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Lemme take the friction from your lips

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The empty confiscated gun Phil's yet to hand over digs into the small of his back, hard and unyielding when Clint slams him against the lockers in the empty changing room. Phil grunts, just a little, not entirely from discomfort. His jacket hits the floor, pushed off viciously by Clint's harsh, jerky movements. The holster goes next, straps dragging over the sleeves of his shirt, the weight of his weapon helping it along. It's undeniably erotic to feel the leather pull at his arms, sliding and sticking at the same time.

"Phil," Clint gasps against his jaw, almost inaudible but for the way it slithers down Phil's back, makes his balls ache. His hips snap forward without consulting him, rubbing his hard prick over Clint's hipbone, still sheathed in Hawkeye's armor.

Phil tries to say "we shouldn't do this here," he tries to recall the fact that there's a perfectly serviceable sofa not a hundred yards away, and that anyone could walk in on them right now. It's not working so well when he's got the heat of Clint's chest pressing all along his front, sinking into him through his shirt, Clint's strong, demanding hands on his arms, drawing him closer even as Clint presses him harder into the wall. Phil grunts, because the gun really isn't the most comfortable of things, stuck as it is in the waistband of his pants, and anyway that's not what he wants digging into the crack of his ass (no, really).

"Oh," Clint says, like he's coming back to the present from somewhere far away. A large palm slides over Phil's shoulder, down his back, lands heavily onto the grip of the Beretta. The motion sets the barrel sliding down and in; Phil tries not to whimper at the feel of it, thinks he fails.

"Fuck," he breathes, not entirely surprised to hear the approval in his voice. Clint hums; it ought to be bland, unremarkable, but it sends want spiralling through Phil's gut, because he knows 'considering' when he hears it.

His belt buckle falls open -- Clint's a deft bastard, Phil hadn't even noticed the long fingers working the leather. They flick the top button of his pants open, and the hold around the gun loosens until it shifts under its own weight, snagging on the cotton of his underwear. Phil closes his eyes, ass clenching against the need he's starting to admit to himself that he feels. Holy shit, this might yet break him, and he's not going to give Clint the satisfaction of falling to pieces in a place that is still relatively public. (Maybe later. In fact, scratch the 'maybe'.)

He grabs Clint's wrist, pulls it from behind his back, directs it to the open locker just to the side of them (Clint's, he can see the arrowheads inside, the bottle of SHIELD standard issue gun oil Clint keeps in there just in case. Phil's insides clench with need again; his head falls back, smacks audibly against the metal. He's burning, helpless with it. He bites at his lower lip, keeps the low hum inside his mouth, like he could hide it. Clint smirks, just a little, but it sends Phil's cock jumping with the need for friction, for Clint's hand on him.

"I'm going to drop to my knees now," Clint whispers against his lips, smooth, enticing, so fucking sexy. "I'm going to lower your zip with my teeth, and then I'm going to mouth you until you come."

Phil's fingers spasm around Clint's bare arms, digging into the tight, sculpted muscles, nails leaving pink half-moons behind. "Okay," he gasps, because Phil likes being honest with himself, and there's really only one answer applicable to a statement like that.

Clint grins, feral, white teeth gleaming in the bright overhead light. Then he slides down Phil's body, making a point of dragging his chest over Phil's prick in a way that makes Phil bite down on his lip, hard enough to feel the tang of iron in his mouth. Clint's hands come with him, down Phil's hips, over the backs of his thighs, fingers curled to rest between them. Clint's mouth descends onto the closing of Phil's pants, chin rubbing firmly against the bulge there, hot and heavy behind the constraining fabric. Clint's teeth flash again, and then Phil's slacks are draping down the tops of his legs, gaping wide open. Clint licks his lips, eyes fixed on his target, and then just like one of his arrows he zeroes right in, lets lips shining with spit fall open, huffs hotly over the weight of Phil's prick as he leans in and presses them against the length.

Phil prides himself on his control, even under the most challenging of circumstances. Here, though, alone with Clint, he can let himself moan raggedly in his throat, squeeze Clint's right shoulder, thread his right hand through Clint's thick hair, fist it lightly, tug, just a little. Clint groans, quiet but encouraging, grazes Phil's prick with a hint of teeth, closes his mouth over the head, still encased in the rapidly drenching cotton-silk mix. His tongue works the glans, presses against his slit; every panting breath he releases jolts Phil to his core, gets his balls tightening in his pants, makes pleasure curl heavy and insistent in Phil's gut. He is going to come in his pants, and he couldn't care less. He imagines drops of his come straining through the fabric, slipping into Clint's mouth, and he can't breathe for a moment for the need to fill him, claim him, until all Clint knows is his taste.

Clint's hands slide up the backs of his thighs, hook around the waistband of his pants and boxer-briefs and tug, sliding them over the curve of his ass, making sure to drag blunt nails over the spasming muscles. Phil shifts his hips obligingly, helps Clint bare him to the cool air, prick springing out of his clothes and pointing straight at Clint's mouth, like it knows exactly where it wants to be (it does). Clint grins, lips puffy and raw from rubbing against the wet fabric, a shade of pink that makes Phil want to shove between them and never stop.

He's so deep in the haze of lust that he doesn't realise one of Clint's palms has moved from where it was squeezing his ass, until something smooth and firm touches his skin, the drag of metal when Clint twists his wrist and slides the mouth of the barrel into the dip of Phil's ass cheeks. Phil jerks and moans, and that's when Clint opens his mouth and takes him inside, in the same moment that he presses the barrel firmly between Phil's cheeks, just catching on the rim of his ass.

Phil's vision whites out as he comes, more violently than he can remember, not that he's trying too hard. All he knows is that his body is thrashing in Clint's hold, and Clint has to pin him back against the lockers with one arm across his hip, the weight of his chest over Phil's legs to keep them from buckling. Phil's throat feels raw, like he's been screaming, even though he knows he was no louder than usual -- which is not very, considering Clint's penchant for semi-public sex. Clint moves the gun away and lets him slide down the wall of metal at his back, controls his fall with arms curled around his ass and legs until he's sitting on the tiles and Clint is pressed against him, chest to heaving chest. His lips drag over Phil's neck as he moans helplessly in his throat, hips jerking fitfully.

Phil's still reeling from his orgasm when he forces his fingers to cooperate, tug open the zips and buckles that hold Hawkeye's armor in place until the flap peels open and he can slide his hand inside, wrap it around Clint's leaking cock, squeeze just short of painful, the way that he knows drives Clint to distraction.

"Phil," Clint gasps against his shoulder, through the thin barrier of his shirt, teeth sinking into the meat as he shoves himself frantically through Phil's fist, all sense of rhythm gone.

"Come for me, Barton," Phil orders huskily, and Clint cries out and paints his knuckles white, come running over the backs of Phil's fingers, soaking the smooth fabric of his undersuit.

"Jesus fuck," Clint muffles in Phil's collarbone as he goes boneless in his arms, splayed all over the floor of the changing room. Phil runs a cool eye over all the exits, finding them just as empty as he expected at two in the morning after a covert Avengers mission -- but you never knew with neurotic SHIELD agents possessed of weird sleeping patterns.

"I can't believe you talked me into this again," he complains mildly, wiping his hand on the ruined cotton and shifting it to rest on Clint's hip.

"I don't recall much talking taking place," Clint mutters, giggling a little threadily at his own joke. It's ridiculous, and dorky, and hopelessly endearing.

"God, I'm getting too old for this," Phil sighs, when the small of his back starts to ache from sitting stark naked on the hard floor. He'd mean it, too, if it weren't for the waves of contented bliss that blanket him still, cocoon him from the world until it's just him and Clint in each other's arms, just like every night they can manage with their busy schedules.

Clint snorts. "All right, let's get you to bed, grandpa," he drawls, leaning back to catch Phil's eye before stealing a kiss.

Phil smacks him on the ass with a satisfying thwack, biting back a grin at Clint's yelp. "Not too old to give you a spanking if you're planning on being insubordinate again," he says sternly (or as sternly as he can, all things considered).

Clint grunts. Phil knows that sound. "Oh, so it's like that, is it?"

"Yeah, what of it? You gonna put your money where your mouth is?"

"Mmm. I'll think about it."

"Think fast," Clint advises as he rolls onto his feet in one smooth motion that makes Phil at once desperately jealous and desperately turned on, despite their most enjoyable recent activities.

He grabs onto Clint's wrist, pulls himself up, just because he's feeling lazy, and with only Clint to see him he can afford to let himself roll with it for once.

"Come on, old man, time to go," Clint smirks, waiting until they have both pulled their pants closed before catching Phil's arm and leaning his shoulder into Phil's chest, throwing him over his shoulder like he weighs no more than a sack of flour.

"Barton, put me down at once," Phil barks, fighting to keep down a burst of startled laughter. It has no more effect than usual; Clint ignores him completely, starts whistling as he heads for the door. Phil considers his (much improved) view, then smacks that gorgeous ass again, tucking his hand into the skintight pocket sewn onto the side of Clint's hip. He's a stubborn little fuck, his man, and there's not much Phil can do about it, even if he wanted to.

As they pass the locker where Clint had dropped the emptied gun a few minutes ago, Phil's arm snaps out. No reason to let his advantage go to waste, he thinks to himself as he palms the long, round barrel of the gun in consideration. He'll never be too old for another adventure.