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dragonlady7via http://ift.tt/1RmN1So:
bomberqueen17:
trickstersherlock:
Bucky finding out how prone Clint is to getting into trouble and being all friendship setting: pre-serum Steve. Protective mode engaged.
My hand keeps slipping. You guys.
(~2400 words, gen, non-explicit violence, using some of Fraction’s Hawkguy canon up thru Hawkeye #8, but not including particular events of #9. For non-comics readers: Clint owns an apartment building full of awesome supportive neighbors, but pissed off the Russian mafia to buy it.)
***
Clint came to tied to a chair. This was bad. This was not surprising, but it did not take away from the fact that it was bad. “Aw damn it,” he said.
“You have made big mistake, bro,” a voice said from behind him. It was dark. And stuffy. Oh. Hood. Over his head. Great.
“You guys keep saying that,” Clint said. “And yet.”
“We will not be so nice this time, bro,” the voice said. “You piss too many of us off now, bro. We don’t let this go this time, bro.”
“All this talking,” Clint said, and with that someone broke his arm. “Motherfuck!” he yelled, and it wasn’t the first time he’d bodily wrestled his way out of a chair he was tied to, but it also wasn’t his most successful attempt.
Suddenly someone screamed, and there was a whuffling noise like— not quite like an arrow– and someone else screamed. And then there was breaking glass, and nobody was grabbing Clint anymore so he thrashed his way out of the chair amid screaming and chaos and the building’s fire alarm and sprinkler system went off and there was water everywhere, and a lot of people were shouting and screaming in Russian.
As Clint managed to get his hands free, cradling the broken arm against his chest, he thought he recognized one of the voices, hoarse and angry, shouting repetitively in Russian. He dragged the hood off and blinked into the dim room and—
“Aw fuck,” he said, “Bucky?”
Bucky was standing in the middle of the room looking like some kind of goddamn avenging demon, hair flying wildly, soaked wet by the fire sprinklers, metal arm exposed, strange bulky guns in both hands— dart guns— he was shooting these motherfuckers down with dart guns, God knew what was in those darts. There were bodies everywhere.
And he was screaming in Russian, something over and over, and the few people he hadn’t shot were cowering under tables and chairs. The one nearest Clint was openly weeping in terror.
“Aw– Bucky, no,” Clint said, standing up shakily.
Keep reading
I finally finished this story. It becomes Bucky/Clint/Natasha smut. You’re welcome. :) Do Your Nefarious Worst, on AO3
bomberqueen17:
trickstersherlock:
Bucky finding out how prone Clint is to getting into trouble and being all friendship setting: pre-serum Steve. Protective mode engaged.
My hand keeps slipping. You guys.
(~2400 words, gen, non-explicit violence, using some of Fraction’s Hawkguy canon up thru Hawkeye #8, but not including particular events of #9. For non-comics readers: Clint owns an apartment building full of awesome supportive neighbors, but pissed off the Russian mafia to buy it.)
***
Clint came to tied to a chair. This was bad. This was not surprising, but it did not take away from the fact that it was bad. “Aw damn it,” he said.
“You have made big mistake, bro,” a voice said from behind him. It was dark. And stuffy. Oh. Hood. Over his head. Great.
“You guys keep saying that,” Clint said. “And yet.”
“We will not be so nice this time, bro,” the voice said. “You piss too many of us off now, bro. We don’t let this go this time, bro.”
“All this talking,” Clint said, and with that someone broke his arm. “Motherfuck!” he yelled, and it wasn’t the first time he’d bodily wrestled his way out of a chair he was tied to, but it also wasn’t his most successful attempt.
Suddenly someone screamed, and there was a whuffling noise like— not quite like an arrow– and someone else screamed. And then there was breaking glass, and nobody was grabbing Clint anymore so he thrashed his way out of the chair amid screaming and chaos and the building’s fire alarm and sprinkler system went off and there was water everywhere, and a lot of people were shouting and screaming in Russian.
As Clint managed to get his hands free, cradling the broken arm against his chest, he thought he recognized one of the voices, hoarse and angry, shouting repetitively in Russian. He dragged the hood off and blinked into the dim room and—
“Aw fuck,” he said, “Bucky?”
Bucky was standing in the middle of the room looking like some kind of goddamn avenging demon, hair flying wildly, soaked wet by the fire sprinklers, metal arm exposed, strange bulky guns in both hands— dart guns— he was shooting these motherfuckers down with dart guns, God knew what was in those darts. There were bodies everywhere.
And he was screaming in Russian, something over and over, and the few people he hadn’t shot were cowering under tables and chairs. The one nearest Clint was openly weeping in terror.
“Aw– Bucky, no,” Clint said, standing up shakily.
Keep reading
I finally finished this story. It becomes Bucky/Clint/Natasha smut. You’re welcome. :) Do Your Nefarious Worst, on AO3
