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It's in the water, baby

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Phil stares down at the heavy-lidded eyes and wet, reddened mouth of the man in his bed, and his brain honest-to-god short-circuits.

"Please, Phil," Clint Barton says, low and hoarse, white, even teeth sinking into his lower lip before letting it slide back out from between them. "Please, Daddy, fuck me."



"Oh my fuck, did you see that guy?" Marcus squeaks, excited and almost pathetically eager. All Clint can do is roll his eyes and keep his mouth shut, because he's not that guy, he's not the kind of asshole who'll sink to kink shaming. Everyone is entitled to like what they like.

Doesn't mean he has to join in, though. There's just the three of them here tonight, all gay as fairies -- they'd bonded over it the first week in their college dorm. Marcus and David are very much into older men, and so they dragged Clint with them to the classiest watering hole they could find -- which, Clint has to admit, is pretty damn classy. Soft lighting, leather chairs and booths, glass and chrome tables, architectural lampshades, excellent bar design -- yeah. Clint can get used to this.

He'd put on his best pair of black slacks and a light blue shirt open at the collar, and he more or less fits in, even with his sleeves rolled to midway up his arms -- he hates having clothing over his wrists; it makes his skin itch and feel too small for his body, reminds him too much of what he actually wants there. And though his friends are determined to end the night with a sugar daddy in their thrall, Clint is perfectly content to just soak up the atmosphere and return the smouldering glances he catches every now and again, from men as well as women. It's fun, makes him feel hot, desirable, wanted.

"Gonna go get a drink," he tells Marcus, who is busy making eyes at an African-American older man with silver in his finely coiffed hair. Marcus waves him off and bats his eyelashes in the guy's direction. Clint isn't even halfway across the room before Marcus has insinuated himself in the crook of the older man's arm, and the latter has his head nearly buried in Marcus's neck. Yeah, he'll be alright. David is at the other end of the room, in a dark corner with a silver-haired man; they look to be doing rather a lot more than talking. Clint grins wryly. It's fine, he's used to being left to his own devices. At least he can get a nice drink, spend a little while daydreaming about really fitting in, not just play-acting like he's doing now -- of one day being wealthy enough, successful enough, good enough to make it in here without having to pretend.

The bar is lavishly appointed, with beautifully-executed lighting that conforms to the shape of the room and still manages to throw just the right kind of shadows over the area it covers. As an Architecture major Clint is kind of conditioned to pay attention to these things. It's probably why it takes him so long to notice the man at the bar.

He isn't much taller than Clint -- in fact, he might be a couple of inches shorter, but he carries himself in such a way that he looks like he's at least six-feet-plus tall. His hair is thinning a little, but it gives him an air of authority rather than detract from it. Clint slides his eyes over the man's trim body, notes the excellent cut of his suit, the expensive yet tasteful cufflinks, the $500 shoes, the heavy watch on the man's left wrist. All signs point to at least comfortably wealthy, if not more. At the same time, he looks unassuming -- if you didn't note the sharpness of his eyes, the set of his jaw, the curl of his mouth as he watches the room. As he watches Clint.

Clint swallows dryly. This isn't like him; he's usually pretty cool around guys, he has no trouble flirting, or sending them packing, or just playing until he gets bored -- but this man, something tells Clint that his usual approach won't hold up here. This is a man who does not suffer fools gladly; who can dissect him with a few well-chosen words. By all accounts, Clint should run for the hills.

He walks closer instead, helplessly drawn in, like a moth to a flame. He leans on the bar, mirroring the man's pose, and tries not to feel like a sixteen-year-old with his first real crush, like a child playing at being a grown-up. Something about this man makes Clint feel small, young, in the best kind of way -- because this is a man who can handle that, who, if Clint would let him, is very much capable of taking care of him. The thought terrifies and exhilarates him all at once.

"What can I get you, sir?" the barman asks, startling Clint from where he has been staring, sweet Jesus, he's better than that.

"Um, vodka tonic with a twist of lime, please," he says, trying to sound his usual confident self.

"Forgive me for asking, sir, but may I see an ID?"

Clint sighs, longing for the day when his baby face won't get him automatically carded. He reaches inside his back pocket and takes out his driver's licence, letting the bartender take a good look at it.

"Thank you, sir. My apologies."

"No problem. You're just doing your job."

The bartender puts Clint's drink onto a pristine white square and slides it over. Clint pays him, waves off the change, and takes a long sip out of the perfectly mixed drink. When he's done, he steals a look at the man, still in his place at the bar. The man is tracking his throat as he swallows. It helps Clint regain a small boost of confidence.

He goes with, "This is a great place," for his opening gambit.

"It is," the man replies. His voice isn't particularly deep, but it's brisk and straightforward, used to commanding obedience. The thought should not make Clint's gut jump like it does. His voice sounds easy and unselfconscious as he goes on. "Is this your first time here?"

Oh, god. Clint feels like it is his first time, that's how flustered this guy is making him.

"Yeah. My friends dragged me over, but they've since gotten busy."

The man's mouth twitches. "They should know better than to leave someone as gorgeous as you alone," he says, and immediately bites his lip, like he wishes he could take that back. Hell if Clint's going to let him.

"Thanks," he purrs, takes a risk and looks at him from under his eyelashes. The man blinks, and a look comes into his eyes that makes Clint's very blood boil. All of a sudden, he can't breathe, can't open his mouth, because the next words out of it would undoubtedly be mortifying -- like "Please take me to bed," for example.

The man keeps looking at Clint, and for a horrifying, paranoia-induced moment Clint thinks he might have said that out loud.

Apparently not, because the man smiles, just a little. It makes him look softer, more approachable -- kind. Clint is well aware of his own daddy issues; it's just that he never imagined he would find someone who would make him want to revisit, or resolve them.

This man makes him want to do all that and more.

"So what brings you here?" Clint says, because his skin is prickling, oversensitive under this man's gaze, and he needs badly to distract himself. "Are you from out of town?" The bar is attached to a small, chic hotel on one side. It's not a big stretch.

The man shakes his head. "No. My new business partners are, though. They just left twenty minutes ago. I decided to stay for a drink. A choice that is proving auspicious."

His eyes travel over Clint's frame again. Clint cannot believe how eagerly his body is reacting to no more than a few looks. All of a sudden, he wants to touch this man more than he wants to breathe.

"Clint Barton," he says, and offers his hand.

The man looks at it for a long moment, and then takes it. "Phil Coulson."

Phil Coulson's grip is warm, and strong, and firm. His hand is wide, wider than Clint's, certainly, long fingers curling over the back of Clint's hand. This was a mistake, because now Clint does not want to let go. He doesn't think it's just his imagination that the handshake lasts several moments too long. When Phil does draw his arm away, Clint's hand immediately feels bereft. This is getting serious, fast. Clint had really better walk away.

He stays. He leans closer, too, just a little, just enough to feel the warmth of Phil's body close to his. Phil stares at him a little, but does not move away.

"So what kind of business do you run?" Clint asks, genuinely interested, and they're off.

He finds out that Phil works in security, as a consultant these days -- ex-military, Clint thinks, little observations clicking into place about the way Phil stands, and moves. Dear god: older, capable, used to command, exuding authority. It's like someone took all of Clint's wet dreams and gave them shape.

In turn, Phil asks him about what he does, and Clint admits that he's in his final year of college, studying Architecture. Phil looks impressed. It pleases Clint immensely. Phil orders Clint and himself another drink, and asks about whether Clint likes any sports. Clint tells him about his archery scholarship, and Phil looks even more impressed. Clint is drunk on his success, that he can make a man like Phil Coulson think Clint is good, special, worth something.

It's inevitable, really, that in the middle of their third drink Clint would lean closer and say, "Hey, Phil, do you want to go somewhere?"

The flare of heat in Phil's eyes makes Clint's mouth run dry. He feels his gut tighten, feels a sharp spike of arousal in his balls. Oh, god.

"Are you sure?" Phil says quietly, and even ensnared in his own desire, Clint kind of wants to cry at the care in his voice. Someone like Phil Coulson has no reason to care about someone like Clint Barton.

"I'm sure," Clint says determinedly.

"Okay, then." Phil puts a hand on the small of his back (it burns on Clint's skin through the fabric; he shudders helplessly) and steers him out of the door and around the corner into the hotel.



"Please, Daddy, fuck me."

Clint is stark naked, sprawled under him in the bed; he's looking up at Phil with these incredible eyes, at once vulnerable and defiant. They make Phil want to gather Clint in his arms, keep him close, keep him safe. But Clint is shivering beneath him, and his mouth is wet, and those eyes are desperate, begging Phil to fuck him, and good God, Phil has never felt anything like this wild, urgent need to take and mark and keep.

"Please," Clint pleads again, pupils blown, hands tracing Phil's chest, tugging him closer. Phil goes, reeling with what Clint called him, how it teases the flames in his belly into a full-blown conflagration.

"Say it again," Phil growls. He hardly recognises himself.

"Please," Clint moans, spreading those gorgeous, muscled legs of his, forming a cradle for Phil to lower himself into. That this beautiful, alluring creature should want him, let alone this much...

"No. The other thing."

Clint hesitates for a moment, looking confused. Then his brow smoothes again, and his eyes darken.

"Please, Daddy," he murmurs, and Phil can't stop himself, he surges forward, covers Clint's body with his and fairly attacks his mouth, nipping, sucking, taking. Clint opens up for him like he's been doing it all his life, lets Phil have anything he wants. Phil's cock is so hard it's probably digging painfully into Clint's thigh, not that Clint seems to care. His hands slide restlessly over Phil's back, clutching at him, as if Phil could disappear -- as if Phil could ever leave again. One palm closes on his ass, pulling him closer, and Phil almost loses it then and there.

"No," he says, reaching back to take Clint's wrist and pin it to the bed above his head. Clint arches into him, mouth going for his throat, getting in a suck and a lick before Phil makes himself pull back and grab his other wrist, too, sliding it under his hold. "Wait," he commands, and watches Clint shudder again. He locates the lube after a moment of undignified flailing and opens it one-handed, squirts a dollop onto his fingers, and then flicks the tube closed against his thigh and tosses it aside. Clint's licking his lips, eyes tracking hand, so Phil makes sure to go extra-slow, to show Clint exactly what he intends to do -- sometimes the anticipation makes the main event that much sweeter. When his fingers touch Clint's opening, Clint's hips lift helplessly, pushing onto them. Phil gives him what he wants, lets one finger slide inside and, a minute later, after Clint's impatient whine, adds another.

"Yeah," Clint gasps, throwing his head back. "Oh, yeah." His cock, shorter than Phil's but gloriously thick, is already leaking against his stomach. "Daddy, please."

Fuck. No doubt about it: Phil has learned something new about himself tonight, thanks to this kid--this man.

"You're being so good, Clint," he says, voice hoarse like he's been shouting all day. Clint's eyes fly open, looking heartbreakingly hopeful.

"Yeah?" he breathes, and Phil nods immediately.

"So good," he says again. Clint's eyes roll into his head, and his ass tightens around Phil's fingers.

"One more, and then I'm ready," Clint says breathlessly. "Give it to me."

Phil's cock jumps, and he does, he pulls the two digits out of Clint's body until just the tips remain inside, and then he adds the third and slides back in, the heat of Clint clutching at him and holding him fast.

"Fuck, yes," Clint grunts, arching his back. His arms are still where Phil is pinning his wrists; Phil has no doubt that Clint can get free in an instant, there are muscles over these arms that Phil never suspected existed -- but Clint doesn't seem to want to. The thought occurs to Phil that next time they can try handcuffs, and his mind almost blanks from the combination of unyielding metal on Clint's skin and the idea that there will be another time after this, and another, and another. He wants there to be. He just hopes that Clint does, too.

"I'm good, I'm good, come on. Phil, please." Clint is biting his lip, his stomach all but doing crunches, his hips caught in an unending sway backwards and forwards.

Phil pulls out his fingers and lets go of Clint's wrists, because he needs both hands to roll on a condom and slick himself. Clint lets out a small, unhappy sound, but doesn't comment, and Phil instantly resolves to put both hands right back where his left was just as soon as he's done.

"Come on, Daddy, please, I need you so bad," Clint groans, and Phil's hands actually start shaking a little with the spike of lust it drives through him.

At long last he's done, and he grabs his cock, braces it against Clint's opening, and pushes in. He slips inside easier than he thinks he should, but he did use a lot of lube, and Clint is clearly much too turned on to tighten up again. His body is hot, so hot around Phil's cock; it's a close fit, and Phil can feel Clint's pulse right there, right over his skin. He groans as he slides all the way in, and lets himself drop onto Clint's chest, hands going up to pin Clint's wrists again.

"Oh, god, Daddy, you feel so good, I'm so full of you," Clint moans, voice thready, legs coming to wind around Phil's hips -- and Phil maybe loses his mind, just a little.

His hips start flexing, dragging him out of Clint's body and pushing him back inside, and it's so good, too good; it makes Phil's skin feel too small for his body, makes him want to fall apart, that this incredible boy--man, he's a man, even if he is nearly twenty years Phil's junior--that he wants Phil, wants to give himself to Phil, trusts Phil to take care of him, make it good for him. Phil's mind can hardly conceive of it all.

It doesn't take long. In fact, it takes an embarrassingly short time, but when Clint is writhing under him, saying, "Please, Daddy, do it, fuck me," over and over again, well, Phil dares anyone to hold off for longer. When Clint's body starts tightening around him, and he starts gasping for air, Phil knows Clint's close enough that he starts pounding into him as hard and fast as he'll take, rhythm broken all to hell.

"I'm doing well, right, tell me I'm doing well," Clint begs, clearly too far gone to censor himself, and Phil feels his heart turn over in his chest from the wave of emotions the words unleash, says, "Yeah, Clint, yeah, you're doing so well, you're such a good boy for your Daddy--" and that's it, apparently, that's what Clint needed, because he goes off before Phil can even try to worm a hand between their bodies and jerk him off. He sounds like he's shaking apart; he sounds like he's coming so hard it's painful, and Phil is torn between soothing him through it and losing himself inside him instead. Clint takes the choice from him when he tightens his legs around Phil's hips and mouths over his throat, sucks a bruise right where it meets his jaw, where no shirt collar has a chance to cover it. Phil gives him what he wants.

Afterwards, they disentangle sluggishly, still catching their breaths. They're both filthy with semen, from where Clint's cock spurted between them, and Phil, grateful for once that they're in a hotel, uses the top sheet to wipe both of them clean. Clint is lying spread-eagled on his back, panting and staring at the ceiling through heavy lids, flushed all the way down to his chest. He twitches a little when Phil cleans him off, and Phil murmurs a soft "Sorry."

"Fuck me, that was intense," Clint slurs, clearly still a little out of it.

"It was something else," Phil agrees, stretching out on his back at Clint's side, basking in the afterglow before awkwardness takes its place.

"You didn't mind, right?" Clint asks, so perfectly unconcerned that Phil knows immediately that the answer matters much more to him than he lets on.

"Mind what?" he asks, carefully noncommittal.

"That I called you 'Daddy'?"

A frisson of sensation crawls through Phil's gut at the word in Clint's mouth, even after everything. "I think you can safely say that I did not mind in the least. In fact--" and maybe he should wait, maybe he should retcon more before he does this, but fuck it, he wants to. "--In fact, I'd really like it if you wanted to do it again."

Clint snorts a pleased huff of laugh. "Yeah, sure, Phil, give me twenty and I'll definitely be up for 'again'."

Phil smiles, but shakes his head. "No, that's not what I meant. I meant, I'd like it if you--um, if you wanted to, to see me again. I know it's probably not what you hoped to get out of tonight, and I know that I'm so much older than you, but--I'd like to. So if you think you might like to as well, that would be--um. Great." Crap. There goes the smooth image he'd somehow managed to cling to up until now.

Clint, however, doesn't seem bothered by his lack of eloquence. He's staring at Phil with wide, fathomless eyes. "You'd want to?" he says, so honestly surprised that Phil just can't help himself. He turns onto his side and lifts his hand, runs his thumb over Clint's plush lower lip, traces his cheekbone up to the corner of his eye, smoothes away the grooves in his brow that Clint is much too young for.

"Very much," he says quietly.

Clint surges up and kisses him, kisses him stupid, incoherent, sneaks his tongue inside Phil's mouth, pushes back until Phil is supine and Clint can crawl over his chest, kiss him like he never wants to stop.

"Yes," he breathes over Phil's lips when they break for air. "Yes, I want to." He looks like he wants to say more, but changes his mind at the last moment, leaning down to kiss Phil again.

Something tells Phil that this is going to be a long road, working through whatever issues of self-worth Clint clearly has. And yes, there may well come a time when Clint will look at him and see just how much better than Phil he can do. But Phil will cross that bridge when they come to it. Clint is worth the leap of faith.