MF Luder (mf_luder_xf) wrote,
MF Luder
mf_luder_xf

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Apparently now I'm writing multiple pairings in this fandom...New Fic: Clint/Coulson

Title: On My Knees I'll Think Clearer
Author: MF Luder
Universe: Movie meets Ultimates
Keywords: affair, angst, porn, established relationship
Pairing: Clint/Coulson, suggested Clint/Laura, pre Tony/Steve
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: ~4100
Disclaimer: The characters belong to Marvel Comics, Marvel Studios, Paramount Pictures, Disney, and whomever else I’m missing. No infringement intended.
Summary: While the other SHIELD agents had turned on each other and begun tearing off each other’s clothes in a literal clusterfuck that was going to have Fury’s eyeball twitching, Clint had managed to maintain professionalism while something that felt like liquid fire danced in his veins and got himself and Coulson out of there.
Author’s Note: Written for the Five Acts meme, originally posted here for norgbelulah, for the prompts forbidden pleasures (emphasis on the secret aspect), urgency for sex, intoxication (sex pollen), and well-fucked. Yuuup.
Author’s Note 2: I consider Hawkeye to be an exuberant cusser in my head canon, so, sorry for all the language? Title from Snow Patrol’s “Chocolate”. And finally, it’s kind of hard to label the ‘verse on this as apparently movie!Hawkeye is Ultimates!Hawkeye…but only in that he’s a SHIELD agent. Oh, and there’s Avenger group overlap. So, personally liberties, crossing verses, yada yada.



They’ve been doing this, this thing for some time now. In the field, it’s as though nothing exists beyond a handler-agent relationship, perfectly professional with that tinge of "I care about this person as a person, because they are a resource and in my care".

Clint thinks he should get an Oscar for his acting. Coulson is naturally emotionally stunted, calm, unflappable, but anyone who knows Clint knows he’s not like that. He’s quick to anger, quick to love, quick to snark and poke and prod. So maintaining a façade as big as this one comes with its own challenges. Fortunately, Clint also likes challenges.

Even outside the field they have to be careful because SHIELD would not approve of their top marksman and handler being in a relationship together. Clint thinks Fury couldn’t give a damn, actually. But while Fury is an intimidating person who commands a lot of respect and leeway, cultures are embedded and it’s going to take more than one man saying who gives a fuck to make agencies like SHIELD (and the FBI, IMF, DIA, and the other ones Clint has at some point worked for) break down their underlying assumption that relationships between agents and handlers are more damaging than strengthening.

SHIELD isn’t the only reason, either. Laura knows – not who with, of course – but everyone knows Clint is married. And he loves his wife, absolutely. She was there for him when no one else was. She’s given him three beautiful children and a normal life that most SHIELD operatives can’t claim to have. She grounds him. But even then, even with her blessing and understanding, it’s not like he can tell his kids about his boyfriend. He can’t tell their neighbors about it. He never wants to put Laura in the position where she has to act shocked or hurt about it. That’s not fair to their family.

So he and Coulson go through a dance every day at HQ, every time they’re out on the field, every time Clint wants nothing more than to forcefully claim his handler in front of them all, or even just to touch his hand and reassure himself Coulson is alive when he’s lying on a SHIELD hospital bed.

Some days it feels unbearable. But Clint’s dealt with worse; more unbearable conditions out in the field and dammit, if Coulson can do it, so can he. Hawkeye can always outwait his prey.

And so if he’s a little bit more desperate than usual, Clint is going to blame it all on whatever the hell Loki had sprayed them with and not that it’s been a long two months filled with ops and the Avenger Initiative and Tony Stark’s ego and constant bickering that bordered on flirting with the recently unfrozen Captain America. Big man in suit of armor, playboy philanthropist, Clint’s ass. That right there had been some decided sexual tension surfacing in the form of a metaphorical cockfight.

And Loki had sprayed them something. Or cast a spell. Or whatever-the-fuck magical beings with god complexes did when they were bored and their big brothers weren’t paying attention to them. Phil could never again mention that Clint had a short attention span. Or was impatient. Because he deserved two Oscars for today. While the other SHIELD agents had turned on each other and begun tearing off each other’s clothes in a literal clusterfuck that was going to have Fury’s eyeball twitching, Clint had managed to maintain professionalism while something that felt like liquid fire danced in his veins and got him and Coulson out of there. Seriously, if Phil ever told him he had no self-control, Clint would show him just how much self-control he could have. Er, something like that.

They make it back to Coulson’s apartment in the city, Clint gripping the faded and probably-covered-with-disgusting-fluids taxi seat the whole way. His heart rate was accelerated, his mind cloudy and all he could think of the whole agonizing ten minute ride was how he could hear Phil’s quiet, panting breath next to him, how he could smell the sweat and tension and desire rolling off his handler.

The elevator seems to take hours before they reach the right floor, before they stride calmly side-by-side down the hall, and only the tremble and slip of the key in Phil’s hand as he tries to unlock his door speaks of how on edge Phil is, too.

As the door finally opens, to Clint’s sigh of relief, his communicator goes off. Natasha’s face appears, a single strand of hair out of place, but nothing else telling of the disaster that occurred. Of course Natasha would escape unscathed. She could probably dart in between the grains of dust, pollen, magic, whatever like she was the fucking Chosen One.

“Glad to see you guys are okay. You left in such a hurry, I wasn’t sure. Just wanted to let you know everything’s handled. Hank and Jan arrived with masks and the Avengers managed to clean up both Loki’s spell and the SHIELD agents. Fury’s living up to his name, but trying to keep this one under wraps considering what happened on scene. I doubt he wants “SHIELD public orgy” splattering the front page, so Steve and Tony went off to create havoc in LA or something.”

“Uh-huh,” Clint manages, hardly able to break through Natasha’s rapid-fire report or focus on anything besides Coulson looming behind him.

A knowing smirk settles on her face. “Is Coulson with you? Fury wanted him to know every SHIELD agent gets the rest of the day off, but that he expects an accurate yet judicious report filed on his desk by noon tomorrow. Oh, and guys?”

“Yes, Natasha?” Clint says huskily because Coulson’s hand had just landed on his hip and even through the layers of protective gear he wears, Clint swears he can feel the heat from the touch.

“I’ve been told a cold shower helps.” She winks and then the communicator goes blank.

Well, fuck. Of course Natasha would know, that ninja. He looks back at Phil.

“I promise, I never did anything to indicate-“

“It’s Natasha, Clint. That woman knows things about the president that he doesn’t know himself. I suppose it was inevitable. But it’s Natasha and she doesn’t care and she won’t tell. If anything, she’ll help with the secret.”

Then his teeth scrape against the side of Clint’s throat, just above the high collar of his Hawkeye uniform and Clint's body goes from relieved to instantly turned on again.

“She, she mentioned a cold shower?” he half asks, hoping Phil doesn’t care, but knowing he should remind his handler of his own protocol.

“Later,” Phil growls, before he spins Clint around, shoving him against a wall and Jesus fucking Christ, that goes straight to his cock.

And yes, fuck, it’s been too long, so Clint pushes right back and after a few moments of heated making out that is more heavy panting into each other’s mouths and tongues tangling than actual kissing, he flips them so that Phil is the one with his back against the wall and then Clint gets on his knees. He tries to divest himself of the uniform, but Phil’s hands stop him before he can even get the maroon vest more than half unzipped.

“Leave it on, Clint.”

Fuck.

So Clint leaves it on – and damn, he’s just learning new things about Coulson all the time isn’t he? – and leans in, hands grabbing at Phil’s thighs, thumbs tracing the line between leg and torso that is so prominent under the lightweight wool of his suit. He rests his head against Phil’s hip for a moment, breathing in deep, smelling arousal stronger than he had in the cab. He finds himself rubbing his face in the other man’s crotch, tentatively flicking his tongue out at the suit fabric, mouthing over the already hard shape filling out his pants. Fuck, he needs Coulson’s cock in his mouth.

His hands tremble as he slowly lowers the zipper down, moaning when Phil’s hands land on his head, gentle but there, pressing him in further, forcing him to breathe harder and that just gets more of the sense of Phil in and over him. Finally, he pops the button and slides the pants and boxer briefs down over Phil’s cock as quick as possible, leaving them in a puddle around his feet. Any other day, Clint might find that hilarious, Phil’s suit coat unbuttoned, but pinstripe shirt still buttoned, pants caught in his shoes.

For now, though, he’s utterly focused on the dick in front of him, head wet with precome, balls hanging heavy, leg hair brushing against his fingers as he puts his hands back on the muscled thighs. Clint’s always appreciative because Phil is older than the average SHIELD agent and nowadays sits behind a desk more then he did ten years ago when they first started working together, but he’s always trim, always hiding a nicely fit body underneath those suits. Not overly muscled like Steve, or lanky like Hank, but the compact, fit body of an all around athlete.

He can’t tease any longer, just leans forward and places his lips around the head, pushing himself down until it’s just too far and he coughs, once, before he backs up, swirling his tongue around the head, tasting the precome there, then sliding back down. Above him, Phil groans, his hands more demanding and Clint lets him, lets him hold him down as he sucks and sucks, soaking in everything he’s given, thumbs digging in to Phil’s legs.

He comes back up, humming around the shaft, using his teeth just barely on the underside, loving how Phil’s knees tremble, like he can’t quite stay up, like Clint’s holding him up with the hands on his legs, like Clint can get him this gone.

That’s what Clint enjoys most about them. A lot of people would think it’s Clint giving himself up for Coulson since he’s typically the one with the dick up his ass, but it’s never been like that, and those people just don’t understand that submission and penetration and emotions aren’t so easily categorized. While Clint lets – loves it when – Phil fuck him stupid, Phil gives him touches and moans and something that is complex and tempered, but undeniably love. It’s in how he cradles Clint’s head, in how he fucks Clint’s mouth, in how he wipes him down after. How he never objects if after a bad day Clint gets a little more forceful, a little less controlled in temper, words, or physically; just lays a calming hand on his back and lets him get whatever it is out so that he doesn’t bring it home to his kids or take it out in the field where he can get someone else killed. And Phil gives amazing blowjobs, too, even if he’s not as addicted to them as Clint is.

As though Phil senses Clint is somewhere else, he feels a tug on his hair – cropped close for regulations but only just because both Phil and Laura love to run their hands through it. Clint looks up and sees Phil’s eyes, darkened by lust, hooded, but a small, affectionate smile distills some of the pure desire.

“With me, baby?” he asks.

Clint pulls off, licking his lips as he does, enjoying how Phil’s eyes nearly drop closed at that. “Always,” he responds before he goes in again.

He shifts his hands so that they’re bracketing hips instead of thighs, shifts on his knees and then swallows Phil down almost whole. He’s too turned on to set up a proper rhythm but he knows the sloppy, enthusiastic head bob is working for Phil, so he can’t be bothered to care. Phil isn’t the biggest guy he’s ever sucked off, but he’s the perfect size that he can get him all in, touching the back of his throat, but without gagging. And the girth is admirable.

He can feel the tension rising in Phil’s body and he keeps up his motions, licking and sucking in a way that is more for his own benefit but works for the other man as well, until he gently tugs on Phil’s balls; then come is abruptly shooting down his throat and Clint takes it all, even slipping off a bit so he can catch the taste on the back of his tongue before swallowing.

Clint keeps Phil up, knees definitely wobbling now, licking him clean and nuzzling at his softened cock, appreciating the smooth softness of the skin against his cheek, hoping he’s not going to give Phil five o’clock burn. After a moment, Phil brings him up off his knees and Clint winces because, damn, he’s not twenty anymore.

“Hey,” Phil says, running a hand through his hair, smiling at him, edge gone, but desire still reflected in his eyes.

“Bedroom?” Clint asks, already shuffling himself backwards, clinging to Phil’s tie until it’s stretched in the space between them.

His handler just responds by gently detaching his hand, and bending over to untie shoelaces and pull off his pants and boxer briefs. He leaves the shoes but scoops up the clothing, holding it in front of him, though not in an effort to cover himself. Clint allows himself to stare at Phil's naked ass as he passes him and walks down the hall, before following.

Phil’s already gone into the en suite, clothing draped across an oversized chair in a corner of the bedroom. He comes out with a glass of water, eyes following the movement of Clint’s hands as he begins undoing the zippers of the vest, then the undersuit. He offers the glass to Clint who takes a grateful sip, though it doesn’t cool the fire that still runs through his blood. The uniform is difficult to get off, particularly when he’s hard like this, so Phil sets the glass down, tugging Clint’s cock gently out so that the suit doesn’t get caught on it.

His eyes nearly cross as that happens because it’s been ages since Coulson’s hands have been on him and it feels so good right now. He finishes tugging off the uniform, though, and then wraps his arms around Phil’s naked body, dragging him down onto the bed on top of him. Together they crawl up until they’re within arm’s reach of the lube and condoms.

Then Phil begins kissing him. First the lips, making meaningful, proper kisses land this time where Clint can relax into the feel of Phil’s tongue slip-sliding alongside his, curling around his, feel the nips at his lips in an effort for him to move in the direction and manner the other man wants him to. Then he moves down, nibbling on his ear lobes, then down his neck, mouthing carefully so that he doesn’t leave any marks.

Clint wishes he could make marks. That he could walk around, knowing Coulson’s brand was on him for all to see.

A bite on his nipple makes him pay attention again, following the path Phil lays out, all the way down to the darker hair that outlines his cock, then past, down, down, all the way to a playful toe nibble before he comes back up, lying next to Clint, hand rubbing sweetly over his back, then grabbing a handful of Clint’s ass.

Clint shifts and finds a perfect spot to rub off against. Coulson grabs the lube out of the dresser drawer and then comes back, letting Clint find that spot again as he wets his fingers. They trail over his thigh, leaving sticky imprints as he moves Clint’s leg to rest on top of his, spreading Clint as much as possible when they’re face-to-face.

He slips his fingers right up against his hole, slicking it first, then gently pushing in with one finger, pulling it back out and tracing the rim. It makes Clint let out a sound that with anyone else he’d be embarrassed about, but Phil’s heard the worst, seen him at his worst and still stays so he’s long past caring if he sounds desperate and needy anymore. It’s the truth and Phil likes the truth.

Clint keeps rutting against Phil’s hip and a second followed by a third finger slide in, and he adds more lube until Clint feels wet and used and they haven’t even gotten to the fucking. He’s blindly thrusting back and forth, not sure whether he likes the friction on his cock or the pressure on his prostate better. He comes, long strands shooting out onto Phil’s hip and stomach, letting out a gasp along with it.

Phil kisses him through it, massaging his prostate until Clint can’t handle it anymore, whining in the back of his throat, almost flinching away until Phil slips his fingers out, just running them over the rim, pushing them barely in, teasing, keeping Clint on edge even as he comes down from his orgasm.

Finally, Clint can’t stand it anymore and he rolls them over so that Phil is straddling him, weight pressing him down. He looks wonderful: broad shoulders, one strand of his admittedly thinning hair hanging across his forehead instead of combed back, a thin batch of hair on his chest catches sweat as it rolls down his body. The sight makes Clint’s mouth water.

“Phil,” he starts.

“What do you need, Clint?” Phil asks, placing his hands on Clint’s biceps, holding him down, but also bringing him close enough to kiss. On top, he starts a gentle rocking and Clint can feel that he’s hard again and presses up into, the urgency building again, his ass reminding him he’s empty and he hasn’t gotten what he wants, yet.

“I want, I need you to fuck me. God, fuck me with your cock until I feel it tomorrow, so that I can sit in the Avengers meeting and remember what you did to me, and even though they can’t know, I’ll know, and fuck, fuck!”

“Okay, okay,” Phil shushes him, kissing him again and again while Clint can feel him fumbling with the condom wrapper between his thighs, getting ready. “I’ve got you, baby. Roll over, come on, good boy…”

Clint’s eyes squeeze shut at that even as he rolls over because it’s perfect, it’s right, fuck, Phil. The tension is palpable in the room and he hears Coulson curse behind him and he huffs a laugh at that. It’s taking too damn long, though, so he tilts his ass up, presenting it, knowing how much Phil likes him looking debauched and begging for it.

Sure enough.

“Shit, fuck, Barton. You should see yourself. I just…”

The other man trails off his words even as he runs his hands from shoulder to ass, spreading Clint’s cheeks before he feels Phil’s cock rubbing against him, condom finally in place. Phil teases him for a minute, but Clint shifts and the head catches on his hole and suddenly Phil is pushing in and it’s easy, deliciously easy, even as it fills Clint up. They stay like that for a few thrusts, Phil keeping Clint spread so that he feels every thrust, every ball smack, every inch of his cock. Clint pushes back, wanting more, always more.

There’s a myriad of noises, grunts escaping from Phil when Clint clenches and long, low moans from Clint whenever the dick inside him hits in just the right spot. He’s sweaty and hard and heavy between his own legs again and he reaches down to stroke himself, but Phil slaps his hand away.

“Mine,” is the guttural whisper he hears.

Then Phil is suddenly shifting them and oh, God, that’s twice in a day he’s been on his knees but at least there’s a cushy bed beneath them this time. Clint just tips his head back so that it lands on Phil’s shoulder and gives everything he has, taking what Phil gives in return. It feels like Phil’s cock is coming up through the back of his throat and he reaches behind him, holding Phil closer, going as limp as he can so that Phil can use him however he wants.

“You feel amazing, Clint, I-“ he cuts himself off, moaning instead, a quiet one because Phil is never that far from calm and collected, but it’s enough and between that and the hand speeding up over his cock, Clint comes, seeing bright stars.

Phiiiiiil,” he moans, far louder, and is rewarded with the feel of Phil going stiff straight behind him before a few final thrusts mark his orgasm and they both tumble to the bed in an undignified, tangled heap.

After only a brief moment, Clint feels the other man disentangle and get rid of the condom, but then he’s being moved and held in strong arms. He tangles their legs again, moving slowly because everything is still a little fuzzy. The fire is finally gone from his veins and it’s been replaced with a lethargy that speaks wonders about the strength of his orgasm. His head is a bit in the clouds so he doesn’t really think before he speaks.

“I’m sorry.”

Phil goes still against him and he’s probably worried. Clint doesn’t move but he imagines the frown lies that deepen in his forehead every time he thinks something’s happened to Clint.

“That we can’t do this more often. That we have to hide. It’s just, I-“

“Shhh,” Phil says, snuffling against his hair in a way that might mean he’s laughing quietly. “I get it. I always have. We’re both career men and sometimes, SOPs are…difficult,” he states, delicately, because never let it be said that Phil Coulson criticizes the bureaucracy he works for. “Besides, you have kids to think of. And you love Laura.”

“I do,” Clint says. “But I love you, too.”

Oh, fuck. Fuck.

That shakes Clint out of his post-orgasm daze and he tries to pull away, but Phil doesn’t let him. He forces Clint to look him in the eye.

“I know. I know. Love is complicated. More so than anyone ever likes to think. And that’s fine.”

“I’m still sorry,” Clint says, and for fuck’s sake, is he blushing?

“I’m always going to be here, Clint,” and Clint can feel the rumble of his voice in his chest, hear the serious tone to his voice. “Don’t ever forget that. As long as we’re both alive.”

“And with Tony Stark around, who knows how long that’s going to be? I swear Doom has a crush on that man,” Clint responds, shrugging and moving away because snark is more his crutch than Tony Stark’s, even.

“Think it’s time for that shower,” Phil says, a small smile on his lips, allowing the evasion. “You’re a mess.”

Clint stretches lazily; feeling the twitches in muscles – from the fight and the sex – feels the slickness inside him, the ache that says he’s been well-fucked. He flutters his eyelashes at Phil, which gets him a snort and smack to ass, before he responds with “Sure.”

They’ll shower and then they’ll doze and order food in for dinner – Clint’s thinking Thai – and then he’ll have to get on the train out to the suburbs where he’ll have missed dinner time, but will be there for homework and an hour of playtime before he has to put Nicole down in her crib. Half an hour of video games and then Callum and Lewis will do their usual dance around bedtime and whine and complain how they’re not tired before Laura reads them a story and they fall right asleep. Laura will kiss him then, ask how his day went, and he’ll tell her as much as he can – not much – and she’ll know today was one of those days and just curl up with him in bed as they fall asleep to Conan.

It will probably be awhile before he and Coulson can be together like this again, but it’s fine because he sees him almost every day at work and he’ll definitely see him tomorrow and he’ll needle him and be a general pain in the ass to him like he always is, and yeah, he’s got action and he’s surrounded by superheroes every day, he has an understanding wife and perfect children and the best handler – partner, really – any agent could ask for, in more ways than one. Loki and sex pollen aside, his life is pretty awesome.

Then again, he smiles to himself as he chases Phil to the shower, sex pollen wasn’t so bad, either. At least it wasn’t tentacles this time.
Tags: fic: all, fic: marvel, fic: nc-17, five acts, pairing: clint/coulson, pairing: slash
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