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Sweaty, sticky and stormy...

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It was their twelfth op together. Up until that point everything had been fine. Well. Not fine exactly but tolerable. Problem was even fully clothed Coulson hit all of Clint’s buttons. Calm, competent, badass. Not to mention his intense blue eyes and the way he looked in those damn suits he wears… Yeah, all of Clint’s buttons.

But now. Now that he’s seen him out of his suit…

***

Mission successful. Data retrieved. Now all they had to do was hole up for 24 hours until evac. No big whoop. Except someone, somewhere has screwed up the hotel reservations during one of the sweatiest, stickiest, stormiest nights of the year. One room. One bed. Really?

“We could try somewhere else…” Coulson says half-heartedly, gently placing his holdall on the corner of the mattress nearest the bathroom.

With a wide yawn, Clint shrugs dropping his own bag onto the floor. “Nah, boss. Too tired. Besides pretty unlikely we’d get anything tonight. I can cope if you can. Three rules though.”

Coulson quirks an interested eyebrow.

“No snoring, no farting and no hogging the covers.”

“Barton, I don’t snore and I’m far too polite to fart,” the senior agent deadpans.

“Ahhh…so you’re a cover hog.”

“There’s not much I can do if my bed partners want to donate their half of the sheets to me in the middle of the night. Shower first or second?”

Clint’s still trying to process the fact that Coulson has mentioned bed partners. Now he wants to know more about them. Male? Female? Both? And why did Coulson end up with the covers? Acrobatic sex or just roll over and abandon after snuggling? Did that make him the little spoon? Or just too hot to handle?

“Clint?”

He breaks out of his reverie with a start. “Whaaa?”

Fortunately, the older man seems more amused than annoyed. “First or second for the shower. I don’t know about you but I’m hot, sweaty and sticky.”

Clint’a initial thought was, all that’s missing from that sentence is “lubed up” - but he managed to keep it to himself. Instead, with a relatively even voice, he replied, “You go first, sir. Seniority over this fine bod.”

Coulson smirks as he removes his jacket while toeing off his shoes. Never let it be said he can’t multi-task. “That your way of saying age before beauty? Barton, I’m hurt.”

He bends over to retrieve his toilet bag from his holdall leaving no option for Clint but to admire the way his suit pants pull across his ass. Very nice, sir. Very nice.

As he disappears into the bathroom, Clint calls after him, “And don’t use all the hot water, boss. Or we’ll have to shower together in the morning!”

The archer does a literal face palm. Aww mouth no! Fortunately there’s no response. Either Coulson didn’t hear him or has decided to ignore it. Thank fuck! Grabbing his own toilet bag, his thoughts return to his handler and his bedroom shenanigans.

About six and half minutes later Coulson returns to the bedroom wearing nothing but a smile and a towel wrapped round his waist. Clint’s heart misses a beat then starts to race. Oh what the fuck?! He swears he doesn’t stare and he’s not drooling as he takes in his handler’s state of undress.

His hair is all damp and mussed up, his shoulders seem to be twice as wide as they are when he’s wearing a suit and there are a few stray drips of water making their way down his broad, sexy, hairy chest with dogged determination to his stomach - hard and muscled - before disappearing past his hip dents (hip dents for fuck sake) crashing headfirst into the towel. Clint feels like he wants to do the same.

He doesn’t whimper. He’s pretty sure he doesn’t whimper. Hopefully he holds back the whimper as he gazes back up Coulson’s body to catch his eyes which are, once again, somewhat amused.

“Your turn.”

Clint nods and drags himself off the bed before dashing for the safety of the bathroom. All without a word - mainly because he can’t trust himself to speak. His toilet bag has been placed strategically over his raging hard-on which he needs to get rid of immediately and does so in the shower with fewer strokes of his cock than he would have believed possible. He keeps his moans quiet and to a minimum and his final groan as he comes is (hopefully) hidden by the sound of the running water. He quickly cleans himself up, wraps a towel round his waist (if it’s good enough for Coulson...) and returns to the bedroom trying not to look too wrung out.

Oh dear god! Is there no end to this torture? If Clint didn’t know any better, he’d swear his handler was doing it deliberately. Coulson is now lying on top of the bed wearing a pair of worn blue jeans faded in all the right places and nothing else. Except for a pair of black rimmed glasses which he has on as he reads his book. He looks sexy as fuck and Clint can feel his dick stirring again.

“How was the hot water?” Coulson asks peering over the top of his frames at the younger man. And fuck! Is that hot? Hard-on, hard-on, go away, please come back another day.

“Uhh - good thanks. Plenty of it,” says Clint trying not to appear flustered.

Coulson nods and returns to his book. “Ah well. I guess we won’t need to shower together in the morning after all.”

***

Today's title is based on this post (just couldn’t managed to get “lubed up” in… well, not in the title anyway).