Chapter Text
See, the thing is, Clint's always been a freak. He learned it early on, when he realized that his family wasn’t like the ones on TV or even the ones next door, and the lesson was reinforced with every major development in his life; from a “troubled home life” to foster care, from the system to the circus, from the circus to the Army, from the Army to SHIELD. He’d always known that he was different from normal people, and he’d mostly decided he liked it that way. Sometimes being a freak meant free school lunch and bruises and holes in your shoes, but sometimes it meant shooting a target dead center from the back of a galloping horse. Sometimes it was sleeping in the horse trailer because that was the only way to get warm, but sometimes it was carrying off a mission without a hitch and going home knowing that you’d saved five thousand lives with a single arrow.
The fact that he'd somehow made it into SHIELD, that he'd been given a chance to do something good for the world for once, was more than he’d ever thought life would give him. That now he had even more—real friends, a partner who was like the other half of him, trust and respect and the chance to make something of his life—he owed to Phil Coulson.
Agent Coulson had been the first person in his life who had ever looked at him and saw more than just a burden or a problem or a tool. As time had gone by and Agent Coulson had gone from Clint’s SO to his handler to his friend, it was probably inevitable that Clint would eventually fall in love with him. He'd always had a tendency to get attached.
What still surprised Clint every day of his life was that Coulson—Phil— loved him back. It's not that Clint was insensitive to his own charms; he did pay attention to his surroundings and he’d won "best ass in SHIELD" six of the last ten years. It's just that anything Clint had to offer, he knew that Phil could get elsewhere, from someone who didn’t come with the kind of baggage Clint was dragging along. But for whatever reason, Phil seemed to think that Clint was his best option (maybe he had an archery fetish, who knows) and Clint wasn't about to point out to him how he could be doing better. The way Clint saw it, he was already getting more than he deserved, and there was no reason not to do everything he could to hold onto Phil for as long as possible.
He'd always known you have to hold on to what you've got, Bon Jovi lyrics notwithstanding, because there's no guarantee you’d get any more if you let someone take it away from you.
How this all tied into sex, basically, is that while Clint had always liked it a little freaky in bed, he'd been reluctant to bring that into his relationship with Phil, because he had a relationship with Phil, and that was enough. It wasn't that he thought Phil would be disgusted or anything like that; he was more worried that Phil would, like, break up with him for his own good because he couldn't meet all his needs or whatever. Clint couldn't guarantee that in that case he wouldn't completely humiliate himself begging, and not in the fun way. He didn’t really need it, anyway; it wasn’t like he couldn’t come unless he was hanging by his toes while someone hit him with a bullwhip and sang Yankee Doodle Dandy. He just… liked it, sometimes, being able to let go. But if you put the possibility of that up against the reality of Phil, well, Phil would win every damn time.
It wasn't like Clint's more… esoteric needs were completely neglected, either. Phil was a passionate guy, for all he liked to put on his unassuming everyman act, and when they'd been apart for a while he tended to manhandle Clint a little, which was awesome. Clint made a point of telling him so every time it happened. Positive reinforcement; Clint learned about that in his SHIELD leadership class when he got promoted to Level Five.
The trouble with this, though, is that when they really got going it could be close enough to the way Clint wished it was that he forgot it wasn't real.
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It was his first night home in three weeks and he was on a week of downtime; Phil had invited him to spend it at his place. Phil had gotten Indian takeout and Clint had stuffed himself with naan and chicken tikka and those little cheese balls soaked in honey and rosewater, and he'd barely pushed back from the table before Phil had pounced, crowding him up against the wall and kissing traces of honey from his lips. Clint had gone pliant, moving where Phil put him, moaning into his hard kisses and rolling his body against Phil's just enough to feel the weight and strength of him holding Clint in place. It was so good, a safe wall at his back and someone he trusted at his front. It was a good place to be, a safe place to let go. Phil set his teeth on the edge of Clint's jaw and Clint moaned, “Please, sir, please.”
He froze the minute the words were out of his mouth, but it was too late; he could feel Phil tense a little, his body going from languid heat to poised attention as he pulled back enough to look Clint in the eye. Clint felt himself flushing under that look.
"Clint?"
"Sorry," Clint said, trying to sound nonchalant though his heart was pounding. "Nothing. Slip of the tongue."
“I understand it can be difficult to transition out of work mode—” Phil began, but Clint couldn't hold back a laugh, even for the sake of taking the out.
"Trust me, that's not a problem," he said.
Phil narrowed his eyes, that big brain of his working now that it was presented with an anomaly.
"It's really nothing," Clint said hastily. He rubbed a hand up Phil's chest, being sure to brush a nipple on the way. "Why don't we get back to what we were doing?"
Phil lifted his hand, moving slowly so Clint could see what was happening, and traced gently over the faint healing bruise on Clint's cheekbone where a bad guy had gotten in a lucky hit. Clint shivered at the touch, enough to feel but not enough to hurt. Phil's hand continued on its path, brushing through Clint's hair to the back of his neck, then suddenly gripped tight, holding him like a scruffed kitten. He couldn't bite back a little moan at the feeling of being held like that.
"But what," said Phil, "if I want it to be something?"
Clint stared at him, mouth dry, pants tightening so fast he was dizzy with it. He was about fifty percent convinced that he’d fallen asleep after dinner and this was an especially good dream. Another forty-nine percent thought that he was misunderstanding what Phil was saying and this would all end in tears. But Clint grew up in the circus, he hunted monsters with a bow and arrow, and he’d always been a daredevil at heart, so he took a deep breath, shaking with his own audacity, and went with the one percent.
"In that case," he managed to say, "then it's whatever you want it to be. Sir.”
Phil’s eyes slid shut, just for a moment, and he drew in a deep, shuddery breath. “What I ought to do right now,” he breathed, “is step away, calm down, and have this conversation when I can think about something besides the way your mouth looks when you call me that.”
Clint’s heart had stuttered when Phil said “step away,” but by the end of the sentence it had picked up again, beating wildly. He felt almost light-headed with possibility; the last thing he wanted to do was talk.
“How about,” he said, darting his tongue out to lick his lips, “right now, you put me on my knees and fuck my face, and then we have that conversation in the morning.”
Phil’s hand clenched on Clint’s neck, but his face stayed calm. “Is that what you want?”
“Yes, sir,” Clint said, trying to put all his desperate sincerity in his voice, in his eyes. “Please, sir.”
Phil breathed out, hard, and then the hand on Clint’s neck was pressing down. He sank beneath it, folding to his knees in a single motion, eyes never leaving Phil’s face. He was so close he could feel Phil’s body heat through his clothes.
“Then that’s what I’ll give you,” Phil said. “Listen to me. Are you listening?”
Clint couldn’t have stopped listening if a bomb had gone off in the room. “Yes, sir.”
“If you say stop, we stop. If you can’t talk and you want to stop, poke my leg with your finger, and we stop. Is that clear?”
“Yes, sir,” Clint said. “We stop if I say. Poke your leg if I can’t talk.”
“Very good, Clint,” Phil said, and there was something warm in his voice that seemed to wrap all around Clint like a blanket. “Now take my cock out and make sure I’m ready to fuck you with it.”
Phil sounded amazing, like the way he sounded when he gave orders on missions but better, something rich and raw and unfettered in his voice. If Clint hadn't spent most of his life training his hands steady, he thought they would have trembled as he slid the supple, skin-warm leather of Phil’s belt through the buckle. Phil was in his suit pants and shirt, tie off, sleeves rolled up, a combination of Clint’s dirtiest work fantasies and the comfort of their actual relationship. He didn’t bother with trying to get Phil out of his pants, just opened the fly and shoved Phil’s underwear down so he could get to his cock. It was beautiful, he thought; all flushed satiny skin and mostly hard already. Clint wasted no time getting it in his mouth. He gave a couple of good hard sucks, and it pulsed and grew, getting heavier on his tongue as he bobbed his head, licking at the salty tip. He was really starting to get into a rhythm, bracing his hands on Phil’s hips, when Phil pushed him away a little, letting his cock slide out of Clint’s mouth with a dirty, wet noise.
“S-sir?” he asked, worried that he’d done something wrong. He wasn’t even doing the “sir” thing on purpose anymore, it just seemed like the right thing to do, like some kind of fundamental law of nature; Phil was in charge, so he was Sir. He was Sir, and he was in charge, and he'd make sure Clint knew what to do.
“It’s okay, Clint,” Phil said roughly, running one hand through his hair. Petting him. He liked it way more than he probably should. “You did a good job getting me ready, but I promised you something. Do you remember?”
He remembered. He’d remember on his deathbed, he thought. “To… to fuck my face, sir.”
“Yes. Good job,” Phil said again, and Clint basked in it, even as a distant part of himself was thinking how stupid he was being. “I promised to fuck your face, and I will always keep my promises to you, as far as I have it in my power. Is that still what you want?”
“Yes, sir, please,” Clint said, and Phil soothed him with another of those pets.
“Then just relax, Clint, and let me take care of you,” Phil said. Clint dropped his hands, let his jaw fall slack, and Phil took hold of his head, one careful hand on either side of his jaw, and pulled him forward until his lips just brushed Phil’s cockhead.
“You remember what to do if you want to stop?” Phil asked.
“Poke you,” Clint said, his whole body longing to move forward, but Phil was holding him still.
“Very good, Clint,” Phil said, and then, “just relax for me, baby,” and he pulled Clint’s open mouth onto his cock, slow and easy. Clint kept his jaw loose, his lips and tongue soft, trying to make a nice wet place for Phil to fuck. Phil’s hands on his face were steady and sure, guiding him with just enough pressure, not painful but impossible to ignore. He sped up, eventually, letting his cock nudge the back of Clint’s throat, and Clint moaned around him, making Phil’s hands clench a little tighter behind his jaw.
Clint had let his eyes drift shut, and now he felt the last of his tension ease, slipping into the kind of calm, focused mental space he went to when he was practicing his shooting. He moved where Phil put him, lips and tongue and throat all there for Phil to use, there to give Phil pleasure, and as Phil started fucking him in earnest he felt simultaneously so hard he thought he’d burst and deeply relaxed. He thought maybe he could just stay there forever, rocked between Phil’s hands and his cock, smelling Phil’s scent and feeling his grip and hearing the little grunt of breath that Phil made every time he bottomed out in Clint’s throat. He was distantly aware of Phil setting up a pattern, each deep, long thrust that set Clint swallowing around him to keep from gagging followed by three hard shallow ones across Clint’s tongue that let him gasp for breath. Clint wasn’t sure how long they’d been going, but eventually he felt a hitch in the pattern, Phil speeding up, and then Phil’s cock twitched and pulsed and spilled into his mouth, over his tongue and running out the corners, and Clint swallowed a little when it hit the back of his throat but didn’t concern himself too much with anything else, because Phil had said relax and he hadn’t said to stop relaxing yet. Phil didn’t pull away fast, but guided Clint’s head to rest on his hip, cock still in Clint’s soft mouth until it shrunk enough to slip back out. Clint heard himself make a sad little noise, but Phil started petting his hair again, soothing, and he was telling Clint that he was good, he was so good, he was perfect for Phil and made Phil so happy, and Clint was warm and safe and cared for and he never wanted to leave.
After a few seconds or maybe a few minutes, Clint wasn’t keeping track of time just then, Phil knelt down next to Clint, tucking Clint up next to him and brushing kisses over his ear.
“Listen, baby, okay?” Phil asked. Clint managed an interrogatory hum and was rewarded with another kiss. “You’re doing so well, Clint. Do you want to come now?”
Clint thought about it, and suddenly the distant burn of his arousal was sharp and clear and present again, and he was desperate to come, his balls tight and swollen and aching, his cock strangling behind the zipper of his jeans. “Please,” he managed, “sir, please,” and that was all it took for Phil to move, making soothing noises in his ear between kisses, quick and clever hands freeing Clint from his jeans. The first touch of skin on skin was so good Clint cried out, and it only took a few strokes from Phil’s warm, rough fingers to have Clint shooting out, between Phil’s fingers, all over the polished wood floor.
Clint was gone after that, stumbling and stupid and limp with release, and he would have passed out right there in the living room if Phil hadn’t gathered him up, steered him into the bedroom, and washed the come off his face and groin with a warm cloth. Phil put him into his pajama pants and straight up tucked him into bed, keeping up a steady stream of praise the whole time that Clint drank up like desert ground. When Phil finally got into bed beside him, Clint had just enough awareness left to turn over and curl around him, clinging, and the last thing he felt as he fell into a deep and dreamless sleep was Phil’s hand petting his hair.