#clintxphil

[sarriane]

Clint/Coulson OTPillowcases by @thereddestglass!

My lovely girlfriend, Sarah, made these for me for Christmas! <3 If anyone is interested in buying a pillowcase from her, she makes some really cool custom designs. (But you can’t have pizza dog. He’s mine.)

[lellabeth]

Be Somebody, chapter 2

Like all of the worst things in Clint’s life, it started because he couldn’t keep his mouth shut.

He and Coulson had shared smaller rooms and that one at least had a bed. Their mission had been screwed from the get-go, and it was only the way Clint fired arrows quicker than he breathed that meant either of them were alive. Coulson had bruised ribs and multiple cuts from a window exploding all over him, so when he tried to insist on sleeping on the floor, Clint didn’t bother answering. Coulson refused to give in. When Clint told him that he’d slept on nothing more than bare ground before then, something flinty flashed in his superior’s eyes and the crinkles around them looked just a little deeper.

“I’m taking the floor, Barton. End of discussion.” It was the same tone he used when ordering Clint to stay quiet over comms or that his position had been compromised.

Still, Coulson couldn’t hide his wince as he twisted to drop his pillow onto the cheap carpet floor.

“We could just share,” Clint blurted, his chest spasming at the sight of Coulson in pain.

Coulson eyed him.

Clint twitched.

They took turns in the shower, both too tired to do much more than rinse the sweat, blood and grime off before slumping into the bed.

Clint and Coulson had worked together long enough to be past any body-shyness around one another, but there was still a sense of something forbidden about being within touching distance with the false comfort of darkness all around.

He could hear the other man’s measured breathing, feel the body heat emanating from him and curling across Clint’s body like an embrace. It felt intimate, close.

Maybe that’s what made Clint reach his hand out.

It brushed Coulson’s thigh.

Neither of them moved for a second.

Then Coulson shifted his leg outwards a little, further into Clint’s hand. He let himself feel the other man’s warm skin and coarse hair, tracing small scars as he trailed his hand slowly upward.

Clint wondered if Coulson could hear how his heart raced.

“Keep going,” Coulson whispered when Clint’s hand faltered at the edge of his underwear, and suddenly Clint realized this was really actually happening.

He’d wanted Coulson for years, so long he could barely remember when it began. He just knew Coulson was his soft spot, the attraction always there, tucked away deep inside where no one could snatch it away. Clint had wanted him for so long that he’d grown used to it, knowing nothing could ever come from childish wants like affection or love. Not for him.

Clint had trained himself not to want those things long ago. He was bad and callous and ruined, and Coulson was… perfect. Coulson was educated, intelligent, an honorable veteran hero. He was quiet and kind and so fucking competent it made Clint’s head spin, and wasn’t it just like him to develop an attachment that’d never be returned to someone who’d once shot him in the thigh?

But that was Clint’s M.O., people he’d cared for hurting him. So he was stuck, half in love (because he wouldn’t admit the other half even to himself, not yet) with a man that was so far out of his league, not even Hawkeye could see across the distance between them.

Clint was nothing more than trash, his father’s soiled blood running deep in his veins, and Coulson… he was a male Aurora, bringing the dawn and all that came with it, and Clint had lived in the dark too long not to be awed by that.

If Coulson was the dawn, Clint was the dusk.

Clint had just accepted that Coulson, like any good thing, wasn’t meant for him.

Clint had a lifetime of not being enough, he’d grown used to its barbed sting, but the hurt of it never really went away.

But now, with Coulson making quiet, encouraging noises as Clint traced the hard outline of him, Clint let himself forget all that. Just for a second, just for a minute, he let himself pretend.

He let Coulson’s desperate noises wash over him like a baptism, cleansing him of his past. In that bed, in that moment, he was just a man, using his body to show the beautiful person before him just how much he cared. When Coulson came with Clint’s name on his lips, it was almost enough to make Clint forget how so many others had spat that same name out like it tasted foul.

Almost.

Almost.

He moved back, wiping his hand on the sheets below him.

Coulson called out his name, but it didn’t sound like absolution anymore. It felt like a reminder of a past Clint could never escape, not unless he one day managed to run fast enough to leave himself behind.

So Clint turned his back as Coulson got up and walked to the bathroom.

As the click of the door echoed in his ears, Clint tried to ignore how the bed felt empty without Coulson in it.

[lellabeth]

Be Somebody, chapter 1

Story Summary: In the vents above Phil’s office, Clint curls himself up into a ball. The blanket he keeps up there is his favorite, dark purple and washed-soft, and he lets it cover him like armor. Inside this little cocoon, he is safe. When he falls asleep barely a minute later, the rhythmic clacking of a keyboard lulling him into unconsciousness, it’s with the thought of Phil’s arms wrapped around him instead.

“Those hands of yours, Barton,” Phil whines, voice stuttering as Clint’s fingers wrap around the older man’s straining cock. He teases the tip, thumbs the sensitive underside of the head, and Phil is so, so gone. It’s not just the pressure, not just the contact - it’s the rough calluses and the skin softer than he would’ve believed; it’s the scarred knuckles he sees when he looks down, white against the flushed red of his own skin.

Then Clint’s lips brush the back of his neck.

It’s barely anything, just the gentlest brush against his nape, but Phil’s wanted this - needed this, craved this, fucking dreamed of this - and he closes his eyes and pretends it was more than an accident, and then he’s coming. Endless, blinding, achingly hollow. It shouldn’t be possible to feel the stir of air behind him as Clint turns to leave, but Phil swears he does.

He keeps his eyes closed, his face turned away.

If his legs are shaking and his hands are gripping the desk tightly enough to leave indents, it’s no one’s business but his own. And if there’s wetness pushing at the back of his eyelids, it’s completely unrelated to the still-burning skin on the back of his neck.

He reaches out for the box of tissues, the brush of his suit pants against his legs making shame crawl prickly across his skin. He cleans himself off roughly before yanking his trousers back up and tightening his belt so it pinches his stomach.

The pinch grounds him. He opens his eyes, blinks twice, then moves to sit in the chair behind his desk.

He has paperwork to do.

In the vents above Phil’s office, Clint curls himself up into a ball. The blanket he keeps up there is his favorite, dark purple and washed-soft, and he lets it cover him like armor. Inside this little cocoon, he is safe. When he falls asleep barely a minute later, the rhythmic clacking of a keyboard lulling him into unconsciousness, it’s with the thought of Phil’s arms wrapped around him instead.

[tilltheendofthebucky]

~~Note: I can't really see Phil as someone who actually yells, so it's more him ranting to Clint about Clint being reckless. Any comments or critiques are welcome. And feel free to send more prompts my way~~

“You cannot run into a hostile’s location without my order, Specialist.”

Looking up into Phil’s face there were only four things Clint knew right then.

One, Natasha was safe. So no matter what Phil said in his half hour rant about his slightly reckless method of barging into a terrorist cell armed with only seven remaining arrows and his three knives, at least Tasha was safe. No one was hurt. (As long as the four terrorists being courted back to SHIELD headquarters weren’t counted).

Two, Phil never called him specialist. It was always Clint or Barton or Hawkeye in the field. The last time anyone had called him ‘specialist’ was six months ago when his last handler dumped him on Phil. Shit, Phil was probably going to do the same thing now.

Three, Phil was really angry. His lips were pressed firmly together in a slight frown and a thin line formed between his eyebrows as he focused his glare on Clint.

Four, Clint’s heart was racing. It was beating frantically like it wanted to jump out of his chest and run a goddamn marathon. It was so loud that it filled his ears and he was forced to just nod back at Coulson dumbly.

“Barton are you even listening?” Phil questioned, his irritation seeming to grow.

Clint continued to stare blankly at Phil before giving an empty “Yes, boss.” Clint gave his knee a small slap and hoisted himself off the couch in Phil’s office. “I’ll let you work on your reports. Sure, you’ve got plenty to work on,” Clint monotone as he walked out of the office and to his quarters on the SHIELD headquarters, ignoring the stunned silence of Phil as he sat back behind his desk.

In his room Clint threw his bow on his bed none-too-lightly and sat on the comforter, head in hands, trying to breath deep and slow like he was setting up to take a shot. And then his thoughts started.

They unfurled from inside him and took up all the space into his head. The doubt leaked out of his skull and filled his lungs as he tried to find air. The pain pressed against his heart and it beat and beat and beat and beat and he stood up.

Making a beat with the way his boots pounded on the floor, giving his fears a rhythm to their cry. You’ve done it again. You put everyone you cared about at risk. Tasha. Phil. Everyone. Thump. Thump. Thump. Not even Phil can deal with me, I don’t know how he’s put up with me for so long. Thump. Thump. Thump. This was a mistake. Phil didn’t know what he was taking on when he became my handler. My partner. My boyfriend. Thump. Thump. Thump. It’s too much. I’m too much. I can’t fix it. He shouldn’t have to fix it. Thump. Thump. Thump.”

Clint dropped to the floor, sitting with his head between his knees. The thoughts surrounded him, his heart beat masked him. He didn’t even notice the click of the door as Phil entered the room, immediately sitting beside him and wrapping an arm around his distraught boyfriend.

“Shhh,” Phil murmured quietly, stroking Clint’s hair. “It’s okay. You’ll be okay. Everyone’s safe. Natasha is safe. You’re safe. I’m here. Shhh. It’s okay. You’re safe in your room at SHIELD.”

Clint looked up at Phil, heartbeat slowing to something reasonable, but breaths still coming in ragged. Phil continued his whispers, wiping the tears Clint didn’t know he shed. Phil continued to hold the marksman until Clint decided to speak.

“I’m sorry,” Hawkeye began. “I shouldn’t have run in, but I had to help Natasha. There wasn’t time. And you shouldn’t have to deal with this. All of this. A reckless specialist. A mess of a boyfriend, I—“

“Stop,” Phil interrupted firmly, but softly. “Yes, you’re reckless. And yes, I hate it when you needlessly put yourself in danger, but this is what I choose to deal with. I love you. You running into danger without warning, god, Clint. I can’t stand to see you hurt. I don’t know what I’d do without you. What I would be without you.”

Clint nuzzled his face in the crook of Phil’s neck, letting the man’s words wash over him. “I’m sorry, Phil. I’m sorry.”

Phil took Clint’s jaw in his hands, bringing his face into view and kissing his lips lightly. “I’m sorry. I shouldn't have…I know I shouldn't have argued with you so soon after the mission. I’m sorry.”

Clint let out a small laugh like a breath and leaned his forehead against Phil’s. “We’re safe,” he repeated. 

[satbiym]

Clint and Coulson start fighting. Because of Coulson's "Tahiti" issues, him not telling Clint that he was alive, the secrecy.

They break-up.

Tony, in a panic, starts throwing beautiful men and women at Clint, to help him get over his mystery boyfriend.

Finally, almost resigned, when Tony is hacking into SHIELD...You know, to cheer himself up...he finds out, everything.

He recruits Natasha and Steve, and makes everything okay.

After a round(or ten) of make-up sex, Clint emerges, punches Tony and says "You're the best pimp I've ever had"

And Tony, tearfully says "That's everything I wanted to hear for the last one month."