Hello! This is the first story I've decided to start uploading on here. I think you get an idea of what I like to write by looking at my pen name. I really don't know what qualifies as a "songfic," but this might be a songfic? Considering the plot is more or less the lyrics in story format. All inspiration comes from the Avengers, Thor, and the wonderful song Don't Stand So Close to Me by the Police. I hope you enjoy!
Clint leaned forward on his elbows. History always went by too fast. He stared at his teacher who stood front and center at the board, writing out their latest assignment instructions. His dark eyes meticulously took apart the elder man, pondering his green eyes and barely pigmented skin. There was little showing, his pinstriped jacket and black pants covering a majority of his slender form. Clint's ears drank the deep, accented voice that belonged to his favorite teacher.
"Mr. Laufeyson," someone across the room jarred Barton's thoughts. "Does this paper have to be a certain number of pages, or just a minimum number of paragraphs?"
"Eight paragraphs. No more, no less. Page number doesn't matter." His response was short and to the point, as always.
"Did you listen at all?" Clint prompted the asker. The dark haired man turned his attention to the sandy haired male, the shadow of a grin on his face.
"If anyone has any further questions, ask Mr. Barton." With that, he took a seat at his own desk. Clint's cheeks felt a bit warm, but he ignored it. There were a few muted giggles about the room, but that was expected. The bell rang only moments later, and the shuffling of rising high schoolers was clamorous. They slung back packs over their shoulders and grabbed binders from their desks, their heavy feet creating friction with the ground. Clint was the only person who took his time gathering his folders and back pack. He stood and put his back pack on properly.
He was the last out of class, wishing Mr. Laufeyson a good afternoon. History was the last class of the day, so he could go home and take a nap with fresh memories of his instructor. He drove home, home being a small apartment in the shitty part of town. He was an orphan, old enough to live on his own. Since he was old enough to have a job, he had worked. He had saved. Now he only needed to work weekends and Wednesday evenings to stay afloat.
He dropped on the couch and closed his eyes, sighing discernibly. He was left to yearn perpetually and desire for the man he could never have. There was the age gap, the sexuality factor, and you know, the fact that teachers and students in a relationship was frowned upon if illegal wasn't enough.
He wished for the aching to end, but he loved to divulge in his less than innocent dreams. Off he went into space and pleasant imagery, cozy in his sleep.