This is quite probably the longest piece of porn without plot I've ever written. Ok, there's a little bit of plot. PLEASE NOTE: if you do not like slash, DO NOT read this story. I was compelled to write it because in spite of myself, I have read a number of VERY well-done fics about Barton/Coulson pairing, and the idea slowly wormed its way into my brain and wouldn't leave. I debated this, but in the end decided it fit just fine with the Hawkeye of my fics for him to be 1)totally open-minded about sex, 2)attracted to Phil but not enough to risk his relationship with Natasha 3)in need of a deeper level of submission than Tasha is able to give him, because that's not the way their relationship works. I furthermore decided that of all the people in my fics, Natasha is the only one who would not only be able to see this, but have enough self-confidence to let him experience this night with Phil without resentment. She knows without a doubt that he will come home to her, and she's just twisted enough herself to kind of find the thought of it titillating. I have NO idea whether I will expand upon this new development. As of now, it's just a one-off in my regular series, and you will not lose any of my main story hooks by not reading it if it does not appeal to you. Thank you all again for your kind words and encouragements!
He looks up only briefly when the door opens, not really acknowledging Tasha when she slides into the living room and throws her jacket over a chair. She's been in Tucson with Fury for the last couple of days, and he's missed her fiercely, but today's events have blunted all his feelings but a deep, aching sorrow. Tasha, being possibly the most observant person he knows, cannot help but notice his distinct lack of an enthusiastic welcome. Not being prone to wifely displays of concern (or anything else wifely either and would probably obliterate him if he ever even thought the M word), she comes to stand beside him where he's staring blindly out at a drizzly, cold, grey New York skyline without really seeing it.
"What's wrong, Barton?" She's not one to waste words either.
"Had a meeting with Phil," he admits reluctantly. Tasha goes very still, which tells him she'd probably known it was coming before he did.
"Okay," she says quietly, and waits. Once upon a time they'd have done some dance where he didn't want to talk about it, and she let him get away with that until he pissed her off with his moodiness and she smacked him around until he got over it or told her what was up. Mostly these days they just tell each other stuff, and save the smacking around for fun.
He sighs heavily, his whole body sagging a little.
"I've been reassigned, and so has he," he says bleakly.
"Well," she says carefully, "both of us have kind of become a little too public to be undercover SHIELD agents anymore. We're Avengers. Coulson's a handler."
"He's my handler," whispers Clint, feeling bereft in a way he hasn't since Tasha flew off and left him standing in an abandoned orphanage.
"He's my handler too, Clint," Tasha reminds him. He looks sideways at her. It's different and she knows it. Maybe she's just playing devil's advocate.
"You'll miss him too," he says, though it's a little bit of a question.
"Yes, a little. Not like you will though," she concedes his point for him before he has to make it. "I haven't been close to a handler in….well. Ever. I was taught not to have personal feelings for my handlers. Plus I've been working directly with Fury a lot more this past year. I like Phil, and I trust him, and I am grateful to him for trusting your judgment, but I don't love him. Not like you do."
Clint's eyebrows go up, and he swivels his head to look at her in surprise.
She smiles briefly at him, a tiny quirk of her lips, and her hand steals down to twine in his own, which is a really surprising thing for her to do. Not that she never offers comfort, just that it's usually of a more carnal nature than this simple hand-holding. Tasha doesn't hold hands. She wants hers free to go for a weapon or a jugular vein at a moment's notice. She tugs gently, and he follows her to the sofa and sits at her urging. She sits beside him, legs thrown casually over his so that she's still touching him but it's not confining for either of them.
"Yes," she says seriously. "You've had a serious case of hero worship for Phil since before I met either of you."
He sighs a little, but this is true.
"He believed in me when no one else did," he agrees. "He trusted me, and he changed me from SHIELD's biggest liability to their biggest asset. Well, until we recruited you, that is." He grins at her. The grin is halfhearted, he knows, but not because the fact bothers him, only because he doesn't really feel like grinning.
"He didn't make you SHIELD's biggest asset," says Natasha. "You did. But I'm not belittling what he is to you. He helped you realize you could be, and that's almost the same thing."
"I get why this has to happen," he says softly, knowing there is real grief in his voice, and wondering why he is so close to actual tears. "I'm an Avenger now. We're….we're honest to God real fucking super heroes, which I still sometimes can't wrap my head around. We don't need handlers anymore. We're a team, and we're here to keep the monsters away when the world doesn't have anybody else to turn to. Goddamn, I sound like a fucking press release. But ok, yeah, that's what we are, and I get it. I do. Phil's a handler, probably the best one SHIELD's ever had, and he needs to do what he's good at. I didn't think this would hit me so hard is all."
"It's probably all the unrequited feelings going on," she says softly, and he can't respond. His mouth hangs open while he looks at her in disbelief.
"The what now?"
"You do know Phil's gay, right?" Natasha asks curiously.
"Yes, I've known for a long time. He told me not long after he got me assigned to him, wanted to clear the air and let me know it would never get in the way, but that he needed it out in the open in case I was going to have a problem with it. I didn't. I never did."
"No. But it has to be a little weird for you, to have feelings for him that are partly towards a father figure, which he obviously is, and partly attraction that you've never been able to express or act on."
He shoves her feet out of his lap and stands up, glaring down at her, affronted.
"What the fuck, Tasha?"
She looks up at him calmly.
"You heard what I said," she says, not flinching.
"Tasha, I'm not gay," he says, furious with her, not really able to stop and wonder why he's reacting quite so strongly. "If the past few months haven't demonstrated that clearly enough, I'll be glad to show you again, when I stop wanting to punch you in the mouth"
"If you punch me in the mouth, I'll break your arm," she says easily. "I know you're not gay, Barton. That's probably a big part of why this is so weird for you."
For quite a long time, he's too flabbergasted to even begin to formulate a response. Even when he starts to speak, it's pretty disjointed and confused.
"I….you….how can you…..why would you think…..Tasha! You're my lover."
"There's only one actual sentence in there, Clint," she points out matter-of-factly.
"Well yeah but it's a pretty fucking important sentence, Tash!"
She sighs, and stands up as well, walking away to go stare out the window herself, apparently because even now it's a little hard for her to comfortably look him in the eye while she says what she says next.
"It's fucking important to me too," she says quietly. "I guess you know I'm gone over your sorry ass. But Clint…if I love you, doesn't that mean I want you to be happy, even more than I want me to be happy?"
Despite the fact that he's outraged and speechless and conflicted as shit right now, he does still feel a kernel of warmth inside when she says she loves him, even in her roundabout way.
"Stop it," he snaps suddenly when he realizes what she's said there at the last. "You are not going to stand there and give me some bullshit speech about how you're setting me free to go be with Phil!"
She looks at him like he's crazy.
"No," she agrees readily. "I'll set you free probably about when we're both dead in a ditch somewhere. Asshat. You're mine, and I'm keeping you."
"Well. Good. Then what the fuck, Tasha?"
She threads her fingers through her hair and tugs in frustration.
"I am not good at this shit," she snarls, glaring at him. He holds his hands up.
"Don't blame me; you're the one who's talking crazy right now."
In typical fashion, which he has come to know and love, even though he almost always comes out on the losing end of it, she lashes out and knocks his feet out from under him, following him to the ground and sitting on his belly. Despite himself, he feels his dick twitch and start to stiffen. She notices, and instead of rolling her eyes, reaches back to grab hold of him through his fatigues, which finishes the job.
"Will you stop thinking with your brain for once and start thinking with your dick so I can make you get this?" she says, and this statement is so outrageous that he can't help but laugh. Her lips twitch, but she squeezes a little harder than is comfortable and he subsides.
"Obviously, you've got me at your mercy. What is it I'm supposed to be getting?"
"Are you homophobic, Clint?"
"Of course not. You know that. Half the people I grew up with in the circus were pretty much gender blind and took their lovers from either side. Sometimes both at once."
"But you didn't." This is a statement, rather than a question. She knows he's never had a sexual encounter with another guy.
"No. It just….didn't fall out that way, I guess."
"Are you dead set against the idea of ever letting a man put his hands on you?" she asks, and she actually seems curious. This conversation is probably the strangest one he's ever had.
"I am now," he says with a slight leer up at her. "My girlfriend would geld me if I looked at anyone else."
"Will you stop being literal and answer me?" She's starting to act annoyed, and since her hand is still on his twitching cock, he decides he'd better cooperate.
"Where you're going with this is freaking me out a little, but okay. No, I was never dead set against it. Once or twice there was a guy who made me consider it, for a little while, but I just never met a dude who did it for me that way."
"Until Phil," she says ruthlessly. He glares at her. This again.
"Phil's my handler, and my friend," he says stiffly. "He's a professional, and we like and respect each other. I'm with YOU, Tasha. This is stupid."
"Do you realize that you haven't actually said you're NOT attracted to him?"
He goes quiet for a minute, because it's true. This is not a conversation he's ever thought he'd have with anyone, including himself. She squeezes again, more gently, and he can't help that his hips arch up towards her a little. He can't understand why she's talking about this, with evidence of his complete attraction to her throbbing in her hand. He also wishes he wasn't wearing pants.
"You dream sometimes," she says ruthlessly, and he feels a flush staining his cheeks before she even continues the thought, because he knows what she's going to say, he just hadn't known she knew about it. "You don't talk in your sleep much, but I've heard you say his name once or twice. And it wasn't a nightmare you were having, Clint. "
"Jesus, Natasha," he mutters, looking away from her. She sighs again.
"I'm trying to make this easy for you, Barton, and you keep getting in the way."
"Easy for me? It sounds fuck-all like you're trying to throw me at another man, and I don't know where the hell that's coming from, because I'm fucking HAPPY with you, Tasha. I don't want to be anywhere else."
"Barton, you're a moron," she says disgustedly.
"You are the only woman on the face of the planet who would call her lover a moron for insisting on being faithful to her."
"A moron," she continues resolutely. "And it's usually you who sees things more clearly than I do. Jesus Clint, it's not like you could call our relationship conventional in any way."
"No, but that doesn't make us swingers!"
She snorts with laughter at this, and he's briefly transported by the image of Tasha in what he imagines a swingers' club to be like, sending prospective partners fleeing in abject terror just by looking at them, until they're the only two people left in the entire building.
"God forbid," she murmurs to herself, then abruptly lets go of his dick and sits back (which doesn't help at all because now her absolutely perfect ass is pressing against his erection, which is nowhere near as confused as he is. She puts her hands on her hips, ignoring this, and glares at him. "Why did it scare you when I fucked you, Clint?" she asks suddenly. His flush deepens, because talking about what is absolutely the most naked moment of his entire life is a little sensitive, even though he's grateful to her for it. And even though, if he's honest, the memory of it still wakes him trembling with need and on the verge of spilling all over his sheets like an adolescent boy. They haven't done it again since then. It was too raw, too heartrending, to duplicate. Probably. He's honestly not sure how to answer her question.
"I…hell, Tash, I don't know. I'd never done it before, you'd already hurt me a lot, and I figured it was going to hurt even more."
She looks at him thoughtfully.
"I don't think that's really why," she muses. He thinks she might be right.
"I guess I've never thought about why it scared me so much. I was pretty fucked up at the time, and you'd already broken me." He may not always be able to express what he's thinking, but it isn't because he can't be honest with her.
"That's not really right either," she goes on. She isn't mad anymore, she's earnest, and that's still weirding him out. A lot. "I didn't really break you til I fucked you."
Jesus. But she's right.
"Okay, I guess that's true."
"When I asked you then if you loved it, and you said yes, were you lying?"
They've just come way too far together for him to flinch away from this now.
"No," he admits. "Wasn't lying. It scared me, ripped out my bleeding fuckin heart and blasted me to pieces….but….oh hell. I didn't just like it."
"No," she says with a small smile, and since it's a slightly lascivious one, he's relieved to know the memory doesn't freak her out either. She grows very solemn then. "I need to ask you to be as honest with me now as you were that day, when you were stripped down to nothing. Can you?"
"I can try," he says, uncomfortably, because he's pretty sure they're back to the Phil thing again.
"DO you dream about him? That way, I mean?"
"I'm going to answer you, Tash, but Jesus, do you get why this is really freaking me out?"
"Yeah, but that's stupid." She sighs, and rolls her eyes, and seems to steel herself for something she finds difficult. She looks steadily into his eyes. "Clint. If I had a problem with this, do you really think I'd be putting you through it? It's fine. I'm fine. We're fine. We're going to keep being fine. Okay?"
"Okay," he sighs, and steels himself to be honest, hoping he's not screwing up the best thing that's ever happened to him. "Yeah. I have dreams sometimes. They freak me out when I wake up, but not…during. But Tash, that doesn't mean I'm not happy with you, or satisfied."
"Dumbass," she says comfortably. "I know that. If you feel obligated to say it again, I'll hurt you. In a bad way."
He supposes he should be thankful he's done something right enough up until now that she is this comfortable with a subject this treacherous.
"Point taken," he assures her quickly, before she decides to make good on the threat. "So okay. Yeah, it's not something I've ever wanted to think a lot about, you know? I've known you were it for me for a long time. This…thing, I guess you can call it a fantasy…it sort of blindsided me when I had the dream the first time, about three years ago."
She raises her eyebrows a little.
"Three years? You've had a boner for Coulson for three years and never said anything? Barton, you're the least sexually repressed person I know! Why didn't you ever tell him?"
"Jesus, Tasha. I may be an irreverent, smartassed fuckup with a problem with authority, but I respect Phil. If I know nothing else about him, I know that if I'd done any such thing, he'd have been horrified. Even if by some totally bizarre twist of fate he had the same weird thoughts about me, he would never act on them, and would have withdrawn himself as my handler if I'd gone there."
She thinks about this for a minute.
"Ok yeah, you're right. I'm not sure why you think it would be a bizarre twist of fate for him to have the same kind of boner for you, but you're right that he'd refuse to act on it."
"I'm not his type, that's why," he says, a little ruefully. "Phil's a pretty classy guy, with his suits and ties, and his unshakable calm, and his high class tastes. I'd be like…slumming…for him."
The look she sends him then is vile, and promises dire retribution.
"That what you think I'm doing?" she purrs dangerously.
"No. Jesus. A lot of days I'm not sure what the fuck you're doing here, but I'm damned grateful for it."
"Asshat," she sighs comfortably. "What's the dream about?"
"Fuck, Natasha, I don't think I can talk about that to you. This whole thing is weird, but that's just TOO weird."
"Seriously, there's a reason I'm asking. I want to know if I'm right about something. You don't have to give me details, though if you ever decide to, I gotta tell you I think it kind of turns me on to think about it, but okay. I mean…will you tell me just…kind of the circumstances?"
Turns her on? He blinks slowly at her in surprise. Ohhhhkay then.
"Um…it's just….shit, this is strange. People don't talk to their lovers about prurient dreams they have about another person."
"Yeah," she agrees sarcastically. "God knows we do everything just like normal people."
"Point taken." He squirms a little, uncomfortably, then closes his eyes because he's not ready to see the reaction on her face, and dives in. "Circumstances. Okay. I'm….he's…forceful. He takes; he doesn't give me a choice. I feel like…I keep thinking that I hope I'm pleasing him. There's this feeling of….like, surrender, I guess? It makes me feel safe. Weird, huh?"
"Not particularly. You have a strong submissive streak, and we're too equal to really feed it very often."
"I love switching with you, Tash," he protests, realizing as he does so that his protests are starting to sound a little thin.
"Me too. It's not quite the same, though. Clint, please listen to me. Coulson's not your handler anymore. He'll be heading back to the west coast soon. Believe me when I say he definitely returns the attraction. I think you need this, both of you, or it's going to eat at you for the rest of your lives. I know it doesn't mean you want me less, or him more. There is room in a lot of people's hearts for more than one person. I think you're one of them. And it doesn't bother me. If you decide to leave me for him, I'll kill you both, but I trust you, trust US enough that I'm not jealous or worried. To be honest, I kind of hope it goes well, because if it does, sometime I want to watch."
"You hope what goes well?"
"You seducing Phil before it's too late."
There are a lot more words, protests, reasons, and arguments. At the end, he's left with a split lip and the immensely confusing reality that he's promised his girlfriend he'll try to have sex with another man tonight.
The security on Coulson's rooms is very good, but doesn't extend to the air vents in the ceiling. If he was any bigger, there'd be a good chance nobody'd know he was stuck up there until maintenance got sent to track down the smell. But he's not, so he spends his evening alternately trying to relax in and pacing nervously up and down Coulson's living room. Coulson has an apartment in the city, but Clint knows he's been staying here since the Chitauri invasion. Or, well, since he came back to them shortly afterwards. Clint still doesn't think a lot about that day. If Coulson had stayed dead….
But he hadn't.
The rooms are tidy, with no extraneous clutter. The walls are painted a soft, misty gray color. Tasteful prints along with black and white photography are hung in aesthetically pleasing locations. The furniture is masculine but elegant, leather and dark gleaming woods. The dinette is walnut, and only big enough for two, though it is currently set for one. Seems like Phil, to lay out things in preparation for dinner when he gets home, even if he's been out all day. The single plate, wine glass, and silver flatware make Clint feel lonely. He wonders if Phil ever feels that way, or if his mind has no room for anything but the job like it appears to. Hell, Phil may have a dozen lovers, for all he knows. He realizes with a pang that he doesn't know a lot about Coulson's personal life. Shouldn't he have asked more often, if he was really Phil's friend? Jesus, the handler probably thinks he's a self-centered asshole! What the fuck is he even doing here? If Phil doesn't laugh at him, he's going to get pissed and throw him out!
He's making his way into the hall where the loose vent cover is located, intending to leave the way he came and forget this entire insane idea, but he's too late. Behind him, there's a series of clicks and the door opens. The apartment is very dim, with only one small lamp providing light, so Coulson's body is momentarily silhouetted black against the brighter light of the hallway. Clint freezes, and sees Phil do the same. Knowing that they are both trained in what to do when they surprise an intruder, he moves into the oasis of light cast by the lamp so that he can be seen more clearly, making sure his hands can be seen, empty and held slightly away from his body.
"It's me," he says quickly, before Phil can draw the gun he knows is hidden under the tailored suit jacket, even though it can't be seen. Phil relaxes, and enters his rooms, closing the door behind him.
"What a pleasant surprise, Agent Barton," he says, and Clint thinks he's probably the only one who can hear the wry sarcasm in it. Everybody thinks Phil has no sense of humor. "Though why you chose to avail yourself of my hospitality without say, waiting until I was home and knocking, I'm not entirely sure. Perhaps you'd care to enlighten me?"
Clint hunches his shoulders up around his ears and wonders what the fuck he's supposed to say.
"Hi Phil, welcome home, how'd you like to fuck me?" or "Nice to see you Coulson, now whaddya say we get freaky?" or "Feeling up to some farewell nookie, buttercup?" Clint's brain tends to grow more and more perverse the more uncomfortable he is. This is off the scale. He feels frozen, and his mind is a reeling turmoil of not knowing what the hell he's doing.
"Tasha sent me," he manages, and realizes that wasn't an enlightening choice at all. Shit, probably it would have helped if he'd….lit candles, started up some mood music (what would Coulson consider mood music anyway? Opera? Mozart? Barry White? God, he hopes it's not Barry White), fixed dinner….something. Probably. Instead he just stands there with his hands still held out from his sides, still trying to look nonthreatening. Phil raises one eyebrow and moves further into the room, placing a set of keys and his SHIELD badge and wallet in a brushed-silver bowl on a small table by the door.
"Did Tasha have a reason, or is this some obscure Russian traditional thing our research department has never heard of?" Colson straightens his sleeves a little and goes to a dark cherrywood cabinet, where he retrieves a heavy crystal snifter and pours himself a drink. Scotch, Clint knows, Macallan 50 year old single malt. Clint hates the stuff, but Coulson's a connoisseur. Suddenly he realizes he's being stupid and he really does know a lot about Phil. He knows the crystal in Coulson's hand is Lalique, as are the two gleaming crystal sculptures set on recessed pedestals on either side of the leather sofa, both nude dancers frozen forever in impossible positions, so beautifully rendered that you can almost see the faint tremble in muscles that strain to hold that perfect pose. He knows that Phil's suit is Armani, his perfectly shined loafers are Gucci, his watch is Breguet. When in New York, he dines once a month at Eleven Madison Park. He holds season tickets at the Met, and prefers classic or impressionist paintings to modern or cubist forms. He likes dogs but doesn't care for cats. He's allergic to bee stings and carries and epi pen in a neat leather case in his inside coat pocket, along with a garrote and an extra mag for his sig. He doesn't have much time to read for fun, but loves Stephen King and is secretly a Harry Potter fan. He loves French cuisine, sushi, and Italian ices from street vendors. He has a secret weakness for Sabratt's hot dogs. He swims every morning he's able, and can almost keep up with Clint at a flat run, though admittedly this is partly because he's taller and his legs are longer. He has a huge collection of old comic books and cards (of which the now-bloodstained Captain America cards are STILL his prized possessions, though he's coldly informed Fury that he has six months to find replacements. Clint doesn't know what happens at the end of six months if Fury fails to come through, but he'd kill to find out.)
While realizing all this makes him feel a little less out of place in Phil's living room, it doesn't do a damn thing for helping him figure out what the fuck to SAY to the man. He's no silver-tongued sophisticate, and he's never trolled for boys in a gay bar and doesn't have a clue as to the lingo. He never finished high school, and can't tell a Rembrandt from a Picasso. He's a lot better at actions than words.
Well then. What the fuck.
Taking a deep breath, he crosses to Phil in a few quick strides, and before the handler can realize what he's about, plucks the scotch from his hand, downs it in one gulp even though he finds it foul, and kisses Phil right on the mouth. As Phil's belatedly reacting by rearing his head back in shock, it isn't a terribly successful kiss, and their teeth clash. Clint tries to put his hands on Coulson's waist, but Phil grabs both his wrists and does a little twist and shove at the same time until Clint finds himself slammed up against the wall with Phil glaring furiously at him, his cheeks stained red, breathing hard. His shirt is still buttoned all the way up, his silk tie still neatly knotted, every hair still in place, but the expression on his face is far from composed. Clint finds this distressing. He also finds it distressing that Coulson was able to get the upper hand on him this easily, but chalks it up to uncertainty and nerves making him clumsy.
"What the HELL do you think you're doing, Agent Barton?" hisses Coulson. He sounds really pissed. Clint suddenly realizes it's quite possible Tasha has mistaken the signs of Phil's attraction to him, and that he has made an enormous mistake.
"I'm your goodbye present. Don't you wanna come over here and unwrap me?" he says coyly, and feels like an idiot for saying it, but he's starting to be horribly embarrassed and instead of letting it show, he goes for casually flippant. Phil's hands on his wrists grind hard against bone and he swallows a moan, hoping to just be able to get out of here in one piece.
"Are you insane?" asks Phil, still outraged. "Agent Romanoff would never forgive this kind of betrayal, and neither would I. I am not in need of your pity, Agent Barton, and I'll thank you to leave my apartment at once before this farce goes too far!"
Well ouch. That stings a little. Seems he's right after all, and he's not up to Coulson's standards.
"Tasha sent me," he says, and feels stupid that his voice sounds a little sullen. "I already told you that. I don't need your pity either, and I'll get the fuck out of your hair if you'll LET THE FUCK GO OF MY ARMS!"
Phil does not let go. His grip on Clint's wrists is viselike, and Clint concentrates hard on not liking it.
"Explain yourself. Now."
That tone of voice, commanding, uncompromising, sends a bolt of electricity straight through Clint's belly. He realizes he's loved the way Phil gives orders for years, and that okay, the reason their relationship as spy and handler has worked so well for him is that Phil makes him feel like obeying him. He draws a shuddering breath, because when Phil snaps orders like that, he is unable to do anything but comply.
"She did, Sir," he says softly, falling easily into the subordinate role. "She says that if I don't…find out what this thing is….that she says I feel about you….before it's too late, that I'll regret it forever."
Coulson closes his eyes briefly, as though praying for patience or trying to think of a way to let him down easy, Clint imagines. When he opens them again, Clint is startled to see heat in them.
"And what do you say, Agent Barton?" he asks softly. Clint sighs, and twists his wrists a little in Coulson's grasp because he knows it will make his handler grip them tighter and when he does, Clint can answer him. He can't, however, quite bring himself to meet Coulson's gaze when he does it.
"I say she's right, Sir," he whispers.
Abruptly, Phil lets go of him and turns away. Feeling a little bereft, Clint stays where he is, leaning against the wall for support and wondering if he could just sink through the floor. Coulson pulls his cell phone out of his pants pocket, presses a button, and brings it to his ear. There's a brief pause, then he speaks. His voice is cold as ice.
"Are you insane?" he demands frostily, then is silent for quite some time, while the person on the other end of the line, presumably Natasha, speaks. After several minutes, and without saying another word, he disconnects the call and tosses his phone onto the bar at Clint's side. Clint watches it slide on the silky marble top, wondering if it'll slide off the other side. It doesn't, but it teeters dangerously on the edge. It's a mistake to take his gaze off Coulson though, because he suddenly finds himself slammed hard against the wall again, and this time he hits his head a solid thunk when Coulson's forearm connects with his throat and forces his head up and back. His eyelids flutter and he's unable to silence a tiny sound, not even quite a whimper.
"Listen to me very carefully, Barton," says Phil tightly. Clint tries to nod, but can't. "This is by far the most ridiculous thing you've ever done in a long history of ridiculous choices. I have no idea what has made the two of you come up with this harebrained scheme, but it is not appreciated."
Clint feels about two inches tall, and knows his ears are red with embarrassment.
"I'm sorry Sir. I told her I wasn't your type. She thinks if I….if we….ah. Then maybe I'll stop having the dream and not wish….well. Never mind. I really am sorry. If you'd…uh…let go, Sir, I'll just…leave now."
Yep. Leave now, go dig a very deep hole, climb in it, and never come out. Well, maybe several months after Coulson goes back to the West coast, he'll think about it. Tasha's radar has never been this far off before. This is quite possibly the worst night of his life. Coulson's forearm, which is deceptively slim for someone who is actually as strong as the handler, presses harder against his windpipe, cutting off his air a little bit. This time the sound he makes is undeniably a whimper, and he hates himself for it, for what it reveals. Coulson's furious gaze darkens even more.
"What. Dream." He grits out, almost spitting the words in Clint's face.
"The one where we….where you….and….where we're doing….this, Sir. Only," whispers Clint miserably, "In the dream….you want to."
Coulson closes his eyes briefly and points his face at the ceiling, as if he's praying for patience.
"Why are you doing this, Agent," he asks very softly, a dangerous edge in his voice that Clint has only heard twice before, and both times it was after he'd gotten hurt on a mission. The voice will brook no protest, and demands truth, clear and simple.
"Because I want to," whispers Clint, simply. Coulson inhales sharply and his head jolts back a little in surprise. He is silent for some time, staring at Clint, who is unable to stop himself from fidgeting a little under the scrutiny. Jesus, Coulson always makes him feel like a kid, and this time it's worse than ever. Which is also disturbingly arousing. Or would be, if Clint wasn't mortally humiliated right now.
"I am going to say some things to you, Agent Barton," he says, enunciating each word carefully. "I want you to listen closely to them, and not interrupt me. When I am finished, I am going to ask you a very important question, which you will answer truthfully. Do I make myself clear?"
"Yes Sir," gasps Clint, who is still having a little trouble breathing, or it could just be that Coulson's making him dizzy. At the honorific, Coulson makes a sound in the back of his throat that is nearly a snarl. Clint wants to reach up and loosen his tie and put his mouth on the place on Phil's throat that his collar and tie are currently concealing. He feels this is probably an inappropriate response just at the moment.
"I have been your handler for four years, Agent Barton," begins Phil. His voice is calm now, but the arm against Clint's neck is trembling a little. "Four years, and we have worked well together. I have found it an honor and a privilege to be your handler, and had considered you my friend as well. I have watched you grow from a cocky, rude, disrespectful liability into an agent and a man anyone would be proud to know. I have trusted you, and been trusted in return. We have not always agreed, but we have treated one another with respect, or we had until tonight. I have worked very hard to make sure that my personal preferences and choices never crossed over into our working relationship, because to allow that to happen would have been unprofessional and inexcusable. There is also the fact that I have seen how you looked at agent Romanov from the day you brought her to me, unconscious rather than dead as expected. I have known all along that while my…tastes….did not offend you, you very clearly did not share them. I have been quite careful to make sure that you never," and here his arm presses down sharply and Clint wheezes a little, "NEVER had a single inkling that I found you attractive. I have a great deal of difficulty believing you would mock that, had you become aware of it by some miracle, so I am trying not to be mortally offended by your insolent offer regarding goodbye presents, but it is not easy. I can't do this, Clint. I can't take what you're offering, knowing it isn't what you really want, when you're this ridiculously gorgeous, inexperienced, beautiful boy I have thought of so often and so indecently it makes me feel ashamed, knowing I might hurt or distress you, that I would ruin something that should be a dream come true because I can't help myself. It isn't fair, Agent. So do not dare stand there and offer me the moon when all you have to truly give is lip service. I am well aware that you're not gay, and what you're offering me is…well…it's so tempting that I am not man enough to refuse it more than once. I was prepared to brush this off as some absurdly misguided scheme my two protégées cooked up as a farewell gift, which would have been insulting, but then you had to go and mention dreams. I am not strong enough to refuse again, Clint, because I have to tell you that I want this. Badly. I am giving you one chance. One. Be very careful how you answer, because I'm not going to be able to stop if you let me get started. Do you understand that?"
Clint, who has been listening with growing astonishment, nods as best he can while being asphyxiated.
"Very well. This is the question. What. Do. You. Want?"
The forearm eases back enough for Clint to gasp in a huge lungful of air. The combination of being forcibly restrained, the clean leather scent of Phil's cologne, and the things the handler has just confessed to him have all combined to give him a raging hard-on. He licks his lips nervously, sees Coulson's eyes follow its nervous sweep across his lips and wants to moan. He closes his eyes, prays for courage, and answers.
"I want you," he breathes.
"What?" asks Coulson, his arm dropping abruptly as he steps back in shock, this clearly NOT being the answer he was expecting. Emboldened, Clint raises his eyes to stare into the wide shocked expression on Phil's face.
"I want you, Sir," he repeats. Coulson's eyelids drop. "You like that, don't you? The Sir? Yeah, I like saying it. Sir," he whispers. "I want this. I want you. I want you…." He leans forward, until his face is next to Phil's, and breathes into his ear, "to fuck me." He's back on ground he understand now, oh yes, and it turns out slumming is Phil's style after all. His handler's hand flashes up and fists in his shirt, and he's shoved against the wall for the third time tonight, not minding a bit this time, nossir. Coulson leans close, and Clint breathes him in, and shivers, because while he's acting a little cocky now, he's still nervous as hell. Coulson's voice in his ear is a snarl, and he feels it in his spine.
"You'd better be very sure what you're asking for, little boy," he hisses, and Clint groans, because fuck that's what Phil calls him in the dream. Coulson reacts to the groan by crowding his body up against the archer, and when Clint feels the older man's groin press into his, and his rather impressive erection hot against the inside of his thigh, he feels a little dizzy. "Like that, is it?" he murmurs with some amusement. Clint tugs at the perfectly knotted tie, pulls it free, pinches open the top button of Phil's perfectly pressed dress shirt. He does what he's wanted to do for what seems like hours now, pressing his mouth to the hollow of Phil's throat, his teeth scraping skin while he answers, breathless and still a little scared, stumbling a little over his words as he answers.
"Is it….any wonder, Sir? Guy who…ah…raised me….tied me to a wheel and threw knives at me. I was into bondage before I hit puberty. Then I was…SHIELD's worst behavior problem….until you saved me, showed me….Jesus you smell good…what I could be. Is it really any wonder I got a little bit of daddy kink going on?"
The hand Phil doesn't have clenched in Clint's shirt slides up to fist in his hair, which Clint is, not for the first time cause Tasha's a puller too, very thankful he has let grow out some from its usual short, near-military crop.
"Bondage hm?" says Phil speculatively. "You know Agent, boys who ask to be tied up should really be very careful what they ask for."
Fuuuuuckkkk. He's so screwed. In the dream, Phil is rough with him, and that's enough, but this…this dark silky menace in his voice, is startling because he'd have never pegged Phil for this, with his proper manners and his perfect composure and impeccable grooming, and Jesus Christ if it's true, if Phil is as sick a bastard as he himself, or even anywhere near the same zipcode (cause face it, he thinks, that's pretty damn sick), he's not sure he's going to survive it. He whines a little when Phil yanks his head back roughly and kisses him. It's so different than kissing a woman, to feel another face rough with stubble against his own, the hard line of masculine jaw instead of a soft feminine cheek, lips and teeth and tongue the same as his. Yeah, weird, but shit, it's hot too, and he's starting to feel a lot less nervous.
"You have no idea what you're offering, little boy," murmurs Coulson warningly, pulling back a little, his chest rising and falling heavily as he looks at Clint through hooded eyes.
"Jesus. Fuck. Show me Sir," he gasps. Coulson groans a little and the hand in his hair gentles, strokes the curve of his skull. Clint leans into the caress, sighing.
"You have no idea what you're asking. No, Barton, not your first time. It would….it would bring out some aggressive tendencies in me that would be an unfortunate mix for you, since you've never done this before."
"Have," mutters Clint, turning his head to press teeth to Coulson's wrist where his pulse pounds, thick and heavy. He's almost certain Phil swears softly under his breath.
"I know for a fact it was only a couple of months before Loki…." Coulson hesitates a second, then plows ahead, skimming over the name like it's nothing, and that's good, that's fine, Clint doesn't want to think about him tonight anyway, "that you'd imbibed a truly astonishing volume of tequila and wanted to ask me what it was like being gay, during which very odd conversation you told me you had never been with a man. Either you worked pretty quickly after that or….are you telling me that Loki…." He trails off, looking horrified. "Oh Clint…."
"No," Clint hurries to reassure him, because this dawning horror, this sorrow he sees trying to bloom on Phil's face, is NOT what he wants from him right now. "No, definitely no, that's not what I mean. And yeah, I mean no, I've still never been with a guy. I mean…" Clint realizes what he's saying and blushes, because he's never told anybody this. Oh what the hell, anything to take that look off Coulson's face. "It was Tasha," he says in a rush, and buries his face in Phil's shirt, feeling like he's about twelve again and admitting he's had his first wet dream. He has no idea why he's acting this way. It isn't like him. But shit, when Phil calls him little boy, he just sinks into it like quicksand and he's there, and it's still a little scary but it's like warm sunlight on a part of him that's only ever lived in darkness, and he's going to try not to examine it too closely.
Then Phil's hand clenches again in his hair and he sighs happily as Phil chuckles a little.
"I see. Still, that doesn't mean you're….accustomed….to this. I don't want to hurt you, Clint."
Clint stares at his face, sees both the hunger and the lie written there.
"Yes, you do," he says, and then, recklessly, foolishly, "and I want you to." Phil's grip turns brutal, tight enough to make his eyes water, and Clint does the only thing he can think to do under the circumstances. There's no foolish pride in him. Plenty of pride, yeah, and god knows he's one of the hardest-headed sons of bitches he's ever known, but since Tasha came into his life, he knows that letting pride get in the way of what you want is just stupid. If he's doing this, and apparently he is, then he's damn well going all out. He slides gracefully to his knees, knowing he does it well because being in tune with his body has never been one of his weak points. Coulson likes it. Oh, he does. Clint blushes and lowers his eyes at the flare of dark shine in Phil's eyes. He has no idea what's gotten into him, why he's behaving so recklessly when he truly doesn't know what the consequences may be, but the feelings from the dream are taking him over, and he wants. Oh, he wants. He wants Phil to be pleased with him, to see the smile of pride he finds so rewarding after a mission accomplished on Phil's face for a much dirtier reason. He wants Phil to pet him and tell him he's a good boy. He wants to make Phil happy, to erase the lines of pain and stress he sometimes sees in the older man's face. He comes close to feeling this way with Tasha, sometimes. But she is right when she says they are too equal to really feed the part of him that wants to kneel at another's feet and give himself to them, to serve them and feel the surge of pride and peace that comes when you are owned, and it is good, and the one who owns you tells you that you've done well. He knows where these feelings come from, remembers being an anxious, messed up young kid with a little talent, and trying so hard to master the tasks the Marksman taught him, how patient he had been and yet how tough. He remembers the brush of a callused hand over his head, the touch fleeting and affectionate, and the voice rough with years of tobacco use musing, "Not bad, boy. Not bad." He'd lived for those moments. He remembers the clench in his gut when he'd gotten caught breaking curfew and making out with the ringmaster's daughter INSIDE the off-limits runs where the big cats were housed, and the hiss of his mentor's belt as it slid through the loops. He remembers the sting of it, and how he'd tried not to cry but had anyway, and the rough awkward hug after and the gruff, "All right now, boy. It's forgotten." And it was. Oh yeah, he knows why he feels this way, and he knows why he feels this way for Phil, and now that he does know, all he can think about is that Phil will be gone soon and he wants this to be perfect. He looks up at Phil's face, and his breath catches a little in his throat at the smile on Phil's face.
"Do you…" he asks hesitantly, because he's not sure how to be cool about it when he doesn't feel cool at all, he feels nervous and inexperienced and foolish, but god damn, he's gonna try. "Would you like me to…go down on you, Sir?" He's pretty much eye to…hem….eye, with Phil's evident arousal. There's even a tiny spot of damp blackening the dark grey of Phil's trousers. Fuck. He has no idea how to do this, and it never would have occurred to him to actually ask Tasha for pointers, but what the hell. Maybe Phil won't expect too much. Phil, in response to his question, looks at the ceiling again and sucks in a huge, shuddering breath.
"You have no idea, son," he says with a slightly rueful smile. But then he's tugging Clint to his feet and towards the bedroom. "But that might be a little….overwhelming, and uncomfortable for you. I have dreamed about a night like this for too long to let anything spoil it, for you or me. If it isn't…good for you, it's not going to be good for me either. And Clint, I can make it good for you."
"You don't have to be gentle with me, Sir," says Clint, feeling rather anxious, because no, that's not what he wants from Phil. The reassuringly predatory smile Phil shoots at him sends a thrill through his body.
"I didn't say I wouldn't hurt you, little boy," says Phil quietly, and his voice is gentle and menacing at the same time. "I said I'd make it good for you."
"Yes Sir," says Hawkeye faintly, and lets himself be towed into Phil's bedroom. Jesus, he thinks, mind going blank for a second, I'm in Phil's bedroom. I'm in PHIL'S bedroom. I'm in Phil's BEDROOM. He freezes for a moment, but Phil's grip on his arm is steely, and he has to follow or fight back, and he really doesn't want to fight back. At the edge of the bed, which is wide and covered with a blue and green spread, and bound at the head and foot by a heavy cherry frame.
"Looks sturdy," he says, knowing it sounds inane, but he's having mental images of Phil tying him to it and….Oh god, he's really lost his mind. Phil's mouth quirks in a smile.
"It is. Strip."
"I said," breathes Phil, stepping so close Clint can feel the heat of his body through both their clothes, "Clinton Francis Barton, take your clothes off. Obey me. Now."
Well fuck, since he's put it that way. Clint wonders briefly if he's going to come in his pants like a kid before he can get them off, but he manages not to, and to slither out of his clothes. He hopes he doesn't look as awkward and ungainly as he feels, because his hands are shaking a little, but Phil's looking at him like he's candy, so he thinks maybe he's okay. When he is naked, though Phil is still fully clothed, Coulson pushes him gently backwards onto the bed. The archer scrambles to arrange himself in some semblance of a normal pose on top of the soft comforter. Coulson smiles down at him for just a moment, and then Clint blinks in surprise as the older man is sort of just suddenly there, on his hands and knees above him, his body framing the younger man's, looking down at him with what can only be described as a feral grin. Clint doesn't think he's ever seen Coulson grin before. He shivers.
"Put your hands above you on the headboard," Phil orders, and the tone in his voice is calm, though he is still breathing hard. Hawkeye gropes above his head until he finds the sturdy crosspiece of the headboard. He wraps his hands around it and squeezes hard. "Good boy," whispers Phil, and these words are very nearly Clint's undoing, because he's dreamed them before, but never heard them for real. He knows it's sick, and he doesn't care. "Now, don't move them until I tell you that you may. Can you do that for me?"
"Yes Sir," gasps Clint, and oh Jesus, oh Fuck, if Coulson will only keep talking to him like that, he'll do anything he wants. His hips buck upwards towards the other man, he can't help it, and his cry of shock is really just that, when Phil's palm connects with his thigh with a sharp slap. It doesn't really hurt, not compared to a lot of the things he and Tasha have done, but it's Phil slapping him and it goes beyond even what he's dreamed about, and shocks him. Coulson leans down and kisses him again then, and it's still strange, but only because the sensation of it is different than anything he's experienced before, not because he doesn't like it. Phil's fingertips on his jaw hold his head still and he hums a soft, contented sound into Phil's mouth, making the handler laugh.
"Good god, Barton," he says with a slightly silly smile. "If I'd known you'd be this eager, I'd have gotten reassigned a long time ago."
"If I'd known I'd be this eager," pants Clint into his impending lover's mouth, "I'd have asked you to."
"No regrets though?" Coulson asks, and it's kind of weird to think Phil might actually be wanting reassurance.
"None Sir. I wouldn't be where I am without you. And this…well, we're here now. Guess I wouldn't really want to change the other, cause I'm not sure I'd even be alive today if I hadn't been assigned to you."
"It wasn't random, you know," smiles Phil, and nips Clint sharply on the bottom lip, causing Clint's hips to roll helplessly towards him again and gaining him another stinging slap on the inner thigh. Coulson continues as though none of this has occurred. "I requested you, you know."
"Y…you did? Why? I was a total fuckup then!"
Phil's fingers on his throat and jaw are gentle, and Clint shivers.
"No, just lost," he says with another warm smile that makes the archer feel a little gooey inside, and aint that a hell of a thing? "I saw excellence in you, beyond all the attitude problems and insubordination reprimands in your file."
"Not sure why you put up with me," he gasps, as Coulson's fingers drift through his hair and tug gently.
"Does it make me a terrible person to admit I fantasized about spanking you black and blue a great many times that first year?"
Clint closes his eyes, momentarily transported by this mental image, and moans softly, unable to help it. Coulson chuckles.
"Oh….only the first year, Sir?"
"After the first year I fantasized about it for entirely different and unprofessional reasons."
"Fuck, Sir. Do you….do you wanna? Now?"
Phil pauses for a second in his soft caresses of Clint's throat and face and hair and his lips quirk again.
"To borrow some of your colorful and deplorable language," he growls softly, giving Clint goosebumps, "You're fucking right I do. Would it help you….with this?"
Clint squirms, unable to be still against the hot spear of lust that stabs through him when Phil curses, and nods breathlessly.
"Oh god, Sir. Yes Sir. I….I want this, I do, so much, but it's….I'm….ugh," he fumbles awkwardly for words, wishing for not the first time that he had a tenth of Phil's eloquence. This is probably why he and Tasha are so well suited for each other. She doesn't like wasting a lot of words, and he's not awesome with them when he's flustered, but they understand each other anyway. Of course, he's always found it easier to talk to Tasha than anyone else. Except maybe, recently, Jane. This, though, it's overwhelming him and he's feels sort of cast adrift without an anchor. Thankfully, Phil understands him too.
"You're still nervous," supplies Coulson helpfully.
Phil leans down and kisses him, quick and hard, and then backs off until he sits on his heels near the foot of the bed, gazing up Clint's body with what can only be described as hunger. Clint squirms some more, because Phil's eyes make him feel even more naked than he already is.
"Turn over on your stomach, little boy, and grab hold of the headboard again. Don't let go."
"Yes Sir, I mean no Sir, I won't," promises Clint, and does it, hurriedly. He buries his face in the pillow underneath him and waits, breathlessly. Coulson's hand lightly brushes the curve if his ass and he presses himself up into it, because he can't help it. The hand squeezes once, gently, and then the almost ticklish sensation of Phil's hand touching him so carefully is replaced by the sharp sting and what seems to him an earsplitting crack of Coulson's hand impacting his backside. He sucks in his breath and squirms harder than ever, his aching erection rubbing maddeningly against the bedspread. It feels so good, but it's not enough pressure to make him come. The hand comes down again, forcefully, the wrist snapping at the end so the sensation is all sting and not the bone-jarring impact of the full force of Phil's arm. After five, he's writhing against the comforter like he's fucking it, panting. After ten, his raising his hips up to meet Phil's hand, and spouting filth at him, babbling like an idiot, which is okay, because it makes Phil chuckle and hit him harder.
"Fuck, Sir. Do it. More. I want you to. Jesus, shit. You sick bastard, you love this. Unngh. Don't stop, please don't stop. Oh fuck. Oh fuck. Jesus Sir, you're good at this. Ohhh motherFUCK. Yes, goddamn. Yess. FFuuuuccckkk."
Coulson pauses for a few seconds and Clint whines, because he is NOT DONE yet.
"We are going to have to have a conversation about your language, boy," he says sternly, and the only person in the world who could honestly say they can hear the smile in his voice is Hawkeye.
"Wh…ahh…what kind of conver…sation, Sir," he gasps out when Phil resumes the firm, steady spanking.
"The kind that involves my belt, your insubordinate ass, about an hour, and you being given something else to do with that mouth," says Phil, his voice thick with what Clint hopes is lust.
"Language, Sir!" he jokes, and then is unable to bite back a cry of actual pain when Phil retaliates, forcefully. It's the only time the spanking actually hurts. It's all sharp tingling sting that make his ass feel like he's been sitting on a hot stovetop, but which in no way threatens to break his control and push him into real pain, or tears. He's glad. He thinks the intensity of that would probably kill him right now. This isn't cathartic like what Tasha did to him, and has occasionally also happened since when he's been in dire need of an emotional release he's not capable of allowing himself on his own. It isn't overwhelming or devastating in any way, it is only hot and stimulating and good, and it steadies him, and drives every last bit of nerves out the window, until he is in the end shamelessly grinding himself into the mattress and making small mewling sounds of need because he's no longer capable of coherent speech. He is floating in a sea of sensation and need, and while it is maddening to his aroused state, it also makes him feel secure, almost peaceful. He's so blissed out when Phil stops, he knows his pupils are blown so wide you can barely see the blue-gray of his irises. Gently, Phil urges him over on his back, and he whines a little at the loss of the friction of the bedspread against his aching cock. He just lays there for several long seconds with his eyes closed, panting and making small, incoherent sounds, which culminate in what can only be described as quite nearly a shocked, agonized howl when something warm and wet envelops the head of his dick and sucks. He slits his eyes open and then slams them shut again because Christ he doesn't want to come yet but Phil has his mouth there. With his eyes closed, it's okay, he can manage not to go over too soon, because although he had been assuming that men gave blowjobs very differently from women, it's actually a fact that it doesn't feel any different at all to his dick. He groans and concentrates on long-division in his head. Mercifully, it does not go on too long, so that he hasn't really recovered from the shock of seeing Phil with his mouth on Clint's cock, and realizing also that Coulson is really good at this. He dares to open his eyes again when it ends, and sees Phil sitting casually between his outspread thighs. He's removed his coat, shirt and trousers at some point while Clint was lost in sensation, and his erection is a lot more noticeable in his snug boxer-briefs. Clint grips the headboard so tightly he feels the edges of the wood digging into his palms. He can only see one of Phil's hands, the one currently tracing gentle circles on the inside of his right thigh. The whereabouts and intentions of the other hand are revealed when Coulson slowly but unhesitatingly slides his index finger into him. It's slick with something, and Clint belatedly notices an open bottle of lubricant sitting beside them on a bedside table. He writhes when Phil withdraws and then slides the finger in again, pressing briefly against his prostate before pulling back out. This goes on for several minutes while Clint whimpers and squirms and gasps. When it's two fingers, he's reduced to begging.
"Please Sir, I'm ready. Do it. Fuck me. Jesus, I can't….ohgodohgod….nnnn….no more, I can't….I can't wait anymore. Phil! Sir! Please!"
"Have you been good enough to deserve a fucking, boy?" asks Phil huskily.
"I…hnnn….oh Sir, please. I don't know. I think so. Just….please!"
"You're pretty when you beg," Phil muses smugly, which wrenches a guttural moan from Hawkeye. He knows he's acting like a mindless thing, but he doesn't think he can wait ONE FUCKING MINUTE more. And then, oh god, oh shit, oh fuck, he's flipped back onto his stomach and Phil gently presses the cheeks of his ass apart and there is more of the slippery stuff and he's nearly sobbing because he knows Phil's going to do it now, going to fuck him, put his cock inside him, and he aches for it but he's suddenly terrified too, because Phil's bigger than the phallus Natasha had used. A lot bigger.
He feels the soft nudge of the head of Phil's cock pressing against his hole, and he's suddenly really scared. He doesn't think it's going to fit. Thinks it's going to hurt him, a lot. Thinks he can't do it.
"Sir!: he cries in an agony of nerves and lust and uncertainly. Coulson goes very still, but does not pull away. "I don't….I think….I can't…."
"You can," says Phil firmly. "You will." His voice is deadly earnest, the tone of command that brooks no protest, and Clint forces his tightly coiled muscles to relax, because obeying Phil's commands is, in the end, one of the easiest things he knows how to do.
"Yes Sir," he whispers, and feels the prickle of tears in his eyes, though they do not spill over.
Phil eases forward with agonizing slowness, filling him gradually but inexorably. The stretch and burn of it, the absolute sense of being invaded are both terrible and exhilarating. He hugs the pillow to his face and whines through his teeth at the burn, but Coulson won't have it, and his head is pulled back roughly. He gasps.
"Don't hide from me, boy," he snarls, and pushes in another inch, wrenching something close to a scream out of Clint.
"Sir!" he cries desperately. "I…ohgod…I ca…nng ….can't. It….ahh…it burns. Oh fuck you're big. Please Sir!"
"Please what?" asks Phil, almost pleasantly, though Clint can hear the strain in his voice.
"I don't know!" cries Hawkeye. "Please Sir, it hurts."
"Does it?" asks Coulson, not stopping his advance.
"Good," says Phil simply, and shoves. Clint howls, his body trembling, hands scrabbling on the headboard as he tries to grasp…something….sanity….anything. Phil feels monstrous inside him. He wonders wildly if you can actually be torn in half. He's aware that his dick hasn't softened one little bit the whole time, and now that Phil's all the way THERE, he stops moving. He holds himself very still, and when Clint turns his head to the side, he sees Phil's hand, palm down, pressed into the mattress, the gold of his watch face gleaming in the dim lamplight. After a minute or so passes, during which he whimpers and pants and tries really hard not to move, he realizes it doesn't hurt so much anymore. After another minute more, he starts to think about the sensation of Phil's cock inside him, buried to the hilt, and the aching sense of fullness and being possessed, and the scent and feel of Phil's body pressing against him from above, and he can't stop himself from rolling his hips up towards Phil a little. A surprised gasp of pleasure escapes his lungs, and he does it again, bucking up against Phil a little now. The mewling sounds have been replaced by soft, needy growls, and he cannot bring himself to care if he sounds like an idiot. The rigidity of Phil's body while he's allowed Clint time to adjust relaxes, and he lowers himself down onto his elbows, so that his body covers Clint's and presses him down into the mattress. Clint moans softly as Coulson's movement shifts the cock inside him, but this time it isn't a moan of pain or fear. Phil rolls his hips forward a little.
"Ohhhhhhh," whispers Clint.
"All right now, little boy?" asks Phil tenderly.
"Yes Sir," he breathes in a small voice.
"I'm going to fuck you now," says Coulson with finality. Clint gulps; Coulson pulls back and then shoves in again. Clint cries out for him, because it isn't pain at all now. The friction of the tug and press of Phil's cock is maddening. He growls and pushes against him, and in a few seconds their bodies are slamming together. Phil fucks single-mindedly, as though he's trying to fuck his way THROUGH Clint and out the other side. There is still pain from time to time, at a particularly vicious thrust, but Clint's cries are not pain sounds. His cock aches like a sore tooth, burrowing need deeply into his belly and twisting around his spine like a serpent, sinuous and strong.
"Phil. Phil. Phil," he gasps, desperate. "Please Sir, I need…ohgodfuckshitgoddamn…I….hnn….I gotta….nng…I need…Sir….fuuuuuckkk…..yeah, do it. Fuck me. Harder. Please. Sir! Ohgod….Fuck. Yes. Fuck. Do it." After a few minutes of this, he's dimly aware that all that's coming out of his mouth now is "fuckmefuckmefuckmefuckme," and he does not care that he's reduced to monosyllabic drivel. Phil hauls him back by his hips, raising them off the bed, and hammers into him cruelly, while Clint howls with desperation. His eyes are screwed tightly shut against the intense sensations coursing through his overloaded body, so he doesn't see Phil adjust his position a little so he won't need both hands to support himself while he fucks into Clint like a damn locomotive, so Clint's eyes fly open on his shocked cry of pleasure when Phil's hand closes tightly around his dick. It squeezes, slides, pumps up and down slowly while Clint shudders and almost sobs with pleasure.
"Sir…I'm gonna come Sir, please," he pants, his voice frantic as he feels pressure building and coiling insidiously through his body, pulling him towards losing all semblance of control, which he actually thinks he lost as soon as Phil opened the door.
"With me," Phil growls, leaning close and spilling his need-roughened voice into Clint's ear like warm sweet molasses. Clint feels his toes curl as he senses the older man's rhythm falter, as Phil's hands dig convulsively into his hips and he gasps Clint's name. Feeling the warm rush of his handler's release inside him is the final straw, and Clint comes, howling, over Coulson's hand and onto his tasteful comforter, his fingers white as he clamps down on the headboard and shakes. Coulson's shocked cry at the spasms inside the archer is music in his fevered brain. At last, the tremors subside, and they are both wring out and panting, bodies sheened with sweat, sticky with come and also a little bit of blood, which doesn't bother Clint at all right now, though he's aware he's going to be really sore tomorrow. This thought is confirmed quite a bit sooner when Phil slowly pulls out of him and his insides cramp against the withdrawal, wringing another whine from him. Phil chuckles. Clint wonders if he's capable of calling up a creditable pout, but decides he's too tired. Coulson rolls him onto his side and hauls him close. Clint, to his surprise, finds himself suddenly close to tears. He has not felt so utterly wrung out and owned in….well…..ever. fleetingly his mind wonders if this is disloyalty to Tasha, but as she so carefully pointed out to him before they agreed on this, it is apples and oranges. He stops analyzing and lets himself relax against Phil's body. Phil runs his hand softly over Clint's hair.
"Good boy,: he whispers, and Clint shivers.
"Thank you, Sir."
"Thank you," says Phil warmly.
They doze for a while, sort of tangled up together, until hunger rouses them both. Phil takes him into the shower and he finds the experience shakes him to his core as the older man treats him tenderly as though he is a fragile and lovely thing, and it pours into and fills up every empty reservoir of daddy kink Clint's carried around since he left the circus. Phil seems to know this on an innate level, and his voice is warm and gentle and kind, his hands careful and attentive, and Clint feels himself longing to curl up at Coulson's feet and stay there forever.
The practicality of this is, of course, absurd, and they're ravenous when they emerge from the shower, whereupon Phil fixes them grilled cheese sandwiches and bowls of creamy tomato soup with goldfish crackers. Clint throws a handful of them at Phil, and shivers all over when Phil looks at him sternly. When they are nearly done eating, there is a knock at the door. It's Tasha. She looks worried, and Clint feels a twinge of guilt when he realizes he's been gone for almost six hours now.
She takes one look at the expression on his face, what they are eating, and the casual way Phil's hand rests on Hawkeye's knee and she smiles.
"Good. You've managed not to kill each other. Neither of you answered your phones. I got worried."
"I'm sorry, Tash," he says remorsefully, hunching his shoulders.
"My apologies, Agent Romanov," says Phil sincerely. "That was insufferably rude of us."
Natasha waves this away, staring at Clint with great interest. He knows he looks like he feels, fucked out and blissed out of his mind and dreamy. She looks from him to Phil and back again, a slow smirk spreading across her face.
"Was he a good boy for you, Agent Coulson?" she asks with a grin she can't quite conceal. Coulson rubs his hand over Clint's head and down his back again, and Clint sighs contentedly.
"I'm not entirely sure whether he was very, very good or very, VERY bad," muses Phil with humor in his tone. Clint grins and sticks out his tongue, and it feels fantastic.
"You know, San Francisco is only about two and a half hours by Quinjet," muses Tasha, and suddenly Clint's entire future takes on a new meaning.
"So it is," agrees Phil comfortably, smiling at both of them.
"Maybe next time we can punish him together," she muses. Clint chokes on his soup and whimpers.