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“So now I get why you never invited any of us back to your place,” Clint says, eyes fixated on the large pool table, right in the middle of Phil’s living room. It’s a first, even for him; it’s interesting, to say the least, that Phil waited two months into the new developments in their relationship to bring him back here. Someone’s got deep-seated trust issues, and for once, Clint isn’t thinking about himself.
“Don’t want Stark to think he can use it as yet another bachelor pad,” Phil admits with a shrug, closing the door behind him with an audible click before striding forward to what seems to be...yep, it’s a wet bar. Clint takes a few steps inside the condo, the stairs leading up to a mezzanine, the kitchen on his right, the large TV and Hi-Fi system on his left, and in the middle of it all, the pool table, dark wood panelling gleaming in the overhead lights.
Clint walks closer, runs his fingers over the sides of the pool table. He doesn’t need to know how or why Phil ended up with such a luxurious place in the heart of Manhattan; the man definitely has earned it anyway, one way or another – he’s probably earned even more than that.
“Want to play?” Clint asks without thinking, fingers rubbing against the table’s bed, just a little rugged. It’s much more than an invitation for some pool and they both know it. Clint is not that subtle. Phil swallows the mouthful of scotch he's just poured himself and nods, a smile on his lips, his glass held between three fingers, nonchalant.
“Yeah. Care to bet?”
That’s not something Clint was expecting, but suddenly the possibilities flood his mind. It’s an opportunity to strip Phil of some of his control, and not in an early morning before the first coffee of the day kind of way; in a way Clint can appreciate it to its full value and extent, in a way that is different from Phil showing a little too much emotion when standing by Clint’s side in the hospital. What Clint wants here is to carefully, gently, lovingly derail Phil from his usual course of action, and he’s got a chance to do it.
Going for the cues on the wall separating living-room and kitchen, Clint grabs two, smirking to himself. It’s like there is static electricity in the room, heating up the atmosphere between the two of them, or maybe it’s just him, the anticipation making him jittery.
“If I win, you let me fuck you on this pool table,” Clint lets out, barely above a whisper, wondering if he’s going to blush when he turns to look at Phil, but he holds his own, holds Phil’s eyes almost defiantly. In the two months of their sexual relationship, they’ve barely had time for anything more than a quickie in a closet, and Clint has never fucked Phil. He’s not worried about backing off if Phil says no, he’s got other ideas, but he had to run with that one first.
And Phil holds his own, too. He takes his time putting his glass down, straightening the sleeves of his dark grey jacket, licking his lips as he looks down at his hands and then back up. He takes a few steps towards the pool table, closer to Clint, almost predatory; completely enthralling. He reaches out, his hand closing just above Clint’s on one of the cue sticks, little finger brushing over Clint’s index.
“And if I win?”
“Remember that time where you talked about tying me down to the bed?”
Phil raises an eyebrow. “I recall.”
“Well.” Clint’s coy smile is all sharp edges and something close to bravado, too, but Clint wants it; he remembers the discussion, hushed words between gasps and moans buried into each other’s skin, Phil’s desires, Clint’s quiet wonder. Any and all scenarios could make Phil lose his mind tonight, and Clint wants nothing more. He’s a winner either way.
“You got yourself a deal, Barton.”
They don’t play fair. Phil goes first, breaks and takes off his suit jacket, the white shirt underneath still crisp despite a 12 hour day – rolls the sleeves up to his elbows as he watches a stripes go into the right corner pocket – number 12. Clint runs his tongue over his top teeth, leaning against the bar with his cue in hand, unable to take his eyes off the beautiful curve of Phil’s back and ass as he bends down to take his next shot.
When Clint plays, he takes his time with the chalk, knows he’s got a smear of it on his cheek, from the side of his nose down to the corner of his mouth; he lets his fingers slide up and down the cue obscenely when he feels Phil’s eyes on him, and he executes each of his moves deliberately slow, rolling his shoulders before lining up a shot, flexing his muscles more than necessary. It’s just that he knows what Phil likes, and he wants him distracted, wants him sweaty and tense, wants him dishevelled and going a little mad.
The problem is, they’re both good at this game, at both games they’re playing, seduction and pool, circling each other, and when Phil next leans over the pool table bed, hips lined against the wood, Clint lets out an involuntary groan, while he drives Phil to get himself another quick, stiff drink when he sits at the corner of the table and flexes his arms for a shot.
No one wins, in the end, which is kind of a lie because Phil sits up on the pool table instead of taking his shot when they’re both down to two balls, and he sighs loudly, grabbing Clint by the t-shirt and pulling him closer, which kinda means that Clint is definitely winning there. One second he’s waiting, tense and at the very edge of his patience, and the next he’s lodged between Phil’s legs, his hands on the stretched material of Phil’s suit pants, looking straight at Phil.
“You know that whatever happened in that game, I’d have let you fuck me here?”
Clint sucks in a gasp – sometimes Phil completely takes his breath away. “I know now,” he replies against Phil’s mouth, keeping the exchange from becoming an actual discussion by kissing Phil, his own fingers slipping down along Phil’s thighs to hold onto the table’s rail, the baize rough under his fingertips. Phil’s tongue flits past his lips, and Clint growls into the kiss, opens up, Phil’s hands framing his neck, thumbs pressing under his jaw, Phil melting against Clint in that instant where he stops being the SHIELD Special Agent and becomes Clint’s surprisingly insatiable and greedy lover. It’s a second, a transformation nobody but Clint ever sees, but it’s beautiful, the soft noises Phil lets out, the way he gasps at Clint’s touch, how he can never get close enough, panting into Clint’s skin, moaning filthy words into Clint’s ear, the kind he’ll never be able to forget.
Phil – Phil is something else, Clint can’t help but think as he unbuttons Phil’s shirt, exposing skin, exposing that latin phrase, non omnis moriar just above his heart, half hiding the ugly scar there. He leans down, licking at the inked words, and Phil curls a hand in Clint’s hair, pulls a little, arches his back beautifully when Clint moves down, teeth around a nipple, just a tug before he’s moving again, unable to stay in one place when there’s so much of Phil to explore. His hands revere, running down Phil’s sides, slipping past the waistband of his pants, one knuckle, two, before they move to Phil’s crotch, opening his pants quickly.
When Clint pulls away, he looks at Phil, at his hooded eyes and his wicked grin, and he can’t help but smile back, tugging at Phil’s pants. Phil lets himself be manhandled easily enough, which is a surprise; he slides back to the floor as his pants drop, and he steps out of them, toeing his shoes and socks off, a hand clasped around Clint’s bicep; Clint can only watch, vaguely disbelieving, as Phil strips, looking tense and perfectly content at the same time.
“If I’d known you’d be so willing I’d have offered to fuck you earlier,” he can’t help but say, running his hands up Phil’s thighs just for the satisfaction of seeing goosebumps, following the path of his fingertips.
“You could have, yes,” is Phil’s easy reply, and it strangely goes right down to Clint’s cock, as does every show of Phil’s confidence, something so natural about it even now as he stands almost naked between Clint and his pool table, like it’s an everyday thing, and fuck, fuck, it’s hot. His shirt is hanging open and the tips brush his hard cock, making Clint want to fold and suck him into complete oblivion, but he’s got other plans, he’s got things he wants to do – he pushes the shirt off Phil’s shoulders and leaves it on the pool table before letting out a low groan, turning Phil around, pressing him against the table as he digs his teeth in the back of Phil’s neck, fingers drifting over that other tattoo, right on this side of the scar, aut viam inveniam aut faciam.
Phil arches, hisses, and Clint barely knows what to do anymore, his mind almost gone as he watches Phil’s fingers whiten around the pool table rail, and his mind spins when Phil grunts out, “Bathroom left of the bar, lube and condoms in the sink cabinet.”
Clint reluctantly goes, but the short trip manages to cool his head a little, even though he shivers and his knees buckle when he walks back into the living-room to find Phil with a leg up on the pool table, the other firmly planted on the floor and his elbows on the blaize, fingers gripping one of the few remaining balls on the table’s bed. It’s indecent, that’s what it is, and Clint rushes back, resisting kneeling down by leaning into Phil’s body, breathing harsh and slow against his back. Lube over his fingers and then he’s pushing one inside Phil, careful, deliberate listening to patterns in Phil’s breath. Phil takes it, hissing but pushing back, smiling against his own forearm. It’s like a rumba, slow dance of love – Phil made Clint watch Dancing With The Stars, he knows these things - where their bodies move into one another and against each other, one two three fingers, Clint achingly hard against the curve of Phil’s ass. The noises – wet and low and obscene – make the only music they need.
Phil’s cock is leaking onto the dark wood of the table, and Clint almost chokes on his own breath at the whining sound Phil makes when Clint pulls his fingers away from him, shakily reaching for the condom he’s left next to the chalk; his fingers tremble but he gets there, and oh, god, Clint is moving in and pushing in and tighthotfuckfuckholyshit, and he’s saying it out loud, he knows, he can’t control it. Phil is so absolutely mindblowing, pushing back against Clint, taking him in and rubbing his elbows raw against the blaize, beautiful, sweating dark patches into the bright green of the table’s bed, moaning Clint’s and God’s names into his own skin. Clint brushes his lips against the damp skin of Phil’s back, hunched over him and moving ruthlessly, all ideas of a rhythm and care and taking his time absolutely, completely, totally gone in a mad dash for release. He wants to see Phil come all over his pretty pool table, make him come like he never has before, like Clint has never seen him before; it’s primal and stupid but it’s his goal and he clings to it, unable to do anything else than want it.
Phil’s hips keep banging against the pool table and that will leave bruises, but so will Clint’s fingers digging into his skin, and the blaize under his elbows and palms, and Clint wants to see it all, wants to make Phil feel proud and amazing and beautiful looking at these bruises and Clint wants to mark him, too, claim him, let it be shown in the way Phil walks tomorrow, the day after, every day for the rest of their lives.
When Phil comes – thank God he comes first – it’s all over the table and his chest and it hits Clint in the gut, the way Phil clenches and tenses and makes these little desperate noises and keens and arches into Clint, head tilted back on Clint’s shoulder, breathing hard, chest heaving, and Clint is still inside him, still hard as a rock and he’s going to come, he’s going to come so hard. He sees stars behind his eyelids when he does, driving his hips into Phil’s ass once more before he’s a goner, Jesus, and his knees give. They end up a mess of limbs and harsh breathing on the floor.
It’s Phil who starts laughing. He’s got a hand on Clint’s, around his waist, and the other curled around the back of Clint’s neck, and he starts shaking against Clint as he laughs, who doesn’t get it for a moment before he joins in, adrenaline and endorphins coursing through his body in droves, elation making his head spin as he lies down on the cold floor, his hair dripping with sweat. Phil is still chuckling as he pulls himself away, the two of them under the table now, slick with sweat, and it’s not easy for him to take the condom off Clint’s now soft dick but he manages, ties it off and sends it in the direction of the bar, which is gross and so unlike Phil Clint starts laughing again, pulling Phil to him.
“So that was interesting.”
“I might have to replace this pool table, but, yes.”
Clint noses at Phil’s temple, damp skin and damp hair and Phil, perfect. “Is the tying down thing still in the cards?”
Phil grins, thumb catching Clint’s belly button. “If you’re in.”
“After this? You could get me to do anything, Phil.”
“Anything?”
“Anything.”