There’s a mark on your collarbone, one that Clint put it there a long time ago.
A kiss from an adamantium arrow.
He has a similar scar on his ass, only his is from a sword. An accident, you’d told him when he’d had to get eight stitches in it.
Bullshit is what he tells you, because you’re the best swordswoman on God’s green earth and you don’t strike without knowing exactly where that blade is going.
“It was on purpose, admit it.” He murmurs, his lips brushing over yours as he sinks inside you, drawing a low moan from your throat. “You stabbed me in the ass because you were still pissed about the arrow.”
“You told me you don’t miss.” You remind him as your hand slips down to his right buttock, fingertips lightly caressing raised flesh of scar you’ve left, the one that brands him as yours.
His callused palms roam down your thighs, hitching them just a little higher on his hips. You cry out as his dick hits that sweet spot, the one that has you tightening around him.
“It looks like I’m finding my mark now though doesn’t it honey?” He whispers as he moves in hard, powerful stroke, each drag of his cock sending ecstasy shooting through your nerve endings as your fingertips dig into his shoulders.
He chases your pleasure, stoking the wild fire that builds inside you until it becomes an inferno, a firestorm of rapture chasing through your veins like a narcotic, forcing you to your peak. And then he stops, burying himself deep, holding you right there on the pinnacle of pleasure until you’re looking into his eyes, skin flushed, chest heaving with the madness of it all.
“Say it.” He murmurs, his palm coming to rest on your throat, his fingers squeezing just enough to make you see stars, “Say that you did it on purpose, that you wanted to leave your mark on me, just as I left mine on you.”
He can feel you trembling underneath him, your sweet cunt clenching around his cock. All it would take is one more thrust, one more deep fuck to get you there but Clint, he wants his prize first, he wants to hear the truth that you’ve been hiding from him for all these years.
“Yes.” You whisper as his mouth ghosts over yours. “I wanted to make sure you were mine.”
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Can I request CG!Clint Barton? Clint is trying to hunt down some sort of spy/assassin whos skill and tactics are very like a WinterSoldier but the missions and victims arent quite fitting the bill for HYDRA.
When he tracks them down he expects someone big and tough, and he can tell they probably are incredibly impressive when at their best, however luckily for him he wont be getting in a physical fight because he has found them regressed.
But of course now he has to take care of them. Ex-HYDRA!Reader. Oh, and gender neutral pronouns for reader if possible? Feel free to take your time! Thank you!
Uncertain circumstances
Author: Okay so I have absolutely been in a severe writing block and I haven’t been super active on tumblr due to it. To whoever gave this prompt I truly hope this lives up to your expectations! It helped me to get some creative ideas running through, and I do think I want to do a part 2, but for now this was all I could muster up. I’m hoping now that i have finished my main assignments for my classes I can focus on writing more! Thank you all so much for y’all’s patience.
Masterlist - all my work!
Word count : ~1.8k
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A spy for hydra has been running Clint in circles for nearly three months. Tricky and challenging in ways he’s never seen before, he finds it odd that he catches them in an alley. Grateful though he brings them back to his base, but discovers other things he wasn’t expecting along the way.
(Cg!Clint Barton/ Cg!Hawkeye is assigned to find you and bring you in to S.H.E.I.L.D but when he finds you, you’re scared and regressed in a alley way. He has to decide how he wants to play this centric out as he brings you back to his base for shelter and safety.)
⚠️Warnings!!⚠️: Mentions of torture, swearing, bad situations, involuntary regression, brainwashing, and possibly other dark themes. Not too dark though !
CG!CLINT BARTON/CG!HAWKEYE X GN!LITTLE
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Clint kneels at the edge of the building, scanning the surrounding area before taking the arrow off his bow, and laying it down. His search for the spy has fallen short once more. It's not that he wasn't good at finding them, or recognizing their tactics, but this one had really stumped him.
One second the spy is out and about, doing their missions that hes able to follow, but then the next they go silent, almost like they vanish off into the distance, none of the times have been for a consistent timing either. Which isn't helpful.
Clint works on climbing off the building, reviewing in his head all the knowledge he has on the person he's been chasing for nearly 3 months.
Climing into his vehicle, he takes back off to his hideout, trying to understand your pattern. It was odd, you would go out, do missions for weeks on end, abruptly stop, dissapear, and then come back 3 days later, a week later, sometimes only disapearing for a few hours. For spies this was odd, most wouldnt stop a mission mid-mission.
Clint heads into his shelter, sitting at the table and setting his gear back up. He prepares like he's going to deal with mothra as he loads back up before getting ready for a few hours of sleep so he can go back once night hits.
He positions himself on the couch directly where the moon should rise in the night. Clear skies means that the moon becomes his sun.
Clint's eyes squint as he awakes from the moonlight shining through the window. He sits up, rubbing his face, the exhaustion of only a few hours of sleep each day slowly catching up to him.
"Man, I'm getting too old for this."
Once Clint gets all his gear back together, he heads back out to his vehicle, heading back to the location he last found you at.
When he gets back to the inner city, he parks his car and begins his wander around the city. His bow and arrow is securely strapped to his back, a split second away from being drawn. Clint keeps a close eye as he walks around, seeing the intoxicated fights grow and fade as the night goes on.
Clint starts to walk by a alley way, until he hears a commotion out of the ordinary. It doesn't sound like two people squaring up, it sounds like a kid stumbiling to shuffle through. Mumbles and squeaks come from the alley as if it was talking, or trying to.
"Hey, kid, it's not safe for you to be out here. Do you have-"
Clint walks halfway throuh the alley before he sees you, and the hydra symbol on your clothes. He quickly draws his bow, aiming it directly at you.
"I search for three months and you get caught in a alley?" He utters under his breath.
You look up at him like a deer in headlights. Eyes dialated so big he's concerned your body has a massive concussion. You're crouched on the ground, hiding as far into the wall as physically possible, hands up to cover your face. You look up at him with a look of pure fear as you watch his hand shake with the arrow directly aimed at you.
The bow lowers as Clint watches your moves, still on guard he slides the arrow back into the pouch on his back before crouching to your level.
"Do you know who I am?" Clint asks, pure curiosity getting the best of him.
You nod slowly to him as you lower your hands from your face, avoiding eye contact with him.
Clint stares at you, confusion etched into his face. Why aren't you attempting to attack him? Or atleast causing him hell with your words? It felt as if he was staring at a actual kid. Maybe you were? There was very little ability to tell your true age.
"Okay, can you tell me what your doing in a alley? You tend to avoid these things." Clint asks, shifting to sit across from you.
You bite your lip, your eyes frantically looking for a way out but to no avail. You try to speak but it's as if your words were stripped from you as Clint sits infront of you.
Clint watches as your mind searches for answers you don't have, and something in him just can't stand it. You clearly didn't know what you were doing either, you were more skilled than most of the spies he'd tracked down, but right now all he could see was a kid, trying to avoid confrontation with their parent.
"Do you know where you are right now?" Clint tries a simpler question.
"C-City?" You mumble out.
"That's.. That's correct, but do you know why your in the city?"
You shake your head, your head lowering.
Clint sighs softly, recognizing the patterns of brain washing hes seen in other hydra spies, and stands up. He stands there contemplating before walking over to you.
You immidately put your hands up, a defense mechanism you've learned and squeak, praying he doesn't hurt you.
"Woah, kid, I'm not going to hurt you. But you are coming with me." Clint says before he reaches down and swings your body over his shoulder.
Clints confusion grows when your body basically goes limp in his hold. He sets you into the back of his car, strapping you in. He contemplates warning you not to attempt anything, but with the way you cower in on yourself, and the dialation of your eyes, he isn't sure he needs to.
Clint drives you both back to his base, and he slings you back over his shoulder to get you inside. He walks to the cell S.H.E.I.L.D created to be able to contain you when he caught you.
Clint sets you gently onto the bed in the room before walking and sealing the door. You curl up into the corner of the bed, legs to your chest and back pressed to the wall.
Clint grabs a chair, sitting outside the cell. He watches you hide yourself into the corner, confusion continuing to build in his head.
Clints seen these responces before, but not from spies, and it's throwing him off. Every single action he's seen from you within the last 2 hours has been almost that of a 4 year old. Clint knows exactly what age regression is, he's even helped Bucky and Steve with their little before.
Was this what this was? How badly had you been treated that even through all the brain washing your brain needed the coping mechanism? How much did you remember of your life?
"Can you answer some questions?" Clint evenutally breaks the silence.
You look up at him, finally making eye contact with him and nodding.
"How old are you?"
"I..I don know.. The peoples don't tell me no more."
"How old do you feel?"
You hold up your fingers, trying to count your age before showing him 5 fingers.
Clint's head feels like a lightbulb was lit. He was right.
He sighs, hating that he has to basically keep a child in a cage but he has no other choices.
"Okay, look, I'm not going to interrogate you tonight. Get some sleep, but you can't get out of this cell. Both because it's hulk-proof and also because I'm going to help you."
Clint gets up, leaving the chair infront of the cell, looking at you. He waits a few moments for a responce, but all you do is look at him. He takes that as a good enough answer before walking off back to his work station.
Around 30 minutes go by before he hears your sniffles, and he cracks. He walks back over to the cell peering in. You're in the corner, tears streaming down your face and your face crumbling the more you hold in your unknown emotions.
Clint contemplates for a brief second before just deciding to open the cell, walking over and sitting next to you. He opens his arms, letting you practically climb into his arms. The tears continue to seep, and your hands cling to his harness. He rocks you softly, keeping you close, assuring you no one is going to hurt you anymore.
Once you're able to calm down, atleast enough where your breathing is consistent and your tears have slowed. Clint gently lays you down on the bed, tucking the blanket under your chin and brushing your hair out of your face. He leaves the cell, the squeak of the door is the last memory you have before you pass out from exhaustion.
The rest of the night goes by quietly, you stay asleep as the time passes by but Clint doesn't sleep. He can't.
His mind races through reporting back to S.H.E.I.L.D or keeping you safe here until he's able to break you some, help you where he can, to prove your better under his care. He refuses to cause you more harm. Just like when he came in contact with Natasha, there was something he just couldn't do then, and he wont now either.
Clint hears you shuffle around 6am, and he heads over to your cell. Your siting up in the bed, rubbing your eyes clear of the exhaustion. When you look up to him your eyes are less dialated, but still cloudy.
When you register who and what your looking at, panic races through your veins, and you fall off the bed onto the floor.
"No, nonono, your kidding me, this was not what I wanted to wake up to. I'm so screwed." You mutter, your fists clenching.
"Hey, woah, look, I haven't alerted anyone that I have you. Currently the only people who know is me, and you." Clint reassures, sitting in the seat he left the night before.
"Do you remember me bringing you here?"
"No, I don't."
"That's okay. You seemed a little young mentally, it doesn't exactly surprise me that with whatever youv've gone through and im assuming your age regression, don't mix well."
Your eyes widen and your eyebrows raise at him. How the hell did he know exactly what your brain was doing? Your mind begins to cluter with questions, but your mouth stays shut, your training of staying quiet coming into play.
"Look, I can't get you to talk, but I need you to understand you're not going back." Clint assures.
"I always go back. No one can keep them away." You retort, your eyes narrowing in on the man infront of you.
"Not this time. You aren't the first I've saved. I will keep you safe in here for now until I figure out how to help you. You're safe now." Clint gets up.
You study him, trying to understand why he's so adamant about you staying with him. You don't exactly understand, but you slowly nod to his words.
"Good. Get some more sleep, we'll talk once you're more stable. I've got you." He reassures once more.
With a look at him, you listen. Your body deciding that you might as well get the rest you haven't had in years.
SUMMARY / REQUEST . Hiiii :) saw your requests are open. Can you do a story where Clint and reader have been friends since childhood and they’ve had partners come and go in the past but their friendship is forever. But also over those years they secretly grown to love each other as more than friends and are scared to confess because they’re afraid that it’ll ruin what they have. (Also if you can add some angst about them being upset with each other because their past partners treated the other horribly, just something angsty.)
TAGS . fluff, angst. hurt/comfort, slow burn, reunion after years apart, childhood friends to lovers, unspoken feelings, protective Clint, stubborn reader, second chances, “I love you” in the middle of a war zone.
A/N . first clint fic, lets gooo, hope you like it anon, my requests are open!
Summer always smelled like freshly cut grass and burnt rubber. The dusty streets of the neighborhood became your kingdom, and Clint Barton was your partner in crime, the one who taught you how to climb fences without scraping your knees and throw rocks so far that they swore you were going to break a window, even though you never did. He was the kid who laughed too loudly, with a voice that seemed to defy the silence of slow afternoons.
Sometimes you raced on bikes that had survived too many falls. You cheated by pushing him with your elbow, and he pretended to be angry, but in the end you always ended up lying in the grass, laughing until your stomachs hurt. In those moments, nothing existed beyond the sun filtering through the leaves and the echo of your laughter in the air.
His family wasn't easy. Neither was yours. Sometimes the two of you would escape to the abandoned barn behind the Bartons' house, where the wood creaked as if telling old secrets. Clint taught you how to use a bow made of branches and string, proud of every makeshift arrow he managed to stick into a piece of cardboard. You told him he was terrible, but inside you admired his concentration when he aimed, the way his eyes narrowed and everything else disappeared.
“Someday I'll be good at this,” he said one afternoon, without looking away from the target.
You teased him, of course. “Yeah, right, and I'm going to be president.”
But you said it with a smile, and he smiled back at you, one of those smiles you remember without understanding why.
There was one night in particular (one of those nights that feel suspended outside of time) when you both lay on the barn roof looking up at the sky. Clint pointed out a constellation to you, although he was probably making it up. He said that if either of you ever got lost, they would look north, and they would find each other again. You pretended you didn't care, but you engraved it in your memory as if it were an oath.
Over the years, the summers grew shorter. School started, along with schedules and responsibilities. The bikes were forgotten, and the makeshift bow broke with the first autumn rain. Even so, Clint always found a way to come back to you, whether it was by throwing pebbles at your window or sneaking into your classes to make you laugh.
One afternoon, while he was practicing with a better goal than before, you realized something you couldn't quite put your finger on. You watched him intently, his sleeves rolled up and an expression that was no longer that of a child, and you felt that slight, curious twinge in your chest. Not love, not yet. But something like a crack in the calm.
You ignored it, as one ignores the first symptoms of something big.
He saw you watching him and raised an eyebrow. “What's up? Did you fall in love with my aim or something?”
“Of course, I fell head over heels,” you replied, throwing a dry leaf at him. “Aim carefully, Robin Hood, because if you break another window this time, I won't save you.”
And he laughed, that laugh of his that echoed in the cold air, and for a second, just a second, you thought there would be no corner of the world where you couldn't recognize it.
But the years would go on, the streets would change, and soon they wouldn't be counting stars on the barn roof anymore. You didn't know it yet, but that last summer together would be the invisible mold for everything that would come after: friendship, loyalty… and that silent love that would be born long before either of you had the courage to admit it.
Time began to run differently after that summer. You were no longer the children who got their knees dirty playing to see who could go the furthest without breathing; now you were learning to hold each other's gaze without losing their composure. Clint grew up faster than you did, as if life had stepped on the gas without asking. He had a sharper smile, the same tousled hair as always, and that strange way of walking as if the ground belonged to him.
You, on the other hand, learned to hide things. You got used to your heart racing when he called you “buddy” or when he offered you his jacket without thinking twice. And even though you knew it shouldn't mean anything, it hurt when he offered the same jacket to someone else.
Clint started dating a girl from the neighboring school. You would see her waiting for him outside the gym, laughing at something he said, and you would feel an uncomfortable, absurd pang. You would hate him for a while and then hate yourself for feeling that way.
He, for his part, pretended not to notice how the boy in chemistry class looked at you during practice or how you smiled on purpose just to make him mad. And you succeeded. You always succeeded.
One fall afternoon, as the wind blew leaves across the backyard, Clint placed a new target in the barn: a perfect circle made with red paint on an old board. You crossed your arms, watching him sharpen the tips of his arrows.
“Don't you have anything better to do on Fridays?” you said, raising an eyebrow.
“What about you? You keep coming to watch me practice, so don't act like you're busy.”
You rolled your eyes, but you didn't leave. You watched him draw the bow with almost cruel precision. He shot. He hit. And for some reason, that made you angry.
“I guess she inspires you, huh?” you muttered, before you could stop yourself.
Clint lowered his bow and looked at you confused. “she?”
“Your girlfriend. Or whatever she is.”
His smile faded just a little. “What's gotten into you lately?”
You wanted to say “nothing,” but the word stuck in your throat. Instead, you took the bow, aimed at the target, and shot without measuring. The arrow fell halfway.
“So you still suck,” he said, half laughing, half annoyed.
“Maybe I should stop hanging out with you, since we don't have anything in common anymore.”
Silence fell between the two of you like a stone in water. He looked at you, really looked at you, and there was something new in his expression, something neither you nor he were ready to name. A tension that wasn't anger, or sadness, or simple affection. It was all of those things mixed together, too dense to fit into words.
That night, Clint didn't walk you home. And you walked alone, feeling the cold air on your face and your heart beating with a mixture of pride and guilt. You knew something had broken, or maybe just changed shape. But when you got to your room and saw the bow leaning against the window, you understood that he hadn't taken it away from you completely.
Weeks later, Clint came looking for you. Not to talk, not to apologize, but to offer you a new arrow. Made by him. The wood was light, the tip polished.
“So you can learn to aim better,” he said, barely looking at you.
“Thank you,” you replied, not looking either.
The adult world arrived without asking permission.
There were no more bicycles or summer afternoons smelling of wood; now there were schedules, trips, emails that went unanswered, and an ever-widening silence between the two of you. Clint enlisted in S.H.I.E.L.D. before you could get used to the idea of losing him. You watched him leave with a nervous smile and a worn suitcase, promising he would write to you. And he did, at first.
The letters were short, with clumsy drawings and sentences that seemed to be written in a hurry: "I'm fine. Don't worry. This is harder than I thought." You kept them all in an old shoebox, as if that were enough to keep him close.
Months passed. Then years. You became someone different: stronger, more careful. Getting a stable job was hard, but you did it. The routine gave you some peace, until his name reappeared on a news screen. Clint Barton. Special agent. A hero who defeated a tyrant with an arrow.
When he came back, on a random day, you almost didn't recognize him. He carried the weight of things he couldn't talk about. His eyes, the same ones that used to laugh easily, now looked cautious, as if measuring every word before it came out.
“You haven't changed,” he said, smiling slightly.
“Don't be silly, you aged ten years in five.”
He laughed, but the laugh sounded old.
You started seeing each other again, in discreet cafes or walking aimlessly. You talked about everything and nothing: work, the weather, the past. But something different had crept in between them. A nostalgia that hurt a little more than it should have.
You were dating someone else. At first, Clint didn't say anything. He was polite, even kind, until he saw him in person. That someone grabbed your arm too hard during a trivial argument. And Clint, without thinking, intervened.
“Let her go.”
His tone was low, but so tense that the air seemed to cut. Your partner backed away, annoyed, muttering that “it was none of his business.” You felt embarrassed, angry, confused. You didn't know with whom.
That night, you confronted him.
“You can't just show up out of nowhere and decide what's right or wrong for me, Clint. You're not my guardian.”
“And you don't deserve to be treated like that.”
“And you do? How many times did you disappear without saying anything? How many times did you leave me alone when I needed you most?”
He stood still, his fists clenched. “It wasn't that simple.”
“It never is with you.”
You said nothing more. Neither did he. The silence was so heavy that it almost felt like a farewell.
Time passed again, with its usual cruelty. Clint also had a relationship, with a woman from the same work environment. He never told you directly, but you knew. You saw her once at a casual dinner, with a haughty look and red lips like a warning. She looked at you with a dry smile, as if she had accurately gauged the danger you represented.
After that night, Clint began to see you less. You pretended not to notice. But when he showed up at your door weeks later, with a cut on his eyebrow and tired eyes, everything fell apart.
“I don't know why I came,” he said, as soon as he walked in.
“Yes, you do.”
The air was thick even before you two said a word.
It had been a while since their last conversation, but not long enough to heal what hurt. Clint stood in your living room, his S.H.I.E.L.D. uniform still stained with dirt and a tense expression, as if he had come straight from a war. Maybe he had. You didn't even know which one.
“You could at least let me know you're alive before showing up at my door like nothing happened.”
Your voice sounded colder than you intended. He closed his eyes for a second, taking a deep breath.
“I'm sorry. I didn't think it mattered that much.”
“Didn't you think it mattered?” you laughed without humor. “Of course, because nothing matters to you. Only your missions, your secrets, your silences.”
“I'm doing what I have to do.”
“And what am I supposed to do, Clint? Wait for you? Pretend it doesn't destroy me to see you appear and disappear like a ghost?”
The silence fell heavy, dense. He looked at you, and in his eyes there was guilt, exhaustion… and something else.
“I never asked you to wait.”
“I know. But I did anyway.”
That confession escaped you like a gunshot. And once spoken, there was no turning back.
Clint approached, his jaw tense. “You don't know what you're saying.”
“I do. I always knew. But you keep pretending you don't see anything, that this means nothing.”
“Because it can't mean anything, do you understand? Not in my life. Not with who I am.”
That sentence cut you to the core. You laughed in disbelief, even though your hands were shaking.
“How convenient. When it suits you to be my best friend, you are. When it suits you to disappear, you do. But when it comes to feeling something real, to think about my feelings, you can't, can you?”
He took a step back, as if your words were knives.
“It's not fair.”
“It's not.” You looked him straight in the eye. “But nothing with us has been.”
The tone changed. It was no longer anger; it was surrender. You loved him, and that was the most unfair thing of all.
Clint ran a hand over his face, exhausted. "You don't know how hard it is for me to keep you out of this. You don't know what it would be like if something happened to you because of me."
“Then don't protect me. Just stay.”
For a second, it looked like he was going to do it. That he was going to give in. His eyes softened, and his fingers moved slightly toward you, as if hesitating between embracing you or giving up. But then, the wall went back up.
“I'm sorry.”
That was the last word he gave you before he left.
You didn't scream. You didn't follow him. You just stood there, feeling the echo of the door closing. The silence after him was so absolute that even your breathing sounded foreign.
That night you opened the box of old letters. You reread them one by one, until the words dissolved in tears. In the last one, there was a clumsy drawing of a constellation and a note: “If either of us gets lost one day, look north, and we'll find each other again.”
Ironies of fate. He had gotten lost anyway.
And so had you.
The next day, you packed a few things, took some time off work, and left without telling anyone. You didn't know where to go, only that you needed distance. Because loving Clint Barton hurt like an open wound, and every time you tried to close it, he reopened it with an apology.
It had been almost four years since you last saw him.
Time had done its work: it changed the way you spoke, the way you looked, even the way you hoped. You were no longer the same person who loved him in secret. Or so you wanted to believe.
Your life had become calmer. You worked at a small community center, helping young people who seemed lost, as you once had been. The days were predictable, the silences bearable. Until one afternoon, as you closed the metal gate, a voice you knew all too well broke the routine.
“I always knew you'd end up taking care of everyone but yourself.”
The sound pierced you like an ancient echo. You turned slowly, afraid it was a dream.
But there was Clint Barton. A little grayer, his face marked by lines that weren't there before. The same eyes, though more tired, more human.
“I thought you were dead.”
“It would have been easier.”
You didn't know whether to laugh or cry. There was a mixture of exhaustion and relief in his voice, as if seeing you was the only real thing he had left. You invited him in without saying a word. He understood without asking.
The silence between the two of you was comfortable and cruel at the same time. There was no need to fill the gaps; the gaps were all they had. They stayed in the kitchen, sitting across from each other with cups of coffee that grew cold without either of them touching them.
“You look good,” he said, breaking the stillness.
“You look worse.”
He laughed softly, and for a moment, you were seventeen again.
The conversation flowed awkwardly, like a forgotten river. They talked about the past carefully, skipping over the years that hurt. But every word he said seemed like an apology he never uttered. Every glance you gave was a response you never gave.
At some point, without you realizing it, the physical distance between you vanished. Clint was too close. You could smell the wood, the gunpowder, the exhaustion.
He looked at you for a long time, with a tenderness that made you tremble.
“I thought you wouldn't want to see me again.”
“I didn't plan to.”
“Then why don't you kick me out?”
“Because I don't feel like it.”
And that was it. So simple. So devastating.
There was a moment of silence, when neither spoke. Only the sound of the clock and their ragged breathing filled the space. Your fingers brushed against each other on the table, an accident, or perhaps not, and in that tiny contact, all the distance of the years became insignificant.
“Clint…” you murmured, but the rest was lost when he looked down, as if afraid of what you were going to say.
“I know.” His voice was low, barely a whisper. “But if I say it out loud, I won't be able to stop myself.”
You stood still. Part of you wanted to run away. The other part wanted to stay and let everything burn.
There was no kiss. Not yet. Just an unbearable tension that stretched between the two of you, alive, pulsing, waiting for one false move to break.
He got up first.
“I have a mission. I can't stay long.”
“You always have a mission.”
“Yes.” He paused, looking at you one last time. “But I always come back to the same place.”
You didn't know if that was a promise or a condemnation.
When the door closed, you felt that the air in the house had changed. Everything was still the same, but nothing was the same.
You stood there, staring at the empty cup. And without meaning to, you smiled.
Because for the first time in years, the silence didn't hurt so much.
The noise was constant, as if the sky were splitting open again and again. From the corner café, the chaos seemed like a movie without sound: the windows vibrated, the lights flickered, and each explosion made your heart beat a little faster. Outside, the Avengers fought with precision that bordered on the inhuman; every movement was a reminder that war isn't always on another continent, sometimes it falls right in front of your coffee shop.
You had promised to stay away from danger. “Just watch, don't get close,” Clint had told you before leaving, his voice laden with that mixture of military command and personal concern that he could never quite hide. And, for a while, you did. Until the building across the street collapsed with a dull roar and a cloud of dust covered everything. The ground shook. Debris fell like rain, heavy, cruel. You barely managed to take cover. A sharp blow to the shoulder, a stabbing pain in your ribs, and then… silence.
The dust turned everything gray. You didn't know if you were still breathing or if you just remembered how to do it.
A few meters away, Clint's voice was lost in the noise of battle.
“Where are you?” he growled before speaking into the communicator. “Barton to the team, I have civilians trapped.”
It wasn't true. They weren't civilians. It was you.
He ran without looking back. Each step brought him closer to the vertigo he had been denying for years. He had lived through impossible missions, faced gods, assassins, and armies, but nothing terrified him more than the idea of arriving too late. When he saw you, half-buried under a beam, time stood still.
“No, no, no…” he murmured, removing his bow to push the metal aside with his bare hands. “Don't you dare close your eyes, you hear me?”
He held your head carefully. His voice, which always sounded firm, was now trembling. His eyes were red, his jaw clenched, as if fighting fear was his hardest battle.
“Clint…” you managed to say, coughing. “I'm fine. It just… hurts a little.”
“I don't believe a word you say.” He laughed, but it sounded more like a sob than a laugh. “Always so stubborn.”
The dust continued to fall like dirty snow. And there they were, in the middle of the disaster, breathing the same broken air. Clint checked your shoulder, the scratches, the wounds. Alive. That word repeated in his head like a prayer.
And then it happened. The moment when everything left unsaid became unbearable.
“I swear, if I had lost you…” he whispered, his voice hoarse. “I don't care about the target, or the bow, or the missions anymore. I don't care about anything if you're not here.”
His fingers brushed your cheek, leaving a mark of dust and tenderness. There was so much fear in his eyes that it hurt to look at him.
“Clint…” you said in a whisper.
“Shut up,” he interrupted, with a trembling half-smile. “Let me say it once before something else explodes. I love you. I have for years, and if I didn't tell you, it's because I was scare to lose the friendship, to lose you.”
The silence that followed was thick, beautiful, eternal.
There was no music, no applause, no fireworks. Only the breathing of two people who had spent a lifetime avoiding the moment when they would look at each other like that. Then you kissed him. Or he kissed you. It didn't matter who started it. It was a soft kiss at first, clumsy, full of dust and adrenaline, but so real that everything else became background noise.
When you parted, the world was still at war. But Clint didn't care.
The city smelled of smoke and rain. A strange aroma, a mixture of wet metal and warm asphalt. Through the window of the S.H.I.E.L.D. shelter, the lights flickered on the puddles like fallen stars. You were lying on a stretcher, bandaged to exhaustion, your clothes clean but your soul still covered in dust.
When everything calmed down, Clint was sitting across from you, his bow leaning against the wall and his knuckles bandaged. He had been there for hours, though he would say only minutes had passed. He looked exhausted, but his eyes had a new clarity, as if he had finally stopped shooting at shadows.
“Does it hurt a lot?” he asked quietly, almost a whisper that he feared would break the stillness.
“Only when I breathe,” you replied, smiling slightly. “But they told me it's better than not breathe.”
Clint let out a silent laugh, the kind that made a mischievous wrinkle form at the corner of his mouth. He handed you a cup of tea that was no longer hot, but the gesture was enough.
The silence stretched on a little. Not uncomfortable, but tender. Like a shared blanket.
“Today I thought I was losing you,” he finally confessed, looking at your hands. “And the first thing that came to mind wasn't fear. It was anger. Because I had never told you before.”
“And yet you did,” you replied.
“Yes.” He sighed. “Shouting, among the ruins. Very romantic, isn't it?"
“Very us.” Your laugh was slight, but enough to make him smile too.
For a moment, there was nothing else. Just the sound of rain hitting the glass and the soft warmth of the room. Clint got up, walked over to you, and sat on the edge of the stretcher. He took your hand with a gentleness that only someone who has spent years measuring the force of their shots possesses.
“You know,” he said, in that hoarse, honest voice that never needed embellishment, “there's this mini-golf course a few blocks from my apartment. We could go there when you're feeling better and then stop by my place for something to eat.”
You rested your head on his shoulder. You didn't need to answer. Words were unnecessary.
Outside, the world kept turning as if nothing had happened. But inside that room, in that moment suspended between exhaustion and tenderness, you both understood that no other battle was needed to feel that you had won.
For the first time in a long time, Clint was pointing to a future together.
Baby!Clint & Barney Barton, Teen for suggested violence. 100 words exactly. This drabble meets the requirements for @societynsoelsscribbles' June 10 prompt (Pink Pony Club).
Summary:
A split-second decision leaves a small Clint in shock. Barney's reaction changes the entire trajectory of his life.
"What have you done?" Barney's eyes are wide, shocked; his entire body shakes and shivers.
Clint is frozen, scared, unable to move, despite the weight pulling down on his arms. His mouth gapes like a goldfish, staring.
"We have to go," gasps Barney, pulling at Clint's elbow, his shoulder, his shirt. "Come on, Clinty, we have to go."
Clint moves, woodenly, leaving his father's body behind. He slips-slides on the wet floor, into the rainy night, tugged into safety by Barney.
The rain washes the blood from his body into the dirt.
He doesn't remember where he drops the gun.
<-Previous Drabble -=- Drabble Masterlist -=- Next Drabble->
An accident leaves Natasha without her memories, without anyone to guide her, and the Red Room chasing after her, the odds are not in her favour… unless those that love her find her first.
Whumptober 2025: Day 1 - Ceremony
Warnings: explosions/canonical violence
Word Count: 1.2k
Summary: It was supposed to be a happy day.
Whumptober Masterlist / Masterlist of Fic / ao3
.
LONDON / OCTOBER 01 / 13:00PM
Clint adjusts his tuxedo, the bow tie sitting too snug against his neck as he grumbles to himself in annoyance.
“Hey handsome,” the voice comes from the door.
Without turning, he smiles, glad that for once he gets to spend the day with her.
She sneaks behind him and hugs him from behind, her joy mixing with his.
He spins on his heel, turning her around and kisses her.
“You look beautiful,” he breathes.
And she does.
The blue dress is form fitting, down to her knees and splaying out, so that when she spins, it twirls with her.
“It has pockets,” she laughs, showing him.
He grins.
“You look beautiful, too,” she smiles, a hint of embarrassment in her nod.
Clint spins just like she did, and she hugs him in approval.
“I’m glad Tony decided on no jackets, and just shirts.”
Natasha nods.
“Outdoor weddings feel a bit…”
“Out in the open?” Clint finishes.
“Yeah, and it’s not like he hasn’t advertised his love everywhere.”
“Page 6 did an exposé on both of them the other day. They painted them in such a good light I made fun of him for the rest of the day.”
Clint shakes his head.
“That’s so unfair, I haven’t had time.”
She laughs.
“Maybe tonight when everyone is drunk.”
Clint touches his bow tie again.
“I feel like a penguin. I feel I could have done a tie but a bow tie?”
Natasha reaches up.
“Well groomsman, sometimes you just have to do what the groom wants.”
“Yeah but Pepper let you choose yours,” he grumbles.
“Yeah,” she pauses, thinking.
“Who knew I’d ever be close enough to anyone to become a bridesmaid?”
He half hugs her, and pushes her to the door.
“Was that in the exposé?”
She rolls her eyes.
“Unfortunately.”
He takes her hand and leads her to the main foyer, where he sees the rest of the party has gathered.
“It’ll be okay, and it’s not like you’re not armed.”
Natasha nods grimly, “always.”
“So with half the avengers and a buttload of civilians, what could go wrong?”
She hits him hard, annoyance flooding her features.
“You’re an idiot Clint Barton,” she growls.
“You’ve jinxed us now.”
.
Natasha walks down the aisle before Pepper and Clint can’t help but feel choked up.
She looks so beautiful and he wishes he could convey to her how much.
It feels in slow motion as she comes towards him.
He takes in every part of her.
The way her hair flows in light breeze, and the crinkle in her eyes as she looks towards Tony, recognizing his emotions.
There’s a clicking of the camera, and Clint is glad in the moment that no expense was spared.
Natasha seems to walk in line with shutter speed and too little too late, he realises that it’s a count down.
A timer.
His face turns serious as he looks up, to find a drone hovering.
It’s not a shutter.
All at once, chaos erupts, an explosion detonates from drones dropping straight down.
Clint screams for everyone to get down, and catches Natasha’s eyes as panic and fear pass between them.
The first bomb blows him back, his ears unhearing to the screams of the guests, he only has eyes for Natasha who sprints towards Pepper to cover her, but she’s too slow as the second bomb detonates, throwing her backwards.
Clint watches her body get pushed back, before succumbing to numbness of unconsciousness.
.
Steve shoulder bumps Tony, his smile bright as he watches his friend walk down the aisle.
Natasha looks beautiful.
He wishes Bruce and Thor could be here, but Thor had promised some off world exploration and there had been no telling when they’d be back.
Clint stands next to him, alongside Rhodey; everyone can’t help but smile.
He felt the emotion well, as he pushes it back down.
He was proud of their little family.
Even though they didn’t all still live together, he liked to think that he was there at the beginning of it all.
He looks up to stop the tears of happiness welling too much. He’s sure there paparazzi somewhere, there’s drones and a general disquiet.
Natasha walks down the aisle.
She’s radiant.
Clint keeps grinning like a madman and Tony looks like he too, is trying not to cry as he spots Pepper far down the aisle.
Clint shifts his weight; his movement out of step with the moment, and Steve turns to watch his face turn serious.
The explosion seems to happen out of nowhere.
The red hot flames of the world lick around them, and Steve ducks, waiting for the initial explosion to finish, then, slowly holds his head up to look around.
Almost immediately he spots Tony’s prone body, underneath the wedding arch.
Fire, the world is on fire and everyone is yelling.
It feels like war and Steve growls to ground himself into this time and place.
“Get to Tony,” he says to himself.
The pain in his leg grows and he realises his pant leg is on fire.
He tries to spot Clint in the crowd, but he’s nowhere to be spotted amongst the bodies.
A second explosion puts him on his ass again, and Steve starts to see double.
The world is too loud. Too bright.
.
The explosion sounds and Natasha’s heart almost stops as she watches Clint’s body get thrown.
She starts towards him, her stomach dropping.
“No,” she whispers, as the repercussions of what’s just happened slams into her.
Clint’s up, and they share a look.
“Pepper,” she says to herself, as fear for her friend explodes in her heart.
Maria is yelling for everyone to get down, and Natasha is all at once thankful it’s an outdoor wedding.
No building to collapse on them. Not like last year.
Pepper stands but her face is one of shell shock, a loud boom sounds, and then a rush of heat as the aftershock hits Natasha at full force.
It must have been close, she thinks, as the world goes dark.
.
Soldiers in masks file in.
Dressed in black.
Two by two.
Tony watches his wedding turn to fire and ash. He’s trapped under the stupid pine wood wedding arch. Guests scatter, people that he knows and loves lie littered on the floor.
The fire grows closer.
They’re clearly on a mission.
He thinks it’s for Steve, but they march straight past the super soldier.
Steve struggles to get up, but a solider cracks him over the head with their rifle.
There’s eight of them.
Tony watches them closely.
The world is hazy.
Past Clint.
Towards Pepper.
Pepper.
The fear of her being anything but okay steels him to act.
She said no iron man suits.
He’d agreed.
He’d agreed and told the truth.
There was no way they could help him.
“Friday!”
There’s no answer.
He shouts again, trying to peel himself away and out of where his body is stuck.
But it’s not Pepper, it’s Natasha.
Her body limp as they zip tie her hands and legs and pick her up.
He struggles again, pain icing its way through him.
There’s a shot as they leave, and a flashbang that makes the world white, and Tony’s head spin.
Ok uh Hi am new to this I just saw the " brilliant " fic which was 👏🏻👏🏻. Sooo I was wondering if u can make a fluff fic about clint barton x male reader, if thats ok with you?
FARM BOY
Clint Barton x Male Reader
authors note: Hello! I'm actually not that much of a Hawkeye fan so it took me a while to write this and find motivation, but I think it turned out alright. Hope you enjoy it!
Clint Barton rarely got a day off. Between Avengers missions, SHIELD calls, and the occasional intergalactic catastrophe, his time at home was precious and fleeting. But today? Today was all his.
All theirs.
The sun was just peeking over the horizon when Clint stretched out in bed, the familiar creak of the old farmhouse adding to the peaceful ambiance. Beside him, you were still curled up in the covers, your hair tousled and your breathing soft. Clint smiled lazily, taking a moment to watch you before slipping out of bed as quietly as he could.
The kitchen smelled like coffee and bacon a half hour later. Clint hummed to himself as he flipped pancakes, a skill honed over years of needing to impress his husband after burning a few too many breakfasts in the early days of your relationship.
“Is that bacon I smell, or am I dreaming?” Your groggy voice drifted into the kitchen, accompanied by the sound of your socked feet shuffling across the hardwood floor.
Clint turned with a grin, a spatula in one hand and a mug of coffee in the other. “Morning, sleepyhead. I figured I’d let you sleep in for once, but your stomach had other plans, huh?”
You chuckled, pulling him into a quick kiss before stealing the coffee. “You know me too well.”
The morning passed in a haze of quiet domesticity. Clint insisted on dragging you outside after breakfast, despite your protests about the slight chill in the autumn air. The two of you spent hours tending to the garden, chasing a rogue chicken that had escaped its coop, and splitting logs for the fire pit. It wasn’t glamorous, but that was the point.
It was simple, real, and yours.
By late afternoon, the sun was hanging low in the sky, casting a golden glow over the farm. Clint had convinced you to take a break on the porch swing, a thick blanket draped over both your laps. He leaned back, one arm around your shoulders, the other hand fiddling with a mug of cider.
“This,” Clint said, breaking the comfortable silence, “is what I miss the most when I’m away. Just being here with you. No explosions, no supervillains, no crazy missions. Just us.”
You smiled, leaning into his side. “You’re going to make me cry.”
“Don’t cry, babe. I’ll just have to kiss it all better, and that sounds like a lot of work,” he teased, though his lips were already pressing a tender kiss to your temple.
You turned to face him, eyes soft as you brushed a hand through his hair. “You know you’re a lot more than just Hawkeye to me, right? You’re my Clint. My husband. The guy who makes terrible pancakes and hogs the blanket at night.”
He smirked. “Terrible pancakes? You ate three of them this morning.”
“Details.” you replied with a grin, leaning up to kiss him. Clint melted into it, his hand coming up to cradle your face, the moment stretching out like a scene from a romance movie.
As the sky turned shades of pink and orange, Clint sighed contentedly, pulling you closer. “I don’t know what I did to deserve this life with you, but I’m not letting it go. Ever.”
You rested your head on his shoulder, your fingers intertwining with his. “Good. Because I’m not letting you go, either.” The two of you stayed on the porch swing long after the sun disappeared, wrapped in each other’s warmth, soaking up every second of Clint’s rare, perfect day off.
The years, and especially the war, have taken a heavy emotional toll on everyone. But through everything, you’ve always had your friend by your side. Will the changing times bring a change in your relationship, too?
P.S.: Laura and family never happened. Clint is very much single. 😌
Warnings: Angst, Passing mention of a character’s death, Sm.u.t
💔💜🔥
Read time: ~29 mins
Minors!!!! Do NOT interact!! 🫣 🤨
You both had talked about retirement, about that fantasy land of peace several times. Clint had even announced his retirement once, twice … what was it … four times now? But every time he thought he could live without getting into the mess of the world, he got dragged into one.
Another mission.
That’s where Clint and you found yourselves on an otherwise beautiful Sunday evening. It was one of those nasty ones that always left scars - not just on the skin but also on the soul. Thankfully, you were provided backup by the government; a rare event but so was the task at hand.
You both fought, saved, killed, retrieved the necessary information and the assets you were asked to retrieve. You witnessed people die - both good and bad ones. You watched in horror as both of you made close calls with death; more than just once.
When you returned from the field, you both unwillingly brought the weight and the stench of the battle on your backs. The aftermath of such missions never washed away easily, no matter how many minutes or hours you spent in the shower, no matter how loud you played your favourite music or who you hung out with or how many drinks you downed. And with the Avengers disbanded, there were not many left for you to share your thoughts with.
Clint had always been steady in his friendship with you. After Natasha, you were, undoubtedly, his most precious human. But when Natasha was gone, it had momentarily left a gaping hole in your relationship. He could not get out of his guilt and you did not want to push him into anything. Days after days, you had watched him stare at the void. You knew what was going on in his mind: different scenarios of the day on Vormir, wishing that he had done things differently, wishing that he had somehow put in more effort. Maybe then - maybe - she would have been here in his place. Maybe.
You had watched him torture himself for days, spiraling into despair, secluding himself from everyone, even from you, until one day you decided to breach the threshold that he had built around himself. Clint was lost in thoughts, like always. He was startled when you had walked up from behind, and wrapped your arms around his sitting form. He had fumbled for excuses to leave your embrace, lying that he had to go somewhere, that he was not in the mood for any of it. Your grip was tight, and he did not have the strength in him to push your arms away. And when you did not yield, when you did not leave him but had whispered in his ear, “Clint, please! Come back to us. We need you. I need you!” he had shattered. Turning around on the bench, he had wrapped his arms tightly around your waist and sobbed into your chest. You used to think that it was painful watching him fade away. You realised then and there that you were wrong. Watching him sob like a child, feeling him tremble under your touch was perhaps the most excruciating thing you had felt after the departure of your friends. It felt as though his sufferings were entwined with your own.
That was two years ago.
But since that afternoon, you had slowly watched him return to you. The Clint Barton that you used to know was resurfacing. Slowly but steadily. Of course, there were pieces of him that were lost to time forever. But then you all had lost parts of yourself in the war; parts that you’d probably never get back. But that did not mean that there was no room for the famous Clint-humour that you loved or the wrinkles around his eyes when he laughed. They were all coming back gradually, along with a newfound side to your friendship.
It was difficult to put a name to it but it felt warmer, the bond felt stronger and the understanding deeper. Unsaid things found a new, comfortable place between the two of you. Though no one could fill the void that Natasha and the others had left in their wake, you knew that this - whatever this strange bond was - was enough to fill the void that had once been burnt into your soul.
So, that night when you had taken shelter in the allocated safehouse, neither of you played any music nor did you strike up a conversation. You were exhausted - more in the mind than in the body. You both let the quiet take over, let the unsaid things do the talking.
After a quick shower, some bandages, and after discarding your battlesuit for your black tank top and underwear, you let your body drop down on the bed, too exhausted to climb it gracefully and get under the covers. Clint was in the other room. The safehouse wasn’t much but it saw to your basic needs: first aid, food, a hot shower and some clean towels, and two decent beds to drain the fatigue. It was a small flat in the midst of the town, rumoured (as spread by S.H.I.E.L.D) to be more like a pit stop for the owner who sometimes had work on that side of the town. So, though many eyes turned when two unknown figures in casual black clothes - one holding a large gym bag and another carrying a backpack - walked up the stairs, nobody made an effort to recognise the faces.
It was a humid night. Lying on top of the comforter, on the second floor of the building, you allowed the sound of the streets below to drown you. In the noise of the traffic and the market and the crowds, you tried to find some normality that had otherwise gone missing in your life. Minutes went by. And yet all that flashed on the curtains of your closed eyes were the harrowing moments of the day’s battle. Those eventually morphed into the wars of the past. The dying soldiers today got replaced by the pale, lifeless bodies of your friends who were no longer with you. Of those who were still there with you. Of Clint.
Your eyes snapped open. The ceiling was staring back at you. The constant rotating of the fan above and the whir of its motor seemed to mock you. Everything seemed to have a rhythm, a steadiness in their being. But you? All you were left with were bits and pieces of the moments that you had once shared with those you loved.
Sitting up, you ran a hand through the damp hair. No, you could not do this alone. Grabbing your pillow in one hand, you silently walked towards the archer’s room.
The door to his room was ajar. Clint was lying on his side, with his back turned towards you, the comforter rising up to his bare torso. He was looking all warm and comfortable. So much that the anxiety in your eyes was immediately replaced by a softness at the sight. He always did this to you - made you feel grounded even when the world around you was burning to ashes.
You were about to knock when you noticed the slow, steady pace with which his arm and shoulder rose and fell. Even after all these years, it still surprised you how fast he could fall asleep! The first feeling that kicked within you was that of frustration. Now you were doomed to bear the burden of your thoughts alone. All through the long night. But then, a small smile tugged at your lips when you saw the peace that engulfed him. After the war, it had become a rare sight to see Clint so peaceful, cocooned from his PTSD that often kept him up at night.
You had turned halfway to return to the torment in your room when you heard Clint softly call your name. You turned to see him almost on his back, craning his neck to look at you.
“I thought you were asleep,” you declared.
“I was. Almost.”
“Then how the hell did you know that I was here?” A small smile played on your lips since you already knew the answer.
The same knowing smile settled on his mouth, too. “Just like I do every time! You’re not as stealthy as you think you are.”
“And people think you are deaf!” You rolled your eyes playfully while taking a few slow steps into the room.
His room was much cooler than yours, thanks to the large windows that allowed cross-ventilation.
Clint was lying on his back now. “Not deaf! Hard of hearing! How many times do I have to make myself clear?”
“As many times as I want you to, Barton. Now, shut up and make room for me.” You threw the pillow at his face but he caught it in time.
“Why, did they hide bedbugs in yours?” He joked as you climbed under the cool comforter.
“I believe they had intended it for you but, accidentally,” you sighed dramatically, “I got the room.”
Clint laughed as he turned to face you.
“The same pattern?” His tone was serious now.
“Huh?”
“Your nightmares,” Clint clarified.
Your smirk was quickly replaced by a frown. “Yep,” you whispered your confession. “Tried but couldn't sleep at all!”
“Me neither.”
“I thought you were almost asleep,” you raised a playful brow.
“Was pretending to! Thought my body couldn’t tell the difference if I lay still.”
Clint’s smile grew larger when you shook with laughter. His eyes, adorned with creases from the weight of the years, took in your sight as though it was the last bit of peace, the last bit of sanity that was left in his life.
“I love you, Barton,” you said between dying laughs, as you had said uncountable times before.
“You know I love you, too,” he replied, just like he had innumerous times before.
Leaning forward, he placed a soft kiss on your forehead before beginning to get off the bed. He was clad only in his boxer briefs. Black. Somehow you knew it’d be black. Both of you had an inclination towards an all-black-clothing when it came to fights. ‘A weird kink’, Natasha used to call it.
“You know you can share the bed, right? Don’t have to sleep on the floor!” You called out with a grin spread on your face.
“Yeah, yeah!” he waved dismissively as he sauntered towards the washroom. “And stop staring at my ass.”
“There is nothing to stare at, old man. I’ve seen better.”
“Whose, Bucky’s?” You did not need to see his face to know that he was smirking. Bucky had been his favourite topic to tease you ever since you had confided in him that you had a crush on the super soldier. That was a long, long time ago.
“Nope. Mine,” you tilted your chin up as this time you owned the smirk.
Clint peeked at you in defeat before closing the door. He did have a nice ass though, now that you thought about it. You shook your head quickly before your imagination drifted away beyond what was appropriate.
Your thoughts went back to Natasha. Nat! Oh, how she used to tease the two of you! How she would have teased had she seen that you were sharing a bed! And dressed only in the bare minimum! Nat!
A silent laugh left your mouth and touched your eyes.
You lay on your back, staring at the ceiling and the rotating fan. It did not mock you this time. This time when you closed your eyes, you did not see red. You did not see any meadow either but it was fine. It was … normal.
A couple of minutes later, you felt the bed dip beside you. You must have dozed off because you did not remember hearing the sound of the flush or of the bathroom door opening or closing. You felt something tickle your face, and soon realised that it was Clint moving a stray strand of hair. You opened your eyes and they instantly met his. A moment passed in silence. It was comfortable … but there was something heavy in it, too. Something that made your breath hitch. Clint probably felt it, too, because he blinked and then suddenly moved away.
Unsure what to do, you slowly closed your eyes again, as though still partially asleep and hence vaguely aware of the situation. You tried hard to compose your sudden ragged breathing.
“I hope you’ve washed your hands,” you mumbled, your eyes still closed. You hoped that it would lighten the moment.
“Oops! Sorry to disappoint you!” Hearing the mirth in his voice gave you a little relief.
“Ha. Ha. Liar.”
The sound of his chuckle and the shift in the mattress told you that he had turned to face the other side. You opened one eye to confirm your doubt.
Indeed he had.
A small wave of disappointment washed over your heart. You lay there for a while, trying to slide back into the dreamscape. Nothing. A few innocent ideas to find that lost shred of peace popped up in your mind but, remembering the heaviness in the air from a few moments ago, you rejected them all. Your exhaustion had started taking its toll on you. And, in the end, you surrendered to your heart’s desires.
Sighing, you shifted closer to him, and wrapped your arm around his torso. In response, he held your hand, gently pressing it close to his chest. The warmth of his skin was soothing. But it was not enough. You scooted closer so that you were practically spooning him, and slowly wrapped your leg over his.
“Is this okay?” Your voice was barely audible, it being muffled by your doubts and by the pillow.
But the way he rubbed circles on the back of your hand with his thumb and responded “yeah” allowed you to unclench your muscles.
It was just one word but you heard everything in it. It wasn’t just an obligatory “yeah”. Neither was it a sleepy, half-conscious “yeah”. He wanted these - your closeness, your touch - as much as you wanted his. Clint reached for your thigh and pulled it further over himself.
Despite the depth of your friendship, you had never been so close to him before. But then, life wasn’t the same as before, was it? Clint was the only ray of sunshine in your life, and now you needed to hold on to that light - its warmth, its glow, everything.
Lulled by his steady breathing, you gradually descended into a peaceful space. You did not even realise when sleep had taken over. That was until your friend shuffled. The movement of muscle beneath your limbs and the tug of the comforter awoke you but only partially. You registered something warm and heavy settle on your waist, and faintly noted that Clint had pulled you flush against him.
He was warm. And even beneath the tautness of his muscles, there was a softness about him. It felt nice. Peaceful. Safe. It felt like…home.
Your sleep-drunk mind tried to pull up more descriptions but failed. “Home”: it felt like the perfect word for him; nothing further was needed.
Warm air rustled on your upper lip rhythmically. Heavy eyelids opened only slightly to note that his face was mere inches away from yours. For a moment he opened his eyes, too - hooded eyes that looked as though they were dreaming but you knew well that they were looking deep into your soul through your own. Two seconds later, he closed them, and so did you. Your fingers itched to touch his face but your arms felt too heavy. And they felt better on his back. So, you left them there.
Before you could doze off again, you felt warmth descend on your lips. You did not need to open your eyes this time. The softness of his lips was the first thing that registered in your mind; a delightful surprise. You had always found his mouth cute but never had you thought that they would be this tender! And they were sure of their actions. Clint knew what he was doing. It was not some sleep-driven whim, no. He wanted this. It almost felt like he needed this; a connection that transcended the moment.
Your mind was too dazed to process things further. And it ended all too soon, even before you could grasp properly what had happened. Or why.
When you opened your eyes again, you found Clint’s intense ones staring back at you - wide and wild. His breathing was paced. As if the faint, golden glow of the streetlights was not testament enough, you could feel its rush on your mouth. His hand was gently splayed on your back, as if to make sure you do not slip away.
And before you could fully comprehend the state of your own mind, your arm - the one that was comfortably flung around his back - slowly began making its way up to his face. Your fingers took their time to travel across the skin of his back, over his waist, his arm, all the way up to the side of his neck until they reached their destination on his cheek.
Clint’s frantic breathing visibly calmed down beneath your touch. Instinctively, he tilted his head so that the corner of his lips brushed against your palm. When your thumb started rubbing gentle circles on his cheekbone, he let out a long sigh before closing his eyes in content.
And you? Well, you leaned in to capture his parted lips with your own.
Behind closed eyes, Clint saw an entire galaxy unfurl before him. He inhaled a lungful of air through his nostrils while you let out a breath you did not even realise were holding. Both of your lips moved ardently, in perfect sync with one another. Unlike the previous brush of a kiss, this time Clint kissed you with a fierce passion that you had, until then, believed only to exist in fantasies. He pulled your body further into his, wrapping a leg over yours and threading his fingers into your hair. Unlike the dazed state of your mind the first time, this time you felt it all: the dizziness, the hunger, the burst of happiness, and the all-consuming desire to hold him as close to you as possible!
But with these feelings, crept up some uninvited voices in the back of your head. Logical voices that urged you to stop. Voices that warned that this was a mistake, that this was not how things were supposed to be, that Clint Barton was a friend, and that all of these will only end up in a heartbreak.
But you couldn’t be bothered. Not when Clint’s mouth was leaving pleas on yours and his hands were whispering prayers on your skin. Not when it finally made sense - all of it. That nagging feeling of being something more than friends, those stolen glances, those long looks, those blinding smiles that lit up whenever you were around each other, those fleeting touches that sent tingles racing long after, those unsaid things that always lingered between words - a silent acknowledgement of something much deeper. They all fell into place. Perhaps this was why neither could ever settle down with anybody else. Maybe - no, not maybe. Surely, that’s because you both sought each other in the crowds, drawn together by an undeniable connection.
His lips were insistent, leaving no room to catch your breath. Hot breath fanned your cheeks as arms pulled each other closer. When you tugged on his hair, the soft moan that left him almost melted you. Grabbing the moment, you dipped your tongue past his lips, and he welcomed you immediately. As you tasted one another, you rolled Clint over, almost lying on top of him. Your hand descended towards the mattress for support but found nothing. Opening your eyes, you realised that you both were balanced on the edge of the bed.
It took some effort to pull yourself away from a ravenous Clint.
“We’re on the edge,” you gestured with your eyes.
He first looked at you in confusion but soon turned his head to see. Then, absolutely unbothered by it, smoothly rolled over to hover on top of you, the comforter tangling you both up even further. Clint did not utter a word. Everything that needed to be said was being told by those kisses.
This was not how you had expected the night to unfold. Neither of you. Tongues painting feelings on your souls, hands memorising every curve and turn, limbs wrapped tightly around your bodies - neither of you knew how you ended up like this. But the only thing that you both knew was that it felt right. Nothing felt awkward or out-of-place. It felt like it was meant to be.
Clint’s weight pinned you down in the most delicious way. Reaching down, his hand gently but firmly tugged on your thigh, squeezing the soft flesh in his grip before placing it over his hips. Sliding up the length of your leg, the said hand settled on your ass, kneading it firmly. A smirk graced his lips when you squealed in response, and he took a mental note to do it again, as often as he could, wherever he could.
As soon as you shifted your head to breathe, away from his hungry mouth, he landed on the side of your neck, leaving nibbles on your pulse point, along the length of your neck, and over your jawline, while his tongue quickly followed behind to soothe the marks being left behind.
Yout teeth caught his earlobe, eliciting a beautiful moan from him. While your lips sucked on his skin and left open-mouthed kisses along his neck, your hands desperately mapped his back. Every time you squeezed a muscle there, a hiss escaped him, encouraging you to explore more such vulnerable areas.
All this time, Clint had been touching and teasing you over your clothes. And although it did make you shiver in pleasure, you were beginning to grow weary of it. You wanted more. You longed for the warmth of his skin against yours. So, the next time his fingers brushed the hem of your tank top, you gently took his hand and guided it beneath the soft fabric, urging him closer.
It was not like Clint had not tried to hold himself back. Ever since you had slipped under his covers, and wrapped yourself around him, he had been wrestling with his desires. He had even slapped himself mentally the first time he kissed you. But then, when you had kissed him back, his resolve shattered. How could he possibly resist when he could feel your yearning mirroring his own? He had still tried. Tried not to cross the line, whatever fragile bit of it was left. But the moment you invited him on your skin, all his defences crumbled.
He looked up at you, searching your eyes for any shards of hesitation. Relief washed over him to find that you were longing for the exact same things as him. His heart was hammering against his chest but his hand was gentle as it travelled up your body, taking your top up in its wake, eyes intensely following the movement of his own hand. It lingered for a small while on the underside of your breast, where it tickled patterns with the thumb. He wanted to take his time. But watching you writhe in anticipation changed everything. One instant, you felt his hand claim your breast, rough palm massaging you affectionately. The next instant, your top was being pulled off of you in a not-so-graceful manner. You could never mind, no. With Clint’s body enveloping you in the most loving way, you could not have a care in the world! Not especially when calloused fingers were spanning across hot skin, tweaking a nipple or when his tongue was doing its magic on the other.
Your head fell back in pleasure, tempting Clint to taste your neck once more, to leave marks that would be reminiscent of these treasured moments. As his mouth travelled north, your hands travelled south on his back. They made their way beneath the comforter, past the elastic resistance of his underwear, and squeezed his ass. A smile formed on your lips at the beautiful moan that grazed the shell of your ear. Very lightly, you dragged your nails across his ass cheeks. His hips jerked up in response. And this time you were rewarded with a groan that was music to your ears. You did it again. He growled.
“Do it once more,” a warning lingered in his now hoarse voice, “and I swear-”
Before he could finish, you squeezed his ass with your nails, and delicately scratched your way up his spine, all the way up to his scalp. He could not help the roll of his hips against yours, drawing out prolonged moans from both.
“Fuck you, (Y/N)!”
His hoarse voice, paired with the unfinished threat, only aided to turn you on even more. You dragged your clothed core up and down his thigh, leaving wet trails behind. A strangled grunt from him adorned the night air.
Dragging your teeth along his jawline, you whispered close to his ear, “If all of this doesn’t lead to it, I’ll be genuinely disappointed, Barton!”
That dazzling grin - the one that you had unconsciously fallen for years ago, the smile that had dimmed under the weight of the world - sparkled once more. It was so good to see him happy again that you wished for time to stop right then and there, all so that you could watch that beautiful face light up again.
Your own face lit up with a smile but your eyes betrayed you. That blinding smile morphed into a frown as Clint watched a single drop of tear slip down the side of your eye, landing softly on the pillow.
He quickly cradled your face, concern etched on his handsome features. “What happened? Did I hurt you?”
You felt silly and guilty at the same time, robbing him of his bubble of happiness. Sniffing, you shook your head. “No, no! Nothing, it’s just … “ You stared into his worried eyes. Cupping his face, you took a deep breath. “I love you, Clint Barton.”
His eyes softened, and that radiance was back on his face, crinkling his eyes in the most gorgeous ways! He took your hand from his face, and placed a long kiss on it. “You know I love you, too.”
He kissed the side of your wrist, over your pulse, on the back of your hand. He kissed each knuckle separately - an affectionate gesture to soothe years of pain. He ran your forefinger between his lips, eventually taking it, along with your middle finger, in his mouth, and gently lapping his tongue over it.
Your mouth breathed out a silent moan at both the sight and the feeling. You watched him run his lips over the length of your arm until they started tickling the side of your neck.
Your giggles were engulfed by his kiss. This was slower, more tender than the previous ones. This wasn’t one of the desperate battles of teeth and tongue but a heart-touching love letter written for your soul. He continued peppering kisses on your chin, your nose, your cheeks, eyes, forehead, temple - until he was sure that he hadn’t left any inch of your face untouched, and until another string of giggles reached his ears.
“You sure of this?” He searched your eyes once again that night.
You narrowed your eyes in mock annoyance and sighed. “I always knew you were thick-headed.”
The arch of an eyebrow and the look he gave you, along with that smirk, told you that your words had backfired.
“How did you know?” His words rumbled in your chest.
Blushing, you lightly punched his shoulder. “Just shut up and fuck me, agent Barton!”
The archer gave you a swoon-worthy lopsided smile. “Yes, ma’am!”
That sole word, “ma’am”, made you clench your thighs together. His mouth stole another greedy kiss from you while his fingers fumbled with the waistband of your underwear beneath the covers. You were busy shoving his own boxer briefs out of the way. You had successfully pushed it past his backside but got stuck on his erection.
“I’m sorry!” You exclaimed. “Did I hurt you?”
Clint assured you that he was fine, and assisted you in pushing the little piece of clothing down his ankles, your own following it two seconds later.
You were already prepared for him. So, when you wrapped your legs around his waist, and he lined up with you, it took him very little effort to slide inside. The sting of the stretch made you hiss. Clint kissed your cheek before slowly inching himself inside you. And once he was completely sheathed, he paused, allowing you to adjust to him. He was himself basking in the feeling of you wrapped around him, resting his forehead on yours, breath mingling with yours. It was only after you nodded lightly and patted his shoulder that he started moving.
It was a languid, agonising pace. It was intimate, beautiful but you wanted more. You could feel every bit of him inside you, and it only increased your hunger. His mouth left kisses wherever it could reach - your face, your hair, your collarbone, neck shoulders, ears, your chest - anywhere and everywhere.
“Clint!” You moaned. “More! … Please!”
“Yes, babe,” he groaned into your neck.
He pulled out up to the tip and pushed back swiftly, reaching deep inside you, causing you to bite your lip to suppress a rather loud moan.
“No, babe,” he breathed, his thumb tugging at your bottom lip, “don't. You've been holding back all night. I need to hear you. Please! Let go!”
And with those words, he pulled back and pushed in harder. This time you were almost sure that the sound of your pleasure was audible beyond the walls of the house.
“That's it, love!”
His praises spurred you on just like the sweet, sultry sounds that you made kept encouraging him.
The room was soon filled with sinful sounds of approval and of skin slapping on skin as you both began edging closer to that magical precipice. The cool breeze of the night wasn't helping your sweat-drenched bodies anymore.
With one hand he gently moved some of the sweat-stuck hair from your face. Slowly, he brought the hand down the side of your face to your neck. Delicately wrapping his fingers around your throat, Clint dipped his thumb into your open mouth. He watched in awe as you closed your lips around it and sucked, twirling your tongue around it now and then.
With a loud moan, Clint closed his eyes, pushing into you harder. Your head rolled back, and your moan filled the night air, giving him the perfect opportunity to replace his thumb in your mouth with his tongue.
Clint carefully pushed your right leg upwards, so that your knee was close to your chest. This new angle allowed him to go deeper, hitting that perfect spot every single time, making your eyes roll back in your head and urging you to scream his name.
Not much later, you realised that his rhythm was faltering. He was close but was trying hard to hold himself for you.
“Touch me!” You rasped, and guided his hand down to your clit.
Cradling your head in the hand with which he had propped himself up, Clint rubbed you with that perfect pressure that made electricity jolt up your veins. The pace of his fingers matched the pace with which he pushed into you.
It was not long before you felt that familiar tightening in your belly.
“Clint! I'm-”
“I know, babe.” God, his hoarse voice was a sin in itself! “I can feel you.”
Whimpering and writhing beneath him, you kept clenching down on him involuntarily, pushing Clint faster towards the edge. You felt yourself coming undone when he bit on your shoulder with a grunt. And with the sound of his name echoing through the room and with you squeezing him with your entirety, he released into you.
You both took some moments to calm down, your sweat-sheened, limp bodies swelling and dipping with the pace of your hearts.
Clint slowly lifted his head to look at you. His attention was drawn to the way your tongue darted out to wet your parted lips, and he could not resist a tender kiss on them.
You whined when he slowly pulled out of you, an unwelcome feeling of emptiness making its way inside. Clint smiled and cradled your face.
“I’ll be right back,” he promised before getting off the bed.
A couple of minutes later, he returned with a warm, damp towel in his hand. Clint’s hands were unexpectedly delicate whilst cleaning you up. Once he was done, he bent down and blew a raspberry on your navel. You squealed and laughed like a child encouraging him to press loud kisses all over your tummy. It made you laugh. And it made you swell with love for this dork.
Throwing the towel on the floor - an action at which you scrunched your nose up but he chose to ignore with a shrug - he crawled back beneath the comforter, and pulled you flush against him.
“You’re one gorgeous piece of a woman! Did I ever tell you that?” Clint was drawing featherlight patterns on your skin.
“You did. Twice, I think. But both the times you were so drunk that I wasn’t sure if it was you talking or Tony’s booze.”
He laughed heartily. Oh, how you loved those crinkles around his eyes!
“Nah, it was me. It was me all along.”
“Yep,” you wrapped yourself around him. “It was you all along.”
You kissed again. The last thing you remembered before sleeping soundly was the feel of his mouth on you and the smiles and giggles that drowned the noises from the streets below.
Series Summary: My fanfiction characters show up in my living room to complain about angst, sad endings, and my creative decisions. It goes about as well as you’d expect.
Series Warnings: Crack treated seriously, meta fanfiction, author insert, fourth wall breaking, angst with humor, angst negotiation, emotional damage (negotiated), hurt/comfort, self-aware characters, writing process, fanfiction about fanfiction, everyone needs therapy
COMPLETED
Chapter One - In Which Steve Rogers Had Notes
Chapter Two - In Which My Front Door Betrayed Me
Chapter Three - In Which the Universe Added Sarcasm
Chapter Four - In Which I Ran Out of Chairs and Patience
