A/N: The parts in Italics are flash backs from the night before.
Phil sighed and tightened his hold around the deliciously warm body lying beside him. There was no other response than a sleepy mumble, and Phil hid his smile in the muscled shoulder in front of him.
Clint was apparently still asleep, because if one thing could be said about the archer, it was that he would never miss a chance of morning sex. Never.
Ever.
Phil wasn't going to drift away again, he never could, his mind hardwired to be fully operational at the second he was awake, hopefully until the moment he would get to go back to bed.
The time span between the two occurrences was sometimes depressingly long.
Less, now that Clint made sure everyone was aware, especially Phil, that he expected his boyfriend to spend a part of the night by his side, when he was country side, at least five days a week.
Nick Fury is a lot of thing, and definitely not a coward, but a little snake he is, and thus is not suicidal enough to force Clint Barton to celibate when there was no good reason for it.
A lot of people wondered what the hell the archer was doing with the Paper Pusher extraordinaire. As much marveled at the opposite. From what Hill told Phil, Fury was still torn between being grateful the relationship smoothed the edges of Clint's transition, and being pissed that his best friend both nailed an asset against the protocol and didn't tell him about it.
Sitwell thought they were all nutters. Phil strongly believed he was the weirdest of them all; perfect sassy straight man, with his white picket house, his pretty and loving wife and his two kids.
Seriously, people living the American Dream shouldn't be working well at S.H.I.E.L.D. It was against the laws of nature.
Phil felt Clint stir in his arms, and knew it wouldn't be too long before he got an enthusiastic partner. He started carding his fingers through Clint's hair, mouthing softly at the smooth skin behind his ear.
Phil pushed Clint's legs further apart, lapping, kissing and biting at the spot between the blond's shoulder blades that would make him boneless with pleasure. He drank in the small helpless whimpers that escaped Clint when the older man manhandled him, putting him where he wanted.
Clint loved to be topped, loved being able to just let Phil do all the work, loved to just enjoy it.
Phil loved the complete trust Clint put in him, convinced as he was that his lover would satisfy his every need.
Phil didn't remember much of the actual preparation, intoxicated as he was on Clint's pants and wails and groans.
He rode the smaller body hard, as hard as he could, the blond rocking forward with every snap of his hips, Clint wailing and begging for more.
They came. They came hard.
The only reason they didn't spent the night sticky and icky was Phil's now ingrained knowledge that the aftermaths of night sex for him and Clint meant the complete refusal to move until they got at least four hours of sleep. Twelve when they were lucky. Therefore Phil always prepared damp towels beforehand. Clint laughed but never complained.
Always ready was always a good MO, no matter a scout or not.
Clint sighed happily, not unlike Phil just before, and slowly brought Phil's hand, the one that was lying across his chest, to his mouth. The older man smiled a bit wider as his lover carefully started mapping the outlines of it, mouthing the long fingers, nibbling the knuckles.
The archer always had a thing for Phil's hands. He had a thing for hands in general, probably before his very close and dependant relationships with his own. However, Phil's were always the subject of thorough investigation, and every single little paper cuts earned the older agent's an evening of worshipping.
Not that Phil complained. Because, no. Never.
Finally, Clint decided that Phil's left hand hadn't mysteriously transfigured in the last eight hours since he saw it, and he turned in Phil's arms to greet the older man properly. The kiss was slow and sweet, a soft welcome as well as a proposal, a question.
Was Phil up to it? Yes, of course. He lived in fear of the day when is body, after a restful night, wouldn't be aroused by Clint.
Thankfully today was not this day. Clint felt his determination and smiled, flipping them expertly so that he was on top.
For a long moment, it was nothing but that, languorous kissing, tongue mingling like they had nothing else in the world to do, like there wasn't anywhere else they'd rather be. To be honest, there wasn't at the moment.
Phil was gently trailing his fingers along Clint's flank, barely pressing enough not to tickly the man, barely pressing enough to be reassuring, in the way that never failed to get the younger man to sprawl bonelessly over him.
Clint retaliated by carding his fingers through Phil's short hair, so perfectly tender it made Phil's chest ache.
They caressed slowly every inch of skin they could reach without moving from their position, pressed as tight as they could. It wasn't urgent, it wasn't burning, and it was everything Phil ever wanted from morning sex.
After an eternity or two, Clint moved ever so slightly, enough to reach and grab the little tube they left on the night stand the evening before. The short separation warranted a few more minutes of making out, before Clint opened the cape and coated his fingers.
Phil spread his legs easily, after the few seconds necessary to remember how to move anything that wasn't his mouth. Clint smiled, knowing all of his lover's tells, but too flattered by them to call the older man on it.
Phil moaned when the first fingered breached him, Clint massaging just enough the tight hole for it to relent easily.
The thing was, before Clint, Phil was never one to appreciate being fucked. He loved to be on top, to be in control, and as one of his old lovers put it, to be the man. Clint certainly never complained. He loved to bottom, his anus a never ending pool of infinite pleasure as far as he was concerned, but the extreme sensitivity of it brought another problem.
Tender as Clint's behind was, being penetrated twice in a day caused nothing more than discomfort for the man, something he failed to mention to Phil until they reached their three months mark. As the archer saw an evening home wasted if he didn't get 'fucked', -his words, not Phil's- morning usually meant blowjobs and jerk offs.
Until Phil swallowed his manly man's pride and presented himself to Clint.
He never had any reasons to regret doing so.
Clint slowly entered a second finger and Phil sighed at the burn, muted and hazy in the semi darkness. The archer crooked his fingers and calmly zeroed on his partner's prostate. He didn't attack it, like some of Phil's past bad experiences tended to, but brushed it, again and again. Never strong enough to disrupt the peacefulness of the act, just enough to tease and allure.
Phil melted in the sheets, murmuring non senses and whimpering under his breath. He had no pride to save from Clint. He almost missed the moment the third finger slipped in, too light headed to feel anything in particular.
He went pliantly when Clint pushed him, rolling on his side, feeling his partner settle behind him. He sighed and moaned as the blunt length of Clint's sunk in.
Clint wrapped his arms around Phil's chest, hugging him close as his hips moved smoothly, fluidly, like waves washing the shore.
Phil let his head fall back and closed his eyes as Clint peppered his face and neck with airy kisses.
Clint loved to be fucked in the evening, when they were both keyed up from the adrenaline, and driven up the wall by the frustrations their jobs entailed. He loved to be pinned down and barely prepped. He loved being ridden hard and fast and strong, hips snapping and skin clapping.
He loved to scream and growl and arch under Phil. He loved orgasms so intense, so nearly painful they exploded from their whole bodies, from the roots of their hair to the tip of their toes.
He loved that Phil cared and loved him enough to claim him as his, over and over and over again, night after night after night.
Phil loved to bottom in the morning, loved to be cuddled, and held and slowly unraveled by steady hands and sighs. He loved the softness, the blurriness of the hesitant sun, the heaviness of their limb, the slowness of their movements.
He loved to be taken care of, to let go as he never thought he could ever let go, because he was a man and the man was in charge. He loved to be handled as if he was precious and fragile and unique.
Clint did it happily for him, and Phil did it happily for Clint.
He sighed again as one of the archer's hand drifted downward, to wrap itself around Phil's cock. The movement of his hips, while still lazy, pushed harder, deeper.
Phil knew it wouldn't be that long, neither of them lasted much in the mornings, never finding real motivation to control themselves. It was purely self-indulgent, nothing about performance.
Clint was first, with a murmured "Phil" and a faint shudder, always so terribly aroused by the complete trust Phil bestowed on him.
Phil followed him, moaning brokenly, mind blown by the realization that someone loved him enough to draw pleasure in coddling him.
The both laid there for moments, a bit breathless, until Hood decided he had been patient enough.
He barged in and sprung on the bed, completely unconcerned by their states of undress or the smell of sex lingering in the room. He happily stuck in nose in Clint face before licking a long strip along and in Phil's ear.
As if a switch had been pulled, Clint and Phil found themselves fully awake, cursing after the damn dog in laughing voices.
Hood wasn't bothered and kept circling the bed, joyfully stepping all over them, little sharp claws that really needed trimming making them flinch now and then. Clint snorted and grabbed the dog around the middle, dragging him between them.
Hood half-heartedly protested, twisting a bit, but relented when Phil joined in, trapping the little furry body between theirs. The corgi went lax and avenged himself by sticking his cold nose everywhere and licking the two men.
Phil never really thought of himself as a dog person. Well, that wasn't completely true, but he always thought he would never get a job that would allow him the schedules to take care of a pet properly.
Thankfully, Clint was used to shuffling his work around to make space for his little buddy, and had a few neighbours more than willing to look after the dog when he was out of the country.
Even though the numbers of volunteers diminished after Clint came out as dating Phil, the older agent was more than willing to pick up the slack. A companionship had instantly struck up between him and Hood, making him a bit sad for all the dogs he didn't have when he had been young.
Clint poked him in the ribs, knowing it was the most effective way to make him move.
"Come on, lazy ass, go get showered while I fix breakfast."
Phil whined -absolutely manfully, thank you very much- waving a protesting lax arm. Clint chuckled. Phil raised his head from the pillow.
"Do I have to?"
Clint then proceeded to kick him down the bed, Phil landing on his bottom with a thud.
"Yep, we owe the little devil a walk; otherwise he might decide to chew on your briefcase again."
Phil groaned and went to his feet, stretching a bit, earning himself a slap on the ass from Clint.
"Watch your hands, Barton."
Clint smiled unrepentantly over his shoulder.
"Can't blame them for appreciating the scenery."
Phil rolled his eyes at him.
"I want pancakes, smartass!"
The blond didn't answer and Hood trailed behind him, in hope for a discarded piece of bacon or whatever Clint was sure to throw his way. Phil shook his head and decided that he probably could use a shower.
Once he was clean, he was asked to make sure the bacon didn't burn -the extent of his culinary talents- while the archer took his turn in the bathroom. Hood stayed beside him, attempting to hypnotize the food into falling in his mouth.
Two years of failed attempts weren't enough to dishearten him. Phil had to admire his persistence.
Clint reappeared just in time to whisk the bacon away and start the pancakes. Phil stared at him.
"You're wearing an orange shirt."
Clint smiled at him.
"Yep! Great, isn't it?"
Phil, was he a lesser man, would have sneered.
"It's orange. Orange is the color of the devil. No piece of clothing should ever be allowed to be orange."
Clint rolled his eyes and looked Phil up and down.
"Says the man who is wearing a suit on a Saturday."
Phil looked mock-haughtily at him.
"You never know who you are going to meet."
Clint nodded, clearly humoring him.
At breakfast Phil and Clint sat in front of each other, not really talking, never having much to say to each other so soon in the day. Everything interesting the day before had been thoroughly discussed the eve, and neither of them were the type for meaningless small talk.
They were perpetually thrilled with stolen glances, little smiles and bumping feet. An outsider wouldn't have pegged them for anything more than roommates.
Finally Clint stood up, and Hood, who had been lying in a Sphinx-like position, jumped in a nearly invisible motion to his paws and barged toward the door. Clint called out.
"Better hurry, boss, if you don't want to repaint the door. Again."
Phil rolled his eyes once more and stood, straightening his jacket.
"I don't understand why I'm the one that constantly repaints. As I recall, it's your dog."
When he got in the hallway, Clint was tying the leash, and Phil took a moment to appreciate the view the bending over offered. The archer, perfectly aware of it took his sweet time getting upright again, shooting a cocky grin over his shoulder at Phil. The older man knew he looked nothing but fond and indulgent, but couldn't bring himself to care and rectify the situation.
Clint opened the door, waiting for Phil to get out before closing and locking it, despite Hood's best, and futile, efforts to drag him all the way to the park.
"Because you are the one that is constantly stalling."
Phil huffed at him.
"Forgive me for wanting to enjoy our few mornings in."
Once outside, the humid hotness hit them like a wall, making it harder to breathe for a few seconds. Phil nearly sighed, already missing the AC. He disliked warm weather, preferring winter over summer any time, but Clint was the complete opposite, abhorring the cold and rejoicing in the warmth.
Hood seemed indifferent in the matter, as long as he got his walk in the Saturdays. When they got to the park, Clint chose a spot near a pond and untied Hood, finding a suitable stick nearby. Phil smiled at them while they played fetch, and settled on a nearby bench. He hadn't brought a book, not able to focus in the weather, so he kept his eyes on his boyfriend and their dog.
"Agent Coulson?"
His head turned toward a man standing a few meters away, dumb struck expression on his face, while a young woman beside him looked between the two of them with a puzzled face. The senior agent quickly recognized one of the new recruits, Agent Powell if he recalled right. He smiled blandly.
"Agent Powell."
The man's mouth opened and closed a few times. The woman, probably his girlfriend, decided they were coworkers, and was obviously entertained by the rather excellent impersonation of a goldfish her partner was offering.
"Sir, I didn't know- I mean, I didn't want to- nice weather we're- I hope we-"
The poor agent finally decided to stop humiliating himself, and grabbed the woman and subtly herded her away. She humored him and offered Phil a friendly smile to apologize.
When they were out of sight, Phil allowed his amused smile to blossom, and he shook his head. He felt Clint's approach more than he saw or heard it, not turning to face him but addressing the archer nonetheless.
"I told you so."
Clint huffed in the put upon manner he used when Phil got a point he wasn't happy about.
"Yeah, yeah, you daring to wear jeans would bring S.H.I.E.L.D. down because God forbid the junior agents stop wetting themselves in front of Phil Coulson. Seriously, what'd be that bad about them knowing you are human?"
Phil chose to ignore the last part of the tirade, turning to look at him.
"You never wetted yourself in front of me."
Clint's eyes turned half amuse, half frustrated.
"Because I got firsthand experience that you were human. Somehow a man is less intimidating when you know he drools in his sleep."
Phil frowned, as was expected. It was an old argument, one that was never completely resolved, but that they tacitly turned in a running gag.
"I do not drool."
Clint rolled his eyes and dropped to the ground, Hood tripping himself in the urge to climb in his lap.
"Of course you don't, babe."
Phil smiled calmly and looked away at the ducks playing in the pond. They had managed to get to seven dates before Agent Coulson had to introduce himself to Hawkeye. By that time, they had sex four times and slept together for two, the first because Clint was completely exhausted as he came directly from a taxing mission.
Predictably, the archer hadn't appreciated to learn the man he had been dating was his superior, and that Coulson knew about it. The older man fought teeth and nails to convince Clint it wasn't a ploy to get him to cooperate better, that he never wanted to abuse him, that he really cared for and wanted the blond.
Phil was man enough to admit to the whole world, in particular to Clint and Fury that he fucked up big time but also to meet anyone that would try and tell him this wouldn't work head on, Clint included. For a month he folded himself in four to get the archer to forgive him.
Well, he was still doing his damnedest best to get forgiven, because he was pretty sure he still wasn't, but he did get his second chance after a month. He treated it with the care and love it deserved. The care and love Clint deserved.
Clint seemed to know what he was thinking about and smiled at Phil softly. The past was done, there was nothing Phil could do about it, and if he could change it, he wasn't sure he would.
He was pretty sure it would have taken more than a month for Clint to accept a date from a superior he never met before.
It was mostly behind them now, and they agreed that their anniversary should be on the date of their first date after they met at S.H.I.E.L.D. It gave them a reason not to think about everything that came before.
The park started to get more and more crowded, with kids, parents or couples that, like them didn't get a lot of free times during the week. Clint and Phil moved as one, getting to their feet.
As they walked out, Clint, decidedly in a very good mood today, wrapped the arm that wasn't holding Hood around Phil's shoulders and held him close to him. Phil did his best not to show his surprise, in case it changed Clint's mind. Phil had nothing against PDAs, and he certainly wasn't ashamed of Clint, but the archer was usually wary of whom he disclosed their relationship to; worried about people discarding him, thinking he slept his way in the system. No amount of assurances from Phil convinced him that anybody who had ever met Hill and Fury would ever believe they would select an agent that wasn't the very best at what they did.
Clint could be more than a little insecure at times. It usually wrenched Phil's heart, but there wasn't anything he could do about it, except making sure the archer had no reason to add to his issues anymore.
Phil was a little lost in thought, and was startled out of them when Clint wrenched himself away. He turned and appraised the situation in a fraction of second.
No immediate danger.
Clint was walking away, smiling like a loon.
He was walking toward a vending cart.
A candy selling vending cart.
No way in Hell.
Phil managed to catch the wrist of the man just a few meters away from the vendor who raised his eyebrows at them. Clint didn't even turn.
"Come on, Phil, just one!"
Phil shook his head, even though Clint couldn't see him. He also took Hood's leash from the archer's hand, not wanting the dog to be a collateral damage.
"No, Clint."
Clint turned to face him with a whine that wouldn't have been out of place in the mouth of five years olds.
"But I want one!"
Phil looked at him sternly.
"No."
Clint opened wide puppy eyes at him, that Phil, thankfully, had seen too often to be moved by them.
"Why?"
Phil glared at him.
"Because you know you always get the worst sugar high off them. Last time, you bounced of everywhere, you broke a lamp, which had been a gift from my grandmother, and you hurt yourself on the shards of it. Then you crashed and I got stuck fixing the messes and patching you up."
Clint paused for a second.
"I don't remember that?"
Phil huffed.
"Buzzed as you were, I would be surprised you would."
He stared down at Clint as much as he could, since there was barely an inch of difference between them.
"No candy."
Clint pouted, thrusting his lower lip so much forward Phil was tempted to pinch it.
"You're no fun."
Phil shrugged and turned away and started walking, Hood leading the way, ignoring his master as much as Phil was trying to. Clint struggled behind, tugging at Phil's grip fruitlessly, making grabby hands motion at the stand. Phil didn't even want to know what the vendor's face looked like at the moment.
Three streets farther Clint finally admitted he wouldn't win this point and started walking a careful three meters beside Phil, shoulders exaggeratedly hunched, pout firmly in place, glaring once in a while at the older man.
Phil endured it until they were almost home before sighing. As much as the childish behavior was all an act, Clint could held on to it for a surprising long time, and he wasn't really fond of wasting his off days in a battle of wills to determine who was the most stubborn of them. (He was, don't let Clint fool you.) He preferred to let Jasper handle them during the week.
"If you're nice, we'll get ice cream after lunch."
Clint instantly brightened, grabbing Phil around the shoulder to plant a loud, smacking kiss on his boyfriend's cheek, before grabbing Hood's leash back and racing the dog to the house. Hood yipped happily, running as fast as his short legs would propel him, Clint's pace clearly faster than he was able to match up.
Phil sighed, rolled his eyes and shook his head, relishing in the rare opportunity of actually displaying his 'frustrations'.
Clint was the sweetest of irritants.
A/N: I drew the fanart for this fic. It can be found on my blog, at the
post /46293064318/ illustration-for-the-second-summer-posted-on