sinope: a hundred thousand fireflies (A hundred thousand fireflies)
Title: Something More
Pairing: Hawkeye (Clint Barton)/Phil Coulson. Explicit.
Length: 2811 words
Summary: In the wake of an awkward sex-pollen-enhanced afternoon, Phil invites Clint up for a sandwich. Chocolate, kisses, and blowjobs eventually happen.

Note: Fluffy fluff. :-D Part of my ongoing Salted Caramel series.

Also available at the AO3.




The moment that Clint steps through Coulson's door, he can smell toasting bread and melting Swiss cheese; the combination is enough to send his stomach growling, a reminder that he hasn't actually eaten since early this morning, before this whole ridiculous day began. "You are a saint, sir," he grins, and for once his eyes aren't honing in on Phil automatically; the sight of the table near Phil's kitchenette, laden with sandwiches and Sprite, shines like an oasis in the desert.

Phil shakes his head, but his eyes have the indulgent twinkle that Clint loves to draw out. "Toasted turkey and Swiss, tomatoes, mayo, mustard. Help yourself. Can I make you some tea? I've got mint and decaf chai."

Now Phil's got Clint's full attention. The sandwiches are exactly how he likes them, exactly, and Phil's remembered that Clint avoids caffeine when he's not on mission. "Nah, I'm good. But hot cocoa would be awesome, if you've got it."

"I can do you one better," Phil says, stepping back into his kitchenette. Clint doesn't wait for further permission; he grabs a sandwich, takes a healthy bite, and follows it with an oh-so-sweet gulp of Sprite. As crunchy-gooey-tart deliciousness hits his tongue, he wonders idly whether he's propositioned Phil enough times in the past twelve hours that a marriage proposal would sound out of place. Probably so.

After downing half of his first sandwich, Clint feels sated enough to follow Phil into the kitchenette, munching as he goes. Phil's standing over the stovetop, whisking a pot that contains a not terribly appetizing mixture of pale-brown liquid with dark-brown lumps. "Drinking chocolate," he says in explanation. "What hot cocoa wishes it could grow up to become. I used to get it as a treat when I was a kid, when I was home sick."

The image of Phil Coulson as a kid is enough to make Clint grin. This isn't normal for them; Coulson cooks when they're sharing living space for longer ops, sure, but he doesn't accompany it with stories from his childhood (or, really, his personal life at all). Clint's not about to spoil the moment, though. "I can just imagine you," he teases. "You probably made sure to have all the doctor's permission slips filled out in triplicate." Having finished the sandwich, Clint's hands are itching for something to do; he grabs a table knife and starts flipping it between his fingertips, letting it spin and glitter. (Phil glances at the motion, and a smile graces the corner of his mouth. Clint's grateful that he doesn't make a comment about the tricks Clint learned in his own childhood.)

The steady whisking breaks the chocolate lumps into smaller and smaller pieces, still rough-looking and uneven, until suddenly the whole pot is a perfectly smooth, deep brown. Phil pulls out a small spoon, tastes the mixture, and closes his eyes for a brief but indulgent smile. Then he pulls out a bottle of vanilla and adds a splash, followed by a puff of cinnamon, and whisks them together again. He hands the spoon to Clint. "Try some."

Clint does, and oh, god. Only the residual embarrassment from earlier keeps him from making shamelessly orgasmic noises. The drink is warm but not scalding, thick and silky as a velvet cloak, and so sweetly rich that Clint has to fight the urge to just pick up the saucepan and start drinking. "That's pretty damn delicious."

"Good," Phil says. He's still wearing a calm expression that lets through mild bemusement, but nothing further. "Hand me two mugs from the top right cabinet?"

They settle down at the table -- Clint alternating between hot chocolate and a second sandwich, Phil sipping his chocolate and watching. Clint can't help but wonder when the axe is going to drop. So, Barton, now that you're back to your senses, I don't want you to get any false ideas about what happened. You're a good agent, but --

"Barton," Phil says, and Clint looks up. "You're holding that mug so tightly that I'm worried it'll break. I promise that I'm not plying you with good food to take the sting off bad news."

"I didn't say you were," Clint attempts.

Phil just gives him a look, then takes another sip. "As I said earlier, I'm here to listen, if you're comfortable. You said a lot of things earlier today, but you were under the influence. I'd like to know which of them, if any, you would still stand behind."

This whole conversation feels ten thousand kinds of awkward to Clint. If this were a normal potential hook-up, he'd cut straight to the "you're hot, wanna fuck?" part; it's generally served him well, whether it results in a fun night or a minimum of wasted effort.

Phil is not a normal hook-up, though. What's more, all the reasons why that's true only make this conversation even more excruciating.

Clint realizes that they've been silent for a few seconds too long to be comfortable. "Sorry. I. What if I did stand behind any of them. What would that mean?"

Phil takes a moment to answer, setting down his mug. His lips have a faint sheen of chocolate on them, which he swipes off neatly with his tongue, a move that should not look nearly as sexy as it does. "It would mean that I would compare them to my own … interests. If it turns out that we're interested in the same things, then I would have to let Director Fury know; according to regs, I could still work as your partner and as liaison to the Avengers Initiative, but we couldn't work together on assignments where I would be your superior. Fortunately, with the Initiative taking more and more of your time, that shouldn't be relevant too often."

"You're saying that you'd be interested in -- in something ongoing?" Clint is not, he vows to himself, going to say anything like the word "relationship."

"I am," Phil says. He's got a smugness in his voice that says he knows exactly what Clint was thinking.

"That might not be such a great idea. Look, sir -- can I call you Phil at this point? -- I give a hell of a blowjob, but I'm pretty crap at anything long-term. Just ask my exes; I'm sure you have a list of them somewhere."

"Phil's fine. Clint. I think that you're wrong about that assessment, but I also know that I'd like the chance find out for myself."

"So what does that mean in practice?"

Phil smiles. "It means that I'd like to return to my first question. The things you said today -- how many of them did you actually mean?"

Clint stares down at his half-finished hot chocolate. He can't meet Phil's eyes for this, but he can't bring himself to lie. "All of them," he says quietly.

In his peripheral vision, Clint can see Phil's eyes darken into something dangerous, delicious, but he doesn't say anything. The silence stretches until Clint gives in and looks up, and holy fuck, Phil's watching him as possessively as if he was the one hit with an aphrodesiac. Phil doesn't break eye contact when he speaks. "I've got a couch in the other room. Want to move there?"

Clint's tense with adrenaline and hard with sudden arousal, and right now, all he wants is to see Phil as defenseless with desire as he feels. "Fuck, yes."

They stand up from the table simultaneously, eyes still fixed on each other, as if looking away will make the moment vanish. Somehow they make it to the couch, just close enough to touch. Phil places one hand on Clint's thigh, and his thumb strokes over Clint's slacks, slow and purposeful; it's enough to make Clint shudder with want. "I -- Phil. God, I suck at this. So I know I asked you for a lot of things earlier, but right now, I'd really like to kiss you. That okay?"

"Completely." Clint can appreciate that Phil doesn't play hard to get, just leans forward and cups his cheek with one hand, holding Clint's face steady as their lips touch.

The kiss feels -- nice. Gentle, chaste. All the things that Clint isn't. But then Phil's fingers slide into Clint's hair and tug, and Clint's lips part in surprise, and suddenly the kiss turns wet and eager, like Clint stepped off a cliff into a freefall of tongue and slick warmth, teeth tugging at his lower lip, and the unbearably slow stroke of Phil's other hand moving up his thigh.

Phil pulls away from him, releasing Clint's hair suddenly, as if he'd forgotten he was gripping it so tight. His lips are damp and pink, and he's breathing hard -- Phil, who once ran up six flights of stairs to give Clint backup on a rooftop without breaking a sweat. "I think you should know," Phil says, taking another steadying breath, "that if we keep doing this, I'm not going to want to stop with kissing."

"That is so damn fine by me, you have no idea," Clint grins. He leans backward on the couch, tugging Phil down along with him, and the movement rubs his jeans over his swiftly-growing erection, enough to make Clint inhale with pain.

Phil's suddenly rigid and alert. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing, I just -- fuck," Clint winces. "I really want this, but pretty much everything down there is chafed to all hell. From -- earlier."

"We can go slow," Phil says.

"No way in hell. Besides, there's other stuff we can do. Nothing chafed about my mouth."

With Phil's body half-pressed to his, Clint can feel the shudder that courses through him at the word mouth. Trying not to smirk too smugly, he gives Phil one more kiss, then tilts his head down, tracing a path down Phil's throat with sharp bites and swipes of his tongue. Phil's spread out over Clint now, head arched back, and with each little nip, he grinds down against Clint's thighs. Phil's erection is easy to feel through his thin pants, and all that Clint can think as he curls around its contours with one hand is I can not wait to feel you inside me.

When Clint finds his journey downward blocked by Phil's collar, he unbuttons the top button, fastens his mouth to the skin just below the collar's edge, and bites at his skin less carefully, sucking and nibbling enough to leave a mark. Meanwhile, his hand works at the rest of the buttons, and Phil sits up for a moment to pull off the shirt when he's done. Clint slides up his undershirt to follow, and when Phil has it pulled up over his head but not off his arms, Clint can't resist leaning forward to tug one beautiful nipple between his teeth. Phil shoots him a dangerous smile in return.

"Hey," Clint says, looking up at Phil. His fingers trace just under the waistline of Phil's pants, where he knows the skin's most sensitive. "So was that a yes to using my mouth?"

"Your mouth is a thing of beauty," Phil says, and Clint would assume that it's his typical deadpan, except for the thread of honesty underneath. "And I would love to see it wrapped around my cock."

Clint flicks open the buttons of Phil's pants without looking. "Yes, sir."

They reposition on the couch, tugging off Phil's underwear and boxers as they go. "Want me to get undressed too?" Clint asks.

"If it'll make you feel more comfortable," Phil says, but there's a dark glint in his eyes. "But I have to admit, I'm enjoying the sight of you doing that in the clothes I see you wearing every day. And the thought of your dick trapped inside your jeans, hard and aching and unable to do anything about it, is very, very nice."

What remaining blood was in Clint's brain seems to have plummeted to his cock; he's so turned on that the mixed pain and pleasure are making him goddamn whimper. (Some day, he's going to have to find out exactly how Agent Coulson acquired such a dirty mouth.) He bends his mouth down to Phil's dick, but pauses before touching. "This okay without a condom? You see my health reports; you know I'm clean."

"Likewise, and yes," and if Clint didn't know better, he'd think that Phil's voice sounded positively desperate. He's never been able to deny Phil anything he really needed, and he's not about to start here, so he parts his lips and laves his tongue over the head of Phil's cock, pressing in gently at the bundle of nerves underneath, then slides downward to suck Phil all the way in.

Clint's damn good at blowjobs, thank you, but more than that, he enjoys them. This moment -- tasting the hint of Phil's precum, feeling his weight on his tongue, listening to Phil's breath hitch and sigh -- is the kind of thing that he's been dreaming about for years. Often literally. He slides up and back down, tracing Phil with his tongue as he goes, and lets himself hum in pleasure. As he starts to get comfortable in his position, he uses his right hand to steady himself on Phil's thigh and his left to grip Phil's cock around the base, sliding firm and smooth over the slicked skin. Phil threads his hand through Clint's hair, offering more support than insistent pressure; he's making quiet gasps and almost-whimpers, as if he doesn't want to make a sound but can't help what's tumbling out of his open mouth.

Clint pulls off for a moment, enough to look up, meet Phil's eyes, and confess, "I could listen to you make those noises forever." Then he bows back down and flutters his tongue over the tip of Phil's head, right at the tiny slit, until Phil makes a gratifying moan.

"I don't think -- I, ah, don't think I'm going to last quite that long, if you keep doing that."

"Want to keep doing this," Clint says, punctuating his words with a wet, loud suck. "Want you to fill me up. Want to make you feel good."

"You do," Phil says, and then he seems to lose speech altogether, dissolving into a stream of panting breath and so good, Clint, love how you -- and wordless pleading. Clint focuses on upping the intensity; he figures out a steady rhythm of hand and lips and tongue, until Phil's bucking into the wet pressure like he can't control his own muscles. "God, I -- I've been hard all day thanks to you, wanted you so much, so much -- I'm going to, I'm about to --"

Clint just keeps working his lips and tongue until his mouth's flooded with the tang of Phil's cum; he swallows and keeps sucking until Phil's final shudder. Then he looks upward. Phil's gorgeous like this, better than Clint had ever imagined; his eyes relax mostly-closed, and the smile on his lips is utterly free, happiness with all restraint melted away. Clint knows that he's hard, that an orgasm would be pretty awesome right now, but mostly he wants to kiss those relaxed eyelids and memorize that blissed-out smile. "What're you staring at, Barton?" Phil asks, the sleepy pleasure in his voice belying any actual reprimand.

"Just you. When you're happy, you look … amazing." Clint traces his thumb down Phil's jaw. In the quiet aftermath, he's remembering all over again why all this wasn't supposed to be his.

"I can hear you thinking, you know." Eyes still heavy-lidded, Phil raises his hand to clasp Clint's. "This won't be the last time we do this. At least, I certainly hope not."

"Yeah, I know," Clint says automatically. "I'm just -- I'm not --" I'm not used to being able to keep the things that make me happy. I'm not a good enough man to deserve you.

"You are," Phil says, firm. Then he pulls Clint up to himself by his armpits, still fully-clothed, and wraps his arms around him as they lie entwined on the couch. "If you want this to be a one-shot deal, I can live with that. But I'd be even happier if you want to make it something more." He begins to stroke wide, comforting circles at the base of Clint's spine.

Clint focuses on the anxiety still keeping his body tense, and he forces himself to let go of it, piece by piece. His head gradually relaxes down to rest on Phil's chest. "I guess I can stick around to see what 'something more' involves."

They breathe together in silence for several long moments. Clint knows he'll have to get up eventually -- if nothing else, this isn't the most comfortable place to spend the night -- but the day's been so long that sleep's lure feels far more appealing. Just before he drifts off, he hears Phil whisper into his hair. "Thank you."

 

(end.)

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