Fandom: Avengers, Steve/Clint
Word count: 6000
Summary: When Steve finds himself in a sex club (thanks, Tony) he sees a familiar face. Being a good guy, he tries to ignore it. He fails. Much smut ensues.
Note: This is a PWP smutty kinky Dom/sub fic. Because. Mwahahaha.
Disclaimer: I do not own, nor am I making money off of, the Avengers, Tony Stark, Hawkeye, or Captain America. Please don't sue me.
Steve knew something was up from the gleeful way Tony led him into the club and the fact that there wasn't a line outside. No line meant it wasn't popular, which meant Tony wasn't trying to embarrass him by wowing him. Allowing Tony to try and embarrass him had been a lesson on what was outlandish by today's standards. He'd learned a lot. Mostly, that things hadn't really changed that much.
As they walked into the little entrance area -- a coat check on one side, and a hostess on the other -- Steve was reminded of the speak easys of his own time. It wasn't nearly as hidden, but had that same nothing-going-on-here, not-the-android-you're-looking-for (he'd finally caught up on Star Wars) sort of feel to it.
Tony flirted with the hostess and paid admission for both of them, then they handed their coats over to coat check, took the little claim tags, and headed into the club.
At ten pm, it was still fairly quiet. The first room had a bar with a distinct lack of alcohol bottles. Instead the back was filled with rows of Gatorade, water, Perrier, Vitamin Water, and every flavor in between. They served snacks, too; chips, cookies, vegetables and dip, sandwiches. People sat on couches making out around a main stage which was currently empty. A couple of security guards wandered around, watching everything. A framed poster sat on prominent display on one wall with a list of rules:
1. All guests shall be treated with respect
2. Consent is not only sexy, but mandatory
3. The safe word is red, unless otherwise specified.
4. The slow work is yellow, unless otherwise specified.
The rules went on, but Steve had caught the gist. It was a sex club. Steve looked again at the people making out on couches. A few other occupants sat at tables, just talking.
Steve could feel Tony's eyes on him. He turned and smiled. "Do you and Pepper come here?"
It was gratifying to turn the tables on Tony. Dark eyes widened. "Of course not! We have our own toys at home."
Steve snorted a laugh and headed to the bar. He flashed the bartender his best smile and leaned on the counter top. "Red Gatorade, please."
She gave him a coy smile in return and cracked a bottle for him, pouring half of it into a glass and setting it down on top of a cocktail napkin. "I don't recognize you. You must be new here." She winked. "Need any advice?"
Steve chuckled. Beside him, Tony had wandered over looking pouty. He always looked pouty after Steve didn't react to his newest scheme. Not that Tony would call it pouting.
"If I do, I'll know who to ask."
She winked at him again and moved off.
Steve gave Tony an innocent look and sipped his Gatorade. The glass was a nice touch.
"What the hell do you know about sex clubs?" Tony demanded finally, voice brash.
Steve could tell Tony was working himself up into one of those obnoxious, everyone-pay-attention-to-me tantrums he did so well. "Come on, Tony," he said with a pacifying smile. He nudged the open bottle of Gatorade over. "Sex in all its incarnations wasn't invented in the seventies. I was part of a traveling show with dancers, and then traveled the world during the war. In this body." He gestured to himself. "I learned a few things."
It made Tony scoff. The looming tantrum broke up and floated away. Tony sipped from the Gatorade bottle, made a face, and flagged down the bartender. "Sparkling water, please."
"Coming right up." She served it with another smile. "You look familiar." Her gaze darted between them. "You both look familiar, actually."
Tony leaned across the bar. "Tony Stark." He tipped his head toward Steve. "This is my bodyguard, and he's a camera whore. He ends up in a lot of my photos."
Steve snorted into his drink, eyes scanning the club. A few more people were trickling in. Two men leaned against a wall -- or rather, one pushed the other up against a wall -- kissing. Steve didn't look away from them, even as he felt a blush rising. Nat was right. Public displays of affection made people uncomfortable, but then, this wasn't exactly public, and those two were outside of a private room to be watched, so...
Tony and the bartender were still flirting. He heard her ask, "Sub or Dom?" and Tony respond with, "I can do either, but whips and rope are more my speed." She laughed. Steve tuned them back out.
He skimmed over the rules again, gleaning what information he could. Apparently there were rooms available for reservation. Hygiene was important, which he appreciated. Everyone had to respect everyone else, regardless of kink, sexuality, or gender preference. So they were open minded. The sex clubs of his day hadn't always been. Often were, but not always. You had to choose the opposite gender in a partner if there was going to be any sex involved, and Steve had never been enough of a regular to remember which ones were safe for same-sex pairings. He'd traveled too much.
He looked over the assembled people again. The two men who'd been up against the wall had shifted, the taller, less muscular one pushing the shorter, very muscular one toward the back of the room, where a few whipping posts and crosses had been set up.
They turned and Steve got a good look at the shorter one. That was Clint. He'd have recognized him sooner, but the body language was all off. Steve turned quickly away. They were headed toward the public bondage areas. The first crack of anything against skin in the relatively quiet club would catch everyone's attention. And if there was one thing none of the Avengers needed, it was for Tony to know something like one of them enjoyed being tied up and beaten.
Steve had to get Tony out of here.
He leaned forward across the bar to where Tony and the bartender were still flirting, and looked innocently interested. "I didn't know Pepper was into threesomes."
Tony's face froze. The bartender's eyebrows shot upward, and her expression cooled.
"It hasn't come up yet," Tony said with careful precision.
"Ah." Steve let that single syllable fill the silence.
"Maybe," the bartender said, moving back. "It should come up." She headed off to talk to the other occupant of the bar.
"Ass," Tony growled. "I wouldn't cheat on Pepper."
"No," Steve said. "I imagine she'd castrate you."
"She'd keep twelve percent of me intact," Tony muttered.
He shook his head. "Inside joke."
"Now that you've done your best to embarrass me," Steve said, "Are you ready to go? I have a mission debrief in the morning, and this really isn't my scene." Both of which were lies: no mission debrief, and he wouldn't mind this becoming his scene. Something about it made his blood run warm. The fact that he got extra warm when he realized Clint was in the corner getting bound was something that didn't bear thinking about.
"Yeah, sure," Tony sighed. "Since you've ruined my fun." He slapped down a twenty to pay for the single Gatorade and swung up from his stool. Steve followed, carefully putting himself between Tony and the line of sight to Clint, just in case.
Over the next several days, Steve did his best to put the club -- and seeing Clint there -- out of his mind. Instead, when Clint walked into breakfast wearing a leather wrist cuff, all Steve could think about was someone strapping Clint down. It went straight to Steve's cock, and he had to excuse himself.
The day after that, thankfully, someone attacked Toronto. The Avengers went out to help. It would have been a perfect distraction, except that back in the Quinjet after everything was settled, Steve couldn't help noticing the way Clint's muscles flexed as he checked his bow, the meticulous care he took with his weapons, the way -- hours later -- Clint's fingers trembled as he finally let down. The way Clint took himself off to a corner when that happened.
Steve tried not to think about the fact that Clint seemed the most breakable of anyone on the team. Steve and Thor were, well, Steve and Thor. Tony had the Iron Man armor. Bruce had the Hulk. And Nat always, always, had a back up plan for her back up plan to her extraction plan.
Clint's extraction plans usually involved himself, but all his back up plans boiled down to, "Jump and trust your team." Reviewing the fight, Steve remembered Clint's voice over comms: Cap, you still on the third floor? I'm coming in hot! He'd had two of the strange cyborg-humans and one man with a machine gun chasing him. Then, Steve had done his job while Clint took out one of the cyborgs. Now, remembering it, that trust made heat curl in Steve's gut.
He banished the heat and tried not to think about steadying Clint with the trembling, adrenaline-junkie fingers.
It wasn't easy when, a day later, Steve found Clint on the range, pulling and releasing arrows. Steve hung back and just watched, admiring the grace of movement, the strength in arms, back, and shoulders, the broad hands with their long, callused fingers.
"You just gonna stand there, or did you want to spar?" Clint asked without looking around.
And the thought of Clint's body against his, straining-- "I think I'll just stand here."
Clint huffed a laugh. He drove a handful of arrows into the ground, took a knee (Steve could think of other things Clint could do on his knees, but damn it, he wasn't thinking about that) and fired a dozen arrows in as many seconds at four different targets.
Steve had never been too into the sex club or BDSM scenes, but he'd always been interested. Maybe doing a little more research wouldn't hurt, just to see if things had changed much.
And maybe, if he asked JARVIS to let him know the next time Clint went out at night, that wouldn't hurt, either. It was good to keep a tab on his friends, after all...
"Captain," JARVIS said politely. "You asked me to tell you when Agent Barton went out."
Steve looked up from his book (Volume three in "Modern Classics of the Late Twenty-First Century"). "And?"
"He's gone out."
Steve checked the time. Ten pm. Too late for a date. Could be Clint was just restless. Could be he was going to the club, but wouldn't appreciate Steve's presence. Could be--
Aw, heck. Steve knew he was going to the club. He got up and went to find jeans and a white T-shirt. He knew exactly how he looked with a T-shirt snug across his pecs.
Steve paid his fee and walked into the Power Exchange, keeping his coat on. If Clint wasn't there, he wouldn't stay long.
The place was hopping. A woman in her sixties danced onstage, owning her wrinkles and sexuality in an arousing display of confidence. People crowded the couches, couples came and went from one of the doors in the side, a man in leather led another man in nothing out from another door. The man in nothing looked blissed out, and the man in leather looked smug.
They weren't, however, who he was looking for.
He scanned the tables, not sure what he would do if Clint weren't in sight. Wander the public rooms, first, but he couldn't just head to the reservable private rooms and shout.
Then he spotted a familiar mess of brown hair, the slouch Clint wore whenever he was bored or worn out, legs kicked out in front of him. Clint sat at a table alone, idly watching the woman on stage, Vitamin Water at one elbow. He wore low slung jeans and a purple T-shirt that hugged him in all the right ways, a leather band on one wrist, and motorcycle boots. Nothing flashy, but entirely eye-catching.
Steve hesitated. He walked to the bar where the same bartender that he'd met before was working, and caught her eye with a smile.
"Where's your friend?" she asked, coming over and laying a cocktail napkin at his elbow.
For a moment, he thought she meant Clint. Then he realized she'd seen him with Tony. "He's a crowd all on his own. I left him home."
She laughed. "What can I get you?"
Steve nodded toward Clint. "What can you tell me about him?"
"Clint? I've seen him sub, seen him not sub. I've never seen him Dom, but I've never seen him say no to something, either. He's a good tipper." She shrugged. "I don't know him well."
Steve gave her a quick smile. "Thanks. I think that's all I need." The rest would be up to him.
This was either a spectacularly bad idea or a really good one. He wasn't sure which, but he knew he wasn't going to stop. If it bombed, then it was just another experiment gone wrong. If it went well, and things were weird in the team, they'd get over it eventually.
Thusly girded, Steve skirted around the room, coming up behind Clint. Clint's lean muscles were relaxed, one finger circling the mouth of his bottle. Steve saw his head move slightly as he caught Steve's footsteps, but otherwise he stayed where he was.
It wasn't until Steve drew close -- too close to be a casual passerby -- that Clint turned far enough to catch sight of him. The double take as Clint whipped around to stare was hilarious. Then Clint was on his feet, eyes darting, presumably, to see who else might be there.
"Relax, Clint," Steve said, more order than request.
Clint drew himself up, shoulders back, arms relaxed but ready at his sides, weight equal on his feet so he could go either way at a moment's notice. It was his usual stance, the one that had been missing when Steve hadn't recognized him before, and Steve was sorry to see it. He faltered. Maybe this was a bad idea after all.
"Did something come up?" Clint asked, all business.
Maybe this was a bad idea. Steve shook his head once. He was already committed. He might as well-- "Maybe this is a bad idea," he said, part explanation, part apology. Then he closed the space between Clint and himself, planted a hand on Clint's chest and, in purposeful imitation of what he'd seen earlier, shoved Clint back against the wall. The fact that the wall was several feet away didn't matter. He had his hand in place to protect Clint's skull so it didn't crack against plaster, fingers tightening in the short hair. Clint responded rapidly as he'd been trained by SHEILD to do, hands going to a position to try and flip Steve. Before that could happen, Steve growled, "No."
Clint froze. Steve could see the question, the uncertainty, in his eyes. Steve pressed in so they were chest to chest, and Clint was well and truly pinned. He felt Clint relax as knowledge overtook training. He said the word again, holding Clint's gaze. His heart hammered in his chest. "No."
The grip on his arm softened, the tension went out of Clint's shoulders and neck, the small muscles around his eyes and in his jaw loosened.
Okay. So far, so good. He hadn't made a fool out of himself yet. Steve let his mouth soften, a corner move upward slightly in a smile. "Good. Hard limits?"
Clint quirked one eyebrow upward. Steve wasn't sure what that meant. "I don't like being pissed on."
"No problem there," Steve said wryly. He guessed there were other limits, but that was what safe words were for. "You use the house safe words?"
Clint nodded without breaking eye contact.
"Good." Steve stepped back. He didn't know how to go about reserving a room, and he wasn't about to do anything in public -- he wasn't that relaxed -- so he said, "Go get us a room," and watched Clint give him a cautious once-over, then head off toward the hostess.
Clint was beyond confused. This had to be some kind of practical joke (except Steve wasn't really the practical joke type. Then again, he couldn't possibly be the kink type either, because he was flippin' Captain America). Just in case, Clint glanced around sharply for anyone acting out of the ordinary. Aside from one of the security guys keeping a close eye on both him and Steve after that little against-the-wall thing, no one was acting strange.
Unless you counted Steve. Who was in a sex club. Coming on to him. Jesus Christ.
"Hey, Lyrra," he said to the hostess, leaning against her little desk to get a look at the reservation chart. "Any of the rooms free?"
She hummed, leaning into him a little bit, wax pencil hovering over the chart. "Room three is open for another hour and a half. Room nine, if you don't want anything fancy."
He had no idea what Steve wanted. He felt completely out of his element. "Room nine'll do."
She marked it down. "All yours." Winked at him. "Have fun."
He gave her the expected smug look and headed back toward Steve. "Room nine."
Steve looked just as composed here as he did on the battlefield. "Show me."
Clint led through the doorway, down a hall, to a door marked "9." There, Steve reached past him to open it and stepped inside first.
Clint hovered in the doorway. It was a simple room with a bed, a love seat, a chair, a table, and the expected cabinet of toys.
Steve turned and looked at him. "This will do. Come in. Close the door."
Clint did as he was told, still watching Steve cautiously. "What are you doing here?"
Steve was opening drawers and cupboards, and ignored him. When he finally turned around, he was holding a length of black silk between his large hands. "Strip," he commanded.
It was the tone, more than the word, that made Clint's cock twitch. Harder than they heard on the battlefield. Less forgiving, and not at all open to negotiation. He looked at the cloth lying quiescent in Steve's hands, gleaming under the warm lights. Okay. That was what Steve was doing here. Clint shimmied out of his purple T-shirt, folding it neatly and setting it on the desk. He toed off his boots, keenly aware not only that Steve was watching him closely, but that Steve was making no move whatsoever to get undressed. Clint's cock didn't care that this was Captain America and Captain America didn't do kink, it twitched again anyway.
When he was naked, clothes folded neatly in a pile and only his scars there to cover him, he stood.
"Be still," Steve said, and walked behind him. He wasn't surprised when the silk dropped over his eyes, blotting out the world. He could still tell where Steve was; behind him at the moment, obviously, tying the cloth. He could smell Steve: Old Spice aftershave, fabric softener, something clean like newly cut grass. Picket fences and the American dream, heavily dosed with metal and war.
"Good," Steve murmured when the cloth was firmly tied. Clint felt at it, adjusting it across his nose until Steve said, "Hands at your side. Be still."
It was less awkward, somehow, when he couldn't see Steve. The room was warm, but his bare skin still prickled. Steve made no secret of his presence, footsteps measured and firm as they paced a circle around Clint. Clint could practically feel that blue-eyed gaze on him, plotting out the best course of action just as he did in a fight. Clint's skin warmed. His breathing deepened.
"Good," Steve murmured again.
Jesus. This was Captain America.
As if reading his mind, Steve said, "You think too much, Clint. Make too many assumptions."
Well, that was probably true. "It keeps me alive in my line of work."
Steve's voice came from over his right shoulder. Breath warmed his ear. "You aren't at work." A callused hand rested on his shoulder. "What's your safe word?" Steve asked softly.
Clint licked his lips, a shiver working its way down his spine at Steve's voice, low and in full control. "Red."
"What happens when you say it?"
"Everything stops." He didn't know many Doms who went through this sort of ritual. It centered him, though.
"What's your slow word?"
Steve's voice was purposeful. "What happens when you say it?"
"I get a break."
"Good." Now that voice was a rough purr against his skin. He knew Steve, trusted Steve in a way he didn't trust anyone except Nat -- but differently, because Steve could do things Nat couldn’t. Steve could overpower him easily, for one. "Stand still," Steve said. "I want to look at you."
Then Steve moved away, and Clint was alone in darkness. The quiet, the dark, it made him strain for any sense of Steve, made it as if he could feel Steve's gaze caress him. Fingertips settled on the side of his neck, at his pulse. "Kneel."
He dropped, almost grateful for the command, bowing his head and settling his hands at the base of his spine. This was Steve, and it was blessedly easy to let the walls fall and the quiet fill his mind.
"Oh," Steve breathed above him. "You're beautiful."
He felt Steve kneel, too. A strong, firm hand wrapped around the back of his neck. There was breath, smelling like mints, on his face. Then lips on his mouth, and when a tongue sought entrance he opened willingly, shuddering into the kiss. When Steve pulled away Clint nearly whimpered.
"Easy," Steve soothed, lips moving against Clint's.
Clint waited, feeling heat and the damp warmth he wanted back. It hovered there, just out of range. When he couldn't stand it anymore, he closed the gap himself, the half inch it took to press his mouth against Steve's.
"Good," Steve praised, and kissed him thoroughly, tongue sliding into him and body pushing him back against Steve's hand. He melted into it, trusting that Steve would keep him in the right spot, that he didn't have to hold himself where he belonged. Eventually, Steve pulled away. Far enough to stand up. Clint was too far gone to hold back the whimper, this time.
Steve chuckled. "Easy, son. Just wait there for me." Cupboard doors opened and closed. A match was struck and sizzled to flame. Silence, and then the smell of vanilla filled the room. Steve spoke again. "Do you want to know what's likely to happen?"
Clint shook his head minutely. "If you want me to."
"I don't." Then, "You're quieter than normal." Steve's voice grew closer. Cloth whispered, and Clint could imagine Steve peeling out of that obscenely tight T-shirt. A soft pop of a button. The thrill of a zipper. "Is that because you're thinking of better uses for your tongue?"
Clint's breath caught. "Yes, Sir." He could think of all sorts of uses for his tongue. "I could make a list, Sir."
It earned a chuckle.
"Alphabetical or..." He licked his lips and swallowed. His skin tingled. "Or by order of preference." Oh God, the thought was making him sweat.
Fingertips at his lips. They were in his mouth almost before Steve said, "Suck." Clint sucked them all the way in, easy since they weren't nearly as long as a cock, and flicked his tongue between them. He pulled off and swirled his tongue around the tips, then slid them into his mouth again. Tickled at the webbing between the two fingers, knowing that for most people it was a sensitive spot. Steve's other hand cradled the back of his skull gently. He kept working at the fingers until Steve's grip in his hair tightened, holding his head still.
Then Clint just sucked as Steve slid his fingers in and out of Clint's mouth, slowly at first, and then picking up speed, turning them to drag the tips along the top of Clint's palate or the top of his tongue, taking Clint's mouth thoroughly.
Clint's cock jumped, his ass clenched, and he groaned against the perfect intrusion and the way Steve held him still for it.
"Good," Steve murmured, finally sliding his fingers out. Clint whined when they were gone, feeling alone. Steve kept talking. "Do you remember the layout of the room?"
"Yes," Clint answered. He needed -- he needed -- oh, God, some of the Doms here could make him float, but none left him feeling this bare and needful.
"I'm going to sit in the chair. On your knees, I want you to come suck my -- my dick. Keep your hands where they are."
Clint shuffled forward on his knees. He found them, now bare, and fitted himself between them.
"Spread your legs a little," Steve said before Clint could find anything else.
Clint did so, feeling his cock and balls hard and heavy between his legs, then remained still, waiting.
"Hands a little higher."
He adjusted them. Steve's words were far more effective than bindings. They were exacting.
"Good. Now you may start," Steve said.
Clint leaned forward, following the scent of sex, and found Steve's cock. He rubbed his face along it to the tip, then took it into his mouth. Steve hissed but didn't otherwise move. There were no hands on Clint; no sweet loving here. He'd been ordered to do something, and he was expected to do it well. That, too, excited him.
He took as much of Steve's length as he could, measuring against the depth of his mouth. Steve was long, and hard, and thick. Everything Captain America should be, and the thought nearly made Clint choke. Instead, he took Steve a little deeper, gagging himself and letting his throat convulse around Steve. Steve moaned. When Clint pulled off a little, he could taste the saltiness of Steve's pre-come, feel the way the head swelled a little more. He sucked on it, pulled off to lick the underside, flick his tongue over Steve's balls, and then went back to that long cock.
He took it in again, swirling his tongue around the head, relaxing his throat to take as much of it as deeply as he could. At this angle he couldn't deep throat it, but he could sure as hell make it good. Truthfully, Steve was long enough he wasn't sure he'd be able to deep throat it anyway.
Then Steve thrust up, just little thrusts into his mouth, but it nearly gagged Clint again. He forced himself down on it, shuddering at the press and stretch at the top of his throat.
"Take it." Steve's voice was strained, and finally his hand came to the back of Clint's head, still not sweet but holding him there. Steve sat up, changing the angle slightly, and Clint let everything about himself relax so he could do as told and take Steve's cock. Steve gave short thrusts, pushing deeper into Clint's throat. At this angle Clint could take it, and did, sucking whenever Steve pulled out a little, relaxing when Steve pushed in.
It didn't take long for Steve to hiss and groan, and Clint swallowed rapidly to keep from choking on come. Steve sank back, hands falling away from Clint's head. Clint sucked gently on Steve's softening cock, pulled off, licked it carefully and thoroughly to be sure it was clean.
"Take off your blindfold," Steve said at last. Clint did so, blinking against the over-bright candle light, glad the overhead lights were off. "Get a rag from the cupboard and clean me up," Steve added.
Clint rocked up to his feet, the way his knees usually popped gone in a flood of endorphins. He found the rags in the cupboard and, ignoring his own hard-on, walked back to Steve and knelt again. He cleaned Steve carefully, from the sweat on his well-sculpted chest to the saliva Clint had left on his soft cock. He lifted it and cleaned underneath, too, then down Steve's thighs. He rubbed his cheek against one thigh, enjoying the feel of skin against skin. He could smell the musky sex that Steve gave off, and loved it.
"Sit on my lap," Steve said quietly.
Clint hesitated. Steve, a moment ago sleepy and sated, raised his eyebrows. Clint stood awkwardly. "How?"
"Put your back to my chest, and your legs on either side of mine."
Clint did so, carefully not to pinch any sensitive skin. Sitting on Steve's lap made him self-conscious, his cock hard and at attention when he parted his legs. Steve wrapped an arm around his waist and shifted them, chair and all, so that Steve's feet reached the bed. He propped them up and, arm still around Clint's waist, and pulled Clint firmly against him.
His mouth was right at the side of Clint's head, now, the height different between them suddenly working to Clint's advantage. "Put your hands on the arms of the chair," Steve purred, "and leave them there."
Clint did so, still uncomfortable. Steve began stroking his sides, chest to hips and back again.
"Lean your head back on my shoulder."
It left his throat exposed. Clint did it anyway.
"That's my boy," Steve murmured against the side of Clint's neck. "Deep breath. Relax. Trust me to take care of you. I always take care of you."
Clint allowed himself to sink, muscles slowly relaxing until Steve truly supported him. Steve went from stroking him chest to hip and centered on his hips, massaging the muscles there, brushing his cock with the occasional straying thumb. Clint's grip on the arms of the chair tightened. With his legs spread around Steve's thighs, there was nothing to protect him from wandering hands.
Steve rubbed along his inner thighs, framing his genitalia and sliding along it, but not quite stroking it. Clint whimpered and squirmed. Steve's hands vanished.
"Be good," Steve breathed into his ear. "Be still."
"Oh, God," Clint groaned.
Steve began caressing him again, everywhere, even the bits of Clint's ass that Steve could reach. Steve skimmed light fingers over his balls, lifted his cock to tease under it, and then went back to stroking his thighs.
"Please--" Clint began, and cut off.
Short, blunt fingernails scratched up the tops of his thighs, making his muscles bunch. They pressed out into fingertips before nearing his erection, and then finally, finally, Steve touched him there. Too light; the touch barely brushed over-sensitive skin before vanishing again.
"God, Sir, please," Clint said, not caring about the begging note to his voice.
That must have been what Steve was looking for, because a strong hand wrapped around his cock and stroked firmly. The other hand pressed down against his hips, keeping him from thrusting. Driven by instinct, Clint tried to thrust anyway, crying out as Steve rubbed a thumb over his head and stroked back down his length. The gorgeous agony that had been building released, and he shouted as he came, his world narrowing down to the hand on his cock and the strength at his back. He sank limply against Steve, exhausted.
Steve picked up the rag Clint had used to clean him up, and dragged it across Clint's chest. Clint hummed his pleasure right until Steve dropped it lower. Then he grabbed Steve's wrist, turning his face toward Steve, only to find the smooth skin of Steve's neck. He spoke into it. "Ngh, too sensitive."
Steve turned awkwardly, brushing a kiss over Clint's ear since Clint's face was tucked into his neck. "You need to be cleaned up. Consider it your masochistic moment for the night."
"Fuck," Clint whined, but couldn't keep hold of Steve as Steve's hand sank lower. Clint jumped and scrabbled when the cloth reached his cock, sending off a shower of sparks throughout his lower body. One of Steve's arms wrapped, band-like, around his abdomen to keep him in place. Clint hissed.
But Steve was careful as he cleaned, moving slowly and firmly as he shifted Clint's legs and cock and thoroughly tidied him up. Clint kept his face in Steve's neck, breathing deeply until it was over.
"That was good." Steve hooked an arm under Clint's knees. "I'm going to pick you up," he said, and stood.
Clint kept his face hidden, feeling the world fall away. Then the bed creaked under their combined weight, and Steve arranged them into spoon position with Clint on the inside.
Clint breathed deeply and settled against Steve, being petted slowly.
Steve's voice was soft. "You were amazing."
Clint gave a sated little chuckle. "I'm good at what I do."
With a snort, Steve gave his backside a little swat. "Obviously."
Clint was thoroughly rumpled at breakfast the next morning. Tony glanced at him, hunched over his cereal bowl with his arms braced around it like someone might steal it. "What happened to you?"
"Late night," he said, and spooned another bite of brightly colored sugar bits into his mouth.
"Went out with Steve," he mumbled.
Then Steve walked in, looking fresh and bright eyed from a shower. "What about me?"
Tony poured himself some of Pepper's high octane coffee. "You and Clint went out last night? Without me?"
"It was last minute. Just wanted to show Clint something." He pulled down a box of Wheaties.
Clint propped his elbow on the table and rubbed his eye with the heel of his hand. "You wouldn't have liked it, Tony. It was a club with this strange mix of forties and today."
"I like clubs. And I like the forties and today!" Tony objected. Damn it, he spent all this time trying to get Steve out in the world, and when someone finally succeeded they didn't invite him.
"Trust me, Tony," Clint said. "It's not your--" Nat appeared apparently out of nowhere and stole his bowl of cereal. "--heeeey..." Clint frowned at her.
She took a bite, leaning on the counter and looking at Clint innocently. "I don't know how your teeth don't rot out of your head," she said, and dumped it in the sink.
"Damn it, Tash..."
She swiped Tony's toast as it popped.
He would have swiped it back, except he liked his spine where it was. "Nat, that was mine."
"I spit on it before I put in the toaster."
"I don't care. I'm giving it to Barton." She started buttering it with a little smile.
From the corner of his eye, Tony saw Steve wander over to Clint and lean against the table next to him, his back to Nat and Tony. Steve said, "I'm pretty sure the forties trumped."
Clint smirked. "And I was happy with that."
Tony would have followed that up to figure out what was going on, but against his better judgment he'd grabbed the peanut butter from Nat and now she had him by the balls. Literally. He squeaked.
"Let go, Stark, or I start squeezing."
"No squeeze! No squeeze!" He practically threw the peanut butter.
She released him and snatched the container from the air, calmly unscrewing the lid and plopping some on the toast.
"Who wants eggs?" Steve asked, leaving his Wheaties bowl beside Clint and heading to the pan.
"Yes," Tony said. "I do." He didn't miss the fact that Clint took the Wheaties and, with them protected once more by his arms, started eating. He was looking, Tony thought, a little smug.