Hamburg, Germany
City lights glints off the water as Clint and Phil gaze out over the canal, leaning on the railed fence. Around them the Speicherstadt works quietly, the noises of the surrounding factories muted in the background. Hamburg sparkles in the distance. Clint's briefcase lies at his feet and their comms, now removed from their ears, are nestled deep in Phil's pocket.
"We should tell someone." Phil says, eyes fixed on the water.
Clint frowns. "By 'someone' I'm guessing you mean SHIELD, not your parents."
Phil gives him a look. "It's been three months. I haven't seen my parents in three years, I'm hardly going to bring you over for dinner. And anyway, I already told my mother I was seeing someone over the phone last week." He sighs. "I'm not worried about my family. It's Fury I'm not so sure about. There are frat regs, Clint."
"That's not a revelation. I did actually read the rule book when I joined, you know."
Phil raises an eyebrow. "So you just choose to ignore it, then? Why am I not surprised."
"You know me too well." A grin flickers over Clint's face as a barge's horn blares faintly, far away down the canal. "I don't see the problem. Ignoring the rules has been working out pretty well so far."
In the distance the wail of an ambulance echoes off the water, and Phil shakes his head. "What are we even doing, Clint?"
Clint looks at him. Worry is etched onto Phil's forehead even in the dark, and Clint wishes, not for the first time, that his handler wasn't so hung up on playing by the book. So he steels himself and cups a hand to the back of his neck, turning his face so that their eyes meet. "I don't know, Phil. What are we doing?"
They don't say much on the walk back to the hotel. But the minute the door of their shared suite locks behind them Clint drops to his knees and presses Phil back against the bed.
He fumbles with the belt but slides Phil's fly down with steady fingers, stroking over the bulge in his boxers with a warm palm. Phil stays silent, weaving his grip into the short hair at the back of Clint's head, tugging slightly. Through the fabric of Phil's boxers Clint's breath ghosts hot over his cock as he pulls back from the wet, open-mouthed kisses he plants on the black cotton. He jostles Phil forward for a second to slide his trousers and underwear down his thighs and then drifts in, almost reverently, to lick a stripe up the length of his hard cock, eyes half-closed beneath heavy lids. He teases at a thick vein with his clever tongue and smiles triumphantly when Phil can't quite stifle a moan.
He loves this: tasting Phil, seeing Phil, making Phil gasp. Taking him apart and putting him back together. Clint's done this a lot of times- being the lowest on the food chain at an all-boys orphanage isn't much better than being in prison; Clint's heard stories from guys who've done time and they match up eerily with memories of his adolescence. Then there had been the circus, and beautiful townie boys who'd sneak out back of the tent when the show was over to have some fun. Then after the circus, the street, and, well, he had to make money somehow. But he's never enjoyed it before, never been able to close his eyes and take his time. There's something different about it this way. The soft heft and girth of Phil on his tongue, the fingers stroking his scalp in time with the swirls of his tongue, the words of encouragement whispered, disjointed, when Phil is getting close- he actually wants this, likes this, and that's why this whole thing is different.
He stands and spits into one hand, wrapping his wet palm around Phil's length and fisting the other in the soft silk of his tie to drag him in for a kiss. It's sloppy and deep and inelegant. Phil tastes like coffee and toothpaste and sleep, and Clint's mouth is all iron and spice and pre-cum. Their tongues slide against each other and they breathe through their noses as Clint pumps Phil with long, slow strokes.
"Fuck," Phil murmurs, burying his face in Clint's shoulder. His hips twitch forward as Clint twists his wrist, rubbing just right.
Then Clint is gone and Phil is left panting, half-bent over the bed and painfully hard. He blinks. Clint stands back, a few steps away, eyeing him like he can't quite understand how he got there. Studying his face.
He looks away, and the spell is broken. Clint reaches down to tug off his boots. Phil is out of his shoes in less than a second and starts to hastily undo the buttons on his shirt, but a hand on his stops him. When he looks up, Clint shakes his head and reaches down to tighten the knot on Phil's tie.
Oh.
He lets himself be pushed onto the bed by a strong hand on his chest, lets Clint maneuver him so that he's sprawled out on the sheets, half-dressed, flushed and hazy. The archer tugs his own t-shirt off, tossing it into the corner of the hotel room before settling down and gently pulling Phil's legs apart to nestle between his thighs. He grabs the tie, fingers caressing silk, and brings Phil forward for a kiss filthy with promise.
It's deep and perfect, and even though Clint is on top and technically in control it feels like he's falling into Phil and drowning. It's not a wholly unpleasant sensation.
They break apart and he hefts one of Phil's legs up over his shoulder, stretching his thighs further away from each other. Phil exhales heavily through his nose, eyes screwed shut as his hard cock bobs against the flat of his stomach, leaking against his pale skin. Clint groans, mouth starting to water, and leans down to mouth at the soft juncture of Phil's thigh. He noses at the scruff of hair that darkens the base of Phil's cock and inhales the clean musk of his scent.
He strokes Phil's balls with just the tips of his fingers until the older man is panting, hips rolling in lazy twitches against the sheets. Clint rests his cheek against Phil's thigh and slides his hand up to tease at the underside of his shaft. He's painfully hard himself, the stretch of his cock distorting the front of his pants obscenely, but he pushes it away to focus on Phil. He looks utterly debauched, blue eyes hooded, lips glistening, chest rising and falling under his rumpled shirt. The striped tie lies twisted on the pillow by his head and his cheeks are flushed, dusted with pink.
"What are we doing, Phil?" Clint wraps a fist around Phil's cock and drags it up his length torturously slow. It earns him a muffled groan. "You tell me, babe. What are we doing? What do you want to do? Because I want you to be happy, Phil, that's all I want. I want to sit here every night and watch you like this." He teases a finger over the slit of Phil's cock. "I want you to think about what you want, not what I want, or what SHIELD wants, or what everyone else wants. I want you to just fuck the rules for once, Phil." A drop of pre-come shivers on the tip of Phil's cock and slide down, shining in the low light of the hotel's lamps. "Just fuck 'em, okay?"
"Okay," Phil gasps, and comes, shuddering, over Clint's fist.
They spend a long time kissing, after that.
The next morning, Director Fury calls Clint's cell phone and leaves him a terse message about, "Not fucking things up", "Good eyes," and something that sounds suspiciously like, "If you hurt him I will break you." It is the most terrifying voicemail Clint will ever receive in his entire life.
