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Phil hissed out a breath as Clint (and there was no way that was enough prep) lowered himself by minute increments on to Phil’s cock. Clint’s mouth was twisted into a scowl, practically growling as his ass met Phil’s hips.
“Fuck you.” He spat at Phil, though he continued to refuse to meet his eyes.
A year ago (before he died) Phil would have made some sort of smart comment at that, but today he just accepted the verbal blow and let Clint take whatever he needed from him (and Clint seemed determined to take everything).
Phil owed him that much. Clint deserved that. As his friend, his partner and as the man who used to love him.
His fingers dug into the muscles of Phil’s arms, both holding him down and leaving a smattering of crescent moons that would stay for hours, only to fade as bruises like comet tails pointed to where they had been.
Clint ground down into him and for a moment Phil wished that it was because he wanted to stay close to him, as if even the burn of friction wasn’t worth pulling away even the smallest bit.
The thought shot a spark through Phil and his hips canted up into Clint’s unforgiving grinding. His shift changed the angle enough that he slid in just a little bit further and Clint keened helplessly. His eyes were glazed and unfocused as he met Phil’s for the first time that night and it was as if he was seeing a memory of Phil for the split second before his eyes narrowed and his hands moved down to Phil’s hip bones, forcing his pelvis back on to the bed.
“Don’t fucking move.”
Phil gave a single nod, the one of acknowledgement that had once meant anything from “Take the shot,” to “I love you.”
Clint sat back on his cock, just barely rocking his hips as he began to reacquaint himself with Phil’s body.
He slid his hands up Phil’s stomach and felt the muscles clench, not as defined as they once were, but still strong.
“Not bad for a dead guy.” He snorted. His voice sounded cold.
The other times Clint said he hated him (a half dozen over the years) he had never sounded like that, but now, telling him with his body, his words were like ice.
Phil shivered. Those calloused hands ran through the sparse dark hair on his stomach and chest, avoiding the thick scar that divided the two sides of his chest. He ran the heel of his palm over Phil’s nipples, the rough skin feeling amazing as it dragged over his.
“You are such an absolute bastard.” Clint groaned, adding just a little more force to his rocking, but still not giving either of them enough force or friction to really get anywhere. Clint’s hands left his nipple and while one braced itself back on Phil’s arm the other began tracing the edges of Phil’s scar with fingertips worn smooth by bowstring.
He started at the outer edge where the skin was white and drawn tight, pulled so that rough edges could be mended together. The touch was intimate but undeniably sensual. It felt like heat from Clint’s fingers was seeping into his chest, spreading out and settling to tingle throughout his body. Clint circled the area several times before moving on to the knotted pink skin at the center. He rubbed the heel of his hand against it like he did to Phil’s nipples and that, that was surprisingly good. That was heat and blood and life and everything straight to his cock and he gasped, arching into Clint.
The hand on Phil’s shoulder shot behind Clint, pressing down on Phil’s thigh with almost all of Clint’s weight. The hand on his chest pressed down too and the heat shifted to pain that Clint could hear in Phil’s voice.
“Does that hurt?” He asked, sounding like himself again.
“Yes.” Phil answered, with one of those multifaceted nods.
“Good.” He said, cold as ice once more as he drew himself mostly off Phil’s cock and thrust back down, pressing his hand into the scar again.
Phil shouted and writhed but Clint only looked at him with pupils blown and said.
“You deserve it. You earned every bit of pain the minute you let them let me think you were dead.”
Phil nodded again, accepting it as his due.
“Say it.”
Phil didn’t pretend to not know what he wanted. “I deserve it. I hurt you and I deserve it.”
Clint gave his own nod, short and jerky. “Damn straight.” Clint began moving on Phil’s cock. Agonizing, slow drags up and breathtaking hard thrusts down.
Clint’s hands wandered and Phil ached to be able to touch him, but knew that it would be unwelcome and twisted his hands in the sheets, wishing he could sink them in Clint’s hair or curl them around Clint’s hips, thumbs ghosting over the sensitive flesh or digging in, guiding his movements, leaving his own marks.
Clint scratched down the column of Phil’s throat, starting behind his ear and trailing down to his clavicle, he bent down and licked the lines, sucking a constellation of marks in and around them.
“I hate that you still feel so good,” he whispered next to Phil’s ear, sounding like he was confessing his greatest sin. “If you want to get off tonight, you’re going to keep doing exactly as I say. Do you understand?”
Phil nodded and followed with a breathy, “Yes.”
"You’re going to lie to me and you’re going to use every bit of skill you have to make me believe it.” Clint was still moving steadily on his cock, and his words came in twos and threes between gasps and moans, but it still wasn’t quite enough to get either of them off. Clint sat back up and took Phil’s hands in his. “You can move now. Make me believe you love me.”
Phil nodded and a half smile formed on his lips at the familiar yelp when he rolled them over. He had one forearm under Clint’s back, embracing him while also angling his hips just so. He rocked in and out slowly. Muscles loosening up after so long spent tense and struggling to remember the exact way Clint liked to be fucked after all this time. He shifted a little and there, Clint’s breath went out of him like he’d been punched.
Phil stayed there, just rocking his hips so he went over that spot again and again. He was still unsure if it was permitted, but he captured Clint’s lips in a slow burning kiss. When he pulled back he looked down at Clint with the same feeling of wonder he had in the years they had been together.
“I love you, Clint. I never stopped. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry for hurting you. I can’t imagine what you went through.”
Clint’s body trembled at parts of this speech, though the sounds he made still had more in common with harsh and angry breathing than gasps of pleasure. Clint was hard between their stomachs and fuck, Phil had missed this.
“It’s ok that you hate me. I deserve it. I made you bury me and then I came back. I broke all of our promises and I broke us but I still love you and I never stopped and I don’t think I ever can.” The words were coming out in a rushed stream of penance. “I love you. I love you so much and I feel like the scum of the earth for saying I feel that way after what I did to you. I do though. And-fuck. I died, and I was dead and I came back and I walked around and I worked and I slept and ate but I wasn’t all the way back until I saw you and that part of me that was still dead woke up and fuck, I love you so much. How did I stay away.” Phil’s cheek was pressed against Clint’s as he whispered his own confessions into Clint’s ear. He felt Clint’s tears when they rolled to where their cheeks met. Phil cupped the back of Clint’s head, rubbing back and forth along the base of his skull.
Their bodies were flush now and Clint was making a low sound in the back of his throat that only stopped when he sucked in more air. He was close now, getting off on the friction on his dick trapped between their stomachs and Phil’s unrelenting strokes to his prostate. Phil continue his monologue, not really sure if he even could stop now that he’d started.
“I missed you so much. When I was with medical and then with my team. I wanted you there. Want you always.” Clint had gone silent, lungs frozen with his impending orgasm. “Fuck, Clint. You look amazing like this, always have.” Phil thrust deeper, harder, trying to catch up and come with Clint, knowing that it wouldn’t take much.
Clint tightened around him and it was so perfect it could have been a year ago. They could have been at Phil’s apartment on a Saturday or a SHIELD safe house after a mission and for that instant they were everything they had been.
Phil collapsed into Clint, letting himself take comfort in the body beneath him, taking for the first time that night. He pulled out and rolled to the side, his body cooling rapidly now that it was exposed to the air. Phil felt the mattress shift as Clint got up, probably for a wash cloth (Clint always felt energized after sex where as Phil got sleepy).
Phil heard fabric moving and opened his eyes to Clint getting dressed. Phil didn’t say anything because he knew nothing would get Clint to stay.
Clint finished dressing and came over and pressed a kiss to his lips, the same kind they has shared a thousand times in the parking garage at SHIELD, or before boarding a plane to their potential deaths.
“I’m glad you’re such a good liar.” He smiled bitterly.
“I’m not.” Phil said to his empty room once Clint had gone.