#agenthawk

YES! YES! YEEEEEEEEEEES

It's preview week for MTH. Here are the creators that specifically mention they are willing to create for ClintCoulson for MTH.

There are also people that have offered Clint/Any and Phil/Any, so if you use the search you might find them. Please check and ask these if they are willing to do ClintCoulson. Good luck!

Per tradition, we highlight those that have participated with us in the past year. We have three talented authors offering fic. Alright, two talented authors and myself.

Miladydragon is offering one fic

Cakeisnotpie is offering a short fic and a long fic

Clint felt his throat close up and his eyes starting to water as soon as he saw just who was in the door way of the living room, looking the same as the last time he saw the other. He could feel his emotions swirl, the ones he felt the most was disbelief and anger.

“W-What the hell, Phil?!” was the first thing to spill out of his mouth, tears spilling down his cheeks when he found his voice. “I- how can you- how could you- You were dead, you bastard!”

“It’s not like I missed you or anything.”

It wasn’t at all like missing him. Missing was what you did when someone was on a business trip and you could skype in the evenings, or even just text a few times a day. Missing was… wistful. And nice, a safe, brief sort of ache that sometimes grew into almost pain.

Clint had thought Phil was dead. That wasn’t missing someone. That was arterial bleeding. That was torture levels of pain.

“Not that I don’t take your complaint seriously,” Phil said, pressing the heel of his hand against the door, “but I really need a place to hide.” He held out his other hand, red and dripping with blood.

Clint raised his eyes to the sky. Someone up there really, really hated him. “Come in, idiot,” he said. At least Phil hadn’t left a bloody handprint on the door, but Clint was going to have to hose down his stairs. “Did anyone see you?”

“Probably,” Phil said, staggering into Clint’s rather messy apartment, dodging pizza boxes and pizza dog with skill, as if he’d been doing it for years. Once, a long time ago, that had been true. “It was an ugly get-away.”

Which was Coulson’s way of saying he’d never have come to Clint at all, if things hadn’t been beyond desperate. That hurt almost more than thinking Coulson was dead in the first place.

Clint dug around under the sink and came out with the specialty kit that Banner had put together for him -- Clint’s First Aid was written in bright purple letters across the top. “Here. I’ll go get rid of your tail. Stitch yourself up,” Clint paused, then added, “Asshole.”

“Love you, too, Clint,” Phil said, opening the kit and laying out supplies in a neat row, efficient and organized as he always was.

Clint glared. “You don’t get to say that,” he snarled. “Not right now.” He grabbed his bow and headed out to kick some ass.

Later. Later Phil could tell Clint that he was loved. But first, he was going to need to explain how this had happened, why Phil had let it happen, and whether or not Phil was going to pull another disappearing act.

Left his one-night stand ✌️😔