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“D’you have water?”
She’s barely opened her eyes, can barely open her eyes in the morning brightness that manages to creep through the curtains, but her tongue is dry and her mouth tastes disgusting and her throat feels like it could stick to itself.
“Mmm,” Coulson grumbles and untangles his arms from around her, then groans as he rolls towards the nightstand on his side of the bed, groans some more as he returns with a bottle of water branded with the Hilton logo. His face is pulled into a deep scowl — not unusual in the mornings (Coulson hates mornings), but it’s more pronounced than usual, especially with his hair extra ruffled on top of his head, and he’d probably hate it if she let on how cute she finds it.
Daisy would laugh, but even sitting up to get a sip of water makes her head throb, makes the room shift a little around her. She takes a few more gulps of water, feels the liquid run down her throat, cold in her chest, and sets the bottle down on her nightstand.
It’s cold outside the covers, and as she runs her hands up and down her arms to warm herself, she becomes aware of the fact that when she stripped naked last night, she didn’t manage to get her bra all the way off. The strapless contraption has shifted so it binds uncomfortably around her ribcage, and she struggles for a moment to reach behind her back and get the damn thing off.
As she fights with her underwear, the night before comes back in flashes: shots of tequila, making out with Coulson at the party, drunkenly sneaking around in a way that seems painfully obvious in hindsight, his fingers inside of her in public.
They’ve not announced their few months-long relationship to anyone — although she’s pretty sure the core of the team had figured something out before last night — and it’s kind of thrilling to remember throwing discretion aside for the first time ever. It was...normal, almost. Normal in a way she’s sort of assumed her life would never be again, and she can’t help but feel grateful.
Even with the hangover, maybe a little bit because of the hangover (perfectly normal hangover), she holds onto a feeling of gratitude...at least until she shifts on the bed and the world spins, and Coulson grunts from next to her.
“I think I’m still drunk,” she mumbles, words slurred together as she dumps the bra onto the floor and presses her fingers to her temples, trying to make everything hold still.
“It was your idea to do shots.” Coulson sounds accusatory, almost.
He scowls some more, but rolls towards her enough to press his forehead to her leg, and she drags her fingers across his head, through his adorable fluffy ruffled hair, as he closes his eyes tightly. She can see him fiddling with his left hand — apparently he left it on all night in his drunkenness, something that she knows means his whole arm aches now.
She reaches down and helps him slide it off, picks it up and sets it on her nightstand, and then runs her fingers over his skin from his shoulder down to the metal bit. He hisses at the touch at first, but lets her keep going, and she can feel the muscles relax under her fingers.
“Better?” She asks the question quietly as she moves her fingers — it’s something she’s done a few times for him, though she thinks he would probably be pretending it didn’t hurt at all if he were more awake and less hung over.
He nods, though, and snuggles his face back into her thigh, seeming a lot less grumpy, so she strokes her fingernails through his hair some more.
“I’m sorry I suggested shots,” she announces, and she definitely means it, she does. “But your best friends don’t get married every day,” she defends herself anyways. And that’s definitely true. She had never actually been to a wedding before, hadn’t sat through a Catholic mass since before she took off from St. Agnes, either, but it was good. More than anything, she remembers Mack glowing with happiness in his tux and Yoyo in a lacy white romper, grinning from ear to ear the whole night.
It was all so happy and perfect and warm and fuzzy, and shots had seemed like a great idea at the time.
“Yeah.” He almost sighs the word, like he’s remembering the nice parts of last night, too, sounds almost penitent about being so grumpy, but when he pulls his face away from her leg and opens his eyes, he winces. Back to scowling. “‘S too bright.”
She laughs — or, she almost laughs because laughing makes everything spin some more — and slides back down the bed so that they can burrow under the covers, cocooning themselves in layers of cotton to block out the ambient light and the chill in the hotelroom.
It’s nicer in the dark, with her face pressed just below Coulson’s chin, with his chest hair rubbing against her cheek, and he nuzzles against her hair and winds his arms back around her; she can feel him grab his left arm with his right hand and lock himself around her.
Waking up with Coulson is her favorite thing. They rarely do it — sneaking between bunks doesn’t make for a great secret keeping — so it feels different and special to be with him first thing in the morning, to be under the covers with him, all warm and solid and really good-smelling.
She presses his nose harder to his skin, right at the base of his neck where there’s a hint of leftover cologne and a little sweat and just Coulson. She feels more stable, less like the world is shifting around her, and she drops a kiss there, just above where his chest hair disappears, lips and then a little bit of teeth in the way that always makes him squirm.
Even hungover, he doesn’t disappoint, and she smiles against his skin as she nips at his neck again, soft and careful so he groans against her hair and shifts his hips against hers.
His squirm against her, the little aroused noises he makes, the smell of his skin up against her — it all makes her clench, makes her almost forget about her hangover for a minute as she thinks about much more pleasant things.
She slides a kiss higher up his neck, to where she can feel his morning stubble against her lips.
“What are you doing?”
He asks like he doesn’t know, asks like he hasn’t started dragging his fingers up and down her naked back and pressing his morning erection against her thigh.
“You know,” she tells him as she rubs her cheek over his stubble, “I read in Cosmo that sex cures hangovers.” Which she totally did, but for the record she’d want to have sex with him right now even if it wouldn’t cure the hangover.
There’s a little noise in his throat, amusement maybe, low and grumbly so she can feel it where her lips are pressed above his adam’s apple.
“Really?” Maybe he sounds interested, maybe just amused, she’s not sure.
“Hmm, orgasms. It’s the...hormones. Or, um —” The word escapes her, between the dull throbbing in her head and the smell of his neck and the way his hand brushes against the side of her breast.
“Endorphins?” His finger spirals down her back and it feels so good that her head doesn’t even hurt. She moans into his neck and wonders if she’s already feeling those good endorphins.
“Yeah.”
“I’m too old for hungover sex.” He slides his hand down to cup her ass, though, belying his words. She shifts her hips, makes it a little easier for his fingers to quest down, far enough that he must be able to feel the slickness growing between her legs. He groans — he can definitely feel it — and squeezes her ass.
“Too old. Sure.” Daisy rolls her eyes and reaches between them to rub his cock. He’s mostly hard already, and when she wraps her fingers around him, it takes her only a few tugs before he’s fully hard between them, before he’s groaning into her hair as she continues to breathe in the scent at the base of his neck.
“Daisy,” he grunts her name and thrusts into her hand. “Daisy.”
“I thought you were too old for this shit,” she says, teasing, and then leans up to kiss him, only to recoil when he exhales in her face. “Your breath is seriously bad.”
He frowns at her, but his eyes are soft even in the dim light under the blankets, his hips still shifting against her hand.
“Yours smells like roses.”
He’s snarky, but he doesn’t stop touching her, doesn’t pull back, so she leans in and kisses his cheek instead, drags her face against his stubble — she loves the way his face feels in the morning — and he whimpers a little when her lips press to his ear.
“I like you anyways,” she whispers there, and he makes another noise low in his throat — somewhere between a chuckle and a moan.
“Lucky me.” It should sound snarky, but it doesn’t, just soft and pleased with his breath whispering right over her ear so she shudders against him, so her whole back puckers with goosebumps.
She can feel his hand slide down her ass again, fingers questing lower like he’s trying to find a way between her legs without moving too much, and then he grunts in frustration.
“Roll over.”
“Making me do all the work,” she grumbles, only half-playfully, and uses his body to push herself over.
“I’ll give you lots of endorphins,” he teases, and Daisy manages a chuckle even though the whole room definitely wobbles a little, even though the brief entrance of light and colder air from outside the covers is incredibly unpleasant.
Once she’s turned, she collapses back against him with a groan, her back against his chest, the covers pulled back over their heads, and he wraps his right arm around her, his left tucked under her neck.
“Okay?” He sounds legitimately concerned, and she feels bad that she’s making her hangover seem worse than it is, maybe. She’s had way, way worse, after all, and she hates it when he worries about her.
“I’m fine,” she says, snuggles back against him in the dark and the warmth as he holds her gently, like he’s afraid he’ll hurt her if he makes any move.
“Only fine?” He presses the words against her ear, sending a torrent of shivers down her spine at the same time that his hand cups her right breast, his thumb making a careful little circuit of her nipple. Daisy groans and presses her ass back against him and her breast forward into his hand, bends her right arm back to grab his hip in an attempt to keep them connected. He presses back, his cock trapped against her ass so that he groans a little when she wiggles back against him.
“Fantastic,” she corrects, and then moans against the little puff of air Coulson releases against her ear in response.
“Fantastic is good,” Coulson murmurs, and then begins to slide his palm down her stomach, moving slowly so that she’s almost vibrating with the anticipation of his touch.
“Coulson,” she kind if whines his name, parts her thighs to give him access, if only he would just hurry up and take the access.
“Is it curing your hangover?” He whispers the question as his palm quests down below her bellybutton, as she can feel his fingers brushing way too lightly across pubic hair, so her whole lower body is tense with anticipation.
Daisy lets out a really embarrassing, desperate kind of whimpering noise, although truth be told, she’s definitely not worried about her hangover.
“Orgasms, remember?” Her voice is too high pitched, almost not her own, and she’s suddenly not sure how she went from jacking him off to passively waiting for him to touch her.
He laughs at that, this breathy actual laugh, the kind of noise that always feels private when it comes out of Phil Coulson’s mouth, even when it’s not whispering over her ear.
“Orgasms, coming up.” His voice is all showy about it, like he’s shooting for smug, even though he’s not actually that good at the smug stuff. Coulson isn’t a smug lover at all, is the thing; he’s too earnestly pleased that he can make her feel good, gets too entirely dedicated to the cause to think about her orgasms as a reflection on his manhood.
It makes it easier to relax times like now, to let go of any idea of putting on a show and instead to just sink into the pleasure of his touch as his middle finger starts making too-soft circles over her clit, the kind of teasing that makes her legs tingle, heat dripping down to her toes, but her orgasm no closer.
“Coulson,” she half-whispers his name through a tight throat, a plea for more that he thankfully takes seriously, and he wastes no time pressing two fingers inside of her.
She comes so stupidly fast once his fingers are inside of her, too tight and desperate and worked up to do anything else. Her body throbs around his fingers and her throat closes so tight she couldn’t make a noise if she wanted to, but it doesn’t kill the aroused tightness in her lower body. It isn’t nearly enough, hangover or no hangover.
Still, Coulson pulls back his fingers, cups his hand over her mound almost protectively, like he’s worried about overstimulating her. And she wishes it wasn’t so hard to ask for more after her first orgasm, but it is — like she’s greedy, like she needs too much, like she’s an inconvenience —
“Did Cosmo say how many orgasms we should be shooting for here?” Coulson presses the question against her ear as his fingers slide up to press firm circles against her clit again, and she could almost cry from the pleasure of an aftershock magnified under his fingers, from the way he somehow gives her what she needs even when she can’t manage to ask.
And she loves him for a lot of reasons that have nothing to do with his fingers against her, nothing to do with sex or orgasms or the way his naked body feels when he’s spooned up behind her. But she also loves him for exactly what makes this moment perfect, for his generosity and his gentleness and for the way he always seems to be exactly what she needs.
(She doesn’t deserve it; she’s never deserved it, never deserved the way Coulson has always been this to her — generous and gentle and prepared to offer whatever she needed even when what she needed was space. But it’s easier every day to look at herself and see what she thinks Coulson sees: someone who’s worth that trouble, someone who’s not a burden.)
“Okay?” He whispers the question as his fingers still a little, because she’s taken too long to give him any kind of real reaction, so she nods adamantly.
She can’t make her throat work well enough to form an answer, but she makes a noise that’s meant to be happy and adjusts her hips to open herself up to him, adjusts her right arm — still thrown backwards to wrap around him — so that she’s doing her level best to grip his ass.
It takes her longer this time, long enough to appreciate the way Coulson pulses his hips against her ass, the way he exhales against her ear like he’s enjoying this as much as she is. As she gets close, Daisy turns her face down and presses her mouth to Coulson’s left arm, just a bit above the metal apparatus where the prosthetic attaches. It starts as a kiss, but becomes a bite and then a place to hide her face, even as Coulson’s face chases her down, laying kisses against her cheek and her neck as her body tightens and shakes.
It takes a minute before she can suck in a normal breath, and she exhales something like laughter.
“Again?” Coulson asks quietly, his words trapped in the hair above her ear, but he sounds so eager, like he’d happily spend his whole day making her come. (Which he would. He would happily do pretty much whatever she wanted, and it’s so strange to know that with such certainty, to accept it so easily.)
“With you,” she requests instead, and shifts her ass so his cock presses up between her thighs, and he hisses as he half-thrusts against her. “Unless you’re still too old for hungover sex.”
She can feel his chest move behind her, his little amused non-laugh that turns into a groan when she drops her hand to press his cock against her opening.
“Guess I was wrong,” Coulson half-grunts, though he mostly holds still, mostly lets her be the one to push him into place and then to move backwards against him. It’s not exactly an easy fit — this isn’t a usual position for them, spooned together, and it takes her a minute to find the angle that will let them fit together without having to move too much, without having to let in the light and the cold from the room outside their blankets.
She does, though — finds the way to adjust herself so that Coulson can push easily inside her, like he’s made to fit, like he’s made to touch all of the right places. They’re slow at first, barely moving, and then he seems to find his rhythm, hips snapping against hers as his arm wraps around her waist.
He’s louder than she is as they grind together, all full of appreciative groans and grunts and moans of her name when she clenches down around him. She loves it, the noises he makes, every breath and pant and moan. It drives her just as hard as the physical pleasure does, if she’s honest.
(It’s possible that she’s a smug lover, that she feels too good about herself when Coulson is clearly enjoying himself so much, but it’s hard not to be smug when he’s so effusive, when he makes her feel so good about herself, when he makes her feel like she’s enough just for being herself, like she’s full of pleasure and happy things...not just pain and death.)
Even as he’s whispering her name desperately against the side of her head, he runs his fingers back down to touch her, and added to the pleasure of him inside her, him behind her, it pushes her over the edge.
She comes silently, one hand gripping his arm, the other still wound around his back, and he follows, a lot less silently. It’s somehow better than the last one, better with him wrapped all around her like this, better with him taking so much pleasure in her at the same time.
After a long breathless moment, Coulson hums his satisfaction into her hair, and Daisy can’t hold back her smile or her need to turn over and press her face back to his neck. He welcomes the change, rubs his right hand up and down her spine.
“Did that cure your hangover?” His voice is quiet and low and a little rough, and she wiggles closer to him, slips her knee between his thighs.
“Dunno,” she admits. Mostly she hasn’t thought about the hangover, but she sort of imagines that if she sat up suddenly, the room would still be wobbly. But then, she hasn’t thought about it. She breathes in against his neck, can’t hold back a smile at how good he smells.
“Still worth it?”
“Oh yeah,” she sighs into his skin, presses her open mouth there and catches the edge of his stubble on her upper lip.
“Good,” he sighs happily, as though it might have been in doubt, and then he keeps touching her — soft fingers on her back.
And she doesn’t know what it is about him, about Phil Coulson apart from everyone else she’s ever known, but at moments like this, he just makes her feel like enough. Like everything she is is just right.
“I love you,” she says, speaking to his neck because the words make her nervous even though she really really means them.
It’s not exactly something she says, but she worries sometimes that he doesn’t know. That he finds a million of his perfect little ways to show her, to make her feel good, and she doesn’t know how to do the same, or that he might think —
“I know,” Coulson whispers into her hair, like he somehow also knows that this is the important part.
Daisy pulls back to look into his eyes, in the dim, warm little cocoon they’ve made.
“Good.”
He smiles up at her, his little dazzled smile like she’s made him very happy, which feels like pretty much all she wants in the whole world. As their eyes are locked, though, she tenses for a second at the thought of him saying it back, though she’s not sure why, when she knows — like she knows, more than she’s ever known anything — that he loves her.
Before he can — in case he might — she leans in and presses her mouth to his, only to remember why they hadn’t done this earlier.
“Your breath is still horrible,” she whispers, head dropped back to his ear, and Coulson laughs again — honest to god laughs, belly shaking underneath her and everything.
“Go brush our teeth?”
“No, you’re too warm and comfy,” she answers, settling her head back against his shoulder. “But you have to make out with me later.”
He huffs a little faux-put upon sigh of acceptance, but it melts into his laughter, and she feels kinda proud that she can make Coulson laugh.
“You want a pinky promise?”
He brings his right hand up and wiggles his pinky at her, so Daisy shifts her weight enough to link her pinky with his, promising that they’re gonna make out later. They smile at each other, like they’re getting away with something in their silliness.
As she drops her hand back to the bed, she yawns, big and wide so her jaw cracks and her eyes water, and she lays her head onto Coulson’s shoulder.
He wraps his right arm back around her, and she can feel him catch his left arm in his right hand, so he’s holding her as tight as he can.
“Go back to sleep,” he offers. “We have three hours until checkout.”
So she does. She drifts off to the smell of his skin and his arms around her and promises of makeouts when she wakes up, and actually she thinks it’s just Coulson — not sex — that cures hangovers.