It's another long, boring day in this long, hot summer and even before lunch has rolled around, Clint is already antsy, looking for something to do. There have been no crises for what seems to have been an impossible amount of time – to the point where even Stark has made a surprised comment at how quiet this time of year is – and so all he has is the training of new recruits, of keeping his own skills up and making sure he knows what he needs to.
He – and Natasha, when he can drag her away from her new, improved Avengers – have found some interesting (read: not entirely permissible, but certainly fun) ways to sharpen their existing skills, but she's not around as much as Clint would like. Clint doesn't think he's been confined to the new HQ, not necessarily, but he's certainly there more than he likes.
So instead, he takes to occasionally harassing Coulson, especially on the days that leave him itching to grab his bow and go look for someone who needs their ass kicking. Today is one of those days, so Clint seeks him out, though he still refuses to go to the most obvious spot first. He tries the cafeteria, then the gym and training rooms. Nope, no sign. A stalk of the bullpen turns up no Coulson either, though a couple of the newer agents eye him warily, so it's not a completely useless endeavour.
Clint finally gives in and heads over to Coulson's office. He doesn't knock before he enters – the door is ever-so slightly ajar, so there's nothing confidential happening – but Clint pauses on the threshold, surprised at what he sees.
Despite the heatwave baking the earth outside and the fact that everyone else in the entire building is at least jacket-less, if not wearing short sleeves, Coulson is still clad in his full suit; and he doesn't even seem to be breaking a sweat.
Of course, the suit looks amazing on him, too. It's a lighter grey than Clint is used to seeing on Coulson and the blue tie pops against the crisp white shirt. Clint has a sudden thought, imagining tightening his hand in Coulson's tie and tugging him up-
"Something I can help you with, Barton?" Coulson asks and Clint propels himself out of his daydream, conjuring up a smile.
"Bored, boss," Clint replies. Technically, Coulson isn't his boss anymore – he only comes here very rarely now he has his own team – but the expression on Coulson's face changes at the word. Clint can't work out if it's a good change or a bad one, but he steps further into the room and, almost absentmindedly, kicks the door shut behind him, heading for the couch that takes up the opposite wall.
When he drops onto it, Coulson chuckles and when Clint looks up, he's turned back to his computer. "There's really nothing else you could be doing?" Coulson asks but Clint figures it's mostly rhetorical at this point.
"Nat's out with Cap and their new team," Clint says and realises, when he's said it, that he sounds bitter. He doesn't mean to. "There's no assignments for me anymore. Sick of going to the gym."
"I never thought I'd hear you say that," Coulson replies, though he still hasn't looked up from his computer. "You should be happy there's not much for you to do. Means the world isn't in danger."
"Yeah, I know," Clint says. He sighs. "I'm just bored."
At that, Coulson looks up and leans back in his chair, work apparently taking a backseat for once. "You know, you could always go and help Natasha and Steve out; I'm sure they wouldn't mind-"
Clint cuts him off with a wave of his hand. "Nah, they've been working on it for too long. Don't wanna mess that up for them. Besides, I dunno how much fun that would be."
That, and he's been not-quite avoiding Wanda ever since they've been back. They've spoken a few times, but never about her brother. Clint doesn't know if they ever will.
Coulson gets up and Clint settles back on the couch as Coulson comes to stand by his head, looking down at him. "Well, we're going to have to find something for you to do," he says. "I can't have you hanging around my office all the time."
"You're barely even here. It's not like I sleep in here when you're off wherever." Well, once. But that had been an exceptional case.
Coulson smiles at that, the kind of smile that Clint loves to see from him. It lights up his eyes, crinkling them at the corners and again, Clint realises how simple it would be to reach up, tighten his fingers in that tie and-
He meets Coulson's eyes and the smile is gone, replaced by something Clint can't mistake. Heat. He swallows, throat suddenly dry even as he stretches out more on the couch. Coulson's eyes leave his for a second, sweeping over his body and Clint feels a stir in his cock when they make eye contact again. Well, this could work.
Clint reaches up and does what he's wanted to do since he walked in here – he grabs Coulson's tie, though gentler than in his imagination, and twists it around his hand, forcing Coulson to lean down. Coulson steadies himself with one hand on the back of the couch and doesn't say anything, not even when their lips are a breath apart.
Clint surges forward, greedy and impatient and when their lips meet – Coulson's are softer than he expected, though just as frantic – he pulls the tie again, trying to get Coulson closer.
Coulson runs the fingers of his free hand along Clint's cheekbone, down his face and he pulls back to breathe, smiling faintly before he leans in, this time slipping his tongue into Clint's mouth when he opens it on a moan. Clint can't think of anything he wants more right now than to keep doing this, to strip every layer of that suit from Coulson's body and pin him to the couch, have him begging for more- Coulson swings a leg over Clint's hips, so he's leaning over him and Clint arches up when Coulson's hand slips under his tight t-shirt, fingers skating over his ribs.
They part again and Coulson ducks his head to scatter kisses down Clint's neck, pulling aside the hem of his t-shirt to bite and suck on his collarbone. Clint bites back a moan but his hips buck up and oh- Friction. Yes. Now.
Clint reaches up again, the tie forgotten as he tries to push Coulson's jacket off his shoulders. This is not a good idea, this is probably the worst idea because anyone could walk in, but Clint doesn't think he cares. Coulson doesn't seem to either; he sits up and shrugs his jacket off himself, dropping it to the floor beside them. Clint unfastens Coulson's tie and the whisper of the tie against the cotton of Coulson's shirt has his hand tightening around the back of Coulson's neck, pulling him in for a messy, biting kiss.
While they're kissing, Coulson presses his hips down, making Clint buck up again, and takes the tie out of Clint's hands. He pulls back from the kisses and the expression on his face, as he looks Clint over, makes Clint's cock throb with another pulse of arousal.
"I want to try something with you," Coulson says. His voice is lower than Clint has ever heard it and he's nodding before he's even thought it through. Yes, please. Coulson smiles. "Put your hands above your head," he says.
Clint does it and when Coulson reaches up with the tie, he realises what is going to happen. He stays still. Maybe with someone else this would be a problem, but this is Coulson, one of the people Clint trusts most in the world. When Coulson's finished tying the tie around his wrists, Clint tests the knot. It holds but, he sees, he could get out of it if necessary. Coulson smiles again when he realises Clint's assessment. "Good," he says and tilts Clint's face up for a kiss. He's completely in control and it's exactly what Clint wants and needs – someone to break him out of this monotony he's fallen into.
They're in an awkward position on the couch; Coulson has one foot planted firmly on the floor and the other knee next to Clint's hip, but he doesn't appear to have noticed, not by the way he grinds his hips down again. Clint can't help the groan that escapes his mouth and Coulson chuckles, kissing the hollow of Clint's neck. "As much as I'd like to wring every single noise you can make out of you, I think it'd be better if you stay quiet for now, Clint," Coulson says. "Or do you want me to gag you?"
He slides his hand up under Clint's shirt and his fingers brush over a nipple. Clint considers that – gagged and bound, on his knees before Coulson. He lets his mouth drop open and pants as the fingers brush over the other nipple, Coulson now rocking gently against him.
"So you're not against that, then. Good."
Coulson moves his hands down again, grabbing the hem of Clint's t-shirt and pulling it up, so it's bunched around his armpits. Clint feels strange like this, the long line of his torso exposed, but Coulson trails his fingers up again and he lets his head drop back to the arm of the couch. It means he feels but doesn't see Coulson shift and he's wholly unsurprised to feel a tongue flicking over one nipple, then the other.
Clint lets out a shaky breath as Coulson's teeth tighten around his left nipple, tugging it lightly. "Fuck, you-" He's got his fingers on the other, twisting it to that line of pleasure and pain that Clint can't lie he adores. There's no question now – he's hard, harder than he's been in a long time. He whines, tilting his hips up to get more friction, but Coulson shifts out of the way, lifting his head from Clint's chest.
Clint can't imagine how he looks, but he can hear his breathing, loud in the small office. His nipples are still tingling; they're probably red and sore looking, but the thought of that only turns him on more. He wants Coulson's hands on him, he wants-
"What do you want?" Coulson asks, his hands on the button of Clint's khakis.
"I don't-" Clint clears his throat when his voice cracks. "I don't know," he says. It's honest. There are too many possibilities; he can't decide. Hell, he'd be happy enough for Coulson to just grind against him until they both came and he hasn't gotten off like that since he was a teenager. When Coulson doesn't move, Clint presses his hips up again. "Please, fuck, Coulson, anything-"
There's a wicked gleam in Coulson's eyes and he pops the button. He's still almost fully-clothed, the bastard, Clint realises, but the scraping sound of his zipper being pulled down suddenly demands his full attention. "Anything, Clint? Really?"
"Yes, please," Clint says. Is he begging? He doesn't care. "Anything, please, just get me off and I'll do it for you too, anything."
Coulson's hand plunges down into Clint's boxers and his fingers run slowly along Clint's cock. Clint looks down. The tip of his cock is sticking out of his boxers and it all feels awkward and a little uncomfortable because Coulson hasn't pulled his khakis down at all, but even that slightest touch-
Coulson pulls his hand back and Clint groans. "Come on, please."
Clint feels breath against his ear. "I like hearing you beg," Coulson says and Clint is sure he's doing something with his hands, but he's not sure what. "I can't wait until I have you somewhere with more privacy, Clint. I'd love to lay you out on my bed, touch you and tease you until you can't remember your own name, until all you want is my hands, my cock."
Coulson reaches down then and pulls Clint's khakis and boxers down. Clint moans when his cock is exposed to the cooler air of the office – and then again when Coulson presses down, his cock sliding alongside Clint's. Clint bucks his hips up without thinking about it; he's surprised to feel the cotton of Coulson's shirt against the head of his cock and oh God the fucker is still mostly dressed.
Coulson moves against him, pressing open-mouthed kisses to Clint's jaw as their cocks brush on every thrust. Clint is dripping with pre-come and he knows he's smearing it all over Coulson's clean, white shirt but that thought only makes him more frantic. He whines when he tries to move his hands but they're still fastened together and Coulson chuckles darkly by his ear, curling his fingers around Clint's hipbone as he presses down again. "Are you going to come for me, Clint?" he says and Clint nods, squeezing his eyes shut.
Coulson thrusts down again and Clint's cock presses up into that tight space between their stomachs – and he moans when he comes, knowing that it's splattered all over Coulson's shirt. He breathes after, all his muscles relaxed and wobbly; Coulson isn't thrusting but Clint knows he hasn't come, either.
He looks at Coulson and finds he's being watched; Coulson's gaze is focussed in the way Clint recognises from their most tense missions. "What?" he asks quietly.
"I want to come all over your chest," Coulson says and there's something about his candour that has Clint's cock stirring slightly. "May I?"
"Oh fuck, yes," Clint replies and watches, mildly irritated that he can't help out with his hands still tied, as Coulson's hand tightens around his own cock. Clint wants to suck it. The desire must show on his face because Coulson smiles and presses the thumb of his free hand against the corner of Clint's mouth.
Clint licks at Coulson's thumb and, when Coulson lets it slip into his mouth, sucks it, mimicking what he'd like to be doing to Coulson's cock right now. Coulson groans – Clint thinks it's the first unintentional noise he's made this entire time – and his hand speeds up, pre-come glistening as he spreads it all over his cock.
He takes his thumb out of Clint's mouth, holding the side of Clint's face as he leans down for a messy kiss. He pulls back. "Come on," Clint says. "Come on me, Coulson. Come all over me."
Coulson lets out a small, stuttered sound of surprise and he does, white ropes of come marking Clint's chest and stomach. Coulson's arms sag but he doesn't collapse entirely onto Clint – when he gets his breath back, he reaches up and unties him first, instead.
Clint grabs Coulson by his shirt and pulls him down for a kiss, not caring that he's getting the come on his body all over Coulson, because that was the hottest sex he's had in ages, fuck-
When they part, Coulson doesn't say anything for a moment. He leans away from Clint, but it's promising that he doesn't stand, doesn't leave the couch. Clint wriggles, feeling more content than he has for weeks. He doesn't let himself think about any consequences when he says, "So when can we do that again?"
Coulson's smile is small, but present – it doesn't look like he regrets it, then. "What are you doing this evening?" he asks. His eyes leave a burning trail down Clint's chest, covered with both of their come. Clint feels his pulse quicken and wonders if Coulson can see it thump against his throat.
"Nothing," he says, voice hoarse.
"Then you should come to mine. Eight o'clock. You know where I live, right?"
Coulson does stand then, tucking himself back in and fastening his pants. His shirt is ruined but he doesn't seem to care. He holds out a hand and Clint takes it, pulling himself up and then pulling himself together. He frowns when he pulls his t-shirt down over his chest; it feels disgusting, but at least the black fabric doesn't show the wet spots so well. His khakis have escaped unscathed. He'll have to go to his locker, get a shower and change, but it's all been totally worth it.
Coulson's probably got a change of clothes stashed somewhere, Clint thinks.
"So, I'll see you at eight, then?" Clint says. The air between them isn't awkward, per se, but there's a tension present that hasn't been there before.
"Yes," Coulson says. He reaches out and cups Clint's jaw again, pulling him in for a sweet, drawn-out kiss that has Clint pushing into his space, clawing at the back of his shirt. Coulson smiles when they part, still close enough to breathe each other's air.
Clint makes himself step back, checking himself again. He probably looks well-fucked. Hell, he doesn't think there's any way he wouldn't look well-fucked right now. He doesn't even care.
"See you later," he says, one hand on the doorknob.
"Oh, Clint," Coulson says, like an afterthought.
Clint pauses. "Yes?"
"Call me Phil, would you?"
Clint grins. "Alright, Phil. See you at eight."
He closes the door behind him and eyes the bullpen. No one's looking his way; no one has any idea of what just took place in that room.
Clint grins to himself and heads toward the gym. He's got a date for tonight and he needs to be ready for it.