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Oiled Up

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Phil wasn't going to try to argue the case. If he couldn't get Clint to go to the infirmary for two days with an actual fractured wrist, there was no chance getting him to go with just some sore muscles.

 

Clint hated the infirmary. He didn't trust doctors, didn't trust dentists for that matter. To say he had problems with authority was one thing, but he had major major issues with "any asshole in a white coat telling me what to do."

 

But he'd been awkwardly rolling his shoulder over and over again, wincing when he moved and generally being pretty obviously in pain.

 

"Barton." Phil barked when he noticed Clint rubbing idly at his shoulder for the third time in the space of fifteen minutes. They were in their hotel room having completed the first part of a two-day mission. Clint had ended up dangling off a roof at one point, leading to his wrenched shoulder. Since Phil had been the one to pull him back up, his own back had been twinging too, but he was the less valuable operative of the two and Barton was his primary concern.

 

"Look at me." 

Clint rolled his eyes as he turned to Phil, who held him with his gaze.

"Is anything broken?" 

Clint rolled his eyes again, looking to the ceiling as he replied, "No."

"Are you going to be alright for tomorrow or do I need to get Maher down here to take over?"

That got his attention. Clint was nothing if not proud of his own abilities and certainly didn't want to be replaced. Phil had only said Maher because he knew that Clint knew he was at least fifth down the list of SHIELD's best marksmen. His face became serious. 

"Yes. I'll be fine for tomorrow. It's just a wrenched shoulder, I'm fine."

Phil pursed his lips while Clint stared him down with defiance. He was as resolute as he always was, but it was Phil's call and he did need whoever he had to be at their best. 

"I'm going to give you a massage then, ok?" 

Clint shrugged, wincing as he did so. "Fine." 

Phil nodded, like this was a regular occurrence between him and any of his agents. "Go take a hot shower." 

 

--

 

Clint stripped out of his clothes on the way to the bathroom, as he had done many missions before. As efficient as he was in the field, he was one of the messiest people Phil had ever met. Phil went back to his paperwork, stopping only when he heard the water shut off and the bathroom door unlock. Without turning around, he told Clint to lie on one of the beds face down.

 

He closed the file he'd been making notes on the day's operations in and got up, taking off his jacket and hanging it on the back of the chair. He loosened his tie and took it off, undid his top button and rolled up his sleeves. Clint laid on the bed, his head resting on his arms, watching Phil through relaxed eyes. He was naked on the bed and had laid the smallest white towel over his ass, which Phil tried not to  look at. He went to the bathroom and fumbled through his toiletry bag, finding a small bottle of baby oil, there for such occasions as this, though he'd never had cause to use it on anyone other than himself before now.

 

When Phil came back out, Clint was facing away from him. He toed off his shoes and knelt on the bed beside Clint, squeezing a palm-full of oil into his hand and warming it before gently spreading it over the top of his back. 

As soon as he made contact, Clint let out a soft sigh, and Phil drew back for a moment before continuing, working the oil over Clint's broad shoulders and down to the top of his waist. 

 

He watched his hands gliding across Clint's slick skin, thumbs pressing in along his shoulderblades and finding a hard knot in one of them, pressing harder when Clint let out a small grunt. He left it alone and swept his hands across the tops of Clint's shoulders, kneading the thick muscles there. He concentrated on the shoulder furthest away from him -  the hurt one - digging into the knot, drawing out more small noises from Clint. Phil was rather pleased to see the normally stoic, immune-to-pain Clint Barton being reduced to whimpers and moans purely from his own hands gliding over his skin and worrying at his muscles.

 

He'd be lying if he said he hadn't thought about Clint in ways that weren't strictly professional, though he was rather good at telling himself those lies. Come to think of it, he could probably have had the hotel send up a professional masseuse and have it charged to the room. But now that the muscled back Phil had stared at for countless hours on countless missions was literally under his fingertips, all thought of professional conduct filed itself away til all there was was Phil’s hands and slick skin.

 

Clint made a particularly loud sound as Phil prodded the knot again. He tried to ask if he was going too hard, but his throat was dry, making his words into little more than an embarrassing squeak. He swallowed and tried again. 

"Is that too hard?" 

Clint's voice was ragged, too. "No, s'good. Can you do my lower back too?" 

Phil didn't reply, just poured some more oil into his hands and spread it down to the edge of the towel. He worked his hands up and down Clint's sides, rubbing his thumbs in hard circles along his spine. He worked back up to the knot just to hear Clint make that noise again. Every time he made it, Phil felt a ripple of arousal shoot through him. As Clint's breathing seemed to slow, his own sped up, and he felt hot - from the exertion of kneading out Clint's muscles, he told himself. Not from the way Clint's skin looked, slick with oil, or the feeling of those glorious muscles softening under his fingertips. 

 

He looked down, beyond the shapely mound that was Clint's towelled ass, to the thick muscles of his thighs. He swallowed, placed a hand on one. "Shall I do your legs?" he asked, Clint sighed a soft "uh huh."

Phil got up from the bed, breathlessly nudging Clint's legs apart as he knelt between them. He felt like he was petting a tiger that might wake up at any moment. 

 

He oiled up both Clint's legs, one after the other, kneading both of his calves, pushing his thumbs along the muscles there and drawing out more soft noises. Phil's cock was pushing at the front of his pants now, twitching every time Clint made a sound. He swept his hands up Clint's thigh and kneaded the thick muscles, brushing the sweat that had beaded on his forehead away with his shirtsleeve. 

 

Clint was softly sighing and moaning almost constantly now, with Phil's hands on his thighs. He wanted to go higher, feel the curve of that ass beneath his hands. He brushed the tips of his fingers underneath the edge of the towel, eyes flickering upwards to Clint's head to check for any sign of - what, he wasn't sure - but Clint just kept softly murmuring sounds of pleasure, and Phil let his hands creep ever higher. He inched forwards, tracing the crease where Clint's ass met his thighs and still found no resistance. Clint wasn't asleep, he was murmuring and shifting gently whenever Phil nudged him one way or another, so Phil kept on, his hands well underneath the towel by now. Clint hadn't stopped making little peeps of pleasure since Phil had first touched him, so Phil held his breath and went even higher.

 

Clint shifted and Phil thought for a sudden moment that this was it, Clint had woken up from this blissed out state and Phil would be pinned on the floor, kicked out of SHIELD, hunted down by Natasha. He held his hands away from Clint’s body, but was frozen there. Clint’s hand moved, down towards Phil and - 

 

Pulled the towel away.

 

Phil silently heaved a sigh of relief, gently replacing his hands as if everything was normal and he hadn’t just had a heart attack. He poured more oil on, working up from the top of Clint’s thighs to cover each cheek with it. It was perfect, round and elastic beneath his hands, smooth skin glowing with the oil's sheen. Before he even realised he was doing it, Phil found himself brushing down the cleft of Clint's ass with his thumbs, drawing back suddenly but being met only with another grunt of pleasure. He did it again, pulling the cheeks apart and brushing directly over the hole that Phil had fantasized about endlessly and then dismissed as an impossible dream. 

 

Another moan was all Phil needed, he poured even more oil onto his hands, wary of letting it hit Clint's skin before it had warmed up and snapping him out of this deliciously pliable state. He rubbed it directly between Clint's cheeks, spreading his slick hands across each one and pushing, ever so gently with a thumb. Clint moaned and rocked gently backwards, making Phil's thumb slide in halfway up past the first knuckle, tight and warm. Phil groaned and squeezed his cheek with the trapped hand, rubbing the other one higher onto Clint's back. 

 

Phil slid his thumb gently back out and then pushed it in again, further this time. Clint groaned as Phil withdrew and pulled his cheeks apart, leaning down to lick a stripe up the cleft of Clint's ass. Phil pressed his tongue against the hole, gently probing and teasing at it, making Clint moan desperately, squirming beneath him but making no effort to get away. Phil ground his erection into the bed before remembering he could used his hands on himself. His pants were so tight that the zip was loud in the quiet room as he undid it, and Clint whimpered at the sound of it. Phil licked into him twice more before sitting back up and pushing his thumb back into Clint's slippery hole. He pulled his cock out with the other hand and squeezed it, gasping himself at the relief it gave. 

 

Phil pushed his thumb in as far as it could go, feeling Clint tense and relax around it, stroking himself with his other oily hand. Clint squirmed and bucked gently, pushing himself back onto Phil's thumb before Phil pushed him gently but firmly back down on to the mattress. Clint whined softly in frustration and Phil softly shhed him, undoing his pants fully and toeing them off along with his boxers. He edged closer, crawling over Clint so he could sit astride his thighs with his cock lightly resting on the cleft between his oiled cheeks. He let it lay there as he resumed massaging Clint's back, hitting the knot in Clint's shoulder again just to hear the sound it made him make, the sound which made his cock jump from where it lay. 

 

Phil rubbed down Clint's spine, bringing his hands back to Clint’s perfect ass, sliding both his thumbs into his hole and stretching it out as gently as possible, still pulling a thick moan from Clint. Phil moved his hips so his dick slid over the hole a few times before guiding it slowly in. Once the tip was in, Clint whined and pushed back, Phil letting go to press his palms against Clint’s back, shhing him again as he kept pushing himself further and further in. 

 

Once he was almost all the way in, Phil began to move his hands again, keeping up the pretense of this still being a massage. When he pressed into the sound-inducing spots on Clint’s back, he felt the sounds as well as hearing them. He concentrated on the muscles at the top of Clint’s shoulders, drawing his cock back out slowly once he felt Clint relax around him. The drag back out was followed by a less slow push back in, Phil sliding his hands down to Clint’s waist so he could sit back and watch himself disappearing into Clint. 

 

The sounds Clint was making made Phil’s head spin, needy and wanting and grateful. “Feels good, Phil,” Clint said, cracked voice muffled by the pillow, and Clint saying his name like that made Phil feel like he would fall apart. “You feel so good.” 

 

Phil couldn’t reply, didn’t know what to say so just kept rubbing circles into Clint’s back as he lost himself dragging slowly in and out of him, like it was all part of some ultra-thorough massage. He was making his own sounds too, now, entirely undignified and giving far too much away but he couldn’t care. It felt so good.

 

Phil massaged Clint’s neck with one hand as he slid the other one back down to press Clint into the mattress at his waist and stop him from pushing back, as if somehow that would ruin the massage. This was, after all, to help Clint’s torn muscles, Phil’s brain was telling him, even if it didn’t make a whole lot of sense. But Clint seemed to approve of that anyway, moaning louder still once Phil began to pick up speed. 

 

It wasn’t long before Phil found himself leaning over Clint, hands braced on Clint’s beautiful biceps and fucking into him proper, sounds of skin on skin joining the moans and grunts coming from them both. Phil’s shirt would be ruined with oil, he thought vaguely in the back of his mind, and he wished he wasn’t wearing it and could feel that slick skin against his chest, but taking it off seemed like some impossible dream because he couldn’t move from this perfect position, not now, not ever. This was where he wanted to be, right here inside Clint Barton. Clint Barton, who was moaning his name. 

 

Phil knew he was close to coming and didn’t know what to do when he did it. He wanted to come right there, poetically somehow finish what he'd started but he knew he couldn’t do that, even in this state. He pulled out to a cry of protest from Clint and immediately erupted across his back, bracing himself with one hand on Clint's good shoulder and rocking himself through his orgasm, squeezing the last few drops out of himself before doing the only thing that seemed logical and rubbing it into Clint’s skin. Clint moaned even more at that and Phil had to admit that it was rather an excellent sight, like he'd marked him as his own. 

 

The haze of lust began to clear and the worry began to set in, but Clint mumbled into the pillow again. “Think you can do my front?”