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Clint's alarm goes off early on Thursday, which is strange because he hadn't touched it the night before. For a long few minutes, he contemplates just drawing the duvet over his head and ignoring it -- it's his last class for the semester, and he doesn't have to work until tomorrow afternoon. He could just take the day, sleep in, go do some sketches in the park and loiter at Natasha's place until she kicks him out. It's a viable life choice, he tells himself, eyes already closing.

Put your graffiti on me shatters the silence, drilling into his eardrums. He fumbles blindly for his phone on the bedside table, dragging it into bed with him. Natasha's bright smile greets him, that strange unguarded moment when she hadn't known anyone was watching her at the Little Sister annual soccer game. Clint can't help but grin down at it every time he sees it -- except for when it's stopping him from sinking back into Morpheus' blissful embrace. Still, if she's calling him this early, it's because she knows what he's thinking right now, in that creepy way of hers that Clint loves and hates in equal measures.

"What?" he groans into the phone.

"Up," she orders, without preamble. "Get up or you are really going to hate yourself when I tell you what you missed later."

He rubs a hand over eyes still crusted with sleep. "Nat, what are you talking about?"

Her impatient huff succeeds in driving some of his grumpiness away, replaced by impish amusement. "It's the life drawing class this morning, did you forget?"

Clint blinks. He had. Still. "What has that got to do with anything?"

"I know who the model is gonna be," she sings, smug as any ten well-fed cats.


The silence from her end is charged with whatever secret she's keeping; it makes the hairs at the back of his neck stand on end.

"It's Coulson himself," she announces, and hell, all her smugness is justified. Clint jerks to sitting up, blinks rapidly, drives the drowsiness away with hell-bent determination.

"Is that right?" he drawls, letting a wicked smile curve his lips. Oh boy. This is going to be interesting. "Be at your place in fifteen."

"I thought you might be," she says, filthy with innuendo, before she hangs up on him. He throws his phone onto the pillow, jumps out of the bed and double-times it to his tiny bathroom, splashes cold water over his face and neck, jittery with excitement. Phil fucking Coulson, their scorching hot thirtysomething professor, will be naked in class. Shit.

Shit yeah. Clint has only been itching to get into the guy's pants for months, every time he sees that unflappable expression, those steady, capable hands holding a stick of charcoal, with smudges running down all the way to his wrist. The number of heavily uncensored fantasies Clint has been having about those hands on him does not bear thinking about.

His mind, because it is weird and unhelpful, is picking apart the reasons for this change even as he shoves his legs in his tightest pair of black jeans and slips on a body-hugging black t-shirt. So okay, it's not unheard of for their professors to pose for them at the start, but in the last class of the module?

Then again, why the hell not? Seriously, is his mind trying to sabotage him? He gets to see Coulson naked -- or at least mostly naked; what more does it want? Fuck, his hands are shaking as he does up the laces on his boots, just from thinking about it. Coulson, with that calm, effortlessly commanding voice that makes Clint want to salute, and those broad, muscled shoulders that Clint has been seeing in his dreams for longer than he wants to contemplate--

--So okay. Clint has a bit of a crush. It's not a crime. Seriously, looking at Coulson? It's a crime not crushing on him. And since Clint doesn't know how to stop pushing, how to leave anything alone, he might have been flirting. Shamelessly. In his defence, though, Coulson hasn't specifically told him to knock it off; Clint's not a dick. He can take a hint or five, but Coulson has been-- okay, not exactly flirting back, but--certainly playing along. He’s been humouring him, which, in normal circumstances Clint would have a few things to say about, but with Coulson? Hell, Clint will take what he can get.

Thing is, he thinks as he locks up and sprints down the stairs from the top floor of his rickety apartment building, it's not just the shoulders, or the hips, or the arms, or hell, even Coulson's pretty eyes. It's the way he carries himself; contained, sparse, nothing wasted, quietly authoritative. And Clint? Clint has a thing about control.

Not to mention that Coulson is the best instructor in the place, on par only with Maria Hill and Nick Fury, but not as scary as either of them. Coulson is funny, and kind, and hot, and Clint knows for a fact that he hasn't been the only one ogling him. It's unsettling; seeing Tony Stark flirt with Coulson puts Clint on edge, and so does knowing that Coulson admires Steve Rogers' talent above everyone else's, even though Coulson's oh-so-very careful not to show it. Coulson has a strange relationship with the class that Clint has found himself part of; a strange push-and-pull of respect and sass and friendly bickering between them all that Coulson tolerates indulgently. Clint doesn't quite know what to make of it; his only consolation is that Coulson doesn't seem to give Tony's flirting any further thought than he does Clint's.

Still, it's not like you're better than the others, his mind whispers to him as he takes the turn onto Nat's street. Every single one of them is as good an artist as you, if not better. He shoves the thought away, to the back of his mind to join the others, all the ways he knows he's never going to actually get Coulson, not if he has to compete with Tony, or Steve, or even Bucky fucking Barnes. He's seen the way Coulson watches Barnes out of the corner of his eye, following the quick strokes of Barnes' fingers over the canvas, smudging the lines just so. Clint is the last person in line for Coulson's attention.

This is why he tries not to think about it too much. Because when he does, he always ends up feeling like utter shit. This is why he tries to bluff his way out of the hole he'd dug out for himself by letting this stupid crush grow and grow until just the thought of this semester being over, of Coulson's class being over, is a lead weight in his gut.

It's better this way, he tells himself sternly. This has to stop. He has to make it stop before it kills him. Just one more class to bluff his way through, and to flirt as obnoxiously as ever with the man so he doesn't notice a difference. Just one more class.

Of naked Coulson in front of him; of Clint having to trace the lines of his body on the canvas, follow each curve of muscle to its conclusion, shade it in until he has a sketch of a naked Phil Coulson to taunt him from his wall when Clint has become nothing but a vague memory in the man's organised mind.

On second thought, maybe tight black jeans hadn't been the best idea Clint has ever had. Just the thought of Coulson taking his shirt off is making them a health hazard to his nether regions.

Well, too late now. He's pulling up outside Nat's building, watching her spring out of the front door and jog lightly to the passenger side of his battered Buick. She jumps inside, straps herself in; then she takes one look at his face, and sighs.

"What have you been doing to yourself in that head of yours this time?" she asks wearily, reaching down and squeezing his hand on the gear shift as he pulls away from the curb.

Clint shrugs. If there's one person in the world he can't lie to, it's the woman sitting next to him right now.

"It's the last class," he says, smiling a little bitterly. She knows all about his stupid crush, partly from listening to him ramble, but mostly from her near-superhuman skills of deduction.

"Oh, Clint," she sighs, in that "oh, puppy" way she has. Clint scowls, refusing to blush. So he's got a crush, so what? It's nothing worse than the hard-on Natasha's got for Maria Hill. Except she's much less pathetic about it than Clint, damn her.

She doesn't say anything else. She just sits there in companionable silence as he navigates the narrow streets that lead to the outskirts of the city and the college campus. Both of them lived there last year, but rent is much cheaper in the city than on campus, and once Clint had managed to scrape together enough money for a (fifth-hand) car, it was a foregone conclusion that they'd both move. Neither of them has been much for a controlled environment, without clear exits, since long before they turned twenty-one.

It's actually a bright place, the campus. Its buildings are white and modern, futuristic almost, especially the Stark Physics lab, which was donated by Tony's old man but built after his death. Tony had insisted on overseeing the design; the result is a cross between a tower and a glass house, but it has somehow managed to retain the charm for which the Starks are famous. The Art building is right behind it, to the side, positioned just so for optimum light exposure. Clint loves it there, so fiercely that sometimes he wishes he never has to leave it. He'll die before he lets anyone figure it out but he is utterly terrified of graduating at the end of next semester. Graduation means being let loose in the real world, and Clint's fucked if he knows what the hell he's going to do once he doesn't have the comforting familiarity of classes. It’s a routine he has lived with for four years now. He's almost considering throwing Fury's class just so he has an excuse to stick around longer.

Fury would never allow it, though. He has a way of seeing right through you and all your flimsy excuses to the truth underneath, single eye or not. Besides, Clint has a feeling Coulson would have a thing or two to say about it, and Clint never wants to see that disappointed look on his face again, not after that time he and Tony had dicked around in class, botching their assignment on a dare. It's ridiculous that Coulson's disappointment should make Clint feel like utter crap, like he's let himself down, not just Coulson. Doesn't make it any less true--

--And Clint should really stop thinking about that now, because it's not helping his mood any. There's a ball of twisting anticipation in his gut that makes it hard to breathe; he's stalling, and that's not something he's going to allow himself to do. This is getting pathetic as it is.

The studio, when he and Nat finally make it inside, is half-empty. Looks like most of the class decided to skip out on today, much like Clint had intended to. Clint can only be happy about that; fewer people to witness him potentially making an idiot of himself, and of those that are left, well, Clint wouldn't mind it if they did. He spies Tony picking at the tins of paint set out, primary colours, bright and cheerful. There isn't a single brush or stick of charcoal to be seen, which is very strange considering that's Coulson's preferred medium. Are they supposed to--

"Hey, Clint," Steve says cheerfully, waving from the other side of the room, sitting sprawled next to Barnes, who is watching Clint from under his criminally long eyelashes. Clint fights the urge to squirm. He is convinced Barnes knows about the things Clint tries to keep buried, regardless of how ridiculous that sounds. Clint waves back, tries out a smile, encouraged when it doesn't feel like it's cracking his face in half. He heads for his usual spot in the centre of the room, next to Thor the exchange student who actually looks like the God of Thunder, all flowing blond hair and muscles that go on for miles. Thor sends him a happy grin and goes back to bickering with Darcy Lewis over the contents of their iPods. Darcy looks appalled; Clint assumes Thor has been talking about Cliff Richards again, who is inexplicably popular in Norway. Nat settles in next to him, dropping her satchel and pulling out her sketchbook, almost filled from cover to cover now, flicking it open to a half-done sketch of a female figure in profile, lean, trim, face turned away. Clint looks away with a small smile. What a pair they make, both crushing hard on people they shouldn't.

The room comes to order when the door opens to admit Coulson and a harried-looking Bruce, glasses askew, shirt untucked. He probably lost track of time in the labs again. Clint wonders sometimes why Bruce and Tony decided to take this class; he doesn't think it's a requirement -- but then again, who knows how their strange, sharp, genius minds work? Bruce scuttles to the back of the room, dropping his books in the space between his and Tony's chairs as he shares a friendly smile with Tony.

There's a shuffling sound coming from either end of the room; Clint turns to see the blinds on the glass walls closing, leaving only the light from the huge skylights above them to drench the room. Coulson is standing by the door, finger on the switch to turn the blinds, looking as unflappable as always -- if you don't count the ever-so-slight flush at the tops of his cheekbones. Clint can't look away, not even when Coulson's eyes find his and dart away quickly. Clint's pulse speeds up, drumming in his ears.

"Are we ready to start?" Coulson says calmly, taking off his suit jacket and unbuttoning his cuffs. Clint swallows dryly. At the murmur of assent, Coulson lifts his fingers to the knot of his tie, tugs it open and draws it from around his shoulders. The room is suspiciously silent; Clint kind of wants to look around, but that would involve taking his eyes off Coulson, and yeah, no.

"Coulson, what are you doing?" Tony asks, because of course it's Tony who asks, stupidly brave, habitually reckless. The part of Clint's mind that is still functioning rationally and not screaming on the inside like a fourteen-year-old boy in the presence of his crush, wonders how Nat knew what was happening, if none of the others do. It's irrelevant right now, though; there is only one thing Clint can focus on.

"I'm giving you your assignment," Coulson says, unbuttoning his shirt. There's nothing underneath it, no undershirt, just smooth skin, a thin, long scar crossing his collarbone, a smattering of chest hair. No one says a thing when he draws the tails of his shirt out of his pants and finishes undoing the buttons before shrugging it off. Clint has to bite viciously at his lip not to whimper. His fingers clutch at the canvas in his hands, holding it before himself like a shield.

"Is our assignment to watch you undress? Because I could get behind that--ow!" Tony complains when Bruce elbows him in the ribs, shaking his head. "What? It's a great view!"

Clint forces his teeth to unclench, fighting to breathe evenly when Coulson's hands drop to the waistband of his pants. "Your assignment is to draw me using abstract styles. Hence the lack of brushes," Coulson says mildly, unzipping himself and letting his pants drop, kicking his shoes and socks off and standing before them in nothing but a pair of branded briefs. There's a booming noise in Clint's head; someone's talking, but he can't make out a single word. He’s too busy trying not to pass out as all the blood in his body rushes south.

"...It's only fair," he tunes in to hear Bucky say amidst hums of agreement.

Coulson shrugs, muscles moving smoothly under his skin. Clint wants to bite him. "If that's what you want," Coulson says. "You're all adults, and it's the last class. Time for some fun, I think -- and yes, Mr Stark, before you ask, I do know what the word means, thank you."

"Wasn't gonna say anything," Tony says happily, standing up and tugging his shirt off. Steve’s doing the same, and fuck, what did Clint miss?

"We're all undressing in solidarity," Natasha murmurs quietly when Clint looks to her for help. He must look pathetic for her voice to sound like that, but, hell, he's feeling out of his depth here. She tugs her t-shirt off, too, leaving her in a tidy, opaque bra that looks completely natural on her. All around him, people are undressing, shucking jeans and slacks and shirts, and Clint sits frozen to the spot, wondering if it's too late to run.

"Come on, Barton," Bucky says, nudging his boot with his bare toes. "You don't want to be left out, do you?"

Clint does. He wants to be left out. He wants for Coulson to stop looking at him like that, too-shrewd, too-knowing, too-challenging. Damn it, Clint can't throw this now. He sets the canvas down and stands, drawing his t-shirt over his head; Bucky takes it from him, drops it behind his chair, raises his eyebrow expectantly when Clint puts his hands on the waistband of his jeans. Fuck this; Clint isn't going to be intimidated by a bit of nakedness, he thinks as he kicks his boots and jeans off defiantly, glaring at him. Barnes gives him the edge of a smile, surprisingly not mocking at all, just appreciative. Clint scowls a bit, but his heart isn't in it.

"Now you're all appropriately attired, shall we make a start?" Coulson says, and it would be funny how quickly everyone falls in line at the thinly veiled order, except for how it's making Clint's heart pound to hear that tone in Coulson's voice. They settle down and start working; Clint lets himself fall into the familiar rhythm of looking between the subject and the canvas, fingers messy as he dips them in the can of paint next to him and trails them over the blank surface. It's surprisingly liberating to go freestyle, picking through techniques to see which one works best here. He lets his eyes follow the trim lines of Coulson's body, because he's allowed to look, for once; he’s being encouraged, even, and he's going to make the most of what is probably his last chance. There's another small scar close to Coulson's navel, thicker than the one at his collarbone, and Clint yearns to be able to trace it with his fingertips, ask what put it there, if it hurt, if he can kiss it better even though it's long-faded. There's an ache in his sternum, wistful, helpless. Just this once, he'll let himself look, and then he'll devote all his efforts to putting Coulson out of his mind.

Movement to the side, and Clint's heart is in his throat as he watches Tony walk right past him, fingers dripping with blue paint.

"How about we shake things up a little?" Tony asks gleefully and he runs his fingers across Coulson's collarbone, leaving behind a thick streak of paint over the clean skin. Clint is furious all of a sudden, that Tony thinks he can touch Coulson like this; that Tony has marked Coulson, like he has the right. Coulson stares at Tony's wide, wolfish grin, but does nothing; there's no rebuke at all. Instead, there's an interesting expression on his face, a hint of heat in his eyes. Fuck, how is this Clint's life??

"Stark." Coulson sighs, but it's resigned, not the scorn Clint is half-expecting. "Was that really necessary?"

"Hell yes," Tony says firmly, standing back to admire his handiwork. Clint wants to punch him in the face.

"Is this some sort of American ritual?" Thor wants to know, standing up and crossing the room to smear red on the other side of Coulson's chest. "It is most fun. Let us do it again!" Before Tony can do anything about it, he has the imprint of a huge palm right over his pec. He stares down at it, back up at Thor, and starts laughing helplessly.

"Sure," he gasps. "Why the fuck not?"

It's a free-for-all after that. Bucky goes at Coulson with a different shade of blue, smearing it all the way down his chest as Coulson sighs and shakes his head. Natasha darts forward, drawing a quick spiral over Coulson's left shoulder in thick black strokes, and then giggles when Barnes presses a hand right over her middle, all five fingers and palm perfectly outlined. Tony shrieks behind Clint, followed by Bruce's mock growl; a moment later Tony runs past Clint's chair, laughing his head off while Bruce chases him, a pink splotch of paint on his neck, hands dipped to the wrists in green paint. Across the room, Steve lets out a deep belly laugh as Darcy finger-paints his middle, red, blue, white, a star at the centre of the concentric circles. Coulson just stands there, chest covered in finger traces, watching them like an exasperated but indulgent babysitter while the toddlers dart around him and mess him up. Clint clutches his canvas before him with knuckles gone white with strain, knowing full well that if he lets it go the game will be well and truly up. He's hard in his briefs, even as anger curls in his chest, anger at all those marks on Coulson's body that are not his. Yet he can't move. He's frozen to the spot, gut churning.

Then, suddenly, Natasha's there, obscuring his view. She smiles at him softly, understanding in her clear gaze. She tugs the canvas from his fingers, blithely ignoring his desperate scrambling for it, takes his arm and drags him to standing, despite his protests.

"Come on, Clint," she says quietly, looking up into his eyes, without any teasing -- only sincerity. "This is your chance. Might be your only chance. Besides, you're only drawing attention to yourself when you're the only one not taking part."

Clint bites his lip and looks up; Coulson is watching them, and so is Barnes, from just behind Coulson's shoulder. Clint knew Barnes suspected something, and it's so obvious from the way he's looking right at him, eyebrow arched, that Barnes knows exactly what's running through Clint's mind. Natasha takes his hand and dips it in the purple paint tin to the wrist; Clint curls his fingers to gather as much as he can. If he's doing this, he's doing it right.

Natasha stays behind him all the way to the front of the room, the warmth of her body an encouragement that keeps him steady. Coulson's eyes are fixed to his, dark with something Clint can't interpret. Natasha walks him until there are scant inches between them, until Clint can feel the warmth of Coulson's bare chest caressing his. He stands there stupidly, staring at Coulson's face, the way his lips part ever so slightly, the way his eyes dare him to do it. Natasha takes his arm gently, raises it until it's level with Coulson's chest. Still, Clint hesitates before touching him; something inside him is waiting for--he doesn't know what, permission? Reassurance?

Then Coulson's other hand lifts; warm fingers slide over his wrist, the back of his hand, and press it forward, to spread over Coulson's heart.

For a long moment, it feels like Clint stops breathing. Coulson's eyes are blue, so blue and comforting in their familiarity. Coulson's heartbeat is steady under Clint's palm, a little elevated; Clint doesn't dare hope that he's the cause of it. Coulson's skin is smooth, except for the edge of another small scar, right under Clint's middle finger, which twitches as it follows the puckered line. Coulson inhales sharply, nostrils flaring. His hand still braces Clint's over his chest; Clint realises with a shock that he's got over an inch in height on Coulson, and he has to look down to see Coulson’s mouth, still hanging open, so very tempting.

Hilarity reigns around them; there are shouts, and giggles, and even a groan or two. Clint pays them no mind, lost in a world of his own, trapped in Coulson's warm gaze. A small smile curves his lips when he catches Clint looking at them; Clint is fighting a losing battle against the helpless desire to lean in and taste them. Coulson's hand lets up a little, and Clint has the freedom to move again; he slides it down, just to see what Coulson will do, just to touch him, because fuck, he needs to. Coulson's muscles twitch a little when Clint's fingers trail down them, leaving behind streaks of purple that Clint can't, for the life of him, tear his eyes away from. It feels like staking a claim, as ridiculous as that is; it feels like Clint is marking Coulson, putting his name on him.

Oh, god. Clint is so hard that he can't remember the last time his dick tried to drill a hole through his pants like this; his fingers reach the edge of Coulson's briefs and hesitate, paint the skin just above the elastic band. Coulson twitches, but he doesn't move away, presses closer instead. Clint has to forcibly remind himself that there are other people in the room; that he can't push Coulson back until he's pressed to the wall, until Clint can slide to his knees and take Coulson's cock in his mouth.

Coulson's hand flattens his over the skin of Coulson's lower belly. "We can't," Coulson says, and Clint's stomach drops to the soles of his feet. Of fucking course they can't. He bites his lower lip, hoping the sting will distract him from the ache inside; he looks away and lets his hand fall.

Only it can't, because it's still held in place by Coulson's, fingers firm over his. "Not here," Coulson adds quietly, and Clint's head jerks up, locking his eyes to Phil's.

"What?" he says dazedly, hoping he hadn't got it wrong, hoping--

"I am not going to kiss you in front of them. I'll never hear the end of it as it is."

Clint lets the words wash through him, lets them sink in and register. Coulson wants to kiss him. Coulson wants people to know he wants to kiss him. Clint can barely comprehend any of this.

Coulson seems to see some of that, because he smiles again, deeper, and now there are crinkles at the edges of his eyes that Clint wants to kiss. "Class is over. I'm not your teacher any longer."

Clint grins full-out at that, because that? That is premeditated thought as far as he's concerned. "Did you plan all this?" he asks happily, fingers turning so he can grasp Coulson's.

Coulson looks shifty. "Maybe?" he admits, shrugging. "I wasn't sure that you'd--but I thought I'd give you a chance to make your point, one way or the other."

Clint is gobsmacked. Coulson did all this, for him. He looks down when something touches his hip, and fuck, okay, okay, keep it together, Barton, just because Coulson's hard-on is bumping against you is no reason to lose it in the middle of the room, breathe, now. He gulps a huge lungful of air, closing his eyes and groaning quietly. He feels the edge of Coulson's exhale over his collarbone, the twitch of Coulson's fingers against his.

"Fuck me," Clint swears under his breath, and Coulson makes this sound at the back of his throat and says, "Don't tempt me," and okay, uh, this is going to get embarrassing really fucking fast.

"Can't you do something about them?" Clint demands, hearing the strain in his own voice and long past caring.

"Class dismissed," Coulson says, raising his voice just enough to be heard over the commotion. "You all get As. Now, for the love of god, go wash up--Stark, what do you think you're doing, don't--oh, Jesus," he finishes resignedly when Tony just grabs his stuff and legs it out of the door, giggling madly as Bruce follows suit. They are both completely covered in paint, now an indistinguishable mess of blue-green, and good god, under normal circumstances Clint would have been rooting for his phone.

These are not normal circumstances. Not when he's got Phil Coulson pressed to him, looking at him like he wants to eat him alive. Clint is perfectly okay with that.

"Do you guys need a condom? Because I've got a couple spares--" Bucky gets out before Natasha grabs his arm and forcibly tows him out of the room, rolling her eyes.

"Clint, check the top pocket of your bag. Barnes, come along."

Barnes just grins wickedly at them, waggling his eyebrows. This would be so fucking embarrassing if all Clint's attention wasn't locked on Coulson, touching him from head to toe now, his hand on the small of Clint's back. The others file out fast enough, headed in the direction of the showers, pointedly paying the two of them no mind. They’re going to get a few strange looks but it’s no longer Coulson's problem. Clint is perfectly happy to make himself Coulson's problem for the foreseeable future.

"Forget about them. They'll be fine," he says, managing somehow to press closer, until Coulson's thigh slides between his, slippery with paint. Clint shudders, hard. "Now can we get to the nearest shower, too, so you can fuck me already?"

Under his palms, the muscles of Coulson's back ripple. His pupils are completely blown when he looks back at Clint, and there’s a flush at the tops of his cheeks.

"Jesus Christ, do you even realise," Coulson mutters before there are no more words between them, just the heat of Coulson's mouth over Clint's, thorough and demanding. Clint opens for him without complaint, without the slightest resistance, letting Coulson's tongue slip inside faster than Clint could have imagined. It drags an unwilling sound from Clint's throat, far too desperate already. Coulson's fingers slip over the skin of Clint's hip, scrambling for purchase through the paint. He makes a noise of complaint, pushes until Clint feels the hard edge of Coulson's desk digging into the backs of his thighs.

"Really?" he gasps. "On the desk? A bit cliched, don't you think?"

"Are you complaining?" Coulson growls. The sound of it is so fucking sexy; it’s like distilled arousal. Clint's legs shake a little.

"No complaining," he manages, before his mouth gets busy again, lips being pried open by Coulson's, so damn demanding and so very hot. Clint scrambles at the waistband of Coulson's briefs, pushing them down enough to palm the bare skin of his ass, low enough to let his cock spring out. Then he paws at his own briefs, Coulson impatiently helping until they're off, too, and their cocks rub bare against each other for the first time. Clint whimpers; his knees almost give way from the feel of it. He bends until his back hits the desk, taking Coulson with him so he can lift his legs around Coulson's hips, pull him in tight, until they line up.

"Yeah," Clint groans when Coulson detaches his mouth from his, moves lower. Clint lets his head fall back and bares his neck to Coulson's lips and teeth. He is damn near burning inside; he has wanted this for ages, and he's desperate now, can't wait another moment to have Coulson's cock in his hand.

When he closes his fingers on Coulson's length, Coulson inhales sharply, lets it out on a moan-- "Fuck, Clint. Do you even, do you know how long I've wanted you?"

Clint loses what little breath he has managed to retain. "What?" he wheezes, because what? Coulson, wanting him, even before today?

"I never thought--" Coulson tries to say more, but Clint is mindless now, fingers digging into Coulson's strong arms, drawing him closer, trying to climb inside him through his mouth.

Apparently, it's not so easy to misdirect Coulson, because once Clint has had to come up for air, Coulson just looks down at him and says tightly, "You don't even know what you look like, do you? Sitting in that same seat every time, completely focused, those eyes of yours boring into your subject? God, and the way you don't notice anything around you when you've lasered in on something - do you even know how sexy that is?"

Clint honest-to-god thinks he's lost it, that he's hallucinating right now, because how could Coulson be saying these things to him? How is this real? Coulson looks dead serious, though, staring straight into his eyes with blown pupils, and Clint has an epiphany as he lies on the hard wooden desk, a Eureka moment: Coulson likes it when Clint focuses on something.

Well, then.

Let's see what happens when Clint focuses on his favourite subject.

Coulson squirms when Clint levels the full weight of his gaze on him and his hips jerk against Clint's, driving their cocks together and making Clint moan helplessly. Coulson smiles darkly at the noise, does it again until Clint is writhing under him, helpless to stop. His hand traces Clint's thigh, down to his ass, his fingers stroking along the curve of one cheek.

"Jesus Christ." Clint bites his lip, forbidding himself to look away from Coulson's dark, heated eyes; the longer he does it, the more flustered Coulson becomes, the harder he drives himself in the crook between Clint's cock and the top of his thigh. It's obscenely hot to watch Coulson lose control like that, hanging off the edge by his fingertips. Clint is nearly there himself; so, so close, but god, he wants Coulson to fall before him; he wants to look into those eyes as they haze over with the pleasure that Clint gives him.

"You gonna come for me?" Coulson demands, fingers sliding down and in, pressing along the rim of his ass; they're slick with paint still, and god, it would only take the slightest bit of pressure for them to breach him, slip inside... Clint tips his head back and groans long and hard, wanting it so bad that he's aching with it. Coulson's tone, on top of the sensation he's making Clint feel, only serves to push Clint further off the ledge; his gut cramps with the need to release, to let Coulson draw the orgasm from him--but Coulson is shaking apart above him, too, the harder Clint stares at him, trapping him with his gaze.

So Clint lifts his head, looks him dead-on, and whispers, "I'll be a good boy for you if you come for me first, sir."

And whoa. Whoa. Clint doesn't know where the hell that came from, but he was not expecting this at all. Coulson's eyes roll back in his head and he keens, loud enough that Clint considers slapping a hand over his mouth, because if there's anyone in the corridor outside the door, they are going to get an earful. But it passes as fast as it set in; Coulson sags over him, panting hard, hand buried in Clint's hair as he kisses him, slow and languid but no less demanding, taking his time when Clint is fucking dying here.

"Your turn," Coulson tells him darkly, letting the finger still lingering at Clint's entrance slip just that little bit in as he rocks his hips, rubs his slick hipbone over Clint's cock, and god, that is so fucking good.

"Sir," Clint pants, something tightening inside him at the way Coulson looks at him, expectant, intent, in control.

"Come for me, Barton," Coulson tells him, and Clint's whole world whites out for a long, bliss-filled moment as his cock spits out squirt after squirt of come against Coulson's hip, mixing with the paint until it's all one hot, filthy mess smeared between them.

"Oh, fuck," Clint gasps when the last shivers wring themselves from him and he drops down again, breathing hard. "Fucking hell."

Coulson just nods against his shoulder, apparently beyond forming words.

"That was--" Clint tries again, gives up. "What was that?"

"Well, Barton, when two people want each other, they--"

"Oh, fuck you." Clint snorts, giggling and not giving a single damn. "Sir," he adds, just to be an ass, and he watches as Coulson closes his eyes, breath catching a little. Jesus, how is the guy real?

Coulson lifts off him then, which Clint hates, because damn, he feels cold without the heat of Coulson's body over his. Then Coulson reaches down and snags his hand, pulling until Clint is more or less vertical again.

"Come on," Coulson says, palming his hip possessively. "Shower. Now. You are filthy."

"So are you, sir. Hey, if I'm a good boy, will I get a reward?"

"Christ, Barton, what the everloving fuck are you doing to me?" Coulson groans, biting his lip and shuddering. "A reward, huh? What if you're a bad boy? Do I get to spank you?"

"You get to do whatever you want to me, sir," Clint says, fighting to keep his voice level and not show what a mess of sheer blind lust he really is. "But if I'm good, you're gonna fuck me properly this time. Deal?"

"Deal," Coulson gasps, palm slipping lower and squeezing Clint's ass like he's imagining being inside it already. Clint is so turned on that he doesn't know how he's going to walk all the way to the showers without shoving Coulson against a convenient wall and sucking him dry.

The wait is its own reward though. This thing between them has been a long time in coming, and Clint doesn’t even pause to relish the pun, not when he’s got a hold on Coulson's hand, with no intention of letting go any time soon.