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Clint never gets the clinical, government approved style of sex education that some schools provide. He never gets the gentler, more awkward kind that parents provide, either. His and Barney's folks die before it gets to be an issue, and they leave the orphanage before he gets old enough for the Sisters' class. Instead, Clint grows up in the circus, overhearing the bawdy talk of the performers and the stagehands. He knows he's an omega, and the stories he hears tell him that when he gets older he's gonna have be extra careful sometimes, because everyone's going to want to have a piece of him. That seems funny-stupid for awhile, because everyone wants a piece of him now--his work or his time or just his bruises.
On his sixteenth birthday he gets a new bow--not new-new, it's still a hand-me-down, but it's new to him and less worn than the old one--and a real frank talk from the bearded lady.
"You're an omega," she says, and Clint nods. "Anyone ever talk to you about going into heat?"
Clint shrugs. "That's when most omegas get knocked up, yeah?" he says. "But it can happen other times, too. And the guys are always saying fucking an omega in heat is awesome, because you can go and go and go before you get tired."
"True enough," she agrees. "But there's else something you gotta know. You ever heard an alpha say that they caught an omega's scent and had to have 'em?"
"Sure."
"What they mean is, an omega's scent can go right past an alpha's brain and straight to their dick." Clint frowns, but she goes on before he can ask what that means. "It's not like being turned on regular. When it's strong enough, they won't care who you are, they won't care what you say, and they won't care what you do. Your scent'll say 'fuck me now,' and their instincts'll drive 'em hard to take care of it."
"So why aren't alphas throwing omegas down left and right?" Clint asks. "I mean, I've scented unbonded omegas in our audience. They're not all cloistered or something."
She sighs. "Well, the good news is, it's pretty much just during heat, and not all omegas hit all alphas that hard. Just like you find different people hot than Barney does, different alphas go crazy for different omegas. It's the rare omega that'll smell that good to all alphas. Just...be careful, okay? Keep an eye on folks when your heat comes on. Have a way out, just in case."
She's serious enough about it that the talk sticks with Clint. He starts paying more attention to how other omegas act when their heat is on the way, and he sees the wariness in their eyes, the way they stay away from certain alphas. He starts getting nervous about his own heat. There's no way to know who will take to his scent; an omega's regular smell isn't anything like their heat scent. Clint's been thinking about sex plenty over the past couple of years, but that doesn't mean he wants to be held down and mounted by just anybody.
As it turns out, he's got nothing to worry about.
When Clint goes into heat, he discovers that, just like there's the rare omega that drives almost every alpha crazy, there's the rare omega that drives every alpha away. His heat scent is powerful and pungent and musky, and alphas hate it. No one will come within ten feet of him when he's in heat. They have to take him out of the show those nights, because it puts the audience off. Clint doesn't much like being called disgusting, but he tells himself it's okay, 'cause he didn't want to fuck anybody in the circus anyway.
It's a little harder to take once he's on his own. He gets laid just fine between cycles, but the second his heat comes on, alphas can't get away from him fast enough. Even betas, who aren't as sensitive to scents, are put off. It's just Clint's god damned luck that when he most desperately wants to fuck, no one will have him.
The horror stories about omegas triggering some random alpha into holding them down and mounting them turn into Clint's biggest fantasies. The idea that someone could want him so badly that they'd put in the effort to pin him down and take him gets him going so hard that he'll sob and beg into the empty room. Just imagining hard hands on his hips and a rough, selfish cock driving into him will get him off. He goes through a reckless year where, when he goes into heat, he goes trawling bars and clubs for alphas. He burns out on that after three heats; the halo of space that opens up around him in a crowded area as people cringe from his scent is too fucking humiliating.
By the time Clint gets to SHIELD, he's in the habit of keeping his heats to himself, obsessively isolating himself when they come on. Thank fucking God that omegas are always, always granted leave for heats. Maybe Clint's not taking it for the same reasons as most, but he's done with seeing people's faces twist up as they back away from him. He's more or less resigned himself to an endless string of fuck buddies and one night stands, restricted to when he's off cycle. An omega can only bond during their heat, and while he doesn't have to bond to have a relationship, the thought of seeing distaste on the face of someone who says they love him is enough to kill any romantic fantasies.
Coulson almost convinces him to give it a try, once.
They've just finished up an easy mission and are laying back together on one of their hotel room's two beds, shoulders bumping, eating Thai food and mocking the terrible movie on the TV. Clint turns to Phil just as Phil turns to him and their eyes meet and the air is charged and Phil leans in... It takes all the strength Clint has to pull back and stop the kiss before it happens.
"Clint," Phil starts. Clint shakes his head. Phil turns away. "I know we'd be good together," he says quietly.
"Yeah," Clint agrees bleakly. "Right up until my heat came on." Phil's never caught Clint's heat scent; if Clint has any say in it, he never will.
Phil makes a frustrated noise. "I don't care about your heats. I want to be with you all the rest of the time. Why do three days every three months trump the other 353 days of the year?"
Clint sits up and hunches over, scrubbing his hands through his hair. So fucking unfair. "You think it only matters for those 12 days," he says. "But you've never seen how alphas look at me after they've caught my scent. Once they know how awful it is, they never forget it. I don't want you to look at me like that. Not ever."
"I never would. I don't care how you smell."
Clint closes his eyes. God, he wishes that were true. "I'm sorry."
Phil lets it go. Well, sort of. He lets the sex thing go. He doesn't try to kiss Clint again. He doesn't try to talk to Clint about it again. But the nights when they end up having dinner together seem to happen more and more often. Clint has been in the habit of dropping into Phil's office when he's not otherwise engaged for ages, but now a couch appears up against one wall, and sometimes Phil will bitch about what he's working on, or take a break to chat with Clint, instead of ignoring him or handing him his overdue paperwork. He buys Clint birthday presents, and Christmas presents. Gossip around SHIELD says they're dating no matter how often Clint says they aren't.
He knows he should tell Phil to stop. He should back off himself and let Phil find someone else. But he can't make himself do it; he enjoys being with Phil too much. Even seeing the heated looks Phil tosses him now and then and knowing how they'd sour if Phil caught his heat scent--the way a partner inevitably would--doesn't give Clint the strength to push Phil away. And no matter how much he knows it's going to break his heart later, the alpha in Clint's fantasies, the one who catches his scent and goes nuts and pins him down and ruthlessly fucks him, inevitably becomes Phil.
By the time the Avengers form, it's been six years since an alpha caught a whiff of Clint during a heat. He's got predicting them down pat and the protocols for taking leave and locking down his apartment are probably the only SHIELD regs he knows better than Phil does.
Of course, the Avengers have a way of fucking everything up.
He doesn't even realize what's happened, at first. They've just finished up a battle with a guy whose trick was pulling random shit out of inter-dimensional portals. Literally random -- the chances he'd come up with an alien nuke or a dress with too many arms seemed about equal. He'd been decent at improvising, though, and by the time the battle is over Tony's armor has a few new dents and Clint's arms are sporting a dozen red spots thanks to a swarm of extra-dimensional mosquitos.
The spots don't seem serious, but he does see a medic before heading back to the tower, he really does. His vital signs are all stable and the spots read like regular mosquito bites, so the medic draws some blood and sends him back to the tower to debrief with the rest of the team. If he's a little warm, well, it's a nice day and he did just get a hell of a workout. If he's feeling itchy and restless, well, he is covered in "mosquito" bites. If his mind is wandering a little faster than usual to kissing Phil, to being pinned down under him, well, he is expecting to see him in full-on, in-control Agent Coulson mode at the debriefing, and that always gets Clint worked up.
They all take a quick shower first, and despite the check in with the medic, Clint is first into the conference room. The anticipation of seeing Phil is really getting to him and he's mostly concentrating on not getting hard when the conference room door opens and Bruce wanders in. He pauses a couple of steps into the room and frowns before slowly sinking into a seat, but Clint doesn't pay it much attention. Not until the door opens to admit Stark, who breaks off in the middle of giving Steve a hard time to wrinkle his nose and say, "What is that smell?"
Clint stiffens. It can't be him. It can't be. His heats are really fucking regular, and he keeps track of his hormone levels on top of that. He shouldn't be due for almost another month. But when Stark glances around the room, looking for the source, his eyes slide right past Bruce and land on Clint. "Jesus, Barton. Didn't you shower?"
Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck. Clint leaps to his feet, then freezes. Phil is coming. Fuck. There's no time to get to his rooms, he can't risk meeting the man in the hall. "Get out," he snaps.
Stark's eyebrows go up. "No need to get snippy, I was just--"
"Shut up and get the fuck out," Clint breaks in.
"Clint--" Steve begins.
No time, no time. "I'm going into heat," Clint bites out. "All of you get the hell out of this room and lock the god damned door."
"That's your heat scent?" Stark says.
"Tony," Steve chides. He turns, puts his hand on Tony's shoulder, and makes him turn back to the door. Thank God; no wonder Phil likes the guy. "Come on, Bruce."
Of course, that's exactly when the door opens and Phil and Natasha step in.
Clint whimpers and retreats to the corner farthest from the door, as if that could possibly stop Phil from smelling him when he's stinking up the whole room. He closes his eyes. He doesn't want to see it when Phil walks away from him, he can't. But then someone growls, low in the throat, like nothing Clint has ever heard, and his eyes pop open again. Phil is staring at him, nostrils flaring. He almost looks angry, his gaze is so sharp and hot, except that when Phil gets angry, he goes cold. No, this isn't anger. Clint's heart stutters. That's not anger; that's hunger.
Clint only peripherally registers Steve hesitating at the door and Natasha's murmured, "It's okay, Steve. I know them. Trust me."
Phil growls again and takes a step toward Clint and oh God, Phil's so hard he's tenting his pants, just from catching Clint's scent. A spike of desperate, urgent needs lances through Clint and Phil licks his lips like he can taste the surge in pheromones. Phil's hands clench at his sides and Clint's dick throbs and surges into eager stiffness. "Go, Steve," Clint says roughly.
The door has barely clicked shut before Phil is across the room, crowding up against Clint in his corner. He grabs Clint's hips and slams him against the wall, pressing his body tight against Clint and pinning him there, grinding his rigid cock against Clint's, another growl rumbling up from his chest. Phil buries his face in the curve of Clint's neck even as he ruts against him and licks, teeth scraping over the skin in the wake of his tongue.
Clint moans and goes pliant, tries to rock his hips to meet the rough thrusts of Phil's hips against his. Clint's whole body is pounding in time with his heart; he needs, God, he needs so much. He reaches under Phil's jacket and fumbles at his shirt. Clint needs skin, he needs to touch. He gets Phil's shirt out of his pants and struggles to get his hands underneath, making the buttons strain.
He's hardly managed to brush his fingertips across tantalizing skin when Phil drags him out of the corner, backing them towards the table. He pushes Clint's sweatpants down as he goes, leaving them clinging to Clint's knees, and brings his hands back up to palm the swell of Clint's ass, fingers dipping between the cheeks. A high, needy whine escapes Clint and his body throbs. His muscles clench and relax helplessly and slick runs down his thighs, pungent and wet. For a moment Clint's heart stutters, afraid that this will be too much somehow. But Phil just yanks him closer and darts forward to capture Clint's mouth in a deep, urgent kiss.
Clint sinks into it, sucking eagerly on Phil's tongue when it slides into his mouth. He gives up on getting his hands under Phil's shirt and just tears it open instead, buttons flying everywhere. Phil kneads Clint's ass, spreading him open and gripping him tight in turns. All Clint can do is kiss him and kiss him and run his hands all over the warm skin of Phil's torso. Phil finally breaks the kiss; Clint is still panting when Phil turns him around and bends him over the conference table, his chest pressed into the cool surface, his ass jutting out towards Phil.
"Oh, God, yes," Clint pants. He puts his head down on the table and whimpers when Phil jerks his arms up onto the table, too, pressing them into place over Clint's head. He's still wearing his t-shirt, but Phil doesn't seem to care, except to push it up to make sure his ass is fully exposed. "Please," Clint begs. He tries to spread his legs, but the sweatpants tangled around his knees hobble him. "Please, Phil, I need you so bad," Clint groans. His skin is burning and his ass aches and he's ready. Every nerve ending he's got is sparking with pleasure and sheer, visceral rightness. This is where he belongs, right here, bent over for his alpha, wet and ready to be mounted, to finally, finally be claimed and bred.
He almost misses the sound of Phil's zipper opening, but the grunt of relief that Phil lets out when his cock is freed goes right to Clint's dick. Strong, familiar hands grip his hips. "Yeah," Clint says. "Yeah, yeah, yeah," he can't stop saying it. Even as the blunt head of Phil's cock nudges against Clint's wet opening, even as he drives into Clint, burying his cock in one powerful thrust, Clint's moaning yeah, yeah, yeah over and over again, high and tight, sobbing it, groaning it, wailing it as Phil draws out and snaps his hips in again, hard.
Maybe it's the heat, or maybe it's Phil, but Clint has never felt so completely filled before. His whole body is hot and loose, accepting every stroke of Phil's cock eagerly, clinging to him slickly as he withdraws. Clint moans and rides the waves of pleasure, rolling his hips into it. He never wants it to stop. Phil's cock is thick and solid and perfect inside him, and the only thing better than having him there, full and hot, is the surge of power and possession that overwhelms Clint every time Phil thrusts into him.
Phil's hands leave his hips, but he keeps fucking Clint steadily even as he leans over and drags his teeth over Clint's throat. Clint tilts his head, baring a stretch of skin to Phil. Phil doesn't hesitate to take advantage, biting hard enough to bruise. A shock of pleasure goes through Clint, and he whines in complete and utter surrender. Phil’s thrusts grow shorter as his knot starts to swell. He licks the place he bit and moves on, sinking his teeth in again, and again, even bringing his hands up to stretch the neck of Clint's t-shirt so that he can reach more skin.
Clint's so flooded with pleasure, he feels like he's flying, and every bite just drives him higher. Phil's knot has grown huge inside him, so full and swollen that it might hurt if Clint wasn't so turned on he was dizzy. Phil nuzzles into the base of Clint's neck and he's going to bite again, Clint knows it, and he thinks, he thinks this might--
Phil bites, and his cock throbs, and his knot grows just that tiny bit more and Clint tips over the edge, climax shooting through him. His body clamps down on Phil and even through his own shuddering pleasure Clint can feel the heavy throb of Phil coming inside him. They shake and pant together, Clint's ass tight around Phil, squeezing every last spurt out of him, Phil's knot anchoring them, keeping Clint full and still.
They lay there, slumped over the table, legs barely supporting them, for several minutes while the fog of pleasure and pheromones ebbs. Even then, Clint can't help the giddiness still dancing through him, because he's still got Phil's knot inside him and Phil himself heavy on his back. He's never been knotted before, never had to take a tie, and he has no idea why so many partnered omegas complain about this, because as far as Clint is concerned, being tied is awesome. He loves the fullness, the solidness of it. It feels right and natural and safe and he would fall asleep except he already wants to do it all over again.
Eventually, Phil stirs, but doesn't try to pull away. "Am I too heavy?" he mutters hoarsely.
"You're perfect," Clint says. He moved his arms just enough to pillow his head on them, careful not to dislodge Phil. He wonders if they're going to have to talk about this.
"Mmm." Phil brushes his lips across the back of Clint's neck. "Told you I wouldn't care about your heat scent."
Clint starts laughing. "If this is not caring," he gasps, "I really wanna see what liking it is like."
Phil smiles against Clint's skin and waits for the laughter to subside. "So are you mine, now?"
The answer should be obvious, tied together as they are, but Clint knows why Phil needs to hear it. Clint told him often enough that he couldn't belong to anyone. So he smiles and lifts his head to free one of his arms, reaching back and finding Phil's hand to tangle their fingers together. "Yes," Clint says. "I'm yours. For as long as you want me."
Phil releases a happy sigh. "Let's start with forever."
~!~