Pairing: Agent Phil Coulson/Steve Rogers (Captain America)
Summary: A quiet night at home with Phil and Steve gets a little heated when Phil won't stop working. But not even Tony can spoil the mood.
Disclaimer: Fanfiction.
AN: Very different from my other Capsicoul stuff. An attempt at fun and sexy? Mentions of 1984, The Colbert Report and a cheeky Steve Rogers.

Doublethink

When the television screen flickers to yet another obnoxiously loud commercial break, Steve switches off the set with a sigh. The immense common area of the newly christened, Avengers Tower, suddenly feels unnaturally quiet. Or, rather, it would if not for the light sound of a pen scratching against paper. Steve glances over his shoulder to find Phil still seated at the head of the main dining table in the next room, hunched over a, thankfully, dwindling stack of files. Tossing the remote onto the couch, Steve clambers off the cushions and stalks over, formulating a little plan to distract his diligent agent.

"Sometimes," he begins thoughtfully, leaning against the large open doorframe as he casts a look back toward the blank television, "I just don't know about that Colbert fellow." While he knew the program was one of Phil's favourites, in Steve's eyes there seemed to be an indefinable strangeness about the over-animated host.

"It's always satire," Phil answers automatically, signing a form with an understated flourish. After a pause to let the ink dry, he begins flipping through the entire document to double, or, more likely, triple check his work. "You know he is big fan," he adds, one corner of his mouth crooked up, still engrossed in the file.

"Yes." Of course Steve had noticed the scale replica of his own shield tacked up on the set the very first time Phil showed him the program. The homage was nice, as was Phil's unbridled enthusiasm. "Still seems dishonest." Casually stuffing his hands into his pants pockets, he continues watching Phil hard at work. While Steve figures that he would much rather have that intensity focused on him, it is a wonderful sight—the understated enthusiasm Phil has for every aspect of his work, even the most mundane details, is beyond endearing. Especially dressed in his fastidiously tailored black suits.

Steve reaches up to undo the top button of his button down, running his finger around the fabric to widen the collar. A sliver of pale collarbones exposed, framed by starched red cotton.

"He's just pointing out the absurdity of our modern political discourse," Phil stops, closing the folder and setting it on the pile of what Steve hopes are 'completed' files and looks up at the other man, "like doublethink." The word draws a blank stare from the captain, a crease forming between his brows. Phil tilts his head, mildly perplexed. "I thought 1984 was next on your reading list." Sorting through the three remaining folders, he extracts one of the thicker ones and opens it.

"Oh, yes," Steve's expression brightens, recognising the literary reference. "I just started it." Actually, Steve had not managed to get past the first fifteen pages because every other paragraph had sent him searching through his textbooks in an attempt to reconcile the fictional world with the reality of the recent past. It was all very frustrating. In fact, he had only just resolved to finish the first half of the novel that evening only to be thwarted when a certain dashing S.H.I.E.L.D. agent called, claiming he was finished for the night and wanted to spend the rest of it alone with Steve—preferably in, or at least near a mattress or equally solid surface. "It's a bit confusing," he confesses, crossing the room to pull out the chair closest to Phil.

"I wouldn't mind rereading it." Phil offers, crossing out a sentence before jotting down a quick note at the bottom of the sheet. "We could discuss it." Steve steals a quick glace as he settles into the chair, the slight curve to Phil's lips betrays his seemingly singular, detached focus. It is surprising how good the agent has become at controlling himself in the face of his childhood hero and now partner. He can remember back when one choice look, particularly one Phil never imagined to be in Steve's arsenal, would have the man babbling and ready to do whatever the good captain asked.

"I'd like that." Steve gently touches the back of his hand, leaning in to kiss the corner of Phil's lips.

Phil switches the fountain pen to his left hand, continuing to make corrections and shorthand comments in the margins of the report, while still allowing Steve to tangle their fingers together with the right. Examining the agent's more than capable hand with the attention of an artist, Steve carefully locks away every indispensable detail to be rendered later on paper. He traces the man's winding veins, over the peaks and valleys of his knuckles, spiralling into the wide expanse of his palm. Phil has become his favourite subject, especially his clever hands.

Under the delicate skin at the man's wrist, he can feel the thrumming pulse skipping through his arteries. A small miracle given everything that happened with Loki. But now, his heart rate is elevated. A dead giveaway as to what lies below the placid surface of agent Coulson.

It's all the encouragement Steve needs.

"When you said you were coming over," Steve begins conversationally, barely able to keep his tone light and casual—still learning all of the right buttons to push in order to bring back his sweetly flustered Phil. He moves to perch on the edge of his seat. "I thought I'd get to spend a little more time with you." His lips brush against the shell of his agent's ear, hot breath spilling over the sensitive flesh. A large hand slides onto Phil's bent knee, fingertips dragging along the seam running up his inner thigh. The expensive fabric, ironed and sleek, feels exquisite against his skin.

"I'm right here," Phil answers wryly, eyes still skimming over his paperwork.

Despite the distinct lack of an obvious reaction from Phil, he can feel the thick thigh muscle trembling under his palm. His exploration comes to an abrupt end when he bumps against the head of Phil's cock. Dressed to the right today, Steve thinks absently with a barley-suppressed smirk. It must be his new suit.

"Phillip…" It comes out breathier than Steve hoped, a little desperate and unsubtle. He gives the head an appreciative rub with the flat of his thumb.

Phil pauses.

"I only have two more reports," the agent explains in the closest approximation to calm as he can manage given the way his body has betrayed him. He swallows, reaching up to loosen his tightly knotted black tie. The top button on his collar almost pops off from the force of his fingers twisting it free. Steve takes advantage, mouthing a kiss against the newly exposed flesh. There is a hitch in his breathing when Steve switches tactics, grasping him firmly through his trousers, followed by one, slow, deliberate stroke up, then down. Phil takes a deep breath in through his nose, staring resolutely at the document before him, clutching his pen with white knuckles. "After I finish them, I'm all yours." His cock gives an appreciative twitch.

But after several months of dating, if Steve has discovered only one thing about what Phil likes, it is that for all of his love of rules and structure and calculated restraint, an unexpected departure from that strict world can be incredibly arousing. Especially when perpetrated by his Captain America.

And should there be any unlikely negative repercussions, Steve will deal with Director Fury personally.

The sound of frantic scribbling comes to a halt, the nib screeching in protest, and is immediately replaced by the metallic clicking of a zipper being leisurely undone. Followed by a button unthreaded and the clink of a buckle.

"Steve?"

He holds Phil's gaze, unwavering, as long fingers ruck up his pristine shirt. Spreading the folds of fabric wide open, he brushes past each layer to encircle Phil's half hard cock. Phil opens his mouth to protest, though the excitement rimming his eyes makes any objection seem disingenuous.

"Keep working, soldier," Steve orders. The scratching pen returns, quicker and accompanied by the rapid fluttering of pages. Phil flips the manila folder shut and fumbles for the next one.

Steve slips under the large dining table, obscured from nearly every angle, except for Phil's. And what a sight that is; Steve crouched on his knees, rumpled and eager, pupils blown with arousal, while his hands lazily strokes him. It sends his blood surging, red hot, straight to his cock. Soft, full lips brush against the length of him, light and teasing at first. A slick tongue flicks out to taste the gathering precome, wetting his lips. With a grin, he takes Phil in his mouth, sucking just the head while his fingers fondle him through trousers. Steve suddenly dips his head, swallowing as much of Phil as he can.

"St—" he chokes out, hips jerking forward. A vicelike grip slams him back into the chair and he thinks he might have heard the wood splinter, just a little bit. Surprised, Phil's hand collides with the edge of the table, pen skittering halfway across the polished surface. All that remains is the cap clutched in his fist.

To Phil's absolute horror, the elevator chimes and Tony Stark swaggers out with a tumbler of expensive Scotch in one hand and an open tome in the other.

"Fuck," Phil breathes, attempting to snap his legs closed as he scrambles to find another pen before Tony looks up from his book. It is no contest; Steve grips his knees, easily forcing his thighs even further apart as he languidly starts to bob his head. Phil can only cant his hips and plant his feet firmly, a last ditch effort to ground himself. Schooling his expression, the agent deftly suppresses the strangled noise that threatens to bubble up in his throat.

Tony snaps the hardback shut, glancing over in Phil's direction.

"Where's Spangles?" He inquires as soon as he notices that the agent is unexpectedly alone.

"Bed," Phil replies coolly, ducking his head down until his nose hovers only inches above the incident report. The backup fountain pen he secured, caught in an unnatural position between his fingers, leaks uselessly onto the page as he struggles to even fain concentration on anything other than Steve Rogers' tongue mapping out intricate patterns on the underside of his cock. The red splotch of ink gradually grows, bleeding over into the main body of text and ruining the second page of the original document.

The callused pads of Steve's thumbs massage the lower lines of his hipbones, delving into the delicious crease of skin slicked with a thin sheen of sweat. He wraps a thumb and forefinger around the base of Phil's cock, just holding him firmly.

"Without his trusty sidekick?" Tony taunts him with a cocked eyebrow before disappearing into the adjacent library. The snide comment earns a short nuzzle and a gentle, comforting caress from Steve along Phil's thighs. It only makes matters worse for the agent, who is already teetering dangerously on the edge. He can feel the rush of air against his lower abdomen as Steve breaths his scent in deeply—becoming lost in his own world of taste and touch.

"Yes." Phil stares fixedly at the open doorway, waiting for Tony to pop back into view. "I have work."

"What, is that like foreplay for you two?" The disembodied voice of Tony calls back, the wicked smirk evident in his tone. Phil refuses to dignify the ridiculous suggestion with any kind of response, though he feels Steve's hands tighten involuntarily at the barb. "A brave new world of kink, agent Coulson." Regardless of Phil's claims that he and Stark have come to an 'understanding', it continues to grate on Steve just how much pleasure the man derives from relentlessly deriding his agent.

Thankfully, Stark goes silent after failing to elicit the desired effect.

Steve's skilful tongue swirls around the flushed head of Phil's cock—a rather recent finding of Steve's and one that he has been merciless with ever since. Phil tilts his head back and contemplates the pros and cons of stuffing his tie in his mouth to muffle any sounds that might slither out unchecked. But he has no clue when Tony will reappear and that would be a rather untenable position to be caught in. Instead, he leans back to catch sight of Steve stroking himself through his khakis. Chewing his thin lips to bite back a moan, Phil reaches down to card a hand through the soft, blond strands of Steve's hair. The man gives an approving hum as he swallows around Phil's cock, mouth full, muscles relaxed enough to hit the ring of fingers at the base for the first time. It draws out an audible groan from Phil, eyes rolling back in his head. Or rather, it dislodges a wanton gasp from his contracting lungs.

It is loud enough for Tony to hear.

"Alright there, Coulson?"

"Fine," he practically shouts, dialling his volume back at the last second to closer resemble his natural aloof demeanour. Only Steve notices the difference in the tone of the clipped syllable. Clearing his throat and making a show of noisily shuffling his pile of papers, Phil spits out a quick, hardliner lie. "Someone forgot to fill out Section J4 of their incident report." A laugh and some muttering drift out from somewhere deep in the library where Tony remains hidden, clunking around in search of some illusive text.

Phil tugs anxiously at Steve's hair, his other hand tapping insistently on Steve's shoulder before yanking on his collar. A button flies off. He is so fucking close. Steve only redoubles his efforts, sucking harder while gazing up at Phil with wide blue eyes and hollowed cheeks. And, oh, fuck. Fingers dig into the juncture of hip and thigh. Phil knows there will be five perfect bruises there tomorrow morning. His hand latches onto the nape of Steve's neck, breath coming in short, staccato pants. Steve releases his hold on the base of Phil's cock, grappling with shuddering hips with both hands and there is nothing Phil can do to stop himself from becoming completely undone.

Sagging unceremoniously back into the chair, he watches Steve draw out the last drops of come, letting them drip on to the flat of his tongue, licking it up greedily. It sends a shiver up his spine and everything feels hypersensitive.

"Steve…" he stifles the name into a breathy whisper as he smoothes the tousled hair out of Steve's eyes. Debauched. He holds the man's chin in one hand. Beautiful. Wiping away a smudge of ropy come from Steve's hot cheek, a wonderful pressure swells inside his chest, peaking and spreading out to wash over his entire body. Like a second orgasm racking his frame. Steve turns into the touch, eyes fluttering closed as he nips at Phil's thumb with a bold grin. Phil drags his free hand down the side of his own face, lips parted as he catches his breath.

"You look like shit," Tony states bluntly, staring at the agent's face with a vaguely bemused expression. Ignoring the painful way Steve's face falls, Phil withdraws his hand from under the table. Careful to keep his movements measured, he folds them on top of the half completed incident report.

"Thank you." Thin lips pressed into a flat line, Phil glares at the man. Even flushed and in the midst of a fuckoff fantastic, post-orgasmic haze, agent Phil Coulson still looks just as lethal and just as menacing as always when faced with Tony Stark's sass. Barely contained violence.

"You want me to go get Cap?" He offers, taking a couple stutter steps closer—almost appearing concerned. If it were not for his currently compromising situation, Phil would have briefly marvelled at the uncharacteristic compassion that flashed across Tony's features.

"No!" Phil bursts out, holding his hands up defensively to halt Tony's progress. The man comes up short, mildly startled by Phil's outburst. "No, I—" he tries again but only cuts himself off. Beneath the table, Steve rushes to tuck Phil neatly back inside his trousers, making sure to conceal any evidence that Tony's keen eyes might pick up on. He nudges Phil's ankle as soon as he finishes.

"Yes?"

"I-I—excuse me," Phil murmurs, standing up abruptly, pausing to ensure that Steve has a chance to recede further under the table. Stark gives him a look of disbelief. Luckily, Phil has the presence of mind to gather up the stacks of sensitive and highly classified files and shove the chair in before hurrying off to the captain's empty bedroom.

"Night, Phil," Tony leers after him, voice twisting the syllable into something caught between an endearment and a profanity.

He waves goodnight, sarcastically wiggling two fingers at the agent's retreating back with a chuckle. Striding over to the elevator, Tony's hand hovers over the down button. Covering his face, Steve holds his breath as he waits for the other shoe to drop. Nothing happens. Tony takes a contemplative sip of his Scotch, tapping a finger against the button once, twice until finally pushing it until it lights up.

"Oh," Tony starts as if struck by a sudden thought. "You're also dismissed, Captain," Tony informs Steve with deliciously mocking tenor, staring straight ahead at the polished metal. Mortified, Steve watches the elevator doors glide open effortlessly. Stepping inside, Tony turns with a knowing smirk. Just before the doors close, he raises his voice, "and no more dishonourable discharges at the dining table."