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Right now, Phil is on the bed between Clint's legs, his mouth around Clint's cock, and Clint is saying words that all make sense separately and don't need to make any together, non-configurational, obscenities and deities mostly, mixed up with Phil's name. It's incredibly gratifying, makes Phil want more and more, to break him up until the words are gone entirely, replaced by syllables and then by nothing at all, nothing even resembling language.
Clint's hands are in his hair, but he's not pushing, because he's smarter than that. He's just scratching his nails along Phil's scalp in that way he knows turns Phil boneless- smart move, self-interested, seeing to it that he relaxes, opens up more, stops caring a little. Clint knows exactly what he's doing, and Phil doesn't fight against him, just rewards him for his subterfuge by taking him in deeper, letting him slide in just a little bit more.
Phil's got two gloved fingers in Clint's ass, moving them slowly in and out, nice and smooth; he doesn't have any intention of making Clint come, not yet. This isn't punishment or torture, just sex, just good, just pleasure. Coming is a long way off, a plan for the future instead of an immediate need.
Clint makes a soft noise, spreading his legs wider, asking for more, and he moans when Phil gives him another finger, arching off the bed to push down on them. This type of thing never happens for them, never something they can be guaranteed, not with the lives they lead. It's nothing like the first time, a decrepit hotel room on a stakeout in Belarus, up against a wall and angry at each other, frustration at the mission and frustration at being so close for so long and never getting the chance.
Clint is ready now, sounding frustrated, begging with what few words he has left for Phil to get on with it, to fuck him already. It's strange how they can be in the middle of this and still that word can sound so appealingly filthy, sexy and a little desperate when it comes from Clint's lips. He gives Clint one last long, slow suck, pushing all the way down on his dick and pulling all the way back up again.
He tugs the glove off, pulling from the wrist so that it turns itself inside out, and tosses it haphazardly away before rolling the condom on. He moves up Clint's body, bracing himself over him. Clint is begging him with his body, past words and on into pure need, but Phil is intent on taking his time, enjoying every single moment. He kisses Clint slowly, thoroughly, endlessly, right up to the point where he just can't take it anymore.
He's a little rough in pushing Clint's legs up and out of the way, but there's no shame in that, not when they both want this so much. Phil presses into him slowly, so slowly, not for Clint's sake so much as his own. Even with the prep Clint is so tight around him, so warm, and Phil's the one who needs to get acclimated, to deal with how good it feels. Clint is making sounds of encouragement, ones that used to be words but can't be called that now, bits of yes and come on that are so chopped up that they can't be counted as language.
Phil moves inside him slowly, long, steady strokes, savoring it, every second. Clint's body is a perfect match for his; it fits everywhere, in his arms and against his lips and around his cock. He's never more aware of it than now, looking down at Clint's face. Clint looks greedy, ravenous, like he means to swallow Phil whole. It's that take-on-all-comers look that Clint so often wears, but it's so different here, urging Phil to give him everything, absolutely everything he has to give.
Phil doesn't hesitate to give it to him; he pushes Clint's legs further up out of the way and fucks him faster. Clint gasps when Phil hits just the right spot, just the right place to make him go crazy. Phil doesn't miss it- Phil never misses anything, not when it comes to Clint, especially not when it comes to making Clint happy, especially not when it comes to making Clint come. He's merciless, fucking him just right, just the way he wants it; Clint is so far gone that he's tossing his head back and forth, like he's caught just of the edge of overload.
Now Clint is making the noises that Phil knows so well, the ones that he's been waiting for, the ones he loves; he's just on the verge, only holding back because it's something to share, not a mark to hit, not a finish line. Phil takes his cock in his hand, stroking it, making breathless sounds of encouragement, and Clint shouts brokenly and comes. It's so beautiful that Phil doesn't know where to focus, Clint's cock as it shoots over his stomach, striping his belly with come, the way his shoulders tense and relax, his mouth falling open, the amazed look in his eyes.
He's not even finished before Phil just has to; he plants a hand on the bed just above Clint's shoulder, bending down over Clint's body before he pushes in a few more times and spills inside him. Clint's eyes are on his, satisfied and fond, and as soon as Phil finds it in himself he leans down to kiss him.
Sooner rather than later, Phil is going to have to move, going to have to deal with the little annoyances of sex, the ones that matter for all of half a second but break things up anyway, but right now that's all meaningless, stuff for an even farther future. Right now he can lie here on top of Clint, their bodies entwined, kissing him; right now he can think about nothing else; right now there is nothing else.