Cooking lesson (Avengers, Coulson/Hawkeye)
Title:Cooking lesson
Fandom: Avengers movieverse
Pairing:Coulson/Hawkeye
Rating:PG-13
Warnings: none
Summary:As it turns out only two of the Avengers and their friends can actually cook. So Clint gives Coulson a little lesson. With the rest of the team watching from the living room.
A/N:Written for this prompt on avengerkink.
“Do you think they remember that we can actually see them from here?” Tony asked into the room. The door to the kitchen was open where Coulson was cooking under Clint’s supervision while he made cookies.
Because, as it turned out, only two of the ten people that lived here (the name Avengers Mansion was a bit misleading but Avengers & Friends Mansion didn’t exactly roll off the tongue) could actually cook, Clint being the one and Bruce being the other, well Darcy could manage baked beans and pasta if the need arose.
“You of all people complain about PDA?” Darcy asked from where she was sprawled on the couch, bare feet tucked away under Natasha’s thigh.
“It’s Coulson”, Tony complained as if that should tell her everything. Natasha glared at him from the documents she was looking over with Pepper.
“I think it’s sweet”, Bruce replied with a wistful look.
“Thank you, Bruce, at least one rationally thinking man is in this room”, Darcy trilled at him. “Don’t you agree, Steve?”
At the mention of his name Steve glanced up from his sketchbook with a confused expression on his face, “Is dinner ready?”
Darcy shook her head and he tilted his head over his drawing, continuing to be way too handsome and distracting for Tony’s liking.
“What does it matter to you anyway?” Jane asked, shifting slightly to keep her legs from falling asleep under the weight of Thor’s head. “Just don’t look their way.”
“It’s like a train wreck, I cannot not watch - ow!” He rubbed his temple where Natasha hit him with a well-aimed paperclip.
/////////
Inside the kitchen Clint and Phil were oblivious to their friends’ squabble. Clint slid behind Phil, wrapping one arm around his waist while the other guided Phil’s attempts at omelette.
“Like that, nice and slow”, Clint breathed into Phil’s ear. He watched, both hands on Phil’s waist now, as he flipped the omelette carefully.
“Knew you’d be a natural about this”, he whispered, dropping a little kiss on Phil’s neck.
“You’re distracting”, Phil complained.
“I’m supportive”, Clint argued.
“No, you’re really not”, came the reply and the shoe dropped.
“Really? Cooking turns you on?”
“Maybe it’s the idea of you doing domestic chores”, Phil’s tone was unflappable but Clint could see the telltale flush creeping up his neck.
“So, Agent Coulson, do you have any dirty fantasies of me in a French maid outfit with a feather duster stretching to get all those high up corners or maybe bending over the bed to-“
“If you don’t want to explain to your teammates why the food is burned and we suddenly disappeared in the middle of cooking it I suggest that you stop right here.”
“Do you always have to be so modest?” Clint huffed, pulling away from Phil, because he liked the image he was getting there.
“I’m going to get you for this later”, Phil said, low and dirty and part of Clint shivered in anticipation.
“Right, I have some cookie dough to attend to”, he said, trying to compose himself. “And keep an eye on the pasta. You need to take it out of the water in about 30 seconds.”
He began to drop the cookie dough in even little circles onto the baking paper while watching Phil out of the corner of his eyes. Jacket and tie missing, sleeves rolled up, barefoot, a few grease stains splashed on his shirt - this was probably the most relaxed that Clint had ever seen him out of bed and he seemed to genuinely enjoy it, too. This is the sort of normalcy that he thought he would never have even if that normalcy includes Tony Stark gaping at them from the living room.
He laughed when Phil was surprised by the suddenly bubbling tomato sauce for which he got a mild glare while Phil was simultaneously trying to move the pot to another hob and to lower the temperature of the one it was standing on.
It was supposed to be only a quick, affectionate gesture when Clint swiped him thumb over Phil’s cheek to remove the tomato sauce splash there but Phil caught wrist, his tongue darting out to lick Clint’s finger clean.
“You’re not playing fair”, Clint accused him, unable to keep his arousal out of his voice.
“Senior government agent”, Phil grinned, “we never do.”
“Isn’t there some form against that?” He asked but Phil had started to nuzzle the inside of his wrist.
“There was”, Phil hummed, biting affectionately at the soft skin near Clint’s elbow, “I mislaid them.”
“How convenient”, Clint muttered, letting Phil walk him backwards against the counter with the cookies, dusting them both with flour when he pushed Clint against it. The kiss was nothing short of shameless with Phil groping Clint’s arse before suddenly stepping back.
“Now I should get out the plates before Tony suffers a brain aneurysm and Fury fires me for causing it.” He said as if nothing had happened at all.
“Bastard”, Clint muttered still slightly dazed. The look Phil gave him was worthy of Tony Stark in all of its smug self-confidence and promise. Clint pretended not to notice it in favour of calling the rest of the team in for dinner and putting the cookies into the oven.
They were all smirking at him when they came into the kitchen with the sole exception of Tony who looked like he was still trying to wrap his head around the fact that Coulson who breathed professionalism and Phil who left a flour hand print on Clint’s arse were one and the same man.
Some enigmas were too big even for Tony Stark’s brain.
He was about to set the timer for the cookies when Phil, the serving plate with ten slightly crooked omelettes in hand, leaned in to whisper,
“If you’re feeling up to do the dishes I’m sure we can find a French maid outfit for you somewhere in Tony’s closets.” Only to walk over to the table as if nothing had happened.
One day, Clint vowed silently, he would get him, just not now and certainly not before the dishes. But someday.
Fandom: Avengers movieverse
Pairing:Coulson/Hawkeye
Rating:PG-13
Warnings: none
Summary:As it turns out only two of the Avengers and their friends can actually cook. So Clint gives Coulson a little lesson. With the rest of the team watching from the living room.
A/N:Written for this prompt on avengerkink.
“Do you think they remember that we can actually see them from here?” Tony asked into the room. The door to the kitchen was open where Coulson was cooking under Clint’s supervision while he made cookies.
Because, as it turned out, only two of the ten people that lived here (the name Avengers Mansion was a bit misleading but Avengers & Friends Mansion didn’t exactly roll off the tongue) could actually cook, Clint being the one and Bruce being the other, well Darcy could manage baked beans and pasta if the need arose.
“You of all people complain about PDA?” Darcy asked from where she was sprawled on the couch, bare feet tucked away under Natasha’s thigh.
“It’s Coulson”, Tony complained as if that should tell her everything. Natasha glared at him from the documents she was looking over with Pepper.
“I think it’s sweet”, Bruce replied with a wistful look.
“Thank you, Bruce, at least one rationally thinking man is in this room”, Darcy trilled at him. “Don’t you agree, Steve?”
At the mention of his name Steve glanced up from his sketchbook with a confused expression on his face, “Is dinner ready?”
Darcy shook her head and he tilted his head over his drawing, continuing to be way too handsome and distracting for Tony’s liking.
“What does it matter to you anyway?” Jane asked, shifting slightly to keep her legs from falling asleep under the weight of Thor’s head. “Just don’t look their way.”
“It’s like a train wreck, I cannot not watch - ow!” He rubbed his temple where Natasha hit him with a well-aimed paperclip.
/////////
Inside the kitchen Clint and Phil were oblivious to their friends’ squabble. Clint slid behind Phil, wrapping one arm around his waist while the other guided Phil’s attempts at omelette.
“Like that, nice and slow”, Clint breathed into Phil’s ear. He watched, both hands on Phil’s waist now, as he flipped the omelette carefully.
“Knew you’d be a natural about this”, he whispered, dropping a little kiss on Phil’s neck.
“You’re distracting”, Phil complained.
“I’m supportive”, Clint argued.
“No, you’re really not”, came the reply and the shoe dropped.
“Really? Cooking turns you on?”
“Maybe it’s the idea of you doing domestic chores”, Phil’s tone was unflappable but Clint could see the telltale flush creeping up his neck.
“So, Agent Coulson, do you have any dirty fantasies of me in a French maid outfit with a feather duster stretching to get all those high up corners or maybe bending over the bed to-“
“If you don’t want to explain to your teammates why the food is burned and we suddenly disappeared in the middle of cooking it I suggest that you stop right here.”
“Do you always have to be so modest?” Clint huffed, pulling away from Phil, because he liked the image he was getting there.
“I’m going to get you for this later”, Phil said, low and dirty and part of Clint shivered in anticipation.
“Right, I have some cookie dough to attend to”, he said, trying to compose himself. “And keep an eye on the pasta. You need to take it out of the water in about 30 seconds.”
He began to drop the cookie dough in even little circles onto the baking paper while watching Phil out of the corner of his eyes. Jacket and tie missing, sleeves rolled up, barefoot, a few grease stains splashed on his shirt - this was probably the most relaxed that Clint had ever seen him out of bed and he seemed to genuinely enjoy it, too. This is the sort of normalcy that he thought he would never have even if that normalcy includes Tony Stark gaping at them from the living room.
He laughed when Phil was surprised by the suddenly bubbling tomato sauce for which he got a mild glare while Phil was simultaneously trying to move the pot to another hob and to lower the temperature of the one it was standing on.
It was supposed to be only a quick, affectionate gesture when Clint swiped him thumb over Phil’s cheek to remove the tomato sauce splash there but Phil caught wrist, his tongue darting out to lick Clint’s finger clean.
“You’re not playing fair”, Clint accused him, unable to keep his arousal out of his voice.
“Senior government agent”, Phil grinned, “we never do.”
“Isn’t there some form against that?” He asked but Phil had started to nuzzle the inside of his wrist.
“There was”, Phil hummed, biting affectionately at the soft skin near Clint’s elbow, “I mislaid them.”
“How convenient”, Clint muttered, letting Phil walk him backwards against the counter with the cookies, dusting them both with flour when he pushed Clint against it. The kiss was nothing short of shameless with Phil groping Clint’s arse before suddenly stepping back.
“Now I should get out the plates before Tony suffers a brain aneurysm and Fury fires me for causing it.” He said as if nothing had happened at all.
“Bastard”, Clint muttered still slightly dazed. The look Phil gave him was worthy of Tony Stark in all of its smug self-confidence and promise. Clint pretended not to notice it in favour of calling the rest of the team in for dinner and putting the cookies into the oven.
They were all smirking at him when they came into the kitchen with the sole exception of Tony who looked like he was still trying to wrap his head around the fact that Coulson who breathed professionalism and Phil who left a flour hand print on Clint’s arse were one and the same man.
Some enigmas were too big even for Tony Stark’s brain.
He was about to set the timer for the cookies when Phil, the serving plate with ten slightly crooked omelettes in hand, leaned in to whisper,
“If you’re feeling up to do the dishes I’m sure we can find a French maid outfit for you somewhere in Tony’s closets.” Only to walk over to the table as if nothing had happened.
One day, Clint vowed silently, he would get him, just not now and certainly not before the dishes. But someday.