Y/N: I saw this “how to make homemade paper” tutorial on youtube and decided I wanted to try to make paper too, and here it is! *Shows everyone the paper they made*
Steve: Wow, that’s awesome, Y/N.
Wanda: Yeah, I like the colors! Can you show me how to make it?
Y/N:Sure-
Tony: Hey, has anyone seen my important mission reports?
Y/N: Uh… No?
Clint: Y/N, how did you make those?
Y/N: Um, I blended paper, that I found laying around, with water…
Tony: May I ask where you got the paper?
Y/N: I may or may not have gotten them from the break room…
Summary:Harper Lee “Harley” Barton had always been the hunter, but when the tables are turned on her, Harper must put aside her natural instinct of protecting her family through distance by coming out of the shadows and admitting the truth. Will she survive the challenges that lie ahead of her? Or will she fall prey to her own darkness once more?
Kick It Like A Ninja (Bucky Barnes x Clint Barton x Matt Murdock)
This is a ridiculous bit of nonsense involving a vibrating butt plug and some ninjas. The title is a Nicki Minaj lyric and the author is not sorry.
Fills my @winterhawkbingo “mistaken identity” square. ~1030 words.Ratedmature for one (1) kiss, shirtless Matt Murdock, and the aforementioned plug.
Clint was having a fantastic night until the ninjas showed up.
It’s date night. He and Bucky have a routine; they bar-hop, getting entirely too competitive at the pool table and dartboard, while Bucky occasionally cheats by turning on the remote-control vibrator that’s in Clint’s ass.
Some couples have dinner and a movie. They have darts and butt plugs.
The point is, he was a little distracted (aka horny as hell and ready to go home) when the ninjas arrived, jabbed him with a syringe, and tried to drag him into an alleyway.
They weren’t counting on Bucky, obviously. He grabs one ninja’s sword with his metal hand, wrenching it out of its owner’s grasp by the blade and using the handle to knock the wielder out cold. Then he twirls the sword experimentally, slashing at another attacker.
Clint tries not to swoon too blatantly.
“What the fuck?” Bucky growls.
“Ninjas?” Clint says, with a shrug. “The Hand. They’re dicks.” Whatever was in that syringe is starting to make him feel funny.
Also? Fighting with something in your ass is hard, and so is Clint.
“Is this why you never want to hang out in Hell’s Kitchen?”
“Sure. Let’s go with that.”
“On your six,” Bucky snaps, and Clint whirls to find another goddamn ninja dropping silently from the fire escape over their head.
Except it’s not a ninja.
“Diggin’ the new suit,” Clint comments, and Matt grins at him before doing some fancy-ass parkour off the side of a dumpster.
Clint ducks away from a swinging sword, but it’s more like a stumble. He’s starting to lose coordination as the drug kicks in.
“Who the fuck are you?” Bucky asks exasperatedly.
“Daredevil,” Matt says. “And he’s not Iron Fist.”
“I’m aware.”
“No, I mean — they think he’s Iron Fist.”
“Aw, not again,” Clint mumbles, as his vision goes starry black.
When Clint wakes up, he’s lying on a familiar couch in a familiar loft. He makes a confused noise at the ceiling, wondering why he feels so drunk and loopy.
“There were ninjas,” he says slowly. “They drugged me.”
Truth serum, maybe, mixed with a short-acting tranquilizer? Whatever. He can handle it. He’s like an unbreakable vault when it comes to secrets.
“You’re really not, Barton,” Matt interjects, laughing from somewhere behind the couch.
Apparently Clint said that out loud. Oops.
“Good morning, sunshine,” Bucky says, crouching next to the couch to check on him.
“What happened to the ninjas?”
Bucky gives him one of those feral post-fight grins, blood in his teeth and a fierce glint in his eyes. “All taken care of.”
His voice is all growly, and it is doing things to Clint, who suddenly remembers that there is a toy in his ass and an entire evening’s worth of sexual frustration simmering under his skin.
Matt yanks his shirt off as he comes into view. He slaps an ice pack over the foot-shaped bruise that decorates his ribs as he sits down heavily on the other end of the couch.
He’s still got all those fucking muscles.
Clint would feel bad about the way he’s ogling, but Bucky’s definitely ogling too.
“Hey, Matty,” Clint says, clearing his throat. “Long time no see.”
There’s a beat of silence before Matt says, “Yeah, you’re tellin’ me.”
“Wow,” Bucky mutters.
Matt tilts his head. “What is that?”
Aw, vibrator, no.
“It’s not even on,” Clint whines. “Fuck your creepy hearing thing.”
Matt grins, wicked and dimpled and very, very familiar.
“Oh,” Bucky says slowly, glancing between the two of them like he’s putting pieces together. He smirks. “You’re thatMatt.”
“I take it you’ve heard of me,” Matt says dryly.
“Clint’s told me a few stories.”
“Only about the fun sex stuff, not the tragic backstory bit,” Clint offers, as he sits upright, and then he winces. “Aw, truth serum.”
“I’m flattered, I guess,” Matt says, smirking. He’s loose-limbed and cocky, the way he only gets after fighting or fucking, in the momentary glow before the guilt sets in again.
Bucky sits on Clint’s other side, and he curls a hand around the nape of his neck; he knows exactly what that casually possessive gesture does to Clint.
So does Matt.
“You do have a type, don’t you, sweetheart?” Bucky says slyly.
Clint’s definitely had some daydreams about being in the middle of this particular sandwich. He’s only human.
“Hey, Barton, did you mean to say that out loud?” Matt asks, smirking.
“Totally.” No, not at all.
Matt tilts his head, looking in Bucky’s general direction — waiting on his permission, maybe, out of respect for his relationship with Clint. Bucky’s giving him an appraising look in return. He glances at Clint, then to Matt again, and his smile goes a little bit predatory.
“Daydreams, huh?” Bucky drawls.
That seems to be what Matt needed to hear. They both lean across him, so Clint has an up-close-and-personal view when their lips meet.
“Is this happening?” Clint wonders out loud. “Or did I just hit my head really hard?”
Jesus, they look good together.
The kiss is more of a bite than anything; Clint can see Bucky’s teeth denting the pretty cupids-bow shape of Matt’s mouth, a flicker of his tongue… Matt twists his fingers in Bucky’s hair, tugging him until his mouth is angled just right, trying to take control.
Clint leans closer and lets out a soft little, “Guh.”
“Should we let him join in?” Bucky asks Matt casually, using one hand to press Clint against the back of the couch without actually looking at him. “Or should we just make him watch?”
“I mean, he did get drugged tonight,” Matt says, with a solemn, solicitous frown. “Not sure he’s sober enough to consent.” With the big, earnest puppy-dog eyes, he looks like the very picture of concern.
“Assholes,” Clint breathes.
“You’re right,” Bucky says to Matt. He keeps Clint pinned with his right hand and pulls the remote out of his pocket with the other, twirling it idly between his fingers. “He really shouldn’t do anything strenuous.”
“Starting to think it was a really bad idea to introduce you two,” Clint mutters.
Younger versions of them arrive in the future. They fuck. It’s… sweeter than it sounds? No, seriously, I have no idea how those feelings ended up in here.
This fills my “doppelgangers” square for @winterhawkbingo!980 words, explicit.
Clint’s been involved in a fair amount of experimental science mishaps, in his time. It’s an unfortunate side effect of living in close proximity to Tony Stark.
Probably doesn’t help that Clint’s approach to lab safety boils down to “fuck around and find out.”
…but in this case, he has zero regrets. 10/10 would fuck around again.
“Fuck around” is especially relevant in this case: at the moment, he’s watching a younger version of himself ride his boyfriend on their couch, while a younger Bucky starts to squirm and shift next to him.
They make a hell of a picture together.
The couches are perpendicular to each other; they have a perfect view of younger Clint, slim and toned and shaggy-haired, leaning back so as to show off his six-pack. He’s putting on a show, giving Bucky this doe-eyed stare as he arches his back and moans.
Clint maybe had a bit of a slutty phase in his youth; he’s not even a little bit sorry about it. His younger self arrived in painted-on jeans, with purple glitter smeared up his cheekbones, and he was shamelessly throwing himself at Bucky about five seconds after they sorted out the whole “oh, hey, I’m you” situation.
Younger Bucky, on the other hand, is so far in the closet he might as well be in Narnia, because of course he is. He came here from the thirties, after all. He’s never actually been with a guy.
He’s watching like he’s ravenous, blushing furiously and trying to adjust himself in his old-fashioned pants.
Bucky grabs younger Clint’s wrists and tugs him forward for a biting kiss, and then he grips his hips, holding him in place to piston up into him and draw a shredded, desperate groan from his swollen lips.
Next to him, Clint hears the younger Bucky whine, low in his throat, as he presses the heel of his hand between his legs.
“Buck,” older Clint says softly — except both Buckys look at him; the one on the couch doesn’t break his rhythm, just tilts his head back so that his tolerant, amused smile is almost upside-down. He looks between the two of them and jerks his hips in a way that makes the younger Clint shout.
“Carry on,” Clint tells the Bucky on the couch, and turns to the other one. “Can I call you James?”
“Yeah.” His throat bobs as he swallows, and he’s sneaking glances at the other pair — shifting positions, now, so that Clint’s on all fours. They both watch the way Clint’s eyes roll back in his head as Bucky twists metal fingers in his hair, tugging hard, making him arch his back.
“Come here?” Clint asks softly. He feels like he’s approaching a wild animal, trying not to spook James.
Lust seems to be getting the better of his old-fashioned sensibilities, though. He slides closer, staring down at the way Clint’s tenting his sweatpants. And he’s the one who kisses Clint first, two undamaged hands cupping his cheeks, sweet and gentle — so familiar in some ways, alien in others.
Clint smiles as he returns the kiss, resting his palm on James’s chest to feel the way he’s breathing, quick and shuddery.
“Okay?” he asks.
James nods so fast he looks like a bobblehead. His eyes dart to the other couch, then back to Clint’s mouth, clearly torn between watching and kissing.
Clint tugs him into his lap, James’s back to Clint’s chest, so they can watch together. Clint reaches down to touch him, cupping him through stiff fabric, and the kid sounds like he just swallowed his tongue.
“More?” Clint asks.
“God, yes,” James chokes out. He shifts, rubbing against the hard length of Clint’s dick in a way that feels deliberate, and Clint has to grit his teeth to hold back a moan.
Bucky sits back on his heels, tugging the younger Clint along with him so that he’s basically sitting in Bucky’s lap, almost mirroring their pose. He locks eyes with older Clint, shooting him a knowing smirk as he works his hips in deep, grinding circles.
James shudders in Clint’s arms. Clint works his pants open, gets a hand down the front of them, squeezing tight and stroking slowly, just the way Bucky likes. James is rock-hard, thighs shaking, already close to falling apart.
Younger Clint isn’t much better, with his head lolling back on Bucky’s shoulder, nothing showy about it any more — the dizzy, lust-drunk expression is pure and raw and real, and he’s flushed all the way down his chest, freckled skin sheened with sweat.
Bucky curls sleek black metal fingers around his throat, not choking, just holding, gently possessive. It looks just as good as it always feels, and James lets out a shocked little moan.
“So beautiful,” Bucky whispers to the younger Clint, warm and affectionate. “So fuckin’ gorgeous. Love you.”
Clint remembers being that other person – remembers feeling starved for any sort of affection, let alone the complete adoration in Bucky’s voice… but it still takes him by surprise to see the way younger Clint reacts. His face contorts like he’s in pain a split-second before he comes untouched, grabbing onto Bucky’s vibranium forearm to balance as he shakes helplessly through it.
“This is — it’s really okay?” James whispers, and Clint can tell he’s asking about more than the way he’s fucking up into Clint’s fist. His voice is all tangled up, choked with a mess of hope and longing.
If Clint was lonely, he can’t imagine how James must feel. Where he’s from, this sort of love is life-threatening — and Clint remembers what it can be like, hooking up with men who hate themselves for wanting it.
