Work Text:
Phil didn't want Clint, and Clint couldn't work out why that hurt so much.
It wasn't like he'd never been rejected before. It wasn't even his first time failing to seduce his jailer. This was usually the point where he ticked plan B off his list and continued to plan C.
Come to think of it, he'd skipped plan A entirely in his rush to try plan B, so really he should be backtracking since plan A - get the keys - was easily the best option. It wasn't even that hard for someone with as much practice as Clint.
Unbidden, the thought drifted into his mind. Maybe you wanted him to cuff you.
No, he really didn't want to think about that, but it was too late. As he banished that idea, another, more unwelcome than the last, invaded.
Maybe you wanted the excuse. Clint could feel his cheeks burning as he tried to deny it to himself. Why else would you let yourself get caught?
I didn't, he replied firmly, I never let myself get caught. But this time you did, the other part of him insisted. You didn't make a mistake, you used a pickup line on a Navy Officer as a 'distraction'.
Clint closed his eyes. He knew it wouldn't help. He'd already tried this several times, but he crossed his fingers that this time it would be different.
It wasn't. Burned on the back of his eyelids was LEUT Coulson standing over him, a contemptuously amused smile on his lips. He could suddenly feel the pressure of a heavy boot on his chest. His heart thudded and his breathing caught, but this time he didn't open his eyes. Maybe he would become desensitised to the image. He'd get some sleep and wake up free of thoughts of the immaculate Officer and he could start planning his way out of here. Yeah.
Except the image started to change.
The smirk was more pronounced now, the eyes half-closed, and Clint's imaginary Coulson began to undo his jacket.
Oh boy. Clint much preferred to deal with his subconscious denied attraction when his hands were free. Or he assumed that was the case, since this was the first time his fantasies had started to undress themselves without his intention. He really, really wished his hands were free.
The jacket was dropped carelessly to the filthy floor and Clint couldn't tell why that excited him. Well, not him. His body. His body was very excited and he really wished it would stop that just as Coulson's shirt came off.
Clint was really glad he had a cell to himself because the way he was panting was embarrassing, especially considering dream-Coulson hadn't actually done anything yet.
Had he not been manacled to the wall, Clint ordinarily would have given up at this point and followed the fantasy through. Unfortunately, with his back against the wall he had nothing to stimulate himself with. Perhaps that was the real torture of prison, he thought as dream-Coulson started to unbuckle his belt.
Coulson didn't go for the button on his trousers, though. Instead he went for Clint.
Phantom lips set Clint's skin on fire, phantom hands alternating between rough and tantalisingly gentle. Clint's head hit the wall as his imaginary partner drew their hips together while still biting and licking and through the haze Clint wondered if he'd been drugged. Fantasies were never this realistic. His hips bucked futilely, his hands clenching and unclenching. Gutteral moans were ripped through gritted teeth, despite his efforts to bite them back.
He forced his eyes open, wanting to end this hell, but it didn't help. His eyes were too unfocused by his lust; he couldn't even see his cell through the vision of the lieutenant. He could feel his erection throbbing and he could taste blood - he must have bitten his lip too hard.
Dammit, he really wished he had free hands. This was going to be a long night.