Posts tagged Phil Coulson
Posts tagged Phil Coulson
Natasha, bad. BAD.
I blame this on the flu which laid me out for a week during which i watched Wreck It Ralph 11 times so now everything I draw looks like it escaped from Sugar Rush. Hence, pink, polka-dot shuriken.
OH MY GOD THIS IS THE BEST THING EVER.
Young Phil Coulson
Inspired by all the wonderful College AU I’ve been reading lately, I wanted to see if I could render a younger Phil. That man has some of the most breathtakingly gorgeous eyes I have ever had the pleasure to draw.
reblogging with a link to launch your assault by foxxcub because it seems appropriate
It’s not only appropriate, it was one of the wonderful stories/series I’d read that put me in the mood to draw College AU in the first place! Such an awesome story!! Love its sequel too. College AUs FTW! :)
for the few of you who asked me to illustrate “Happy Cupid’s Arrow in Your Butt Day <3” (and even for those who didn’t)
I know a lot of people hate this holiday but I kinda like the extra incentive to draw schmoopy crap. (not that I wouldn’t draw it anyway haha)
WiP: preliminary inks for my CxC piece in the FeelsTide 2012 collection. This is page 1 of a probably 3 page story and shows you what Rascal gets after roughly 10 hours of inking, ha, could comics be less time efficient no they could not. Also, Coulson totally lives in a brownstone in Brooklyn, doesn’t he?
OH GOD THIS IS GOING TO WRECK ME.
“I really don’t want to talk about this right now,” Clint said, leaning against the wall next to the baggage carousal.
“I don’t see as how you think we’re not going to talk about this,” Coulson gritted out. “Before we’re trapped in a car with my parents. In New York traffic.”
Clint shrugged. “Not the most awkward car ride we’ve ever shared,” he said, a ghost of his usual cocky grin floating across his face.
Phil paused. “Adelaide, or Krakow?” he asked.
“Denver,” Clint said, emphatic.
Phil winced. “Oh, God, yes. Denver. Definitely Denver.” He rubbed a hand over his face. “I’d repressed Denver.”
“You can repress it. You got to keep your pants.” Clint shuddered.
“Still, this is going to be top five, unless we discuss things before my parents show up,” Phil said. He crossed his arms over his chest, falling back into his usual stable posture. “What the hell, Clint?”
“What the hell, Phil?” Clint shot back.
“Why didn’t you say you wanted to meet my parents?” Phil said, blunt about it, because it looked like both of them tiptoeing around the issue for the last couple of years had been an absolute disaster.
“Why didn’t you invite me?”
“I tried. I’d start talking about going home for Christmas, or Thanksgiving, or my Grandfather’s birthday, and you’d immediately change the subject,” Phil said.
“I didn’t think you were inviting me!” Clint scuffed the bottom of one boot hard on the polished floor of the arrival terminal. He looked, for all the world, like a little boy kicking the dirt. “I thought you were just, you know, telling me, giving me an update about your plans, and I don’t want to resent it, but yeah, I kind of do, so sue me.”
“That’s what I don’t get,” Phil said. He sounded sharp, even to his own ears, and made a deliberate effort to rein that in. Clint was the only person he’d ever known who could reduce his control to rubble in a matter of MINUTES. The man was infuriating and frustrating and terrifying. Phil was pretty sure he didn’t care. He was pretty sure it was a turn-on. “Did you think I hadn’t told my family about you?”
Clint shrugged. “You’re a private person. And it’s not like I’m-“
“I swear to God,” Phil said, his voice cutting through with a tone he usually reserved for ops gone completely pear shaped, Tony’s more insubordinate inventions, and Darcy, “if you say anything along the lines of, ‘I’m not the sort of person you bring home to meet the family,’ I will not be responsible for my actions.” Clint fell silent, and Phil nearly lost it. “I am so pissed right now,” he gritted out.
Clint shrugged, his shoulders in tight against his body, his head angled away. A muscle was twitching in his jaw, and his eyes flickered across the busy terminal, looking at everything and everyone except Phil. Beneath his gray hoodie sweatshirt, his body was hunched in on itself. “Sorry-“
“Not at you,” Phil snapped. With a force of will, he relaxed enough to rub his forehead. “I thought you were putting me off because going to hang out at someone else’s family reunion is insanely boring,” he said, trying to be as clear as possible. “Hanging out with someone’s always drunk Uncle Ralph, and I have five nieces and nephews and they’re all loud and they all expect presents every time I go home because I spoil them rotten, and everyone is always in everyone else’s business and it’s impossible to remember everyone’s names-“
“Your father’s name is Jason. Your mother’s name is Shirley. Your sisters are Jessica and Pam,” Clint said. “Three nieces, Lily, Mary and Sarah, and two nephews, Bradley and Sam.” He gave Coulson a faint smile. “I do listen.”
“I know you do,” Phil said, frustrated. “Which is more than could be said of me.” He glanced up at the arrivals board, making sure everything was on time. They had about five minutes, the plane would’ve just landed. Knowing his parents, they’d be down here soon. “We don’t talk very much about our relationship-“
“Because we’re both shitty at it?” Clint said, with a tight smile.
“It’s not our specialty, no.” Phil flicked a glance in his direction. Watched the plane of his right hand, because Clint could hold his face still, but his fingers told the story of his mental state with every flex. He was agitated now, his thumb flicking against the side of his index finger. Phil kept his voice calm and reasonable, trying to counteract that. “I told my family about you about a month after we started dating.”
Clint’s lips twitched. “Dating? Is that what we’re calling it?”
“Some of the missions were very romantic,” Phil said with a straight face, and Clint started laughing. Phil looked at him, enjoying the view as Clint got himself back under control. “As soon as I was sure it was going to stick-“
“What do you mean, stick?” Clint straightened away from the wall, his brows drawing together.
Phil gave a one shoulder shrug. “Just making sure you were confident in your decision.”
Clint’s eyes narrowed, his head tipped to the side, his right hand tapping against his thigh. “You mean, you were making sure I actually sticking around.”
“You thought I was going to, what, sleep with you then dump you?”
Phil sighed. “No.”
“You did!” Clint’s jaw dropped. “Seriously. You did.” He threw his hands in the air. “Jesus, I’d been mooning after you for a YEAR. Completely gone. Stupid goofy. Natasha was texting me pictures of you.”
“She was not,” Phil said, because he was going to have a TALK with Romanov when he got back to the tower.
“Of course she was, you know her, she loves to manipulate people, and making them indebted to her at the same time is just icing on the cake.” Clint’s fingers flexed, his fingers stretching out until the skin went white around the scar on his thumb. “You’re an idiot, you know that? You couldn’t even get me off your couch, and that was before you started feeding me.”
“I started feeding you before I was officially your handler,” Coulson said, rolling his eyes. “Back when you were working with Francis.”
“That guy was an idiot,” Clint said, with a faint chuckle. He pushed away from the wall. “Whatever happened to him?”
“I got him transferred to Sicily so I could take over as your handler,” Coulson said.
Coulson didn’t respond, because a small boy was barreling through the crowd, slamming into his knees. “UNCLE PHIL!”
“Sam!” Phil leaned over and scooped his nephew up in his good arm, letting the eight year old cling to his neck with surprisingly strong arms. He gritted his teeth. “What are you doing here?”
“Grandma and Grandpa brought me!” He twisted his face over Phil’s shoulder and then buried his face in Phil’s neck.
“Well, I didn’t think you came alone,” Phil said, glancing at Clint, who was shrugging. Though this did explain why his mother had stipulated that he bring a van. “Let me guess, your brother’s with you.”
“Yep,” Sam said, before risking another glance at Clint. This time, he managed a tiny, shy wiggle of his fingers that technically counted as a wave before burrowing into Phil’s jacket again.
“SAMUEL PHILLIP DAVIS.”
The voice wasn’t particularly loud, but it cut through the crowd with enough force to make Sam flinch. “Oh, yeah,” Phil said, setting the boy back on his feet. “You ran off without telling Grandma where you were going, didn’t you? You’re doomed.”
Sam tried to duck behind him, and Phil stepped aside. “Oh, no, I’m in enough trouble, I’m not dealing with your problems,” he said, grinning down at his nephew.
His eyes huge, Sam looked at Clint, his face pleading. If Clint was surprised, it didn’t show in his face. He just stepped away from the wall and crooked a finger at the little boy. Sam shot straight to him, ducking around his legs to huddle behind Clint. After an instant, Clint reached down to touch his wild hair. “Stick with me, kid,” he said, “Your Uncle Phil likes me alive, we’ll be fine.”
Sam peered up at him. “You’ve never met Grandma,” he said, resignation clear in the worlds.
“Sam, you know better than this.” Shirley Coulson had her carry-on in one hand and her other grandson close against her other side. Phil’s dad was waving cheerfully at them from a step behind, the boy’s backpacks held in one hand. “You do not run away from us in a crowded place!”
Sam’s fingers clutched at the knee of Clint’s jeans. “I’m sorry,” he said, leaning against Clint’s side.
“That doesn’t change the fact that you did it,” she said, her tone firm. But her smile for Phil was wide and warm and affectionate. “Hello, Phil, baby.”
“Hi, Mom.” Phil took her bag, shifting it over his shoulder so he could give her a hug. “Why are my nephews here?”
She gave him a kiss on his cheek. “Well, your sisters couldn’t get the time off from work with no notice, they’ll be down in a couple of days, we cashed in our airline points.”
“Why are my sisters coming, Mom?” Phil could feel his life spinning rapidly out of control, even as he reached down to hug Bradley, the quieter of the twins. The little boy clung to his hand as Phil accepted his father’s hug as well, as Jason carefully avoided putting pressure on his bad arm.
“They’re very excited, dear,” Shirley said, breezing past him. She came to a stop in front of Clint, a faint smile on her features. “Hello, Clint,” she said. “I’m Phil’s mother, and I’m very pleased to meet you. I’d like to give you a hug, if that’s all right?”
To Phil’s surprise, Clint’s cheeks actually flushed. “Uh, yes, I mean-“
Shirley wrapped her arms around him, and it took only an instant for Clint to awkwardly hug her back. When Shirley finally took a step away, her hands cupping his shoulders, she grinned up at him. Before Clint could move, she stretched up and brushed her lips against his cheek. “Thank you for taking care of Phil,” she said. “I’ve brought his childhood pictures. All sorts of humiliating things.”
“Oh, my God,” Phil said, squeezing his eyes shut.
“You have no idea,” his father said, under his breath. “She was, well, less than pleased with you, son.”
“How less than pleased?” Phil asked.
“There’s a picture of you in the goose costume.”
Phil felt his face twitch. “Ah. I regret this already.”
“Yeah, you made a few mistakes here, buddy.” Jason patted him on the back. “It’ll be fine, your boy looks like he’s taking to your mom like a duck to water. Which is a good thing, because she’s going to disown you and your only way back into this family might well be the fact that he seems to like you a bit.”
Clint had scooped Sam up to sit on the crook of his elbow, and the boy was chattering away at him like a magpie. Bradley tugged on Phil’s arm. “Grandma,” he said, with dead seriousness in his voice, “said some really bad words when we saw you on tv.”
“I imagine so,” Phil said, as he watched his mother link Clint’s free arm through hers, patting his bicep as she dragging him towards the luggage carousel. Clint glanced back at them, and Phil gave him a smile. “Don’t say any of those words, okay?”
“Okay,” Bradley said. “I drew you a picture. Of Uncle Clint.”
“Did you, now? Can you hold onto it until we get back to the tower?”
“Yeah.” Another tug. “Are we really going to meet Captain America?” he whispered, when Phil leaned over. “Really really?”
“Yes. Did you bring your shield?”
“Mom said I couldn’t.” Bradley scrambled along with the adults. “She said it was rude. And Grandma made us watch The Incredibles again, and we had the discussion about secret identities and why they were really important and we had to be careful and then we went over family protocol.”
“Wonderful.” Phil glanced at his dad, who grinned. “The Incredibles?”
“Regular viewings for the boys.” He arched his eyebrows. “And a repeated warning that they were not to ask Clint any awkward questions, especially not in public, or they’d be on the next plane home.”
“I wanna meet Captain America,” Bradley said. “And Iron Man.”
“You’re not allowed to meet Iron Man,” Phil told him. “Ever.”
“Doesn’t he live with you?” his dad asked in an undertone.
“How do you plan on pulling this one off, Phil?”
“I’ll find a way,” Phil said, grim determination in his voice.
csylia asked you:Natasha and Star Wars, is there a story behind this one too?
mallow-flower asked you:Can you tell us anything about Phil and his love of Miyazaki movies? (because he named the toaster Calcifer)
Both of these are Clint’s fault.
No one is shocked.
However, maybe not the way that people might think.
The op in Barcelona went wrong like, five minutes after Clint was on the ground. If you asked Clint, he’d tell you that the op went wrong three days prior, when he was informed that Natasha was in the Ukraine dealing with an old ‘friend’ and Coulson was mopping up the remains of a a information smuggling ring in Shenzen, so he was going in without any member of his preferred team.
He pouted the entire way there. He would define it as ‘avoiding contact and concentrating on his assignment,’ but everyone else in the goddamn jet would define it as ‘pouting like a whiny little boy.’ To which he would say, “Screw you.”
Anyway, the op was a mess from beginning to end, Coulson would’ve had frickin’ kittens if he’d known what was happening, but Clint was used to disastrous levels of incompetence. They didn’t really bother him.
Despite some heavy resistance, they located and managed to clear the kidnapped envoy from AIM’s cell, Clint taking out target after target, explosive arrows chipping away at the secret base with brutal efficiency, even as he half carried the damn politician down the mountain.
Just as the SHIELD evac was coming in, a lucky hit from an AIM energy weapon took out the cliffside above them. Clint had moved without thinking, shoving the envoy down just before the collapsing rockface swept them away.
By the time Coulson and Natasha made it back to base, Clint was in medical, alive but in a coma.
Natasha had been very, very unhappy. Coulson had taken one look at the mission report and had, indeed, been livid.
Neither of which had changed the fact that Clint was quiet and still and silent and so pale beneath the walls of machines and bandages, and Coulson knew that Clint would hate having the breathing tube down his throat and Natasha continuously had to check to make sure that his IVs were in place because if he woke up, his first act would be to pull them out.
And there was nothing else they could do but trade shifts, sitting next to his bed.
Natasha had gone through his Netflix account and his Amazon wish list and his IMDB highest rated movies (his passwords are pathetic, and she changed them all just to spite him when he woke up), and she started watching them all on the tv in his room. His favorite movies, his favorite stories, the ones he quoted to her until she wanted to strangle him, the ones that he taunted her about and teased her with until she threw a knife at his head.
She watched Star Wars a lot. She would sit on the chair when there were others around, but in the darkest part of the nights, when the nurses and aides came on a strict schedule, and no one was foolish enough to try to remove her, she’d curl next to him, her head against his chest, listening to the beat of his heart as Han Solo bickered with Leia and she cursed the stubborn princess under her breath in gutteral Russian.
When it was Coulson’s turn, he brought books. Books Clint had never read, books that he might not even care about, but books that Coulson had always thought, maybe, Clint might like. Some his own, some he knew were good, and some that were tied to things that Clint liked.
And he read Diana Wynn Jones’ “Howl’s Moving Castle.” He’d considered the movie, because Clint loved the movie, loved the animation and the life and the magic of it, and so did Coulson, but he pretended not to watch.
He brought the book because Clint always said he loved Coulson’s voice.
And so he sat, hour after hour, reading aloud. He felt kind of silly at first, but after a while, he learned to modulate his voice for the words, for the different characters, for the soft inflection of people in love and the staccato delivery of a soldier at war. He told the story of Howl and his mysterious, monstrous castle, the Witch of the Waste, and the delicate, determined hatmaker Sophie.
Sometimes, Natasha would arrive silently, appearing in a chair nearby with hot tea, spiked with lemon and honey to soothe his rough throat. And when he had to stop reading, when he was almost hoarse with it, she would pick up another book at random and read, her voice lilting and delicate and steady. She would pause for comentary, she would roll her eyes and skip passages when the characters met with her disapproval, but she read as Coulson drank his tea.
Drank his tea and clung to Clint’s still, limp hand.
They were arguing about who was to blame for Howl and Calcifer’s prediciment when Coulson looked down and realized Clint’s eyes were open. Foggy and not quite focused, but open.
And later, when the tube was removed from his throat, and he’d taken a sip of water, he pointed out that Calcifer was, in fact, a more interesting character than Howl, so screw that guy.
So Natasha sometimes watches Star Wars when no one is watching her, and sometimes, Coulson checks the battered paperback book in his lower left desk drawer, tracing the spine and the the pages, and remembering the warmth in Clint’s eyes as he whispered, “I like your spark.”
I wish to join your clamour, where do I sign up?
((I wanted Natasha and Clint have a nice discussion. A discussion about feelings. THEY ARE BAD AT DISCUSSING FEELINGS. JESUS, ARE THEY BAD. Anyway, some canon appropriate violence going on here between best bros. First two parts here:
“You want to tell me what that was all about?” Natasha said, tossing her emergency bag onto the floor just inside the hotel room door. She set the lock and settled down to remove her shoes, never once glancing in Clint’s direction. Her fingers moved down the laces of her boots, swift and efficient, her eyes half closed over her work, her long lashes a sweep against creamy cheeks. Clint had seen her strip so many times, but he would never be immune to those fingers, efficient and sharp and as deadly as an unsheathed blade, slowly peeling away the protective layers of her clothing.
The act of her removing her clothing was somehow so much more intimate than the sex. Sex was an act of pleasure, a weapon, a biological necessity to her, but this, this was Natasha at her most vulnerable, unguarded. With only her bare feet brushing the rug of a rented room.
From his slumped position on the bed, Clint rolled onto his stomach, bracing his chin on his folded arms. “Are we having sex?” he asked, because he really did not know what she was doing here.
“Clint, if we’re having sex, you’ll know it. There will be screaming.”
He thought about that. “The good kind of screaming, or the not so good kind?”
“With us? Usually both. However, I don’t think that sex with me is what you actually want right now.”
“I don’t know where you’re getting this impression, but it is not correct.”
((In honor of Phil Coulson’s birthday, have the second part of how Clint and Phil got together in the Toasterverse. In true birthday fashion, it’s much more fun to imagine Clint drunk and recounting this for the whole team as Phil sits there with a long suffering look of affectionate amusement on his face. 8)
It’s been a while! The first part can be found here: http://scifigrl47.tumblr.com/post/23967415986/avengers-fic-shield-has-paperwork-for-everything-pt ))
It wasn’t the first time that Clint woke up handcuffed to a cheap metal chair. Every time it happened, he really hoped it was the last, but hey, that was life. That was HIS life, at least.
It was, however, the first time he’d woken up with a drug hangover headache and Phil Coulson seated across the plain metal table from him. Clint coughed, his throat aching. “So, I take it you disagree with my decision,” he croaked out.
Coulson flipped a page in the file in front of him. He didn’t look up. “Oh, was there a decision involved? The whole situation smacked of a petulant child taking his ball and stomping away from the playground.”
“Now, that just hurts,” Clint said, trying to shift his arms enough to relieve the pressure of his shoulders. “I don’t suppose you’d consider unlocking the cuffs?”
“You suppose correctly.” Coulson made a notation on the file in front of him. “You are not in a position to be asking for favors.”
“Yeah, I got that.” Clint sighed. “I sense a certain amount of anger here, sir, and I’m not sure it’s justified.”
“I might be drunk.”
“You are most certainly very drunk, sir.”
Tony considered that. “Armors ares- Armor are- The armors are locked?” he managed at last.
“Yes, sir. I will not permit you to access them, or any of the more dangerous equipment in the workshop. Which is, honestly, just about everything.”
“Jarvis. Always keepin’ me from blowin’ shit up.” Tony saluted the ceiling with his bottle. That was harder than it should’ve been, because he was upside down on the couch, his legs on the backrest, his spine on the seat, and his head and shoulders hanging down towards the floor. As he hefted the bottle in a salute to his AI, he ended up dumping half the contents on his face.
Sputtering, coughing, he flailed towards upright, and unbalanced himself, rolling off the couch and onto the floor with a thump. Which was fine, being facedown on the floor was fine, because at least this way his head would stop spinning.
“I like the floor,” he said, his voice muffled against the concrete.
(Misssaintan requested more goofy OCs. This is what she is getting. This is Coulson tormenting the hell out of my OCs and Darcy Lewis. That’s it. Don’t complain, only backstory and Coulson is the only one of the Avengers to put in an appearance for now. Fairly warned, be ye, says I!)
This was the most boring class Shawn Warzywoda had ever had the misfortune of attending.
It wasn’t that the subject matter was boring. He loved this stuff, loved the readings, heck, he’d even enjoyed writing the papers. He was not so enthusiastic about the professor. The guy was a blowhard, and a boring one at that.
Class was supposed to be over eleven minutes ago. Six minutes ago, a nondescript man in a well-tailored dark suit had slipped through the door, and was currently standing, feet braced a precise shoulder width apart and arms folded casually over his chest, just beside the door. He was average height, average build, of indistinct age and background. A good looking man, but not enough to draw the eye.
Spectacularly average, all around.
And something about him set off every alarm bell Shawn possessed.
The second hand on the clock swept past the twelve, and he saw, rather than heard the man heave a sigh, his shoulders rising and falling. “Mr. Warzywoda,” he said, and Shawn was really hoping he’d hallucinated that, except that everyone in the lecture hall turned in their seats to look at him. “Please gather your things and come with me.”
Shawn stared down at him and wondered if he could make it out the back door of the hall before this guy could reach him.
The smile on the man’s face stretched, just a little. “No,” he said, his voice amused. “You can’t. Please gather your things and come with me.”
(In honor of Boston’s Pride Parade today, please enjoy the first part of what will likely be the next Phil Coulson’s Case File, in which Phil has a mom, and he and Clint do not always communicate effectively. It happens.)
Tony Stark did his best to keep his eyes open. Really. He did. Which was more than he could say for Thor, who had no compunctions about just folding his arms on the table, burying his head in them, and dropping straight off to sleep. Everyone ignored that fact, despite the snoring, because debriefings that did not involve Thor were usually faster, more efficient and a lot less painful.
It was not fair, as far as Tony was concerned, that he had to stay awake and Thor could be lolling around, head down and possibly drooling when he wasn’t actively snoring.
Of course, he was ninety percent certain that Clint Barton was also asleep, just with his eyes open, because he hadn’t seen the man blink in like the last fifteen minutes, and he’d been watching. Watching carefully.
And yes, maybe he should stop staring at Barton, because really, to everyone else, that must be creepy.
Tony went back to pretending that he gave a damn about what Fury was talking about. He did not. Oh, God, he did not, because it all boiled down to the fact that none of them had died, human casualties were extremely limited, and had tapered off almost completely once they’d shown up, thank you very much, and Tony really did not care about property damage. Property damage could go screw itself, he was completely unconcerned with property damage.
These little lectures on Fury’s part just made him want to blow shit up, and that would just compound the problem.
Yes, thank you, more please. 8)