Spc. Barton

His reply was flat, but the way his features warmed in response to the smile he got said enough. After being wound up that tight and then finally given what he desperately needed, his whole system was ready for a hard reboot and about twelve hours of dead sleep.

He didn’t need sex like Clint did. Aside from having a ridiculously high sex drive and the apparent inability (or lack of want) to temper it, Clint found catharsis through physical contact. Contact was as necessary to him as oxygen, and when he reached out for it shutting him down usually did a lot of damage. For Phil, it was just nice to feel wanted. No one else in the world had ever looked at him with that much adoration.

"Yeah," he agreed breathlessly after the kiss ended, schooling his features back into something that was hopefully less readable. A simple flop left him on the pillow alongside Phil; he knew how the man appreciated his body warmth.

"Blowjobs in the morning, then." Back to the mattress, his hands did the talking again. The catnip made him more restless than usual, which was saying something, but he'd waited this long. He could wait a little longer for Phil's sake.

"If you want me to leave them, I’ll get them before we both go to sleep," he said back with extra enunciation, his hands settling for now around Clint’s clamped fingers. When an opportunity to reinforce personal choice came along, it was important to take it. Clint needed all the positive examples he could get.

His feet shuffled to follow Phil's, pleased by the turn of events. It was nothing to stretch, putting himself in range to kiss the corner of the amused little smile Coulson kept. Clint was aware he was being baited -- and didn't care even a little.

"So... that's a no to Chinese?"

He didn’t argue the point. There wasn’t any reason to. He had all he needed for confirmation in the callouses tracing the length of his spine. Clint was in that comfy, squishy spot he seemed to love. After another minute or so under the stream Phil reached to shut it off, carefully disentangling himself from the lanky frame he’d momentarily pinned against the wall so he could reach for towels.

"Okay, confession time." He kept his head angled far enough to keep his lips in sight range as he opened the shower door. "Natasha wanted revenge for you putting flea powder in her field suit. There’s half a dozen catnip bombs hidden around your apartment right now, along with a tiny one in my coat pocket."

"I remember how it felt the last time. Half expected it to be Tasha who showed up, though. Damn tease..." But he still had it in his mind to spread wide hands over the angles of Phil's hips to hold him down while he gave him the best blowjob of this century, so he just shook his head.

"Leave them for now. Unless...?" His hands stilled in the air, questioning. Maybe Coulson wasn't in the mood? Maybe this feeding hadn't been enough?

"I mean, I'll live without your dick in my mouth." Clint's grin was sharp. Back when Phil had just begun to learn to sign, Clint had insisted on teaching him all the dirty words first.

By the time someone slipped in behind him, he’d already grabbed a wash cloth and was working a streak of soap across the wide, jagged scar in the center of his chest. He shook his head and let Clint enter his space without comment, still idly cleaning himself off without a hint that he was going to reach out anytime soon. “Might tell you to wait a minute,” he mused back. “Still kinda dizzy.”

That much was true. He was still re-calibrating the extra blood flowing through his system. It was going to be a minute before everything came back into proper focus. In the meantime he closed into the space between them and steered Clint toward a wall, studiously scrubbing at every inch of skin he could reach with his nose fitted where a hearing aid usually rested.

"Dizzy, hmm?" He couldn't pick out the sound of his own voice over the very faint murmur of the rushing shower water, and (as always) felt that little pang of self-consciousness at how loud or soft he actually was.

...But he knew Phil didn't mind. They'd been over this enough times for it to sink into even his thick skull.

Still, it was a blessing when Phil crowded him back. He hissed at the cold tile before it warmed against his skin, and he wound bow-muscled arms around Phil's frame. The man was strangely cuddly after sessions like this, and Clint couldn't say he hated it. His lips found the curve of Coulson's ear as he nuzzled close, and he made himself available to cling to, groaning inaudibly (to him) at the way their bodies slid against each other.

In the morning, when the real ache had set in and he ended up with a pile of grumpy Pallas cat squashing the breath from his lungs, he’d be able to move quicker. For now, he managed a sluggish nudge after one trail up the length of Clint’s spine, his groan audible and almost pained as they separated and he got a view of his shirt.

Yep. This one was gonna need a bleach soak before he took it to the dry cleaners. He just couldn’t take this sort of disaster to someone else and expect them to handle it without obvious concern.

"Completely worth it." Phil's retaliation was to stand and set them to rights, and Clint held onto the arm of the couch while he tested how well his legs worked.

So far, so good.

"You're older. You need the headstart," he answered fondly. He stretched experimentally as he heard the water start up, feeling the way the burn from his hours at the range melded with the loose-limbed feeling Phil always left him with. It was more than enough to get the endorphins flowing, and he moved carefully to the fridge to grab them each a bottle of water before walking into the bathroom suite.

Setting the bottles on the counter, he ducked into the spray under Phil's arm, rinsing quickly.

"Don’t care." He had a change of clothes in the car, and Clint’s shirts fit about the same way they did on the man that owned them. He slipped free with a slow, methodical raise of his wrist, threading a hand into the hair at the back of Clint’s scalp to make up for what he assumed had to be a painful withdrawal. Clint liked it on the harder side, but there was no reason to be flat-out aggressive, now that they’d both gotten what they wanted.

Almost.

"When are you gonna learn to enjoy the afterglow and stop asking stupid questions?" he murmured, leaning up to kiss the corner of Coulson's mouth experimentally. At first he'd been terribly hesitant to let Clint near his mouth afterward -- but Clint was damned persuasive. Still, he knew when to press his luck.

"You want a shower?" he questioned, thinking about how Phil might like to get cleaned up, yes -- but mostly about how the enclosure was perfect to drop to his knees and blow the man to within an inch of his mind. Phil would hang onto his wet hair. It was a habit of his. The only downside was that the sound of the water would cheapen any noise he could get the man to make.

They were running short on what Clint’s body would be able to handle. Even with the booster, he needed to be able-bodied if a call came through. Phil hadn’t ever been the type to take more than the minimum, anyway; being greedy could result in someone dying. That wasn’t a risk he was willing to take.

"Shit," he shuddered, and the fingers in his ass stole the rest of his words. Phil knew exactly how to angle himself, it was like a super power, and now was no different.

Clint went flying, coming between them before he knew what was happening. He saw coloured spots behind his eyes, and even through it he arched to take more of Phil's fingers.

When it was finally over, he slumped against the man -- only to realise what a mess he'd made. One eye cracked open, stretching the inch or two it took to tuck his nose against Coulson's collar.

If he listened close enough, Phil could sometimes hear memory echoes when he first sank in. It depended on the person and their own sense of will, but every now and then he’d catch a whisper or a noise from a thought that wasn’t his own. The only time it didn’t thoroughly unnerve him was with Clint: for a man so guarded and unwilling to trust strangers, when it was just them he opened like a well-worn book. The noise was loudest with him, more formed (albeit clipped off, usually) words and snaps of conversation with people Phil had never heard in his life.

The fingers at his entrance actually surprised him, as he was so focused on the way Phil was still sizing him up. The slick slide made his hips twitch, mouth opening in silent want -- and god fucking bless that man, he didn't hold back. He was tight around two fingers, a little out of practice lately thanks to whatever had kept Phil busy, but it only took the second flash of teeth to have him pushing to take more.

They hadn't fucked like this in a while, but it had all been this way at first, frantic need and attraction steamrolling them. They never made it to the bed then, either.

"You don't have to say anything--" he gasped, "--but please tell me you're gonna bend me over this couch. A sign, just--" He shuddered, raking blunt nails down Phil's neck.

He wanted to go for the throat. That was instinct; it was courtesy and awareness of his own jaw strength that drove him to find other spots. The inner thigh had grown on him, thanks to Darcy, but Clint was absolutely boneless in his grip and taking the higher road was becoming more and more difficult now that he’d literally made the man freeze on the spot. And, okay, the way he was tilting his head was clearly inviting. Clint’s tolerance for visible marks was much higher than most other people’s, and Phil couldn’t help the affectionate streak it kicked up to know there was no shame in the way Clint showed off.

When the man finally let go, his eyes blacking over, he made sure Phil could feel his rumble of pleasure.

...Which was promptly followed by a distinct whimper. He'd been expecting the neck -- Phil was a traditionalist, much as he might try to argue that fact -- but the skin was thicker over his chest, and he definitely felt it.

It was a damn good feeling. He'd have a hell of a mark, too, which was his favourite bonus.

"Now who’s bossy?" he snapped through a growing smile, obliging despite the backtalk to tug his tie off with a loud snap-pop before it got discarded in an armchair seat. Clint was stumbling over the couch seat when Phil got his coat off and immediately got himself flipped, the wool of Phil’s slacks not enough to block out the searing heat rolling off the man straddled across his lap while their tongues briefly fought for higher ground.

When he finally needed air Phil sat back and turned his head into Clint’s neck, his teeth more insistent as they plucked at the reddened line he’d made in the kitchen. He wanted to sit there and take in the way Clint squirmed and gasped and just seemed to fit right where he was, but between Clint’s plant-induced frenzy and Phil’s shrinking ability to control his grip where it was cultivating bruises at Clint’s hips, it was time to do something drastic.

He was naked before long, and Phil did that thing with his tie, and suddenly he was warming the man's lap. Coulson was nowhere near approaching gentle, and that was just fucking dandy with Clint; he was practically seeing stars already. His hips rocked against the bulk of Phil's thigh, the wool a delicious drag against his length -- and then there was a hand in his hair.

It was probably a cat thing, or maybe it was his own messy subconcious, who cared, but he went very nearly boneless, the capture and pain and pleasure of it lighting him up so fiercely he had to stop moving to process it. His tongue curled instinctively around the fingers he found there, and he grinned around them at Phil's words.

He was eager to regain the heat and pulled Clint back as eagerly as he himself was grabbed, his eyes rolling upward before they shuttered closed. “Can you just not?” he jabbed when he pulled back for a breath, unwilling to spend too long hovering and immediately diving back in for a hard nip to the man’s lower lip.

The catnip bombs seemed to be doing a better job than they had last time. Natasha had the hand-drawn map where she’d planted the tea bags, and the small pinch in Phil’s coat pocket seemed to be acting as a handy booster. Not that he’d ever complained about Clint’s eagerness; the pulse under his lips when he arched into Clint’s neck again was already beating in double-time.

Especially Phil, no matter how much he pretended to hate it.

The teeth that nipped his bottom lip weren't sharp yet, and to his credit Clint actively tried not to ball the fine jacket in his fists as he hauled Phil that quarter inch closer. (He mostly failed, but he did try.)

He was almost shivering with want by the time Coulson spoke. Which wasn't exactly like him, but it'd been long enough -- he'd been sharing the man with Darcy, after all -- and he wasn't about to apologise. Phil would've been able to read him even if he weren't so damned transparent.

"Bossy," he sassed, grabbing his shirt behind his neck and hauling it over his head in one smooth movement. It was tossed away, and before it hit the ground he was already working on his jeans.

"I distinctly remember a time when you went out of your way to prove it." His smile was still in place, arms a firm and solid circle around the defined waist leveled against his stomach while he nosed along the side of Clint’s neck. "Wasn’t that long ago." Thought you were gonna claw the walls off, with how much you wanted attention." 

...And then the pout was back.

"That was one time." But he strode over to the fridge anyway, shaking the hateful little bottle at Phil illustratively before breaking the seal and downing the thing without stopping. His imagination was good -- Phil also knew that -- but it wasn't quite good enough to pretend the thing was in any way related to a milkshake, so it was best to get it over with quickly.

With a flick of his wrist, the bottle landed in the trash. Clint wanted to jump rooftops, wanted to shoot with his eyes closed and know he'd always hit his targets, always land on his feet... but he also wanted Phil.

And the way the man was looking at him, Coulson wanted him, too. (He'd never say, but that would always be the best part.)

He didn’t expect the cloy for attention quite this early, but it was nice on some selfish level. The last time they’d purposely gotten Clint loopy on catnip (for similar reasons to this time, actually) he seemed to be more preoccupied with finding his own space. Phil had to admit to himself that this was a definite improvement. Having someone as warm as Clint touching him was never a bad thing.

"I dare you to call her that," he chortled as he slumped his shoulder, an arm snaking around the man’s waist to pull their chests together in one swift move. There were too many clothes between them to warrant any real temperature gauge, but it was nice to feel someone clinging back. He’d get his chance to feel that intoxicating heat later; for now, he was more than amused with watching the man in front of him squirm.

"You definitely chose the right day to pull your rom com shit," he all but purred, shuddering at the cool whisper of the man's breath against his ear. Sure hands slipped past Phil's lapels, smoothing over the chest beneath, starched cotton crisp to the touch.

"You don't wanna do that sooner as opposed to later, do you? Because I'm flexible." His smile smile widened, dirty with entendre. "As you well know."

Every op in a cold region that got saddled onto Delta’s work load, Clint always, always ended up crawling into Phil’s clad in nothing but his boxers. Phil had warned him. He said over and over that their room was linked to someone else’s, and someone was bound to walk in.

Sitwell happened to walk in during mid-wakeup head at six AM sharp. Phil warned that that exact situation was gonna happen. And oh man, he was gonna take pride in his vengeance for being right.

"Only to make sure you aren’t starving yourself," he shot back through a small grin as he stepped into the apartment. Both hands were laden down with plastic bags: one hand held nothing but red meat and fish in plastic-wrapped trays, the other a strategic mix of greens and fruit that would pair well with the meltable chocolate Natasha was going to bring over the next day. She’d called it ‘payment for her assistance’, but Phil was ninety percent sure it was a way to torment Clint wth a viable excuse. Either way, Phil wasn’t in the mind to care. By how far blown out Clint’s eyes were, his plan was working beyond what he’d expected.

He didn't wait for an answer, stowing the whole bag away in the fridge. It would be good later, and it wasn't exactly what he wanted right now.

"Tell me you like me better than her," he joked, the insecurity shining through his bravado just a touch as he nuzzled against Phil's shoulder. Jesus, did the man always smell like this?

"I mean, I know she's good for a midnight snack and all, but she definitely bailed pretty early..."

It was probably about time to give Melinda a call with a status update. She was going to lose her mind (in her own half-a-smile-but-still-lovingly-judging-you when she heard about the arrangement Phil had seemingly ended up with in his lap.

Literally.

"I want you-" He had to pause and lick his lips; the cold air of his room had dried them out to near sandpaper in his frenzy. "-Want you to help me understand what I did to deserve two people like you looking out for me."

"Must be your milkshake," he snorted. "Brings all the people to the yard."

He reached down, dragging the blanket up over them so that it'd trap his heat, keeping them both warm.

"You can get some sleep if you think you'll be able. I'll call the Cavalry." It was only in the dim safety of the bedroom that Clint dared to call her that. But he was convinced the woman liked him more than she let on.

But it was too easy to let himself imagine chasing those bright blue eyes clear across a borough. The mental image was vivid and tripped in tune with the mouth that was so eagerly working him over, his adrenaline spiking hard enough to pull his teeth into a tight clench behind his pursed lips.

He wanted it. He wanted it so much the thought was burrowing into his brain with enough force to blur his vision. How much of it was him and how much of it was being done to him he couldn’t be sure, but he was still too sensitive for all this. His brain was far too overworked for anything this touch-intense.

He couldn’t even open his mouth to warn Clint. His hips spiked up two, three, four times with both hands buried in those long dusky strands and his feet planted for leverage. Clint wanted no restraint? He was definitely getting what he’d come for. Phil’s breath disappeared, tugged at the insides of his lungs until they refilled with a burst and he finally slumped back the inch or two to the bed.

"Darcy's good for you," he rasped, turning his head to clear his throat. He would feel that tomorrow, not to mention the tingle of blood flow under his scalp where fingers had gripped tight, and he loved every bit of it. "You're good for her, too."

That was what he hadn't been expecting. But Darcy was overworked and underappreciated, and Phil had a way of seeing people that was sometimes just what they needed. It was basically power yoga for her, and he knew from watching her before that tomorrow her shoulders would be looser, her heart rate would be lower, and she'd sleep sounder. Maybe part of it was blood loss, but whatever it was -- she needed it.

He'd buy her a thank you card if he thought he'd ever hear the end of it.

The pillow dented next to Phil's head as he curled up, hard as nails but honestly so unconcerned over it. It was a different kind of relief, to see Coulson get what he needed.