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Clint's always been very careful.
He thinks about this as he washes his dishes in Stark Tower after a solitary lunch.
It's not a surprise given his upbringing, but there are some things Clint pays careful attention to when needs must and some things he's constantly being careful about, wallowing in a low level of anxious energy.
One of the things he's constantly being careful about are his nipples. Because the Lord God gifted Clint with sensitive nipples.
Really, really sensitive nipples, in an inconvenient and occasionally emasculating way. They're on a hair trigger, hardwired directly to his dick. It's not exactly something he wants to advertise. Even when he's in bed with someone it's not a good idea to let on– in his line of work, it's a rookie mistake to let your guard down. Incapacitated is as good as dead when you pick people up in bars.
He's always been self-conscious about how easily a careless nudge can make him breathless and pliant. It's not a problem when he's in combat, or when he's sparring, or injured; but if anything— and he means anything— brushes his tits when he's not going through the grinder, well. It's not pretty.
Among other precautionary measures, he always makes sure to wear a tight undershirt, a second layer of defense against the scrape and pull of his looser t-shirts. It's saved him multiple times from the unknowing swipe of Stark's elbow when the man gesticulates in the communal kitchen to throw up displays with his insane house. He avoids medical and the sweet torture of its cold stethoscopes when he can, and guards his personal space zealously.
That's not to say that mishaps don't happen regardless of his prophylactics. It's just that, inexplicably, they happen a lot in situations involving Coulson. It's not exactly ideal, firstly because Coulson usually doesn't miss anything, and secondly because Clint has harboured a blazing crush on the man for years and he's all but told Clint that he's not interested. Also, he died. Clint's just happy to have him back.
Clint slots the dried dishes away in one of the Tower's ostentatiously post-modern cupboards.
Coulson moved in a few days ago, finally caving to Tony's incessant whining. Clint helped him lift boxes and, naturally, had his first slip since his ex-handler ate it in the Battle. Who was surprised? Not him. Coulson's mysterious resurrection was still news and he had been really distracted by watching Coulson move around and, you know, be alive, so of course this was the moment the point of one of the moving boxes caught on his left nipple. It was just for a split second, but enough for his eyes to unfocus and for one knee to buckle as his dick twitched violently in his pants. Maybe he made a noise, he doesn't know.
But Clint generally bounces back quick from this kind of thing because of a lifetime of practice, and he figured he covered it up pretty well with a quip about a pulled muscle, because Coulson didn't seem to have registered anything untoward at all. He was mostly concerned about whether or not Clint was going to drop his shit. Needless to say, Clint paid a whole lotta attention to what came near his chest for the rest of the afternoon.
Clint wipes his hands on the dishtowel and heads back to his room for a little siesta. He passes Natasha in the hallway on her way to the gym and realises that for all he thinks of Coulson, he hasn't actually seen the man around much. It should be nearly impossible, given that they all use the same common spaces, but he seems to have managed it anyways.
Clint lets it go. Coulson needs time; who wouldn't, after what he went through?
-----
He started noticing a few months in the way that Clint always seemed to protect the space around his chest more than he did any other part of his body. It was confusing at first; his medical scans were clear and none of the psych reports mentioned anything about trauma involving his torso. The amount of care he took to avoid things touching his chest– including his own (insanely ripped) arms– made no sense. Of course, Coulson figured it out pretty quickly afterwards. He was on the range with Clint one day to test out a new rifle from R&D, and it was clear that Clint had forgotten how little the thing weighed when he picked it up from the stand at the end of the session. The stand tipped over onto the floor and the stock swiped down over his chest before he adjusted for the weight and got a better grip. Coulson remembers vividly the almost silent gasp that chased its way out of Clint's mouth and the way his eyes glazed over just so slightly– as well as the incriminating shift at the crotch of Clint's trousers. Then, an op in Tartu, when he'd clapped Clint on the chest and Clint's face went slack and his eyes randomly rolled up in his head; and then in Jakarta, when Couslon had pushed by in a corridor and Clint had straight up whimpered.
He licks his lips thinking about it. Shifts a little in his seat.
Coulson's a middle-aged man with a healthy sex drive and a few kinks. He's thought about the noises Clint might make under his hands with a pretty substantial collection of incidents like these for reference. He doesn't feel that guilty about his little fantasies– especially now that he's no longer Clint's handler. It's not like he hadn't noticed Clint before the range incident, the sharpshooter probie with a brilliant tactical mind and absolutely no teamwork skills. He warmed up to the man immediately after meeting him; it was impossible not to. Since Year 2, though, after he ended things with Audrey, he can confidently say that he's been nursing a healthy attraction to Specialist Barton and his hair-trigger nipples. He hadn't really planned on doing anything about that, either, until Natasha whipped some sense into him. Before he died, that is.
Unfortunately, now that he's back in the land of the living, he's not sure where he stands with Clint anymore. He knows he wasn't making up the tension between them, back when it was just them, and then when they were Strike Team Delta. He was sure after Natasha started dropping shovel-talk threats with her after-action reports. Now that he's been stabbed in the chest it's all eggshells and 'I'm so glad you're here with us, Agent Coulson.' He's milking that while he's able but really– all he wants to do is pin Clint to the wall and fuck him, a lot. Preferably while sucking on his nipples.
Thing is, Clint doesn't even look ready to have a conversation with him like a regular person, much less ready for him to make any kind of advances. He gives the man some space; movie night is tonight, or so he's told. He'll reevaluate the situation then.
-----
Later when Clint's lounging in the living room with the rest of the crew waiting for Bruce to clean up in the lab so they can start their Tuesday team-building-movie-night-whatever thing, Coulson appears in the doorway and drifts to the other end of the couch Clint has claimed. He thinks he catches Coulson's gaze directed intently at his chest as he looks over to say hello, but Coulson's turned his head away again as he folds himself into the pillows. Clint's convinced the only reason he's getting spooked is because he thought too much about his nipples in relation to Coulson after lunch, but after an internal battle that lasts most of the time it takes for Bruce to arrive he glances down at his shirt. It's thin enough that he can seee the gentle curve of his soft and puffy nipples through the fabric.
Clint freezes and a cold sweat breaks out on his back. His nipples stiffen and goosebumps break out on his arms a little in shame and unexpected arousal. He tries to keep his breathing steady.
He surreptitiously flicks his eyes back up at Coulson's face– but the man's eyes are pointed slightly to Clint's left. Clint looks over that way and sees Cap's shield leaning on the wall. Of course. Coulson was probably looking at the shield the whole time. Light's dim, easy to mistake his line of sight.
But when Clint shifts his eyes sideways at Coulson again, right before Tony turns the lights off, he swears to Christ in heaven– Coulson is fucking looking at his chest again.
He puts it out of his mind with some degree of success by the time the movie starts, and with every shift and scrape of his shirt over the hard nubs on his chest, he thinks very hard about the film's shitty plot and not whether Coulson knows.
-----
The credits roll and Tony ambles off to the kitchen to get more popcorn before he heads down to his workshop again. Everyone's shoving themselves stiffly off the cushions and Clint is about to follow suit when Coulson makes his way over.
"Clint, I was wondering if I could have a word," he says. Everyone but Natasha's mostly left the room and she clearly overhears, because she looks at Clint with death and dismemberment lurking in her eyes before sauntering out.
Clint bobs his head enthusiastically. It's not like that. He's just glad Coulson's feeling better to seek him out. "Yeah of course, sir," he says, shifting to his feet.
They move into the hallway leading out towards the helo pad.
"First off, I hope you've been doing alright," Coulson says. Start with familiar ground. "I know it's still early. I wanted to give you all some space to process that I'm not, you know."
"Yeah," says Clint. He's a little confused. "I've been doing good. But... I mean, I would have loved to see you more over the last week. Me and Nat, we've really missed you."
Coulson looks like he's reevaluating his game plan a little. "Oh. Ok. So, what I wanted to talk to you about." He looks intently at Clint. Clint tries not to feel worried that Coulson's apparently trying to see into the depths of his soul.
He's surprised and almost knees Coulson in reflex when he's suddenly pressed against the wall. Violence aborted, he watches Coulson's lips move in excruciatingly slow motion towards him until he goes cross eyed and begins to feel them with his own lips instead.
When Clint's brain reboots, Coulson's mouth is resting softly on his. Clint is not going to pass this up, no way. No way. He shoves his tongue past Coulson's teeth and sucks on Coulson's bottom lip. Coulson expresses his approval of the situation by grinding his– holy fuck, his enormous cock, in the dip of Clint's hip.
"Jesus," Clint moves back to breathe.
"Actually, my name–"
Clint goes back to sucking on Coulson's face, if only to stop him from making shitty dad jokes.
"God, I've wanted you for so long," Clint moans into his mouth, gripping Coulson's jumper and rolling his hips against the giant cock in Coulson's slacks. "I flirted with you for years and you never said a thing, why now?"
"Clint," Coulson says, looking surprised. "You flirt with everyone."
Clint feels like hanging his head a little, because he didn't mean it with anyone but Coulson.
Coulson shakes his head. "No, I never meant to turn you away. I just never thought you would ever really be interested, until a few months ago. And then, you know. I never got the chance to say anything. "
Clint drags Coulson's head back to swap more spit.
"Ok," he breathes against Coulson's cheek when they break again for air. Coulson starts to mouth at his neck instead. "Hey, hey. Let's move this somewhere else."
Coulson stands back and straightens his clothing. "Good idea. Yours or mine?"
"Mine's closer. One floor down." And they're off, stumbling over themselves to get to the stairs as fast as possible.
They slam into Clint's flat without running into anyone and make a beeline for the bedroom. Clint stops at the bed, halfway to taking off his clothes. "Wait," he says. "Are we doing the sexy striptease thing or can we go straight to being naked?"
"Naked," Coulson mumbles from inside of the jumper he's pulling over his head. The scar from Loki's spear comes into view, but both of them ignore it; scars are commonplace in their line of work. They both have their fair share, from cigarette burns and garrotte wire to bullet wounds. "We can do the sexy striptease next time. I want to see you naked."
Clint's isn't sure where he flings his socks but he's sure he'll find them when he cleans next Tuesday.
He gets a good look at Coulson without his clothes and whistles, mouth watering and heart pumping in his chest like he's been running a marathon. Coulson is still lean and hard like he remembers from furtive glances in shared showers, his muscles smooth from combat and hard labour instead of rolling around in a gym. It's almost like he was never in the hospital in the first place. Coulson's dick, on the other hand, is the thickest dick Clint's ever seen in his life. "Christ. How come I've never seen that cock? We've been on so many ops together and I never knew you had a cock like that." He scratches his hip. "Fuck. It's like a fucking beer can."
Coulson grins and tugs his meat. "I don't know, Hawkeye," he says. Clint scowls. "C'mon. You can get acquainted with it on the bed. Maybe even touch it if you're good."
"I'll touch it, alright," Clint says distractedly. He follows Coulson onto the bed, lowering himself between Coulson's knees to put that monster at eye level. "Ok, I'm gonna suck it, wish me luck." Coulson's laughter turns into a low, scratchy moan as Clint takes the cap into his mouth and makes like a vacuum.
There's no way he can take even half of the damn thing; it's a pretty average length, but its girth is decidedly non-conducive to oral sex. He plants his elbows and uses the meat of his palms to pump the shaft, squeezing his cock from head to base. Coulson's going crazy above him as the bones of his thumbs dig in on either side.
Coulson pulls Clint up by his forearms to kiss. He flips them over and smooths Clint's shoulders out on the pillows, taking a good look. He smiles knowingly and moves his mouth down to Clint's chest, and Clint's breath speeds up as warm, wet heat covers his right nipple, rock-hard cock jumping up to thump at his belly. Fuck. Coulson blinks at the sound and leans back. He looks down.
"Wow," he purrs. Clint blushes violently and chews nervously on his lower lip. Well, that answers that question.
Coulson prods a nipple softly with his finger and Clint's leg jerks underneath him, precum beading at the tip of his cock. Clint can feel his neck and chest starting to flame. Coulson huffs out a laugh and moves back down to suck on it gently, keeping eye contact and letting Clint's cockhead nestle in his chest hair. Clint shudders under the texture of Coulson's tongue and stares, panting harshly.
Coulson moves back a little and blows, the whisper drawing goosebumps out of Cline's skin and the nub stiffens, small and hard. He flicks it and Clint jerks again. Couslon scrapes his tongue carefully over the very tip of Clint's erect nipple and–
and Clint breaks the skin of his lip where he's biting down and lets out a strangled noise and shudders, breathing fast and eratic because ehhgnh fuck. Coulson drags his tongue forwards and back and forwards again and Clint fists the sheets and strains against the urge to mash Coulson's mouth down on his chest because if he does it won't feel as good as this, like electrifying torture.
Clint gulps thankfully for air when Coulson stops, but Coulson shifts to Clint's left nipple and nudges and nips and scrapes and worries the tip lightly between his teeth and Clint begs and pleads softly, shifting jerkily on the sheets. He's pretty sure he's never going to get his dignity back.
Coulson laves Clint's chest again for a bit, then gives the nipple one last swipe and sinks further, eyeing Clint's cock. Clint slumps in relief. He flexes his abdominal muscles and watches his dick jump up, flopping by a centimeter away from Coulson's lips.
Coulson smiles handsomely when he takes Clint into his mouth.
Clint moans.
Couson pulls off and sits up before Clint comes, a hand wrapped around the root of his cock to keep him steady. "You got lube and condoms?" he asks. "Like I haven't already put your dick in my mouth or anything."
Clint laughs. "Yeah, wait." He gets up and steps over Coulson's shoulders to get to the wardrobe, dragging his balls across the man's forehead.
"Hey," Coulson complains good-naturedly, getting off the bed. One of his knees pop.
"Shush." Clint rummages through one of his drawers and unearths a condom when the idea strikes him. "Actually, you clean? Medical's cleared me."
"I'm clean," Coulson confirms.
"Good." Clint trusts him. He drops the package back in the drawer. "You know, I like getting pumped full of cum."
Coulson staggers and sits heavily on the bed, hand grasping the base of his cock. "Christ, Barton, you can't say things like that," he mutters, sounding dazed. Clint notes with satisfaction that Coulson's coke-can dick is shiny red and leaking.
"Come here," Coulson pats the sheets. Clint obliges, climbing on his hands and knees to the pillows and sinking his upper body down towards the bed to present his hole. He pushes his cock and balls back between his legs and pumps his shaft a little to sweeten up the display.
Coulson's breathing is audibly heavy. Clint hears him rumble "Fuck" over the snap of the lube bottle cap. He can't help flexing his glutes, winking his hole for the peanut gallery.
Clint gathers up some of the sheets and stuffs his mouth when he feels Coulson's wet fingers circling his hole, dipping down to massage his taint and the root of his cock and coming back up again to nudge in milimeter by milimeter. The lube drips down onto his ballsack.
Clint lets out a long breath when Coulson's criminally long index finger presses all the way in. Coulson immediately starts to nudge it around, thrusting gently and starting to work his middle finger in. Clint feels a blooming heat in his spine when Coulson makes contact with his prostate. "Yeah, yeah there sir," he purrs.
Three fingers in and Clint is blissed out on the sheets, hips shifting minutely with every bump of Coulson's knuckles past his rim and chasing them when they slide back out.
"How're you doing?" Coulson murmurs.
"Good," Clint slurs back. "Good. I could come like this, if you keep going. I could.... I could come. Your fingers feel so good."
Coulson swipes his tongue over his lower lip. "You wanna come like this? We can do that. I'd love to see you come on my fingers."
Clint groans. "No, no, I want your cock. Fuck me, sir."
"Yeah, ok," Coulson reassures him, "Lemme just...I gotta make sure you're loose enough for me." He twists his fingers. "And my name's Phil."
"Yessir." Coulson rolls his eyes. Clint wiggles his hips. "You, you got a real soda can of a dick sir." He's running out of appropriate similes. "C'mon n' fuck me with your fat cock."
Coulson laughs as he slides his fingers out and lines his cockhead up. "I can see what you're really after here."
Clint deigns not to answer, concentrating instead on staying loose so Coulson can sink himself in completely. Coulson's cock fills him up so much that he can't move at all without it stimulating his prostate.
The moment Coulson feels Clint relax around the entirety of his cock, he shuffles Clint's knees further up the bed with his own to get his arms free and slides his hands across Clint's ribs to touch his nipples.
Clint whimpers, shoulders abruptly collapsing to the sheets. Coulson starts to pump his hips slowly, hands playing with the nubs. Clint's a touch on his dick away from going off on a rocket.
"Christ you're sensitive," Coulson marvels. "How the hell did you ever make it past resistance training?"
Clint clutches at the sheets, tensing and relaxing and tensing and relaxing. "That's completely different," he wheezes.
"I don't think so," Coulson says, and all of a sudden his fingers gently pinch and twist and Clint jacknifes on Coulson's cock, choking down a wet sob.
"Pl, please," he blurts haltingly, hips writhing and cock dripping as Coulson tugs on the nubs, twin livewires to his dick.
Coulson stops and pulls out, and Clint is just about to start begging louder and faster when he's rolled over, bedroom light dim above Coulson's comforting mass. Coulson's eyes sweep hungrily across Clint's face and down his body, like he can't get enough. He reverently pushes back in, and his hands go straight back to Clint's chest to pet and flick and Christ they are lethal. Clint's arms flop on the bed by his head as he arches and groans hedonistically. His grip flexes and he ends up pulling at a handful of his hair. The skin by Coulson's eyes crinkles.
"Rub the tips," Clint begs desperately as he tosses and turns, pushing his chest into Coulson's magic hands. Coulson rubs the tips.
Clint's eyes glass over and his hole clenches around Coulson, fluttering in soft contractions as his abdominal muscles shudder. Coulson leans forward on Clint's chest and starts fucking him in earnest, watching Clint's blissed-out face as he plows into him. Clint's brain shuts down, world shrinking to the velvety strokes of Coulson's cock against his prostate and callused brushes of Coulson's fingers over the peaks of his nipples and Clint no longer has control over the low broken sobs tumbling out of his mouth.
"God, I bet you could come with just my hands on your tits," Coulson breathes, swiping his thumbs over and over and over again on Clint's erect nipples. "Cream in your shorts like a teenager." Clint nods his head drunkenly, muscles flexing and jumping with the rising need to come. He must look debauched, whimpering under his breath at each jolt of electric pleasure.
Coulson narrows his eyes above him, looking for all the world like he's contemplating approaches to a delicate op. He leans back, fingers briefly giving respite to Clint's chest, and changes the angle of his thrusts. Clint knows he's making a lot of noise with each languorous curl of Coulson's hips but it feels so damn good.
"Fuck, you're so thick," he breathes, air punched out of him with each thrust. "Fuck."
Then Coulson's fingers go back to rubbing and plucking at the tips of Clint's tender nipples. Clint's not expecting the intensity of the feeling and he's completely blindsided when there's no pause in the friction and it's overwhelming, it's too much, and he grabs blindly at Coulson's forearms with bruising strength but Coulson doesn't let up amid Clint's thrashing and he convulses and chokes and comes
His muscles spasm violently and relentlessly and his cock jumps and he splatters his load all over Coulson's hands and his own stomach, reedy sobs whistling out from between his slack lips and asshole clenching erratically around Coulson's cock.
Clint's right about emptied his balls by then but Coulson's fingers still haven't stopped and Clint bites his fist, eyes rolling up, and begins to shake uncontrollably.
Distantly, he feels Coulson's hot cum pumping into his ass. Coulson's breathing is thin and shallow as he orgasms, neck muscles straining in high relief through his skin. But his fingers are unfaltering even as his shoulders shudder and Clint is pretty sure this is a misuse of SHIELD training and he feels raw, he thinks he's going to black out from overstimulation.
Right when he's going to start to scream and break down in wet, ugly tears or maybe have a seizure, Coulson stops touching his abused nipples. Clint collapses like his strings have been cut, gulping for breath, taut muscles melting into the sweat-soaked sheets. His strength is completely gone, every single muscle weak. Someone could bust through the door right now and he wouldn't be able to lift a finger, much less a weapon.
Coulson's hands slide down his sticky ribs to cradle his hips. "Was that alright?" he murmurs from somewhere above Clint, carefully slipping his thick cock out from Clint's ass.
"Was that alright?" Clint whispers incredulously, voice broken and maybe a little hysterical. His nipples are painfully sensitive, aching and throbbing with every whisper of air, and he can feel Coulson's warm cum dribbling a filthy wet trail between his asscheeks. "Sir, that was fucking incredible."
Coulson huffs a laugh. "I told you, my name's Phil." He sinks down next to Clint's legs.
"Yeah, yeah," Clint says. "You like it." He clenches to try to keep Coulson's load inside of him but he's not sure his fucked-out asshole can manage it. Coulson slips two fingers inside him and presses against the inner rim, feeling how stretched Clint's hole is. He gathers the cum and lube that's leaked out and pushes it back in with an obscene squelch, watching Clint's face. Clint feels his cheeks flame and he stutters because it's so fucking dirty. Coulson gives him a lewd grin before sinking down to clean up Clint's load with his tongue.
"Shit," Clint chokes. He tugs on Coulson's hair when he's done to bring him up for a sloppy kiss, skin tingling.
"Good boy," Coulson murmurs when they finally break apart, crowding Clint up to the headboard and plastering his chest and shoulders across whatever of Clint he can reach so they're breathing each other's air. Clint can't help the happy whine that winds out from the back of his throat. One of Coulson's hands comes up to play with Clint's hair, sliding fingers across Clint's scalp. Clint feels like he could drown in the blue of his eyes. "How do you feel about breakfast in bed?"
Clint laughs weakly and hauls Coulson in to make out some more. "You know, you never said thank you for not comparing your dick to a baby's arm," he smirks.
Coulson's face stays flat as he pinches Clint's nipples. Clint howls.