Work Text:
Clint itches under his skin.
It’s a tight, disquieting itch, like he doesn’t fit quite right in his body. It’s been going on for weeks.
And nothing seems to scratch it.
It’s not about sex. He’s not hard up for sex these days. He’s got Oscar at the pub when he’s feeling flirty; he goes for a pint or two and helps clean up after closing and goes upstairs with Oscar for the rest of the night. Or sometimes they stay in the pub for a bit after clean-up, then go upstairs. They’ve broken several OSHA regulations, but there’s no one watching. They know where the cameras are.
And, well, it’s not hard for Clint to find a one night stand either. He’s charming and just the right amount of ridiculous, and–on the rare occasions he’s actually recognized–he’s an Avenger.
No, it’s not about sex.
Or rather, it is about sex. But it’s about more too.
The fourth time in a week he lands himself in medical for doing something incredibly stupid and unnecessary he wakes up to Natasha standing at the foot of his bed.
“This has gone on long enough,” she says. “Go find whatever you need to find and get it out of your system before you get yourself–or someone else–killed.” She turns and walks out of the room without another word.
A few minutes later his phone rings. “Glad you’re okay,” Nat says. Then she hangs up.
When Clint recovers he finds himself assigned to an incredibly boring one-man gig in middle-of-nowhere Ohio. It’s a town with under two thousand residents and a small main street with two restaurants, one cheap hotel, one grocery store, and three bars. Oh, and it’s suspected of being a meeting place for “a bad element.” So Clint’s supposed to “dress like a local”–whatever that means–and wait for something to happen. “Get out of your damn head,” Steve tells him with a very un-Cap-like glare.
“Language!” Tony and Sam chorus, then hoot with laughter.
“Shut the–oh never mind,” Steve says, dismissing them with a wave. They just laugh harder. Natasha just looks bored, and Bruce is still scribbling away in a notebook, trying to crack some equation or something, completely oblivious of everything going on around him.
Some briefing.
“Nat will fly you out, we don’t want to leave a quinjet out there. But a local SHIELD agent is getting a car for you, it’ll be waiting.”
As he’s walking out the door to go pack he hears Steve say, “And try not to get yourself killed.”
Clint turns and winks at him. “Aw shucks, Cap, I didn’t know you cared.”
He’s been here three days. Long enough to know not much goes on in this town. Long enough to be bored out of his skull.
Tonight he’s in the shadiest of the bars, Neon Nights. He keeps wondering who named the place, because there’s not a single neon sign in the whole joint. The sign outside doesn’t even glow, it’s just a piece of wood someone painted and screwed onto the building. And it’s crooked.
But even though it’s dark and not very clean it’s easily the most interesting place Clint’s seen since he landed. People are laughing, and dancing, and the food is delicious. He’s on his fourth slice of pizza and his second beer when he feels eyes on the back of his neck.
He doesn’t turn, but he thinks he knows the gaze even before he glances into the mirror behind the bar. Intense. Dark.
Exactly what he’s been looking for.
His heart beats faster in his chest but he holds onto all his training as he waves the bartender down. “Two scotches. Double.” The bartender glances at his unfinished beer but when Clint flashes his most charming smile the man smiles back and slides two glasses onto the bar. Clint winks. “Thanks. Expecting a friend, I think.”
“Good luck,” the man says. He looks vaguely disappointed.
When Clint lets himself look into the mirror he sees the subtle change in the bar before he actually sees his mark. People are still dancing, but they’re angled slightly away from someone standing by the door. They might not realize they’re doing it, but even humans can feel the presence of a predator when it’s close, like a rabbit sensing a wolf in the woods.
And the Winter Soldier is all predator.
When he sits down next to Clint, Clint doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t turn away.
He leans in.
Sometimes the rabbit wants to be prey.
“Hey,” Clint says.
The Soldier doesn’t answer.
“Bought you a drink,” he says, trying again.
He drinks half his scotch at once, but still says nothing.
“Hungry?” Clint asks. “The pizza here’s pretty good.”
Finally the Soldier turns to him with the eyes of a wolf. “I didn’t come here for food. Or for drinks. You know why I’m here.”
“Looking for the ‘bad element’ in town just like I am?” he asks, the corner of his mouth quirking up in a grin.
The eyes narrow, look down his body then up again, slow as ice melting. Clint can’t hold back the shiver.
“You know why I’m here,” the Soldier repeats.
“Can I finish my drink?” Clint asks. In truth he hasn’t started it, but he kinda wants it.
Also, he’s kinda hoping the Soldier will look at him like that again.
“Drink,” he says, and without thinking Clint picks up his glass and downs the scotch in one go. It warms his belly, filling him with a calm, floaty feeling. He smiles. It isn’t the scotch. It’s knowing that he’s getting rid of the awful itch, the horrible ache in his chest.
“He’s leaving,” the Soldier says, throwing some money onto the bar. It’s far too much for Clint’s tab, a generous tip, but that’s not the point. It’s just the way the Soldier operates.
He’s in charge.
The Soldier turns to go and Clint follows, but the bartender grabs his attention. “Be careful of that one,” he says in low tones. “He’s dangerous. Comes in here, time to time, flashes that glare around, and things happen. Sometimes good, but sometimes not so good.”
Clint grins. “I can take care of myself. I’m a superhero.” He winks, and follows the Winter Soldier out of the bar.
“You’re not a superhero.”
“Of course I’m not. I was just trying to give the guy some comfort. And you were already outside, how did you–oh, right. Supersoldier ears. I forget that around Steve too. That guy knows everyone’s secrets.”
There’s a crunching noise, and Clint looks to see the Soldier’s hand crushing the hood of a car.
“Sorry,” Clint says, an odd tone of meekness in his voice. Everyone knows the Winter Soldier doesn’t like to be reminded of his past, and Steve Rogers is the biggest reminder of them all. “I won’t do it again,” he says, his voice small and sincere. And he means it. He wants to reach out a hand of comfort but he knows it won’t be accepted. So he just waits.
The Soldier starts walking again, and since he wasn’t told to go away, Clint follows. “Where are we going?” he asks. He doesn’t expect an answer, but he can’t help talking. He chatters; it’s who he is. “I’ve got a room. It’s not a great room, but it’s a room. You’re welcome to–” He’s not paying attention to his feet while he chatters and he trips over a tree root growing up over the sidewalk. The Soldier’s instincts are lightning fast and he catches Clint before he really even begins to fall; they stand there on the dark sidewalk for a moment, bodies pressed together, and Clint feels his whole body heat up.
“Be careful, birdling.”
Birdling. He’s heard it before, but so rarely. It touches him in a place too often left alone.
He says nothing, just follows. They don’t speak, they don’t touch again. They don’t go to Clint’s hotel room. He didn’t expect to anyway.
That’s not how this works.
The house is about a mile out of town; a farmhouse, alone, surrounded by fields. The walk settles Clint, calms his nerves and quiets his tongue. One nice thing about being surrounded by nothingness: the sky reminds him of home. Wide open sky, so full of stars he feels like he could float away if he wishes hard enough. That’s what he thought when he was a kid, anyway. When his dad–but that’s not a thought for tonight. He looks at the Soldier from the corner of his eye. He’s shorter than Clint, but his presence makes up for it. Even Clint feels small next to him sometimes. Especially when…
But no. That’s a thought for later. Right now they’re walking. Walking to a farmhouse.
It seems ordinary enough until the Soldier opens it by pressing his hand to a spot next to the door–the brick turns into a scanner and the door swings open on silent hinges. Alright then.
Inside is fairly ordinary, save for the two bedrooms turned into armories. The bedroom he’s led to, the master bedroom, looks just like what he’d expect from an old farmhouse. Antique dresser set, what looks like a creaky rocking chair, shaggy rug on the floor.
Giant, sturdy bed.
“Take off your clothes.”
Clint smiles. Yes. This is what he needs.
It’s automatic, unbuttoning the flannel shirt, pulling it off, and folding it. He glances at the Soldier, unsure, and he gestures to the dresser. Good. Clint can do that. The flannel goes on top of the dresser, followed by the t-shirt, and jeans, and everything else. His boots go on the floor in front of the dresser. When he’s done he stands on the rug, waiting.
“Good,” the Soldier says, walking around Clint. “Very good. It’s been awhile, but you’re always so good for me.”
Clint can feel the blush rising in his cheeks. He starts to duck his head, but stops almost immediately. The Soldier doesn’t like that, doesn’t like him to hide. So he looks him in the eye instead.
“So, so good,” the Soldier says, running the back of his fingers down the side of Clint’s face.
I missed you, Clint wants to say.
Why can’t I keep you? he dreams of asking.
Instead he just lets himself smile a little, says, “I try.”
“It’s been a long time,” the Soldier says. “When was the last time; six months ago? You must be just itching for the release.”
Somehow the Soldier sees into him, can read his needs like they’re tattooed across his skin. He doesn’t know if it’s something HYDRA did to him when they made him something–special when they put in their knockoff supersoldier serum–or if it’s just something between him and Clint. Something in Clint that leaves him open to something in the Soldier. Clint doesn’t really want to know. He’s not sure which would be more terrifying.
Or more wonderful.
The Soldier is so close; Clint can feel hot breath on his shoulder blades. He’s expecting the brief touch of fingertips across his lower back but he still jumps, still quivers.
He knows the Soldier likes this part; the few minutes of just looking at him before the touching begins. It re-solidifies the power structure and builds the anticipation that’s been building in Clint’s belly since the door of the bar opened an hour or so ago. He wants to move, to reach out and feel skin against his fingertips, his lips, his tongue. But he holds himself still, because he knows what’s expected.
Because he loves being called good.
The Soldier finishes his examination but doesn’t give Clint permission to move, instead he walks to the dresser and begins to remove...not his clothes, but his weapons. Clint always wants to laugh, seeing so many weapons strapped to the Winter Soldier. The man himself is a weapon, he sets off the prey instinct in nearly every person he meets. (Clint knows he’s a rare exception. Nat tells him all the time his danger radar is broken.) But there’s still a small pile of guns and knives on the dresser beside Clint’s clothes when he’s done. He takes his jacket off too, leaving a dark grey t-shirt tight enough to show off his abs, and for the first time tonight Clint can see his metal arm. The light isn’t bright in this room, there’s just the one lamp in the corner, but it sets the plates of the Soldier’s arm to a soft glow, almost like the reflection from a sunset. He’s been at least partly hard ever since he felt the Soldier looking at him, but seeing the Soldier stretching his fingers and then curling his hands into fists sets Clint right on the edge between rock hard and insanity.
Clint looks up and sees the Soldier watching him in the mirror, realizes the Soldier knows exactly what he’s doing to Clint.
“Good boy,” he says.
Clint nearly cries.
The Soldier stands in front of him, gives him that slow as ice up and down look again. Somehow Clint manages to stand still. After another achingly slow examination, he says, “Get on your knees for me.”
Clint drops like a stone into water.
The Soldier chuckles. “Eager, aren’t you, birdling? Come show me how eager then.” He half sits, half leans on the edge of the bed and starts to unbuckle his pants. Clint is there before he even thinks about it, reaching to help, and the Soldier swats his hands away. “No hands. Just that pretty mouth of yours.” Clint opens his mouth and takes it all, takes everything the Soldier gives him. His lips stretch wide and he bobs his head up and down, the taste of the Soldier filling his mouth while his own saliva makes everything slippery and wet. After a few minutes there are hands in his hair, gripping him tight, and the Soldier says, “Just hold on. I know you can take it. And you know the rules. How do you tell me to stop?” Clint taps the Soldier’s thigh three times with his right hand. “Good boy,” the Soldier says, and Clint feels the praise flow through him, warm and freeing.
“You ready for me?” Clint looks up and nods, as much as he can with his mouth stuffed full of the Soldier’s dick. “Just hold on. And keep your eyes on me, I wanna see that pretty face.” And then he’s fucking into Clint’s mouth; it isn’t painful, it isn’t harsh, it’s just relentless. Clint breathes when he can and keeps his eyes on the Soldier, who is honestly the most beautiful man Clint has ever seen. It could be minutes, it could be an hour, all Clint knows is it feels perfect when the Soldier lets go and comes deep in his throat.
Clint doesn’t blink, just swallows everything, letting his eyes smile since his mouth can’t. It’s just so good: the feel of strong, steady hands in his hair, the relief and release and pleasure washing over the Soldier’s face as the last of his orgasm shudders through him, the salty taste of the Soldier’s come on his tongue. Distantly he can feel his own cock, hard and throbbing and begging for release, but he knows the Soldier will take care of him. He always does. He doesn’t have to worry about it, not right now.
“You’re always so good for me,” the Soldier says, pulling out of Clint’s mouth with a wet pop. “You look so beautiful on your knees, do you know that?” Clint blushes but doesn’t answer. The Soldier looks at him with reproach. “We’ve talked about this, haven’t we?” Clint nods, trying to keep his eyes up but failing. He hates getting it wrong. A strong hand under his chin tilts his face upward until their eyes meet. “What do you say?” The voice is stern, but threaded with a kindness that not many in the world would recognize, or even believe. Maybe it’s only for him.
A tear drips from the corner of Clint’s eye and rolls down his cheek. “Thank you,” he whispers. He’s not sure he believes it, can’t believe that someone like him could ever be beautiful, but he believes that the Soldier believes it, and that’s enough.
Maybe that’s everything.
“I never lie to you,” the Soldier says, wiping away the tear with his calloused thumb. “If I say you’re beautiful, it’s because it’s the truth.”
Clint nods. “I’m sorry.” His words are barely audible in the quiet room, barely louder than his pounding heart, but he knows the Soldier can hear him.
His face is suddenly cupped in two different but familiar hands; metal and flesh, both warm, both...constant. “Don’t apologize,” the Soldier says. “Just believe me.”
Clint nods, again, a little more steady.
“Good boy.”
The Soldier looks at him thoughtfully. “You seem…” He strides to the dresser, tucking himself back into his pants as he walks. A small part of Clint wishes he’d take his clothes off, that he could see the beauty of the Soldier, but it’s okay. When the Soldier turns around again, he’s holding a coil of soft, silken cords. “Do you need restraints?”
The floaty, free feeling rises in Clint again. “Please,” he says. The need is evident in his voice, but he doesn’t care.
The Soldier always knows.
“Stand up.”
Clint stands in front of the Soldier, relaxed, waiting. He has to look down to look him in the eye, and it always surprises him, because in his mind the Soldier is so...big. Larger than life. His presence fills Clint’s mind, his space, his thoughts–fills everything up so there’s no room for Clint to think about anything else. No worries, no decisions, no errant thoughts. Just the Soldier, and whatever he wants, and being good. And all those are, somehow, really the same thing.
“Hands.”
Clint puts his hands forward without a thought, and the Soldier ties his wrists together. The tie isn’t tight, but it’s firm. Enough to make Clint feel secure.
“Onto the bed, on your back.”
The bed is soft. Comfortable. He automatically puts his bound hands over his head, wriggling to find just the right place. It only takes a moment; he’s done this before.
The Soldier looks at him, a gleam in his eye. After a long, appreciative gaze, he asks, “Will just your hands be enough, or do I have to tie your feet as well?”
Clint considers. Usually he isn’t given the choice. But he feels good like this, he thinks it will be enough.
“Hands are good, I think.”
It doesn’t take long for the Soldier to secure the other end of the rope to the heavy headboard. Clint likes to watch him tying the knots, his movements so efficient yet full of grace.
When he drops the rope, Clint smiles.
Because now all he has to do is what the Soldier tells him to do. That’s how it’s been from the beginning, really, from the moment he told Clint to drink his scotch in the bar–or maybe from the time four years ago when Clint had an arrow aimed at the Soldier’s chest and the Soldier looked at him and said “you’re not going to shoot me”–but now it’s just...easy. Easy to obey, to be good, to just feel.
And the Soldier’s hands ghosting across his skin? That feels pretty damned good.
The touches are minute, soft, barely there. Like dandelion clocks dancing across a sky. But he’s so aware of everything right now, so in tune with the Soldier, that he feels every tiny touch like a jolt of electricity.
His skin is on fire.
Clint floats on a river of time and the Soldier’s murmured words; he’s warm, the heat that rises in him when the Soldier calls him good boy is like the sun in summer. He’s in a hazy daze, he’s surprised when he feels a slap on his stomach.
“Eyes open, birdling. Can’t have you drifting away. You were close to coming, and what’s the rule about that?”
Blinking, Clint realizes he had been close to coming. He hadn’t even realized, he’d been so lost in sensation. “Not without permission,” he says automatically.
“Good. And what’s your safeword?”
“Budapest.” He smiles, there’s a memory there. But he snaps his eyes to the Soldier after only a breath. “I’m here. Here with you.”
“Here?” the Soldier asks, and at the same time he rolls one of Clint’s nipples in his fingers.
Clint keens and bucks his hips, then responds with a breathy, “Here with you.”
The slow, easy touches resume, but peppered now and then with a tweak at one of Clint’s nipples. “You haven’t been sleepin’,” the Soldier says. “Not enough.” He’s looking inside again, seeing what he shouldn’t be able to see. “I don’t like that, knowin’ you’re out there, putin’ yourself in danger every day, without gettin’ enough sleep. You’re gonna get hurt.” He leans down and whispers right into Clint’s ear, his voice rough. “I don’t think I could take that.”
For the first time since he felt the Soldier’s eyes on him in the bar Clint feels a twinge of discomfort. It’s not physical, it’s the voice inside him, the voice that whispers bad things, the voice he’s not supposed to listen to. It’s there now, telling him he’s not worth this kind of care.
And the Soldier knows it instantly.
“Are you doubting me?”
Clint shakes his head, a quick one-two, his eyes wide. He never doubts the Soldier.
The Soldier stands beside the bed, looks at him through narrowed eyes.
“’m not,” Clint mumbles, looking away. “Doubting me.”
“Do we have to do this again?”
He’s walking around the bed now, just looking at Clint, like he’s trying to decide what to do. Clint squirms.
“You are beautiful. You are talented. And you are worth everything I give you. Looks like I’m gonna have to show you. Again.”
Clint feels his face flush. Probably his neck and chest too. It’s hard, because he doesn’t think he deserves this kind of attention, but he loves it too. It’s the best he ever feels, having the Soldier focusing everything on only him. He craves it, craves these tiny moments when he can let go of everything and just exist.
His eyes follow the Soldier as he walks around the bed several times. Finally he sits next to Clint and says, “Close your eyes.”
Confusion must show on his face, because the Soldier flashes a rare smile. “I know. I told you to keep them open. This is just for a few minutes.” Clint lets his eyelids flutter shut and is rewarded almost instantly when the Soldier says, “Good boy.”
Clint makes a humming sort of happy noise, and the Soldier chuckles. “You really like to be my good boy, don’t you.” It isn’t a question, so Clint doesn’t feel the need to answer, he just falls deeper into the happy, relaxed place he’s in. He’s good.
After a minute or two in the darkness there’s a tug at his hair. a moan escapes his mouth as his head is pulled back, exposing his throat, and the Soldier chuckles. “Like that, birdling?”
He doesn’t need to answer, it’s obvious, but still he says, “Yeeeees.” The word is drawn out and broken, shallow water gurgling over rocks. The Soldier tugs again, a little harder, and Clint can’t hold back the moan. The other hand joins the first in his hair, but this one doesn’t pull, just cards through the sandy locks, gentling him, teasing him, until there’s another sudden pull. It’s ecstasy, swimming on the edge of pleasure and pain. And when there is a sudden sharpness at his neck he almost comes right there.
It’s the Soldier’s mouth, marking him, sucking and biting just above his collar bone. He pulls at the bonds and his hips buck and the Soldier stops. “Do you remember what I said?”
“Not...without...permission,” Clint pants. It’s all he can do to get the words out. He’s struggling to keep control, breathing, clenching and unclenching his bound hands.
“Very good,” the Soldier says, in that soothing voice he has. The one that warms Clint up from the inside out. “Can you keep your eyes closed and still hold on?” he asks. “We’ve got a ways to go.”
Clint aches, but it’s the kind of ache he likes, like when he’s been shooting, his muscles showing him what he’s done and what he can do. “I can,” he says. “I–I’m good.”
“Yes you are.” His head is jerked back and there’s the faintest touch of lips against his. His breath lets out in a squeak. “You are always so good for me.” The words, spoken so close to his ear he can feel the Soldier’s lips on his earlobe, practically echo in his head.
“I’m good,” he says, because the Soldier wants to hear it, and because Clint wants to believe it.
The Soldier’s hands in his hair stop suddenly, along with all the other touches. Clint breathes slowly, waiting for what comes next. He trusts the Soldier to take care of him, to make him feel good, to give him the best things. So he waits.
And that’s when he feels a tongue licking a wet stripe up his dick.
He can’t help it, his hips thrust upward automatically trying to get more friction, more of that warm, wet heat. The Soldier is ready for him; as soon as he moves hands grip his thighs, holding him down. There’s another lick, and another, and it’s not long before Clint loses control of his mouth. “Oh fuck,” he cries. “Please, please, oh god, please.” He has no idea what he’s asking for, doesn’t even really know that he’s talking. He’s lost in the feel of the Soldier’s tongue and the little kitten licks he feels all over his cock. He’s flying, he’s sure he’s flying, floating somewhere high above the atmosphere, just waiting for the fireworks when he can float back to earth again.
And then the Soldier stops. Clint whimpers, then feels hands at his wrists, carefully checking the knots on the ropes. “Be careful, birdling. Don’t pull so hard, I don’t want you to hurt yourself.” Clint hadn’t even realized he’d been pulling on the ropes. He’d forgotten about the ropes, forgotten about everything but the Soldier’s tongue and how much he wanted to come.
“More...please?” Clint has to dig deep to find the words, he’s so lost in the floaty place where he doesn’t have to think.
The Soldier’s hands push Clint’s sweat-damp hair back from his forehead. “Open your eyes,” he says.
It almost hurts Clint to look, but he’s practically hardwired to obey that voice. The Soldier is smiling at him. “I’m just givin’ you a little break,” he says, still running his fingers through Clint’s hair. “You still alright?”
“So good,” Clint says. His words are a little slurry, his smile a little soft around the edges, but his eyes are clear.
“Oh, you are,” says the Soldier with a chuckle. “So, so good.”
In one smooth motion he straddles Clint, seating himself comfortably on Clint’s thighs. It’s not uncomfortable–he keeps most of the weight on his own knees–but it’s both captivating and capturing. Clint can’t look away from the man above him, and he’s completely immobilized now.
“Hhng,” Clint says.
“Well put,” the Soldier says.
The Soldier begins teasing at Clint’s nipples, rolling one between his fingers while he nips at the other with his teeth or lathes it with his tongue. Clint isn’t sure what to do with his eyes; he wasn’t told to close them again but he wasn’t told to keep them open either. About to let them slide closed, the Soldier looks up at him and says, “No, leave them open. I wanna see you lookin’ at me.”
That Clint can do; he’s happy to watch the Soldier paying such attention to him. It’s almost worshipful, the way the Soldier is bowing down to press his tongue, his kisses, his adoration, into Clint’s chest.
His breathing starts to increase and he realizes he’s on the edge again; the Soldier looks up at him, not touching Clint’s chest at all, the only sensation the breath dancing across his skin. He shivers, takes a shuddering breath, knowing the Soldier is going to tell him he can’t come. Tears leak from the corners of his eyes and trickle down his cheeks; the Soldier is being careful not to touch his dick, arching himself over Clint’s abdomen, but if he even just brushed against it Clint would just be gone.
“A little longer, birdling? For me?”
It’s the for me that does it. Because Clint would do anything for the Soldier.
“Yeah,” Clint says. “Yeah, okay.” He’s out of his mind, doesn’t even know which way is up anymore. But the Soldier wants him to hold on, so he’ll hold on.
The pressure on his legs lets up and suddenly the Soldier is gone. Clint wants to look for him, wants to watch him, but he’s too tired to turn his head. He’s still so hard, he can see the way the tip of his cock is leaking, can feel the precome dripping onto his stomach. He wants to see the Soldier, wants to come, wants something, but all he can do is wait for something to happen.
A smack on his stomach wakes him up again; he must have dozed off. “Don’t apologize,” the Soldier says before he has a chance to even think about speaking. “Having a little rest was okay. But eyes on me from now on, alright?”
“Okay, yeah, yeah, alright,” Clint babbles. When he starts his mouth it’s hard to stop it.
“Almost done now,” says the Soldier. “Just a little longer. All you have to do is wait for me. Can you do that?”
Clint nods like his head is on a spring; he can, oh he can. He knows what this means, and he’s been waiting, it’s been so long, just a little longer…
There’s a loud clap right in front of his eyes. “Focus.” The word is sharp, like the clap. Then, gentler, “Use your words, please.”
He searches for the question. He’d been nodding yes, what does he have to do? Oh, wait. Wait for the Soldier. He can do that. He’s good at that.
“Yes. Wait for you. Yes, yes, please, hurry please, just do it now, please just fuck me now!”
“You just be good for me and I’ll take care of you.” The Soldier smiles down at Clint from where he’s standing next to the bed. “I always take care of you, don’t I?”
“Always,” Clint says, and there’s a ping deep inside his chest. It has nothing to do with the game, with the ropes and the circumstance. But then the Soldier steps closer and Clint sees that he’s naked now, and other thoughts just drift away.
If his hands were free he’d want to reach out and touch: that smooth, toned stomach, the two very different but equally enthralling arms, the thighs that could murder him with a glance. And his mouth automatically waters when he sees the Soldier’s dick, he can’t help it, he loves the weight of it on his tongue and the scent of the Soldier filling up his nose.
But that was for before. And maybe again for later. For now…
“Do you need help with your legs?”
Clint nods, then adds, “Yeah, I think so.” The Soldier climbs onto the bed, easing himself between Clint’s legs, slightly hitching up his knees. Clint keeps his eyes on the Soldier’s face, just like he’d been told, so he sees how the Soldier looks at him: like he’s a treasure.
The cool pressure snaps Clint to the present, and he lets out a squeaky sound as the Soldier’s finger enters him. “So good for me,” the Soldier says, and Clint’s chest fills with warmth again.
“More,” Clint begs. “More please.” But the Soldier keeps a steady pace, and when Clint wiggles to get some relief, some pressure on his prostate, the Soldier pulls out altogether.
Clint cries out at the emptiness, cries his apologies, pleas for more. The Soldier waits until he quiets before he says softly, “Are you going to be good this time?”
It’s shame and not pleasure or self-consciousness that flushes Clint’s cheeks this time. “I’ll be good,” he says. He starts to drop his eyes then remembers and returns them to meet the Soldier’s gaze.
“I know you will,” the Soldier says. And without warning he pushes two fingers into Clint.
He screeches at the intrusion; he wasn’t quite ready and it aches a bit at first but he’s quickly stretched out and accepting. The Soldier is relentless, even and steady, determined to toe the line between stretching Clint out and giving him too much pleasure. Before long he adds a third finger, and Clint is keening, babbling, staring into the Soldier’s eyes while he begs to be fucked, begs to be allowed to come, begs for some fucking relief.
Clint doesn’t know how long he babbles, how long the Soldier fucks into him with his fingers, how long he stares into those ageless eyes. But eventually there’s an emptiness; he whimpers and the Soldier murmurs reassurances, and soon he’s full again, full to bursting. His eyes are open, still focused on the Soldier, but he still sees sparks on the edges of his vision when the Soldier enters him. His skin sings, he wants to close his eyes because all the sensations are just too much but the Soldier wants to see him, wants to see into him, so he keeps his eyes open. And the Soldier rewards him, looks at him and smiles, touches his face and says, “There’s my good boy.”
Clint bites his lip; he wants to ask the Soldier to move, but he’s on a knife’s edge of control now. He feels like anything could set him off, even opening his mouth to speak. So he just looks into those eyes and tries to hold on. Just hold on. Just hold–
And then the Soldier hitches up Clint’s knee so he can get a better angle and he begins to move.
Slowly at first, finding a rhythm, but then just pounding into him. No more teasing, just finding release. “Wait for me,” the Soldier says, his eyes wild and dark. “Don’t you come before me. And you keep your eyes on mine. I want to see your pleasure, you hear me?”
A question. Clint has to answer. “Y-yes,” he manages, then before he can stop himself he’s begging again. “Don’t stop, please don’t stop, don’t ever stop I can’t take it anymore I need to come oh please–”
And then the Soldier is roaring, his body arching and spasming and he moans, “Oh, fuck,” as he comes, and the look in his eyes is all Clint needs. He tumbles over the edge, chasing after the Soldier, splashing rope after rope of his come across his stomach; his eyes threaten to roll back, to close of their own volition but he keeps them locked in place.
The Soldier holds himself just like that for a long minute after they finish, arms on either side of Clint, with Clint’s thigh pressed against his chest. Then slowly, slowly, he lowers himself down so he can kiss Clint on the mouth, soft as a butterfly wing. “I’ve missed you so much, sweetheart,” he says.
Clint smiles, reaching up for another kiss. “Me too. You were right, it’s been way, way too long.”
The Soldier stumbles his way off the bed, legs weak; even supersoldiers take a few minutes to find their legs after great sex. He’s back in a few minutes with two bottles of water and a warm cloth. He opens a bottle, holds it to Clint’s lips so he can drink, then cleans him up. He moves to the rope and begins to untie it. “How are your shoulders? And don’t just say fine without stretching your arms out first, you know that just pisses me off.”
After another–longer–drink, he rolls his shoulders in small circles and stretches his arms over his head, a picture the Soldier says he enjoys rather a lot. Clint drains the rest of the bottle and says his shoulders are a little stiff but should be fine. The Soldier insists on massaging them for a few minutes, and Clint can’t say no to that.
It doesn’t last long though, because Clint is exhausted.
“Good,” the Soldier says. “I wanted to tire you out. I meant what I said about you not getting enough sleep. Come on, tonight will be better.”
“I know it will,” Clint says, tucking himself around the Soldier. “This is my favorite place to sleep.”
“You’ve never been here.”
“You know what I mean.”
He does. He won’t say it though.
“Wish you’d stay,” the Soldier says, as Clint is falling asleep.
Clint wishes it too, but with the way things are…
“For now this’ll have to be enough,” Clint says, kissing the Soldier’s shoulder.
The Soldier makes a grumbling noise in his chest, but says, softly. “For now.”
Three days later Clint calls Natasha. “You can come get me now.”
“He found you, then?”
“I don’t have any idea what you’re talking about.”
“Right.” She sounds smug. “I’ll be there in three hours.”
Just before she can hang up, he says, “Nat?”
“Yeah?”
“Thanks.”