Tora (torakowalski) wrote,

and now you say you love me, well just to prove that you do

Okay, the number of WIPs that I have going is, as always, completely fucking ridiculous so here's what we're going to do. Below are snippets from everything I'm writing that's got a good chance of getting finished and below that is a poll where you should tell me what to write first. There, decision making in the hands of people who are not me! A++.

Phil/Clint - The One Where Clint Secretly Likes To Be Handcuffed (A Lot) aka accidental subdrop fic

Natasha took one look at him and swore, closing and locking the door behind her. “Idiot,” she said, smacking him on the shoulder. “Why didn’t you call me?”

Clint frowned. “To do what?” he asked, genuinely confused.

Natasha shook her head, blowing out an annoyed-sounding breath. “All right,” she said, “kneel down, by the bed.”

Clint’s knees immediately tried to obey but he resisted. “Tasha,” he said quietly. He couldn’t ask her to do that.

Natasha rolled her eyes. “I’m not going to fuck you,” she said. “But I can help you. Unless you want to stay stuck like this?”

Clint shook his head quickly. He really didn’t. “Not going to fuck me?” he repeated.

“No,” Natasha promised, sounding more amused, less annoyed this time. She sat down on the bed and nodded at the floor just in front of her knees.

Clint folded down, bowing his head automatically. She spread her knees, one leg on either side of his head, blocking out his peripheral vision and slid her hand into his hair.

A couple of the half-dozen knots in Clint’s stomach slowly unwound. This was familiar. They’d done this a million times. He knew she wasn’t going to leave him hanging, not like – .

Natasha’s hand tightened in his hair, tilting his head back until his eyes watered. “Coulson told me he handcuffed you,” she says easily. “He thinks you’re pissed at him. Are you going to tell him you’re not?”

Clint couldn’t shake his head, her grip was too tight. “No,” he said. He closed his eyes. “Nat, please.”

“Yes,” Natasha said softly. “You’re a fool, but yes. Come here.”

Clint scooted closer, sighing when she forced his head down onto her thigh. Her black, leather uniform tasted familiar and her skin underneath smelled familiar.

“Did you do well?” she asked, scratching his scalp with her fingertips now. “Did you do well for Phil?”

Clint nodded, screwing his eyes up tighter.

“Words, Clint,” Natasha snapped.

“Yes,” Clint told her. He turned his face toward the dark, familiar warmth of her inner thigh. “I was really good.”

Natasha laughed softly. “Of course you were.” She was petting his hair properly now, thumb tracing the smooth skin behind his ear. “You were always so good for me.”

The One Where It's Phil's Birthday

Coulson is sitting at his desk, staring down at it with a contemplative expression when Clint shoves the door open. Which is why he launches straight in with, “You want to tell me why your sister thinks we’re still fucking?”

Coulson’s head snaps up and then, “Still?” yelps Tony’s disembodied voice, which is how Clint realises that Coulson has him on speakerphone.

“Get back to work, Stark,” Coulson says crisply and disconnects the call.

“Sorry,” Clint says, making a face and sitting down on the corner of Coulson’s desk. “In my defence, I just had a really fucking traumatic telephone call.”

Coulson shoves his chair back and stands up. “From my sister?” he asks slowly, like he can’t believe that he has a sister either.

Clint spreads his hands. “Don’t look at me with your disappointed face of judgement. I had literally nothing to do with any of this. I’m the innocent fucking party. In fact, I may sue; aren’t you like, supposed to keep my personal details private or something.”

“Barton,” Coulson says sharply. “Stop babbling. Use small words and tell me why my sister called you. Is she all right?”

“Yes,” Clint says. He maybe should have led with that but he refuses to feel guilty because he’s all sorts of thrown and confused here still. “She’s fine. She called because apparently it’s your birthday next week and she’s planning a party?”

Coulson’s face does something strange and conflicted. “Were you supposed to tell me that?” he asks eventually. He sounds like he’s picking the easiest issue to deal with because he doesn’t want to handle the rest of it. Clint is a master at deflection; he knows how these things work.

Clint rolls his eyes. “No,” he says, “but I don’t know her and I do know you. The last time I kept a secret from you – ” He screeches to a halt. “I don’t keep secrets from you.” (The last time he kept something from Coulson, Clint nearly ended up in jail and Barney did end up dead.)

“Except where you hide the Belgian chocolate cookies,” Coulson says.

Clint laughs, shaking off the memories. “Except that.”

Coulson sits down next to him on the desk. “Kathy called you?” he asks. There’s a sigh in his voice like having a sister who wants to celebrate his birthday is the height of inconvenience.

“Party at your mom’s house. Saturday. Wear your surprised face.” Clint leans back on his hands and looks at him. “And the us still fucking thing?”

Coulson doesn’t blush because Coulson probably can’t blush. He shrugs instead, which is almost the same kind of admission of being human.

Clint just stares at him, waiting him out for an answer. Way back in the mists of time they used to have a fuck load of sex – before Coulson began his epic climb up the SHIELD ladder and Clint somehow went from reckless and unmanageable to reckless and unmanageable and an Avenger – but they were sure as hell never in a relationship. Clint’s brain voice still calls him Coulson for fuck’s sake.

“Stop looking at me like that,” Coulson tells him. “You ruined my surprise party.”

Clint keeps looking at him like that. “You hate surprises. You shoot them.”

The One Where Clint and Natasha Never Joined SHIELD and Phil's A College Professor

“... which, as everyone knows, led to the Battle of Manhattan.” Phil stops, looks around the lecture hall and raises one eyebrow. “Everyone does know that, right?”

There are a couple of laughs and a few more smiles from the kids nearest the front. Those at the back start flicking through their textbooks frantically, looking for the relevant chapter. It makes Phil feel very old; even two years back, everyone on this course knew about the Battle of Manhattan because they were old enough to watch it play out on their TVs.

“If you don’t,” he says, because apparently he’s getting soft in his old age, “read up on it tonight. I want five hundred words from each of you next week on the ten main causes. If you can manage not to use to the word Loki more than once, I’ll give you a special gold star.”

A low, collective groan spreads around the room. Phil just smiles. Students always think this class will be an easy ride full of gossipy war stories and tales of Captain America’s ass; he’s found that this early in the semester is a good time to knock that assumption out of them.

“Yes, I know I made you write a paper last week. What can I say? I’m a bastard.”

That gets him more smiles. And a couple of shocked looks from the kids who still think professors don’t swear. God, Sophomores are all so young.

He glances at the clock. It’s five early but what the hell, he needs coffee and his stomach’s starting to rumble. “Papers on my desk then you can go.”

He steps back out of long experience, neatly avoiding the stampede and wildly flying pens and bookbags as the kids rush out, putting away their notebooks and flinging their papers at his desk at the same time.

Phil looks down at his laptop in the hope that no one will want to stop and chat, if he looks busy. He gets distracted backreading an email chain between Stark and Banner and wondering why he’s been cc’d into it at all. By the time he’s finished and decided that they were just looking for a referee - which he’s not paid enough for anymore - the lecture hall is empty and he has a towering pile of papers to grade.

Life as a college professor is stunningly similar to life as a SHIELD agent sometimes. Some days, he wishes someone had warned him of that before he switched career paths.

The One Where Phil REALLY Hates Paperwork

His body was not built for paperwork; it seems that both he and it are much happier trekking fifteen hundred miles through the desert on minimal rations than they are with this repeated stooping and reading.

“Hey,” he hears softly and spins around. Something cracks up near his shoulder and a muscle group unlocks, which is blessed relief.

Clint’s sitting on Phil’s desk, one leg drawn up under his chin and watching Phil with a slow, steady gaze. This is Clint coming out of sniper-mode; Phil wonders how long he’s been there.

“Hi?” Phil asks. “Are you sitting on my January 3rd to 9th file?”

Clint checks under his ass and pulls out a thick, red folder. “Looks like.” He frowns. “We produced this much paperwork in six days?”

Phil takes it from him and doesn’t notice that it’s warm, the paper slightly softer than the rough, impersonal things he’s been dealing with all week. “Trust me, that’s a light week. You were all on downtime for two days.”

Clint looks thoughtful. “Has anyone considered just… not writing it all up? I mean, it’s not like anyone ever reads it again.”

Phil glares at him. “Dozens of people read them every time you go into the field, Barton. It’s how you all stay alive.”

“Nah, we stay alive through skill and cunning,” Clint tells him and hops down off the desk. He takes the file out of Phil’s hand and drops it somewhere – probably the wrong somewhere, and then Phil won’t be able to find it later. “Come on.”

“Come on where?” Phil asks, digging his heels in when Clint’s fingers wrap around his wrist and tug.

“Daylight.” Tug. “Sunshine.” Tug. “Food.”

God, that all sounds so tempting. Which obviously means Phil has to say no.

“I can’t,” he says. He lets himself sound a little regretful because he is actually a lot regretful. “I have to get this done.”

“Sir,” Clint says firmly, “you’re a really hinky shade of grey/purple. I’m taking you outside for an hour before you fucking die, okay?”

“You know, calling me ‘sir’ doesn’t actually cancel out the insubordination,” Phil reminds him. They’ve had this conversation before.

Clint looks at him levelly. He doesn’t look like he’s in the mood for joking around which makes Phil wonder how bad he really looks. “How about this: Phil, I’m kidnapping you. You don’t actually get a say.”

Phil sighs. “Fine. One hour. And you can’t bitch if I’m late home tonight because of it.”

Clint grins at him, relaxed now that he’s gotten his own way. “Deal.”

The One Where Phil's Hurt His Back and There Are Massages

Clint frowns. “Seriously, sir, you look awful.”

“Thanks,” Phil tells him, no heat behind it. “Just a pitfall of getting old, I guess.” He makes an odd little chuckling nose like he was trying to make a joke except it wasn’t a joke at all. A couple of things fall into place.

“You’re locked away here because you think people are going to make fun of you for hurting your back,” Clint guesses, but even as he says it, it doesn’t sound quite right.

“I’m the Avengers’ Mary Poppins, Clint, do you think I care if people try to make fun of me?” Phil asks.

No, that’s what Clint had already realised. “You are hiding though,” he says slowly.

Phil waves a hand. “I’m removing myself to a more suitable location to heal,” he corrects.

Cliff scoffs. “A ‘more suitable location’ would be back home, flat on your back,” he says, then carefully doesn’t picture it.

“Because I absolutely have time for that,” Phil tells him. Clint would feel better about the fact that he’s snarking back, except that he’s also sitting like just breathing wrong is going to snap him in half, so.

“All right,” Clint says, clapping his hands together and trying to look like he has supreme confidence that what he’s saying is something other than a terrible plan. “Lie down.”

“What did I just - ?” Phil starts but Clint rides straight over him.

“You can’t fucking move. Just lie down and let my fingers work their magic.” He makes exaggerated jazzhands to emphasise his point and then tries to look apologetic when Phil does the laugh-and-wince thing again.

“If you’re suggesting a massage,” Phil says, “I have no objections in principle but I’ve known you a long time and you’ve never before demonstrated any skills in that area.”

“I save it for special occasions,” Clint says rather than Barney used to fuck up his back mucking out the elephants; I learned to do it for him.

Phil looks at him for a long time and then nods once. “Okay,” he says, “you probably can’t make it any worse.”

“Your faith in me makes me weep,” Clint says and stands back while Phil starts to loosen his tie.

The One Where They Go On A Date and Get Kidnapped

Phil kisses nothing like Clint would have expected him to. He’s great at it, obviously, it’s just that if anyone had asked Clint, he would have guessed Phil would be way more precise about it than he is, but instead his kisses are wet and deep and messy. It’s insanely hot.

“Fuck,” Clint says, tipping his head back just enough for Phil to crowd him. Clint likes being crowded. “Tell me you can come upstairs with me right now?”

“Yes,” Phil tells him, voice just breathless enough to get Clint even hotter. He starts to lift his hands away from Clint’s hips then swears under his breath and puts them back, pulling Clint in again. “In a minute.”

Clint laughs, dizzy with how well this is going. “Come here,” he says, using his grip on Phil’s collar to turn him around so he’s the one with his back pressed to the cold, metal intercomm.

Clint also likes being the one to do the crowding.

Phil’s hands fall from Clint’s waist to his ass and squeeze. Clint groans and bites Phil’s bottom lip in retaliation. His heart is pounding in his eyes, blood rolling hot from his fingertips to his toes. They are going to have so much sex and it’s going to be so good; he can’t fucking wait.

Somehow beyond the buzzing in his ears, he hears a light footfall behind him. He presses closer to Phil because he won’t stop doing this but he guesses he can move over if one of his neighbours absolutely has to get inside right this minute.

There’s another step and Clint’s just about to turn around and growl that this is not a free fucking show when he feels the short, sharp breeze of displaced air ruffling the back of his neck and bright, blinding pain cuts through his head.

He thinks he hears Phil yell something but he’s too busy passing out to make out what.

Post Movie Fix-It or Phil Coulson and Bucky Barnes: BAMFs for Hire

Phil finds the man they call the Winter Soldier at a sink, washing his hands. Phil isn’t surprised to see that he tracks Phil's path across the bathroom in the cracked, spotted mirror above the sink.

"Good evening," Phil says in gruff Russian and heads toward one of the two stalls that are lined up, a few feet behind the Soldier. He pauses in the doorway, one hand on the frame and, out of the corner of his eye, he sees the Winter Soldier notice and tense.


They turn to each other at the same time. There’s a knife in the Winter Soldier’s hand but Phil blocks it, grabs his wrist and follows the swing down, bringing his arm up behind his back.

The Winter Soldier lifts a foot and stamps on Phil’s instep, kicking him in the knee immediately after. It hurts but nothing dislocates or cracks so Phil doesn’t lose his grip.

"I don’t want to hurt you," he says quickly, "I have a proposition."

"I don’t care," the Winter Soldier tells him and flips his hand over, jabbing back with the knife in a cack-handed, backward move that still manages to knick Phil’s wrist bone and embed shallowly in his forearm.

Phil tugs sharply on the arm he’s holding, twisting them both backwards, kicks off the wall so he can push the Winter Soldier into the sinks, bend him back over the nearest, the top of his head and inch from the solid metal faucet.

He’s good, better than Phil, but Phil is confident that he could knock him out right now if he had to.

"Now," he says, "will you listen to me? I’m not here to hurt you. I think we can work together."

The Winter Soldier glares up at Phil, looking murderous. He jerks his head forward like he wants to head butt Phil in the face and his hair falls back, letting Phil get his first clear look at him.

Phil freezes.

The Winter Soldier has pale blue eyes and sharp cheekbones and a profile that Phil probably shouldn’t recognise but he does.

“Barnes?” he asks even though it’s not, it can’t be. Except Phil has spent the better part of fifty years learning all there is to know about the Howling Commandos and he knows, no trace of a doubt, that, “You’re Bucky Barnes.”

The One Where Clint Is Secretly A Virgin

“I had a good time,” Phil tells him when they’re back at the Tower. He’s walked Clint through the lobby to the private elevators that lead up the Avengers’ floors. Clint wonders if he thinks Clint’s going to get lost or something.

“Yeah, me too,” Clint agrees. He gives Phil a cheeky smile. “We should do it again. I want to hear more about the time you were a punk rocker with flowers in your hair.”

Phil rolls his eyes, but he doesn’t actually deny it. “We can do it again,” he says and he doesn’t sound eager, because he’s Phil Coulson, but he certainly sounds genuine.

Clint stares at him and can’t think of anything smart to say. His heart is beating too fast and it’s interfering with his brain, apparently.

“Clint,” Phil says, very softly and then he’s leaning forward, not touching Clint anywhere except for when he presses his lips, very lightly against Clint’s.

Clint sucks in a breath that’s loud enough to be a gasp if only SHIELD agents gasped. He steps back, breathing too hard, too shocked.

“I’m sorry,” Phil says, taking a step back of his own. “You weren’t expecting me to do that.”

Which is when Clint realises that he should have been. Because it wasn’t just a date in his head, it was a real date. He voluntarily agreed to go on a real date and then his real date walked him to his door and – God, Clint is such an idiot.

“Don’t be sorry, sir,” he says, trying to smile, wondering if he manages it. He swallows hard. “I was thinking about the cameras.” He nods up at the CCTV that’s tucked into every corner down here.

Phil looks at him hard like he’s trying to tell if Clint’s lying. “So if I were to kiss you somewhere without cameras?”

No, Clint tells himself to say, I’m not interested. Sorry for leading you on. “That might be okay,” he hears himself say. “If you can find anywhere.”

Phil smiles at him slowly. “Oh, I will,” he promises, like this is a dare or a game not the worst idea Clint has ever had. (And that’s saying a lot.) He touches Clint’s wrist for a second before dropping his hand. “See you tomorrow?”

Clint’s skin is buzzing. That can’t be normal. “I expect so,” he manages and returns the tiny smile that Phil gives him, watching Phil walk away until he’s all the way back to his car.

Okay, you've seen the entries? Now vote in the poll! Voting closes... never.

Poll #1842633 Tell Tora What To Write Next
This poll is closed.

Pick a WIP!

The One Where Clint Secretly Likes To Be Handcuffed
The One Where It's Phil's Birthday
The One Where Clint and Natasha Never Joined SHIELD and Phil's A College Professor
The One Where Phil REALLY Hates Paperwork
The One Where Phil's Hurt His Back and There Are Massages
The One Where They Go On A Date and Get Kidnapped
Post Movie Fix-It or Phil Coulson and Bucky Barnes: BAMFs for Hire
The One Where Clint Is Secretly A Virgin
Tags: avengers, fic, poll!
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