Chapter Text
Clint dragged Phil up the stairs to Phil’s flat, and hopped about impatiently while Phil unlocked the door. He was perfectly capable of waiting patiently, still as a statue, for hours on end, but he didn’t want to, and he wanted Phil to know that he was very definitely looking forward to being in a place where Phil would kiss him again, so he hopped from foot to foot until Phil shooed him inside, at which point he grabbed hold of Phil’s silk tie and hauled him in, then pushed him up against the hall wall (he also kicked the door shut, just to make a point).
He had discovered a fascinating point on Phil’s throat, just below his ear, where he could feel a pulse flickering beneath his lips, and he was also making some progress with undoing Phil’s tie, when Phil pushed him back, gently, and Clint did try, really quite hard, not to make quite such an indignant squawking noise, or to look quite as disappointed as he did.
“I just want to make it very clear, Specialist Barton, that you are not to go disappearing,” Phil said, calmly, although he was definitely looking a little pink.
“Sir?” Clint fiddled with Phil’s tie.
“You are not to run away. Not now, not in a few hours, not in the middle of the night, not tomorrow morning …”
“You’re planning on me being here all night?” Clint felt rather better about the kissing being halted.
“Focus, Barton.”
“No running, sir.”
“I am planning on this being a recurring theme in both our lives, there will be paperwork, but I am not drunk, stoned, being blackmailed by anyone, forced by anyone, or indeed, half asleep.”
“Wouldn’t you say you weren’t being blackmailed even if you were?”
Phil smacked him on the back of the hand, gently. “Clint, be serious.”
“Yes, sir. Phil. I understand. I’m …” Clint ran a hand through his hair, and fiddled with Phil’s tie a bit more, staring at the floor between them. “I’m definitely hoping for a theme. I’d like that. I’d really like that.”
“Good. Running away and hiding will not help. And I want you to tell me when you’re worried,” Phil caressed Clint’s face, and tilted his chin up, so he could look him in the eye. His eyes were warm, and reassuring, and very familiar to Clint, and Clint trusted Phil, had trusted him with his life for so long that he knew that Phil was honest, and he cared, and so he tamped down the wanting to run, and nodded, and smiled.
Phil knew Clint was tamping down on the running, and trying, so he didn’t say any more – Nat had told him that the running and hiding was as much a reflex as the pull and release of shooting to Clint, so Phil was trying not to take it too personally. And he’d stopped kissing Clint, and Clint hadn’t run, which was progress, so he hugged him, wrapping his arms around him, and burying his face in Clint’s neck, and it was a few seconds before Clint relaxed, and hugged him back, slightly too tightly, burrowing into Phil’s hair, and taking several deep breaths.
They stood like that for several minutes, until Clint, who was showing an alarming propensity for fidgeting, started running his lips over Phil’s ears, with the air of one who was quite determined to kiss every inch of the other man; he was utterly delighted to find that Phil’s ears were both ticklish and erogenous, and set to nuzzling him with a will, while holding the smaller man tightly as he wiggled and chuckled.
“You are a terrible person,” Phil huffed, twisting out of Clint’s grasp and trying to look stern.
Clint grinned at him. “And you turn red when I tickle you. This. Will. Be. Epic.” He crowed, and advanced towards Phil, who looked deeply unimpressed, but didn’t move. He tried stern again. Clint laughed, and launched himself at Phil, picking him up and carrying him into the living room, where he dumped Phil on the sofa, and straddled his hips, then kissed him firmly for good measure, nipping at Phil’s lips and tonguing him, his weight pushing the smaller man deeper into the leather, while Phil pulled him closer and kissed back.
Fucking hell, but Phil was a good kisser. Clint loved kissing, loved how kissing changed with mood and need and urgency, and Phil kissed really, really, really well, so well that Clint wanted to open the window and scream it into the afternoon, and tell complete strangers that Phil Coulson was awesome at making out, except he didn’t want to stop kissing Phil – wasn’t sure he could stop, to be honest, because he’d been wanting to kiss him for the best part of about two years, ever since he’d watching Phil take down two heavily armed men in a butcher’s shop in Shanghai, and twitched his suit back into place and turned to Phil and asked if he was coming, just like that. He’d even left the shopkeeper some money for the chop. Clint had been hopelessly smitten, even though Phil wasn’t his type, even though he thought it was possibly the stupidest thing he’d ever done (and he’d definitely done stupid things before), and he had been convinced that Phil never even looked at him as nothing more than an specialist, an asset, a pain in the arse, and he was just starting to get to the point where he was considering he should probably try to get over it, but now he was on the sofa in Phil’s living room, making out like a hormonally-addled teenager. For a day that had started out as shittily as it had, it had definitely taken an upswing.
It wasn’t the only thing, and Clint started to move his hips, grinding his cock against Phil, against Phil’s erection, and he managed to get Phil’s tie off (Clint flung it to the other side of the room, earning him a disapproving nip, which only made him more determined to get the rest of Phil’s clothes off, because Clint liked being bitten). Phil groaned, and ran his hands over Clint’s trouser-covered thighs, gripping at his hips at a particularly sweet moment of friction, and Clint started to wonder if he was going to come in his pants, which was taking the hormonal addling just a step too far. He moaned into Phil’s mouth, and started trying to get Phil’s jacket off.
Phil pushed him up, sitting up to work his shoulders free, nipping at Clint’s throat, and dumped his jacket on the floor.
“Fuck,” Clint murmured, because usually Phil hung his jacket up carefully, he never just left it places. “Why is that the hottest thing you’ve ever done?”
Phil raised an eyebrow. “Do you have any particular perversions I’ve somehow missed?”
Clint grinned. “Says the man who is so attached to his suits he dresses up to go the cornershop.”
“You’ve never worn the right suit.”
“Phil, sir, I am not a suit person. I don’t like ties. I look like I’m playing dress-up.”
Phil smiled. “Says the man who once announced that head to toe black wasn’t cool enough.”
“It needed something. I’m awesome. I should look awesome.” Clint puffed his chest out and struck a pose.
Phil hit him with a cushion, which Clint took as encouragement to start stripping, shrugging his vest of, and hauling at his t-shirt, which he somehow managed to get tangled up in, so Phil took advantage, and ran his fingers over Clint’s scarred torso, lines of hard muscle crossed with scars, some old, newer ones jarringly white, and Phil traced each of them, remembering long nights of worry, whirls of excitement and danger and heart-stopping fear, moments that stretched forever waiting to hear Clint’s “I’m ok” when he fell, when he disappeared, when he charged recklessly after Natasha. Clint freed himself from his shirt (classy, Barton, way to impress him), and gasped as Phil ran a curious finger over his nipple; Phil smiled, and brushed his thumb across it, feeling it harden. Clint ground down against Phil’s cock, and Phil lifted his other hand to run short nails over both nipples, a faint flicker of concentration in his eyes, and Clint decided that he really did approach sex like an op, and it was definitely as hot as hell. Hotter, possibly, because Clint knew he’d never go into the field again without thinking of Phil like this. He sucked air in through his teeth as Phil gave one nipple an experimental tweak, and grabbed at Phil’s shirt.
“Fucking buttons,” he muttered, and Phil laughed, a huff of amusement, and pushed him back, undoing the buttons himself with quick, deft movements, while Clint stared, then dived for Phil, running hands and tongue over hard muscle. Phil was muscular, more than he looked (Clint knew this already, had watched him train and fight and – memorably – get the snot kicked out of him by a Ukrainian heavy somewhere in Uzbekistan), and Clint traced faint scars through wiry chest hair, and ran his tongue over Phil’s flat nipples, causing Phil’s hands to tighten in his hair and his cock to twitch. Clint nipped at Phil’s side, where a jagged scar traced a thin white line towards his hipbone, and shuffled further down the sofa, straddling Phil’s legs, sliding a finger under the waistband of his trousers, kissing a line across his hard stomach, feeling Phil twitch beneath him.
Clint looked up, and Phil was watching him, cheeks flushed, lips slightly open, and he smiled up at him. Phil stroked his cheek, and Clint leaned into it, pressed a kiss into Phil’s palm, and sucked on his finger; Phil drew him up, and kissed him properly, his tongue moving slowly against Clint’s, his arms wrapping around him.
“I need you to slow down, Clint,” Phil murmured, drawing his head back, even as he twined his legs through Clint’s. “Please.”
Clint blinked at him. “Sir?”
“Phil.”
“Sorry. Habit. What’s wrong, Phil?”
“Um…” Phil blushed, properly blushed.
Clint smiled. He kissed Phil, because a blushing Phil was adorable, and irresistible, and kissable. But swiftly, because Phil did not say “um” and look confused and nervous (irritated, amused, tired – these were all familiar emotions on Phil’s face, but nervous was not one of them, and Clint was touched and nervous too).
“Um,” Clint prompted, and resisted the urge to kiss Phil again, and leant up on his elbows, not breaking contact, just enough to look properly into Phil’s eyes.
“Um. This is, um. New. To me. Sex.”
Clint blinked. “You’ve never had sex? I know you’re married to the job, Phil, but that’s a little extreme. Even Hill gets laid. Even Sitwell, and he’s had the same glasses since forever.”
Phil’s lips curled with amusement. “With men. A man.”
Clint grinned. “You mean that I, Clinton Francis Barton, have made you gay? You’ve gone gay for Hawkeye?” He grinned wider.
“Little bit.”
“I AM A GOD. A SEXY, SEXY GOD OF SEX AND COCK,” Clint shouted, and jumped up, pirouetting in the middle of the living room, and jumping onto the back of the sofa. “I HAVE TURNED A MAN GAY WITH MY VERY EXISTENCE.”
“This was not the reaction I was hoping for,” Phil observed, watching him.
“I am THE FUCKING WINNER.”
“I’m feeling straighter by the second.”
“Not a fucking chance of that, sir,” Clint whoops, and slithers down the cushions to kneel over Phil, grinning like a lunatic. “I am fucking sexy, sir. I’m so sexy I make nice, sensible, straight, straight-laced agents like Phil Coulson go all gooey and rainbow-coloured inside. I’m the gay-maker.”
“I think Specialist Romanov would definitely agree with you.”
“Low blow, sir. Low. And that’s just Nat. She’s not picky. I’m not picky either.” Clint waggled his eyebrows.
“I think I preferred it when you were trying to run away,” Phil sighed.
“Nonsense.” Clint grinned, and kissed him, hard. “I thought we were sharing.”
Phil looked amused. “Shut up and kiss me, Barton.”
“Sir, yes, sir.”
Phil would definitely have to file paperwork for this. The first time Clint had ever obeyed a direct order without moaning or sarcasm.
Clint did move a little more slowly, after that. He shifted, so he and Phil lay face-to-face, his back pressed into the leather of the sofa, Phil no longer beneath him; this obviously had nothing to do with making it easier to help himself to a generous handful of Phil’s arse, which he squeezed appreciatively. He toed his shoes off, and shifted a leg between Phil’s thighs, which was rewarded with a soft moan, and pulled him a little closer. He could very definitely cope with kissing. Even a little petting. Maybe some groping of Phil’s deliciously hard backside. But he didn’t push, because after years of pining, just kissing was definitely enough; he’d spent so long wishing to get this far alone, that he wanted to be pinched just to make sure he was definitely not dreaming. Phil’s skin was soft beneath his hands, and he smelled so fucking good, of navy blue and tea and soap, with a hint of sweat, of excitement and lust, and Clint inhaled him, tasted him (soap and tea and salt), and revelled in him.
It was Phil who decided to move things along, sliding a tentative hand between them, over Clint’s hips, brushing careful fingers over him, and Clint held his breath, because he was trying very hard not to make a complete mess, and he let it out with a slow “fuuuuuck”, and kissed Phil hard as Phil smoothed a palm along the length of his cock, grinding gently into his hand, and Phil murmured something into his mouth, and Clint clung to him, trying very hard to remember simple things like days of the week and his own name. Phil smiled. Clint moaned again, and pulled Phil against him, and Phil experimented with palming his cock, and slid a thumb over Clint’s hard stomach, feathering above his waistband, curiosity and lust in his eyes.
“Fuck, Phil,” Clint panted into his neck. “Fuck. God. Phil. Fuck.”
Phil took his inarticulate profanity as a good sign, and slid his thumb under Clint’s waistband, fiddling with the button of his fly. Clint wiggled his hips, because he wanted, needed his trousers off right now, and he moaned loudly when Phil’s cool, strong hand wrapped around his cock, thrusting against his hand, and buried his face in Phil’s shoulder, and groaned out the other man’s name.
“Phil. Fuck. Gonna come. Fuck.”
Phil smiled, and looked down, because this was definitely easier than he’d thought, and better, so much better; Clint’s cock filled his fist, hard and heavy and hot, and Phil felt his own answering hardness, but he needed Clint, needed his pleasure. He kissed Clint’s face, and wrapped his free arm more firmly around him, smoothing across his scarred back, and fucked Clint with his hand, pumping in sure, firm strokes, and he murmured reassurance and love, and Clint growled his name as he came, hard and fast, into Phil’s hand and over both of them, thrusting blindly.
Clint kissed him, hard, desperate, moaning still, and reached to unwind Phil’s fingers from his cock, and he licked them clean, which made Phil gasp, and then he kissed Phil again, tasting his own come and Phil’s mouth, wrapping both arms around Phil, and sighing, and moaning a little as his cock twitched from the contact with Phil’s trousers.
“For a man who has never touched another cock in his life, you are fucking fantastic. Actually, you are fucking fantastic anyway,” Clint murmured into Phil’s hair. “You’re incredible. I am so sticky. Fuck.”
Phil laughed, and stroked his hand across Clint’s shoulder. “You’re adorable. And that was amazing.”
Clint grinned, and pushed himself above Phil, and wriggled out of his trousers. Phil looked up at him, smiling ever so slightly, flushed – Clint decided that the way his chest blushed too was definitely amazing – and touched the puddle of Clint’s come on his stomach. He licked his finger, experimentally, and raised an eyebrow at Clint, who was staring.
“You are … fuck. Just … fuck. I mean. Fuck.”
“Words, Clint. They help immeasurably.”
Clint was not very good with words, so he settled for licking his own come off Phil, and tonguing him deeply, before attacking Phil’s suit trousers with a determined expression. He yanked at Phil’s shoes, not bothering with the laces, and hauled his trousers down, leaving Phil in a pair of neat, navy jersey boxers – the front stained wet with pre-come – and a pair of socks. They had little Captain American shields on them, which made Clint smile.
“Gonna have to get you some Hawkeye socks. Little arrows. Purple. Make everyone know who you really love,” Clint knelt on the floor, and removed the socks, carefully, running a slow thumb tenderly over the arch of Phil’s foot, and pitching the socks into each shoe. He sucked experimentally on one of Phil’s toes, which made Phil laugh and flinch. “Awesome. Ticklish feet.” Clint kissed his way up Phil’s leg, pulling Phil towards him, tickling the back of his knees with a devilish grin, and nipping softly at the inside of Phil’s thighs. Phil groaned, and flopped back, stretching his hands to play with Clint’s hair.
Clint brushed kisses over Phil’s legs, rubbing the soft skin covering hard muscle with the stubble on his cheeks. He ran his fingers lightly over the edges of Phil’s boxers, over the tenting fabric that covered his cock, feeling the tightness of Phil’s balls under the heel of his palm. Clint loved this, loved the feeling of Phil’s hands in his hair – desperately trying not to clench at him – and the soft moans Phil was making, he loved the smell of Phil here, of sweat and sex and Clint’s come, and the need in Phil’s heavy-lidded eyes, the concentration that showed in the set of his mouth, the same concentration that showed when Phil took aim with his pistol during an op. Clint smiled, and ran his mouth over Phil’s erection, lips firm on fabric.
“Fuck!” Phil’s hips bucked against Clint, and Clint chuckled.
“You want this, sir?”
“Fuck, Clint. Yes. Yes. Please.”
“You sure?” Clint pressed another open kiss to the very tip of Phil’s cock, the fabric wet and slick, Phil’s cock jerking against his lips. Clint hooked a finger over the waistband of Phil’s boxers, and paused.
“Please. Yes.” Phil moaned, and clenched his thighs around Clint’s shoulders.
Clint grinned, and tugged slightly on the elastic. And paused, he couldn’t help himself.
“Clint, please.”
“Please what, sir. I’m not sure what you need.”
Phil moaned, and his cock twitched again. Clint could get used to this.
“Use your words, sir.”
Phil kicked him in the ribs. “Fuck, Clint. Touch me. Please.”
Clint rubbed his palms over Phil’s thighs, and brushed them over the base of his cock. Phil groaned, and thrust towards him.
“Need you. Need you so much,” Phil babbled. “Please, Clint. Need you.”
Slowly, far slower than he wanted, Clint slid Phil’s boxers off, sliding them down his legs, then wrapping his hand around Phil’s cock, smiling to himself, liking the weight and width of it. Clint had never considered himself much of a size queen, but he decided then and there that he was about to become one. Or maybe just for Phil’s cock. He pumped his fist slowly, making Phil groan and thrust up, so he stilled the other man’s hips with his free hand, and fondled his balls carefully.
Phil was definitely babbling now, groaning Clint’s name, swearing, pushing against him, running hands over Clint’s head and neck.
Clint ran a damp finger from the tip of Phil’s erection, over his balls, and across his perineum, twitching to reach Phil’s hole, caressing the edges, not putting any pressure on, just stroking, softly, while he pressed gentle kisses along the length of Phil’s cock, flicking with his tongue, swirling around the head as he echoed the movement with his finger. Phil moaned incoherently, pressing against Clint. Clint pressed his finger against Phil as he took him in his mouth, spare hand holding Phil’s cock steady. Clint took him in, slowly, torturing himself, making Phil moan loudly, humming around Phil’s cock, then slowly drawing back; Phil clutched at his hair, pushed against his finger, and Clint would have smiled, but instead he began to suck, firmly, regularly, revelling in the taste of Phil’s cock, the smell of his need, better than anything he could have imagined. Phil bucked into his mouth, and Clint heard him moan again, crying out Clint’s name, and he increased the pressure of his finger, not wanting to push too far, just enough, pressing into muscle and feeling it give, just a little, and he cheered inside his head as he slipped the tip, the very tip, of his finger inside Phil, and fucked Phil with his mouth and his finger. Phil cried out, fingers digging into Clint’s head, pushing his cock deeper into Clint’s willing mouth, yelling as he felt himself release, as Clint swallowed and sucked until Phil sunk into a wordless, moaning heap, his legs boneless.
Clint smiled, and pressed a kiss to the inside of Phil’s leg, feeling Phil’s fingers twitch nervelessly, and he moved to lie with him, wrapping his legs around Phil’s naked length, and kissed him again.
“You’re beautiful,” he murmured. “Shh, it’s ok.”
Phil huffed into Clint’s chest. “Fuck, Clint.”
“We did,” Clint said gravely. “And I’m Clint.”
Phil chuckled weakly. “I’m not that far gone.”
“I’m taking that as a challenge,” Clint kissed him, seriously, and Phil tasted his own come on Clint’s lips, and he smiled.
“You’re amazing.”
“Shut up, Phil. Before I start on that challenge.”
Phil prodded him in the ribs, the smoothed his hands over Clint’s side, snuggling closer. “No running,” he murmured into Clint’s neck, kissing his collarbone dopily.
“Yes, sir,” Clint replied, and he meant it, and they slept, wrapped in each other.
Nat made them a blanket, in purple and grey and blue.