Okay, so this has been on my mind since I saw Magic Mike (and also because of the much reblogging of Jeremy Renner on tumblr), so the idea just popped into my head as the credits rolled after Tatum's nice ass was off screen.

I don't usually write stuff like this, because I don't read stuff like this (anything that has to do with sexuality doesn't interest me, except the fluffy romantic things that happen between Martin Crieff and Molly Hooper in Cabinlock, which isn't sexual at all), so this is a once in a lifetime thing (at least for now).

beta'd by lovely distelhawk on tumblr, too. She's the one who pushed me to do this 2000+ word oneshot breaking all sorts of boundaries for me as a fan and as a writer.

I hope you enjoy it! (Oh, and best listen to Rihanna's Disturbia. Just saying ;) !)

You've got to be fucking kidding me. It was the only thing that went through Clint's head as he looked around him, finally realising what kind of situation he'd gotten himself into. It had all begun with a stupid mission that Hill had requested he take personally. He understood why, now, but he had been stupid to not investigate further. She'd just told him that it involved strippers, and in his mind, it had meant female strippers. But now, looking around him in the locker room he'd just been pushed into, he realised that no, she'd meant male strippers.

And apparently, the manager of the place had gotten a CV from him, telling him that yes, Clint wanted to try out as a stripper. Sure, the manager of the place was the target he was supposed to take down, but now he had four other strippers throwing different pieces of clothing at him. He couldn't just leave them, could he?

"He didn't just ask me to do what I think he did, did he?" was the only thing he managed to blurt out as a Star Spangled thong was thrown in his face, which he barely caught out of utter surprise.

"Yeah, spikey head. You're up after big boy here, so you better get creative and figure an act out," said the guy on his left, a tall dark-skinned man who was wearing a fedora and a tie. He was apparently getting dressed for his own personal act, which consisted in playing a smooth criminal. Or at least, Clint guessed so, because of the fedora and the similar look between the guy and Michael Jackson in that videoclip.

"But I- I'm not a stripper!" he blurted out, as he tried looking for help, any kind of help. But, unfortunately, there was no help to be found in that locker room.

"Sure you're not, sugar, you is hot like a piece of burning coal," one of the other guys purred at him. Clint pulled a frown.

"Yeah, no, I'm just here for-"

"Whatever, spikey head. Keep 'em clothes on, or try something else, but you're going out there whether you want it or not. We're one man down, Iron Dick is down with the flu, you're taking up over for him."

Clint's face fell: not only had he been dumped into a strip-club, he was taking the place of a stripper mocking (or was it paying honor to?) Iron Man, or Tony Stark. As if he needed that right now.

"What am I supposed to do out there anyway?" he asked, although he knew the answer to it. It had been almost a reflex, he should've thought about it. The second guy, a nicely trimmed Latin-American smiled at him. His smiled looked like one of a predator hunting. Clint didn't mind it, but right now, in that room, around those 4 strippers, he didn't feel like he was the upper man. At all.

"You pull 'em nice and tight clothes off your fucking body, and you wait for 'em girls to lick you clean of babyoil. Right, motherfuckers?" he stated, his eyes glimmering with tease.

"Right. Of course. I knew that," Clint whispered as he looked down at himself. He was wearing a SHIELD shirt, with some regular jeans, and he knew that it wouldn't be enough. He pulled his training bag over, and bent over it, watching what he'd packed before going on this stripper mission. He should've asked what kind of strippers it would be, but he'd just gone and said yes to it.

He pulled out his work gear, the deep purple suit he'd had fixed since New York, and his bow, to what the third stripper issued a wooing sound, and a whistle.

"That is a pretty sight, newbie. You in a circus or what?" he questioned, an eyebrow raised.

Clint smiled back at him and shook his head, before putting the weapon down again. Might as well make a use of his skill. Besides, there would be no extraction from the mission, Hill had the team elsewhere. Or at least, no extraction unless things went to hell, but Clint had assured her it wouldn't.

He pulled his shirt off, knowing the guys were watching, and he heard a slight whistle, pretending he didn't care. It didn't take him long to get changed – one of the other guys' act, actually – and as he was fixing his bow, he heard the dark-skinned man come back from the stage, in a thong, more or less drowning in notes. He looked up, met his gaze, and swallowed.

You couldn't say that Clint was a prude. He'd been tumbling around half naked quite a lot of times before, but not for the sake of a show. When he'd been performing in the circus, it had been in a proper gear, not in some gear he had to pull off.

"My turn, then?" he asked, receiving a teasing nod as an answer. He swallowed hard, and walked up the few steps that separated the locker room from the stage area, and as he stood on those steps, waiting for any song to be put on, he thought that maybe, just maybe, it was a bad idea to wear his SHIELD gear. Maybe some of the girls would recognize him? It was amazing the strippers hadn't, but then again, they were kind of like vampires. He doubted they even knew what had happened in New York, actually.

Then he heard it.

Bam bam bi dam, bam bam bi dam dam, …. What's wrong with me? Why do I feel like this? …

Oh no. The DJ hadn't just chosen Rihanna's Disturbia for him. How quaint. He would've made a gesture to the DJ to change, but it was too late, because the curtain got pulled, and he stood in front of some screaming girls who were expecting one thing, and one thing only: for him to strip down to underwear and let them touch his ass and his abs and his forearms.

He walked down one step, and smiled at the audience, lowering his bow, an arrow sitting gently against his fingers and the string. He put down the weapon, and crouched down, moving back his ass, stretching his back and his chest as much as he could, before pulling down his sunglasses to hide his eyes. Give it some mystery.

… Don't wanna think about it, feels like I'm going insane, yeah ….

He gently pulled up his arms, and pulled on the zipper of his chest piece, teasing gently, getting the hang of it. He looked around, avoiding direct eye contact, and when it felt just right, he pulled the zipper down in a violent movement, which let out a common shriek of satisfaction from the girls in the audience.

He did a little pec dance, letting his chest be the center of attention as he pulled the chest piece off, one arm at a time, letting it fall all the way down to his feet, his hips trying to move to the beat (but the truth was, his lips didn't lie like Shakira's, and if anything, he wasn't the born dancer either), making up for the bad dancing by letting his bare chest glow in the light.

Of course Alejandro – the latin American dude – had let him borrow some babyoil, and he'd smudged some all over himself before dressing up.

He put his foot under his bow, and with a precise movement, he threw it up and caught it mid-air, both hands perfectly placed.

… Your mind is in disturbia, it's like the darkness is the light, disturbia …

Clint pulled the string of the bow back, all of his arm muscles tensing, letting the veins and shapes show, and some girls threw some notes at him. He kicked the arrow up as well, and caught it, placing it against the string, aiming for the girls' heads, making them shriek with a bright smile on their face.

He let the arrow fall on the floor on purpose, before letting go of the string, stroking his chest with a callused hand, before licking it off the babyoil, his head moving in rythm with the music. He then rolled his thumb up over his biceps, then back down to his abs, carressing them like he would the body of a woman. He'd never played with himself that way, and he probably wouldn't ever do it again, but right now, in front of all those screaming ladies, it felt just right.

He put down the bow, crouching over, letting his ass out in the process, before unzipping the black leather pants he was wearing, slowly pulling them down his legs, undressing a neat black pair of underpants (even if he'd been thrown a thong at him, he hadn't taken up the challenge of it). He pulled the pants over the boots he was wearing, and pushed the sunglasses up slightly, smirking at a blonde girl at the front row.

He let the glasses fall down again, and threw the pants at the audience, aiming for the blonde girl.

Left in his underpants and boots, he knelt and pulled up his bow with one hand, placing the arrow in his mouth, like some would a rose, and he bared his teeth, like an animal. He'd take as much pleasure of it as he could.

A girl got up, and then did a few, and they all came over to the stage where he was crouching, their hands extended to touch the nice and firm body there suddenly was at their disposal.

Clint thought of Natasha and what she'd think of him if she saw him, but he pushed the thought away : Natasha was on a mission in Dubaï, not a chance for her to see him do this.

He pulled the string to his bow back again, and lay down on his back, pretending to aim for the ceiling.

"Mind putting the arrow on the bow, m'am?" he asked, taunting, a younger brunette, who obliged with all her teeth bared in a large smile. She let her hand fall against his arms, and as he pulled back, she bit her lower lip, and took the sunglasses gently off his face, before putting them on herslef.

Looking at her face, not looking where he was aiming, Clint let go of the arrow, which went straight into the ceiling, with a thump, that even the music couldn't blurt out.

… Release me from this curse I'm in, trying to maintain, but I'm struggling …

He felt some girl's hand pulling at his underpants, and he couldn't do anything before he felt some notes being jugged down against his private parts, and against his hips, and hands touching him everywhere. Closing his eyes, he crawled back onto a crouching position, the girls moving back slightly, as he pulled another arrow from the ground, and put it onto the bow, pulled the string, and released it, hitting the poster hanging behind him, piercing a hole in it in the process.

Kneeling, he put out his hand at the girl who'd taken his sunglasses, requesting them back with a teasing smile on his lips.

… Your mind is in disturbia, it's like the darkness is the light, disturbia, am I scaring you tonight?…

And that's when he knew the song was almost over. He got up, pushing himself up, letting one last girl stroke his forearm, and walked back up the stage, all the way to the stairs, where he pulled another arrow from the prop box behind the poster, thrust it at the bow, pulled, released, and hit the middle table in the audience area, to a loud cheer.

The song gently faded away as he posed for a few seconds, before bowing goodbye to the girls.

He left the stage with a smile, and a strange sense of satisfaction in his mind, reaching the locker room, his bow still in hand and his underpants full of banknotes.

"Bitch, you is fine, but you is a lame dancer, I hope you know that," the first stripper blurted out at him, before hugging him tightly.

Well, at least that was over and done with. Now, Clint just had to find some time to pass, waiting to hit the owner of the place. And then he'd be out of here a bit richer than when he got in here.

"Dude, you stripped last night."

Clint looked up from his breakfast, staring right into Stark's soul.

"No I didn't."

"Yeah you did," the billionaire insisted.

"No, I most certainly did not."

Stark just smirked.

"JARVIS?"

Clint's eyes flickered toward one of the screens in the room, and all the color from his face vanished when he saw that JARVIS had found a video on YouTube, called "The Avenging Stripper," of him, doing his thing.

Clint hid his face behind his hands.

"Oh God, please take it down," he moaned, as he let his head fall down to the table in shame.

"No, I won't. You got a good sense of the show, Merida, I'll give you that. But it's too fun to just throw away like that, you know."

Clint groaned, before rubbing his temples, hoping that his glance could send knives at Stark.

He was going to kill Hill for making him take this mission. He really was.

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