Work Text:
He doesn’t normally get this exhausted. Not only because it’s almost (or should be) a physical impossibility and has been for the last seven – Christ, has it been that long? – years, but because his life isn’t usually quite so out of control.
But Tony doesn’t make allowances for senior finals, or patrols, and still expects him to put in a full working week in the Stark labs. If anything, Tony makes his regular disappointment in how Peter runs his life clear. There’s always something Tony thinks Peter should be focusing on that he isn’t. He usually hasn’t even thought about it.
This time, ironically, it’s his social life. Ironic, because Tony is the master of having no social life himself, outside of occasional group gatherings in the Tower, anyway. And also ironic because Tony is all about work, work, work for both himself and his protégé. But all of a sudden, he wants Peter to ‘live a little, like I used to’, and Peter senses Pepper’s hand in it, although she was very quick to point out Peter shouldn’t quite be cutting loose the way Tony used to.
Anyway, all that was before the attack. He was already suffering with an overdose of (legal) stimulants, too much work, and not enough sleep. And then the little green men came. Well, not men, exactly, although Peter’s still unclear as to exactly what orientation they went by. They were nasty little things. Sometimes some massive space snake or a vicious army of super soldiers is easier to deal with than the kind of opponent that can crawl up your back, like something from a low-budget 1980s horror movie, before you’ve even realized they’re there.
Even though JARVIS confirmed, three times, they’re definitely gone, Peter still shudders at the memory of those filed-sharp teeth, the tiny claws as piercing as a rat’s, the almost dead-eye gaze of pure emerald green; all of it diving for his face, being ineffectually fought off – yanking one and flinging it, only for it to be replaced by three more, too small to get a good grip on. It was only when Hawkeye had cleanly picked every one from Spidey’s body, that he’d been able to actually use his webslingers, first to climb high and then to pin the little bastards down so they could be gathered up and sent back to whatever hell-dimension they’d burst forth from. He didn’t worry about that too much – that was something for Dr Strange to concern himself with. All Peter wanted to do was go help the cops with assisting residents in Queens to find their way home now the coast was clear.
Most of the others went to a bar, as usual. It wasn’t that Peter wasn’t invited. It’s always an open invitation, and Peter has been over legal drinking age for years now, but Tony does always manage to make him feel like he’s sixteen again, and he doesn’t want to deal with that, not in front of the other Avengers. None of them – but especially not one in particular.
He isn’t sure when his admiration for Hawkeye – Clint – moved from hero worship to lust. And then moved a little further left. But it’s a pointless crush – he knows that. Clint is just- ugh, he can’t even find the words inside his own head, that’s how pathetic he is about it. He isn’t stupid, and he knows Clint sees him as a kid, the way he ruffles his hair to tell him ‘well done’ for a good fight; fuck, the way he calls him ‘kid’. Though he has been known to call Bucky that too. And Peter once heard him say it to Cap, but he just looked down at himself, confused.
No, Clint is never going to see Peter as anything other than the newbie – the child-Avenger. Peter likes to think he’s acquitted himself enough over the years that Clint has at least stopped arguing with the others that he shouldn’t be included on missions due to the danger, but he’s hardly going to suddenly notice the way Peter’s shoulders are a lot broader than they used to be, or that Peter’s now only five inches shorter than him, instead of eight. And, apparently, he isn’t going to notice the way that whenever they gather in the main living area for movie night, Peter spends more time gazing at the side of Clint’s ridiculously ruggedly handsome face instead of the screen, or the way Peter always makes him extra waffles or pancakes when it’s his turn on breakfast. Sure, Clint makes him extra too, when it’s his turn, but that’s only because he thinks Peter’s scrawny and needs feeding up.
God, thinking about unrequited love. He feels like Romeo lusting after Rosalind. He’d better be careful not to fall into something unsuitable with some Juliet-type. That never ends well. Though, even if he hasn’t swooned for anyone else, Peter’s done more than his fair share of trying to forget his feelings in the beds of random pick ups over the last two years.
Peter pulls his hoody up tighter. He’s still wearing his super suit, but he needs the warmth, and looks down at himself with a little shame as he realizes the over-sized lilac sweater actually belongs to Clint. He lent it to Peter one night when they were all watching the stars on the roof, and Peter’s just never given it back. That probably breaks some friend-covenant, but not enough for him to actually hand it back.
He can almost imagine it still smells like Clint (it doesn’t, it’s been washed several times since then – Peter sometimes sleeps in it), and he leans against the alley wall, just for a moment, breathing in the fabric-softener scent of it, wishes that he was breathing in Clint instead. He huffs so deep he feels he can almost smell that masculine, clean smell of the man right there.
Of course, the way he almost leaps right out of his skin when he opens his eyes and he’s there is totally justified.
“Clint?” he whispers, wondering if he’s finally lost his mind with this crush, but he gets the slightly bitter breath of alcohol. He’s really there, standing in front of Peter, at the mouth of the alley, looking tall and broad and painfully sexy, but also bone-tired and quite drunk.
“How much, Pretty Boy?” Clint jokes unsteadily, winking too slowly and pretending to leer but accidentally grinning that face-cracking wide smile he has instead. The one that makes Peter’s heartbeat stutter and, this time, puts such an inappropriate thought in his head that he actually flushes under his mask.
“For you, on the house,” Peter sort-of jokes back, but his voice is way too serious.
The look Clint gives him…it looks like hope, just for a moment. It looks like desire – he knows he isn’t mistaken. Peter has held back on this for so long – maybe that’s why the look makes him shatter as hard as it does. All the excuses he’s laid down for why there’s no way Clint could feel the way about him as he feels – they crumble under that gaze that’s about more than simple intensity.
Peter takes his wrist, not hard enough that he can’t pull away, and draws him deeper into the alley, until they’re standing close, until Peter drops to his knees, pulling the mask up as he does, so Clint can see his eyes, can see how much he wants this. It’s a vulnerability Peter isn’t used to allowing loose, but it also feels like some kind of freedom, as Clint looks down at him with something close to awe in his face.
“Can I?” Peter asks, one hand on Clint’s hip.
“You will?” Clint asks, uncertain.
“I want to. I’ve wanted to for a long time.”
“I didn’t think- You really want this?”
Peter doesn’t want to overthink this. He can hope he’s been wrong, about Clint not knowing about his crush. That this is borne of something mutual, rather than Clint simply being drunk and horny. He’s had moments of worrying his crush was too obvious, though neither Clint nor any of the other Avengers have ever mocked him for it. Funnily enough, Tony’s the only one who’s ever made it clear he knows, and he worded his revelation in a way that was surprisingly sensitive, for Tony.
He hadn’t said any names, but they’d been talking about Hawkeye, and then Tony had started to suggest Peter should get out and date, but he should always look after his heart and whoever he was with. Peter had figured at the time Tony was warning him off about getting hung up on someone who wouldn’t return his feelings, but right now, gazing up into Clint’s gorgeous, worried, blue eyes, Peter’s wondering if he didn’t totally misread that, and maybe a lot of other things, too.
Peter reaches forward, deftly unbuckling the thick leather belt before Clint can change his mind, but then pausing long enough at the button of his pants that he can change his mind, if he wants to, looking up, to check. Clint’s still gazing down at him, and he reaches a hand out, running a calloused thumb over Peter’s cheekbone. He mouths something, and it’s dark in this alley, but Peter thinks – hopes – it was ‘gorgeous’, so Peter keeps looking up as he flicks the button free, slides the zipper down with an overloud whirr. Clint’s not wearing underwear and Peter stifles a giggle. He shouldn’t be surprised – Clint’s definitely a commando type – but then his prize is right there, hot and half-hard already. Did he do that? With his offer? God, he hopes so. He’d still want to do this, even if it turns out to be a one time fumble, if it’s only because Clint’s battered from the battle and wants to just feel something. He’d get it, really he would, but he hopes it’s more.
He steadies himself with one hand on Clint’s hip, the other reaching for that cock that he’s imagined so many times (too many, really. It’s become a bit of a thing. A one-man cock-kink that he thinks of every time he touches himself lately). The real thing is even better, and he has a good imagination, so that’s something. Cut, smooth, and thick. Long, too, but it’s the thickness that’s something else, makes it actually heavy in his hand. He’s distracted, so he hopes the whimper he thinks he just made was only inside his head, but sue him, he’s engrossed by something beautiful.
Clint moves his thumb on his face again, and Peter’s eyes flick up.
“You don’t have to.”
“Why? I mean, I want to.” Peter tries not to sound needy, but he is. Clint’s free to change his mind, but-
“Have you done this before?”
Oh. Does Clint think he’s a blushing virgin? Does he want him to be? But, no, it would be a bad idea to do this on a lie, even if it is a one-off.
“I have,” is all he says, and Clint smiles then.
Peter moves forward, just running closed lips down the side, feeling the velvet of the skin, very gently moving his hand to test the give. He runs all the way to where it joins his body, momentarily burrowing his nose in the curve there, breathing in the clean muskiness. Damn, he smells good, and Peter flicks out his tongue, wanting to taste the warm skin, furred, but neatly trimmed. He feels Clint’s body twitch, and does it again, moving to just graze at the ball that’s closest to him, huge and round. He hears Clint curse and moves with more purpose, licking over with a flat tongue, feeling Clint’s huge hand run through his hair, gently pulling, which sends a shudder down his spine that makes him wish Clint had found him in his room at the tower instead of this slightly skeevy (but thankfully mainly clean) alley, so he could really give this the attention it deserves.
But Peter is nothing if not adaptable, so he licks up the underside of this glorious cock, now fully hard, ridiculously proud of the harsh exhalation that gets, and laps a flat tongue over the fat tip. It’s salty and moist, though he knows he can get more, so he points his tongue, tickling at the glistening slit until he can taste the pearls as they’re produced.
There’s a noise from the mouth of the alley as a couple walk past, luckily too wrapped up in each other to peer into a darkened side street – Peter could definitely do without grainy cellphone shots of Spiderman sucking Hawkeye off on the front page of The Daily Bugle. But it’s a sign that he should start putting his best work in, and he steps it up, covering the length of Clint’s cock as he swipes his tongue, working it down and around, getting it good and wet for the main show, slowly but surely moving down until he can feel the head at his throat. Clint lets out a perfect moan as Peter takes one last deep breath and pushes forward, swallowing him down, clenching his muscles before pulling back, breathing, and then pushing down, until he’s built up to a rhythm, his head bobbing as drool escapes the hot, wet cavern he’s created, while Clint curses up a storm and carefully runs his thick fingers along the line his cock is creating in Peter’s slim neck.
Peter pulls back a little so he can create suction while he uses his tongue to feel the throbbing veins as Clint’s balls tighten, one hand firmly rolling them, monitoring their twitches as he feels Clint tug his hair again, leaning forward to whisper that he’s close, that Peter should pull back. But he doesn’t want to, wants to taste what he’s been tempted with already. He uses his other hand to knead at Clint’s ass – Jesus, you could bounce a quarter off that – letting him know what he wants, and Clint finally lets go, coating Peter’s tongue in thick salty-sweet warmth.
Peter leans back onto his heels, savoring it, but also, maybe, a little reluctant to meet those clear blue eyes, just in case Clint’s reaction after tucking himself away is to say ‘thanks kid’ and be on his way.
“Hey, Petey,” it’s soft, gentle. “You gonna come up here, or do I have to come down and get you?”
Peter stands, shaking out his stiff legs to get the blood flowing, still not looking up, until he feels Clint’s hand cradling his chin, and then he finally meets his eyes.
“You have regrets?”
“No!” Shit, Peter can’t have Clint thinking that. “I wanted to.”
“So where do you stand on kissing?”
Peter steps forward, watching Clint’s plump lower lip as it parts and he lowers his head, rising onto his toes to meet it, sinking hard against Clint’s body with a gasp, amazed by how perfect it is, how their mouths just fit, how Clint is just the littlest bit more dominant, and Peter loves it, feels protected somehow (even if he could hoist the man over his head with relative ease, should either of them feel the need).
They’re getting a little lost, pleasurable noises getting a little louder, Clint’s spent cock twitching against Peter’s lower abdomen, when someone else walks past the alley, talking loudly on a cellphone. Clint pulls back, his hand cradling Peter’s face again, as if he’s continually having to check Peter’s really there, right in front of him.
“How would you feel about taking this back to the tower?”
Peter blinks, big hazel eyes wide and eager as he nods rapidly.
“Okay, we’ll work on you using your words later,” Clint chuckles. “Never known you so quiet.”
Peter softly laughs. He loves the way Clint speaks to him – he’s done it that way for a while, and Peter’s only just noticing. Like, it’s almost Hawkeye’s standard snark, that he uses on everyone, but there’s this fondness to the tone, that Peter’s fairly sure is reserved for him and Natasha.
“Fun as it would be to cling to your back across the city, I’m gonna catch a cab, and I’ll meet you there.”
That’s another thing. Whilst Clint was like the rest of the team when Peter first joined, and nervous about letting ‘the kid’ in on dangerous missions, he’s firmly over it now, and he was one of the first who seemed to realize just how impressive Spiderman is. Hell, Tony definitely still forgets, even now. But some of them still have some kind of desire to prove themselves against him – looking at you, Cap, with your competitions and shows of strength – but Hawk never does. He just accepts it.
Hell, the other day he was in the kitchen and saw Peter coming, and he just handed over a stupid jar that he couldn’t open, which Peter easily twisted open, expecting some comment about having loosened it, but, no, just a ‘thanks’ and an offer of a PB&J. And when they were having a treasure hunt race (thanks again, Cap), and Hawk wanted to get over the mezzanine quicker than Bucky could make it up the stairs, he called to Peter for a lift and let him launch his body over the rail, landing perfectly (and damn sexily) exactly where he wanted to be. Afterwards, Peter had commented that he was surprised Hawk hadn’t just used the wall and rail to yeet himself over and Clint had shrugged, agreed he could have and said ‘but you were faster, kid’. And that’s nothing on how he’s always trusting Spiderman in battle, making suggestions but not doing Tony’s thing of adding ‘be careful though, don’t do it if you think you might get hurt’. Clint trusts him not to need reminding constantly.
The thoughts see him arriving back at the Tower and he allows himself a moment to concede that he probably should have done this sooner – the worries about Clint seeing him as too young or immature seem to have been largely in his own head.
He’s thankful the others aren’t back yet, and the place is silent.
“Good evening, Master Peter.” He actually jumps when he hears the AI and laughs at himself.
“Hey, JARVIS. How’s it going?”
“Very well, thank you, Master Peter. You are the first home. Can I do anything for you?”
“Uh, if I were to ask if I can go into Clint’s room…?”
“Hawkeye has given express permission for yourself and Black Widow to have access to his room whenever required.”
“Oh. Okay, I’ll be going there, then. But, uh, maybe temporarily, could you make it so Natasha can’t just walk in?”
“Of course, Master Peter.”
Of course, JARVIS doesn’t sound pleased, even a little smug. That’s all in Peter’s imagination. That would be weird, right?
He’s expecting Clint to take a while. Even if he scored a cab immediately, getting over the bridge and through traffic is a lot faster when you’re swinging on webs. Peter wonders if the time will give Clint enough chance to change his mind. He wonders if it will give him enough time to change his mind. Well, not change his mind. He isn’t going to suddenly stop wanting Clint like a fire burning in his soul just because of a bit of extra time. But it might allow him to remember what a terrible idea this is. To think about how Clint is bound to wake up tomorrow, sober, and realize Peter was not what he wanted to do with his time. That he thinks Peter’s a kid and, God forbid, be disgusted with himself. Peter isn’t a kid – hasn’t felt like one for a long time (except for, maybe, when he’s around Tony) – but it isn’t like he can just change Clint’s opinion by being good at giving head.
How would Clint react if Peter told him he was actually in love with him? Has been for years now. Almost certainly put it down to immaturity. Claim that Peter doesn’t really know what he wants. That he should get out and live a little, not get tied down to the first man he touches (who’s Clint to know that Peter has touched plenty of men, at every possible opportunity?).
“You look like you’re overthinking things.” Peter jumps up from his position on Clint’s bed, almost dislodging the towel – the only thing he’s wearing – that he wrapped around his narrow hips after his shower.
“Uh,” he’s about to deny it, but then he tracks back over his contradictory thoughts and blushes instead.
“Shall we talk?”
Peter doesn’t want to: now he has Clint right in front of him, looking huge and broad and handsome, he’s even more worried. He wants to do this, to climb the man like a tree, to enjoy the pleasure he knows they can gain from each other. But that wouldn’t be fair.
“Do you like me?” Peter cringes at himself, but Clint just tilts his head and smirks.
“I think we’ve established that I do.”
“Have we, though?” Fuck, why is he pushing this? “What we did…in the alley. It doesn’t necessarily mean much.”
“It does to me. I don’t do that with just anyone.”
Peter blushes again, because he kind of has, up till now. Wanting to prove himself as a man in charge of his own sexuality, which has looked a lot like dropping to his knees probably far more often than he should have. Not a single person he’s done it for has made him feel like Clint does, though.
“Peter,” Clint takes a step closer and reaches a hand up, gently cupping his shoulder. “I do like you. A lot. I have for a while now.”
“Why?” Peter doesn’t know why he’s suddenly so needy, but he has to know this isn’t just a dream that will disappear with the night.
“You want a list?” Clint chuckles, moving closer. “You’re smart, you’re gorgeous, you’re funny, you’re sweet. More?”
“Um, yeah?”
He laughs at that and lifts Peter’s chin, gazing into his eyes. “When I watch you in battle it’s fucking dangerous, because I’m drawn to the lines of your body when you move, to your power and grace, to the way you fucking fly.”
Peter stares, his breaths heavy.
“And when you’re here, and we’re sitting around, watching some shitty comedy, and you throw your head back to laugh, and I have to stop myself from leaping across the room, pulling you into my arms, licking a stripe up that perfect, long neck, nipping at your throat, sucking your earlobe in and playing with it with my teeth and tongue.”
Peter can feel tears welling, but he doesn’t break eye contact, letting Clint press him into taking a step back, until he can feel the bed at his calves.
“More?”
“Don’t stop,” Peter whispers.
“When I cook you pancakes, and I give you six, because I know that’s how many you can eat without feeling sick, and I drizzle syrup over them because I know you’ll get it on your lips, and it sticks, so you have to poke that sweet little tongue out over and over again, until your lips are glistening and red, and I can imagine what they taste like, and I can picture me making them swollen and shiny, and I listen to the little moans you make while you’re enjoying them, that you don’t even realize are coming out, and all I want to do is pull those noises from you in here, to make you unself-conscious and free, and to watch you arching that elegant back of yours – to watch you fall apart because of what I do to you.”
Peter reaches his arms up, wrapping them around Clint’s neck and pressing their lips together, shaking slightly against him, knowing that Clint will hold him up in every way he needs him to.
“You’re getting it yet?” Clint whispers when they break away, bending to nuzzle into the crook of Peter’s neck, nibbling and lapping like he said he would, Peter leaning his head to give access.
“I think so,” Peter admits, allowing Clint to lower him to the bed, removing the towel and flinging it across the room before pressing his mouth to Peter’s sharp collarbone, flicking his tongue while he sucks a bruise into the pale flesh.
“Wanna mark you up, Beautiful, make sure every damn person knows you’re mine.”
“I am?”
“Only if you wanna be, of course. But if you do? Fuck, I ain’t letting you go if I get the chance. Do I have the chance?”
“Yes. Fuck yes, Clint. Mark me.”
That green light seems to be what Clint was waiting for, and he uses his mouth on every inch of Peter’s torso, sucking purple bruises that they both know will be gone by morning, but the intent is there, and it makes Peter writhe and moan and tremble, his skin goose-bumped and electric, every touch making him want to break apart, spreading his lean thighs wide at the slightest touch, desperate and needy; aching for more.
Somewhere along the way Clint’s clothes vanish and Peter strokes the strong, scarred body, tracing powerful muscles as they flex above him, his long fingers pressing and groping and pulling.
“Please,” he begs, finally, as Clint leans away, looking down at him with adoration that morphs into a cheeky smirk.
“You want more?”
“Yes,” Peter gasps, thrusting into the air between them.
“Tell me.”
Peter blushes, and he shuts his eyes, long lashes fluttering against flushed cheeks.
“Please, Clint, I want you inside me.”
“You only had to ask, Petey,” but the softness of his voice belies the words as he reaches into his nightstand and pulls out lube and a condom.
Peter can’t help the drawn out cry when Clint finally breaches him, closing his eyes again to the vision of Clint’s awe-struck face watching every movement of Peter’s body, right down to the sight of himself working the tight hole, playing with the muscle, watching as it relaxes around him, adding a second, and then a third finger, twisting and stretching and stroking right where Peter needs it, until Peter’s hips are fucking down against his curled knuckles and the mewling sounds are positively pornographic
“You ready for me, Beautiful?” he finally asks, and Peter’s acquiescence is desperate and high-pitched as his nails dig into Clint’s torso leaning above him.
Clint feels huge and heavy, even after the amount of time he’s lavished on Peter, but his strong hands – one on Peter’s hip, the other pressing dominantly on his collar – ground him, and he throws his head back at the electrifying pleasure that comes from his body being possessed like this. Despite the force, the ownership that Peter lets him take, with delight, he’s gentle too, and Peter feels the trickle of a tear – a symptom of being overwhelmed – that he tries to hide, but Clint moves his hand, cupping Peter’s chin so he can lean down and press their lips together in a move that is gloriously contradictory to the way his muscular body is slamming into Peter.
After so long, Peter can feel the climb reaching its summit within only minutes. He tries to hold it back, breathing and clenching; not wanting the feeling to end, and giggles into Clint’s neck as the move makes him groan.
“You got me, Petey.” But he moves his head, flicking his tongue over Peter’s hardened nipple, making him gasp, and takes his leaking cock into a surprisingly delicate touch that has Peter breaking apart, spilling over his fingers after only two strokes. The clamping of his muscles is enough for Clint to lose it, gazing straight into Peter’s eyes as he swells and flows into the condom buried inside.
Peter lets Clint clean them both up, stretching his body at the pleasurable ache he feels all over, from the bite marks, from the bruising of muscles. When Clint’s finished and climbs into bed, Peter pulls him close, burrowing against Clint’s strength, that’s about more than simple brawn, and he lands soft, sleepy butterfly kisses across Clint’s chest until he’s lost to sleep.
* * * * *
“Some Like it Hot,” Steve announces, smugly plopping down next to Peter on the huge couch. Natasha’s on his other side and he rests comfortably against her.
The momentary concern Peter had felt on waking beside Clint this morning was vanquished by the sweet words and hot kisses laid on him the moment Clint had opened his eyes, and disappeared further at the delicious things Clint did to him when they showered together.
They’ve both been busy all day, working and studying for Peter and training and patrols for Clint, but it’s movie night now. Clint walks in with two huge bowls of popcorn and the disheartened look on his face at seeing no space by Peter makes the boy want to laugh, and then smoosh his face. Clint glances sheepishly toward Natasha, and Peter knows they’ve been well and truly rumbled, though, knowing her, she’s probably been aware longer than either of them.
Clint passes her a bowl and takes the other to sit beside Sam and Bucky on the other couch, but Peter is constantly aware of being watched as the movie starts. He doesn’t want Clint over there, he wants him here. But it would be rude to make Steve move, right?
He remembers, with a flush, some of the things Clint said to him last night. And when Tony Curtis breaks out his Cary Grant impression, Peter throws his head back in a laugh against Natasha’s shoulder. But then she’s gone, and his eyes flash open, in time to see Clint’s blond head as he scoops down to kiss along the open lines of Peter’s throat.
“I promised,” Clint growls, planting wet kisses, and taking Peter’s earlobe between his teeth. Peter forces his eyes open to see how people are reacting. Cap looks a little stunned, but Natasha has casually taken Clint’s seat and placed her feet in Sam’s lap, and Bucky’s just grinning.
“Really, Hawk?” Tony exclaims, and Peter freezes up, only relaxing when Clint’s hand massages the nape of his neck.
“Really, Tone,” Clint responds.
“While we’re watching a movie?”
“Huh,” Clint chuckles, “I guess nobody’s perfect.”