After the interview with Clark Gregg saying that he was a bad boy when he was younger, and after seeing some of the pics around tumblr of a young Clark Gregg, I would dearly love:
Someone with real artistic talent (i.e. not me) to draw Bad Boy Young Coulson. Ripped jeans, black leather jacket, cigarette behind his ear, leaning against a wall in a James Dean pose.
ack forgot the jacket! sorry
Perhaps one lesson Jasper had learned more thoroughly than any other while working at The Bridge Club, was that no one actually seemed to know anything about Coulson.
Clint wasn’t nervous about going in to work until he’d shed his outside clothes and stepped out of the staff changing room. Three people stopped in their tracks and stared at him, so Clint ducked back into the changing room and grabbed a t-shirt to wear.
Basically ask-agentcoulson is a filthy enabler who goes around reblogging delicious heart-shaped cookies from people like katesgotabow, which is just TOO MUCH for my delicate little shipper heart. Below the cut are a bunch of ficlets I spammed my favourite Mun of Coul with during the afternoon. They range from fluffy and domesticky to hot and sweaty threesome action.
Phil’s car was the equivalent of a teenaged boy’s wet dream. Cherry red paint with white detailing on the sides, graceful arcs leading back from the front wheels, and when Clint crouched down for a closer look Phil joked that they were the equivalent to painting a blur of speed on the thing.
“She’s beautiful,” Clint said firmly as he straightened up. “Is this the original paint?”
“No. It was a matte, fire engine red and had some rust in places.” The car was a darker red, almost cherry, metallic paint that had been waxed to a high gloss.
“She’s cleaned up well,” Clint observed. The interior was black, and Clint peered carefully at it to see how much mess he’d left behind. Either Phil had wiped the car down while Clint hat slept, or Clint had managed to keep his blood to himself until they’d gotten to Phil’s apartment.
Phil made a dismissive noise. “I wanted it in silver,” he said as he dropped into the driver’s seat. “Next time.”
Coulson had a nice car. Clint was scared to touch it because he was a mess and he was willing to bet that the seats were real leather, but Phil told Clint sternly that either he got in or Phil would call an ambulance.
“Do you want me to call the police?” he asked as he sat in the driver’s seat, watching Clint struggle with the seatbelt.
“No,” Clint replied. Eventually he made a frustrated noise, and Phil reached over and buckled him in.
“Do you want me to take you home?”