Clint huddled into Buck's arms, his eyes glued to the alarm clock on the nightstand. "Why are you making us wait again?" he asked impatiently.
"Because, sweetheart," Buck stroked the younger archer's messy hair, "New York's oppressive laws prohibit you from consenting to sex with me knowingly until you're seventeen."
Still unhappy, but satiated, Clint resumed his vigilance over the clock until it finally ticked to midnight. "Fine, I'm seventeen, now-" he gasped as the hand resting nonchalantly on his thigh moved north to his waiting erection.
"Happy birthday, baby. Now, just relax and let me give you your present..."