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Alien weaponry capable of blasting thee-foot holes in solid steel and asphalt. A hailstorm of bullets fired by the small army of thugs working for their latest foe. An eighteen-foot serpent whose venom melted anything it touched. All this, and Phil ends up taking multiple blasts of pepper spray directly in the face from the elderly woman he was trying to help to safety.
Sometimes, he doesn’t love his job.
Two hours later, though the more potent effects have long since worn off, his throat still feels rough and his eyes tear when he tries to focus too much, making it impossible use the computer or catch up on paperwork. He’s resigned to lying on the scratchy hotel comforter and staring at the ceiling. The others had gone for dinner, but he had declined Fury’s invitation, not much in the mood. Besides, all he can taste at the moment is...nothing, really. Even the carbonate in the soft drink he’d had earlier left his throat feeling mangled.
He’s just drowsing when three hard raps on the door startle him back to full consciousness. He glances at the clock on the nightstand. It reads: 07:34PM. The others left only twenty minutes ago; they could not have returned yet. Frowning, he rolls off the bed, reaching for his weapon. He pads silently across the thin carpet, on the balls of his feet to prevent giving the individual outside the door any indication of his position in the room. The precaution proves unnecessary. Even through the distortion of the peephole he instantly recognizes the pale brown hair of the young agent on the other side. Phil lowers the gun and opens the door. Clint arches an eyebrow as he takes in his handler’s less than impeccable appearance.
“Hey. Wasn’t sure you’d be able to get to the door,” he says with a faint smirk and does a sorry imitation of groping blindly, like an inebriated Frankenstein’s monster. The older agent rolls his eyes.
“Funny.” Clint’s mouth twitches into a smile. “I thought you’d be out to dinner. Not every day the director’s willing to buy.” The archer shrugs dismissively and then raises the hand clutching at what Phil recognizes as the standard field op completion forms.
“Had some questions.” Phil looks at him skeptically. Clint tilts his head, expression as always, subtly challenging. “C’mon, you’re not going to leave me out in the cold, are you, sir?” Phil can’t resist the urge to roll his eyes again, but he pushes the door open and moves out of the way so Clint can step past and place the papers on the table. The younger man’s eyes flicker to the gun.
“Expecting someone else?” Phil shrugs.
“Always expecting someone else,” he replies as he returns his sidearm to the nightstand.
“How are the eyes?” the younger man asks. Phil rubs a hand over his head, fingers grazing his thin brown hair.
“Better. Still stings a bit,” he admits.
“Lucky it wasn’t a bullet or a blaster,” Clint says quietly. The older man nods.
“Yeah, guess so,” he agrees. As soon as he turns around, Clint is in his space, long, thin fingers slinking into his belt loops. His mouth is hot on Phil’s, tongue sliding silkily against his lips. “Hey, you taste sort of spicy.”
“Thought you had questions about your paperwork,” Phil murmurs.
“Pretense to get in your pants,” Clint replies smoothly, tugging at Phil’s belt as he continues to walk them backwards. Phil’s back hits the wall with a soft thud. The archer nuzzles at him, playful, treating Phil’s pale lips to teasing licks. He grunts in frustration when every attempt to deepen the contact is met with a dodge. Clint grins, obviously thinking this tactic very clever.
In retaliation, Phil grasps his chin and holds him steady as he seals their lips together. Clint groans happily, lean, muscular body melting against the older man’s. The kiss is saliva-slick and messy and Clint tastes like too-strong coffee and peppermint gum.
His large hands rest on the curves of Phil’s hips, forefingers stroking the soft skin above the waistband of his jeans. Phil shivers, pushing their hips together, feeling the heat and hardness of Clint’s cock against his own through the fabric that divides them. The archer groans, pulling his mouth from his handler’s with a wet gasp and burying his face against the older man’s throat.
“Phil…” he rasps, voice gone heavy and low now. Clint grinds into him, riding the line of his thigh shamelessly. Phil turns his head, inhales sharply, the faded scent of cologne, hair gel, soap, sweat. So familiar now that he thinks he could identify this man by scent alone if he had to. He curls his fingers into his archer’s thick, disheveled hair, breathes heavy against his ear,
“Beautiful…” Clint’s hands are between them, tugging open Phil’s pants, pushing them down. The older man bucks sharply as Clint palms his cock through his boxers. He strokes with reverence, bright blue eyes watching Phil’s face. And Clint looks drunk, eyes glazed and mouth slack.
“I want this…” he slurs. Phil closes his eyes, exhaling sharply through his nose. The archer doesn’t wait for an answer; he drops to his knees and presses his face against the skin beneath Phil’s navel. He places a kiss there, achingly tender, then slips down to touch his lips to Phil’s boxers, the fabric already sticky with pre-come. He inhales deeply.
“Fuck. Love the way you smell,” Clint murmurs, hot breath ghosting across his skin, ratcheting Phil’s arousal by leaps. Clint scrapes his teeth very gently over the bulge beneath the damp fabric. Then he’s closing his lips around the head, sucking him through the fabric. Phil’s hips jerk forward, fingers clenching in Clint’s hair. The archer’s tongue curls, pushing the damp cotton against the sensitized skin. It’s a delicious, rough drag and…it’s too much. Too much.
“Come up here,” Phil gasps, tugging at his shirt. “Come here.” Clint rises gracefully, sliding his body against Phil’s, his tongue dragging up throat and chin to meet his mouth. Phil can taste the vague remnant of himself on the archer’s lips.
Clint’s hand fists in his shirt and he drags the thin fabric up, eager and clumsy. Phil barely has a moment to raise his arms and the shirt is gone, tossed away. Clint pauses then, eyes fixed on the bright pink, upraised, jagged line of scar tissue. There are neater, narrow lines there too—the ones made by the SHIELD surgeons. Multiple surgeries. Months of recovery. And the scars are always there, a relentless, merciless reminder of Loki’s destruction. Clint’s shaking fingers touch, hesitant still. Phil can see the guilt in his eyes, the sudden shadow that falls across his face.
“Clint,” he murmurs, slipping a hand beneath the archer’s chin and urging the younger man to meet his eyes. Clint resists, but finally looks up, meeting Phil’s gaze. Just looking at Clint has the ability to take his breath. As beautiful in pain and grief as he is in victory and joy.
“What have I said?” he asks quietly. Clint swallows stiffly, adam’s apple jumping in his throat.
“We can’t change the past. As long as there is a future, we don’t look back,” he says clearly, repeating it verbatim. Whatever doubts Phil has about how this will end for them, he will never allow Clint to see them. He failed the archer once and that will not happen again.
“Yes.” He takes Clint’s hand from where it attempts to obscure the scar and presses a soft kiss to the archer’s palm. “Now, as you were, Agent Barton.” Clint swallows, still not moving. Phil draws him forward, nudges his mouth against his archer’s. The younger man makes a soft sound of relief, sighing as Phil’s tongue flicks gently across his lips. He presses Clint’s hand over his heart, so the archer can feel it, strong, rapid rhythm, faster now given his heightened state of arousal.
“Phil…” He feels Clint speak his name, the movement of his lips and the brush of warm breath before he presses his mouth hungrily to his handler’s.
Clint’s long, callused fingers are everywhere, curling around his sides, skittering along his ribcage. He rubs his lips back and forth across Phil’s throat, licks at the tender spot just beneath his ear and Phil can feel his legs go weak.
“Bed,” he manages between kisses. Clint doesn’t seem to hear, rutting against him mindlessly as he breathes filthy little pleas against the older man’s skin. It is finally Phil who has to steer them away from the wall, toward the bed. Clint begs sweetly for kisses as they move, soft and chaste. He presses a kiss to Phil’s cheek, his ear and then his teeth scrape the lobe. He murmurs,
“Fuck me hard. Need this. Wanna be able to feel you in me every time I move.” Phil stutters a groan.
“Clint,” he grinds out. He isn’t twenty anymore and those words, the desperate way Clint rubs against him, could be enough to end this before it starts. He yanks open Clint’s jeans and pushes them down before shoving the younger man back onto the bed roughly. He gathers up the pooling of denim and cotton around Clint’s ankles and casually tosses the lot to the side. Clint reaches out with his foot, curls his toes against the tight muscle of Phil’s thigh, ticklish.
Phil leans over the younger man, pressing a soft kiss to his temple, the bridge of his nose his lips, and then steps back to push down his own jeans and boxers. Clint’s eyes go bright, shameless in his study. His tongue darts out, dragging across his plump, red bottom lip. Whether conscious or not, it is an undeniably erotic gesture and Phil bites the inside of his cheek at the flare of arousal that turns the edges of his vision white.
“Phil…” Clint props himself up on his elbows, shiny lips tugging into a half-smile. Phil looks over the archer’s smooth, sleek body, strong thighs and long, lean legs. His cock curves up, toward his belly, hard and thick.
“Look at you…” Phil murmurs, sliding his hands up the younger agent’s thighs. Clint holds out his hand, long, graceful fingers crooked in beckoning.
“C’mon, then, old man.” He grins at Phil’s annoyed frown and raises an eyebrow in challenge.
“I’ll show you ‘old man’,” Phil growls. Clint laughs, an entirely mirthful sound, as Phil straddles him and pins him to the mattress. The kisses are teasing, Clint nipping at his lips, licking at the corners of his mouth. Their legs tangle and Clint makes a half-hearted attempt to flip their positions. Phil catches his shoulders, shoving him back. A glint off the clock on the bedside hits his eyes and the burn returns anew. He grunts in frustration, covering his eyes with his arm.
“Phil?” The archer asks.
“Damn pepper spray.” Clint’s hand curls around the back of his head, pressing a soft kiss to corner of his eye.
“Shhhh. Easy. Close your eyes,” he says.
“What?” Phil asks, swiping at the tears streaming down his face. Clint’s face is blurry; he can’t see the younger man’s expression.
“Close your eyes,” he repeats. “Please.” Phil sighs, but acquiesces. “Just…touch. You don’t need your eyes.” Phil manages to bite back the automatic response. I want to look at you. The moment he closes his eyes, he’s tackled to the sheets. Figures. Clint never did believe in fair play. It’s a bit of playful wrestling that follows, the mattress squeaking beneath their weight. Phil’s wiry, but he’s quick and age sometimes lends itself to skill even over the stamina of youth.
He pins Clint with a move that was still legal when he was coming up through the ranks. Banned now because of flagrant abuse in the field, but when used with the appropriate amount of force and precision, it could put a man down without doing any harm. Clint gasps happily, rubbing his cheek against the sheets. It is something he never would have guessed about the archer. He enjoys being held down, goes beautifully pliant when Phil restrains him just like this. In a fair fight, he has no idea if Clint could best him, but here, he allows Phil to take full possession.
He pushes the archer flat and slides down, licking and nipping at his flesh. Clint’s fingers rest gently on top of his head, fingers brushing idly through his hair. It surprises him when he realizes he can navigate this pale skin, this body, by touch. Sensory memory, embedded in his fingertips.
The hollow of Clint’s throat, already gathering a thin sheen of sweat. The line of collarbone and the thin smattering of rough, dark hair on his chest. He feels a small, upraised jagged line beneath his tongue. A bar fight when Clint was sixteen. Phil presses a soft kiss to it and moves on to drag his teeth gently across a peaked nipple. Clint’s sharp intake of breath is a thin vibration against his lips, felt more than heard. The younger man’s rough fingers curl against the back of his head, subtly urging him downward. Phil nips hard at his pectoral, smiling at the barely audible,
“Oh, yeah. Do that again.” He moves down, leaving a trail of bites. Little red marks that will blossom into bruises by morning. Clint will shiver whenever his vest rubs against them and Phil will trace them with lips and tongue when they are alone again. He inhales the scent, sweat and musk. Clint arches, skin pulling taut over the lines of his ribs. Phil strokes his thumb across his sternum just to hear the soft mewl that escapes Clint’s lips.
“Phil…” Clint murmurs softly as the older agent settles himself over his cock, breathing hotly across the sensitive skin. “Please…” Phil takes him into his mouth and braces an arm across the younger man’s hips, keeping him pinned when Clint bucks up. He works his tongue around the head of Clint’s cock, teeth scraping gently along the velvet-soft skin.
Clint breathes a shuddery moan, fingers clenching in the older man’s hair, nails grazing his scalp. Wrapping his fingers around the base of Clint’s cock, Phil rubs his thumb along the vein. The archer’s thighs tighten in response, his breath catching sharply and Phil slides his lips off in a slow, sucking drag. The lack of sight seems to enhance everything else. The spicy remnant of the cologne he favors and vaguely sweet scent of his hair gel. Stronger is the scent of his arousal, thick and heady, potent as a drug. The taste of Clint, salt-bitter and vaguely sweet.
“Ah, damn…” Clint gasps. He’s struggling to keep his eyes open, watch Phil’s cheeks hollow as his mouth slides down his length once more. It’s too much, too quickly. Clint is easily over- stimulated. Phil would tease, but there is something about this man that leaves his own restraint in ruins.
He opens eyes, wanting to see Clint’s face. Flushed, beautiful. He looks impossibly young, innocent, though they both know that is far from true. Phil can feel the strain in Clint’s body, the desire to fall back and simply thrust into his mouth. But the archer wants this too, the connection and intimacy of gazes fixed and held.
“Sir…” Clint’s voice trembles, the word slipping from his lips without thought. Phil loves hearing it, the soft, broken way it’s spoken when they are alone like this. He rubs his hand over the younger man’s taut stomach and feels the compulsive tightening of the muscle beneath his fingers. He draws back, pressing a final kiss to the head of Clint’s cock in apology.
“Not yet,” he murmurs. The archer’s bruised mouth pulls into a smile as Phil moves back. “Turn over,” he orders. Clint shudders, rolling onto his stomach and pulling himself onto hands and knees. Phil closes eyes against the sting as the light hits at the worst possible angle. He runs his fingers over Clint’s back, feeling along the ridge of his spine. There is a jagged scar made by a blade, carelessly yanked from the flesh—a brief pause in Clint’s life before SHIELD that he’s never talked about.
A collection of marks, like a constellation of stars, some deep enough that he can still feel the rise of scar tissue and others, barely noticeable now. Shrapnel from an explosion in Belgrade three years ago. Clint’s skin is hot, damp with sweat and Phil imagines he can feel the thrum of energy, of the rushing blood beneath the flesh. By the time the older man’s hand reaches the bump of his tailbone, the firm curve of his ass, Clint’s panting breaths are deafening.
“Phil…”
“Hush,” he murmurs. He sucks three fingers into his mouth, wets them until he can feel the slickness of saliva trickling down his palm. His cock is hard, his body craving the familiar heat and tightness. When he touches Clint again, he feels the younger man spread his thighs further apart, hears the soft anticipatory breath as his wet fingers slip between his buttocks. He presses a kiss to the archer’s back, rubs his wet fingers over his entrance until Clint whines, body shifting impatiently. He wants, and Phil doesn’t disappoint him, thrusting all three fingers inside.
Clint’s entire body spasms and he shoves forward, muffling a helpless, drawn out moan into his own shoulder. He’s tight and Phil knows it has to burn some, but slow and gentle has never been Clint’s style. Phil indulges him, knowing just how much the archer can take before it becomes too much. This is not nearly close. He curves a hand around Clint’s hip and twists his fingers deeper. The younger man drops down, firm ass in the air, face pressed into the pillow. He rocks back shamelessly, a passive whine rumbling from his throat. Phil works another finger in, dry, alongside the others, stretching Clint further, drawing a broken whine from his throat.
“You like that?” he asks. Clint can’t seem to form a coherent response, groaning when Phil’s long, rough fingers push in deeper. Not hard to find that little bundle of nerves, merciless pressure until Clint is shaking, entire body as taunt as bowstring.
“Oh…” the archer rasps an incoherent curse and Phil draws his fingers out again abruptly. Clint goes slack.
“Phil—”, he begins.
“Give me the packets,” the older man orders. The archer blinks dazedly.
“What?”
“The packets. In the shaving kit next to you.” Clint glances at the nightstand and groans.
“I don’t need—”
“Clint, give me the packets or we forget about this.” No matter what Clint thinks he can take, Phil isn’t going to attempt this without something to ease the way. Rough, he is willing to oblige; stupid or potentially dangerous, he will not. With a sigh, Clint reaches to pull the lubricant and condom from the kit and hands the packets to him.
Phil slides the condom on, unable to repress the groan that the touch inspires, the ripple of pleasure that shivers through his body. Tearing open the packet of lubricant, he pours some onto his hand, warming the liquid between his fingers, before he slides all four digits back into Clint.
The sound the archer makes is akin to relief, a low guttural groan. Phil works the lubricant deep inside, dragging his knuckles against the sensitive muscle. Clint’s body clenches and he moans, gloriously unabashed, pushing back.
“Love your hands...” Phil forces his eyes open, ignoring the sting. He wants to see, focus on Clint’s body, tight around his fingers and he stares, watching himself work slick digits in and out of the greedy clasp.
“Look at you,” he murmurs. “So needy, aren’t you?”
“Yes…” Clint hisses without shame. His hands fist mindlessly in the bed sheet, in time with the thrust of Phil’s fingers. He rubs his thumb along where Clint is stretched. The skin, taut and thin, so sensitive that it draws a soft sob from the archer. “Please, Phil. Fuck…” He groans at the loss when Phil withdraws his fingers once more.
“Patience,” he says simply. He pours more lubricant onto his hand and prepares himself, but takes his time.
Clint’s back arches and he spreads his legs further. Phil’s cock twitches, feeling the hunger roll in the pit of his stomach like a physical ache as he watches the archer’s wanton display. At his center, Clint is slick and tender, ready for him. It’s an obscene sight, beautiful.
He wants to bury himself so deep that the archer can remember nothing else than this, than Phil fucking him. He wants to Clint to crave this, to dream of it when he sleeps, think of it when he’s awake. He wants every second of this man’s life.
“You should see yourself,” he murmurs. “All wet, open for me.” He rubs his thumb along the tender skin, hears Clint hiss and watches the muscle clench.
“It’s always you,” the archer breathes. “C’mon…” Phil ignores his own pulsing desperation and scrapes his stubble against one firm globe, kisses the top of his tailbone.
“Next time I’m going to lick you open, Barton, until you’re soaking, until you’re broken and begging.” He feels Clint shudder; feels more than hears the sharp sob that tears from his throat.
“Yes, sir…” he slurs weakly. Phil presses another kiss to the archer’s back, pressing his thumb gently against the twitching muscle of his entrance to pull another soft, shattered sound from the younger man’s throat.
“Ready?” he asks. Clint’s whole body is trembling beneath his hand.
“Been ready.”
The archer cries out, a shattered, deafening sound as Phil pushes inside. Careful, but unrelenting and Clint has no choice but to shudder helplessly and take it. Painfully tight and Phil is briefly overwhelmed. He pauses a moment, more to get control over his own body than to let Clint adjust. When he finally moves, he doesn’t draw out, but works his cock inside the pulsing heat of the archer’s body in a slow, maddening grind.
Clint presses his face into the pillow, sucks in a hollow breath. His fists clench against the mattress and he whimpers quietly. His inner muscles are clenching spastically, seemingly trying to fight the girth and stretch and yet draw Phil still deeper.
The older man smiles, running a soothing hand over his back. Clint mutters something incoherent, arching into the touch. Phil draws out just a bit and pushes back in to hear the soft, hitched gasp escape the younger man’s lips. Sweat drenches Clint’s body, sliding down in glistening rivulets. He nuzzles at the soft, damp curls at the base of Clint’s skull, inhaling.
“Beautiful,” he murmurs. The archer’s body is trembling, shaking with the effort of holding his position. Phil doesn’t move. He stays still, feeling Clint’s body shiver, listening to the quaking breaths rattling from within the archer’s chest.
“Phil….please,” he whispers, pressing back.
“Please what?” Phil asks quietly, pressing a soft kiss to the gentle dip above the curve of his ass.
“Please!” The single word escapes in a sharp, helpless sobbing breath. Phil smiles, deciding to take mercy. He draws out slowly, almost completely before pushing back in, just this side of rough. Clint’s body jolts, a shout tearing from his throat. Incoherent and beautiful and broken.
He curls his hands around the archer’s hips, dragging him back. He fucks him hard, pushing Clint’s body up the mattress with each thrust. He can see those long, elegant fingers clenching more tightly in the sheets, knuckles turned white, every time he hits deep.
He runs his fingers through Clint’s damp spikes, stroking his thumb lightly over the younger man’s flushed cheek. The archer turns his head, catching the digit between his lips and sucking lightly. Phil’s vision goes briefly dark and he has to bite his tongue to force back the impending rush of climax. He doesn’t want this over so quickly. Clint’s breath is coming in soft hitches and Phil groans as he feels the younger man’s body tighten, every muscle in his body drawn taut.
“You close, baby?” Phil whispers, rubbing his cheek against the archer’s short hair. Clint shivers, nodding.
“Y-Yes,” he gasps. Phil curls his fingers around the archer’s cock, giving it a quick, hard squeeze. Clint cries out; the pressure is just painful enough to ground him, wrench him back.
“Not yet,” Phil murmurs.
“Please!” Clint sobs, body shaking.
“Not yet,” the older man repeats. A shallow, glistening pool of sweat has gathered between Clint’s shoulder blades. Phil leans over him, dragging his tongue over the flesh, catching the taste of salt and heat.
“Not until I tell you, do you understand?” he asks against the damp, burning skin. Clint swallows audibly.
“Y-yes. Yes, sir,” he manages, breath trembling around words. Phil smiles.
“Let’s see how good your restraint is, Agent Barton,” he murmurs as he straightens, hands curling around Clint’s lean hips. He fucks Clint in short, jabbing thrusts, each movement catching his prostate and Clint shakes beneath him, cries born on hitched, broken breaths.
“Beautiful,” he whispers, pressing open mouthed kisses over Clint’s shoulders, his back, the baby soft hair at the base of his skull. He can feel Clint struggling, muscles trembling with pleasure and overstimulation, trying to fight the urgency of orgasm. Phil draws out slowly, almost completely, the head of cock catching on Clint’s stretched, sensitive rim. The archer shivers under his hands, keening whine trapped behind clenched teeth.
“Too much?” Phil asks. Clint’s breath escapes in a harsh wheeze. He whimpers as Phil pushes back in roughly. “You have to talk to me, Clint. What is it you want, sweetheart?”
“Fuck. Please…Please, Phil. Can—Can’t…Please let me come.” The soft, hesitant plea is a punch to the gut, leaving him breathless. He will never grow tired of this, of breaking Clint down until he begs. Phil’s moves a hand under Clint, gently petting the trembling muscles of his abdomen before sliding down to grasp his cock. Clint chokes on his breath, pounding his fist into the pillow.
“Phil, I can’t…” he rasps. “Please.” The older man does not answer; he strokes Clint roughly, listening to the torn, strangled, sobs that spill from his throat. He could keep Clint like this, naked and exposed, vulnerable and willing. Hours, if he wanted. But for now, what he wants is to watch, to feel Clint fracture beneath him.
His beautiful, broken little archer.
“Come,” he murmurs. “Come for me, Clint.” The younger man groans into the pillow as he climaxes, cock pulsing, spilling over Phil’s fingers. The sheath of Clint’s body tightens around him and Phil thrusts twice more before he comes with a guttural groan.
“Phil…” Clint’s arms give out and they both fall forward. Phil reaches for the archer’s hand, linking their fingers as the aftershocks of orgasm tremble through his body. They lie still, panting breaths the only sound in the room. Phil’s cheek is pressed against the hot, damp skin between Clint’s shoulder blades, Clint’s body still trapped beneath his own.
Clint turns his head, dry lips brushing the older man’s knuckles. The sweat on their bodies is cooling rapidly, trickles moving over his skin. Phil draws out gently, smiling at the soft hiss and shudder from the man beneath him.
“You alright?” he asks; he can feel the pounding of Clint’s heart, the rapid, jumping pulse beneath his fingers.
“Mmmfff…” Clint mumbles groggily. It’s by no means an affirmative and while Phil does not doubt that the archer is fine, he prefers to hear it.
“Clint. You still with me?” he asks.
“Think my brain’s broken,” he replies into the pillow. At this, Phil chuckles.
“Brat,” he murmurs fondly.
“You love me,” Clint replies confidently. He breathes in deep, body rising and falling beneath Phil’s hand, his cheek. "How are the eyes?"
“They're better." Clint shifts beneath him and Phil moves to the side, allowing him to roll onto his back. The younger man smiles dazedly, face beautifully flushed.
“Hey…” he mumbles. Phil smiles softly.
“Hey,” he replies. Clint shuffles forward and catches his mouth in a sweet, clumsy kiss; Phil slips a hand behind the archer’s head so he might do it properly. The kiss is slow and languid and Clint moans happily, the sound a delightful vibration against the older man’s lips. When they finally part, Clint nips sharply at Phil’s chin. A gentle tug of his hair in reprimand just makes the archer chuckle lowly.
“Brat,” Phil murmurs again. Exhaustion is starting to creep over him, muscles languid with release, his body sinking into the soft mattress. The room is warm, heavy with the scent of sex. Clint’s mouth nudges at his and Phil can feel the words formed against his lips, a whisper too fragile to be heard. He draws the archer closer, until he can feel the press of Clint’s chest to his, feel the pounding of his heart, and kisses the corner of the younger man’s mouth. Tender and lingering, his unspoken reply to Clint’s whispered words.
End