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ain't no way to stop

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Phil watches on the monitors as the car drops Clint off at the front door; it's not the towncar this time, just the blue sedan they use when they're not making 'deliveries.' He steps out of the surveillance room- which might as well be the surveillance closet for how small and cramped it is- picking up his gun and holstering it before he lets the door seal behind him.

The door is opening now, and Phil creeps down the hallway, his hand on his gun. "Honey, I'm home," Clint says loudly, and Phil doesn't respond. "I don't get any sugar? No cocktail and slippers?" Phil rolls his eyes, but he stays quiet. "Okay, okay, Alpha Tango Six Niner X-Ray Kilo Viceroy Blizzard et cetera."

Phil steps out of the hallway; Clint is in the kitchen, running himself a glass of water. "Miss me?" Clint asks.

"What's the situation?" Phil says, walking over and kissing him on the cheek.

"Same old, same old," Clint says. "The Widow is the same Widow she always is. Business is up. I have confirmation that Stark's still fucking Pepper, which, believe me, is a real loss for the men of southern California."

Phil sits down on a chair next to the table, his back against the wall, the kitchen and front doors in his line of sight. "Are you ready for this assignment to be over?" he says, aware that he might sound a little snippy. They've been on this op for six months now, and if nothing else, Phil could use a break.

"Job's not done," Clint says, shrugging. "And I get to keep the tips." Phil sighs; Clint grins at him, and Phil knows he's in for it. "Admit it," Clint says, sauntering over, his thumbs tucked into the waistband of his low-rise jeans. "You like this assignment a whole lot better than the last undercover gig."

"You were a janitor last time," Phil says, trying to sound calm. "It was a perfectly reasonable assignment."

"Fuck reason," Clint says, and now he's close, too close, close enough to bend over and kiss Phil, his hand cupping the back of Phil's head to keep him from getting away. "She hired me out to a woman this last time," he says lightly.

"Clint," he says, but it's not exactly as forceful as he hoped. He wants this to stop, he really does, but there's something in Clint's words, the disgusting beauty of them, that makes him keep going every time.

"Same difference, because she still wanted to fuck me," Clint says, and only Clint could make the word 'fuck' sound ten times more dirty than it already is. "The only thing that changed is that she made me lick her cunt afterwards." He slides to the floor, deftly unzipping Phil's pants and drawing out his cock. "She even wanted to fuck my face." He licks a stripe up Phil's cock, sucking the tip briefly. "So I let her."

Phil shuts his eyes as Clint takes his cock all the way into his mouth; the only reason this op has worked out is that Clint was so goddamn good before he even left, not that Phil shared that fact with the planning team, and now he doesn't do anything but practice. Clint spends more time with a cock in his mouth than without one, and it shows, it really does. Phil tries not to think about how much he thinks about that, of a line of nameless, faceless people who show up, use his ass or his mouth, and then leave.

Clint pulls off, stroking Phil's dick. "She went hard, too," Clint says. "My throat still hurts from the way she was pounding into it." He puts his mouth around him again, sucking messily, obscene noises coming from him. "It's always worse with women," he says, pulling off again, sounding conversational. "They think just because their dicks are silicone, it doesn't matter how huge they are. And shit, she was enormous." He shuts up again, a blessing and a curse, because every single word he says is going directly to Phil's cock, but if Clint's not talking, he's sucking, and either way Phil's going to either die or come at any moment.

Clint doesn't say anything for a while, just sucks Phil down like his life depends on it. Phil laces his fingers in Clint's hair; he doesn't have to guide or push, because Clint's going after him like a man on a mission. If Phil wasn't getting it for free, he's not sure he wouldn't pay, because there's nothing quite like Clint at all.

"Stop," Phil says, when he's almost at his breaking point, pushing at Clint's shoulder. "Fuck, Clint, stop."

Clint pulls away from him, licking his lips, and Phil almost comes anyway. He doesn't say anything; he doesn't have to, not when Clint's already pulling off his shirt, toeing off his shoes. He stands up, unzipping his fly and letting his pants fall around his ankles, kicking them away. He's already hard, more than ready to go, as eager as Phil is to get on with this- though Phil's not sure anyone could be as eager as he is right now.

"Get on top," Phil says, and Clint's doing it almost before he finishes his sentence, crawling into his lap and straddling his legs. He kisses Phil wildly, rubbing his cock against Phil's, looking for all the friction he can get.

Phil reaches underneath him, wondering if he can get away with using spit right now, because he's not sure he can stand the wait for anything else. His fingers brush against Clint's hole, slipping right in, his ass stretched and slick. Phil looks at him in shock. "You didn't-"

Clint grins. "Only got back from her place at eleven. She's a fan of morning sex."

"Jesus fuck," Phil says, grabbing the base of his dick so that he doesn't go off right then, suddenly desperate for it, more desperate than he might have been ever. Clint just smiles, knowing exactly what he's done, the bastard; he reaches into- of all the fucking things- the potted plant and unearths a condom, a little bit of potting soil on it but still intact, and Phil is too gone to do anything but rip it open and roll it on.

"Come on," Clint moans. "Come on, Phil, already loose and wet for you, do it-" He gasps as Phil pushes up into him, slicked up with nothing but what's left inside him. Clint pushes back, taking Phil all the way in until there's nowhere else to go. Phil slaps him sharply on the thigh, making Clint jump.

"Show me," Phil growls. "Prove to me why they should pay all that money to fuck this ass."

Clint starts to ride him, laughing breathlessly. "They overpay," he says, moving faster, winding his hips, generally trying to kill him with pleasure. "They can fuck me until I'm raw and sore and full of come, and they do, they really do, I let them ruin me, Phil." Phil slips a hand between their bodies, jerking him quickly, knowing he's never going to last if Clint keeps this up, not any time at all. Clint bends down and kisses him hard, just once, before he bends back and does something with his hips that would make a nun curse. "They get to wreck me and use me up," he says, the words ratcheting up the tension in Phil's stomach, "but I never give the best to anybody but you."

Phil comes with a choked-off cry, his head thrown back. Clint is still moving on him, wringing it from him, but he doesn't last either, pushing down on Phil and coming hard across both their stomachs. He clings to Phil, clutching his shoulders as he comes down, and Phil slides his hands down his back, holding him close.

They just breathe for a long time, spent, until Phil finally speaks. "The plant, Clint?"

"I hid the bugs in here," Clint reminds him. "It's best practice when you're setting up a safehouse. Anywhere you leave a bug, leave a condom and a knife, and then you're ready for anything."

Phil shakes his head. "Something is wrong with you."

Clint pushes playfully at his shoulders. "You're just mad you didn't think of it first, Boy Scout."

Phil's brain very suddenly switches back on, his eyes going wide. "Wait, shit, you let me do that right next to the bug?"

"Phil, I'm on an undercover op as a hooker," Clint says slowly. "I think everyone at SHIELD is well past the point of caring." He looks thoughtful for a moment. "Though I actually have no idea who's on the other end this time of day." Phil feels like he's about to have an aneurysm, but Clint just smiles, kissing him on the cheek as he stands up. "I'm fucking with you, that one's not broadcasting to base."

Phil rubs his forehead. "Can we please limit you trying to kill me to less than once a day?"

"We can, but it probably won't help," Clint says, reaching for his pants. "Are you ready to formally debrief me?"

He motions to the paper towels, and Clint grabs him one. "I appreciate you not making the pun for once," he says, cleaning up a little before he wraps the condom up in it and tosses it into the trash.

"Give me time," Clint tells him, bending over and kissing him.