infiniteeight

Trope Bingo Card

infiniteeight — Wed, 01 Jan 2014 23:55:56 GMT

(Obviously I don't really use this journal, but I can't paste this HTML to Tumblr, and I'm worried I'll lose the code if I don't post it somewhere.)

twenty-four hours to live	against all odds	trust and vows	language and translation	holidayfic
au: historical	in vino veritas / drunkfic	matchmaker	au: supernatural	fuck or die
au: space	au: apocalypse	FREE ★ SPACE	power dynamics	coming out (of the closet)
sharing a bed	unexpected friendship	au: fusion	handcuffed / bound together	road trip
character in distress	mind games	genderswap	meet the parents / family	au: fairy tale / myth

Sticky || Leave messages here

infiniteeight — Wed, 01 Jan 2014 03:00:33 GMT

A place to leave messages too long for Tumblr.

Sticky || Leave messages here

infiniteeight — Fri, 23 Nov 2012 03:02:10 GMT

A place for messages too long for Tumblr.

writing craft | author promises and addressing reader expectations

infiniteeight — Sat, 17 Nov 2012 01:10:55 GMT

There is an mistake of writing craft that I am seeing A LOT lately. I'm talking probably 1/3 to 1/2 of all stories I've read in the past year or more. It is driving me crazy, but rather than rant about it, I thought I'd write an essay so that people can discuss and maybe learn.

When an author sets up a plot arc, an emotional arc, or a significant element, if they don't address that arc or element, the reader is going to be unsatisfied.

What does that mean? Let me give you a quickly crafted example. Plot arcs and emotional arcs tend to be set up over the course of a whole story, but an significant element can be set up very quickly, so I'll use that as my example:

Bob browsed the pictures set up on Mandy's mantlepiece as he waited for her to get ready for their date. It was easy to see the family resemblance in most of the photos, but there was one, tucked off to the side, of her with a man that definitely wasn't her brother. Bob leaned in to take a closer look.
"I'm ready!" Mandy's voice was a bit loud, but she was smiling when Bob to turned to look at her.
"You look great," he said.
"Thanks." Mandy glanced over Bob's shoulder quickly and tugged him away from the mantlepiece. "Come on, lets head out."
Bob gave into her tug easily; he'd been looking forward to this date.

Now, what's the first question you want to ask me?

I bet it's, "Who's the guy in the picture?"

There are three cues in this scene that the photo is significant: I spent time describing it in particular, Bob was interested, and Mandy seemed not want him to be interested.

It's possible that the photo has to relevance to the plot. Maybe the story is about robbers interrupting the date and Mandy being revealed as a superhero. But it doesn't matter what the story is about. Even if the primary plot of the story is totally resolved, you're going to feel frustrated because that photo felt important, damn it, and you never found out why!

It would take too long to write out an example that applies to plot arcs and emotional arcs, but I can describe it:

A story starts with two characters in an apparently solid relationship. Through the course of the story, cracks where the relationship seems to be coming apart appear. Because the relationship has changed through the course of the story, it is established as an arc. Because it has been established as an arc, you expect to see it resolved one way or another: Either they break up, or they address the problems and decide they want to be together still.

If the relationship started out bad and continued to be bad with no change, then there's no arc. It's just a character element and there are no reader expectations attached to it. Same if it starts out good and continues to be good with no change. You don't have to do anything about it.

But when there's change and an arc established, the reader expects you to address it somehow. And if you don't, it's frustrating for the reader. It can spoil their enjoyment of the story as a whole.

Please note that I didn't say that you have to fulfill reader expectations, or that you have to meet reader expectations. Surprises (the guy is the villain and Mandy didn't want her boyfriend to know she's evil!) are fine. Disappointment (it's no big deal, the guy is her uncle) is fine. But you have to address the fact that you set the reader up to expecting something.

I suspect people don't realize they're setting things up, sometimes.

I read a story a few years ago that drove me crazy with an unresolved issue. The story was being posted as a WIP, and I'd followed it for weeks. Early in the plot, Character A asks Character B, "Hey, which person in that book reminds you of me?" Character B waffles. Okay, not really a set up so far. Just conversation filler, right? Except them reading the book gets mentioned again. And then, later on, Character A asks again, "Hey, did you decide which person reminds you of me?" Character B says they haven't decided yet. The story mentions them finishing reading the book. The plot of the story resolved and...the end.

I thought about it for days. Why was it important which person reminded Character B of Character A? The book was mentioned four times, and Character A asked the question twice, and Character B resisted answering, and yet it was never answered for the reader! What did it mean? Finally, I broke and messaged the author because I had to know.

The author wrote back: They didn't know the answer, either. It wasn't important, just conversation filler.

I was so pissed. The repeated mentions, Character A's interest, and Character B's reluctance to answer had set this up in my mind to mean something. But the author didn't even realize they were doing it.

A few rules of thumb. The reader will probably assume something is important if...

...you spend time describing something in more detail than other things in the story.

...a character has an emotional reaction to something.

...an element is mentioned repeatedly.

...it changes over time. (This applies particularly to plot and emotional arcs.)

(Cross-posed to my livejournal, if you prefer to discuss there: http://infiniteeight.livejournal.com/4644.html)

I'm not the final word on writing. I'm not even a professional! But I read a lot, and I hope people found this to be a worthwhile post.

Hawkeye #4 solicit

infiniteeight — Fri, 09 Nov 2012 01:15:59 GMT

(originally posted on Tumblr)

Behind a cut for spoilery reasons:

The summary for Hawkeye #4 reads: "You won’t believe what’s on The Tape! S.H.I.E.L.D. recruits Clint to intercept incriminating evidence—before he becomes the most wanted man in the world. The situation quickly becomes a thriller that spans the globe and the darkest parts of Hawkeye."

Did someone on my flist post this and I just didn't see it?!? I've been really curious to see how Clint's interactions with SHIELD go in this post-Avengers-movie world. We all know that, whether we like it or not, the movies have a big impact on how things are handled in the comics. Sometimes that works for us and times it doesn't (with Hawkeye, that works for me; with Iron Man, I hated it), but it does happen.

Who is going to be the SHIELD representative here? Original 616 Nick Fury? Marcus!Nick? Coulson? Sitwell? Daisy (current SHIELD Director, I believe)? Will SHIELD continue to crop up, or will they call Clint, put him on the case, and then never appear again?

*vibrates with curiosity*

November 21...alas, the waiting!

Dear Yuletide Letter (Now Complete!)

infiniteeight — Wed, 24 Oct 2012 18:00:53 GMT

Dear Yuletide Writer,

Every Yuletide letter ever starts this way, but I'm going to say it regardless: Thank you for offering one of my fandoms! Sharing a fandom with someone is a great feeling to me, even if it's one step removed, for now. :)

I'm going to tell you a fair bit about things I enjoy in my fan fic here, because I know I'm the kind of writer who needs something to work with, something to jump off of. HOWEVER! Optional details are, after all, optional. If you work better with more freedom in your options, the only thing you really need to know about writing a fill I'll love is this: Happy endings. If the characters are happy, then I'm happy!

If you'd like more to work with, then read on...

Rating? I like it all. G to NC-17, it's all good.

Themes I like: Trust is a huge one for me. I love seeing the ways that characters trust each other. I especially like it when characters who normally don't trust ANYONE find someone that they come to trust completely. I also like seeing characters find their calling, or that place where they feel the belong. I like "coming out" stories, in which something instrinsic but previously unknown to others is revealed about a character. I like those even when the revelation is forced by circumstances, though in that case I really want to see the aftermath. In romances, I like seeing how the characters got together. I also like seeing what other characters (not involved in the relationship) think of that relationship. Matchmaking. Pining (but only if they end up together after all).

Themes I DON'T like: Betrayal. Okay, so this is the flip side of liking trust, but still. In romances, I don't like the "shovel talk" and would prefer not to see it. MPreg. Kid fic of any type at all. Rape. Really heavy angst-to-happy ration. Like, if there are five pages of soul-blackening angst, two lines of "But because of X, everything would be OK." is not enough for me. I want to see it being better. In general, I like my angst-to-happy ratio to err on the side of more happy. Angst is there to make the happy sweeter, in my world.

Okay, time for fandom specific comments:

Dredd (2012)

I confess: I ship Anderson and Dredd. I would die of love if I got a shippy fic for them. But really, it's trust and connection I'm looking for.

I've had bunnies myself about Dredd being required to pick a partner some assignment or another and choosing Anderson because of their experience in the movie and fellow Judges being super suprised because he's normally way more stubborn about it and they have to just assign someone, but I can never figure out where it goes from there. Knowing that Dredd is never, ever seen without his helmet in the original comic, I've also had ~thoughts~ about what it would mean for Anderson to see him without it in the movieverse.

These are just suggestions, though!

After the Golden Age - Carrie Vaughn

I actually don't have a lot of specifics to add to the optional details in my sign up for this one. General themes stuff in the letter applies, tho. :)

Bourne (Movies)

Here is the part where I really, really hope that you didn't just pick "Any" because you like the franchise and end up stuck with the one character that you're not all that into. *wry*. I hope you genuinely like Aaron!

Anyway, in addition to the getting-used-to-civilian-life stuff I mentioned in my sign up, here are a few other random ideas I'd enjoy:

Aaron meeting one or more people that he knew before his enhancement--how do they react? How do they remember him?

How much of Aaron's personality as Kenneth carries over? It might be interesting to see a situation where, with all the enchancements and training and new lifestyle, Aaron thought he was a totally different personality, but now that he's on his own and can relax and learn to live a different life, he discovers that there's more of Kenneth in him than he knew.

If you want to write something relationshippy, I'd be happy to see Aaron paired up with Marta, or an OC (male or female, both work for me), or even a crossover character. But not anyone other than Marta from the Bourne 'verse. If you do go 'shippy, I'd like the other person to know about Aaron's history. Um, if you do do something relationshippy, I have a particular love for virgin!Aaron.

As ever, if you have a different bunny, it's all good! Just trying to give you some sparks, if you need them.

Once again, thank you for offering one of my fandoms! I hope you have an awesome Yuletide. :)

~Fin

FIC: Zipped Up and Undone (1/1)

infiniteeight — Sun, 09 Sep 2012 19:17:18 GMT

Title: Zipped Up and Undone
Rating: NC-17 / Explicit
Pairing: Clint/Coulson (Avengers Movieverse)
Summary: Written for a prompt (via Tumblr): "Coulson likes to wear pretty dresses during his downtime. Clint likes taking them off of him." Clint never quite gets the dress off Phil, and there are a lot more pheels than I expected, but there is Phil in a dress and Clint thoroughly enjoying this, so I hope it still fits!
Word Count: 1,876
Notes: No beta on this one, because I am impatient and it is mostly porn.

Clint is the absolute last person Phil ever wants to find out about his private habits. Clint has an easy, rough masculinity to him that makes Phil desperately certain he could never understand. He wouldn't mean it to hurt, but surely he'd take one look at Phil's closet and crack some sort of joke and Phil would never again be sure he had Clint's respect. It's why Phil has kept the agent at arm's length no matter how many, increasingly obvious, invitations he issues, no matter how much Phil wants to take him up on one of them.

He'd forgotten, somehow, just how stubborn Clint could be.

Phil comes home, tired and slightly depressed, and pauses when he gets to his bedroom door and finds it slightly ajar. He never leaves his bedroom door open, never. He draws his weapon and nudges the door wider, eases up to look into the room...and freezes. Clint is standing in front of his closet, the doors flung wide, exposing the row of neatly hung dresses. Far too many to have been left behind by some ex.

Slowly, Phil lowers his weapon and engages the safety. He holsters it before pushing his bedroom door open and stepping inside. "Barton," he says, and it comes out flat.

Clint spins around and stares at him, eyes wide. "I thought I wasn't being blatant enough," Clint blurts. "I can tell you want me, I thought you just didn't believe I wasn't joking. I was going to strip down and let you find me on your bed in nothing but one of your ties." He waves wordlessly at the closet.

Phil closes his eyes against the bitter realization that he's going to lose what little he has of the man he wants more than anything precisely because that man wants him back. "Just go," he says, and it doesn't matter if his voice breaks. Not now.

There's a rustle of fabric, and soft footsteps. "Phil." Clint's voice is soft and uncertain and much, much closer than Phil expects. He opens his eyes and finds Clint standing just inside his personal space. There's something in his hands. "Would you..." Clint trails off, swallows and licks his lips. "Would you put this one on? For me?"

Clint offers his hands and Phil realizes he's holding one of the dresses. The fabric is black and purple checked, not satin but with some of the same sheen to it. It's sleeveless, with a plunging neckline and a cinched in waist and an asymmetrical skirt that ends just above the knee. It's never been one of Phil's favorites, but the look in Clint's eyes makes him think that might be changing.

He strips out of his suit slowly, still a little afraid there's going to come a point at which all of this is too much for Clint. But as Clint watches, a flush blooms high on his cheeks and his fingers clench in the fabric of the dress he's holding. By the time Phil is naked he's not so nervous anymore, because Clint can't seem to look away. Phil holds out his hand and Clint gives him the dress, then rubs his palms against his jeans. Phil drops his gaze to unzip the dress, and pauses when his eyes skim past Clint's groin. Clint's hard.

Phil's heart starts pounding. He slides the zipper down and carefully steps into the dress. He's not wearing any underwear, and his skin tingles as he pulls the smooth fabric up his body and settles the straps on his shoulders. There's a little ribbon strung through the zipper pull so that Phil can close it himself, but he pauses. He can't make himself look up at Clint, but he does turn, showing Clint his back. "Zip me up?"

"Okay," Clint says, voice uneven. He takes hold of the zipper pull and puts the other hand on Phil's hip. Phil's eyes slide shut as he drinks in the heat of Clint's hand, the whisper of sensation where his fingers rub the dress against Phil's skin. Clint closes the zipper slowly, far more slowly than Phil expects. The gradual tightening of the fabric around him as it's closed is unexpectedly sensual. When he's done, Clint splays his hand against the bare skin between Phil's shoulder blades for a moment before dropping it to Phil's other hip. "Turn?" Clint asks softly.

Phil takes a deep breath and forced himself to lift his gaze from the floor before he turns around, Clint's hands sliding over his back and belly before settling back on his hips again, never letting go of him, and meets Clint's eyes. They gaze at each other for a moment before Clint slowly looks Phil up and down. "You are so fucking hot," he says, and Phil has to laugh, because that's so far from what he was expecting that it actually makes him a little dizzy.

He shakes his head even as he brings his hands up to curl around Clint's biceps. "I'm not."

"I think I get to decide what I like, sir," Clint says. His eyes go wandering again, openly appreciative.

"Phil."

Clint looks back up. "What?"

"I need you to call me Phil right now," Phil says, because he's worked damn hard to keep this part of himself as far from work as humanly possible.

"Phil," Clint says slowly, rolling Phil's name around in his mouth like he can taste it. "Can I kiss you, Phil?"

Phil's heart leaps. "Please."

Clint's eyes drop to Phil's lips as he pulls him in close, and Phil has never felt this kind of nervous anticipation before. It's all he can do not to tighten his grip on Clint's arms. He catches his breath when Clint's hand slide off his hips and palm his lower back instead. Phil closes his eyes and their lips meet and it's slow, not at all what he expected.

Maybe he should stop making assumptions about Clint, because Clint is sliding one hand up Phil's back, lightly tracing edge of the dress, and his mouth is gentle but certain, so certain. Phil parts his lips without thinking and Clint deepens the kiss, pressing Phil against him with broad, warm hands. Phil moans low in his throat and presses closer, a shock of pleasure going through him when their hips line up and he realizes that Clint isn't the only one who's hard. It's been so long since he's been touched, and never like this, satiny fabric on his skin and his cock and a callused hand tracing the straps of the dress and eager fingers rucking up the hem and reaching under to palm his ass. Phil gasps, startled. Clint pauses, mouths red from kissing. "Okay?"

Phil has to stop, make himself think. But...this is real. Clint is here, he's kissed Phil, he's got his hand on Phil's ass, and he doesn't seem to care that Phil is wearing a dress. Maybe he even likes it. And God, Phil has wanted Clint for a long time. "Just tell me you aren't going to wish this hadn't happened, later," Phil says. He doesn't mean sex.

Clint doesn't pretend to misunderstand. He leans in and kisses Phil, slow and dirty, and speaks against his mouth when he's done. "There is no way I could ever wish I hadn't gotten to see a part of you that you've never shared with anyone else." He backs up, pulling Phil with him, and sits down on the bed. "I'm never going to wish that I never realized that the suits are just camouflage, and that there's so much more going on underneath." He leans forward and kisses Phil's stomach. The dress grows wet under his tongue and Phil moans and climbs up to straddle his lap, the skirt of the dress pushing up to his hips because his legs are splayed so wide.

Clint pulls him close and bucks his hips up, the rough fabric of his jeans too harsh through the thin folds of the dress. Phil reaches for his fly, yanking open button and zipper and feeling a hot surge of excitement when he pushes his hand inside and finds Clint's skin. Of course he'd gone commando if he was planning on stripping down for Phil. He draws Clint's cock out of his jeans and Clint makes a choked, eager noise. Phil looks down at Clint and, fuck, he looks wrecked. He's panting, lips shining where he's been licking them, and his eyes are half closed, and he's flushed with arousal, and he is the most gorgeous thing Phil has seen in his whole life.

Phil puts a hand on Clint's shoulder to steady himself and gathers up the folds of the skirt between them and pushes in close. When he's close enough he lets the satiny fabric whisper down over his wrist to cover them both and takes Clint's cock in his hand. Clint jerks up into his grip and squeezes Phil's ass in his hands, his breath coming rough. "Yeah," he groans. "You feel so good, Phil."

Laughter bubbles up in his chest, but Phil swallows it, because he doesn't want Clint to misunderstand, not now, and he sure doesn't want to stop to explain the heady joy that's washing through him. Instead he kisses Clint, makes it deep and wet and hungry, and squirms around until he gets into just the right spot to take both of them in his hand at the same time. Clint moans into his mouth, but they don't stop kissing. Phil's pretty sure he's going to kiss Clint forever, one way or another.

Pressed together the way they are, pre-come and sweat just taking the edge off of the slide of Phil's hand, Phil can feel every throb and twitch of Clint's cock, but with the dress pooling between them he can't see it. Somehow, that makes it even better. Everything is tucked between them, safe and private, but they can feel it, hot and eager and perfect. Phil can feel Clint getting close. He breathes in the hitches in his breath, speeds the stroking of his hand, and urges Clint over the edge. His come smoothes the way for Phil to jerk himself off a little harder, a little tighter. He cries out when he comes, his whole body shuddering for a moment before the strength goes right out of him.

Clint catches him and helps him move up onto the bed far enough for them to lie down. Phil eventually works up the energy to wipe his hand clean on the sheets and turn onto his side. Clint is already propped up on one elbow, facing him. When Phil meets his eyes he smiles and reaches out, lets his hand lay on the bed between them.

Phil doesn't hesitate to tangle their fingers together.

"We, uh, we didn't ruin it, did we?" Clint asks, nodding at the dress Phil is wearing.

It's marked with sweat and come and is twisted and bunched around Phil's body in ways that are going to be really uncomfortable in a minute, but Phil smiles. "I hope not. I'll do my best to get it clean. But if it is..."

"Worth it," Clint finishes, grinning.

~!~

FIC: Paperwork is Love (1/1)

infiniteeight — Mon, 27 Aug 2012 19:04:07 GMT

Title: Paperwork is Love
Rating: PG
Pairing: Clint/Coulson (Avengers Movieverse)
Summary: Clint writes the best field reports in all of SHIELD. Tony suspects an ulterior motive.
Word Count: 2,380
Notes: Many thanks to perpet_fic for beta reading!

Tony didn't even bother holding back his groan when the first words out of Coulson's mouth when the team sat down at the conference table were, "May I remind you that some of you still owe me your field reports from the event last week?"

"Seriously?" Tony asked, leaning back in his chair. Natasha rolled her eyes as Steve and Bruce sheepishly passed flash drives around the table to Coulson. Thor handed over a stack of paper like he always did; he was perfectly capable of using a computer, but he'd picked up one of Tony's fountain pens not long after his return to Earth and fallen in love with them. He took every opportunity to use them. Tony still wished he'd introduced Thor to the fountain pen on purpose, because the crinkle in Coulson's brow whenever he accepted a stack of forms filled out in copperplate script--beautiful, but hard to read--never stopped being funny.

"Yes, seriously," Coulson said. He flipped through Thor's report. "Thor, you do realize SHIELD has addendum sheets? The last two pages of this are written on loose leaf."

"I am sorry, Son of Coul," Thor said. "I did not have these sheets at home, and I did not wish my report to be late."

"Not to worry," Coulson smiled at Thor as he tapped the stack of paper on the table to neaten the edges. "I'll have Darcy retype those pages for me." Thor winced; Darcy also filtered requests for PR apperances. Tony anticipated many more of Thor’s requests making it through for a while. Coulson turned to Tony. "Mr. Stark?"

"Yeah, yeah, keep your panties on." Tony pulled his own flash drive out of his pocket and slid it across the table. "I don't know why you always pick on me; Barton hasn't even done his." Clint looked up from the briefing package he'd opened while the rest of them coughed up their paperwork and smirked at Tony.

"On the contrary," Coulson drawled, "Agent Barton submitted his field report, both the electronic version and the hard copy in duplicate, within 48 hours of the incident, as outlined in the official guidelines." He cast a glance around the table. "Meetings like this are not, in fact, the actual deadline for these reports. They're just my best opportunity to insist they be delivered."

Tony frowned. "Oh, come on, what kind of report can anyone write in less than 48 hours?"

"An accurate and complete one," Coulson said dryly. "Memory deteriorates rapidly. I know you regard this documentation as an inconvenient hoop to jump through, but our analysts do actually use these to develop intel for both ongoing and future operations. To borrow a programming term, Mr. Stark, garbage in means garbage out."

A twinge went through Tony. He covered it with an exaggerated wounded expression. "Agent! Are you saying my reports are garbage?"

Coulson sighed. "No, Mr. Stark, your reports are fine. All of your reports are fine, addendum sheets aside. I was saying that Agent Barton's reports are better, but don't take that personally; he writes the best reports I've ever seen from any SHIELD asset."

Tony's eyebrows went up and he shot a look across the table. Clint had his eyes back on his briefing package, but the tips of his ears had gone a little red.

Interesting.

*

Tony didn't have to wait long to gather additional data. The meeting at which his interest had been piqued had been in preparation for a new mission, after all. Happily, it went smoothly, for once--SHIELD had been tracking the target for a while and the Avengers had engaged him mostly as a preventative measure. He and his genetically engineered giant locusts went down without loss of life or property, not counting the guy's own lab, which was conveniently isolated.

Of course, reports still had to be written. Armed with the 48 hour deadline and JARVIS, finding Barton while he was working on his report was easy. To Tony's surprise, he was set up in the conference room, rather than the kitchen or living room, where the rest of them tended to plug away at their paperwork. As he got closer, Tony realized why: Clint was using the smart surface of the table to display several other documents whilehe filled in the newest form.

"Please tell me you aren't cross-referencing," Tony said, a little horrified. He dropped into one of the other chairs and slid over next to Clint, leaning in to peer at the report.

"Sorry, Stark, no can do," Clint said easily. He typed a few things, then closed one of the other documents.

He wasn't just cross-referencing, Tony realized as he skimmed the text, he was including quotes and report numbers and page citations. While Tony watched, he tapped a couple of options on the report interface that Tony had never paid much attention to and inserted a god damned hot link to the referenced report, too. "But why? This was a cake walk."

Clint kept working as he spoke. "Sure, but we fought giant snakes a month ago and giant ants a couple months before that. Maybe there's a connection. It's worth mentioning, anyway."

"Isn't identifying stuff like that the analysts’ job?" Clint was working on page three, so Tony tapped the table and brought up pages one and two. Not only had Clint filled in his own identification number and details, he'd used the additional personnel box to fill in the names and IDs for everyone else on the team. "I thought this box was for contractors and unaffiliated super-assistance."

"It is, but you guys forget to put in your ID numbers all the time. It saves Coulson some trouble if I list them on mine. ” Clint shrugged. “And the SHIELD analysts are great, nine times out of ten they'd think of everything I do and more, but there is that tenth time. Better for something to be noted twice than not at all."

Tony sat back in his chair and watched Clint methodically working his way through the field report. "I don't buy it," he announced. "There's something else going on here."

Clint's shoulders tightened. "I can't be good at my job?" he asked sharply.

"You are awesome at your job." That startled Clint enough to look up and make eye contact. "But no one enjoys paperwork so much that they'll put this much extra effort into it, especially since you know from watching the rest of us that you could get away with a lot less."

Clint dropped his eyes. "Coulson handles a lot of bullshit so that the team can operate the way we like to," he muttered. "It wouldn't hurt you to spend a little time making his life easier." Clint's ears had gone pink at the tips again.

Very interesting.

*

It wasn't easy to plant a bug--two bugs, actually, so he could get all the angles--in Coulson's office, and they would certainly be discovered before the day was out, but Tony didn't need it to last any longer. He just wanted to catch Clint handing in his report; the agent had finished it the night before, so Tony knew he'd be delivering it sometime today. Coulson would tear Tony a new one when he found the bugs, but Tony had a theory and if this little venture proved it correct, it would be easy to derail Coulson's anger.

JARVIS, glorious accomplice that he was, gave Tony the heads up when Clint was approaching Coulson's office. Tony booked it to his lab and pulled up both video feeds.

Coulson was at his desk, focused on his computer but typing only occasionally. He picked up a pen and made some notes on a legal pad at his elbow. There was a little wrinkle between his eyes. It deepened when the knock sounded on his door, but he called out, "Come in," anyway.

Clint stuck his head in the door. "Hey," he said. "You got a minute?"

The wrinkle between Coulson's eyebrows smoothed out. "Of course."

'Of course,' wasn't Coulson's usual answer when Tony asked for a minute...which Tony chalked up as evidence in favor of his theory.

Clint stepped into the office, closing the door behind himself, and dropped into the chair in front of Coulson's desk. He leaned forward and put a manila file folder on the desk, pushing it towards Coulson with his fingertips. "My report on The Colossal Cicada Caper," he said, the corner of his mouth twitching.

Coulson laughed. And when he was done laughing, he kept smiling at Clint. Tony had never seen the agent smile like that. Little smirks, a small, amused curve, even a subtle quirk of relief, but there was nothing subdued about this smile. It made his eyes crinkle around the edges. Tony looked over at Clint, who was slouching back in his chair. He was practically basking in Coulson's grin.

"Thank you," Coulson said, before flipping open the folder and looking over the first page. Tony knew he wasn't checking to see if it was complete--not if Clint had a history of this--so what was he doing? Coulson let out a small, satisfied sigh. "Sometimes," he said, skimming over the pages, "your reports are the best part of my day. It's so nice to see them done right."

Coulson didn't see, since he was still reading, but Clint's blush and the look on his face made it pretty obvious that handing in his reports was always the highlight of his day. He swallowed visibly. "I, uh, remembered that this wasn't the first giant animal kind of incident we've had. Not the second, either. Page three. Thought it might be worth a follow up."

Coulson flipped to the appropriate page and read rather than skimmed this time. He hummed thoughtfully before looking up. "Thursday afternoon? I'll bring the analysts' summaries."

"I'll bring coffee," Clint grinned.

"It's a date," Coulson said. Clint rolled his eyes, but he stole another glance at Coulson over his shoulder on his way out of the office.

"Not yet it isn't," Tony said, snickering. Proving a hypothesis right was awesome.

*

If Tony was a discreet person, he'd use his own report as an excuse to ask oblique questions about Thursday afternoon 'date'.

Tony wasn’t a discreet person. He strode into Coulson's office, closed the door behind himself, and hitched one hip up on the corner of Coulson's desk. "I get why Clint hasn't jumped you," he said. "God knows I'm never quite sure what you're thinking. But I can't figure out why you haven't made a move on him." Tony smirked. "Worried about abusing your authority? Some guys like that, you know."

Coulson finished the sentence he'd been writing on his pad of paper and set down the pen. He folded his hands on the desk and looked up at Tony, completely deadpan. "Are you one of those guys, Mr. Stark? Shall I take you over my knee?"

"Nice try," Tony said, pointing at Coulson, "but I will not be diverted. Seriously, what's the hold up? Barton's practically putting on a mating display."

"I know you find baiting me amusing," Coulson said, "but I have actual work to do."

Tony frowned. "I'm not baiting you, I'm baffled. The paperwork, Coulson. The paperwork."

Coulson just looked puzzled. "What has Agent Barton’s paperwork got to do with anything?"

"Jesus, if I had any doubt about you two, it'd be gone now." Tony shook his head. "It is only possible to be this clueless about something you want so badly it makes you nuts." Tony leaned forward. "Clint doesn't spend hours crafting perfect reports for you because he's a professional, Coulson. He does it because he's crazy in love with you, and he wants you to smile at him and tell him he makes you happy."

Coulson opened his mouth, but no words came out. He dropped his eyes to the pad of paper and lined up the pen with the edge. "That's a big conclusion to draw from a bit of paperwork."

"It's not just a bit of paperwork," Tony said. "It's the best paperwork you've ever seen from any SHIELD asset." He hopped off Coulson's desk and sauntered back to the door. "Have fun on Thursday."

*

On Thursday, at four o'clock, JARVIS interrupted Tony in the lab. "Sir," he said, "given your previous investment in the subject, I thought you might be interested in the video feed of Agent Coulson's meeting with Agent Barton."

Tony's eyebrows went up. He honestly hadn’t expected the cameras to still be there. He'd installed them on Tuesday and dropped a gigantic hint that they were there on Wednesday afternoon. They should have been disabled ages ago. But since they hadn’t been…He pushed up the goggles he was wearing and set down the soldering iron. "Sure, give it to me on the center screen," he said, tossing his work gloves on the counter and settling down on his couch.

Of course, the two idiots proceeded to actually talk shop for the next hour. After the first ten minutes, Tony rolled his eyes and went back to work, glancing up every now and then to check that they weren't playing footsie under the desk or something. They finished the meeting and Clint got all the way to the door before Coulson spoke up. "Barton. Clint."

Tony paused, stepped away from his work bench to give the screens his full attention.

Clint stepped away from the door and turned back to Coulson. "Yes, sir?"

Coulson stood up and came out from behind his desk. "I..." he trailed off and cast about for words.

"Sir?" Clint stepped in closer, face creased with concern.

Coulson looked at him, swallowed. "You make me happy," he said quietly.

Clint's eyes went wide. Then his expression softened. He took another step towards Coulson, almost inside his personal space. "I do?"

Coulson licked his lips. "Yes."

Clint closed the last gap between them and kissed him.

"Score!" Tony shouted, throwing up his hands. On the screens, Coulson wrapped one arm around Clint, pulling him close, and reached back over his desk with the other, tapping his keyboard--

The screens went blank.

Tony blinked, then laughed. "Fair enough," he told the absent agents. "And you're welcome."

~!~

FIC: Assume the Positions (1/1)

infiniteeight — Mon, 20 Aug 2012 23:55:36 GMT

Title: Assume the Position
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Clint/Coulson (Avengers Movieverse)
Summary: Written for the Tumblr prompt: "Clint has been bugging everyone all day, so Coulson bends him over his desk, spanks him and then has his way with the younger man."
Word Count: 1,658

Warnings: Spanking, theoretically as discipline, but it ends up being more like foreplay.

Coulson starts hearing the grumbling the second he steps into headquarters. Personal items gone missing, unauthorized access of comm frequencies, darts shot into a variety of body parts. He gives his report to Fury and goes to wander the corridors. It only takes half an hour before a dart thwacks into his shoulder. "Barton!" Coulson snaps, for all that he can't see the man. "My office, five minutes, or I'll have your favorite bow broken into scraps." He sets off for his office without looking back, plucking the dart out of his shoulder as he goes.

Clint is sitting on his desk when Coulson arrives, swinging his legs and smirking. "Welcome back, boss."

"If you wanted my attention," Coulson says sharply. "You have it."

"What, and I'm going to regret it?" Clint rolls his eyes. "No one saw me do anything, and you know the junior agents aren't gonna give you enough for an official write up."

He's right, unfortunately. The junior agents are far too much in awe of Hawkeye, even if he pisses them off. "Oh, this isn't going to be official," Coulson says. "I think you need a little more personal attention than a write up."

Clint laughs. "You going to take me over your knee, Coulson?"

Actually, that might be just what Clint needs. "No," he says eventually, "I think I'd prefer you over the desk."

"Yeah, right," Clint snorted. "Don't talk the talk if you aren't going to walk the walk."

"You will never go another op if you don't drop your pants and assume the position in the next ten seconds," Coulson says coolly.

Clint frowns at him for a long moment before sliding off the desk and smirking, his hands going to his fly. "I'm calling your bluff." His pants slither down his legs, pooling around his ankles, and he starts to turn.

Coulson interrupts him. "Underwear, too."

Raising an eyebrow, Clint hooks his thumbs into the waistband of his boxer briefs and pauses. Coulson just watches impassively; this is hardly the first game of psychological chicken he's played. Clint slowly pushes his underwear down. He's got a nice cock, average length but thick, cut and dusky pink at the head. Coulson takes a long look before nodding and gesturing with one finger for Clint to turn around. For a long, tense moment he wonders if Clint will just walk out, SHIELD be damned. But instead he gets into position, bending over, bracing his hands on the surface of Coulson's desk. When he's settled he looks back over his shoulder at Coulson. "Well? Your move, Coulson."

Clint's ass is spectacular. Not that Coulson is about to compliment him, not now, but he does run an appreciative hand over the smooth, full curve of it before he brings his hand down in a sharp slap. Clint yelps, his whole body twitching. "Jesus!" he says. "You're seriously going to spank me?!?"

"You should know that I don't bluff," Coulson says, and delivers four more slaps in quick succession.

"Fuck," Clint gasps when Coulson pauses, but he doesn't move, even though it would only take a step or two to get out from under Coulson's hand.

Coulson runs his fingers over a dark pink hand print rising on Clint's skin. Beautiful. He layers another set of five over Clint's cheeks, watching the marks of his hand even out into an allover flush. Clint is whimpering now, lovely little choked noises, and Coulson has to pause to adjust himself. "Is ten enough?" he asks.

For a moment the only sound is Clint's harsh breathing. Then, in a very small voice, "No, sir."

Coulson's heart speeds up. "Ten more, then." He rubs a hand over Clint's ass, then presses between the cheeks and brushes the pads of his fingers over Clint's hole. "And after I'll take a little consideration for my trouble."

Clint says nothing, not then, and not when Coulson leans across him and retrieves the hand lotion he keeps in his desk drawer. He doesn't make any more sounds at all until Coulson starts the spanking again, and then he cries out. He's probably too loud, but Coulson can't bring himself to care. The door is locked and no one is going to come to Clint's ‘rescue’ after the day he's given them, so Coulson keeps going, the sound of skin striking skin ringing out in harmony with Clint's wails. By the time he finishes the second set of ten, Clint's ass is bright pink and warm and he's panting for air, eyes clenched shut. Coulson reaches between Clint's legs and finds his cock, stiff and just as hot to the touch as his ass. Coulson gives it a quick stroke before quickly opening his own pants.

Sighing with relief, he picks the bottle of lotion and squeezes some onto his fingers. It's cold even to him, so he's not surprised when Clint gasps and shudders when he pushes a slick finger inside him. "Relax," Coulson orders.

"Yes, sir," Clint says. After a moment the tight grip of his ass eases up. Coulson smiles and pumps his finger in and out of Clint's hole a couple of times before adding a second finger. Clint lets out a little cry, but it only a takes a few seconds before he's opened up for that one, too.

That's good enough; Phil wants that gorgeous ass wrapped around him. He slicks up his cock and spreads Clint's cheeks apart with his hands. Clint's hole flexes under his gaze. "Remember to breathe," Coulson says. Clint groans when Coulson pushes the head of his cock into his ass, but he does breathe, sucking in deep, shuddering gulps of air. Coulson rocks his hips, gaze fixed on the sight of Clint's hole stretched around him, slowly but steadily swallowing up his dick.

Clint is gloriously hot and tight, and the firm muscle of his ass cheeks only makes sinking into him better. From Clint's sharp grunt Coulson maybe rushes the last inch or two, but with an ass like this he hardly thinks he can be blamed. He sets a slow, indulgent pace after that, though, fucking Clint with the full length of his cock. Clint makes a dizzying variety of sounds, taking every stroke with a gasp or a moan or a whimper or a whine.

Sweat dampens Clint’s shirt and beads at his hairline. It makes Coulson want to run his tongue over Clint's skin, lick up the salty drops and suck a mark into throat, but he's enjoying the slide of his cock plunging into Clint's ass too much stop. Instead he pushes one hand up under Clint's shirt, palming the tight muscles of his belly, and picks up the pace.

"Ohhh," Clint groans as Coulson's dick drives into him harder. He stutters a little through the next strokes before the word slips free. "More."

Excitement flares in Coulson's belly. "That's good," he murmurs, sliding his hand down Clint's belly to take hold of his cock. It feels even better in his hand than it looked, swollen and damp with pre-come. "That's good, just let go." He starts stroking Clint's cock, moaning himself at the way it makes Clint clench down around his cock.

"I can't," Clint sobs, hips arching into Coulson's thrusts. "I need--"

"Here-- Let me--" Coulson gives up on speaking and snaps his hips forward, hard. Clint cries out and Coulson does it again, fucks him so hard that their skin slaps together loudly. It only takes a few strokes to send Clint over the edge, shaking and moaning and barely managing to hold himself up.

But he does hold himself up, his ass thrust out for Coulson, who takes full advantage. He's close, tension a knot in his belly, but he draws it out, clinging to his control and savoring every plunge into Clint's tight, velvety heat. God, he wishes he could have this ass wrapped around his cock every second, his to enjoy whenever he pleases. The idea is too much for Coulson's control and his breath catches as he comes, pumping slickly into Clint's hole. He keeps their hips pressed together, his cock buried in Clint, until he starts to soften, and only then carefully withdraws. A dribble of his come escapes as he pulls out. He's tempted to wipe it up, but resists. Instead he tucks himself, sticks with come and lube, back into his pants. Clint is still just standing there, leaning against his desk, so Coulson crouches and pulls up his boxer briefs and pants, sliding them over his come filled ass and damp cock. He'll probably go clean up right after this, but just the idea of Clint walking around all fucked out and wet under his clothes sends a thrill through Coulson.

When he's got Clint properly zipped up, he tugs him out of his bent over position and turns him around. Clint looks dazed still. It seems like he still needs contact, so Coulson leaves his hands on Clint's shoulders. "Still feeling restless, Barton?" he asks.

Clint blinks and focuses. He ducks his head slightly. "No, sir." He licks his lips. "Permission to come see you next time I get...restless, sir?"

Coulson's pulse leaps. "Of course. But don't feel you have to wait that long, if you don't want to."

Clint smiles. "Oh, I get restless pretty often." Coulson can feel the corner of his mouth twitch up, and Clint chuckles and leans in and kisses him, quick and dirty. "I'm going to walk around like this all day, sir," he murmurs in Phil's ear before he steps back and smirks. "I think I'll be pretty restless tonight."

"Ten p.m., my place," Coulson says. It's all he can do to hold onto a bland expression until Clint walks out. Then he crumples into his chair and looks at the clock. 2:17pm. Clint wasn't going to be the only restless one by ten.

~!~

FIC: A Suit Kind of Guy

infiniteeight — Mon, 20 Aug 2012 20:22:05 GMT

Sweet. “Stop making that face. You look like an idiot.” / “You think I’m cute.”

Title: A Suit Kind of Guy
Rating: G
Pairing: Clint/Coulson (Avengers Movieverse)
Summary: Written for the Tumblr prompt (from 3 months ago): Sweet. “Stop making that face. You look like an idiot.” / “You think I’m cute.” It didn't come out sweet, exactly, although the end sort of is?
Word Count: 529

Clint looked into the mirror, studying his reflection. He wore a crisp, tailored dress shirt, neatly buttoned down at the collar. The steel grey suit sat perfectly on his shoulders. The tie snugly settled into the opening of the collar picked up his eyes. The ensemble was expensive, in perfect taste, and carefully chosen for Clint's upcoming undercover assignment. Clint made a face, looking for himself in the reflection.

“Stop making that face. You look like an idiot," Coulson said, stepping up behind him and reviewing Clint's outfit with a sweep of his eyes over the full length mirror.

Clint smirked. “You think I’m cute," he tossed over his shoulder, adjusting his tie.

Coulson snorted. "In that suit, you can do a lot better than cute."

It was all Clint could do to keep the plummeting of his stomach off his face. Of course Coulson wanted the sort of man who'd wear a suit like this. A refined man, with high class tastes. An educated, successful man with a witty sense of humor and a fucking wine collection. Not a guttersnipe with just one skill to trade on and a taste for puns and X rated jokes. Clint wanted to tear the suit off, throw it out them window after his stupid hopes, but he had a job to do.

"Clint?" Coulson met his gaze in the mirror, frowning. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing," Clint swallowed a sigh and schooled his expression into a slight smile. He wasn't good at bland, but vaguely amused usually did okay. "Let's get this show on the road."

"No, something's definitely wrong." Coulson put a hand on Clint's shoulder and turned him around. "Talk to me."

"I'm just being stupid." Clint bounced on the balls of his feet. "Come on, I'm good to go."

Coulson just watched him. It was all Clint could do to hand onto the vaguely amused mask. "No," Coulson said. Of course he could see right through Clint; he always could. "We've got a few minutes to sort this out. Is this about the suit?"

Sometimes Clint really wished Coulson wasn't so smart. Or didn't know him so well. "I'm just not a suit kind of guy," Clint muttered.

"No, you're not," Coulson agreed. Clint couldn't meet his eyes; he looked over Coulson's shoulder instead. "Which is half the reason I like putting you in them so much," Coulson went on. Clint couldn't help glancing at him then, but Coulson was looking down now, at his hands, which he'd brought down to finger the lapels of Clint's suit. "I like wrapping you in tailored fabric, covering up everything that makes you dangerous with mild discomfort, and sending you out like a wolf among the sheep." He looked up and met Clint's gaze, smiling. "They'll never know what hit them. But I will."

Clint swallowed, but his voice was still rough when he spoke. "All that's kind of your specialty, sir." He paused, licked his lips. "You want to get in some range time when we get back? I'd like to put a bow in your hands."

Coulson smoothed the lapels of the suit jacket flat against Clint's chest. "It's a date."

~!~

FIC: Guarantee (1/1)

infiniteeight — Sun, 19 Aug 2012 22:13:14 GMT

Title: Guarantee
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Clint/Coulson (Avengers Movieverse)
Summary: What would SHIELD look like in a world where all the Agents we know and love are more than a few degrees darker? What would Nick Fury do to ensure loyalty? And how would Coulson and Barton meet?
Word Count: 5,276

Warnings: This world's Clint Barton has a sexual kink that is...extreme. It's not something he and Phil do together, not quite, but it is important to the story. It's meant to be a surprise for narrative reasons, but if you're concerned you may be triggered, please check the end notes to be safe.

Fury values loyalty highly, but he never relies on it alone. As Coulson has moved up through the ranks at SHIELD and the layers of lies and manipulation have been peeled back to reveal the true depth to which Fury has sunk his influence into the governments of the world, Coulson has seen the same techniques applied to every member of SHIELD who has any true value.

Coulson is sharply aware that his own value has been outgrowing the security of Fury's grip on him. He brought Coulson into SHIELD with the shared conviction that most people couldn't be trusted to take care of themselves and needed a firm hand on the reins, and he'd presented thorough and irrefutable evidence that Coulson had murdered three of his commanding officers (incompetent, all of them) as his guarantee of Coulson's allegiance. But it's been too long and Coulson knows too much for blackmail to suffice much longer. Fury will either go looking for a new guarantee, or he'll eliminate Coulson.

Coulson keeps an eye out for the elimination, but he doesn't worry about the guarantee. Fury doesn't trust loyalty, but he has Coulson's regardless. SHIELD is extraordinarily effective at making humanity dance to Fury's tune, far more effective than Coulson had hoped. Whatever hook Fury wants to plant in him to keep him close, Coulson will take it.

When it comes, Coulson doesn't actually recognize it for what it is until it's already set.

*

"The election results from Mexico are in." Coulson flips to the next page in the weekly report he's prepared for Fury. He'll hand it over when he's done, of course, but Fury likes verbal summaries. Some of the other agents think it's a quirk; Coulson knows that Fury is getting a read on him as much as on the situations he's reporting on. "It was close, but the extra ballots put our candidate over the top. We're in."

Fury is leaning back in his chair, feet propped up on the conference table. "I don't like that we had to go there. The misinformation campaign should have been enough. Who was managing that?"

Coulson doesn't have to check his notes. "Agent Green."

"If he has conflicts of interest, resolve them," Fury directs. "What's next?"

Well, Green has always been expendable. "Research and Development has hit a roadblock with the performance enhancer they've been working on."

Fury frowns. "Last I heard, they were seeing improved strength, speed, and reaction times. What's the issue?"

"Improved, yes, but not at target," Coulson says. "The results have plateaued, but they can't tell if it's inherent in the drug or a natural ability cap in the primates we've been using for testing."

"Hmmm. Does Doctor Kenner have a suggestion?"

"New subjects. Human." Coulson frowns. "He wants a hundred, but in my opinion that number raises the risk of exposure unacceptably high."

Fury crooks his fingers and Coulson slides the file across the table to let him peruse the details. "He can have fifty," Fury says eventually. "Twenty local, the other thirty in three sets of ten in three different countries. If mortality exceeds seventy percent, his project is terminated." Coulson nods and makes a mental note, since Fury has the file. The Director flips through the next couple of pages instead of giving it back. Coulson knows when he gets to weapons development because he grins. "God, I love Stark," Fury says. "Infiltrating his protection detail was the best decision I've made in the last ten years; we'd be stuck with fucking Hammer if the kidnapping had succeeded."

Coulson smiles slightly. "Speaking of Hammer, he still hasn't rooted out the mole we planted in his computer systems. I think Stark is just toying with him at this point; he's had enough to take that company down for weeks."

"Let him have his fun," Fury says, flipping the file shut. "It just gives us more to work with if we ever need to apply some leverage there."

Personally, Coulson doesn't think they'll need leverage on Stark. The man is short sighted when it comes to everything but his own work. As long as they keep him busy innovating, he's easy to handle, and SHIELD has no shortage of interesting weapons problems to solve. But he doesn't argue; Fury always keeps back up plans.

Fury puts the file to one side and reaches out for another folder, sitting on the edge of the table. "Potential acquisition," he says, handing Coulson the file. Coulson flips it open; the first document is an FBI personnel file. "I want his skills," Fury goes on, "but I don't know yet how he can be secured."

Coulson nods, but continues reviewing the file. Barton, Clint Francis. Sharpshooter. Good field reports, except for multiple citations for insubordination. Interesting. Fury doesn't usually like the insubordinate ones. "What makes him interesting?" Coulson asks, because he's halfway through the file and nothing is standing out.

"Skip to his weapons evaluation," Fury suggests.

Coulson shoots him a glance, but obeys. The weapons evaluations are at the back of reports because they're rarely worth any attention. By the time a potential field agent comes to SHIELD's attention, they're always top five percent. Variation within that is virtually meaningless under operational conditions.

Coulson gets to the evaluations and goes still. Barton's scores are perfect. They aren't an average, and they aren't a best of list, either. SHIELD is thorough, which means that this report contains every target Barton has fired at for evaluation purposes, on every weapon, on every course. From the day he joined the FBI to the present, he's never scored lower than 100%. "This isn't possible," Coulson says, looking up at Fury. "The nature of weapons engineering means that there's a degree of error built into firearms. On top of that, there are variations between individual weapons."

"Apparently, Barton systematically signs out every weapon in his office's inventory and trains on them," Fury says. "He compensates for their quirks individually."

Coulson looks down at the page of perfect scores and runs his thumb gently over the column of uninterrupted 100s. "And in the field?" If he couldn't improvise, he wasn't worth their time.

"He's never missed a mark," Fury says. "Actually, he's a little more enthusiastic than his superiors would prefer."

Coulson raises his eyebrows. "Meaning?"

"Meaning that Barton takes every opportunity for a kill shot that he gets."

"Hmmmm." Coulson flips the page and the weapons evaluation manages to surprise him again. "A bow and arrow?"

Fury is smirking at him when he looks up. "The source of most of Barton's insubordination. It's by far his preferred weapon, but the FBI won't let him use it."

*

Coulson starts with surveillance. SHIELD's been monitoring Barton for weeks, of course, and addenda to the basic file contained selected footage of him doing everything from sleeping to running ops to jerking off, but Coulson wants to pick his own angles, see Barton his own way.

People are, generally speaking, boring. To anyone who has done their homework, they are predictable in the extreme, and Coulson always does his homework. Surveillance of Barton is necessary, but it should be routine.

It isn't.

There is something about the way that Barton moves that captures Coulson's attention. There is precision in every step, every object handled, every motion. There is awareness, not just of objects and people, but also of angles and motion and wind and light. Nothing surprises Barton.

And then there is the range. Not for firearms. With a gun, Barton is almost ordinary. He gets right down to business and ticks all the boxes and Coulson would be disappointed if not for the endless march of perfect scores. No, the firearms were next to meaningless. But the bow...

The bow demands the use of Barton's whole body. His lips almost brush the string. Fingers, arms, shoulders, back, and chest hold the draw. Belly, hips, thighs, and feet anchor him. Drawing is a ratcheting of tension that ripples through him. Release is a full body sigh. When he uses a gun, Barton controls the weapon with breathtaking competence. When he uses the bow, Barton is the weapon.

Coulson has been the subject of a number of seductions. It's not an uncommon tool for new agents to bring to bear when attempting to move up through the ranks or to secure some sort of protection. One or two were even genuinely attracted. He's allowed a handful to succeed, depending on what he needed from them and what Fury needed from him, but although he knows arousal and relieves it regularly, he hasn't experienced desire. He's never bothered with choosing a specific form for the fantasies he uses to get off.

He goes to bed after watching Barton with the bow for the first time and when he curls his hand around his cock--orgasms promote deeper sleep--the curve of the weapon and the flex of Barton's muscles spring into his mind's eye unbidden.

He sleeps very well.

*

Coulson has been watching for a week. He hasn't found anything that will make a good hook--the freedom to use his preferred weapon is not enough--and he finds himself reluctant to fall back on set ups and blackmail. Fury is strangely patient.

Barton gets called in for an op.

It's a kidnapping that has devolved into a hostage situation. They put Barton on a roof. Coulson finds an adjacent perch and trains his binoculars on the sniper. For a long time they're both still, waiting while the negotiators talk. Barton cradles his rifle, picks his shots, makes minute shifts as his targets pace and grow more agitated.

Coulson is monitoring everyone's communications, so he hears it when the FBI approves a tactical solution. He also hears Barton's supervisor say, "Don't take a kill shot unless you have to."

'Unless you have to' is practically permission. The go order comes, the ground team bursts through the doors, and three precise shots make three neat holes in three hostage takers' foreheads. Coulson has never seen a takedown so fast and so clean. A shiver runs through him and he switches his binoculars back to Barton.

He's set the rifle down, but he's still crouched on the rooftop. There's something about the curve of his body, the tilt of his hips... Coulson plays a hunch and switches to the infrared filter. The heat pattern leaves no doubt: Barton is aroused.

Coulson flips back to regular light and increases the magnification a hair, enough to fill the frame with Barton's body. He can see the swell of Barton's cock, now that he's looking closer. By his hip, Barton's hand is clenching and unclenching, but he doesn't touch himself. Coulson scans up to the sniper's face, eager to read the hunger there, to see his lips part as he sucks in air to fuel his thundering heart, to--

Barton's face is the picture of shame and self-loathing.

Anger slams into Coulson, sudden and fierce, and leaves him shaking. He's forced to lower the binoculars. Barton shouldn't be ashamed. He's dedicated and fierce and uncompromising and he's spectacularly good at what he does. Barton is better at his chosen discipline than anyone Coulson has ever encountered. Coulson knows the rush of power from ending a life; he won't condemn Barton for feeling it hotter, deeper.

Coulson manages to steady himself enough to raise the binoculars again. Barton is moving now, slowly packing the rifle away, using the routine to distract himself from his dick. As Coulson watches, his movements slowly grow easier, his arousal fading. Coulson clenches his teeth, imagines stepping across the gulf between the buildings and touching Barton, opening his pants and stroking him back to aching hardness and driving him over the edge, replacing the shame with ecstasy and the self-loathing with pride.

Only when Barton disappears back into the roof access does Coulson realize that he's hard, too. He lays on his back, looks up at the sky, and tries to remember the last time he became aroused without consciously initiating it. He can't recall, but he was probably a teenager at the time.

This could be a weakness. This could be dangerous. But Coulson's greatest strength is self-awareness, and his greatest skill is finding the proper place and use for every element of an agent's character. He can do the same for himself. The first potential barrier is a non-issue: SHIELD already wants Barton on board. And now Coulson has the vital piece of intel, the hook they need to bring him in and hold him. Not blackmail. As useful as it is, it's also complicated, and its hold tends to break down over time. No, as easy as it would be to blackmail Barton with this data, it's not the best use of it.

Instead...wash away the shame and self-loathing. Give him pride and approval and satisfaction, let him revel in his work, lead him straight to the sharp, hot pleasure of it instead of forcing him to steal it in pieces. Considering that what got Barton off was kill shots, it would be obvious to him that no one but SHIELD could give him that.

And the aching hunger Coulson felt now would serve a purpose, because it would convince Barton to let go, to indulge himself, to give up on having an ordinary life, and to commit to the one SHIELD could offer him.

Coulson opens his fly and slips his hand into his clothes, catching his breath as he tightens his grip around his cock. Soon, he promises himself, hips jerking up into his fist. Soon he'll be on the roof with Barton, and they'll enjoy the kill shot together.

*

The FBI want to suspend Barton. Their definitions of 'if you have to' didn't agree. Phil snorts; the fact that they haven't learned to take that into account by now marks them as the fools they are. Coulson contacts Fury, and Fury arranges for Barton to be kept on active duty; Coulson needs him on another op to do this right.

He also needs Barton to allow him into his perch, which necessitates a preparatory visit. There are a dozen ways he could play this, but if he's going to sell SHIELD as the one place safe for Barton to be who and what he is, straightforward is the way to go. So Coulson follows one of Barton's neighbors into his building and knocks briskly on the front door of his apartment.

Barton opens the door a couple of inches and leans against the wall casually, but Coulson can't see his left hand. Barton is certainly armed. The quick flick of his eyes takes in Coulson's weapons, concealed as they are by the suit. The sharp gaze and the calculated posture are just as attractive up close as they were at a distance. Coulson lets it show a little; let Barton think he has the advantage.

"You the guy that's been eyeing me for the past nine days?" Barton asks.

Coulson raises his eyebrows. "Personally? Yes."

Barton chuckles. "Your advance team needs some work. I might not have spotted you right away if three weeks of really goddamn distracting surveillance hadn't evaporated so suddenly."

"I'll pass that along," Coulson says dryly. "You going to invite me in or shoot me?"

The assessing look Barton lays on him could pass for interested in other circumstances. Coulson's body tightens involuntarily and fuck, seducing Barton is part of the plan, but he's going to have to get a grip on himself sooner rather than later. He can't afford to have involuntary reactions.

Barton steps back and lets Coulson into the apartment, but he stays close enough that Coulson brushes against him on his way by. Barton doesn't try to lift anything from his pockets in the process, which means it's the contact he was looking for. Good. Coulson takes a careful, even breath. Very good. Barton may have been going for intimidation rather than anything else, but the more physical he gets with Coulson, the better.

"So what's up with the surveillance?" Barton asks, dropping onto the couch and looking up at Coulson. He puts his heels up on the edge of the coffee table. "I'm not on anything sensitive."

Coulson studies Barton for a long moment. Sitting is an atypical response on trips like these; potential recruits tend to be conscious of the intimidation factor. But Barton smirks up at him, arms stretched out over the back of the couch, supremely confident.

Predictability is not going to help Coulson here, and he's already headed that way. So he takes a couple of steps forward, lifts one leg over Barton's, and sits on the coffee table with Barton's feet between his thighs. Coulson rests his elbows on his knees and leans forward, letting the tips of his fingers brush Barton's shins. "You're not on anything sensitive because the FBI doesn't entirely trust you," he said, meeting Barton's gaze. "With good reason. They might not know what you are, but they suspect."

Barton's eyes narrow. "I'm a sniper, is what I am."

"Yes," Coulson agrees. "The best I've ever seen." Unexpectedly, a light comes into Barton's eyes. Hasn't anyone ever acknowledged the man's skill before? "But that's not all you are, and if the FBI knew--" for a split second Coulson considers Barton's history and his psych profile (incomplete as it may be) and finds just the right phrase "--they'd wash their hands of you." Barton's jaw tightens, his nostrils flare; Coulson's barb has found its mark. He goes on. "I'd like to make you a better offer."

Barton raises a skeptical eyebrow. "No one does three weeks of surveillance for a recruitment."

"SHIELD is very selective about its operatives," Coulson says. "And I don't do anything halfway."

"SHIELD..." Barton draws the word out. "I've heard of you." Coulson covers his surprise with a mild expression and raised eyebrows. There are people who can reasonably be expected to hear whispers about SHIELD, but the FBI is far too mainstream for that. If Barton has heard of them, he's been cultivating other contacts. It's a good sign; he wouldn't be asking around if he felt secure where he was. "Word is, agents who go SHIELD never come back. Never."

"We have an excellent employee retention program," Coulson says dryly. He looks Barton in the eye, lets a little of his interest show. "When was the last time someone wanted you so badly they'd do anything to keep you?"

Barton's eyes darken and his tongue flickers out to wet his lips, but there's still a wary tension to him. "That's great, if I want to be kept. What makes walking into SHIELD without an exit strategy worth it?"

Coulson smiles. "Let me join you on your next op and I'll show you."

"I barely escaped a suspension," Barton says. "They're not going to be taking me back into the field any time soon."

"Won't they?" Coulson swings one leg over Barton's and stands. "It was good to meet you, Agent Barton. I'll be seeing you soon." He nods and allows himself one lingering look before he leaves.

*

There's an op three days later, of course. It's no good stepping in to prevent an official suspension if the FBI is allowed to bench Barton unofficially. And because Fury hates to waste resources, the op happens to target a person of interest to SHIELD.

Barton is assigned to provide back up for the undercover agents engaging in the meet. This time, the agent in charge gives Barton clear orders not to take a kill shot unless explicitly instructed to do so. Barton doesn't meet the agent's eyes as he acknowledges his orders.

Coulson watches through his binoculars until Barton settles into his perch, this time in an empty office in a building adjacent to the high rise where the FBI meet will take place. The building Barton is using is supposed to be secure, but Coulson has no problem hacking the electronic locks and making his way to Barton's chosen office. He leaves them twice as secure behind him.

He doesn't bother to knock, just opens the door and holds still until Barton lowers the pistol he's automatically drawn. Coulson smiles slightly. "Hello, Agent Barton. It's good to see you in the field again."

"You arranged this," Barton says.

"I did say I wanted to show you what SHIELD has to offer." Coulson walks up to stand next to Barton at the floor to ceiling glass windows. He pulls the binoculars out of the bag slung over his shoulder before dropping the rest of the field kit to the floor. The windows are tinted to be virtually opaque from the outside, but it's easy to see out and into the conference room on the equivalent floor across the way. The undercover agents are already there; they've invited their target to meet them.

"What, routine gigs where I spend hours staring through a scope, knowing that I'm worthless unless the op goes to shit?" Barton snaps.

Coulson cuts him a hard glance. "Don't be stupid. We both know better; that's what the FBI wants you for."

"And SHIELD--" Barton is cut off by his supervisor's voice, asking him to confirm that he's in position. He's a professional; he climbs onto the desk he's using to get himself level with his target and settles in before confirming his readiness over the comms.

Coulson knows that snipers need to be as relaxed as possible, but he needs to be close when the time comes, so he moves over by Barton now, his hip almost brushing Barton's shoulder. It makes the sniper tense, but it also gives him time to accept Coulson's position, to let his muscles go loose again.

The op kicks into gear, the other agents murmuring a steady stream of updates and instructions into their comms. The door to the conference room across the way opens and three men step inside to meet the undercover agents. They match the files from Coulson's briefing. Good.

"Target acquired," Barton murmurs.

"Hold, Barton," the agent in charge says sharply. "I don't care what happens, you damn well will not shoot a fly unless I say when and how."

"Yes sir," the sniper grates out.

"Agent Barton," Coulson says mildly.

Barton lets out a long breath. "What?"

"SHIELD would very much like to see Mr. Moore dead."

Silence lies heavy between them for a moment.

"If I take that shot," Barton says, "the FBI will kick my ass to the curb so fast it'll make my head spin."

Coulson smiles. "If you take that shot, the FBI won't have the chance. You'll come back to SHIELD with me. We have a lot of work for you."

"Jesus." Barton's voice is just slightly ragged, but he doesn't look up from his scope. "Who the hell are you guys?"

"We're the people who understand how the world works. We're the ones who let everyone else keep their illusions." Coulson stares through the window at Moore. Moore is speaking to the undercover agents now. "I don't think you have many illusions left, Agent Barton. If you're willing to let go of one more, SHIELD has a place for a man who...enjoys this work."

Barton's breath catches. Coulson wants very badly to touch him, but he still needs to take the shot.

"When?" Barton asks.

Excitement thrums through Coulson's veins. "Whenever you please."

Barton lets out a soft breath, almost a sigh. Coulson raises his binoculars and focuses on Moore. He only has to wait a moment before a neat hole appears in Moore's temple; blood and brain matter spray over the man sitting on the far side of him. Beside Coulson, Barton lets out a soft moan.

The conference room and Barton's comm alike erupt into chaos, but Coulson lowers the binoculars; the hacked locks will keep the two of them out of reach. He looks down at Barton; he's lowered the rifle and is resting his forehead against the desk. Coulson puts his hand on the back of Barton's neck and rubs his fingers through the sniper's short hair. "Beautiful shot." Barton shivers, but doesn't look up. "Roll over," Coulson orders.

It takes a moment, but Barton complies. His pants are tented, his dick pushing hard at the fly. Uncertainty and shame linger in his expression, but Coulson is within reach this time. He puts his palm right on Barton's groin and grinds the heel of his hand over the hot ridge of Barton's cock. Barton's eyes fall shut and he moans, hips jerking up into Coulson's touch.

Coulson keeps rubbing as he braces his other hand on the desk and leans down to take Barton's mouth with his. Barton moans and lets him in, sucks in Coulson's tongue and makes the most delicious, desperate sounds in the back of his throat. Coulson has to force himself to break the kiss so he can pull Barton up into a sitting position, his legs swinging around to hang over the edge of the desk. Stepping in between his knees, Coulson opens Barton's fly and slides his hand inside. Barton's cock is hot and thick in his palm and it swells further as he draws it out.

"Fuck," Barton pants, hanging onto Coulson's shoulders. "Fuck. Shouldn't we be getting out of here?"

"I secured the building. We have a few minutes." Coulson kisses him again, but Barton pulls away after a second, even though his hips are jerking up into Coulson's hand, pumping his cock steadily.

"You planned for this?" he asks, lips close enough that they brush Coulson's mouth. "Why?"

Coulson growls and pulls back to look at Barton. His lips are swollen, his eyes blown, but he's still holding back. Fortunately, Coulson knows just how to break him. "Because," he says, taking hold of one of Barton's wrists and moving his hand from Coulson's shoulder to his groin, where his dick strains at his suit pants, "no one has ever done this to me before."

Barton's eyes go wide and his breath catches. His hand curls around Coulson's rigid length and he makes a low, helpless noise in the back of his throat. Then he surges up off the desk, catching Coulson off guard and sending him stumbling backward. They tumble to the floor and Barton bends over Coulson's hips, tearing his pants open. He swallows Coulson's cock without even stopping for a lick and Coulson moans, his hands going to Barton's head. He slides his fingers into the short blond hair and pulls Barton down on his cock and Barton just takes it. No, he encourages it, his hands urging Coulson's hips up even as he swallows, throat convulsing around Coulson's dick.

There's no holding out against the reckless urgency with which Barton sucks him. Coulson moans and gasps and barely has the presence of mind to let Barton pull off enough to swallow his come as he climaxes. It doesn't end there, though, because Barton crawls up to kiss Coulson, his mouth tasting of come, and he's still hard and panting for it. "Next time," he says against Coulson's mouth, "I want you to fuck me."

Coulson gets his hand around Barton's cock. There's enough pre-come to help his grip slide a bit and he sets about jerking Barton off. "Next time," he returns, "I want you to use the bow."

Barton moans, thrusting hard into Coulson's hand. "They'll let me?" he pants.

"Yes," Coulson promises, rubbing his thumb over the head of Barton's cock.

"Oh, God," Barton gasps. "You, fuck, you've gotta come with me when I do. Watch me sink an arrow into some bastard's eye socket, all the way up to the fletching, and sink your cock into me after."

"Yes," Coulson says, low and hot, and Barton groans and goes still, cock pulsing wetly into Coulson's hand. He collapses onto the floor next to Coulson after and turns onto his back. They look up at the ceiling together for a moment as they catch their breath, but even the secured locks won't give them too much more time, so Coulson is on his feet soon enough. He cleans himself up with a couple of wet wipes from the field kit he brought, then offers a hand up and another set of wipes to Barton.

Barton smirks at him as he takes them. "These standard issue at SHIELD?"

"Standard issue is for agencies who can afford to average everyone out," Coulson says, checking over the room. He packs away his binoculars and sanitizes a couple of stray spots of come. "SHIELD tailors to its agents." Barton holds out his handful of wet wipes and Coulson packs them into the bag. "You want the rifle?"

Barton shakes his head. "Nah, fuck it. I'll use SHIELD's gear." He pauses. "We need to get my bow?"

The bow is high quality, but standard. The FBI weren't interested in encouraging that quirk. Coulson steps up close to Barton and puts a hand on Barton's jaw. "I'll have R&D make one to spec," he murmurs.

Barton moans and kisses him, hard and hungry.

*

"How's Barton settling in?" Fury asks, leaning back in his chair.

Coulson's lips curve, just slightly. "Very well. He's about a third of the way through our armory already, but he's just keeping himself busy until R&D finishes with the adjustments to the prototype bow."

Fury nods. "And the other agents? How's he handling them?"

"Better to ask how they're handing him," Coulson says dryly. "They're either terrified of him or convinced he's the best entertainment since reality TV. How someone that bloodthirsty can be that funny, I don't know. Comms are going to be an interesting place on his ops."

"As long as he gets the job done," Fury says. He steeples his hands. "And how are you enjoying Agent Barton?"

Coulson pauses, tilts his head. "Enjoying, sir?"

"Enjoying," Fury confirms.

It's an interesting word. Fury knows that he's fucking Barton, of course. Coulson didn't even bother arranging housing for the new Agent, just brought him back to his own apartment and cleared out a couple of drawers. Barton gives him shit for that occasionally, but only when he's looking for Coulson to hold him down and remind him just how much Coulson wants him.

But for Fury to ask like that...he's not asking how they're getting along, and he's not really interested in Barton's side of it. He's asking about Coulson.

"How much of this was planned?" Coulson asks. "And how much just anticipated?"

Fury chuckles. "Planned, Coulson. Every part of it. I had psych crawling through potential recruit files for a year and a half before finding Barton. You're a hard man to please."

It's a neat arrangement. Barton is twice tied to SHIELD--that kill shot burned his bridges with the FBI for good, and his proclivities won't be tolerated, much less encouraged, anywhere else. Meanwhile, Coulson has gotten in so deep with Barton he knows he couldn't stand not having him. It's a solid guarantee.

So Coulson smiles and says, "Thoroughly." Fury raises an eyebrow. "You asked how I was enjoying Agent Barton, sir. The answer is 'thoroughly'."

Fury snorts. "Feel free to keep the details to yourself." He reaches into his jacket pocket and withdraws something. He tosses it on the table and it skids over to stop in front of Coulson. "That's for you."

It's an access card stamped 'Level 7'. Coulson picks it up slowly. "I thought there were six levels."

Fury grins. "Welcome to the upper echelons, Agent Coulson."

~!~

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Continued from Warnings: Clint is sexually aroused by killing other people. There are two scenes where this comes into play. The first is not particularly graphic, but the second is, and he has sex with Coulson after the second one.

prompts at tumblr

infiniteeight — Tue, 14 Aug 2012 23:50:23 GMT

A heads up for LJ folks who don't watch my Tumblr regularly -- I'm taking kinky Clint/Coulson prompts over at my tumblr: http://infiniteeight8.tumblr.com/post/29441230231/open-for-kinky-c-c-prompts

Rules are there. All prompts must be received via Tumblr; if you don't have an account, I believe you can submit and Ask anonymously.

Fic: Say It (1/1)

infiniteeight — Thu, 02 Aug 2012 16:56:48 GMT

Title: Say It
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Clint/Coulson (Avengers Movieverse)
Summary: Clint wants to see Coulson lose his cool. He didn't intend for it to go this far, or expect it to feel this good.
Word Count: 2,712

Warnings: This fic contains a graphic sexual situation that is at least dub-con. I don’t see it as non-con, but I am aware that other people could read it that way. Please err on the side of caution with respect to your triggers.

Clint has made an art out of driving his colleagues to the breaking point. Given how often it had gotten him shot in his mercenary days it was probably more than a little self-destructive as hobbies went, but fuck, nothing had ever given him as much of a kick as finding that weak point and hammering it until some over-controlled ass just went to pieces. The tighter their control, the better it was watching them lose it.

Which makes Phil Coulson, Senior Field Agent in Charge, the ultimate brass ring.

Clint has never in his life met anyone as tightly wrapped as Coulson. They've run half a dozen ops together, now, and while every other agent has taken a potshot--verbal or otherwise--at Clint, Coulson is as cool as a cucumber even when threatening disciplinary action. Clint is getting obsessed. His comm chatter has reached whole new levels of snark. He's picked fights with other agents. He's argued with field logistics. He's tossed every kind of insult he can think of. He's even taken a swing at the guy, but nothing, not even a flinch. Clint hasn't disobeyed orders--he doesn't actually want to get canned from SHIELD--but he's starting to think about it, just to see what that ridiculous calm is covering.

The breakthrough, when it comes, is completely accidental and shows Clint that he's been using entirely the wrong strategy. For once, he's not thinking about Coulson. They've just finished a two man op in Texas and it's probably a thousand degrees outside. Clint is tired ad sweaty and all he wants when they get back to their tiny hotel room is a cool shower and about ten hours of sleep. He starts stripping the second he's inside the room and he's naked by the time he gets to the bathroom door. When he opens it, the angle is just right to show him Coulson in the bathroom mirror. And the direction of Coulson's gaze makes it pretty damn clear that he's looking at Clint's ass.

Clint closes the door and takes his shower, but his mind is racing now. Usually when someone he works with wants him, it just makes them angrier at him. But Clint has already tried sexually charged insults, and they didn't work any better than the rest. On the other hand, if he can't get Mr. Professional to take a swing at him, maybe he can get him to make a pass, instead.

Clint's never fucked a guy before, much less tried to seduce one, but he knows Coulson finds him attractive, so he figures he'll pay attention and improvise as he goes. Showing off his ass at every opportunity is step one, and yeah, now that he knows what to look for Clint definitely catches Coulson checking him out. Step two is scaling down his misbehavior in the field; he doesn't want irritation to overwhelm attraction, but he keeps it up enough to hold Coulson's attention. Step three comes when Coulson makes what could almost be a throwaway comment about the archery improving Clint's upper body strength; sleeveless shirts become his new best friend.

He stalls there for a bit, but a visit to a gay bar to trade raunchy anecdotes (all invented on his part) yields some new tactics. He doesn't want to keep anything in his mouth in the field, so sucking on shit isn't an option, but chewing his own lips until they're red and swollen gets Coulson staring at his mouth just as much.

A couple of weeks of that makes it pretty clear that Coulson is very good at "Look, but don't touch," so Clint takes care of that hurdle himself. It's startlingly easy to find excuses to put his hands on Coulson, to rub up against him, and the more he does it, the more Coulson's ingrained restraint breaks down, at least when it comes to Clint. It makes him a little giddy, the way he can make buttoned down Agent Coulson lean into lingering touches, even reach out first, sometimes.

Clint's getting close, he knows he is. He just needs one more good, hard push to send Coulson over the edge. He almost laughs in glee when a mission goes off the rails and forces the two of them to dive into a tiny closet together. They're pressed together from knee to shoulder in the dark, silent except for the rush of their breath as they listen to their pursuit thunder by outside the door. They start out face to face, but when it's been quiet for a while Coulson says, "Get us out of here, Agent," and Clint has an excuse to turn around and tuck his ass into the curve of Coulson's hips. He has to be able to get at the door, right? The door, which is locked. Clint leans his head against it and laughs out loud.

Coulson sighs. "Let me guess," he says. "We're locked in."

"Yes, sir," Clint says, grinning.

"I know you're capable of picking that lock."

"Yes, sir." He's damn sure going to take his time, though. And there will be a lot of bending over and shifting position.

Coulson may be Mr. Professional, but he's still human. By the time Clint pops the door open, he's been grinding his ass into the man's dick for a good twenty minutes and Coulson isn't just hard, he straining at his pants and his breathing is far too even to not be consciously regulated. They stumble into the empty hall and Clint turns and rakes his eyes over Coulson, lingering on the bulge at his groin. He meets Coulson's heated gaze and waits for Coulson to say something. Maybe he'll start with "When this is over..." or, even better, "If we weren't in the middle of an op..." Clint's heart is pounding.

Coulson adjusts his suit and takes a breath. "We need to refresh your training if you can't pick a lock faster than that, Barton." Then he turns and walks away.

Clint swallows a groan. How is this man real?

They finish the op, of course, and Coulson gets the wrap up started while Clint goes back to their hotel room. There are a dozen agents on this op, and everyone is sharing with someone. No one else will share with Clint--he made sure of that--so he's with Coulson. He's made good use of it over the past week, walking around in his underwear and leaving the bathroom door open when he showers, but he's not actually thinking about his master plan when he gets out of the shower this time. It's just that hotel towels are tiny, and he's gotten out of the habit of bringing clothes into the bathroom with him. So he's practically naked when he walks into the main room to find that Coulson is back. He's taken off his jacket, shoes, and tie, and he looks Clint up and down openly. Clint pauses on his way to his suitcase, but Coulson doesn't speak. Stubborn bastard. Clint continues on his way and bends over the suitcase, laid out next to the bed. The towel rides up a bit and he's probably flashing Coulson some ass, but it's not like--

Hands seize his hips and jerk him backwards. "Woah!" Clint's ass collides with Coulson's cock and oh yeah, he's hard. Come on, say it, Clint thinks. It doesn't count if he doesn't say it.

"You," Coulson says, "are a god damned tease."

Not enough, not enough. "Something you want, Coulson?" Clint goads him.

"You know exactly what I want." Coulson shoves him and Clint goes sprawling face down onto the bed. The towel comes loose and he's naked now and shit, this is a little more intense than he ever planned to get, but Coulson still hasn't said it.

Clint doesn't want to roll over and show off his cock, so he looks over his shoulder. His mouth goes dry. Coulson has already shed his shirt. While Clint watches, he takes something out of his pants pocket and palms it while he opens his fly. Clint looks away quickly. "Come on, Coulson," he says desperately. "Say it. Tell me what you want."

The bed shifts under him and Coulson's hands are on his hips again, pulling him up onto his knees. Fuck, fuck, fuck, running out of time. Coulson pushes one of his thighs between Clint's, nudges them farther apart. "I'm going to do a lot better than tell you," he breathes, and that's all the warning Clint gets before a slick finger pushes into him, right up to the knuckle in one stroke.

Clint cries out, startled. Jesus, that must have been lube that Coulson palmed. It doesn't hurt, not at all, but it's weird, feeling Coulson's finger sliding in and out of him as he works Clint open and fuck, Clint has gotten in over his head. He never intended to actually sleep with Coulson, that was never part of the plan, but he's definitely going to get fucked if he doesn't say something right now. "Coulson--" he starts, but his words choke off when Coulson pushes a second finger into his hole. It burns a little, and Clint feels dizzy. He struggles for breath when Coulson sinks his fingers in deep, twists his hand and crooks his fingers and Clint shouts when a shock of pleasure goes through him. His cock throbs and that's when Clint realizes that he's hard, completely hard and already growing wet with pre-come. Why is he hard?

"First try," Coulson says, sounding smug. Clint wants to ask what the fuck that was, but when he opens his mouth all that comes out is a helpless groan. Coulson's fingers are stealing his words, pumping in and out of his ass, driving Clint's breath out of him and whiting out his brain with the occasional crook and flare of ecstasy. The burn of being stretched feels like it's seeping through his body, heating his skin and pooling in his dick. He's so fucking hard it aches, he hasn't been this hard in years, maybe ever, and Clint never meant to go this far, but it feels so fucking good.

He feels the nudge of a third finger just in time to gasp out a single word. The word that comes out is, "Slow."

I could have said stop, Clint thinks faintly as Coulson forces his hole to stretch wider. Why didn't I say stop?

"Jesus, you're tight," Coulson says. His voice is rough, but his fingers are as careful as they are insistent. He works them into Clint, coaxes him into loosening, relaxing, and then he starts thrusting in deeper, rougher. Clint can't help the high, tight gasps that escape him every time Coulson pushes in, can't help the way his hips hitch up to meet his fingers instead of shying away. "Fuck." Coulson's voice is ragged. "Please say you're ready. I don't want to hurt you, but God, I need to have you."

I need to have you. It sounds even better than Clint imagined. He didn't imagine the ragged sound of Coulson's voice, or the ache of his own cock. I need to have you. Pleasure washes through his whole body. He wants more. "Yeah," Clint gasps. "I'm good."

Some small part of Clint's brain is screaming What are you doing?!?, but it's drowned out by Clint's pounding heart and Coulson's eager moan. Coulson's fingers slide out of him and Clint waits for a moment, trembling all over, and then there's a wet, blunt touch against his hole. For a moment that's it and then Coulson pushes and Clint groans as Coulson's cock sinks into him in one long, steady thrust. It's longer and thicker than his fingers and Clint pants through the feeling of being so full. Coulson pauses once he's balls deep, gives Clint a chance to adjust to the aching stretch of his hole. Coulson's hand rubs Clint's hip soothingly. "Okay?"

"Yeah," Clint manages. "I'm-- You feel good." He does, he really does, so impossibly good. "More, Coulson."

Coulson laughs. "I think you can call me Phil," he says.

"Phil." It comes out as a moan, because Phil is pulling back and its like having his dick stroked from the inside, it feels that good. Phil pauses just before he slips free and Clint's body is humming with anticipation and then Phil is thrusting back into him and, "Yes, fuck yes," Clint babbles. "More, fuck Phil, gimme more."

"Yes," Phil answers him and there it is again, the delicious slide out, the incredible push back in.

Clint lets go, loses himself in the pleasure lighting up his body and rocks back into Phil's next thrust, pants and gasps and takes it when Phil picks up the pace and starts really fucking him, his hands tightening on Clint's hips as he pounds his cock into Clint's ass. "Yes," Clint gasps over and over again. "Yes, yes, God, Phil, so good, fuck, so good."

"Say it," Phil says. "I want to hear you say it, Clint."

Phil's cock drives into him and Clint sobs and the words tear free. "Fuck me, Phil." It feels like something breaks open inside him, and he can't stop talking now. "I want it. I want you to fuck me, please. I want it, I love it, your cock pumping into me, fucking me so good, stretching me open and filling me up, fuck, fuck, don't stop--"

"I'm not gonna stop," Phil grates out. He's moving fast and hard, thrusting deep, and he has to force the words out past the effort. "You're mine now, Clint, you and your gorgeous ass and your tight little hole. I'm going to fuck you and come inside you and fill you up with it, make you wet inside so you know who you belong to." Clint shudders and keens, his body winding tight. Phil's cock is thick and hot inside him, reaming him with every stroke, and Clint fists his hands in the sheets and pushes into it eagerly, moaning desperately. "And when I'm done," Phil goes on, "when I'm done fucking you, when this op is finished wrapping up and everybody goes home, you're going to come home with me, and you're going to strip down and crawl into my bed and spread your legs for me and I'm going to take you there, where I've spent too god damned many nights jerking off thinking about you."

"Oh God," Clint gasps. "You want me in your bed tonight?"

"I want you in my bed every night," Phil growls, slamming in hard, and Clint moans helplessly and comes. His ass clamps down on Phil's cock and Phil grunts through a couple more ragged thrusts before he's coming too, spilling wetly into Clint's hole. Over and over again it pulses into him. A shiver goes through Clint every time and he realizes with distant shock that he loves it, the slick heat of Phil finishing inside him.

Phil slowly pulls out and both of them groan and collapse onto the sweat and come streaked bedspread. Clint's lying face down and his ass aches and he realizes he hasn't looked at Phil since Phil opened his pants. He starts shivering, but there's sweat cooling on his body, that's all.

"Clint." Phil nudges him onto his side and Clint makes himself look at him. Phil is smiling the smile of the thoroughly satiated. He tugs and Clint scoots into his arms. Phil's skin is warm and he's leaning in and they're kissing. Clint sighs and kisses back, open mouthed and a little lazy. Phil pulls away after a minute. "Get some rest," he says, and pats Clint's ass. "You're going to need it."

Clint chuckles and tucks himself in close against Phil. Eventually, he's going to have to come clean about his plan and how it got away from him. But not yet. Once they've gone a few more rounds and Clint has shown Phil just how thoroughly he approves of how things worked out, then he can confess. In the meantime, Clint squirms a little, just enough to feel the wet, fucked out twinge in his ass, and thinks about the night to come.

~!~

FIC: Easy (1/1)

infiniteeight — Wed, 18 Jul 2012 19:41:59 GMT

Title: Easy
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Clint/Coulson (Avengers Movieverse)
Summary: For a prompt: "Clint wakes up to discover Phil has started without him. Or not exactly “without him” but has started already."
Word Count: 1,095
Author's Notes: I was complaining a bit about kinkmemes and got this prompt in response. *g* This popped into my head the second I read the prompt.

Warnings: Sleepy sex, presumed consent between long term partners (correctly presumed, but they get pretty far before Clint is awake enough to give it).

Clint swims slowly up towards consciousness, the way he only ever does when he's home and Phil is close. Training himself to snap awake at the slightest sound had been easy; he had that down even before he'd joined SHIELD. Learning when it was safe to sleep deep and enjoy the process of coming up from it was damn hard, but absolutely worth it.

His body feels deliciously heavy and relaxed. The sheets are warm and smell like him and Phil, and there's a hum of arousal tingling along his nerves and an enjoyable stiffness to his dick. Clint is most of the way awake when Phil's hand curls around his hip and he realizes that Phil's fingers are slick. A soft, formless moan escapes Clint and he squirms, just a little, just enough to confirm that yeah, his hole is already relaxed and slippery with lube. His cock throbs and his heart rate picks up because it's almost like he doesn't even need to be prepped, like he was always this way, wet and ready for Phil to take whenever he wanted.

Phil nuzzles at the curve of his throat and lets his hand slip down from Clint's hip, palming his ass. "Clint," he murmurs, his lips brushing a soft kiss over Clint's skin, mindless of the stubble.

"Yeah." The word slips out of Clint like a breath, thick with sleep or pleasure or both, he's not sure. It doesn't matter; the only important thing right now is the hot, blunt touch of Phil's cock at his hole, nudging slowly inside. Clint's body opens up for him smooth and easy and Clint moans. It rumbles up from deep inside him, a visceral pleasure at his own readiness. Phil's cock slides into his ass and Clint's nerves are singing. Phil is a thick presence inside him, inescapable and undeniable and Clint wishes he could keep him there, wishes he could always be like this, open for Phil to slide home.

But even if he can't always be, he is now. "Yeah," Clint says again, rocking his hips back into the curve of Phil's body. Phil lets out a little groan and puts an arm around Clint, presses his palm to Clint's chest and holding him close as he pulls most of the way out and thrusts back inside, deeper now. Yeah, yeah, that's perfect, Phil burying himself deep and Clint taking it, hitching himself back into each stroke of Phil's cock. He's floating in a haze of pleasure, breathless gasps escaping him every time Phil fills him up again. He doesn't think about it when Phil nudges him a little, changes the angle of their bodies, he just moves, because he wants to give Phil everything, wants him to take it.

The next time Phil pushes into him a sudden flare of ecstasy crackles over Clint's nerves and he cries out. God, fuck, he should have known that's why Phil moved him, he really should have, because Phil always gives as much as he takes. Phil's cock slides out of him, a hot, breathless drag before he plunges back into Clint, finding his prostate again, right on target, the jolt of electric sensation driving another cry from Clint. Clint reaches back, finds Phil's hip and urging him along, not that Phil needs the encouragement. He's panting into the back of Clint's neck, short breaths almost cool on Clint's overheated skin, as he picks up the pace.

"You feel so good," Phil mumbles against Clint's neck. "Wrapped around me all hot and tight. Want to stay inside." He's rolling his hips as he speaks, long, steady stokes into Clint that trigger waves of bright pleasure pouring through him more often than not.

Phil's muscles flex under Clint's hand as he moves. Sliding his hand up and down Phil's hip and thigh, Clint can feel Phil working at fucking him. "So stay."

"Mmmm." Phil sinks in deep and stops, their bodies pressed close, his cock buried balls deep. "You think you could come like this?" he asks. "Just from having me inside you?" Despite his words, Phil drags the hand pressed to Clint's chest down, down over his belly, and wraps it around Clint's cock.

"I don't know," Clint says, because even though it feels good to be stretched and full of Phil, there's no push to send him over the edge. "But don't let that stop you."

Phil smiles against the back of Clint's neck and gives his cock a long stroke. "Maybe I can help you out."

Clint lets out a pleased groan as Phil starts pumping his cock steadily. He can't help but rock into the touch, and the movement is just enough to stir Phil inside him, emphasizing the sense that he's been spitted on Phil's thick cock. Clint squirms and pants for breath and clutches the sheets to stop himself from reaching down and helping Phil jerk him off because he wants to come just from Phil. It doesn't take much longer, anyway; Phil knows what he likes almost as well as Clint does and he twists his hand just right, presses his fingers into just the right spots. Clint comes with a hitch of his breath and a stuttering cry.

When he comes down off his high Phil is holding him close, his hips giving small, helpless thrusts against Clint's ass. "Clint," he groans, needy.

God, he loves this, when he's all taken care of and Phil can let go, can let himself be desperate and eager. "It's good," Clint says. "It's all good, you can have whatever you want."

"Fuck, I love you," Phil breathes. He pushes Clint over onto his stomach and Clint spreads his legs to give him space. Phil fucks him with short, hard thrusts, just enough to feel the drag of Clint's hole over his cock without really leaving the heat of his body. Clint stretches and folds his arms under his head and just enjoys the ride. He's not going to get hard again any time soon, but it still feels good, still fills his belly with a lazy warmth. And after Phil's hands tighten and he grinds in tight and comes, throbbing and wet, inside Clint, Clint is the one who gently untangles them and wipes them down with a corner of the sheet. They'll need a shower soon, but for now Clint puts his arms around Phil and pulls him in close and basks in the satiated smile on Phil's face and the easy warmth in his eyes.

~!~

FIC: Obvious and Oblivious (1/1)

infiniteeight — Tue, 03 Jul 2012 22:28:10 GMT

Title: Obvious and Oblivious
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Clint/Coulson (Avengers Movieverse)
Warnings: None
Summary: Clint can be a little slow on the uptake, but Coulson is a patient guy. PWP, really.
Word Count: 2,069 (Complete.)
Author's Notes: So, something like two months ago, I offered to write prompts for people. I got two. Because I suck at writing short things and am easily distracted by new ideas, it’s taken this long to write one of them. *facepalm* my-life-as-a-bird, this one is for you. Thanks, as ever, to my beta, sweaterkittensahoy. And also to webbgirl34 for last moment assistance!

According to gossip, Clint spent years chasing an indifferent Coulson until Coulson decided that he'd earned his chance and magnanimously deigned to enter a relationship. Clint let the gossips think that because Coulson didn't care and hey, it kind of made Clint look like a stud--so hot even the platonic ideal of professionalism couldn't hold out forever.

But it wasn't true. In reality, it went more like this:

Clint rolled out of bed and shuffled, eyes mostly closed, towards the bathroom. It was dark with the blinds drawn, but Clint didn't bother to put out a hand; he knew his apartment cold.

Smack.

"Fuck!" Clint reached up to rub at his forehead and glared at the wall he'd run into.

Unfortunately, this wasn't Clint's apartment. This was Stark Tower. Or, rather, Avengers Headquarters. Clint sighed and turned towards the actual bathroom. At least they each got their own suite of rooms. There was no way on God's green Earth he'd have agreed to live with six other people if he had to share the bathroom.

This was a lie. He'd been doomed from the moment that Tony had said, "...and there's more than seven suites, so every member of the team can have their own room with space for guests," and Coulson's momentary flash of confusion had given way to a small--very small--smile at the realization that he was the seventh person. Clint would do a lot more than move house to see Coulson smile.

Clint made it to the bathroom and fumbled his way through his routine, everything just slightly out of place from what he was used to. He was awake by the time he finished, which was good, because he'd have kicked his own ass if he hadn't been alert enough to fully appreciate the sight that greeted him when he walked into the kitchen.

Coulson was there. Wearing a t-shirt and a pair of plain blue pajama bottoms. That was it. No suit, no tie. Good God, no shoes. As if that wasn't enough--it was, it was more than enough--he wasn't sitting at the table to drink his coffee and read the paper. No, apparently he'd decided he'd prefer to stand. Or rather, lean. He had his forearms folded on the counter, which tilted his hips back, which...Well. The man had a fantastic ass.

If you asked Clint later, he'd tell you that he said, "Hi," and sidled up to Coulson casually.

The sound that actually came out of his mouth was more like, "Hrgh." He stopped in his tracks and stared.

Coulson turned a little to look over his shoulder at Clint. "Good morning," he said, shifting his weight. A smile curved Coulson's lips and his eyelids lowered. "Want anything?" he drawled, not straightening up.

Clint blinked rapidly. "You are doing that on purpose!"

Coulson’s eyes crinkled around the edges. "Little slow on the uptake there, Clint."

Slow? Clint cast his back over the week they’d been living at the Tower. Okay, so maybe Coulson didn’t need to lean over quite so far when refreshing his coffee in the mornings, but Clint had been enjoying the view too much to think about it. Come to think of it, Coulson had been doing that with the coffee maker in his office even before they moved.

Clint resisted the urge to smack himself. "How long have I been missing this?" He walked over to Coulson--Phil--and took the coffee cup out of his hand. He set it down on the counter.

Phil stood up straight, but Clint stepped in close behind him before he could turn. "A few months," Phil said, amused but warm.

Clint put his hands on Phil's hips and brushed his lips against Phil's ear. "Looks like I've got some catching up to do."

"You're pretty far behind," Phil agreed. He stepped back against Clint, pressing his back to Clint's chest and his ass into his groin.

Clint groaned, his dick swelling quickly from 'a little interested' to half mast. His hands tightened on Phil's hips. "Do you want me to fuck you, sir?"

"Yes," Phil grated, and oh, apparently they were done playing now. Clint pulled him away from the counter and the abandoned coffee and paper and steered Phil back down the hallway and into Clint's room, because he wanted him here, in his bed.

Clint almost regretted the necessity of stripping Phil out of his clothes, because seeing him dressed that casual was almost as good as seeing him naked. But only almost, on both counts, because Phil was flushed and reaching for Clint, and there was no poker face on him now, no mask of bland professionalism.

They knelt on the bed, arms sliding around each other, and Clint tilted his head and caught Phil's mouth for a kiss. Phil met him hungrily, his hand sliding up to cup the back of Clint's neck. Their tongues tangled slickly, drawing a groan from Clint. Phil's body was hot against his, enough that Clint started to sweat where they were touching. He wanted to pull back and lick his sweat off Phil's skin, to swallow down Phil's cock, to keep kissing him, to wrap a hand around the both of them together, God, he couldn't decide; he wanted it all.

Phil was the one who broke the kiss. "I'm pretty sure," he said, leaning his forehead against Clint's, "that you said something about fucking me."

Oh, yeah. That was a good plan. That was a great plan. "So I did," he said, and if he was a little breathless, well, Phil wasn't any better.

Clint let go of Phil long enough to lean over and retrieve condoms and lube from the bedside table. Then he cast a speculative eye over Phil. So many possible positions. After a moment, he sat with his back against the headboard and his legs stretched out in front of him. He patted his thigh. "Come on."

Phil raised an eyebrow, but he rested his hands on Clint's shoulders and swung a knee over his thighs so that he was straddling him. "You realize that if I'm the one doing the riding, you're the horse, right?"

Clint grinned as he opened the bottle of lube behind Phil's back and slicked up his fingers. "Believe me, I have no objections to being compared to a horse in this context."

"Maybe," Phil said, leaning in close, "I'm not talking about how you're hung. Maybe I'm talking about you being ridden hard and put away wet."

"Hmmm, just one problem with that theory." Clint stroked a finger over Phil's hole and watched, captivated, as his eyes half closed and his breath caught. "I'm not the one who's going to be wet."

Phil's only response was to moan, his hands tightening on Clint's shoulders as he pushed into Clint's touch. Velvet heat swallowed up Clint's fingers and it was all he could do to go slow, to twist and work his fingers inside Phil until his body started to relax around him. Lube spilled over Clint's hand every time he added more, dripped off the heel of his hand and over his thighs and onto the sheets. He was making a mess, but sometimes a mess was a good thing, sometimes a mess meant three fingers buried inside Phil, spreading him open for Clint's cock.

He didn't need to ask if Phil was ready for him. The moment he pulled his fingers free, Phil was moving, kneeling up, barely giving Clint time to roll the condom down over his cock. "Eager," Clint teased.

Phil didn't rise to the bait, just shifted until Clint's cock was nudging his hole, stealing Clint's words away. He put his hands on Phil's hips instead of talking and guided him in a slow slide down, his eyes shut, his mouth open in a silent moan as he took Clint in.

It was all Clint could do not to thrust, to jerk his hips up off the bed and bury himself in the gloriously tight grip of Phil's body, but God, it was worth it for the satisfied hum and the smug little smile when Phil came to rest in his lap.

"You feel so good," Clint said, his voice gone rough.

"I'm not the only one," Phil replied. He shifted his weight and groaned deeply. "God, it's been way too long since I've done this." He shifted again and Clint decided to take that as a sign. He urged Phil up with his hands and relaxed his grip to let Phil sink down again at his own speed.

Phil's pace was torturously slow at first, but fuck, the way he closed his eyes and savored it... "Can I assume," Clint asked, "that this is a long term end to the dry spell?"

Phil rose up again, pausing with Clint just barely held inside his body. "Well, I guess that depends," he said, laughter in his voice. He started to sink down, then rose up again after taking just a fraction of Clint. "We'll see how your performance review goes."

"Performance review, huh? Maybe I better check some boxes, here." Clint tightened his grip on Phil's hips. "How about 'Takes initiative'?" He pulled Phil firmly down into his lap, driving a cry of pleasure from him, and flipped them over, holding Phil close so that his back hit the bed without Clint's cock ever slipping free. "Do I get that one?" Clint rolled his hips and Phil moaned, back arching as Clint thrust into him.

"Yeah," Phil said breathlessly. "Five--" his breath hitched on another thrust "--out of five."

"That's good, but I've gotta be well rounded, right?" Clint set up steady, slow pace, and braced himself on his elbows so that he could lean down and nibble on Phil's throat. "Multitasking is a good skill to have," he murmured against freshly shaven skin.

"Very good," Phil agreed. He slid a hand up Clint's back and tangled it in his hair, tugging. Clint chuckled and let Phil guide him down, his thrusts shallowing as he curled his body so that he could reach Phil's nipples. The choked sounds Phil made when Clint brought his teeth to bear sent shivers through Clint. His hand kept clenching against Clint's scalp, delivering little shocks of pain that only underlined the sweet grip of Phil's body giving way to Clint's cock. "Multi-- Oh, god," Phil groaned. He pulled Clint off his nipple and drew him up into a long, deep kiss before taking a shuddering breath and pressing their foreheads together. "Multitasking is good," he managed, "but there's something to be said for thoroughness."

Clint kissed him again, hard and hungry, sliding his tongue into Phil's mouth and moaning when Phil met him, hands cupping his head holding him still for an endless moment. Clint's breath shuddered when he drew it in. "I can do thorough," he said hoarsely.

"Please," Phil breathed.

Clint groaned and darted in for one more kiss before before pulling out in one torturous glide and then thrusting in deep. Phil moaned, neck arching as he pressed his head back into the sheets, and Clint had to force himself not to just grind against him, promising himself more of Phil's moans. He got them, one with every long stroke of Clint's cock into Phil's body, Phil's voice deliciously throaty, eyes clenched shut and face wracked with pleasure. It was impossible to look away; Clint didn't even try, instead drank in the sight of Phil Coulson wrecked for him, by him. His moans grew sharper and shorter as he climbed toward orgasm and when he came the sound he made reached into Clint and broke him open, sent him tumbling into his own climax, sudden and startling.

Their muscles unwound slowly; they sank into the mattress together in increments, until finally Clint was sprawled half over Phil and half on the sheets. He was sticky with come and damp with sweat and he thought he might never move again, except that God, he wanted to do it all over again, soon. Speaking of which-- "So, how's my evaluation looking?" he mumbled into the curve of Phil's throat.

"Passed with flying colors," Phil says lazily. "But, you know, these things are annual. You have to keep in practice."

Clint chuckled and kissed the skin under his lips. "I can do that."

~!~

Fic: Cost Benefit Analysis

infiniteeight — Thu, 03 May 2012 14:56:39 GMT

Title: Cost Benefit Analysis
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Clint/Coulson (Avengers Movieverse)
Warnings: Mild off-screen torture.
Summary: Clint's definition of an acceptable loss is a little different than the team's.
Word Count: 3,393 (Complete.)
Author's Notes: Written as a gift for James. Betaed by the fabulous comiccomic, who always makes my language so much smoother. <3

The SUV jerked to a halt, slamming Clint face first into the seat in front of him. He grunted and rubbed his face against the headrest, trying to dislodge the blindfold. Someone grabbed him by the collar of his uniform and yanked him back. A gust of air told him that the car door had been opened. His captors seized his arm at the elbow and dragged him out of the vehicle. Clint went limp, forcing them to pull as much deadweight as possible. It meant his knees slammed into the ground hard enough to make his legs go numb for a few seconds, but it was worth it to hear them cursing as they struggled to drag him.

His hands were tied tight behind his back, but his legs were free. When they tried to pick him up to carry him, Clint kicked out. One of them cursed. Clint jerked his head to the side in anticipation, and the blow glanced off, ringing his ears but not knocking him out. He shook his head sharply, and the second hit landed hard. Not enough to knock him out entirely but enough that Clint went limp.

By the time his head started to clear they had him on his knees and the barrel of a gun was digging hard into the back of his neck. Some sucker was reporting the gorgeous mess the Avengers had made of their boss's grand plan, finishing up with, "But we did not return empty handed, sir! We have captured one of the Avengers!"

Clint laughed. Rough fingers scraped over his face and yanked the blindfold off. Boss man glared down at Clint. "You will not think this is so funny by the time we are through with you," he growled. "You are our only prize from this operation. I will wring every possible secret from you and leave you a desiccated husk."

"I'm sorry, a what husk?" Clint said, tilting his head and leaning forward like he couldn't quite hear. He smirked. "I never graduated high school, you know. Sometimes the big words are beyond me."

Boss man's eyes narrowed. "What are you talking about?"

"Oh, didn't your buddies tell you?" Clint raised his eyebrows in exaggerated surprise. "They bagged the one Avenger who has literally no secrets to be wrung! You want my blood?" He laughed. "Take it. Pure, unadulterated human, full of only the really boring secrets. Congratulations, you scored the Avengers booby prize!"

"You still have intelligence we can extract," Boss man said darkly.

Clint snorted. "Do you really think they pull me off the Avengers to run sensitive ops? I work with a god damned bow, I'm not that discreet. If you wanted intel, you should have grabbed Black Widow."

Boss man's face flushed dangerously dark. "If you think we will release you because of this, you are sorely mistaken." He lashed out, his fist connecting with Clint's jaw with a loud, painful crack. Clint couldn’t help laughing as the blows rained down because hey, he's good at playing punching bag.

Been practicing since he was a kid.

*

Three days later, Clint was deadweight in the guards' grasp more because walking wasn't worth the effort than because he wanted to piss them off. They threw him into his cell, and he managed to turn so that his head didn't slam on the concrete, but he couldn't hold in a pained grunt as the his body came down and jarred new injuries.

Lucky for him, these guys were strictly vanilla when it came to torture: fists and boots, knives, and some electricity when they got excited. They hadn't even broken any bones, though Clint suspected that had more to do with the fact that they didn't have a medic to keep him alive if something broke the wrong way. His value at this point was mostly entertainment.

Groaning softly, Clint rolled onto his back and tried to relax and let the chill of the concrete soothe hot, abused muscles. Nor for too long; he couldn't afford to get stiff. He had to be ready. They were going to give him an opening soon, he was sure of it, and he had to be ready to go when they did.

But not quite yet. He could lie here and ache for a little bit longer.

His captors hadn't taken him at his word, of course. Not at first. They gave him a beating to soften him up--he was almost insulted that they thought that was all it'd take--and then shot him full of drugs, but there isn't a 'truth serum' in the world that does more than encourage you to talk generally, and Clint had never had a hard time talking. He gave them an earful of late night soap opera plots and the highlights of Coulsen's reality shows (they were on the TiVo and Clint got really bored sometimes, okay?) and half the plot of 24 and if a few mission details slipped out in there somewhere, it was impossible to tell them from the drivel. He was no Tony Stark, who couldn't go ten words without talking about work. He was no Tony Stark in general.

Clint forced himself to sit up and start carefully stretching. His body protested, muscles screaming at him from the abuse they'd taken. No Steve Rogers, either.

Which was a good thing, Clint reminded himself. They couldn't afford to lose Cap. Or Tony. Or Thor or Bruce or Natasha, really. Which meant Clint needed to get his ass in gear because he knew his team well enough to know they'd be coming after him, the same as they'd come after anybody else. Not a single one of them with a pragmatic grasp of the costs and benefits of a rescue. Except maybe Phil, but Phil was biased.

"Don't think about Phil," Clint muttered to himself. It didn't matter if he was overheard; there was nothing he could tell these guys about his boyfriend that they'd care about. But thinking about Phil made him remember lazy mornings and deadpan dry wit and that time he actually made Phil choke back a laugh in the middle of a briefing. Thinking about Phil made him want to trigger the transmitter implanted in his hip that would broadcast his location and bring his team right to him to get him out. He couldn't do that. Couldn't bring them into a heavily guarded base with so little return.

He'd been here too long already; Clint had to get out before the Avengers got in.

The problem with that plan, Clint had to admit half an hour later, was that there wasn't much he could do with the knife he'd swiped or the miniature computer sewn into his pants or the poison and sedative tabs also sewn into said pants (they were very expensive pants)from inside a locked room. The hinges were on the outside, there was no window, and the single light was out of reach over his head. He could take the sedative and hope they thought he was dead, but it wasn't really powerful enough to pull that off. He could take the poison am hope they didn't think he was faking, but he'd established his worthlessness a little too thoroughly for them to bother reviving him, if they even could. When he was taken out of his cell, he was always covered by at least three guys, one of whom always stood at range with his weapon aimed.

Which was why Clint was still pacing his cell when the ground started shaking, people started shouting, and Iron Man ripped the door off its hinges. "Hawkeye!" he said, voice distorted in a way Clint usually didn't hear; he got it over the comms. "You okay?"

Clint swallowed a sigh and the urge to rub a hand over his face. "Fine. They didn't even break any bones."

They made him check in with SHIELD medical anyway, and the whole team hovered until Clint told them to fuck off (and Phil backed it up with a head tilt). Phil insisted on staying.

"For once," the doctor said, smiling as she removed her gloves, "Mr. Barton is no more injured than he claims. Some pretty severe bruising and a handful electrical burns, but nothing that requires an extended stay. Watch your urine for blood, just in case, and check in again if the pain isn't substantially reduced in a week."

"He needs his transmitter replaced," Phil said.

The doctor's eyebrows went up. "No, he doesn't. It's fully operational; we always check after missions." She nodded at Clint and walked away.

Clint watched her go, then dropped his gaze to the floor.

"Would you care to explain?" Phil asked mildly.

Clint winced. Mild Phil was pissed-off Phil. "Not particularly."

"You were missing for three days and you didn't even try to broadcast your position?"

"You didn't need it, did you?" Clint said. He forced himself to straighten up and look at Coulson.

"We could have had you out on the first day if you'd just swallowed your pride and asked for help," Coulson snapped. "Or did you want to be tortured?"

"I didn't want anyone else to be tortured," Clint retorted. "I could get myself out--"

"Clearly you couldn't!" Phil shot back. "Or we wouldn't have had to waste three days looking for you!"

Clint could feel the angry rush of blood to face, knew he must be bright red. "If you and the rest weren't such bleeding fucking hearts, you wouldn't have wasted resources coming after such a poor goddamned asset. You think I held our rear because no one else could do it?" He barked a laugh. "There isn't anything I can do that someone else can't do bigger and better. I held our rear because SHIELD can't afford to lose any of the others."

Phil's gaze sharpened. "Bigger and better don't always go together," he said, voice low and clipped. "And we can't afford to lose you, either."

Shaking his head, Clint hopped off the examination table and started pulling on the clothes an orderly had brought for him earlier. "You're biased."

"Do you think I'm not capable of evaluating an asset accurately, regardless of my personal feelings?" Phil asked. "You bring precision, subtlety, flexibility, and both operational and metaphorical perspective to this team, Clint. The Avengers can't afford to carry a single member; if you didn't contribute as much as the others, you wouldn't be there."

Clint finished lacing up his boots and straightened up. Phil was focused on him. Sighing, Clint ran a hand through his hair and thought about kissing Phil. Thought about leaning into him, holding onto him and letting all that faith and competency sink into him. But they were in the middle of SHIELD medical, so he forced a smile and squeezed Phil's shoulder instead. "Thanks, sir."

Phil called after him as he strode out, but Clint ignored him. He needed to get off the Helicarrier. The Mansion wasn't exactly private, but at least he had a room he could lock himself into where not even Fury's override would pry him out. Tony's would, but Tony understood about needing space even from people who cared about you.

*

At least, he thought Tony understood.

Clint was forced to reevaluate that conviction a day later when a pounding on his door was quickly followed up by the door opening to admit Thor. At least that meant that the pounding hadn't been an indication of irritation; Thor was just incapable of knocking quietly.

Clint turned his head from where he lay on his sofa--all of the rooms in the mansion had a little sitting area between the door and the bedroom--and scowled at his teammate. "A locked door generally means that the occupant doesn't want to be disturbed."

Thor strode over to the armchair that sat at an angle to the couch and dropped into it. He returned Clint's scowl with a smile. "And you have been undisturbed for a full day, though there were those who wished to breach your rooms earlier. I understand that battle can leave one's mind and heart in strange places. But I would be a poor comrade to allow your pain to continue overlong."

Clint snorted. "Is that your way of saying it's time to stop sulking?"

Thor frowned. "I would not belittle your turmoil so."

Sighing, Clint sat up and swung his legs off the couch. "I think 'turmoil' is a little strong."

"I do not." Thor leaned forward and fixed his gaze on Clint. "Steve and Tony and Bruce have told me that you require only rest and distraction, but I have spoken to the Son of Coul and I think that there are things you must hear from a brother warrior."

"Sonofabitch." Clint shot up off the couch and paced a couple of steps before rounding on Thor. "You talked to Phil? Why the fuck would you do that?"

Thor stood as well. "Who else would I speak to to gain insight into your heart if not your beloved?" He frowned. "He did say your words had not been given in confidence."

Clint had to laugh. "Jesus, big guy. Hasn't anyone told you guys don't talk to each other like that?"

"I am your brother in arms," Thor said, as if that explained everything. "Have I broken a confidence?"

Clint was tempted to say yes, just to cut off this conversation, but he got the feeling Thor would take that a lot more seriously than most people. He might even take Phil to task for it, and then Clint would get called on the lie and...that would suck. "No," he said instead. "I was just on edge and pissed that I couldn't get myself out, you know? Normally I wouldn't have said any of that shit, even to Phil. I don't need a heart-to-heart. I know where I stand." He smiled to show he was fine. "I'm good. And you're right, I've been locked up in here too long." He headed for the doorway.

Thor caught him by the arm. "And you are lying."

Clint bristled. "I'm not a liar."

"No," Thor agreed. "But one need not be a liar by nature to tell a lie. Sit." He dragged Clint to the couch and sat, bringing Clint down with him by default. Clint scowled, but Thor seemed immune to his displeasure, instead regarding him with an intent look. "Is Agent Coulson as skilled in hand-to-hand combat as the fair Natasha?" he asked abruptly.

"What's that go to do--"

"Is he?" Thor gave Clint's arm an insistent shake.

"No," Clint said shortly.

Thor nodded. "Is he as skilled a marksman as you are?"

Clint glared. "No."

"Is he as intelligent as Tony?"

"Not the same kind--"

"Answer," Thor insisted.

Clint looked away. "No."

"Or as strong as myself, or Steve, or the Hulk?"

"Of course not, but--"

Thor spoke over him. "Does he then have less value than we?"

"It's not the same thing," Clint snapped. "He's not an Avenger."

"Ahhh." Thor nodded sagely. "Then all of SHIELD is worth less than we six?"

"That's not what I said." Clint blew out a breath and rubbed a hand over the back of his neck. "They're on a different scale, that's all."

Thor tilted his head. "Are you not one of SHIELD's best?"

"I guess," Clint muttered.

"If you are the best of SHIELD and you are less than the other Avengers, then so must the rest of SHIELD be," Thor pointed out.

"That's not-- Listen, you know I'm not saying that. But you and," Clint waved to indicate the rest of the Avengers, "you're irreplaceable."

Thor nodded. "And so is every life, Clint. If this were not so, then we would not place ourselves in harm's way to shield citizens who are, by the thousands, far weaker than we in every way you described to your Agent. It is not our unique attributes which make us Avengers."

Clint smiled wryly. "Okay, I'll bite. What is it that makes us Avengers, then?"

Thor beamed and clapped Clint on the back. "Our warriors’ hearts!" he declared. "Our willingness to face great defeats, and our joy in great victories. We have faced many who have used the artifacts to be found in this realm to raise themselves up for selfish reasons; any one of the thousands could do the same for good purposes. But the fire that drives one to such dedication is a rare thing." He shook Clint by the shoulder. "That is what binds us together and makes us, not greater or lesser than the those we protect, but different. And you share that heart, without any doubt. Do you see? You are just the same as I, or Steve, or any of the others."

Clint had to laugh. When he went to return Thor's pat on the back, Thor pulled him into an awkward seated hug. Clint patted him on the back until Thor let go and nodded briskly at Clint. "I have said my piece. I leave you now to your contemplations."

"Contemplations," Clint muttered, shaking his head and chuckling again.

He sat there for a long time, occasionally reaching up to rub at the knot of tension in his shoulders, and thought. About uniqueness. About the Avengers being like each other, instead of unlike anyone else. About being bound together.

That thought was what made him stand and find his jacket. When he emerged into the living room, Steve and Bruce were there; they went abruptly quiet when he appeared. "I'm just...going to talk to Phil," Clint said. He got out the door before they said anything.

Phil had an apartment, not that he spent much time there. He probably wasn't there now, but Clint didn't want to see him next on the Helicarrier. He could wait.

Except he didn't have to. When Clint used his key to enter the apartment, he found Phil on the sofa, staring at an episode of Hoarders. He's had his fingers pressed against his temple and there were lines around his eyes. He took a second to look up--only because he heard the key in the lock, Clint knew--and didn't smile.

Clint sat down on the sofa beside him and looked at his hands for the long, long moment it took him to cough up the words. "I'm sorry."

"Are you really?" Phil asked, but he put the remote on the coffee table.

"Yeah." Clint looked up at Phil so that he could see he was serious. "I didn't think--Thor has a different way of seeing things."

"He does," Phil said carefully.

"I'm not going to promise I won't get all sacrificial," Clint leaned a little closer to Phil, intent, "because if it keeps any of you safe I will, in a heartbeat. But, uh," he smiled wryly, "I promise not to jump the line."

Phil smiled at that, a real smile, and leaned in and kissed Clint deeply. "I'm going to remind you of that."

Clint leaned his forehead against Phil's. "I'm probably going to need you to."

They sat there and listened to each other breathe. "Is there more?" Phil asked finally.

"Uh. Yeah." Clint swallowed. "Why do you still have this apartment? I know Tony offered you a room in the mansion."

"Call me old fashioned," Phil said dryly, "but if someone is going to ask me to live with my boyfriend, I think it should be my boyfriend. So you tell me: why do I still have this apartment?"

"I thought you ought to have a little, ah, perspective. On us. Me. It's easier to see things clearly," Clint said quietly, "when you've got a little distance. Easier to get out when it goes south, too."

Phil kissed him again, and spoke against his mouth. "I don't need distance, and I don't want to get out."

"So," Clint smiled, then turned it into a smirk. "You wanna shack up with me?"

"Living with you is going to be like living in a frat house, isn't it?" Phil asked, but the corner of his mouth quirked upwards.

Considering he got all of the Avengers as housemates in the package, Clint couldn't argue with that. "Secretly, you love it."

"No," Phil said, "that's not a secret at all."

~!~

Fic: Mission: Matchmaker (1/1)

infiniteeight — Mon, 16 Apr 2012 06:07:13 GMT

Title: Mission: Matchmaker
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Clint/Coulson (Avengers Movieverse)
Warnings: None.
Summary: Clint is really bad at being single. Fury hands Coulson a mission: Find Clint Barton a boyfriend.
Word Count: 7,835. (Complete.)

It took a while for anyone to figure it out. To be fair, at least one of the Avengers probably would have realized sooner if they weren't also occupied with trying to file enough edges off of six sharply defined personalities to make a coherent unit out of them. But as five of them found the places where they fit together and started to settle down, Clint only got more and more prickly and irritable.

Cap actually called a team meeting about it one night while Clint was out on a date. Natasha, who knew Clint best, swore that he wasn't usually like this. He'd broken up with his boyfriend a couple of weeks after the team formed officially, but that was months ago and they'd only been together a month or two. Steve worried that Clint resented him stepping in out of nowhere and taking field command over the heads of Natasha and Clint, both of whom were senior SHIELD agents, but if Clint was relaxed and focused anywhere, it was on a mission. Thor thought he needed to get drunk. Tony thought he needed to get drunk and laid. Bruce just wanted the tension in the mansion to ease.

They were all learning to savor the nights when Clint went out and the rest of them could relax. Fortunately, he was out a lot. Tony hadn't thought anyone could date more than he did, but Clint was giving it the old college try.

The rest of the Avengers had settled in around the giant flat screen TV in the living room with popcorn and beer and a movie when the elevator to the garage wooshed open and Clint stormed into the room, radiating anger. The five of them exchanged sorrowful glances. "I thought you had a date," Tony said irritably. Clint couldn't have been gone more than an hour and a half.

"He was a fucking Hawkeye groupie," Clint snarled. He yanked on the leather jacket he wore so sharply that it caught on his shoulders and he had to struggle out of it. He pitched it viciously across the room and threw himself into the only free seat, which was at the other end of the couch Tony was using. "I am beginning to wonder if this gig is worth it."

They all froze. It wasn't that bad, was it? He wouldn't... Okay, yeah, Clint was driving them all nuts, but he was an Avenger and this was only supposed to be growing pains. You'd think anyone who dated as much as Clint did would get a kick out of having groupies.

Tony sat bolt upright and stabbed a finger at Clint as connections snapped into place. "You hate being single!" he crowed in triumph.

Clint's mouth opened and closed silently, and he stared at Tony, his anger derailed. "What?"

"You hate being single," Tony repeated. He smirked. "We have been wracking our brains trying to figure out why you've been so pissy, and I was right the whole time: You need to get laid."

"If what I wanted was sex, I could be having it right now," Clint said sourly. "Or did you miss the part about the groupie?"

Tony waved a hand dismissively. "I was close enough for it to count."

"Tony..." Natasha's tone was a warning.

But too late. "No, Stark, it is not close enough to count." Clint pushed himself up off the couch and glared down at him. "Fucking a stranger who moans your codename in bed is not 'close enough' to having a lover who knows all the ways you like to be touched. Sneaking out at two in the morning is not 'close enough' to waking up next to the same person every day. And 'I want to spend the night with you' is not 'close enough' to 'I want to spend the rest of my life with you'."

Clint stalked out of the living room, doors sliding silently open before him.

A crash echoed back before they closed.

"I'm glad I redecorated before you guys moved in," Tony said. "I used to keep a Ming vase there. Maybe I should install doors that slam."

Steve sighed heavily. "At least now we know what the problem is."

"But what do we do about it?" Bruce asked.

"It's none of our business," Natasha said sharply. "It's Clint's private concern."

Thor raised an open hand. "He has not acted privately, my lady."

Natasha sighed.

*

Phil Coulson stared at his boss.

Fury stared back.

"You have got to be kidding me," Phil said.

"Believe me when I say I wish I was."

Phil looked down at the file in his hands. Sitting on top of SHIELD's file on Clint Barton was a extra sheaf of papers filled with the sort of inane drivel you might find on internet dating sites. For the first time, Phil really didn't want to know where the research team had gotten their data. He flipped through, glancing over the information. Oh, really, was there anyone who didn't know that Barton's favorite color was purple? He sighed. "I thought we didn't get involved in our people's personal lives, if it didn't interfere with their operational performance. Hawkeye performs fine in the field."

"This is the Avengers," Fury said. "And he may be fine in the field, but he's stopping that team from integrating the way we need it to. Barton needs to chill, and apparently to do that he needs a boyfriend. So you're going to find him one."

Phil's mouth curved up at the corners. "Because my own personal life recommends me so thoroughly for the job." He'd given up on dating years ago. He'd given up on having a personal life at all, really, but SHIELD was more than capable of filling in the spaces.

"Do you want me to assign an undercover agent to play the role of boyfriend?" Fury asked, brows lifting. "Because that was option two."

"No." Coulson shuffled through the file one more time before tossing it onto Fury's desk. "But that isn't going to help me. I'll handle my own intel on this one."

*

Frank's was Clint's favorite bar. They kept the music down, the lights up enough that he didn't have to squint, and the regulars didn't mind losing at darts when he felt like playing. Clint had never brought a date here, but Phil wasn't a date.

"I'm sorry you got dragged into this," Clint said as they slid into a booth together. "I shouldn't have lost my temper. Tony just takes it too far sometimes, you know?"

Tony wasn't the problem and they both knew it, but Coulson just nodded. "I know."

The waitress came around, so they ordered a couple of beers and a plate of yam fries. When she left, Clint flicked a finger at Phil. "I'm not sorry I got to see you in casual clothes, though." Phil was wearing dark blue jeans without a spot of wear on them and a black sweater. "I didn't think you owned anything but suits and tactical gear."

Phil considered. He was about to ask Barton a lot of personal questions. Fair was fair. "I had to buy them," he admitted.

Clint laughed. Then he got a look at Phil's face--still deadpan--and stopped. "Ah fuck," Clint said. "You were serious. Now I feel like an ass; I was only teasing."

Phil let his expression warm. "I know you were. I do also have clothes to work out in, but nothing appropriate for a night out with a friend."

"You don't ever feel the need to unwind?"

"I do my unwinding at home," Phil said simply. Reading and reality TV weren't flashy hobbies, but they worked for him. They were getting off topic, though; they weren't here to talk about Coulson. "Research put together a file--" Clint groaned and covered his face with one hand "--but I didn't read much of it. I'm not sure I trust their sources on this particular topic."

Clint dropped his hand to the table and waited to speak as their drinks arrived. "Probably wise," he said wryly. He took a long pull from his beer once the waitress walked away. "There's a lot of stuff you say to hook a first date, to get the chance to see if there's any chemistry, that doesn't necessarily have much to do with who you are or what you want."

"If you're not being straightforward with your prospective partners," Phil commented, "that might be part of the problem."

Clint snorted. "You don't date much, do you? Look, when you're angling for a first date, you don't say 'Hi, I work in a bizarre government job that I can't talk about in detail, but try turning on your TV. I like to go dancing because sometimes I need reminding why the world's worth saving, and Thai is my favorite kind of food because work has miraculously never sent me to Thailand.' You have to work up to that shit. You lead with the good stuff; you play it up, so that when the bad stuff starts trickling in, maybe the scales will stay tipped long enough for you make some kind of connection."

"You do that kind of strategic thinking and you still request a handler?" Phil said, smiling a little.

"I focus better when I don't have to think that way," Clint paused as the waitress dropped off the yam fries he'd ordered. He picked up a few and pointed them at Coulson, "And if you're going to use the contents of this conversation to evaluate my operational capacity, you're not going to get much that's going to help you out with your so-called mission."

Phil shook his head. "No, this has nothing to do with operational effectiveness." He paused. That wasn't quite accurate. "Well, not beyond the impact the ultimate result is intended to produce, anyway. I was just curious."

"Fair enough." Clint ate the fries. "So let's get down to business. What do you need to know?"

Phil tilted his head curiously. "I didn't expect you to be quite so cooperative."

Clint rolled his eyes. "Coulson, I've tried blind dates, online dates, and speed dates. I am fully aware of my own desperateness, okay? I'm not above submitting to some matchmaking. Besides," he grinned, "you have a fantastic mission success rate. If anyone can find someone who'll put up with me, it's you."

"Put up with you?"

"All those dates only had one thing in common." Clint shrugged and drank his beer. "So come on, hit me. Whaddya wanna know?"

Phil curled his hand around his own beer, untouched so far. "What do you want in a partner?"

"Did I not just say someone who would put up with me?" Clint said dryly.

Phil frowned. "There has to be more to it than that."

Clint blew out a breath. "Look, I used to have a whole list, okay? All the usual bull: hot, smart, makes me laugh, you know the drill. But I've been at this for a couple of decades now and I've learned I've got to be realistic about my expectations here. There are three things I need," he ticked them off on his fingers. "One, someone who wants me, not my image. Two, someone who can tolerate both me being an Avenger now and me being a plain old SHIELD agent after, assuming SHIELD still wants me once my aim starts to slip. Don't give me that look; old age is going to get us all eventually. Except Thor. And maybe Cap. And three, someone who likes me enough to put up with me when I'm being an asshole."

"You do realize that you're also going to have to put up with them when they're being an asshole?" Phil asked, needing a moment to put more thoughts together. His beer was right there, so he took a drink while he thought. "Your list is all about you, Barton, and there's two problems with that. On the practical side of things, I can't evaluate someone's reactions to you without them meeting you, and I'm not going to pick men at random and pitch them at you to see if one sticks." Clint snickered and motioned for Phil to go on. "The other problem is that the most reliable way of getting someone interested in you is to demonstrate a genuine interest in them. Most people enjoy talking about themselves, and it feels good to be liked. If nothing about them matters to you, you're going to have trouble engaging them."

Clint winced. "Fair enough. Gimme a second to think." He ate fries while he thought, though he left the dip the bar had provided on the plate. Phil selected a fry while he waited and tried the dip. Not bad. A little spicy.

"Okay," Clint said at length. "I like people who are good at what they do. I'm not sure if it matters what it is that they do, but I like it when they get shit done."

Phil nodded an acknowledgement. "Do you have a physical type?"

"Nah, I can find something attractive about just about anyone."

"Do you need to share their hobbies?" Coulson asked. "Or vice versa?"

Clint started to answer, then stopped. "I was going to say that it helps," he said, "but honestly, it probably depends on how they are about it. I mean, I dated a guy who was into gardening once, and if you'd asked me before I'd have said it must be like watching paint dry, but he made it worth listening to."

"You're not going to make this easy on me, are you?" Phil said dryly.

Clint laughed a little. "Gotta keep life interesting, right?"

"For reference, what are your hobbies?" Phil raised his beer and tilted it at Clint preemptively. "Shooting doesn't count."

"It doesn't leave much time for anything else, either." But Clint shrugged. "I like running. I like to cook. I can't do anything fancy, and I'm lost without a recipe unless I've memorized it, but I like doing it."

After that, all Phil really need to do was nod encouragement and ask the occasional question.

*

The difficult part of setting Clint up turned out not to be finding men with potential. Rather, the difficult part was finding men who could get past the fact that they were being pre-screened for a date by one of said date's coworkers. Even without specifically mentioning either SHIELD or the Avengers--both of which Clint had placed firmly on the Stuff I'll Work Up To Mentioning list--matchmaking was really only common in North American culture when the matchmaker knew both parties personally, and once Phil convinced the candidates that no, he really wasn't talking about himself in the third person, they almost all balked. Phil refused to be discouraged; if they balked at that harmless bit of strangeness, they were hardly going to be up to dating an Avenger.

Besides, they didn't all back off. Unfortunately, none of those first dates had led to second dates, either. Phil had debriefed Clint after each evening, intent on improving his selections, so he knew exactly what had gone wrong in each case. Two had recognized Clint from the news and, although they'd both finished dinner, had made it pretty clear that his being on the Avengers was too much danger, too much uncertainty. One, whom Phil had really been optimistic about, had been overwhelmed with shyness and hardly responded to a thing Clint said. Phil had thought that Clint would find drawing the young man out of his tongue-tied silence rewarding, but no matter how carefully enthusiastic Clint was, there were only so many silent nods and head shakes that he could take before it bled all of his energy away. And one had seemed like a sure thing for a second date, at least, but there had been no follow up phone call, and when Clint gave in and called himself he was politely declined.

They were still in the data gathering phase, really. But Phil hoped, for Clint's sake, that the fifth first date went better.

He followed Clint to the restaurant (a Greek place) and watched from across the street while Clint waited for his date. The man, Mike, arrived right on time, which should have been a good sign, but Phil saw the moment Mike realized that Clint was his date and his steps hitched and then slowed. It wasn't nerves; Mike was confident and interested when Phil set up the date, and he'd recognized Clint's photo so he couldn't be having an Oh, shit, it's an Avenger moment. No, that hesitation could only mean that, for some reason, this man had taken one look at Clint and decided he wasn't interested after all. Phil could see him deciding to leave and stand Clint up, but that was the moment when Clint turned and spotted him and smiled.

Clint certainly had smiles that would give someone pause, but this wasn't one of them. It wasn't his most relaxed, it was too date-ready for that, but it was warm and a little bit inviting and Phil will never understand why Mike's shoulders dropped, his escape thwarted. They shook hands and Phil knew that Clint was picking up on Mike's reluctance, because he opened the door for him, and Clint being a gentleman was Clint trying too hard.

It was the wrong move; Mike was clearly put off rather than charmed, but they went into the restaurant, and Phil followed.

Phil was expecting the date to be torturous, but he knew Clint would stubbornly stick out the whole damned thing and order dessert besides. The appetizer had arrived but they hadn't ordered dinner yet when Mike excused himself and headed for the bathroom. By the time five minutes had passed, Phil knew the man wasn't coming back. Clint held out a little longer, his glances toward the bathrooms growing steadily more frequent, before his shoulders finally slumped. He leaned back in his chair and drained his drink in one long pull.

Phil stood and crossed the restaurant. He seated himself calmly in Mike's abandoned chair and looked Clint in the eye. "I'm sorry."

"It's not your fault the guy's an asshole," Clint said. He folded his elbows on the table and picked up a warm pita wedge. He tore off a piece and stuck it into the hummus. "Sneaking out the back. Jesus. He could have at least had the decency to tell me he wasn't interested to my face. I didn't give him any reason to think I'd make a scene." He stuffed the pita into his mouth as much, Phil thought, to stop himself from talking as because he was hungry.

"He shouldn't have had the opportunity," Phil said. "I'm meant to be making this process easier."

Clint's waitress returned and paused at the change in occupants of the table. She started to ask; Phil shot her a look. Her mouth snapped shut, and she cleared her throat before forcing a professional smile. "Are you ready to order?"

"Lamb souvlaki, please," Phil replied smoothly, lifting the menu to hand it to her. "And two of whatever beer that was," he nodded at Clint's empty glass.

Clint seemed a little surprised, but he ordered moussaka and handed over his menu. When the waitress was gone he tore another piece of pita off and went back to the hummus. "I have no idea why he left," he said, keeping his eyes on the food.

The date didn't last long enough to bother debriefing, so all Phil said was, "Neither do I." Maybe Clint was too tall, or too short. Maybe it was the way he held himself, like he might pull a weapon at any moment; ironically, Clint was far more relaxed when he actually has his bow close to hand. Hell, maybe it was that he'd ordered a garlic-laded appetizer on a first date.

Clint raised his eyebrows and swallowed his mouthful. "You're admitting ignorance? Be careful, Coulson, a junior agent might hear you."

"You of all people know I'm not infallible," Phil said mildly. He wasn't talking about the current op, such as it was. They've worked together long enough to have had a few missions that went well and truly sour and they've taken their turns at making the mistakes.

"Sure, but you're not usually so casual about it." Clint nudged the basket of pita across the table. Phil helped himself.

"No one's going to die if I make a mistake here."

"Yeah." Clint just sounded tired. "Listen, we don't have to stay for dinner. You've spent every third night for two weeks shadowing me on dates and god knows how much more time picking them out, I'm sure you'd like to take some time for things other than work or babysitting."

Phil raised an eyebrow. "If setting you up on dates counts as babysitting, I seriously question your perspective on parenting techniques."

Clint choked on his pita and had to spit it out into his hand to laugh properly. "Oh, shit," he said, looking around for somewhere to hide the half-chewn mouthful. Coming up blank he looked helplessly at Phil, who smiled back and held out a napkin. Clint shook his head as he took it and hid the unfortunate lump, still chuckling. "I'm lucky the date is already over, that wasn't attractive at all."

Clint was smiling easily, the tension all but drained out of his body, even a lot of the job-related situational awareness tension, since he had someone to help keep watch. It would take a lot more than a little half-chewed bread to make him unattractive right now. But Phil didn't mention it, just kept smiling and said, "The only thing I have going at home is a beer that needs another week and a half of fermenting."

"You homebrew?" Clint asked, leaning forward and resting his forearm on the edge of the table.

Phil nodded. "Most of the process is waiting, but at the end I still get to hold something I made. It's a nice fit with SHIELD. And I get exactly the beer I want, though it took awhile to figure out how to get there."

"You don't use a kit, then."

"I started with one," Phil said. "But I got frustrated with them. They restrict too many variables I wanted to experiment with."

Clint grinned. "Were you a chemistry geek in high school?"

Shaking his head, Phil paused to let their server place their plates on the table. "No. I got good grades but nothing spectacular. I flew under the radar, really. Cliques can be vicious in high school; it seemed safer to go unnoticed."

"One of those things I should be glad I missed?" Clint asked lightly. He'd never finished high school; he and Barney had left the orphanage before they got that far, and though the circus folk had given them the best education they knew how, they hadn't bothered with the trouble it would take to get recognized diplomas for a pair of kids who weren't much interested in having them. He hadn't bothered with his GED until SHIELD insisted. Most of the time he didn't think about it.

"Depends on which clique you'd have been in," Phil said. "They can be played to the advantage, as well."

"But you weren't interested in ruling the school," Clint let his voice trail off and started in on his food.

"It's high school," Phil said dryly. "It felt pretty pointless to me; why put all that effort into something that was going to be forgotten in a few years? The triumph of high school is getting through it so you can move on to things that actually mean something."

"Well, you did that in spades," Clint chuckled. "What do your friends from back then think of you now?"

Phil shook his head as he used his fork to slide pieces of souvlaki off their skewers. "I didn't keep in touch."

Clint's eyebrows go up. "Not with anyone?" Phil shook his head again. "College buddies?"

"I have one of those," Phil allowed. "I don't see him very often; he works almost as much as I do. But we talk."

"Good," Clint said. Phil made an inquiring sound around a mouthful of food. Clint shrugged. "I was picturing you going home to an empty apartment without even a light on the answering machine. That'd just be sad."

The way Clint dropped his eyes told Phil all he needed to know about what Clint had gone home to, more often than not, before he'd moved into the mansion with the rest of the team. Phil kept his tone casual. "Peace and quiet do have their merits, but no. I have friends." Well, a handful. Two, counting Nick, which he does.

Clint smiled at him, his shoulders relaxed, and asked what his major was in college.

Maybe three.

*

There's never another date as bad as number five, but twelve dates into the project Phil couldn't tell himself that they were just in the data gathering stage anymore. Number nine had made it to a second date but fizzled there, and Phil was beginning to understand why being single sometimes made Clint want to throw things.

Phil set aside the files he'd put together on future possibilities and retrieved the files for the twelve unsuccessful candidates and pored over them. There had to be something in here that would tell him where he went wrong, where he was still going wrong. He read until his eyes burned.

A knock on the frame of his office door snapped him out of date number ten's file. Phil looked up and blinked, trying to clear the gritty feeling from his eyes. Clint was standing in the doorway, frowning. "It's after eleven. At night."

Phil looked at the clock. 11:21pm. "So it is." He looked back at Clint.

"Please tell me that," Clint waved at the sea of paper that had consumed Phil's desk, "isn't for me."

"I'm missing something," Phil said.

Clint groaned. "Sleep. You are missing sleep, Phil. I can survive a week without a date, okay? Come on." He crossed the room and closed the file in front of Phil. "Get up."

"You called me Phil," Phil pointed out, waving Clint off and rising from his desk chair.

"We have had a conversation about my hard limits when it comes to what I like in bed," Clint shot back. "I get to call you by name."

"Sexual compatibility is important in a relationship," Phil said, but he didn't argue the point. He retrieved his overcoat from the hook behind the door and followed Clint out of his office.

By the time they reached the vehicle bay Phil's stomach had started growling. He grimaced. He couldn't remember when he'd last been grocery shopping. There were probably a couple of frozen dinners in his freezer, but the thought of eating something out of a plastic tray was making eating seem kind of pathetic right now. He'd just go to bed.

But Clint looked over at him curiously. "Didn't you eat?"

Phil shook his head. "Lost track of time. It's not the first time."

"Me neither," Clint said. Phil shot him a skeptical look; in his experience Clint rarely missed a meal. Clint caught the look and rolled his eyes. "Okay, so I ate, but that was, like, four hours ago. By the time we stop at the store and get to your place, it'll be more than five. I could eat again."

"Why are we going to my place?" Phil asked as they arrived at his car.

"Because at my place I'd have to use Tony Stark's kitchen and cook enough for Steve and Thor."

Phil had to smile. "You have a point."

Grocery shipping with Clint Barton was...interesting. Phil tended to go in with a list and start at one end of the store and work his way to the other, skipping the frozen foods aisle and revisiting it last. Clint knew what he was looking for, but he picked it up in the order he remembered, squinting and muttering recipe ingredients under his breath to make sure he hadn't missed one. He clearly had brands he liked, but when he couldn't find the one he wanted he'd stand there and read the labels until he found something close. "I don't actually know what all the different shit they put in stuff does," he explained to Phil. "I just know it's good when I use a particular brand, and if I can't find it, I have to get close or God knows what the food will taste like."

Back at Phil's apartment, Clint parked him at the breakfast bar, peering into his own kitchen at Clint unearthing pots and pans and shaking his head at the contents of Phil's fridge. He rolled up his sleeves when he cooked, exposing forearms corded with muscle from drawing his bow, and hummed under his breath. He was making a Thai green curry, and most of the ingredients were measured out of cans or envelopes--he wasn't doing the seasoning from scratch or anything--but it was still the most complicated meal anyone had cooked for Phil in years.

It smelled fantastic, and he cleaned his plate and had seconds, but afterwards all Phil could remember about the meal was Clint laughing, and bitching that the curry paste (not his preferred brand) had too many peppercorns in it, and stealing snow peas off Phil's plate.

*

Two dates later marked six weeks since Fury first handed him Clint's file and that ridiculous addendum research had fished out of online dating profiles. Phil was winding down his monthly report to Fury on the state of their ongoing, non-urgent projects and hoping that he forgot about this one.

But Nick Fury never missed a thing. "You're leaving one out," he said meaningfully.

Phil kept his expression neutral. "There's nothing to report."

"You usually go into a little more detail than that, even when you're reporting a negative. In fact, I believe you go into more detail when reporting a negative. What's the problem?"

"There's no problem." Phil folded his hands on the conference table. "There are people who spend their entire lives looking for a suitable partner. This is a long term project, sir."

Fury raised his eyebrows. "I didn't ask you to track down the love of his life, Coulson. I don't need him to ride off into the sunset and live happily ever after, I just need him stable."

"Barton isn't looking for a casual relationship," Phil argued. "He's not going to settle for someone who isn't equally serious."

"Then find someone serious!" Fury said impatiently.

"I've been trying." Phil grimaced and leaned back in his chair. "Clint's been out with fourteen different men since we started this project and only two of them have made it to a second date."

"Barton's being difficult?"

"No," Phil said tightly. "He bends over backwards to make them comfortable and draw them out. He lets them choose where to go. He called to initiate both second dates, and several others that turned him down. He goes out to meet these men and he's smart and funny and he dresses so that you can hardly take your eyes off of him. He puts himself out there every time, and they shoot him down over and over again." Phil shook his head. "I don't understand these guys, Nick. They get one of the most dedicated, attractive men I have ever met practically handed to them on a silver platter and they take a pass because...what? He's got a smart mouth? He's not cruel about it. Because he's pseudo-military? When did a willingness to put yourself in the line of fire become something to sneer at? If Clint didn't want this so badly, I'd say to hell with them. They don't deserve him."

Fury started laughing.

Phil stared.

"Well, shit," Fury said, still chuckling. "Mission successful, I think."

Phil rubbed his eyes. "Sir. I just finished telling you how very unsuccessful I have been."

"Yeah, you did. Passionately." Fury grinned at him. "I was listening, Phil, but I don't think you were."

Phil was silent for a long moment, turning that over in his mind. Passionately? He reviewed his own words and cursed silently as his face slowly heated with embarrassment. God, how long had it been since he’d blushed? Fury just laughed again, harder this time, and waved Phil away through his mirth. But Phil didn't move from his seat. "Nick--Sir, this can't happen. I'm his handler."

Fury managed to settle down. "Like you said when all this got started, we don't interfere in personal lives unless it impacts field performance. And like I said, they're the Avengers. Same rules don't apply. Go take care of your boy." A long, silent moment passed; Phil didn't rise. Fury cocked his head curiously. "You don't think he'd turn you down?"

Phil made himself meet Fury's eye. "I know he won't. Because he wants a relationship very badly, and after this string of failed dates, he'll take what he can get. Even if it's not what he really wants."

"And it would be better for him to settle for one of these dicks who doesn't," Fury's lips twitched, "deserve him? You genuinely feel something for the guy, Coulson. That's something to build on."

Phil thought about it. What did he want for Clint? Above and beyond getting him a boyfriend because that's what he said he wanted. Throw that out. If it wasn't about the relationship, what was it about? This whole thing had started because Clint was interfering in the team dynamics. Because he was irritable and tense and frustrated. Because he was unhappy, really. Clint deserved to be happy. And the only time he'd seen Clint relaxed and smiling over the past six weeks has been when they were alone together.

"Excuse me, sir," Phil said, standing and collecting his files from the conference table. "I believe I need to speak with Agent Barton."

"You do that," Fury said, grinning again.

Phil found Clint on the range. It wasn't training, not really, because standing in a quiet room with all the time he needs to aim was so far from pushing the envelope of his skills that it was laughable. Training for Clint was running the obstacle course with targets added, or testing out trick shots and new arrows on the demolition ranges. In the range it was just exercise for his arms and back and rest for his mind.

And since it wasn't training, Clint was dressed in black cargo pants and a black tank top, rather than his tactical uniform. He had his back to the door and as Phil watched he drew, the muscles in his shoulders and arms flexing and bunching. He held the draw for a long moment. For once, Phil let his eyes run over the powerful, tanned skin of Clint's arms and back. Standing between Captain America and Thor, Clint could appear small, but he wasn't. The kind of training that made it possible for him to bring a recurve bow to full draw dozens, occasionally hundreds, of times without a break had given him broad shoulders.

"You coming in, sir?" Clint asked without turning, and released the arrow. The thunk of it hitting the target was quieted by distance.

"We need to talk, but I'd prefer not to do it on site," Phil said.

Clint knocked and drew another arrow, letting it go immediately this time. "You breaking up with me, sir?"

Phil swallows a laugh, because it should not be possible for a comment to be that on point and that wrong at the same time. "No, Clint."

That got him to turn, because Phil never used his first name, not out loud. Not even after Clint had started calling him Phil. He looked at Phil for a long time before stepping out of the shooting lane and packing the bow and arrows away. "Your place or mine?" Clint asked, slinging the case over his shoulder.

"Mine," Phil said firmly, because he would rather be strung up by his ankles than risk any of the Avengers overhearing this conversation. He'll have to get used to having them around, of course, but he wanted himself and Clint to be on the same page before then.

Clint asked if they could stop for groceries on the way to Phil's place. It was two in the afternoon and Phil was pretty sure Clint wasn't interested in cooking, which meant that the request was secret code for 'are we going to be okay when this conversation is over?', so he said they could, even though the last thing he wanted to do was wait an extra half hour.

He added breakfast fixings to the cart and answered Clint's curious look with the blandest expression he had.

They got to Phil's apartment and put the groceries away together. Clint closed the last cupboard and turned. He reached behind himself and braced his hands on the kitchen counter, leaning back a little. "Let me guess," he said. "You've run out of guys to set me up with."

He was braced, as if for a blow, and the look in his eyes was resignation. Phil immediately discarded his plans for a sensible lead in to his offer. Instead he stepped into Clint's personal space and put a hand on his arm. "No, but I would much rather take you out on those dates myself." He leaned in and kissed Clint.

For a moment Clint was still, but then he tilted his head, almost hesitantly, and kissed back. Phil deepened the kiss slowly, drawing Clint along with him. He shifted his body closer and brushed against Clint carefully. Clint made a soft sound into his mouth and brought his hand up to rest it on the back of Phil's neck. Phil relaxed.

The kiss ended with a soft, wet sound that made Phil want to go back for another, but they still needed to actually talk about this. Instead he drew in a breath and stepped away. Clint was watching him, eyes wide and mouth still open a little. Phil couldn't help licking his lips quickly. Clint's eyes followed the motion. "I take it you're okay with that idea?" Phil said.

Clint laughed breathlessly. "Yeah, I'm okay with that. I'm very okay with that. All those dates...I never enjoyed one half as much as I did debriefing afterward."

"I need you to know that this isn't your only option." Phil paused. He could say this. "If you want to keep looking, I will still help."

"Phil." Clint pushed himself away from the counter and stepped up to Phil. He put both his hands on Phil's hips. "I have spent most of the last couple of dates thinking more about what I was going to tell you afterward than about the guy in front of me. I want you."

Phil's breath caught. "It's been a very long time since anyone's said that to me."

Clint leaned in. His lips brushed Phil's when he spoke. "I want you." The second kiss was harder than the first, and faster. Phil groaned into it and pulled Clint against him, slotted their hips together and kissed him back rougher when Clint ground against him. Clint's voice was rough when they finally break again. "Bedroom."

"It's the middle of the day," Phil said, but he was already sliding his hands up under Clint's tank top.

"You bought breakfast food," Clint pressed his mouth to the curve of Phil's jaw. "Don't even try to pretend you weren't planning on taking me to bed for the rest of the day."

Phil's breath stuttered as Clint worked his way down his neck. "I doubt I'll be able to go that long. I was just looking forward to the morning."

Clint pulled away from him, eyes shining. "We definitely need to be in the bedroom." He took Phil's hand and dragged him across the apartment, finding the bedroom on his first try though Phil would have sworn he'd never shown it to him. They got in the way of each other's hands unbuttoning and untucking and unzipping clothes, but they kept at it until there was just skin and the inviting expanse of white sheets before them.

Clint turned and crawled onto the bed and Phil had to stare for a second, because Clint had hands down the best ass he'd ever seen, and he was including both Captain America and Thor in that assessment. Clint turned over onto his back, propped up on his elbows. He spread his legs and grinned. "You going to join me?"

"Cocky, Barton," Phil said, but he got onto the bed and put his hands on Clint's knees, pushing them open more, really, than he needed to to settle in between.

"You like me that way," Clint shot back. Phil kissed him, and if he'd meant it to shut Clint up it worked a little too well, because there was hot skin and a bed and no one had to move. Clint's hands moved over his body, pulling him closer by the hips and back and neck, like any space between them was too much space. Phil found himself lying heavily on top of Clint, not trying to hold himself up at all. His aching cock rubbed into the crease of Clint's hip, while Clint's own dick left slick streaks of pre-come on his belly.

It wasn't quite enough, but when Phil tried to pull away enough to get a hand between them Clint made a noise of protest. "Clint," Phil said. "This is very good, but I need more."

"So fuck me," Clint said, and started sucking a hickey into Phil's throat.

Phil's mouth went dry. "What?"

"Fuck me."

Jesus. Phil's dick throbbed; maybe he didn't need that much more, after all. "I'm going to have to pull away to get condoms and lube."

Clint let him go this time. By the time Phil had retrieved the supplies Clint had stuffed one of the pillows under his hips. Phil groaned and rested his forehead on one of Clint's bent knees. "You," he started, but there was nothing else to say. He kissed the inside of Clint's knee and set about slicking up his fingers.

Clint was tight, but he relaxed quickly under the steady thrust of Phil's fingers. He moaned and panted without restraint, every ripple of his pleasure on display. By the time Phil pushed three fingers into his body Clint's skin was shining with sweat and his cock was dark and arching up towards his belly. "Enough," he groaned at last, reaching out to close a hand around Phil's shoulder. "I want you to come inside me."

Phil swallowed a groan. "Okay." Somehow, he kept his hands steady as he rolled the condom onto his cock and coated it with lube. He held his breath as he pressed into Clint's body, feeling him open up and take Phil inside. Clint's eyes were shut, his breathing harsh, but when Phil paused he made an inarticulate sound of protest and tugged on his shoulder again.

"Yes," Clint moaned when Phil's hips finally pressed tight against the curve of his ass. Phil sucked into a deep breath at last and kept his eyes fixed on Clint's face. When Clint's eyes opened, he thrust, watching as Clint's eyes fluttered shut again for a moment before he met Phil's gaze. "Yes," he repeated, reaching out.

Meeting Clint's grasp meant folding him almost in half, his knees pushed up high and wide, Phil's cock thrusting deep inside. But when Clint got his hands on Phil he only pulled him closer, kissed him hungrily and urged him deeper with eager hands on Phil's ass.

Phil rocked his hips against Clint's body, his grip tight on Clint's legs to hold him open. It was a steady pace rather than an urgent one, slow enough for Phil to feel the swell of pleasure building up inside him, waiting for release. Clint never even reached for his own cock, seemed to like having his hands on Phil's body better, and it was the tight grip of Clint's hand on the back of his neck, pulling him in for a messy kiss, that sent him over the edge. Phil moaned loudly, grinding into Clint's ass, and shuddered through his climax.

"Phil," Clint groaned, but he didn't let go of Phil. It was Phil who got a hand between them and wrapped it around Clint's swollen cock. It only took a couple of hard strokes before he came, slick and wet over Phil's fingers.

It was too uncomfortable a position to collapse into. Phil carefully withdrew and disposed of the condom before helping Clint stretch out his legs again. When he tugged on Clint after, just a suggestion, Clint rolled over easily, rested a hand on Phil's chest, and hooked a leg over his hip. Phil relaxed and smiled at Clint, their heads resting on the same pillow.

Clint smiled back. "Thanks."

There was no need for thanks, but Phil suspected it'd be awhile before Clint stopped saying it. So all he said was, "Thank you," back.

They just looked at each other for a long time. Eventually Clint took a breath. "So how is this going to work? With SHIELD, and the Avengers?"

"About the same as it does now," Phil said. "Except that I'm going to have to learn to tolerate spending some mornings at the same breakfast table as Tony Stark, and you are going to have to learn to get your mission reports in on time, because I am not above withholding sex."

Clint burst out laughing. "That's it?" he said. "No, 'We have to be discreet'? No fraternization regulations?"

"SHIELD decided a long time ago that regulations like that were more trouble than they're worth," Phil said. "Fury cares more about results than rules, anyway. And while I expect us to be professional at work, I'm not going to be made to feel like my relationship is something to be embarrassed about."

Clint's smile turned quiet and soft. He lowered his voice. "Does that mean office sex isn't off the table?"

Phil snorted a laugh. "Clearly we need to talk about the definition of 'professional'."

"That's not a no," Clint pointed out.

It wasn't.

Clint grinned.

~!~

Fic I don't want to lose track of (for my own reference)

infiniteeight — Wed, 04 Apr 2012 06:26:11 GMT

Clint/Coulson

Cybernetic Official Unit for Lawful Security Operations Number 01: http://archiveofourown.org/works/369959
The one where COulson is an android. Usually I don't like Coulson-as-robot-or-AI fics, because they're usually based on the idea that's humorless and/or emotionless, and I really don't see him that way. But this one is the opposite--it's all about Coulson learning about life and developing as a complex person and he absolutely experiences emotion, even if it isn't generated the way humans do.

Hope is Not a Course of Action: http://archiveofourown.org/works/378155
Good, thorough build of a get-together.

Graded on the Sanctity of Patience: http://archiveofourown.org/works/385075
Genderqueer (and totally fucking awesome) always-a-girl Phil. My favorite part of this story is absolutely the moment they meet in person. I am such a sucker for those moments when people make a connection that is different from what they've felt before. Close runner up for favorite is Clint's response when Phil tells him what she wants.

Touched for the Very First Time: http://archiveofourown.org/works/385982
Clint is a virgin, but really that's secondary to the OMG awesome, detailed, hot, amazing sex. This has become my go-to fic for Clint bottoming porn.

As it is Written: http://archiveofourown.org/works/413384
Clint has dyslexia; according to commenters with same, a very accurate and sensitive portrayal. He breaks my heart in this. Oh, Clint, <3 <3 <3.

the temple of bondage: http://archiveofourown.org/works/393206?view_full_work=true
(need notes)

Bicycle made for two: http://archiveofourown.org/works/440364
(need notes; the one where they have to pretend to be married...and it sucks.)

The First Annual Avengers Convention: http://archiveofourown.org/works/436615/chapters/759131 (especially chapter 5 forward) -- currently WIP
(needs more notes)

I Like You Under My Skin (series) by leiascully: http://archiveofourown.org/series/19359
Sweetness and flirting and sex. My go to happy fic. Favorite parts are two and three.

Gotta Catch 'Em All by (author to be looked up): (link to be added)
Clint sleeps with each of the Avengers, but ends up with Phil. I don't normally like that set up (I've read one story where we went about it in a really assholish way and it kind of tainted the whole idea), but this one is in character, hot, and ends perfectly. Mostly I note it to re-read because of Clint's first time with Phil, which is lovely and possessive in all the way I like best.

Toll the Mountain by BeBunny: http://archiveofourown.org/works/432879?view_full_work=true
My favorite (to date) of the Alpha/Beta/Omega dynamic fics. Clint is secretly an Omega who has been suppressing since he was 12. He and Coulson get sent to a remote SHIELD base...and someone steals Clint's meds.

*For when folks want bottom!Coulson:
- Easy to Blur by foxxclub: http://archiveofourown.org/works/366111
Sex pollen fic. Very hot.
- Now We've Learned to Kiss the Sky by torakowalski: http://archiveofourown.org/works/363949
Phil and Clint trying to get married.
- Things to Do in Portland When You're Not Really Dead by laceymcbain: http://archiveofourown.org/works/459731
Grimm crossover. Long, with the sex at the end.
- Bicycle made for two: http://archiveofourown.org/works/440364
(need notes; the one where they have to pretend to be married...and it sucks.)
- A Beard is a Sometime Thing - http://archiveofourown.org/works/336960
- These Fragile Bodies of Touch and Taste - http://archiveofourown.org/works/429783
- Release - http://archiveofourown.org/works/508750
- Please Take Me Along As You Slide On Down - http://archiveofourown.org/works/433432 (ageplay, student!Phil, Principal!Clint)

And now I have to make a list for not-poly, not-rape-recovery bottom!Clint getting fucked with Phil's actual cock, because that's what I have trouble finding!
-
- Technically -
- Working for the Man - http://archiveofourown.org/works/492914 (sloppy seconds)
- Toll the Mountain - http://archiveofourown.org/works/432879 (ABO)
- Principled - http://archiveofourown.org/works/443102 (underage)
- Equilateral - http://archiveofourown.org/works/287901 (BDSM consent play)
- Talk to Me - http://archiveofourown.org/works/443962 (very short scene, but good)
- Gotta Catch Em All - http://archiveofourown.org/works/394538/chapters/648395
- Loved Long Since, and Lost Awhile - http://archiveofourown.org/works/458481 (mostly sad, only just barely a fixit at the end, bottoming scene is tiny and in the middle)
- Untitled - http://archiveofourown.org/works/465686 (morning sex)
- little bit of your taste in my mouth - http://archiveofourown.org/works/297329 (long, detailed sex scene, very hot)
- Ops with Benefits - http://archiveofourown.org/works/384315 (riding)

Hunt/Brandt

http://credulesque.livejournal.com/123101.html

leave messages here

infiniteeight — Wed, 04 Apr 2012 03:24:21 GMT

I made this journal to facilitate posting fic and following communities. Don't expect a lot of content.

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