utterly still for another second, and then there’s a very slight release of pressure as he tries to pull away from Clint, undoubtedly hurting himself as the shelves behind him dig into his shoulders, his waist.

Without thinking too much about what he’s doing, Clint lets one of his arms curl back, find its way around Coulson’s waist and pull lightly but without hesitation. Coulson doesn’t move at first; it isn’t until Clint huffs impatiently, growling in the back of his throat at Coulson’s self-sacrificing pig-headedness, that he relents and comes to lean once more against Clint’s back. Clint lets him, forces his muscles to loosen until he is fitting just so into the curve of Coulson’s body, pliant and nearly boneless. Immediately, the position does not feel half as uncomfortable as a moment ago; in fact, Clint could definitely stand to stay in this spot for a while longer. He is a SHIELD agent and a grown man; he isn’t going to give away the fact that his skin is throbbing and his lungs feel on fire with the effort to breathe normally and not pant wetly against the door, betraying just how excruciatingly turned on he is by their position. Coulson follows his lead, bends his knees a touch, widens his stance until Clint’s lower body is cradled between his legs, his ass fitting snugly in the curve at the apex of Coulson’s thighs.

Clint wants to die. He wants to grind against Coulson’s hard heat so badly he should by all rights be shaking with it. He wants to drop his head onto Coulson’s shoulder, bare his neck to him, ask without words to be touched.

He does neither of those things. Which doesn’t mean that the next hour is not the best and also the most torturous hour of his existence, or that he isn’t shaking like a leaf with desire and adrenaline when they finally hear the goons move out and they can escape their prison. But that’s neither here nor there, and neither he nor Coulson make any kind of comment on what just transpired, Clint because he can’t speak without begging to be fucked, and Coulson—

Well. Who the hell knows about Coulson? Point is. No talking apart from terse commands and relaying observations, and Clint is just fine with that.

Just fine.


Clint snaps awake when the surface he’s lying on shifts under him. It’s by no means jarring, but Clint will wake up from far less as a rule, and besides, he’s burning up, he’s so hot his skin is drenched with sweat and every time he moves he wants to moan from the friction pressing to his everything.

The softness beneath him moves again, and Clint is getting ready to roll upright and go for his gun when the memory of everything leading to this slams into his half-asleep brain—

“I’ll sleep on the floor.”

“Bullshit you’ll sleep on the floor, I’ll sleep on the floor if one of us has to, I’m the asset, you’re the boss.”

“You are the asset, which is why you should be well rested in case of further fuckery on this mission.”

“Jesus, sir, we’re both grown men, we can sleep in the same bed. I’m not going to molest you in your sleep, you know.”

“It’s barely larger than a single bed, Barton. I’d have thought you’d enjoy the space after this afternoon.”

“I’ll enjoy a lot more knowing you’re not going to be grumpier than a stepped-on snake tomorrow morning. Get in the damned bed already. Sir.”

And so here they are, and Clint has apparently done exactly what he’d made a point of promising he wouldn’t – he is flush against Coulson’s side, one leg snuggled between Coulson’s, and he is humping Coulson’s hip.

“Shit,” he breathes, going suddenly cold all over. It’s a horrible experience after the heat of seconds ago, and his stomach swooping like he’s suddenly falling towards gravity doesn’t help. He tears himself away from Coulson’s body immediately, and then he really is falling, bruising his hip as he hits the floor without an ounce of his usual grace. He grunts, because he just woke up and this isn’t a hostile situation, so he’s not precisely awake yet—wait, isn’t it? Why isn’t it? This is Phil Coulson, Clint’s boss, the meanest agent on the rota when you do something idiotic enough to land yourself in his crosshairs. By all rights, Clint should have been sprawled on the floor a long time ago, as soon as Coulson realised what was going on and kicked him out of the bed. Clint lies there and blinks in confusion, but he hasn’t started reading minds in the past two hours so he can’t imagine what Coulson was thinking.

Right. Anyway, that’s irrelevant. He’s just…going to sleep here till morning. That’s fine. He shifts to make himself more comfortable, resolutely ignoring his aching hard-on. He is sure as hell not doing anything about it here and now.

Except—except that Coulson has never really had much respect for plans he didn’t make himself. One moment Clint is staring at the ceiling, the next Coulson’s face is over him, eyebrows arched in that ‘Are you fucking with me?’ look that usually makes Clint have to fight not to smile. He’s usually not the one it’s directed at, though. He can’t say he’s enjoying the experience all that much.

“You planning to stay down there for the rest of the night?” Coulson asks. He must have woken up a while before Clint, but his voice is still scratchy from sleep, and Clint can smell hints of his sandalwood soap mixing with night sweat. It smells like something Clint kind of maybe could wake up to every morning.

He buries that thought deep, along with all other thoughts in that vein that he’s been having about his handler. His boss. Clint’s not really in the habit of giving himself false hope (it hurts too much when it gets shattered, so why bother?), so he has been doing his damnedest not to have any like that, much.

“Yes,” he says decisively. “Yes, I am.”

Coulson watches him for some time, eyes drifting down his body, definitely not missing the situation in Clint’s pants. Clint tries not to berate himself too much. It’s only natural he’d be having wet dreams after today, after hours of having Coulson pressed flush against him and nothing to distract him from all the things he wanted Coulson to do to him. It had been a long hour and a half. Clint had thought about it a lot, and hadn’t been helped by the small yet pertinent fact that he’d jerked off to this exact scenario a time or twenty.

He expects Coulson to nod and pull back onto the bed, or if he’s feeling charitable, throw him a pillow or one of the blankets. He isn’t expecting him to roll upright on the other side of the bed, or pad around it, or make his way towards Clint, or sit down on the floor next to his thighs, or stretch to lie on the floor beside him. It’s not a particularly warm floor – really fucking uncomfortable through Clint’s t-shirt and sweats, so it can’t be doing anything for Coulson, either. Yet there he is, the warmth from his body teasing against Clint’s side, making him itch to curl into it again. Clint stares at the ceiling some more, biting the inside of his cheek hard enough to sting.

“Did you know you talk in your sleep?” Coulson says conversationally. Clint freezes.

He doesn’t say anything back. It’s not really that kind of question. He just closes his eyes and waits for the inevitable.

Nothing comes for a while. There’s a prickling on the side of his face, so Coulson is probably watching him, waiting for—Clint doesn’t know what. He tries to breathe evenly and not whimper like some hurt animal. Whatever Coulson means to say, he’ll say it in his own time.

There’s a small touch on his face, the right side of his jaw facing the bed. It’s a finger, Clint realises when it exerts a gentle pressure, turning his face towards Coulson’s. He opens his eyes, because clearly Coulson wants him to. Coulson is leaning up on his elbow, arm stretched over Clint’s chest now withdrawing – though not as far as Clint expects it to. His hand rests against Clint’s stomach that twitches from the touch, muscles seizing and taking their time to relax again. His face is—kind, is the only word Clint’s overwhelmed brain can come up with. Kind, but there’s intent in his eyes, something—something like hunger.

“You’re embarrassed,” Coulson says.

Clint rolls his eyes. He doesn’t have to reply; Coulson knows what he means to say. He always somehow has.

“Don’t be embarrassed,” Coulson says softly. Clint swallows. This is uncharted territory; sure, Coulson has always been easier, more open with him and Nat, committing the cardinal sin of partiality – but Clint doesn’t think that’s what this is.

He watches Coulson like a mouse watches a cat, waiting to see what he’ll decide to do with him. He tries to pull up a mask, but they’re too close, it’s too hard to guard against Coulson when he’d fallen out of the habit of doing it so long ago.

“Clint,” Coulson says, sending a shock down Clint’s chest. “I’d like to kiss you now. Is that okay with you?”

Clint is aware of his eyes widening, showing the whites. His breath hitches, and a burn sets in somewhere behind his ribs, lower than his heart. He knows his mouth falls open, can’t stop himself from licking his lips. He wants it so badly he could cry.

“Why?” he whispers.

Coulson takes a deep breath, thick chest expanding and contracting. Clint only sees this out of the corner of his eye, though, because he can’t look away from Coulson’s face, his gorgeous eyes.

“Because I do. I’ve wanted to for a long time now.”

Clint swallows fitfully. “Is this just—just sex?” Because he could probably do that. Probably. Maybe.

It’s Coulson’s turn to swallow now. He still hasn’t looked away from Clint’s eyes. “Not unless you want it to be,” he says.

Clint actually can’t breathe for a moment. “I don’t want it to be,” he says carefully.

Coulson exhales. A small smile quirks his mouth; his hand feels suddenly heavier on Clint’s middle, and Clint realises it was only hovering there before, barely touching him. He couldn’t stop the small whimper of sheer blind want if his life depended on it.

Coulson swoops down on him. It’s the only way Clint can explain it; one second Coulson is looking at him from several inches away, the next he’s there, mouth pressing down on Clint’s, soft lips and hard teeth, and Clint opens for him on a moan that comes from his toes. Coulson doesn’t hesitate; his tongue crowds Clint’s, flicking against it, up to touch the roof of his mouth, back to tangle them together. Clint is having trouble catching his breath, and Coulson isn’t even touching him anywhere but that hand at his stomach. Clint wants more, even if he isn’t certain he could handle it without going to pieces.

His arms seem to have acquired a life of their own. His hands go from flat on the floor to flattened against Coulson’s shoulders, feeling the ropes of hard muscle under their fingers. Clint moans louder; he is probably going to put Coulson off if he keeps doing that, but there is no stopping the noises climbing out of his chest, his throat. He wants Coulson pressed against his front. No, he needs it.

Coulson lowers himself over him with a careful, implacable deliberation that makes Clint writhe and push up into the weight. One of Coulson’s legs shifts between his, and Coulson rolls his hips, putting pressure on Clint’s groin. Clint thinks he whites out for a minute there, because good fucking god, it feels so good. And then he realises that some of the weight on the side of his hip isn’t Coulson’s hipbone, it’s—

“Oh god,” Clint gasps, trying to roll, trying to get more of that, trying to climb on top of Coulson and plaster himself to his front. Coulson holds him down easily, one arm pinning Clint’s to the floor, the other braced so Clint can’t roll them. It’s so hot that Clint can barely form words. “Coulson—sir—please—“

“My name is Phil,” Coulson—Phil says into the skin of Clint’s throat, kissing the spot under Clint’s ear, then biting it to make Clint arch against him.

“Phil, then,” Clint says. He is shocked at the sound of his voice, like he’s been asleep for a hundred years. He might have been, because he can’t remember anything ever feeling this good. “Please, Phil.”

“Please, what?”

He is still a dickhead, apparently. Clint laughs a little, because instead of breaking up the moment, this somehow settles it. Phil is still Coulson, still the man Clint knows and l—uh. Likes. A lot. He’s still him, and nothing has changed, except for this. Except that Clint gets to have him, and Clint didn’t actually know a person could feel this happy, like something bubbling inside, trying to burst out.

“Please, everything,” he says, making his voice smooth, seductive, and being awarded with the pleasure of feeling Phil shudder on top of him.

“Do you know what you said in your sleep?” Phil asks, nipping at the skin of Clint’s throat, over his Adam’s apple.

“No, but I’m sure you’re going to tell me.”

“You said my name. You said, ‘Coulson,’ and you rolled your hips, and that’s when I knew I wasn’t just some nameless body you were instinctively rutting against. It was like, even in your dream, you wanted it to be me next to you. It was me you wanted to rub against.”

“I still want to do that,” Clint says, to cover up the way his heart is going double-time. Shit, this whole thing was so close to ending in disaster, it’s kind of shocking it hasn’t.

“Mmm,” Phil replies, but he shifts obligingly, lining their cocks together, and that’s the moment Clint’s brain shorts out.

Because he can feel him. He can feel the weight of his cock, the sheer length of him, the girth, and he wriggles until he can pull his other leg from under Phil’s body and wrap both of them around his waist.

And then he can’t do anything but throw his head back and keen, because yes, yes, he can feel everything, and it feels too good to handle.

“Jesus, your cock,” Clint manages, one hand buried in Phil’s hair, the other sliding down his back, feeling up all the muscle, the strength of him that is making Clint sweat.

Phil stills on top of him for a minute, holding his breath, too, by the feel of it.

“Is that okay?” he says, and the note of uncertainty in his voice actually breaks Clint. He tugs on Phil’s hair until he can look him in the eye, until Phil can look at his face, see everything that Clint has given up trying to hide.

And then Clint kisses him. It’s wet and messy and too desperate by half, too intimate, maybe, given their positions. Clint cracks himself open and drags Phil down with him, into him, lets Phil see exactly what Clint thinks about that, about what they’re doing, about how it feels to be held under Phil’s weight, to have him so close.

“I’ve been daydreaming about your cock for months,” Clint manages breathlessly when they break for air.

Coulson stills, searching his face with narrowed eyes. “Oh, really,” he says, sounding like things are slotting into place in his head.

Clint ducks his head, but he’s smiling. “Really,” he agrees. He curls one hand in the t-shirt over Phil’s chest, less to keep him there, more to feel the solid heat of him. “Ever since I saw you in jeans. I’ve been obsessing over it, what it would feel like against me, what it would feel like to hold it in my hand.” Clint lifts his head, makes a point of looking in Phil’s eyes when he adds, “What it would be like to have it inside me.”

Phil whimpers. His hips rock against Clint’s seemingly without meaning to, and he closes his eyes and drops his head to rest in the crook of Clint’s neck, sucking at the skin under his mouth until Clint cries out.

“Shit, you can’t say things like that,” Phil rasps.

“It’s the truth,” Clint replies, voice wrecked. “I can’t stop thinking about you pushing inside me, splitting me open.”

Then he stops and blinks, because he’s sure he just felt Phil flinch in his arms. “Or not,” he adds hastily. “We don’t have to do that if you don’t want to. Just tell me if we’re moving too fast, okay? I can totally wait.”

Phil sighs. The air floats over Clint’s damp skin, making him shudder. “It’s not that. I want to; I don’t think you understand just how badly I want to. But—Clint. I’m not—I’m not a small man. Which you’ll have seen, if you’ve been watching for it. I—“

Yeah, Phil’s shuddering for real now. Clint stops everything, stops angling for more, stops pushing, just closes his arms around him, petting his back awkwardly. He doesn’t know what’s caused this, but whatever it is Clint will do anything Phil needs to make it stop.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” Phil whispers.

Clint wants to laugh hysterically. He doesn’t, because he does actually know when it’s really not the time to be an asshole. Instead, he kisses the hinge of Phil’s jaw, the skin under his ear, his neck. They’re soothing, reassuring kisses, just because he wants to touch Phil everywhere, all the time.

“You won’t,” he counters gently. “We’ll do loads of prep, you can stretch me out for as long as you want to, whatever it’ll take for you to be certain I can take you. But Phil.” He nudges Phil’s cheek with his nose until Phil lifts his head from where he’s breathing raggedly into Clint’s neck and looks at him. “I want this,” Clint says again, shuddering when he thinks of just how much he does. “I want it badly.” His voice shakes on the last word, but Clint doesn’t try to cover it up, because he knows he needs to be as convincing as he has ever been if Phil is to believe him.

Phil groans softly, mouth opening, upper lip slick when his teeth let it go. His pupils are blown, taking over his eyes until just a thin circle of the gorgeous blue remains. There are tiny droplets of sweat at his brow, his hairline, and fuck, Clint wants him right here, right now, any way he can get him.

“Okay?” he asks, because Phil still hasn’t said anything, and Clint needs to know what he’s thinking, if he’s okay with doing this at all. Phil nods jerkily, swooping in and kissing him deep and filthy and wet, eating his mouth. Clint closes his eyes and lets him, lifts his hips into the friction, rubbing himself off on the heft of Phil’s cock. All of a sudden Phil stops, pulls back out of Clint’s hold, and for a second Clint thinks he’s lost him, that that’s it; that Phil’s fears are deeper than anything Clint could say to address them.

But then Phil’s gaze moves to his bag, and he mutters, “Gun oil,” because the two of them are professionals out on assignment and you don’t bring lube out on those – but you also learn to improvise when the need hits this hard.

“Go get it, soldier,” Clint says, grinning cheekily and winking when Phil glares down at him. “Or don’t you wanna get laid tonight?”

Phil bites him for that, on the meat of his shoulder where most people who are not agents engaged in maintaining national security might get a tattoo if they were as built as Clint. Clint arches into it, welcomes the sting, doesn’t try to hide how it makes his dick leap. Phil looks down at him with glazed eyes, expression blown away, before he scrambles to his feet and dives at the bags thrown to rest at the base of it. Clint doesn’t lose time while Phil’s digging through clothes and equipment, swearing under his breath; he pushes to his feet, takes off his sweats and tee, shucks his underwear, balls it up and throws it to land inches from Phil’s hand.

Phil’s head snaps to it, then lifts very slowly to look at Clint, expression somewhere between murderous and so aroused he can’t see straight. Clint stretches his hands over his head, making a long, clean line of his body, twisting until his spine pops. He can feel his dick pressing against his belly, twitching when Clint registers the intent in those dark eyes and his stomach tightens. Phil straightens, each movement fluid and controlled – it only winds the tension inside Clint tighter, closer to unleashing. Clint climbs onto the bed, turning so he is lying with his head on the pillow, arms thrown up around it, one leg bent, presenting himself to Phil’s gaze. His breath hitches when Phil moans like it’s torn out of him, hands fisting in the hem of his t-shirt and tearing it off over his head. His body is tight, taut with muscle, chest covered in dark, springly hair. Clint bites his lip because he wants to lick him all over and he’s too riled up for that right now. Next time, after they’ve come at least once apiece, he is going to cover every inch of it in kisses.

“Come on, baby,” Clint murmurs. He gets a look for that, but Phil is too busy kicking off his pants; the second he straightens, Clint loses every semblance of coherent thought, because he can see it now, the outline of Phil’s hard dick under the navy cotton of his boxer-briefs, and he fucking fills them, from groin to waistband, head pushing the latter away from his body. Clint’s mouth goes completely dry at the sight.

Phil hesitates with his fingers at his hipbones, just touching the elastic band of his underwear. “You can still change your mind,” he says quietly. “You can tell me to stop any time you want to, okay, Clint? I promise I won’t get mad.”

Clint swallows past the sticky feeling in the back of his throat with some effort. “Oh my god, come here,” he croaks, making ‘come at me’ motions with his hands in his rush to put them on Phil’s skin. Phil walks closer, fingers still flitting over the fabric, unsure of what to do. The second he’s in Clint’s reach, Clint puts his hands on his shoulders and tugs, using his knee to flip Phil over him and down on his back, straddling him triumphantly. Phil doesn’t even pause in his breathing, completely lax under Clint’s body but for the traitorous twitching of that monster inside his pants. Clint can’t look away from it, can’t stop licking his lips, because where his mouth was parched a minute ago, it’s watering so hard now that he needs to keep swallowing not to drown. He wants to lick that dick; he wants to fuck his mouth over it, choke his throat on it, he wants to swallow it down until he can’t breathe for the girth of it. He wants so much -- but he can see how tense Phil is, how tightly he’s holding himself, and fuck, Clint hadn’t imagined it would be like this, but he almost feels like he needs to slow this down, make sure Phil isn’t freezing up on him.

So he does. He revisits his earlier plan to lavish attention on Phil’s chest, discovers the small discs of his nipples and licks and bites at them until Phil is hoarse with crying out. He puts his own fingers under the elastic of Phil’s underwear and draws it carefully over the thick, flushed head of him, down his shaft, having to lift more than he anticipated because the cotton is clinging wetly to the dripping length. He could not stop himself if there was a gun to his head: he leans in, steals a lick off the vein throbbing on the side of it, draws the salty, slightly bitter taste of Phil into his mouth, down his throat. He might moan; he’s not too sure, because every one of his senses is too busy devouring the man underneath him, the hitch in his breathing, the clench of his hands in the sheets at the sides of his hips, the small, tight noises coming from the back of his throat.

“Here,” he says, startled at the rough, husky quality of his own voice. “Like this.”

He shifts, reversing his seat until his cock is pressed to Phil’s chest and his ass is in a good position to get lubed up and stretched, because sure as fucking hell, Clint is not going to last much longer at this pace. He licks at Phil’s prick some more, sharp, light flicks of his tongue, until Phil’s hands close on the cheeks of his ass and—

“Oh, sweet fucking Jesus,” Clint grunts, jerking in Phil’s hold and not moving far, because it’s iron-tight. Phil holds him open and licks at him again, the flat of his tongue dragging across Clint’s hole and making him clench down on nothing. He spends the next few minutes just panting, head hanging forward, trying not to fuck himself on Phil’s mouth, good, so good he is going to die. Just when he thinks he might break something to keep still, two thick digits press inside him, pushing past the automatic, instinctive squeeze of muscles and going deeper, peeling apart his walls until Clint drops his forehead to one side of the base of Phil’s dick and nips at the skin just to keep his mouth busy and not begging him to go faster. It’s a stretch, and it stings when Phil adds a third, but after five, ten minutes of being finger-fucked Clint is seriously starting to regret his promise to Phil, because his patience snapped right about the time Phil added a twist to brush a knuckle over his prostate and Clint is running on nothing but fumes now.

“Oh, god,” he moans brokenly when another finger pushes inside him, four of Phil’s wide, strong fingers, and Clint would protest but he knows he’ll need the stretch if he’ll be able to take Phil like he wants to, balls-deep, ass pulsing around the base of his dick. He’s less worried about being hurt than Phil’s expression if he does tear him a little, because Clint is in this for the long haul, and Phil backing off as fast as his legs can take him is not in his game plan now or ever.

Another two minutes of the burn of taking four fingers is, apparently, over the edge of what Clint can take and not come on them, which, no. He’s made it this far, and Clint is a greedy boy. He wants what he was promised.

“Now, Phil, please, now,” he grunts, barely coherent. Phil’s fingers hesitate, but pull out bit by bit, spread out all the way, like they’re holding Clint open for Phil’s cock, and Clint is going to lose his damn mind if he keeps thinking about it in those specific terms. Phil’s hands encourage him to turn again, until his ass cradles Phil’s dick in the crack between the cheeks. Clint thinks about riding him a little, but Phil is flushed, looking about as desperate as Clint feels, and that’s it. No more teasing.

“I don’t have a condom,” Phil whispers against his lips, sounding wrecked. Clint closes his eyes, heaving a sigh.

“Now you tell me?” he grinds out, levering up to look at Phil’s sheepish face.

“I’m sorry. I’m just—none of the normal ones fit.” Phil’s hands fall from his body, and he looks like Clint punched him. “I’m so sorry, I don’t know what I was thinking. I can—I’ll suck you off, I won’t leave you like this—“

Clint takes his mouth, shuts Phil up with his tongue probing deep, pressing in. Phil lets him, pliant and willing under him, ready to accept whatever Clint decides, and Clint loses a little more of his heart right there.

“I’m clean,” he says, pulling back to look Phil in the eye.

“I know, Barton, I saw your last medical tests. I am, too, as it happens. It’s been—well, it’s been a long time since I did this with anyone that wasn’t my right hand.”

Clint sucks in a sharp breath, letting it out on a moan at the visual behind his eyelids. “You should show me sometime,” he murmurs, rocking against the length pressed to his perineum, sliding over his balls.

Phil honest-to-got keens. “Not now, though, right?”

“Not now,” Clint smirks, nipping at his lower lip and earning another of those choked sounds from Phil’s throat. “Now, will you fuck me already?”

“Like this,” Phil agrees breathlessly, guiding Clint’s hips up until he can hold his liberally slicked dick in place for Clint to lower himself down onto it. “Take your time,” he adds, sounding strangled as Clint starts to push his ass open around him. “Go as slow as you need.”

“I don’t think you want me to go slow,” Clint tries to tease, but he feels too raw, too unmade, too close to his skin splitting apart to accommodate Phil’s girth; he doesn’t need Phil’s frown to tell him now is one of those times when his mouth is better served not flapping. It’s intense, makes sweat break out all over his body, makes his spine arch, makes his breath tangle in his lungs until it feels like he might never breathe again. It hurts even with the stretching, and Clint wants to stop and he never wants to stop, and by the time his ass rests on Phil’s groin, he is shaking, breath coming in uneven pants.

Clint,” Phil says, sounding broken even worse than Clint feels. His hands twitch fitfully on Clint’s arms, and there is a small dark red smear on his mouth where he has bitten his lip bloody. If Clint is shaking, then Phil is shivering, skin coming out in goosebumps, hairs standing up.

“Move,” Clint grits out. “Slowly.”

Phil does nothing for a moment, and then he rolls his hips, nudging himself just the tiniest bit further in. The sound Clint makes is way closer to pain than pleasure, but if he’s honest, he is floating somewhere between the two, waiting for his body to decide what it’ll be. Phil stills again, rapidly paling, but Clint’s having none of that. It’s him who shifts next, on his knees, a slide backwards to sit rather than crouch, and god, the fullness, it feels like it’s going to actually split him open, like it’s going to choke him soon enough.

It feels like something Clint never, ever wants to give up.

This time, when he moves again, heat blooms from his core outwards, sweat beading on his skin. “Fuck,” he chokes, and does it again, and again, and then a little harder, and fucking hell, this, this is it, this is what he’s been waiting for for months now. “Oh, god.” He can’t stop alternately praising the lord and cursing, which is close enough to how his body feels right now that it makes him laugh, catching the note of wildness in it but unable to stop. Phil’s fingers are leaving bruises on his hip, his thigh where Phil braces him so he doesn’t lose his balance and hurt himself. Clint looks down at his worried face, another red droplet on the edge of his lip, and he curls in, licking it off, licking into Phil’s mouth, sucking on his tongue to get him to stop panicking. Phil shifts up at the same moment as Clint shifts down, and—

“Yes,” Clint all but screams into Phil’s mouth. “Do that again. Do it,” he insists when Phil narrows his eyes, and god, Phil has always been able to tell when Clint can take something, sometimes better than Clint himself, and he pushes up now with more purpose, and Clint’s eyesight whites out for a second.

He doesn’t remember much of what happened next. His body is a well-maintained, hard-working instrument, and it takes over from his brain, wrangling for itself what it needs. Clint thinks there’s a moment when he’s the one fucking Phil, and another where Phil holds him still and pushes into him ever more frantically, and he remembers what it’s like to come on that huge length, the way he feels as if he’ll never stop, even when his balls are empty and his cock is shrinking; and then he remembers what it’s like to feel Phil come inside him, so deep, deeper than anyone or anything has ever been, claiming him in a way no one would ever be able to erase or replace, and yeah, that’s when Clint checks out, a second orgasm hitting with a weak splatter on Phil’s already soaked stomach. He only holds himself in place due to years of climbing and jumping without a safety net. He raises himself up, hissing when Phil slips out, and then whatever was left of his muscle control is gone and he slumps onto the bed at Phil’s side, completely, thoroughly wrung out.

“Oh. My god,” he manages, and even that takes almost too much effort. Phil is panting at his side like he just ran a race, one hand trapped under Clint’s shoulder, which Clint is sorry about but too wiped to actually remedy. His ass feels sore as hell, and empty, so empty it’s an ache deep inside. “Never had a colonoscopy, but can’t help thinking this must be what it feels like.”

“You are the worst. Person,” Phil mutters, drawing his hand from under Clint only to smack him on the shoulder.

“Ow,” Clint complains mildly, not actually moving, because, no. He might not move for the next three days, come to think of it. He’s comfortable here, and Phil is warm.

“You’re warm,” he tells Phil generously. “Wanna cuddle me till I fall asleep?”

“You’re not talking in your sleep right now? That’s a surprise,” Phil snarks. Then he sits up and gets off the bed, which is the opposite of what Clint wants.

“No,” he whines pathetically. “Why?

Phil doesn’t reply, although Clint hears running water in the next moment and draws his own conclusions. The water shuts off, and Clint waits for Phil to rejoin him so he can curl himself around him and leach body heat. Instead, there’s a cold wetness poking him in places that are too sore to be touched right now, let alone cleaned – so he’s surprised at how pleasant it feels.

“No more damage than anticipated,” Phil murmurs. Clint makes a face.

“Oh, yeah, baby, talk cold hard science at me, you know how it gets me hot.”

Phil doesn’t reply, and Clint wonders if he’s rolling his eyes but can’t be bothered to look and find out. The bed dips, and oh, yeah, there he is. Clint immediately sprawls over Phil’s chest, lifting one leg to insinuate between Phil’s thighs. Phil sighs, but his arms close around Clint and something soft and light drapes itself over his back, tucking itself in at his sides. He sighs contentedly, resting his head in the crook of Phil’s neck.

“You’re not freaking out, so I’ma stay here a while. Okay? This spot is magic. You’re magic. Fucking perfect.” It could be that Phil just fucked his brains out. Clint can’t bring himself to care.

The chest under him shakes, just like what woke him seemingly hours ago. He feels a soft kiss on his head, and smiles before drifting off to a fond, “Yes, it is.”