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The day after they’d made initial plans for their scene, Clint had conspicuously laid out a cardigan with dark brown elbow patches on their bed. A brand new, sage green cardigan, that just so happened to be in Phil’s size. It made it as clear as anything that when Clint had said he wanted Phil to prepare the scene for “sometime soon,” he’d really meant “as soon as humanly possible.”
So, the first Sunday they’d both had free, Phil put the sweater on in the morning, and told Clint he had some paperwork to catch up on around two o’clock, so he’d be in his office.
They were subtle enough at work; they didn’t need to be subtle at home.
Phil had selected to wear the cardigan over a plain white button-down and a gold paisley tie he knew Clint liked, with his own favorite pair of light grey slacks. As he sat waiting for Clint, he adjusted his horn-rimmed glasses and rubbed his hands over the arms of his office chair, trying to settle himself into his role. He did feel much more scholarly than his normal attire, though he was sure that was only part of what had made Clint buy him the sweater.
Phil had cleared his home office desk of everything except a few stray notebooks, his ink blotter, and an old desktop monitor, for the sake of authenticity. That was where his dedication to staging their scene ended. If he really wanted to sell it, he’d have a keyboard up and be typing away, or he would have stacks of “papers” to grade piled along the edges of the desk. As it was, he’d been sporting a partial all day and knew himself well enough to know the build-up would hit its peak quickly, so there wasn’t a reason to fuss excessively.
He had always worried that this sort of roleplay might make Clint uncomfortable, considering his educational background, so he’d focused on other fantasies. But a few weeks ago, Clint had slid a copy of Phil’s most recent checklist across the very same desk he was sitting at now with “Student/Teacher” circled in red under the “Roleplay” header.
So they’d talked about it.
And while yes, Clint didn’t think he’d enjoy playing a goody-two-shoes student kneeling at Phil’s feet for some extra credit because of how much he wanted that ‘A’ grade, he did have plenty of other ideas because of the very reasons Phil hadn’t broached the subject.
Finally, a knock came at his office door. Phil shook himself a little, settled into character, and invited his sub in.
“Mr. Barton,” Phil managed to choke out before getting a good look at Clint. He knew some of what to expect from Clint’s briefest descriptions, but nothing could have prepared him for it. Clint had his hair spiked up outrageously. His eyes were rimmed with black, smudged out dramatically around his eyes, which only emphasized the bored expression on his face.
Clint gave him a quick glance, then spun the toothpick he had between his teeth and smirked like he knew something Phil didn’t.
“Hey, Coulson,” he drawled with a put-upon sigh. “Said you wanted to see me?” Clint wasn’t looking at him at all. He was staring at the bookshelves that lined the far wall of his office. Altogether he looked like someone trying desperately to not look uncomfortable as he stuffed his hands in his pockets, and shifted his weight from one foot to the other and back.
Clint looked every bit the “punk ass” that Clint was sure he would have been if he ever had gone to school. He was playing it well. His white dress shirt was what really sold it: half untucked from his wrinkled khakis, collar askew, shirt sleeves unbuttoned and turned up at his wrists, and the top three buttons undone, showing off the torn neckline of his undershirt.
Incredibly disrespectful, if you asked Mr. Coulson, Clint’s homeroom teacher.
“Mr. Barton, perhaps you’ve forgotten, but we do have a dress code at this school.”
Clint gave a little tug at the black leather choker around his neck and cleared his throat. His hand was layered with bulky silver rings; Phil didn’t doubt his other hand was equally decorated. “There’s nothing ‘bout I can’t wear jewelry.”
“No, but it does state clearly that students should be pressed and clean. Should always wear their shirt,” Phil sucked on his teeth and gave Clint a pointed once-over, “properly and must always wear a tie. As it is, you’re lucky it’s warm enough weather, or no doubt you’d be written up for lacking your school blazer?”
“Yeah, probably.” The toothpick hanging from Clint’s lips flicked to the other side of his mouth.
“Probably.” Phil hummed thoughtfully. “Perhaps you and I can do something about this lack of attention to your uniform?”
Clint turned his full, unfiltered attention on Phil for a few swift seconds. It sent goosebumps sliding up Phil’s arms and made him want to grab Clint by the neck and force him to his knees.
But Phil could be patient. They’d planned for a short scene anyway, just to test the waters on this theme.
Phil could be patient.
Just like that, Clint’s expression slid back into detached and apathetic.
“Come, now,” Phil waved at the front of Clint’s shirt, “do up those buttons properly.”
Clint grinned, the toothpick still between his teeth, and buttoned up each button with unmistakably sarcastic enthusiasm reading loud and clear with each jerky movement of his fingers. Once he was done, he bowed at Phil exaggeratedly. It should have annoyed Phil—the obnoxious attitude certainly would have made Mr. Coulson infuriated—but Phil still had to consciously school his face into an aggravated scowl instead of the coo of affection he wanted to let out. It was always how Clint made him feel when he was following Phil’s instructions: proud, triumphant, and in the context of a scene, incredibly, insatiably turned on.
“And your sleeves.”
Clint rolled his eyes at that one, but flipped his cuffs down to his wrists and buttoned them up.
“Good. Now, where’s your tie?”
Clint snorted but pulled the blue-and-black striped tie out of his back pocket. He held Phil’s gaze steadily as he slid his tie under his collar. Slowly—so slowly that Phil half expected he was going to choke on how thick his tongue felt from wanting to lick the smirk off Clint’s face—Clint flipped his tie over and under and around. He finally cinched the perfect-half-Windsor at his neck and turned down his collar. He raised his eyebrows at Phil in what would have been taken as innocence if that was ever a word to describe Clint Barton.
Phil licked his lips and gripped the armrests of his chair harder. He needed to get his hands on Clint’s skin before he went insane from it. “Good boy,” Phil said, low and soft. “Now, come here. Let’s help you tuck in that shirt of yours.”
Clint hesitated and looked at Phil sideways. “No, I can just—”
“I said come here,” Phil stood up, pushing his desk chair back just enough to give himself room. “Don’t be insolent just for the sake of it. You’re looking better already.”
With a few unsure steps, Clint rounded the side of the desk and stood before Phil.
“Good. Now,” Phil snatched the toothpick out of Clint’s mouth and flicked it across the room before grabbing Clint by his front belt loops and jerking him closer. “I find it’s always easier to tuck a shirt properly with my belt undone.” Phil didn’t waste any time for Clint to argue. He had Clint’s belt undone and whipped through his belt loops smooth and fast before Clint could blink. He dropped it to the floor with a satisfying clink of the belt buckle. A visible shudder shook Clint from head to toe.
“Mr. Coulson…Mr. Coulson—I don’t think—”
“No, you didn’t think,” Phil said, hastily unbuttoning Clint’s fly before taking Clint by his hips and pulling Clint flush against his body. “You didn’t think at all. But I’ve helped you, you see? You’ve been such a good boy, correcting your mistakes. We’re just going to tuck—”
Phil skated his hands from the outside of Clint’s hips, around his ass to grip the end of his shirt tales.
“—this shirt in—”
Phil slid his hands and Clint’s shirt into the back of Clint’s pants.
“—right where it—”
Phil released the shirt, but his hands moved down to grip Clint’s ass and tug him that much closer to his chest.
“—belongs.”
Phil dug his fingers into Clint’s ass and pulled his cheeks apart. Clint gasped as Phil slid his fingers into the cleft of Clint’s ass and pressed close to the furl of his hole. The way Phil’s arms wrapped around Clint, his own arms were pinned to his sides and he had nowhere to go unless he wanted to push forward into Phil’s raging hard cock or back into his eagerly groping hands.
As it was, Phil wasn’t opposed to Clint trying either option. Clint's breath was coming in fast gasps, hot against Phil's neck; he could feel the hard length of Clint’s dick pushed up against his own. Phil was certain that if he leaned back, Clint’s face would already have the wide-eyed awed look of his sub approaching the edge, but not quite there yet.
All Clint needed was a little push, and he’d take off soaring.
“Now the front.” Phil took Clint by his hips and spun him around. His hands were down the front of Clint’s pants before Clint could react, and Phil wrapped his hands around Clint’s deliciously hard cock. With his dick nestled perfectly against Clint’s ass, Phil held him like his hands were made to hold Clint’s dick and nothing else. Clint shivered and shook against his chest. They were right where they both wanted to be, and yet Phil still wanted to give Clint more.
“I’ll give you a choice, Mr. Barton,” Phil whispered hot and heavy into Clint’s ear. Clint suddenly struggled a little bit, as if he’d only just remembered he was supposed to be a student resisting the advances of “Mr. Coulson.” Phil just gave his dick another tight squeeze and Clint stilled again with a whimper.
“I’ll give you a choice,” Phil repeated. “I can make you come in your pants, just like this, and I won’t touch you any more than that, but you’ll have to wear it all day as a reminder for why you should dress appropriately for school. Or, I can bend you over my desk, and pull your pants to your knees and fuck you deep and hard in the ass so you won’t forget again, but I’ll let you clean up after.” Phil licked the shell of Clint’s ear and it made Clint squirm deliciously against him. “So, choose. Which do you want, boy?”
“Neither.” Clint’s voice was light and breathy and barely present. Phil felt the simmer of success settle in his gut, and he preened a little bit at how well Clint was responding to him.
“Now, now.” Phil pushed his index finger up underneath the head of Clint’s cock right where he was most sensitive. Clint let out a soft groan as Phil teased him just right through his boxers. “That wasn’t an option. Be a good boy. Pick which you’d prefer.”
“Mr. Coulson—please, I—”
“Choose.”
Clint audibly swallowed. His answer came out as a whisper, “I—the second?”
“Which one?” Phil nipped at his ear and Clint groaned.
“Fuck me, Mr. Coulson.”
“I didn’t quite hear you. Be a good boy: speak up, like you would in class.”
“Fuck me!”
Phil grabbed Clint by the hair at the back of his head and slammed him face-first onto his desk. Clint always told him that the best part of it was whenever Phil manhandled him. As Clint let out a long, genuine moan of ecstasy, the dull ache of arousal coursing through Phil broke through to sheer need. It spread through him and settled in his very bones. He loved hearing Clint’s pleasure; Phil knew he’d never get enough of it.
Clint had nearly sweated through the soft cotton of his shirt, and the way it clung to the muscles of his back reminded Phil of his own desperation. He stroked his hand down Clint’s spine before tugging Clint’s pants down just enough to get to Clint’s ass.
“Beautiful,” Phil moaned as he took both of Clint’s cheeks full in his hands and massaged them with firm, hard strokes, pulling him apart and pushing him back together again. “Good choice. Such a good boy.”
Phil undid his own belt and slid his pants and boxers down his thighs. He pulled out the bottle of lube he’d stashed in his top desk drawer and poured out just enough for his cock before slapping his slicked-up dick against Clint’s bare ass.
“Has anyone ever touched you here?” Phil asked as he carefully teased the tip of his middle finger against Clint's rim.
“Please,” Clint said with a pathetic, delectable whine in his voice, “I’ll do anything. Just, please? Please?”
“Answer the question.”
“No. No…alright?”
Clint squealed as Phil pushed the head of his cock into him with one swift thrust. “That’s good. That’s very good. Saving yourself for someone special? I'll make it good for you because you've been such a good boy. I’m going to fuck you bare; let you feel what that’s like your first time.”
As Phil pushed himself deeper and as Clint sobbed for Phil to stop, he took Clint's wrists in his hands and pulled his arms straight back. Clint shook his shoulders, tried to pull his arms away from Phil, but he held on tight.
Clint had said he wouldn't mind a few bruises.
"So tight for me," Phil moaned as he bottomed out. He thought he heard Clint whimper but he just pulled back and thrust back in hard as he could. "Do you feel that? My bare cock sliding in and out of you? Tell me, how does it feel?"
Clint's back spasmed and he flexed his ass tighter as Phil slid out. Phil let out a deep, appreciative groan. "Such a good boy. A natural at taking dick, aren't you?"
"It…it feels…"
"Tell me," Phil demanded as he picked up the pace. Clint whined and tried to struggle against Phil's hold on him again.
"S' good…" Clint moaned, and Phil knew he was gone.
The sounds Clint made as he floated in subspace stoked the fire in Phil's gut as he drove harder and harder into Clint's ass. Phil loved fucking Clint and knowing he was making it good for him; knowing Clint was getting what he wanted; getting what he needed. Clint panted and whined in perfect rhythm as Phil kept moving against him.
One long keen and Clint froze: back arched, eyes squeezed shut, mouth opened wide in a desperate shape. There was a small patter of come hitting Phil’s desk and the floor below. Clint moaned deep, with a halting laugh that told Phil how thoroughly satisfied he was. Pride curled in his stomach and he canted into Clint with new abandon.
“That’s it, Clint. So good, so good.” Phil let go of one of Clint’s wrists and smoothed a hand down Clint’s back, fucking him through his orgasm. Clint shivered and shook and whined against the intrusion, but stayed good and still as Phil kept pressing in, passing over his prostate.
“Gonna fill you up,” Phil gasped out. Clint murmured something in response to his promise, but Phil could barely hear it over his own puffing breath and then his own deep groan of final satisfaction. Clint moaned back, babbling at him the whole time. Phil leaned down and kissed the back of Clint’s head, the back of his neck, the shell of his ear, anywhere he could reach as he came down from the high of giving Clint exactly what he’d asked for.
Phil sagged across Clint’s back and waited, just holding Clint and letting them breathe together until he became too soft to stay tucked up inside of him.
“C’mon,” Phil said as he brushed another soft kiss against the back of Clint’s ear, “promised you could clean up after, hm?”
“Thank you, sir,” Clint practically purred as Phil pulled him up. Clint gave him a sloppy grin and a sloppier kiss before sliding his arms around Phil’s shoulders so he could guide them to their master bathroom.