A/N: In a slump with my other stuff, therefore venting with some completely random D/s OC wank. ^^v Originally meant for Loki/Barton, but it didn't fit my other AUs, so I recast. And also because Clint Barton's subby perfection should not be limited to the Marvel Universe.

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"Clint Barton. All grown up and saving the world."

The young man smiled warmly. Clint swallowed.

"Aaron," he managed to say without choking.

It was like looking at a photograph. The same eyes, nose, mouth. The same hair, even; blonde turned white in the dark. The same Westminster accent, soft but clipped through the wind so high up above the city. The same smooth, pale skin, untouched by time.

Suddenly, looking at Aaron, Clint was eighteen years old all over again. Back in that dark room, on the too soft pillows, heart rapping a tattoo against his ribs, skin tingling with anticipation. And Aaron, cool and easy, waiting patiently for the world to bend to his whims.

Clint had been the younger (he was still shorter) but it was ten years since. Now, he was easily five or six years older than Aaron looked. And he had his bow. He was an Avenger. He had fought gods and won.

All grown up and saving the world.

He should not have been gasping for breath like he'd run a marathon. His knees should not have felt weak from the sound of Aaron's voice. The sight of him strolling forwards from the precipice, the moonlight bleaching his pale eyes... the slow ripple of muscle in his exposed arms every time he moved... shouldn't have made him shiver, hands cold and clammy, heart fluttering – but it did. And he felt sick.

As if he could read Clint's mind, Aaron stopped three paces out. He held his empty palms open by his sides.

"Like you asked."

Clint could see from the tight, European cut of his dark shirt and jeans, hinting clearly at the line of muscles in his shoulders and abdomen, that he was unarmed. At least, not with a gun or a decent sized knife. Not that he was comforted by the fact.

Too late, the archer realised that he'd been staring, silent, for almost ten seconds.

"This isn't an invitation," he blurted. He avoided meeting Aaron's eyes under the cover of making sure they weren't watched. "We're only on the roof. You can't enter the building."

"Wouldn't dream of it," Aaron agreed easily.

He dropped his hands but left them visible. His gaze was soft, never lingering too long on Clint, flickering back and forth casually across the sky. The smile, of course, never wavered.

It didn't escape Clint that he was doing everything to make himself look as non-threatening as possible. No. Worse. He looked... understanding. Clint pushed down the urge to just run forward and punch him in the face.

"Are you working with Dracula?" he demanded.

Okay, so that was probably not the most subtle interrogation he'd ever carried out. Tash would probably have run headlong into a wall if she'd heard. But the silence had suddenly become too heavy and Aaron, the bastard, would never have been the one to break it. Clint remembered that much. The vampire's strategy was to stand, arms crossed, by the trapdoor until his victims walked into the noose and hanged themselves.

"No," Aaron replied lightly. "Would I be here if I were?"

Clint shrugged. "Dunno. Maybe you've gotten confused in your old age. Do vampires get Alzheimer's?"

Aaron's lips quirked up in a smirk. It was the first glimpse of the cold, cruel creature of his nightmares - and they were definitely nightmares - that Clint had seen all evening. It sent an unforgivable jolt of electricity shivering through him and he had to straighten up before his knees buckled.

"Seeing as you brought it up, why are you here?" Clint continued when Aaron didn't deign to respond. He was falling hook, line and lead-filled sinker into Aaron's trap, but he just couldn't stop himself. Every silence was a physical weight on his chest.

Aaron blinked.

"Because you called, Clint."

He said it like it was the most obvious thing in the world. Like Clint was the moron who dialled a number and then asked who was on the phone. Which, he supposed, made a lot of sense. Except that it didn't.

"Bullshit," he spat. "This is Avengers Tower, in New York, in the middle of a hostile takeover by a fictional character. You don't like us and you don't like being in the middle of things. What's the angle?"

At length, Aaron chuckled. The he dipped his head and scuffed his toe against the ground, like a coquettish teenager admitting a crush.

"I missed you. Is that so hard to believe?"

Clint's knuckles turned white around the bow.

After a beat, Aaron went on, suddenly sober. "You never said goodbye, Clint."

And there it was. Motive.

"We're not doing this."

"You disappear one morning, not a word -"

"Was I supposed to leave a note?"

"- and then you call me, out of nowhere, a decade later, asking for my help -"

Clint could feel his face heating up. He glanced down and turned on his heel to walk away. "I get it, I shouldn't have bothered."

"- how could I not come?"

Stop. Blink.

Oh.

Clint felt his chest tighten. But for the life of him, he couldn't understand why. Aaron was lying. He was obviously lying, just trying to mess with him, so why, oh why were his eyes starting to burn?

He cleared his throat, and then shamelessly changed the topic.

"So, can you help us or not?"

As he swung back around, he looked up, lost focus for a second - and was caught suddenly looking directly into Aaron's startling blue eyes. Something in that gaze made the blood freeze in his veins. The small talk was over.

"Of course I can," Aaron obliged. Then the corners of his eyes creased and he began to advance towards Clint in slow, measured steps. "...For a price."

Clint swallowed. His stomach turned with a sudden, nauseating rush as he waited for the axe to fall.

"How much do you want? We've... got Iron Man's gold card."

His voice got smaller and smaller with every word as his neck craned slowly up until, with one final step, Aaron was close enough for him to see the stillness of his dead heart, unmoved and impassive as if to mock the deafening beat inside his own chest.

Slowly, telegraphing the move, Aaron raised a hand. But he needn't have worried; Clint's eyes were locked on his. His fingers settled on Clint's shoulder, cold, even through the shirt, and trailed down to his frantic heart. Frozen under his touch, Clint barely breathed.

"Money's boring..." Aaron drawled, and it might have been the single sexiest thing Clint had ever heard. Then the vampire brought up his other hand to settle on Clint's right arm, trailing over the hard, tetanised muscles that held the bow useless at his side. "You're on a team of superheroes. One of them must have something of value."

One of them, Clint noticed through the fog. They were the superheroes. They were valuable. Well, he thought, with a satisfaction that he wouldn't be conscious of to enjoy until much later, the bastard would just have to settle.

"Leave them." He could hardly believe his mouth was still working, the way his brain had started shutting down. Aaron's hand slid down to the trembling fist around his bow and covered it, stroking a thumb along the inside of his wrist.

"Whatever you want… take it from me." He stifled a gasp as Aaron broke his grip, sliding a finger in between his palm and the sweaty plastic, ice cold against his feverish skin. "Just me."

"Whatever I want?" Aaron repeated, low and liquid. Clint felt himself nod. The vampire took another half step forward until their bodies were flush against each other, forcing Clint to strain backwards not to break eye contact. But Aaron spared him the next moment when he turned to put his lips by Clint's ear and hum contentedly. "Whatever… I… want…"

A shuddering breath left his lips when he felt the tongue on his neck, dragging a wet stripe from shoulder to ear. He could hear and feel his own heart beat slamming into his ribs, against Aaron's palm. The distraction let Aaron worm three more fingers into Clint's death grip.

Another long, slow drag of his tongue, painting his neck with saliva that – somehow, magical spit, Clint didn't question it – tingled against his skin, turning it steadily numb, and Clint flinched so hard that Aaron managed to get his thumb in under the archer's. He hummed against the flushed skin, pressing wet, open mouthed kisses all along the length.

"Let go," Aaron murmured.

Clint realised belatedly that he had his eyes squeezed shut. His fingers twitched where he was now effectively holding Aaron's hand around the bow.

He shook his head. It was really more of a flinch, all of his energy and brain power having drained suddenly to the muscles in his right hand. It seemed petty. But he told himself it was part of the act. Aaron wouldn't believe a too swift surrender so he had to hold out, trick him into thinking he'd actually won something to gain his trust. Yeah, that was it. After all, he'd come up here knowing exactly what he was in for. Once Aaron got what he wanted, they could kill the bad guys and then everything could go back to the way it was; Clint could go back to repressing a ten year old recurring nightmare.

He definitely wasn't clinging onto the bow like the metaphorical reeds because he was scared. Terrified. That if he let go of that, he would be letting something else go, too. A distraction from everything he'd kept hidden for all these years that was now clamouring to break free.

No, it wasn't that at all.

Aaron started to open his fingers. Clint let out a pathetic sound in his throat as his grip was prised inexorably apart. A hollow, burning emptiness in his chest threatened to burst.

He swayed on his feet. It wasn't worth it, he decided. Screw Dracula, nothing was worth losing his mind like this. He was a superhero, an Avenger, fucking Hawkeye, people dressed up like him at conventions for god's sake. He didn't take shit from anyone, much less vampires who may or may not be any use at all. He was better than this. He was stronger. He wasn't eighteen anymore, goddammit, he didn't need this.

It was only when he'd started to feel dizzy that he realised he'd been gasping for air. The bow was hanging on by a wish.

"This is what I want, Clint," Aaron breathed. The hand at his chest, trapped between them, slid out to grip his shoulder tight. "Let. Go."

He was going to hyperventilate. Pressure ballooned inside him and a need he'd come so close to forgetting screamed at him to obey, let go, because it would feel so good, so right, so familiar – the warm breath at his ear, the scent that made him faint with want, the bruising hand around his arm and he wanted more, he wanted it all back –

His hand went limp. The bow fell clattering to the ground.

Aaron caught him as his legs melted.

His empty hands clawed into Aaron's arms. He was whimpering with every breath. Tears brimmed in his eyes. Unthinking, he buried his face against Aaron's neck and sucked the air into his lungs, tasting Aaron on every breath. The vampire patted his hair, hushing him softly.

"Good boy," he crooned.

Clint keened in his throat. The pressure burst inside him, white and pure and god, had he missed this. His eyes were open now, but he saw nothing. The sounds of the city below them disappeared. Even the cramp in his hand, the fatigue in his legs, everything felt dull like a woollen blanket had been thrown over the world, and the only thing left that was still real, still sharp was Aaron. His hands, voice, breath, scent, Clint's every sense was filled with nothing but him and it was so perfect, so pure, it overwhelmed him.

Who needs drugs?

He realised he was standing back on his own legs again when teeth biting into his neck brought him back to the present. Aaron bit again, hard, but without drawing blood, and Clint pulled himself closer with a gasp. The vampire lavished attention on his neck, devouring it with lips and teeth and tongue, sucking hard and then biting down until Clint flinched and groaned. Dark red bruises blossomed all over, letting Aaron taste his blood at the surface.

Taking Clint's hands, Aaron folded them behind his back, wrapping the archer in his arms as he did so. When he shifted his grip to hold both wrists in one hand, squeezing tight, Clint shuddered. He wriggled in the embrace, struggling just to feel trapped, proving that he couldn't break free, and of course, he couldn't. A hand tightened in his hair, holding him down, and his mouth fell open, panting into Aaron's shoulder, when he felt something sharper than teeth pressing against his neck. His thoughts scattered in a tidal wave of yes, yes, yes -

Tears spilled over his cheeks and he seized in Aaron's arms, muffling the cry into his shoulder, as razor edged fangs broke skin and slid smoothly into his neck.

Why had he wanted this? How had he forgotten how much it really fucking hurt to be stabbed in the neck?

"Uhngghhhh..."

Oh, right. That.

Right on the heels of agony, a white flash of burning, aching ecstasy burst in his mind. It tore like fire through his skin and flesh and sank into his bones. Clint shuddered, eyes starting open to flutter blindly before they rolled up and he melted, limp, in Aaron's arms.

The fangs withdrew slowly. But instead of pain or the cold foreign wrongness of a needle through flesh, all Clint felt was heat and friction and intimacy. And when Aaron pulled him suddenly close to suck at the wound, he felt his blood rushing past broken tissue and raw nerves in a wash of jagged pleasure. He was sure that Aaron could have bitten him to the bone, torn through his throat, and he would only have begged for more.

So of course, it was then, as Clint shivered, boneless and insensate, his blood trickling down Aaron's chin, that the metallic click of a gun cut through the air.

Coulson's voice was ever calm and affable over the wet sounds of sucking and swallowing.

"Let go of him or I blast a hole through your skull."

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Notes:

Thanks for reading! Please lemme know what you thought - especially how the OC worked out/failed.