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Avengers Fic - The Vest Is Yet To Come
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sirona_gs.
Clint/Coulson Ficbit; 1000 words; AO3 -
Phil mostly chooses to oversee the Avenger move into Stark's mansion because he wouldn't put it past Tony to turn off all the lights and pretend he's not home. Stark had been less than pleased to open up his house to the others, to say the least.
Thor arrives, dropped off by one of the junior agents who looks like he's seen his life flash before his eyes. The guy let Thor drive, so he probably did. Steve appears with a pathetically empty duffel bag. Coulson doesn't see Natasha actually arrive but JARVIS assures him that she's in the house... somewhere. Even the AI is having a little trouble keeping track of her. Doctor Banner kinds of slinks by, looking apologetic.
Then there's Clint.
"I don't get it."
"Get what?" Clint asks, raising an eyebrow as he maneuvers an actual suitcase on wheels inside the door. He's holding a garment bag hooked over his shoulder.
"I know you're being funny, I just don't know what the punchline is."
Clint pauses, looking at Phil blankly. "How am I being funny?"
"You're wearing a waistcoat," Phil says, flicking a hand up and down Clint's body. Not only is he wearing a waistcoat, he's wearing a full three piece suit, just minus the coat which is draped over the little suitcase. "We can't even get you to wear sleeves."
"That's Hawkeye," Clint says, shrugging. "This is me."
*
The problem is, Phil had been able to admire Clint's attractiveness from a distance, Clint's brash vulgarity a nice little barrier to Phil ever wanting to do anything except admire.
Watching him move through Tony's house in a blue-pinstripe in year-round wool is almost too much of a disconnect.
"Did you know about this?" Phil hisses at Natasha, feeling strangely betrayed. He's been working as their handler for a long time now, thought they were somewhat of a team. He'd been tasked by Fury to look after the Avengers because rumor had it he was the only person that Tony listened to that wasn't a defrosted supersoldier from another time.
"Know what?" Natasha asks, raising an eyebrow and getting as close to smirking as she ever does.
"That there's Hawkeye and then there's... Clint."
"I was aware," she says, infuriatingly smug.
*
"You're here a lot," Tony says. He has what looks like a slushie and smells like booze in his hand. Phil wouldn't put it past Tony to have a frozen margarita machine somewhere in the house.
"I have to watch... you," Phil says, feeling his mouth go dry as Clint swans by in a charcoal sweater that looks so soft it would probably feel like smoke if he touched it.
He wants to touch it.
"Uhuh," Tony says, slipping his glasses down his nose so he can look over them at Phil. "Why don't you come for dinner tonight, watch me then?"
"Uh, sure," Phil says, has to ask JARVIS later to replay his conversation with Tony to see what he agreed to because right then Clint had leaned over to pick up a book and pants that fit like that were criminal.
*
Pepper's wearing a smile Phil's never seen before as she leads him into the kitchen that evening. "Why are we having dinner again?" Phil asks, suspicious. He likes Pepper a great deal, has ever since they met because she's the kind of competent he can appreciate; even though he fears for her sanity having worked for Tony for so long. "Does someone need to break something to me, something difficult? Did we destroy something the city can't afford?"
"It's fine, nothing bad I swear," Pepper assures him, pats his arm. If anyone else had said that he would've been more suspicious instead of less. He still gives her the side-eye because he wouldn't put it past anyone in this house to be springing something on both him and Pepper at the same time.
"Hey, no, out," Clint snaps as soon as they hit the kitchen. Phil freezes, feels it when Pepper keeps trying to walk and pulls up short because she'd been holding onto his elbow. Clint is wearing a dark green apron over a white button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up, exposing his ridiculously well-formed forearms. He has a smudge of something that's probably flour on his cheekbone and he's darting around the space like he was born to it. "No one's allowed in the kitchen."
There's another man standing off to the side, looking unassuming. "Who's that?" Phil demands.
"My sommelier," Clint says, like that's a normal thing to say.
"Of course," Phil says, wincing when his voice sounds strangled.
"You need a professional when you're putting together a degustation menu. I mean, I'm an enthusiast but I'm no Trent," Clint says, affectionate smile for the hovering man in place.
Phil wants to punch the sommelier in the face.
*
"Really?" Phil huffs. He can't help it. Clint is drinking tea out of a cup with a saucer.
His goddamn pinkie is up.
"Oh, hey, is something-upmh!" Phil stops whatever Clint was going to say with his mouth, right after he stalks over, kneels on either side of Clint's hips and backhands the damn teacup right out of his grip. Phil yanks Clint in by the tie and makes a helplessly pleased sound when Clint just moves with it, lets Phil tug him around till the angle is right and he can devour Clint properly.
The material under his hands is as luxurious as he suspected, the body underneath as hard. Phil grinds down, is powerless not to when Clint's own arms have come up and around, his hands spasming against Phil's back, roaming like they can't decide where to settle.
Phil breaks for breath when oxygen becomes an issue, leans back panting raggedly and touching a rough thumb to the bloom of red circling Clint's own mouth. "Are these Dolce & Gabbana?" Phil asks, dropping his palms to Clint's black, pinstriped thighs. His fingers walk up, hesitating at the join where Clint's leg meets hip and then dart inwards, cupping Clint's satisfyingly hard length.
"Why?" Clint asks, eyes wide and glazed, expression asking Phil why the hell he's asking about sartorial choices right at that moment.
"No reason," Phil says. "Just curious about what I was going to ruin."
sirona_gs.Clint/Coulson Ficbit; 1000 words; AO3 -
Phil mostly chooses to oversee the Avenger move into Stark's mansion because he wouldn't put it past Tony to turn off all the lights and pretend he's not home. Stark had been less than pleased to open up his house to the others, to say the least.
Thor arrives, dropped off by one of the junior agents who looks like he's seen his life flash before his eyes. The guy let Thor drive, so he probably did. Steve appears with a pathetically empty duffel bag. Coulson doesn't see Natasha actually arrive but JARVIS assures him that she's in the house... somewhere. Even the AI is having a little trouble keeping track of her. Doctor Banner kinds of slinks by, looking apologetic.
Then there's Clint.
"I don't get it."
"Get what?" Clint asks, raising an eyebrow as he maneuvers an actual suitcase on wheels inside the door. He's holding a garment bag hooked over his shoulder.
"I know you're being funny, I just don't know what the punchline is."
Clint pauses, looking at Phil blankly. "How am I being funny?"
"You're wearing a waistcoat," Phil says, flicking a hand up and down Clint's body. Not only is he wearing a waistcoat, he's wearing a full three piece suit, just minus the coat which is draped over the little suitcase. "We can't even get you to wear sleeves."
"That's Hawkeye," Clint says, shrugging. "This is me."
The problem is, Phil had been able to admire Clint's attractiveness from a distance, Clint's brash vulgarity a nice little barrier to Phil ever wanting to do anything except admire.
Watching him move through Tony's house in a blue-pinstripe in year-round wool is almost too much of a disconnect.
"Did you know about this?" Phil hisses at Natasha, feeling strangely betrayed. He's been working as their handler for a long time now, thought they were somewhat of a team. He'd been tasked by Fury to look after the Avengers because rumor had it he was the only person that Tony listened to that wasn't a defrosted supersoldier from another time.
"Know what?" Natasha asks, raising an eyebrow and getting as close to smirking as she ever does.
"That there's Hawkeye and then there's... Clint."
"I was aware," she says, infuriatingly smug.
"You're here a lot," Tony says. He has what looks like a slushie and smells like booze in his hand. Phil wouldn't put it past Tony to have a frozen margarita machine somewhere in the house.
"I have to watch... you," Phil says, feeling his mouth go dry as Clint swans by in a charcoal sweater that looks so soft it would probably feel like smoke if he touched it.
He wants to touch it.
"Uhuh," Tony says, slipping his glasses down his nose so he can look over them at Phil. "Why don't you come for dinner tonight, watch me then?"
"Uh, sure," Phil says, has to ask JARVIS later to replay his conversation with Tony to see what he agreed to because right then Clint had leaned over to pick up a book and pants that fit like that were criminal.
Pepper's wearing a smile Phil's never seen before as she leads him into the kitchen that evening. "Why are we having dinner again?" Phil asks, suspicious. He likes Pepper a great deal, has ever since they met because she's the kind of competent he can appreciate; even though he fears for her sanity having worked for Tony for so long. "Does someone need to break something to me, something difficult? Did we destroy something the city can't afford?"
"It's fine, nothing bad I swear," Pepper assures him, pats his arm. If anyone else had said that he would've been more suspicious instead of less. He still gives her the side-eye because he wouldn't put it past anyone in this house to be springing something on both him and Pepper at the same time.
"Hey, no, out," Clint snaps as soon as they hit the kitchen. Phil freezes, feels it when Pepper keeps trying to walk and pulls up short because she'd been holding onto his elbow. Clint is wearing a dark green apron over a white button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up, exposing his ridiculously well-formed forearms. He has a smudge of something that's probably flour on his cheekbone and he's darting around the space like he was born to it. "No one's allowed in the kitchen."
There's another man standing off to the side, looking unassuming. "Who's that?" Phil demands.
"My sommelier," Clint says, like that's a normal thing to say.
"Of course," Phil says, wincing when his voice sounds strangled.
"You need a professional when you're putting together a degustation menu. I mean, I'm an enthusiast but I'm no Trent," Clint says, affectionate smile for the hovering man in place.
Phil wants to punch the sommelier in the face.
"Really?" Phil huffs. He can't help it. Clint is drinking tea out of a cup with a saucer.
His goddamn pinkie is up.
"Oh, hey, is something-upmh!" Phil stops whatever Clint was going to say with his mouth, right after he stalks over, kneels on either side of Clint's hips and backhands the damn teacup right out of his grip. Phil yanks Clint in by the tie and makes a helplessly pleased sound when Clint just moves with it, lets Phil tug him around till the angle is right and he can devour Clint properly.
The material under his hands is as luxurious as he suspected, the body underneath as hard. Phil grinds down, is powerless not to when Clint's own arms have come up and around, his hands spasming against Phil's back, roaming like they can't decide where to settle.
Phil breaks for breath when oxygen becomes an issue, leans back panting raggedly and touching a rough thumb to the bloom of red circling Clint's own mouth. "Are these Dolce & Gabbana?" Phil asks, dropping his palms to Clint's black, pinstriped thighs. His fingers walk up, hesitating at the join where Clint's leg meets hip and then dart inwards, cupping Clint's satisfyingly hard length.
"Why?" Clint asks, eyes wide and glazed, expression asking Phil why the hell he's asking about sartorial choices right at that moment.
"No reason," Phil says. "Just curious about what I was going to ruin."
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♥
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Also, PERFECT LAST SENTENCE. <3
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:D
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I have no words right now because I am so very torn between laughing at them both and just drooling at the thought of Clint in D&G :D
Thank you for writing this!
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