#clint flood

[perotovar]

PEDRO PASCAL as CLINT FLOOD Freaky Tales (2025) dir. Ryan Fleck & Anna Boden

[pilotispunk]

the babysitter

pairing: clint flood x f! reader

summary: You’ve been babysitting Clint's daughter for months. You didn’t expect Clint to want you. But when your boyfriend doesn’t show, Clint makes his move and makes sure you’ll never waste your time on little boys again.

word count - ~3.2k

rating - E

content - age gap (mid twenties to early thirties reader, clint is in his 50s), story is set in the 80s like the movie, possessive clint, mild violence, explicit smut, p in v sex, fingering, creampie

author's note - I watched Freaky Tales and got horny. Shocking I know. I wrote this super quick and wasn't beta'd, I just needed to get it out lolllllll

The Goonies plays low on the TV, the hum of the VCR mixing with the chirp of cicadas through the cracked windows of an East Oakland summer. The heat is thick, clinging to your skin like honey, curling around your bare legs where your sundress rides up as you sit cross-legged on the carpet. You shift a little, tugging the fabric down instinctively, but it doesn’t help much. The dress is thin, soft, pale. No bra — it’s too damn hot for that — and you can feel every movement, every sway, every time the fan shifts direction.

Mae hums beside you, tongue poked out as she concentrates on the last few pieces of the puzzle. She’s sweet, bright, easy company and you adore her. Babysitting started as a way to fill your nights, but somewhere along the way, it became something else. Familiar. Steady. Important.

Your fingers move absentmindedly across the puzzle pieces, but your mind isn’t fully there.

You keep glancing at the phone.

Jason said he’d pick you up after Clint got back. Some burger place he liked across town, nothing fancy. You’d worn the dress because he said you looked good in it once. He’s not a bad guy, not really. Just… scattered. Fast car, fast words, slow follow-through.

You never asked for much. You figured that made it easier.

But you’ve been sitting here a while now, and the phone’s still quiet. Your chest tugs. You hate that you feel like this, embarrassed and exposed before the night’s even started.

And then you feel it.

That presence. That warmth behind you.

You turn slightly and see Clint in the doorway.

You didn’t hear him come in.

He’s standing there with a beer in one hand, the other crossed over his chest, watching you in that quiet way he does, eyes dark, unreadable. You offer him a small smile, one that’s more breath than joy, but it’s something.

“Hey,” you say softly.

Clint nods once. “You headin’ out after?”

“Yeah. Kind of a date.”

You brush your palms along your thighs, smoothing down fabric that won’t stay where it’s supposed to. Glance at the phone again like that might make it ring.

“Jason’s picking me up after you get back. Supposed to go get something to eat.”

You try to keep it casual, but it lands like an apology. Even you hear it.

Clint doesn’t respond right away. Just keeps watching you with that same quiet intensity. You always thought he was handsome, in a gruff, unapproachable way. Broad shoulders, strong jaw, hands that always look like they’ve been busy doing something that matters. There’s something about the way he moves, economical, restrained, that makes you feel small and seen all at once.

He intimidates you. And maybe that’s part of why you keep coming back.

Clint leans in the doorway, beer in hand, trying not to let his face show what his chest is doing.

Jason Delaney.

Of all the cocky little pricks to get her attention.

Clint’s jaw ticks as he watches her, all bare legs and glossed lips, in that soft dress that clings every time she shifts. No bra. He knows. He noticed the moment she sat down. And now she’s waiting around for a kid who sells dime bags out of his Camaro and forgets birthdays unless they come with head.

And she’s dressed up for him.

If that dumbass leaves her waitin’...

Clint’s eyes flick to Mae, still humming softly, placing the last piece of the puzzle. She’s happy. Relaxed. Unbothered by the tension quietly humming through the room.

But he sees the way you rub her back, gentle, instinctive, maternal. Like she’s yours. Like this house is yours.

She doesn’t just watch my kid. She cares for her. Like I would. Better than I ever could.

His chest tightens with it, not jealousy, not exactly. Just something close. Something primal.

He sets the beer in the sink. Grabs his keys. Shrugs into his leather jacket, fingers catching briefly on the cuff before he turns back.

“You good with her till 9?”

“Always,” you say with a smile. “We’re gonna finish the puzzle and maybe throw The Little Mermaid back on.”

Your laugh is soft. Clint feels it somewhere low in his stomach.

“She likes what she likes,” he says.

You tilt your head, that glint in your eye returning. “So do I.”

He freezes for a beat too long.

She’s flirting and don’t even realize it. Or maybe she does.

His eyes drag from your mouth down to the hem of your dress, where it’s bunched up around the top of your thigh. And then back to the kitchen phone. Still quiet. Still nothing.

She’s not just sweet. She knows what she’s doin’. Maybe not all the way. But enough. Enough to make me wanna keep her from every punk who thinks she’s just something to waste time on.

She’s not.

She’s made for slow mornings. For a hand resting on her leg while the coffee brews. For nights that end with someone staying.

And he wants that. Wants her.

But tonight, tonight he’s got one job.

His voice is low when it comes. Measured. Rough.

“Don’t wait outside alone. And don’t wait too long if he don’t show.”

He leaves without waiting for a reply.

And when the door shuts, she’s still sitting there, same soft dress, same sweet smile dimmed a little at the edges.

Mae hums. The puzzle’s finished. The movie rolls on.

And Clint drives into the night, already thinking about whether he’ll see that rusted-out Camaro in the driveway when he gets back, and what he’s going to do if he doesn’t.

The truck rumbles to life, but Clint doesn’t turn the radio on.

Doesn’t need the noise.

He drives in silence, the kind that settles low in his chest like smoke, thick and waiting. He turns down 35th to meet a client, tires crunching over loose gravel as the street narrows. The sun’s dipping low now, making the liquor store glow burnt orange at the edges. He pulls into the side lot slow, deliberate, parking just far enough to watch.

But instead of his client, he sees someone else. 

Jason Delaney, leaning on the hood of that rust-red Camaro like he’s posing for a fuckin’ magazine. Cigarette in hand, one boot kicked up behind him, laughing like the world owes him something. He’s not alone. That girl from the gas station, tight jeans, big earrings, is all over him. Twirling her hair, giggling, running a hand over his chest.

Clint watches, unmoving. Blank.

His jaw tightens when Jason leans in and says something low in her ear, probably some bullshit pickup line that he thinks sounds cool. Clint’s heard his type too many times. Bragging when he should be grateful.  

By the time Jason slips behind the store to light another smoke, Clint’s already out of the truck.

He moves fast. Controlled. Steps crunch over broken glass and cigarette butts as he rounds the corner.

Jason doesn’t hear him coming,  not until Clint grabs him by the collar and slams him hard against the wall. Brick to shoulder. His head snaps back, eyes wide, breath caught.

Clint leans in, voice low. Cold.

“That girl you left sittin’ on my couch tonight?” he says, calm as a gun cocking. “She ain’t yours to fuck with.”

Jason chokes on the air. “What the—who the fuck—”

Clint doesn’t give him the chance.

SNAP.

Two fingers. Fast. Clean. The sound echoes like a firecracker in the alley.

Jason howls, folding forward instinctively, clutching his hand like it might fall off.

Clint doesn’t blink.

“Next time,” he murmurs, leaning in just close enough that the kid can smell the Marlboro on his breath, “I won’t leave your hands intact.”

He lets him drop, a crumpled heap against the bricks, bleeding, whimpering, gasping between curses. Clint turns without another word. Doesn’t look back.

Some men think sweetness makes a girl small. Disposable.

Clint knows better.

You don’t leave a girl like her waiting. You don’t make her doubt herself. 

Not while he’s breathing.

The side door creaks open at exactly 8:56 PM.

You barely register it at first. Just the sound of boots on cracked tile, steady and familiar. The smell of wood polish, faint cigarette smoke, and something else, maybe shampoo from Mae’s bubble bath or the air freshener Clint keeps meaning to replace. It all blends into the background, the way it always does here. Safe. Familiar.

You keep your eyes on the TV, even though you’re not really watching it anymore.

The Little Mermaid is replaying again. Ariel’s silhouette washes over your bare shoulder in flickers of blue and purple light. Your sundress sticks slightly to your thighs where the heat and the waiting have soaked in. You hadn’t planned on staying this long. You hadn’t planned on crying either.

But here you are.

Mascara smudged. Lipstick faded. Shoes kicked off and tucked under the couch hours ago.

You feel stupid.

Stupid for the dress. For the soft perfume you picked out. For brushing your hair and glossing your lips like any of it mattered. No bra. A little hope. And a lot of waiting. Stupid for believing Jason when he said he’d come. For thinking this time he’d show up when he said he would. That he’d see you sitting here and actually feel something.

Your chest tightens again. Not a fresh wave of sadness, just the quiet ache of realizing you let yourself hope and hope betrayed you.

Again.

You almost don’t notice Clint until you hear the sharp clink of keys on the counter.

He moves through the house like gravity. Controlled. Certain. Heavy in a way that makes your heart stutter.

You look up, startled, like you’d forgotten anyone else existed in the world.

He’s standing by the doorway now, pulling off that worn black leather jacket he always throws on like armor. His jaw is tight, the muscles in his arms flexing subtly beneath the sleeves of his gray tee. His knuckles are scraped. His shoulders look even broader than usual, like something’s still sitting on them.

Clint Flood is not a soft man. He’s not delicate or particularly gentle, but there’s something about the way he moves, the way he sees you, that makes you feel like maybe you’re not completely invisible.

Your voice cracks before it even forms fully.

“Guess I overdressed for disappointment.”

You try to laugh. It comes out thin and watery. You wipe under one eye with your knuckle before he can look too long.

“He didn’t show,” you say, barely above a whisper. “Probably forgot.”

You say it like it doesn’t matter. Like it doesn’t sting. But it does.

Clint walks toward you, slow and deliberate. Each step like a question he’s already answered for himself. He lowers himself onto the couch beside you, not too close, just enough to make the cushion dip beneath his weight.

You glance sideways at him.

He’s too composed. Quiet in a way that makes your pulse pick up. His thighs are wide apart, forearms resting heavy on his knees. His hand is loose, relaxed, but you notice the tension in it anyway.

There’s blood on the edge of one knuckle.

And then he says it, voice low, calm, but firm enough that it still makes your spine straighten.

“He’s not gonna bother you again.”

Your head snaps toward him.

You study his face, that hardened brow, the set of his mouth, the storm in his eyes. Your heart stutters.

“What do you mean?”

He doesn’t look at you right away. Just shrugs, like it’s nothing. Like he didn’t just shake your entire world loose with six words.

“Saw him,” he says. “He was busy.”

A pause. Barely a breath.

“I made sure he got the message.”

You go completely still.

Not because you don’t know what that means, you do, but because of how easy he says it.

“Clint…” Your voice barely makes it past your lips. “What did you do?”

He turns his head now. Meets your eyes without flinching.

“What needed doing.”

You stare at him. There’s heat rising in your chest now, not panic, not fear, but something else entirely.

“Why?” you ask, and your voice shakes. “Why would you… why would you even care?”

He exhales through his nose. His fingers rub slowly over his palm, like he’s grounding himself.

“Because I care.”

The words land heavy between you, heavier than anything Jason ever said. He doesn’t say it like he’s trying to earn anything from you. Doesn’t say it to be sweet.

He says it because it’s true.

Clint leans forward, elbows on his knees, eyes straight ahead.

“Because I see the way you get treated, and it makes me fucking sick.”

You don’t speak. Can’t.

“You walk in here week after week,” he continues, voice lower now but no less steady. “Taking care of my kid like she’s yours. Laughing like you don’t got pain in you. Being good. Good to people who don’t see what they’ve got.”

Your throat tightens. Your chest aches.

“And that bastard, that boy, gets your time like he earned it.”

You blink quickly. Your bottom lip trembles. You want to say something, but your breath is caught in your chest.

Because he’s right.

And somehow, he saw you when the person you were waiting on didn’t even bother to try.

You swallow hard.

Your voice is barely a whisper when you ask:

“You think you could give me more?”

The air in the room shifts. Grows thicker.

Clint turns to look at you, really look.

His gaze drops to your mouth. The curve of your cheek. Your bare shoulders. The soft cotton of your sundress where it’s still bunched high on your thighs. Your feet tucked up beneath you, vulnerable, curled in like you’re trying to disappear.

Something passes behind his eyes. Something quiet and unspoken.

And in that moment, you realize it.

You’ve been wanting him this whole time.

Not in some loud, dramatic way. But in the quiet way your eyes always flicked toward him when he walked through the door. The way you noticed the veins in his hands when he wiped down the counter. The way your heart picked up when he smiled at Mae like she was the only thing that mattered.

You’ve been wanting someone steady. Someone who shows up.

And Clint Flood, scraped knuckles, leather jacket, rough voice, and all, just did.

You don’t know who moves first.

But suddenly, everything’s changed.

The line between you and him, whatever it was, no longer exists.

It starts with the kiss.

Clint leans in slow, like he’s giving you every chance to stop him.

You don’t.

Your lips meet his, and it’s heat right away. His mouth is rough and warm, kissing you deep and steady. One of his hands cups the back of your neck, fingers threading into your hair, the other gripping your thigh tight enough that you feel it in your bones. You let him pull you closer, knees to either side of his leg, your sundress bunched high on your hips. The friction makes you gasp.

His tongue licks into your mouth with a low sound in his throat, and you moan, hips shifting, grinding just barely against his thigh.

You’ve never wanted anyone like this. Never felt wanted like this.

Your fingers curl around his wrist and guide his hand beneath your dress.

“Touch me.”

He groans like it physically hurts him not to have done it sooner.

His fingers slide up, finding the edge of your panties, dragging them to the side with practiced ease. His middle finger runs through your folds, slow and slick, and his jaw clenches when he feels how wet you already are.

“Jesus Christ,” he murmurs. “You were sittin’ on my couch like this?”

You gasp when he slides two fingers into you without warning, thick and steady, pushing deep. He curls them just right and your hips jerk forward. The wet sounds fill the room, obscene and desperate.

“Listen to that,” Clint whispers. “You’re soaked.”

He fingers you slowly, deliberately, drawing it out while his thumb circles your clit, coaxing soft gasps from your lips. The stretch of his fingers is intense, thick knuckles dragging in and out, his palm heavy against your cunt. You can feel yourself clench around him, the buildup already tight in your gut.

“You gonna come like this?” he asks, voice hot in your ear. “Just from my fingers?”

You nod, breath caught.

“That's right. Let me feel it.”

You break with a soft cry, thighs trembling around his hand. He doesn’t stop until you’re breathless and twitching, and even then he keeps them inside you for a moment, like he doesn’t want to leave just yet.

When he finally pulls his fingers free, he brings them to his mouth and sucks them clean, eyes locked on yours the whole time.

“Bedroom,” you breathe.

He lifts you up without hesitation, arms strong around your waist, and carries you down the hall. You cling to him, thighs still slick and trembling.

He lays you down gently on the bed. You reach for the hem of your dress, but he stops you with a shake of his head.

“I’m takin’ this off,” Clint says. “I want to see you.”

You sit up slowly as he kneels in front of you, hands dragging up your thighs. He pushes the fabric of your dress up and over your head, tossing it to the side. His eyes move over your body like he’s trying to memorize every inch.

He pulls your panties off slowly, watching the way the wet cotton clings before slipping free. His voice is quiet, but thick with something rougher.

“Been dreamin’ about this.”

He moves closer, mouth brushing your knee, your thigh, your hip. When you reach for him, pulling him in by the collar of his shirt, he finally strips it off. His chest is solid, thick with muscle, hair dusting down to his waistband.

You palm over the bulge in his jeans and he groans into your skin.

You look up at him, flushed and needy.

“Clint. Please.”

He unbuckles his belt with slow, deliberate movements, and when his cock springs free, your breath catches.

He’s big. Thick. Long. Heavy against his hand as he strokes himself once, then twice, just to see the way you look at it.

“Yeah,” he murmurs. “You like that?”

You nod, biting your lip.

“Gonna stretch you real good, sweetheart.”

He kisses you again as he settles between your thighs, not hurried, not fumbling. He lines himself up, dragging the tip through your slick before pressing in slow. Inch by inch. You gasp at the stretch, your walls tightening around him.

“Fuck,” he grits out, eyes fluttering shut. “So tight.”

You wrap your arms around his shoulders as he bottoms out, buried to the hilt.

Clint doesn’t move at first. He holds himself there, letting you feel all of him, letting you catch your breath.

When he does start to thrust, it’s slow at first, deep and measured, each one pressing right against that spot inside that makes you moan into his mouth. He cups your thigh and pushes it higher, opening you wider.

“This is mine now,” he whispers. “You understand me?”

You nod, nails dragging lightly down his back.

“Say it.”

“I’m yours,” you breathe. “All yours.”

That flips something in him.

He groans low, thrusts harder, his hand sliding down to rub your clit as he fucks into you.

You come again with a cry, clenching hard around him, and he doesn’t stop. His hips keep driving into you, deeper, rougher, chasing his own edge now.

“Gonna fill you up,” he pants. “Wanna come so deep you feel it all night.”

You pull him in tighter, wrapping your legs around him.

“Do it,” you whisper. “Please.”

Clint grunts, low and guttural, and pushes deep one last time as he spills into you, thick and hot, hips jerking with each pulse. You feel it flood you, the warmth between your thighs unmistakable.

He collapses against you, chest heaving, one hand cradling your jaw as he presses a soft kiss to your cheek.

Neither of you speak for a moment. Just the sound of your breathing, the creak of the mattress, the fan in the hallway spinning slow.

Eventually, Clint pulls out gently and reaches for the towel on the dresser, wiping between your legs with soft care. He doesn't rush. Doesn’t say a word about it. Just takes care of you like it’s something he’s always meant to do.

He tosses the towel aside, then pulls the blanket up and lifts you against his chest.

You settle there, warm and exhausted, your head on his shoulder, one arm draped across his chest.

His fingers trace slow circles into your hip.

“You stayin’ tonight?” he murmurs.

You nod without opening your eyes.

“Good,” he says. “That’s real good.”

He doesn’t move away.

Doesn’t leave space between you.

And as sleep starts to settle in, you realize it’s the first time in a long time someone followed through.

You feel safe. Seen. Wanted.

And Clint Flood holds you like he’s not letting go.

Not now. Not ever.

[rosharanfiction]

somebody else

clint flood x sex worker! female reader || one-shot || ao3 link

summary: By day, you’re a waitress, crushing hard on your handsome regular. By night, you’re a call girl. When Clint unwittingly books you for an evening, your two worlds collide.

non-smut tags: grief. romance. eventual sweetness. afab reader. late night heart-to-heart. banter. no y/n. age gap (early 30s reader). girldad Clint. takes place after Freaky Tales. moved to present day so they have phones. money troubles. mentions of infidelity (not Clint or reader). some body insecurity. reader’s physical appearance not described beyond some hair. reader can walk and kneel. smut tags: nervous, tender Clint who gets filthy as hell when his walls come down. mutual masturbation. excessive dirty talk. Clint likes to watch, and he’s kinda obsessed with your thighs. Clint orders you around. brief spanking. praise. pussy pronouns. cock pronouns. big dick Clint, and he’s got some tattoos. pet names (“gorgeous”, “baby”). not not a blowjob. spoiler alert he cums on your pussy.

wc: 16.2K 🫣

author's note: Freaky Tales is my favorite PP movie, so I've been wanting to write Clint for ages. This fic builds up slowly and steadily to the dirtiest smut I've ever written. The diner-core and themes of grief were influenced in part by @mcthsman’s Toska. so was the pussy slap. Check out Toska out first if you haven’t already - it’s fantastic.

MDNI banners by @\cafekitsune, dividers by @\saradika-graphics

You made up stories about all your regulars at the diner.

The punk kids who always paid with change, for instance. You guessed they were in love with each other but scared to admit it. And the girls who liked milkshakes and wrote lyrics on their napkins – they were an up-and-coming rap duo, about to get big. The tall guys who came in hungry and filled up the corner booth? They had to be second-stringers for the Oakland A’s.

And then there was him. The handsome father. He came by every day at 2:15, right at the start of your shift. Silvering hair, scar on his cheek, and those dark, sad eyes. You knew there was a story behind them.

He only ever ordered a black coffee for himself, and a sliced-up banana for the baby. He always said thank you. You liked those thank yous. His voice was full, and it sounded kind, but you tried not to notice. And you tried not to notice the slant of his shoulders, or his big, thick hands, because the left one always wore a silver ring.

Handsome Guy was married. Of course he was.

“You can still daydream, though. It’s not cheating if it’s in your imagination.”

This advice came from your shift-mate. Casey was a decade younger than you, but you were in the same year at Mill College. She never made you feel behind for it, and she’d gotten you the job at the diner. During the lulls, the two of you did problem sets together.

At the moment, there wasn’t much homework getting done. Handsome Guy had just pulled up, and Casey was craning over the counter to stare at him through the window.

“He’s in his leather jacket today,” she said. “Somebody should outlaw that thing. And he drives some kind of blue vintage Chevy.” She wiggled her eyebrows at you. “The seats in those cars go all the way back.”

Your brain conjured an image of your legs on either side of Handsome’s hips, those big hands of his on your waist. Your skin grew warm.

“Stop putting impure thoughts in my head. We have a whole shift to get through.”

Casey grinned. “I’m not allowed to notice a customer’s car? What’s so impure about that?”

You busied yourself putting on a fresh pot of coffee. Handsome never complained, but you didn’t want to charge him for boiled-down sludge. The bell over the door tinkled, and Casey let out a sigh.

“Damn,” she said. “Have you seen his butt? Why can’t he sit in my section, just one time?”

“You really want one of your four-tops taken up by a banana and a coffee? Twenty-five percent of $5.50 is, like, a dollar.”

“He tips twenty-five percent? My friend. Homewreck him.”

“Yeah, that’ll end well.”

“When it all goes down in flames, it’ll be a good distraction from finals.”

You felt a twinge of panic. Finals only mattered if you could scrape together the spring semester’s tuition.

“Funny,” you managed.

You dodged Casey’s eye. She was strapped for cash too, but it wasn’t the same. Her parents would cover her if she came up short. 

You retrieved the highchair from the back room and made for Handsome’s table. He always sat in the same booth by the window. His daughter had big, curious eyes, and she gurgled as you came near, wrapping her tiny hand around one of Handsome’s fingers.

You bit back a smile and set up the highchair. Handsome glanced up at you, and something in his gaze softened.

“Thank you,” he said.

You liked the slow way he had of talking. It felt like all of his attention was here, like he never skipped over one thought to try and reach the next.

“No problem,” you said. “Coffee?”

He nodded. “Thanks.”

“It’s brewing. And the banana?”

“Yeah. Thanks.”

“Anything else?”

He always said no, but today he hesitated.

“How come don’t you wear a name tag?” he asked.

What?

“Oh,” you said. “I always forget it. And it’s not like the food tastes any different if you know my name.”

Handsome moved his head, not exactly a yes or a no. He didn’t say anything. Was he asking for your name? Why did he want to know?

He was such a solid man, and up close, it was hard to keep your thoughts in a line. Those eyes of his were too damn warm.

Maybe he was waiting for you to leave. You’d been lingering for way too long, hadn’t you?

You tucked your pen behind your ear.

“I should go get your coffee.”

“Okay,” he said. “Thank –”

“Thank me? You said that already.”

The comment fell out before you could stop it, and you cursed yourself for breaking your customer service mask. Whatever ideas you had about Handsome, they were just that – ideas. He always paid in cash, so you didn’t even know his name, let alone whether he’d share your sense of humor. Chances were he’d decide you were a bitch, and you’d lose your measly $1.10 in tips.

But Handsome didn’t seem to mind. Something playful spread across his face, an expression you’d never seen him wear before.

“Okay,” he said. “I take it back.”

“You what?”

“I take it back. No thank you for you.”

You failed to hold back a surprised grin.

“Ungrateful bastard.”

Handsome lifted an eyebrow. “You talk like that to all of your customers?”

Was he… flirting with you?

You glanced at his hand before you could think better of it. Still married.

Handsome followed your eyes, and his body went rigid. He moved his left hand to his lap and stared at the table.

It wasn’t your problem that he was married. You weren’t going to let yourself feel bad for clocking him, no matter how ashamed he looked at getting caught.

So what if he was hot? The man couldn’t even cut up a banana on his own.

“Coffee will be right out,” you said.

Handsome nodded at the table, and you made for the counter. Casey’s eyebrows were in the sky by the time you got back.

“Don’t look now, but Hot Dad totally watched you walk away,” she said. “What the hell did you say to him?”

“Nothing,” you said.

You glanced up at Handsome. Your eyes met, and his gaze dropped to his phone. He chewed his lip as he typed, like he was guilty about something. Probably texting his wife.

You sighed. You knew it wasn’t that big of a deal – plenty of married guys flirted, and there was nothing necessarily wrong with checking out other women. It wasn’t like Handsome had asked for your number. A few years ago, you would have shrugged all this off.

A few years ago, you hadn’t realized just how many guys were cheaters. You’d liked Handsome more when he was a fantasy, when you could tell yourself he was better than the rest of them.

You untied your apron.

“I’m going to take my fifteen.”

Casey’s brow furrowed.

“Really? We just started.”

“Yeah, I need a minute. Mind covering my table? It’s just the banana and coffee. He takes it black, usually one refill.”

“You don’t have to ask me twice.”

You thanked Casey, grabbed your cigarettes from the break room, and lit up outside. The buzz of nicotine woke you up, and you scolded yourself for taking your break so soon. The evening rush was terrible on Fridays, and now you’d have to marathon through it.

Your phone vibrated in your pocket. A notification from Illicit.

As escort services went, Illicit was bare bones. They didn’t run background checks on their clients. They didn’t schedule your meetups for you. But the cut they took was tiny, and at least they logged the locations of your dates.

You’d signed up as a last resort a few months ago, when a perfect storm of rent increase, car repairs, and an ER bill had cleaned through what little you had set aside for tuition. There was nobody you could have asked for help – you’d followed your ex out to California, and he was long gone now, living with the girl he’d said you were crazy for worrying about.

Stop. You didn’t need to be thinking about him today. The whole thing with Handsome had just gotten under your skin.

The message was from a new client, a guy who’d been reaching out on and off for weeks, without ever scheduling a date. For the last few days, he’d been radio silent. You’d thought he’d changed his mind.

Maybe something had changed it back, because a green check mark had appeared beside the guy’s name. He’d put money into his Illicit account. You clicked on the message.

Clint: I know it’s been a while, but I still want to meet you. Have you got any time tonight?

Clint: 10:00? For two hours?

You hesitated. Your shift ended right at ten.

Clint: I’ll pay double. If we don’t do tonight, I’m going to chicken out again.

Double pay. You couldn’t turn it down. Even if Clint wanted something awful in exchange, it probably wouldn’t be twice as bad as the average.

Angel: Ok. If 11 works, I can make it.

It had been impossible to choose the perfect call girl name, so you’d let the alphabet decide. Angel hadn’t been a bad pick, in the end. It seemed to send the right message.

Clint took a moment to respond.

You knew what was coming. The haggling. Some guys were open about it – asking to pay half now and half later, like you’d try harder if you had to earn it. That wasn’t too common. Most of the time, the men would just ask you to remind them the price, like it wasn’t listed clearly on your profile.

You never backed down, but you hated the implicit challenge – that you couldn’t be really worth what you charged.

Your phone buzzed again.

Clint F. sent you $500.00 – “11 it is.”

Well, fuck. He’d even tipped double – 25% of double.

Clint: Did you get it?

Angel: I did. Thanks. Not a lot of clients pay up front, and I hate having to chase them down about it.

Clint: I get it.

Clint: Is the tip good?

Angel: You’re good. Thank you.

Clint: You said that already.

Clint: I’ll send over my address. I’m near Lake Merritt. I can pick you up from the BART station there.

Illicit only tracked home addresses. Your gut said you could trust Clint, but that wasn’t enough to get you into his car. If your fantasies about Handsome were any sign, you weren’t exactly the best judge of character.

Besides, you didn’t live far from the lake. You’d probably be able to walk.

Angel: That’s okay. I’ll come to you.

Your phone buzzed again, and you checked the address. Sure enough, you and Clint were neighbors. Go figure.

You took a final, long drag of your cigarette. Five hundred dollars, and a client who seemed kind of decent. There had to be some sort of catch.

It was already 10:15 by the time you got back to your studio, and by then you reeked of fry oil. You turned up the shower to scalding and got to work scrubbing away the smell.

When you went out as Angel, you didn’t use your normal shampoo and conditioner. Everything she wore was scented like roses. All you had to do was inhale, and you’d feel like somebody else.

You needed the reminder. Angel was sexy in a way that you weren’t. She was nice. She never forgot to moisturize, and she was always freshly waxed. When she put on lingerie, she didn’t stare at herself in the mirror, finding all the places it dug in too tight and gapped too loose.

It didn’t come easily to you. You’d never really thought of yourself as sexy, or even especially beautiful. Not that you were ugly – with a little bit of effort, and the right makeup, you could make yourself pretty enough. But every girl could do that. You weren’t anything special.

When you first signed up for Illicit, you’d actually thought it would make you more confident. Your body was a commodity. It had to be valuable. But to most of your clients, all women’s bodies were commodities. You felt wanted sometimes, sure, but never desired.

You reached for the rose shampoo.

It was empty. Damn it.

You couldn’t wear mismatched scents – it would drive you crazy. You’d have to use only the everyday stuff. Citrus wasn’t as sexy, but maybe you’d get lucky and Clint would have a tangerine fetish.

You put the empty bottle back – you’d remember to chuck it tomorrow, really – and finished washing up.

It was always chaos getting ready in your studio. The room was tiny, and you’d never really set it up well. You knew you had it in you. You’d kept a good home when you were married. Maybe it was this place – this dark little go-between. It just didn’t feel like home.

Your dresser was jammed up against your bed, and it did double duty as a desk. You found your blow dryer on top of it, the cord half-buried by a stack of lecture notes. You worked it free, then sifted through your lingerie drawer.

Nothing extreme tonight. Exhausted as you were, you wouldn’t have the confidence to pull off a corset. You slid on mesh panties and a matching balconette. The bra was minimal enough to be comfortable, even if it didn’t push your cleavage up in the way your clients liked.

Hair and makeup was next – nothing heavy, the kind of “good girl” look that a man would expect from somebody named Angel.

10:46. You had a little bit of time. Clint had shelled out five hundred dollars. Maybe he deserved the fantasy.

You wriggled into a garter belt and a dark set of thigh-highs. The belt dug into your stomach, and the stockings got runs so fast that you hated wearing them, but they helped you feel a bit more like Angel.

Better. You kept the rest simple. It wouldn’t be on for long. Little black dress with a low-cut neck, and tall, heeled boots.

You looked too obviously like a hooker to walk around like this. You pulled your go-to coverup from your closet – a giant canvas coat, the one your ex had left behind – and threw it on over the dress.

In two and a half hours, you could go back to being you.

Walking up to a date was the part you hated most, and tonight was no exception. What if Clint had friends over? What if he hadn’t read the hard limits section of your profile?

You distracted yourself by studying Clint’s house. It was a two-story Victorian, but according to his instructions, he only lived downstairs. An old blue car sat in the driveway, and you were reminded for a moment of Handsome.

God, this had been a long day.

You stepped onto the porch and checked the time. 11:08. You set a two-hour timer and took off your coat. You rearranged your face into Angel’s. Then you knocked on the door.

It opened at once, and a ringing sound filled your ears.

Handsome stood on the other side.

What?

What was going on? Did you have the wrong house?

Handsome met your eyes, and his face went slack.

Some part of your brain noticed that he looked especially good tonight, in a tight dark sweater that stretched around his chest and arms. His hair was combed back, and he’d done something to his beard to make it all point the same way.

He was dressed up for something. No. Wait. Was he dressed up for you?

Were you the something?

Handsome looked from your face to your dress, and quickly back.

“Angel?” he said. “Are you… are you Angel?”

That voice didn’t belong here. It shouldn’t be saying that name. Static crawled up beneath your skin.

Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck. He’d messaged you while he was still in the diner, hadn’t he? How had he known who you were?

“You are,” he said. “Aren’t you? You’re her?”

Handsome’s eyes were wide. He took a step back, and for a moment he looked as horrified as you were.

The realization cut through to quiet your panic. If Handsome had planned this, he sure wasn’t acting like it. Your pulse began to slow, and you found your voice.

“You didn’t know?”

Handsome gave you an incredulous look.

“Does it seem like I knew?”

It didn’t. It really didn’t. Maybe he was lying, but you remembered how bad he’d been at hiding his ring in the diner. He didn’t seem the type to pull it off. You took in a deep breath. This wasn’t a trick. It was only a bizarre coincidence. You could deal with that.

“I don’t understand,” he said. “How did this happen? How are you her?”

Something about his spiral put you at ease. Clint, if that really was his name, didn’t have the upper hand. That meant it was up for grabs. You got to decide what happened next.

You looked into Clint’s eyes, and finally got a handle on what was happening. Clint was Handsome, and Handsome was a dick. He’d invited a call girl over so he could cheat on his wife. What had he said? It had to happen tonight? Was she out of town or something?

It didn’t really matter. Maybe you could care that Handsome was married, but you’d come here tonight to be Angel. Angel didn’t get to care that Clint was married.

“Everything is going to be fine,” you said. “I’ll never say a word about this. And if you don’t want to see me again, just get your coffee an hour earlier. I don’t clock in until 2.”

Clint nodded slowly. Some of the wildness faded from his eyes, and you thought you saw sorrow there again.

“You know what time I come in?”

“Clint. You come in almost every day, and you have the silliest order of all time. Do you not have coffee and bananas at home? Of course I remember you.”

You were mouthing off way too much – more than Angel would have – but the line was too blurry, and your blood was too hot. You couldn’t think straight if you were also trying to behave.

At least Clint seemed to have a thick skin. The edge of his mouth pulled upward.

“Fair enough,” he said.

He didn’t interrupt further, and you took another breath.

“So you and I are fine, moving forward. The only question left is what to do about tonight. I can go home, and Illicit can find you somebody else. They won’t refund your tip, but…” you had to say it. “But I can send you the extra $100, considering the circumstances.”

“Keep it,” he said. “It only seems fair. I put you out of work tonight, didn’t I?”

“Not necessarily,” you said.

Clint’s brow furrowed, and you hesitated for a moment. If you stopped talking now, you could accept his tip and head home early.

But another $400 sat on the table. You didn’t want to help Clint cheat, but if you left here tonight, that was two more meetups you’d have to do, and those guys wouldn’t be any better.

They definitely wouldn’t be better looking.

No. You couldn’t think like that. This was a job. This wasn’t a chance to get with Handsome. The guy you’d imagined didn’t exist.

“This isn’t what I expected,” you said. “But I don’t actually think it’s a big deal. Yes, we know each other, but not particularly well, and what happens here tonight will stay here. If you want to go through with our original plan, I’m fine with that, too.”

“You are?”

“I am. I’d actually prefer it.”

Clint fell quiet. He braced himself on the doorway and studied your face.

A strange feeling stirred inside your stomach. Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea. Clint was too good-looking. His face was too honest. When you looked back at him, it was hard not to only see Handsome.

Clint took a breath, and for the first time since his panicked once-over, his eyes dipped below your neck. He took in your exposed cleavage, and became very still. His gaze lingered on your hips, where the slinky fabric held close to your curves. His eyes found the bare skin of your thighs, and he made a soft noise. His throat bobbed.

Heat burned beneath your skin. He was such a big man. He’d always seemed so stoic in the diner. But here, tonight, he made no effort to hide all the ways he was affected.

“Okay,” he said quietly. He was still looking at your thighs.

It was hard to breathe when he looked at you like that.

“Okay,” he said again.

He tore his eyes back to your face and seemed to come back to himself.

“Want to come inside?”

You nodded. You were going inside with Handsome, and he still hadn’t taken off his wedding ring. Did that make this more or less fucked up?

He held open the door for you, and he let out a little huff of breath as you stepped in front of him. You could practically feel the weight of his gaze on your ass.

If you had any doubt left that Clint was married, his apartment erased it. The entryway led to an airy living room. A vintage table stood to your left, with brightly colored, mismatched chairs tucked around it. To your right, you found a long, leather sectional, decorated with a big throw made of granny squares. A wind chime dangled in the bay window, and in the lamplight you saw that the curtains around it were pink.

These decorations had not been chosen by a giant, scarred man who only ever drank black coffee. They’d been picked by the wife he was about to cheat on. It was hard not to be angry, especially when you saw signs of neglect around the place. The plants beneath the wind chime drooped yellow with overwatering, and dust had piled up around the moldings and windowsills, in all those hard-to-reach places that men never seemed to notice.

The door closed behind you. Clint held out his hand.

“Let me take your coat.”

You handed it over numbly.

There were a few rectangular patches on the walls where the paint looked a little too bright, as if pictures usually hung there and slowed the color from fading.

Had Clint taken down all the photos of his wife before you got here? But then why had he left on his wedding band?

You felt Clint’s eyes on you. He said nothing, but his body was stiff like it had been in the diner, when you’d first drawn attention to his ring.

There was a bench across from the coat closet. You sat down and unzipped your heeled boots. You expected Clint to watch as you revealed your thigh-highs, but he only stared around the room. His hand closed into a fist, then opened.

You rose to your feet.

“Here? Or the bedroom?”

“Not the bedroom.”

“Okay, then.”

You took a seat on the leather couch. Clint stayed standing.

“I haven’t done this in a long time,” he said.

He opened and closed his hand again. You felt a pang inside your chest. You knew he was being a jerk, but he just didn’t seem like one. He seemed… afraid. Maybe a part of him didn’t want to go through with this.

“We don’t have to do anything,” you said. “You can still change your mind. You paid for my time, but we can spend it however you want.”

He nodded. He took a seat on the far end of the couch. He still couldn’t seem to look at you.

“I want to do this,” he said. “I know this is the right thing to do.”

You bit your lip. You could feel yourself about to mouth off again. Angel would keep quiet, but… you looked at the sad, wilted calathea in the windowsill. Fuck it.

“Is this the right thing to do? I don’t think cheating ever really is.”

Clint’s attention snapped to you.

“Cheating?”

You gestured to his hand.

“Wedding band.” You motioned to yourself. “Hooker. Cheating. Unless you guys are poly, or have some kind of don’t-ask-don’t-tell arrangement.”

“Oh,” was all Clint said.

He looked down at his wedding band and traced his thumb over the metal. His body seemed to shrink around itself.

“I’m not cheating on my wife,” he said. His voice shook, as if he didn’t quite believe the words. “She died last year. She was murdered.”

Those sad eyes of his. Oh. Fuck. You were such an idiot.

“Oh, fuck,” you said. “I’m such an idiot.”

Clint looked up at you in surprise, and your face burned. Now you were even more of an idiot.

You should say something better. There were things you were supposed to say when someone died, weren’t there? You were sorry for his loss?

You couldn’t say that. It felt completely soulless.

But Clint had wanted company tonight – he’d wanted it badly enough to pay double. You couldn’t fix his pain, but maybe he just needed you to see it.

“I knew there was something,” you said. “I see you every day at the diner, and I knew you were hurting. I’ve thought a hundred times about how I can make it better. And then I come in here and accuse you of cheating.”

Clint gave you a strange look.

“Today,” he said. “In the diner. You disappeared, and your friend took my table. You thought I was trying to step out on my wife?”

“Um. Yes. I’m sorry.”

Clint shook his head. “I should’ve said something earlier.”

“No,” you said. “I jumped to conclusions, and it was unprofessional. I owe you an apology for acting like such a dick.”

Clint made a sound in the shape of a laugh. “That wasn’t a very professional apology.”

“It wasn’t an apology at all, I guess. But I am sorry.”

“I know,” Clint said.

You gave him a small smile. He let out a sigh.

“This isn’t going too well so far,” he said. “Is it?”

You turned to sit facing him on the couch.

“I’m here for you,” you said. “You’re the one who decides what ‘going well’ means.”

“Okay,” he said. He slid his right hand through his left.

“It might’ve been a mistake,” he said. “Trying this.”

A suspicion formed inside your mind.

“Is this the first time you’ve… since…”

“Yeah.”

Oh, God. You never would have pushed to keep tonight’s date if you’d known. Was he just going through with this because he’d spent so much money?

“Do you… Is it too weird, that it’s me? If you really think this is a mistake, we should do the refund.”

“No,” he said. “I have to do this. I have to try. Something needs to change.”

“Okay,” you said. “I’ll stay.”

“Thank you.”

His eyes dropped to his hands, and quiet stretched between you. He didn’t move toward you on the couch.

Your instincts said not to rush him, but you only had so much time. He said he wanted to do this. Maybe you could help him remember why. 

“It might help if you start by telling me what you want out of tonight.”

Clint nodded at his hands.

“Alright,” he said. “I thought tonight could be a… first step. I have these moments sometimes, where I’ll get excited to… see somebody. And then it hits me, what I’m doing, that I’m excited about somebody besides Grace, and I just…”

He cut himself off. His mouth opened, but no words came out. He gestured toward his chest.

You felt an urge to wrap your arms around him, but he’d left a couch’s worth of space between you for a reason.  You stayed where you were.

“It might just be too soon,” you said. “It’s okay if you aren’t ready.”

“I need to be ready,” he said. He lifted his head, and you saw that his eyes were wet. He gestured again at his chest. “It needs to not be like this anymore. I need something good that doesn’t hurt. Even if I hate myself for wanting it.”

“Hey,” you said softly. “You’re not wrong for wanting to feel better.”

“You don’t know that.”

“But you do?” you said. “We’ll have to agree to disagree.”

You were being too glib. You regretted it at once, but Clint’s mouth twitched.

He was in there somewhere, a real person, buried by emotion. If you could draw him out, get him thinking about something else, maybe he could enjoy himself.

“So you want to feel good tonight,” you said. “Is there anything specific that you want to do with me?”

Clint’s gaze dropped to the stripe of thigh between your stockings and skirt. He looked at your mouth, then back to your eyes.

“I don’t know,” he said.

Sure, he didn’t.

“You don’t know? Or you know, but you feel too guilty to ask?”

He lifted an eyebrow. “You can be kind of blunt sometimes.”

Fuck.

“Sorry. I’m not big on half-truths. I usually do a better job of being polite.”

“I didn’t say you should be. But it’s surprising for somebody named Angel.”

You hesitated, and Clint’s eyes flickered with understanding.

“Your name isn’t really Angel, is it?”

You shook your head.

“You just told me you don’t like lying!”

A tiny, incredulous grin had appeared on Clint’s face. There he was.

“This isn’t a lie,” you said. “My name is Angel. Some of the time. Come on, you’re telling me your real name is Clint?”

He blinked. “Is it not supposed to be?”

“Wait really? Your name is Clint?”

“You thought I made it up?”

“Of course I did! Guys always pick the most macho, Old Hollywood names they can think of. Rock, Leroy, Rebel… Titan.”

“You’re lying about Titan.”

“I really wish I was.”

Clint chuckled, and you found yourself smiling. He was gorgeous when he laughed.

“Sorry,” you said. “It’s not good form to talk to you about other clients.”

“I don’t want good form,” he said.

“There you go. Telling me what you want. What else?”

He paused for a moment. “What would you do if you were on a date with one of those other guys right now?”

Most other guys got right down to the main event, but you didn’t think Clint was ready for that.

“Um. Probably a blowjob?”

Clint’s eyes snapped to your lips.

“Yeah?” he said quietly. “You’d take me in your mouth?”

Oh, fuck. He really needed a license for that voice of his.

“Does that sound like something you want?” you asked. “We can go slow at first, maybe just my tongue.”

Clint’s chest swelled, and he adjusted himself inside his pants.

“Yeah,” he said. “Okay. Let’s try that.”

You got to your feet. “Do you want me to take my dress off?”

“Fuck,” Clint murmured. “I… Not yet. Yes, but it feels like too much.”

“Alright,” you said. “Keep telling me when something’s too much, okay?”

“I will.”

You walked over to his end of the couch.

Clint’s fingers pressed indents into armrest of the couch. He didn’t seem to know where to look – your face, your chest, your hands. His eyes darted to the empty wall, then back to you.

You took a step, and Clint’s knees brushed yours.

“Can you make some space?” you asked.

Clint spread his knees. You sank to the ground between them.

He felt so big up close. His bulky thighs seemed to surround you. Your hand reached out of its own accord to trace a swell of his muscle.

Clint inhaled sharply. His eyes were locked on your fingers. Slowly, you trailed your hand up the top of his leg.

“You’re so strong,” you murmured. “I can feel it.”

Clint’s brow creased, and you realized it probably sounded like a line. But it was true. What sort of life gave a man this kind of muscle? Roadwork? Construction?

But that scar on his face… the way he always paid in cash… and his massive hands, like they’d been swollen from years of impact. There was something dangerous about his strength.

Clint shifted in his seat. You let out a breath, then slid your hand farther up his leg.

Pressed on the inside of his thigh, bulging out against the denim, was the outline of his cock.

A whimper fell from your mouth before you could stop it. He was hard, and long, and straining to be released.

You looked to Clint. Was this okay with him? He was still staring at your hand.

“Should I stop?”

Clint hesitated, then shook his head.

You didn’t move.

“You promised to tell me if this was too much.”

Clint shook his head again. He wouldn’t look you in the eye. Something curled inside your stomach, the feeling that always came when you were Angel.

“It isn’t too much,” Clint said. The words were strained. “Please. Keep going.”

You brought your hand to his erection.

Clint shuddered. His cock twitched beneath your touch. The heat of him radiated out through the denim.

You gripped his shaft. Oh, God, he was big – girthy in a way that made you ache between your legs.

You glanced up at Clint. He’d gone very still. You swept your thumb over his tip.

His hand shot out and grabbed your wrist. 

He closed his eyes, and his mouth made a flat, tense line.

“Clint – ”

He pushed your hand away.

“Stop,” he said. “Stop. No. Please. I can’t have you touching me.”

He dropped your hand, and you brought it to your lap.

Your throat felt tight. Clint still wouldn’t look at you.

His hands shook at his sides, and he opened and closed them into fists. It was such a strange tic of his – like his body wanted to fight something that wasn’t there.

You sat back on your heels, but didn’t say anything. If Clint was anything like you, the panic would need a second to leave his system.

Slowly, his breath evened out. He ran a hand through his hair, and his eyes found yours.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

You forced your voice to stay level.

“Don’t be. This is why you wanted a professional, right?”

“Yeah,” he said. “I suppose it is.”

He wedged his hands into his pockets, then seemed to think better of it. He took them back out.

“It isn’t you that’s the problem,” he said. “It’s not that I don’t want you.”

“You don’t have to explain.”

“It was just, the second I felt your hands – ”

“It’s okay,” you said. “I understand. It didn’t feel right.”

His brow creased. “I don’t know if it did. I couldn’t pay attention to how it felt. For years, I only ever wanted one person, and I just kept thinking… I don’t deserve to feel this without her.”

“That isn’t true,” you said.

An emotion flickered across Clint’s face. “Maybe it is.”

You could tell he believed what he was saying. There was something getting in his way – something he’d tried and failed to power through. You kept quiet and let him wrestle with it.

“You’ve got to understand,” he said hoarsely. “It was my fault.”

He always spoke slowly, but now the words seemed to weigh him down.

“The kid who shot Grace, he was trying to punish me. And he was right to want me punished. I’m… I was a bad man for a long time.”

So he was some sort of criminal – or had been. Maybe it should have worried you, but you’d known already, hadn’t you? Illicit didn’t background check its users, and it attracted a certain sort of client. Technically, you were a criminal, too.

And Clint just didn’t feel dangerous. Your gut had been right when it refused to believe he was cheating. This time, you decided to trust it.

“I don’t believe you’re a bad person,” you said.

Clint shook his head. His eyes were dark pools.

“It should’ve been me who died,” he said. “I’m not supposed to have this life. What kind of a man would I be if I enjoyed it?”

Understanding washed over you. This was the thought that was strangling him. He didn’t just miss his wife – he owed her. He couldn’t forgive himself. He couldn’t even try.

But some part of him wanted to. He’d brought you here, hadn’t he? He needed something from you tonight.

You didn’t know if you could deliver. You didn’t how to make it right. It didn’t even feel okay to hug him.

“Tell me what you want,” you said quietly.

Clint sighed.

“I want you to get up off your knees,” he said. “It feels like you’re praying to me down there.”

This was definitely not the time to crack a joke about his God-tier cock. You kept your mouth shut for once, but maybe your face betrayed you, because Clint raised an eyebrow as you got to your feet.

“Let’s take a break,” he said. “Can we do that?”

“Of course.”

He pushed up off the couch. “Good. Want me to make you a drink?”

You were behind Clint when he stepped into his kitchen, so you saw the way his shoulders relaxed. He seemed easier in here than he had in the living room. Maybe he felt better when he was doing something normal.

And his kitchen was nice – small, but tidy, with bright, warm lights and a U-shaped wraparound counter. A highchair sat at the table, and the dishrack was full of tiny pink utensils. You smiled to yourself.

“Take a seat,” Clint said.

You boosted yourself up and sat on the counter.

Clint raised an eyebrow. “I’ve got chairs.”

“I noticed. I like it up here.”

He shrugged. “Fair enough. I won’t complain about the view.”

You glanced down and realized your skirt had ridden up, so the hem only barely skimmed the top of your thighs. You didn’t pull it back down.

“It’ll take me a second to find anything to drink,” Clint said. “These days we’re only an apple juice and coffee household.”

“So you do have coffee at home,” you said. “And are those bananas I see above the fridge? What is it – do we just cut them up better at the diner?”

Clint began to riffle through the cabinets.

“I like to get out of the house,” he said. “You try having only a baby to talk to.”

“I’ve never seen you talk to anyone at the diner,” you said. “Unless you count me taking your order.”

Clint’s neck went pink, and he didn’t respond. He turned and reached up to open the high cabinet above the stove. The hem of his sweater rode up, and his undershirt lifted with it.

“Alright,” he said. “We’ve got whiskey, and we’ve got instant hot chocolate. Guest’s choice.”

Above the waistband of his jeans, his back was golden and ridged with muscle. A thick, pink scar reached down from beneath his shirt.

He glanced at you over his shoulder. “Did you hear me?”

“Um. Either is good.”

He grabbed both, then put on the kettle.

While it boiled, he leaned back against the counter. He was on the opposite end of the U, directly across from you. His gaze fell on your thigh-highs, and he didn’t look up.

“We’re supposed to be taking a break,” you said.

“We are,” he said. “But… I want you to take those off.”

“Really?” you asked.

Most guys liked to fuck you while you still had them on.

“You told me to ask for what I want,” Clint said. “I want to see your thighs. All of them.”

“In a taking-a-break way,” you said.

He grinned. “Exactly.”

Something fluttered in your stomach. You unclipped your garters and rolled the stockings down your legs. Being careful not to make new pulls, you folded them into a pile, then set it on the counter beside you.

You felt a silly need to dodge Clint’s gaze. Your stockings were armor. Without them, there was no hiding the cellulite on your legs, and in your rush tonight, you’d left stubble around one of your knees. You didn’t exactly look like you were worth a thousand dollars.

The kettle whistled. Clint didn’t move. His eyes had gone black, and he was staring at your bare skin. You crossed your legs, and his gaze followed the new sliver of thigh you revealed.

Your heart stuttered inside your chest. His focus was so singular – it did something to you. But you knew he wasn’t ready to act on it.

“Clint,” you said.

He stirred and seemed to finally hear the kettle. He switched off the heat and poured two mugs of hot chocolate. He dolloped a healthy pour of whiskey into each.

“Is that any good?” you asked.

“We’ll find out.” Clint said. He picked up both mugs and crossed the kitchen to you. “Do you want the Lakeshore Diner one, or Bluey?”

“Bluey.”

Clint handed you the mug. “Careful. It’s still hot.”

It was, but not so bad you couldn’t hold it.

“It feels good,” you said.

Clint smiled softly. “Good.”

He made space on the counter and pushed himself up to sit beside you, close enough that his leg almost brushed yours. He cradled the mug from the diner, and his hands made it look small.

You nodded to it.

“Did you pay for that, or steal it?”

Clint grinned.

“If I confess, are you gonna to turn me in?”

“I might. But I have three in my apartment, so it’s a bit of a pot/kettle situation.”

“You’re a repeat offender?” he asked. “I knew you had a dark side.”

“Streetwalking isn’t a dark enough side for you?”

Clint raised an eyebrow. “Do you actually walk the streets?”

“Um. For transportation.”

“Then we’re both streetwalkers,” he said. “You should be paying me for my time.”

“Not if you aren’t putting out, I shouldn’t.”

He let out a surprised laugh. “Fair enough.”

You traced your thumb over the handle of your mug.

“Do you want to talk about it more?” you asked. “The not-putting-out of it all?”

He shook his head. “Not right now.”

He took a sip of hot chocolate, and you followed his lead. The mixture was sweet at first, but it burned as it went down.

“Okay,” you said. “This is not as good as either whiskey or hot chocolate individually.”

“Yeah,” Clint said. “But it ain’t bad.”

You took another swallow, and heat spread out inside you. Clint’s shoulder knocked against yours.

“No,” you agreed. “This isn’t bad at all.”

Clint nodded, and silence fell between you.

You took slow sips of the hot chocolate. Clint probably thought he hadn’t made it very strong, but he was a giant man and you’d skipped dinner. You had to pace yourself.

“You smell nice,” Clint said. “You always do. Like you’re in a commercial for orange juice.”

You’d just taken a mouthful of hot chocolate, and it took all your effort not to spit it back out. You swallowed too fast, and your throat burned as you laughed.

“Is that a thing you look for in a woman? Market appeal?”

Clint had clearly watched your entire doomed swallow. A laugh sparked behind his eyes.

“I didn’t mean it like that,” he said. “I meant…” he waved his hand. “Happy. Like those big groves of trees they always show, and people pouring really cold glasses for little kids.”

His cheeks were pink, and he seemed to be half laughing at himself. He was kind of a dork, you realized, underneath all his muscle.

“Okay,” you said. “Thank you?”

“Anytime,” Clint said. He leaned back against the cabinets and took another sip of his drink.

He smelled like aftershave, and a bit like mothballs. You wondered when he’d last worn this sweater – you’d never seen him in it at the diner. In the corner of your eye you could see him glancing at your legs.

Your whole body was aware of him, and you weren’t sure that was a good thing. You kept your attention on your mug. Bluey stared back at you.

“Is your daughter even old enough for this show?” you asked.

Clint shrugged.

“Not really. She likes it anyway, though. Little genius. Whenever it comes on, she’ll make this ‘oo’ sound at the TV.”

You raised an eyebrow.

“What?” he said.

“Nothing. Babies make a lot of ‘oo’ sounds, don’t they?”

Clint’s mouth twitched. “It’s a real specific sound. And the ‘b-l’ noise is a hard one for toddlers to make. Something about the way they move their tongues. She’s doing her best to say ‘Bluey’. I know my girl.”

“Does she say anything else?”

“Oh, yeah. She’s got a lot of opinions. You’d like her.”

He’d thought about you two together?

“What kind of opinions?”

Clint pointed at himself. “Da.” He pointed to the door. “Go.” He repeated both gestures. “‘Da go’. And when she means business, it’s ‘Da go go’.”

“She wants you to go away?”

“Nah. She wants me to take her to new places. She’s such a curious little kid – has to pick up every leaf at the park, always reaching for whatever I eat, like she’s gotta try it. I can’t wait until she can tell me what she’s thinking.”

Clint’s voice shimmered with pride, and an absent smile played across his face. He turned and caught your eye, and your heart seemed to tumble over.

For a moment, you wished this was an ordinary date, that you had an ordinary job, that he really was ready to move on, instead of just wanting to be.

“What are you thinking?” he asked.

You couldn’t tell him that. You took a sip of hot chocolate.

“Where’s your daughter tonight?”

He pointed upstairs. “Landlords. They spoil the shit out of her. How about you?”

“Do I spoil your kid?”

“No. Have you got any kids of your own?”

You shook your head no.

“Do you think you will?”

The night was starting to veer into confusing territory. You could change the subject, but… would it kill you to play along?

“I’d like to,” you said. “My ex and I wanted to have them, but it was never the right time. Now I think we just weren’t the right people.”

“For kids?” Clint asked.

“For each other.”

Clint opened his mouth, then hesitated.

“What?” you asked.

“I wanna know about you,” he said. “But I don’t know if it’s fair to keep asking. It’s not what you signed up for tonight.”

“You paid good money for this conversation,” you said. “Ask away.”

Clint frowned. “If you don’t want to answer, just tell me.”

“I will.”

“Okay,” he said. “Were you married?”

You nodded. “We were really young.”

“And…uh…”

“What happened?”

“Yeah.”

“I don’t know, really. I quit school to stay at home, and then he was never there. I picked fights instead of saying I missed him. He, uh, he cheated. In the end. He had been for a while.”

You swirled the dregs of your hot chocolate in your mug. “It’s all a bit of a cliché, isn’t it?”

“No,” Clint said quietly.

You glanced up at him. His brow was creased in the middle, and his eyes were dark. It would be all too easy to tip into them.

You busied yourself finishing your drink.

“It ended a while ago. It doesn’t feel so bad anymore.”

Clint didn’t press the subject, but you could feel him watching you.

“You do homework sometimes,” he said. “At the diner. Are you back in school?”

He’d noticed you doing homework?

“I am. I’m getting a degree in accounting.”

It wasn’t your favorite, but it would always pay the bills.

Clint looked at you sideways. “You don’t have the personality of an accountant.”

“What? I have the personality of a call girl?”

He snorted. “Definitely not. I don’t think call girls are supposed to tell off the guys who might be cheating.”

“I don’t make a habit of it,” you said.

“No?” Clint asked. “I’m special?”

Your face burned.

“I… I knew you before. It’s different.”

You resisted the urge to glance at Clint and focused instead on setting down your mug. “It does suck when the guys are cheating, though. I tell myself they’d just hire another girl if I didn’t do it, but that doesn’t take away the feeling that I’m hurting somebody.”

Clint fell quiet for a moment.

“I get it,” he finally said

He went to take a drink, then seemed to remember his mug was empty. He didn’t say more, and his gaze had turned inward. He traced his thumb over the knuckles of his right hand.

Was he thinking about his previous life – the bad man he claimed he’d been? The way he’d talked about his past felt so at-odds with the man sitting in front of you. But nobody was only one thing.

Clint caught you watching him.

“What?” he asked.

“Nothing.”

He hadn’t paid you to pry into his life.

“Come on,” Clint said. “I can tell that you wanna ask me something. If you don’t, I’m gonna feel bad for asking about you.”

“Okay,” you said. “For how long were you… doing other things?”

He nodded. “Almost thirty years.”

“You don’t seem old enough for that to be true.”

“The job chose me,” Clint said. “I was only a kid when I started.”

A tinge of sadness was back in his voice.

“Did you ever go to prison?” you asked.

“Twice. A long time ago.”

He searched your face, as if gauging your reaction. Was he worried about making you nervous?

“You can ask,” he said. “If you want.”

You could ask what he’d done, he meant. You wondered about it, of course. But did it really matter? He was somebody else now – a man who apparently hand-washed his daughter’s sippy cups. You’d already decided to trust him. And he was holding enough guilt as it was.

“Okay,” you said. “Did you get any prison tattoos?”

Clint looked at you in surprise. Then he began to laugh.

“That’s what you want to know?”

You shrugged.

“You’re not still doing… whatever put you in prison,” you said. “But if you got tattoos, you still have them. And you always wear long sleeves, even when it’s hot out.”

“Do I now?”

Clint was grinning at you, and your body felt warm – from the liquor, and maybe a little from all his attention. You weren’t drunk, not even buzzed, really, but your thoughts felt softer, a little safer.

“Come on,” you said. “Answer the question.”

“Yeah,” he said. “I got a few tattoos in prison. And a few outside.”

“Where are they?”

“The usual places,” he said.

“Like..?”

Clint held your eyes. He brought his hand to the inside of his forearm. Then his bicep. His chest, on the right side, where his sweater strained the most. The top of his thigh.

He hesitated, then touched the side of his stomach, right above his belt, in the place that led down to the vee of his hips.

It suddenly felt like a large portion of your insides had turned into liquid.

“Interesting,” you managed to say.

“Is it?” Clint said. His voice had gone very soft.

“You know,” you said. “I wouldn’t mind… if you wanted to show me. As a good, um, taking-a-break activity.”

Clint swallowed.

“They’ve gotten pretty old,” he said. “The tattoos. They might not be the kind of… tattoos… that you like.”

You held his gaze. “I very much doubt that.”

“Okay,” he said quietly.

He slid down from the counter and gave you a small, self-conscious smile. You felt a flutter of anticipation.

Clint pulled off his shirt, and you forgot how to breathe.

He took up more space like this – all the raw, bare strength of him, his thick middle and thicker chest, covered over by hair and crossed by scars.

And there was a softness to him, in his stomach, where he pushed out over his belt. Was this what he’d been worried about you seeing? It couldn’t be.

He felt so real, and he was so much a man – his body spoke to some animal need in yours.

“You’ve got to remember,” Clint said. “I got most of these more than twenty years ago.”

Right. The tattoos. You could see them in all the places he’d promised – fading blue ink, without color, in that old-school traditional style. A wolf’s head. A burning heart.

You gestured to a large, pinup-style portrait on his forearm. “Is that one the reason you always cover up?”

The girl was barefoot, and she wore only a high-cut swimsuit. She stood up on her toes, posing in a way that showed off a particularly thick set of thighs.

Clint grinned. “Kind of. But I don’t regret it. She’s good company.”

“I like her,” you said. “I like all of them.”

Especially the one inked above his hip – a knife, you thought, but you could only see the hilt of it.

Clint followed your gaze. “My body wasn’t like this when I got that one,” he said. “I was a cocky idiot. Didn’t really think it through.”

“No?” you murmured. You couldn’t stop looking at the knife. You traced it with your eyes until it disappeared beneath his belt.

Clint shifted his weight. “I know,” he said. “It’s –”

“Hot?”

How far did the blade go? If he fucked you tonight, the tattoo would point right to the place your bodies joined. Heat dripped into a pool between your legs. You squeezed your thighs together and forced your breath to steady.

“Fuck,” Clint whispered. “You turned on by it?”

You met his eyes, and the air around you seemed to pulse with static.

“Yeah,” you breathed. “Yes. You… you look good.”

“Me?” Clint said. “Fuck, gorgeous. Look at you.” He gestured roughly to the top of your legs.

Over the course of the conversation, you’d leaned back against the cabinets. With the hem of your dress rucked up as it was, you realized Clint had a direct line of sight to your panties.

By instinct, you shifted your legs closed.

“I didn’t say to do that,” Clint said. His voice was low and smooth all of a sudden.

You hesitated, then let your legs fall back apart. Clint’s eyes fixed on the place between them.

“Could you…?” he asked quietly.

He wasn’t looking at your face, but you nodded anyway. You took ahold of the hem of your dress and dragged it up until it sat around your hips. You took a breath, and spread your legs wide.

A low sound fell from Clint’s mouth.

“Fuck,” he muttered. “Can see your cunt right through those panties.”

Your pussy throbbed with heat.

Without lifting his eyes, Clint moved as if drawn forward and rested his palms on either side of your hips. The long rectangle of his body surrounded you.

The room fell quiet but for his breath and yours. Surely he could see what he was doing to you – the wetness that was sticking to your panties.  

“Clint,” you said.

He nodded. His eyes were still glued between your legs.

“Do you want to take a break from your break?”

He nodded again.

“Good,” you said. “That’s… good. Do you know what you want to do instead?”

Maybe he’d be ready to try again with the blowjob – yes, your mouth, on that weighty cock of his.  

“You’re so fucking hot,” Clint muttered.

“Um. Thank you. But that’s not exactly an answer to – ”

“I want to watch you cum,” Clint said. “I want you to be my real life porn tonight.”

“Yeah?” you breathed.

Clint nodded. He grazed his thumb along the hem of your dress.

“I want you to take this off,” he said. “And I want to have a good, long look. And then I want you to fuck yourself, and I’m gonna watch.”

Oh. Oh, yes. Arousal flooded through you, and your nipples made stiff peaks against the mesh of your bra.

Clint’s eyes traveled in a line up your body, and a slow smile spread across his face as he took in your reaction. At last he met your eyes.

“Can we do that?” he asked. “I don’t know if I’m ready to touch you.”

You managed to nod.

“We can do that.”

Clint’s mouth twitched. “Good.”

He stepped back, and you slid to the floor.

“Here?” you asked. You turned to face him.

Clint nodded. He leaned his hips the counter.

With shaky fingers, you undid your zipper. You’d taken this dress off dozens of times, but tonight somehow felt like the first.  

It was hard to look at Clint again, so you focused on his hands where they held the edge of the counter. You let your dress fall to the floor, and Clint’s knuckles whitened.  

“Fuck,” he whispered.

You met his eyes, and his chest rose and fell. His gaze traveled down to your mouth, to your breasts, where the shadow of your nipples pushed against your bra. It trailed over the place between your legs, down the length of your thighs and back up.

You felt a needy flicker in your core.

Clint nodded to your garter belt.

“Take that off.”

You undid the belt, and it dropped on top of your crumpled-up dress.

“Better,” Clint murmured. “You’re so fucking pretty.”

Maybe it was just that honest voice of his, but it was easy to believe that he meant what he said. For a moment you felt a strange clutch of sadness.

Clint brought a broad hand to his crotch and began to palm himself over his jeans. Oh, fuck.

“Show me your tits,” he said. “Play with them for me.”

You took off your bra, and Clint groaned when your breasts spilled free. Was he always this expressive?

You slid your hands up over your stomach – it was prickled with goosebumps – and cupped your own breasts.

Clint took in a heavy breath.

You kept your eyes on him and rolled your thumbs over your nipples. It wasn’t much, but your body was wound tight, and you shuddered at the bolt of pleasure.

“Yeah,” Clint murmured. “That’s it.”

He was stroking his erection now, and you could see it, swollen and taut against the front of his jeans.

A whimper drifted from your mouth.

Clint followed your eyes, and a knowing look spread over his face.

“You like him, huh?”   

“Just… just a suggestion,” you said. “You wanted real-life porn. If you were watching porn, wouldn’t you be...”

“Go on.”

“I mean, you wanted to feel good tonight, didn’t you?”

“Uh-huh,” Clint said. He was grinning now.

“So you shouldn’t… hold back… from that.”

Clint’s grin widened, and he brought his hands to his belt.

“Okay, gorgeous,” he said. “You want a better view?”

“Please?”

“You gonna keep giving me what I want?”

“Clint,” you moaned. “That’s literally my job. Please.”

A laugh spilled from his mouth, and he began to unbuckle his belt. Anticipation pooled between your legs.

Clint shucked off his jeans, and his bare thighs slid into view. They were corded over with muscle, and some big animal was inked onto one of them. A panther, maybe, or a bear?

You didn’t look long enough to tell. You couldn’t, because Clint was wearing dark gray briefs that hugged tight to his hips. They were made of a soft, stretchy material, and the outline of his erection strained pornographically against it.

Oh, God, he was big. Even beside his massive hand. And at his tip, oh fuck, the fabric was stained dark. He was leaking already for you.

The ache between your legs was almost painful now. You acted without thinking, and slid your fingers down to relieve it.

Clint sucked in a breath. “Look at you,” he muttered. “Oh, fuck, baby. You’ve got no idea what you do to me.”

You shot a glance at his hard-on. You had some idea.

Clint seemed to follow your thoughts, and his eyes sparked with amusement.

“Yeah, okay,” he admitted. “Little tease.”

Something warm curled up inside your stomach. A small smile played around Clint’s mouth.

“Alright,” he said. “That’s enough of that. Next time you play with her, I want a better view.”

Reluctantly, you slid your fingers from your panties.

“Clean them off,” Clint said. His hand dipped into the waistband of his briefs and began to move along the outline of his cock

You didn’t move. You couldn’t. Desire throbbed in your throat, and thoughts slipped from your mind like water.

Every time Clint stroked his fist, the veins in his forearms rippled.

“Come on, sweetheart,” he said. “Put your fingers in your mouth. You can pretend it’s him if you want.”

You did as he said, tasting your own slick, and Clint made a low, approving noise. The sound seemed to shiver through your body.

Clint gestured with his chin. “Turn around for me now.”

As soon as you did, Clint let out a loud groan.

“Oh, yeah,” he muttered. “Fucking perfect body. Even hotter than I thought you’d be.”

You heard him push up from the counter. He stepped so close you could feel the heat of him, his hand hovering behind your ass. The cadence of his breath had grown heavy.

You squirmed with the need to do something, to jump forward to the main event.

You hooked your fingers in the waistband of your panties.

“Do you want me to take these off?”

“Not yet,” Clint said. “Not here. Go lie down on the couch.”

He walked behind you the whole way into the living room, then had you lie down on your stomach, with a pillow beneath your hips. The leather was cool against your skin, and the pillow tilted your pelvis up, so your soaked-through panties were on full display. You rested your cheek on your hands, and kept your eyes on Clint.

Maybe you were imagining it, but he seemed to be unraveling. He’d stopped stroking himself, and his voice was ragged now, more rasp and need than substance. His eyes slid over the length of your body.

You scanned him for any of the warning signs you’d seen before – for the tic he had with his fists. You didn’t find it, but that didn’t mean he was okay.

“This isn’t too much?” you asked. “We can stop anytime.”

You weren’t actually sure if you could stop – your core pulsed so needily that you were half-convinced you were dying – but you’d figure out how, if you had to.

Clint looked you in the eye, and shook his head no.

“Not too much,” he rasped. “Ain’t nearly enough.”

He walked up to the middle of the couch. It was hard to see him properly from this angle, so you felt the heat of him first, and then the brush of cotton. There was something firm beneath it – his erection, grazing against your hip.

It was nothing. The smallest amount of contact, and he’d probably done it on accident. But your hips still twitched, rocking up and back against nothing.

Clint grew very still.

And then you felt his hand. His touch was warm – finally, he was touching you – and he didn’t bother to be gentle. His hand slid up around your leg, and he squeezed a fistful of your thigh.

“Fuck,” he growled. “Can’t fucking help myself anymore.”

He reached up to manhandle your ass, then lifted his hand and spanked you - a hard, fast slap on each of your cheeks. His palm came down again, and this time it landed squarely between your legs, smacking you hard over the damp patch on your panties.

A hot shock of pleasure sang through your pussy, and a moan dribbled out of your mouth.

You spread your legs apart and waited for more, but Clint only stepped back. He seemed to be catching his breath.

You whined, and Clint met your eyes.

“Was that okay, gorgeous?”

You nodded. “Until you stopped.”

Clint smiled. “Yeah?”

“You realize… you realize you’re torturing me, right?”

Clint’s gaze softened. “I don’t wanna be,” he said. “You’ve got no idea how bad I want to fuck you right now.”

“Fuck,” you mumbled. “The torture continues.”

“Poor girl,” Clint murmured. He walked to your end of the couch and tucked a strand of hair behind your ear.

Something was melting inside you, something important, some structural part of your mind that knew all of this was a job. You held Clint’s eye and tried to cling onto the remains of it.

“I… I understand,” you managed to say. “I only want you to do what feels good.”

“Yeah?” he said quietly. “That’s the only thing you want?”

You hesitated. He was close to you now, and his briefs were at eye-level. You were only human, after all.

Clint looked at you knowingly and took ahold of his erection.

“You wanna meet him?” he asked.

“Oh god,” you mumbled. “Please.”

Clint freed his cock, and your brain dissolved.

He had a man’s cock – long and veiny, and thick enough to split you in two. Precum leaked from its tip, and when you whimpered, it twitched in response.

“Fuck,” Clint muttered. “He likes you.”

Oh, hell, were you in trouble. There was a reason Clint wasn’t going to fuck you tonight. There was definitely a reason. Wasn’t there? Was it a good one?

Clint wrapped a hand around his shaft and began to work himself in slow, long strokes.

“Open your mouth,” he said.

You obeyed at once.

He was so girthy that you didn’t know if you’d be able to take him, especially like this, with your head crooked to the side. But fuck, you were down to try.

Clint stepped toward you. He was close now, close enough that you could lean forward if you wanted to and run your tongue over him. Your tongue slipped from your mouth, and you looked up at him, pleading.

He took a slow breath. Some emotion crossed his face, and he groaned in frustration. He reached out with his free hand and dragged his thumb over your bottom lip.

“Your mouth looks so fucking soft, gorgeous. I bet it feels even softer.”

“Please,” you whimpered. “I’ll do anything.”

“Yeah?” Clint said. “Want my cock in your mouth that bad? Or you just want your holes to be filled?”

He pushed his first two fingers between your lips. Then he added a third.

You could feel yourself leaking through your panties now, making a slick mess on your thighs.

Clint’s fingers were thick, and long, and they felt huge compared to your own. You swirled your tongue around them, and a soft noise vibrated up from your throat.

“This okay?” Clint asked.

You managed a nod. It wasn’t his cock, but it was more than you’d hoped for. You hollowed your cheeks and sucked on him.

Clint began to finger your mouth. He stroked himself with the other hand, and could almost imagine it was his shaft sliding over your tongue.

You looked from Clint’s cock to his face, and felt a rush of warmth. Despite his words, despite the crude way he was touching you, his eyes were soft, full of something like admiration.

“You’re doing so good,” he murmured. “Giving me just what I need.”

You flushed at his praise. He slid his fingers from your mouth and brought his cock to hover right beneath your mouth.

“Spit on him, baby.”

You did as he said, and he moaned softly, fisting his cock tight as he smeared your saliva along his shaft. The tip of him was angry and red, and leaking all over his fingers.

“Please,” you whispered. “Please, Clint. Just for a minute.”

He hesitated, then tapped the tip of his cock against your lips. You opened your mouth and licked up a salty drop of precum.

Clint inhaled sharply.

“Oh, fuck,” he said. “He likes you so much, baby. He’s gonna like your cunt even more.”

He stepped away, and you ached at the loss. It wasn’t enough. It wasn’t nearly enough.

Clint walked back down to stand behind your hips. You craned around to watch. His thick fingers slid beneath the waistband of your panties. He hesitated, and you realized he was taking in the mess on your thighs.

“Look at that,” Clint murmured. “She’s getting jealous, huh? All hot for me, and I ain’t even taken a good look.”  

Desperation coiled tight inside you. You arched your hips up from the pillow, and Clint dragged your panties down. For a moment, the mesh clung to your slick. Then cool air hit your aching pussy.

You were bare before Clint. He let out a moan.

“Oh sweet girl,” he muttered. “Fuck, is she pretty.”

He pulled your panties all the way off, then got onto the couch and kneeled in between your thighs. His bare legs brushed warmth into yours.

His cock glistened between his legs. That slutty knife tattoo pointed right to his base, where Clint was wrapping his hand at this very moment. He slid his fist over his shaft and stared at your pussy.

“I want you to spread her open.”

You did as he asked and reached your arms back. The angle was awkward, and you had to face forward to do it, so you couldn’t watch Clint’s face as you pulled your folds wide for him to see.

It was enough only to hear him – the heavy groan that tore from him, and the lewd, slick rhythm of his fist on his shaft, his strokes becoming ever more frantic. A fresh wave of arousal leaked from your entrance, and Clint sucked in a breath.

“Wettest little cunt,” he said. “You been like this for me all night?”

You’d never in your life been turned on like this. Your body felt so hot, so frayed with passion, that it was all you could do to breathe. Your clit pulsed sharply, and your entrance clenched around nothing.

“Oh yeah, she wants him.  That needy little hole, just needs to be fucked, huh?”

“Clint,” you gasped. “Please. I need it.”

“Turn over,” Clint gasped. “Roll over, baby. I wanna see your face.”

With some maneuvering, you adjusted to lie on your back, the pillow still propping up your hips. Clint settled back between your legs, and your whole body ached at the sight of him – broad and bare, his mouth parted and his eyes dark, and his fist working over his length.

“Oh, God,” you mumbled. “You look so good right there.”

Clint grinned. “I look good? You look fucking perfect.”

Warmth pooled inside your chest, and you felt a hazy urge to sit up, or, no, to pull Clint down, to feel the press of his body over yours. You blinked it away.

“Tell me what you want,” you said.

He answered at once.

“Touch yourself, baby. Anything you want. Make yourself cum for me.”

“I want your cock,” you complained. “Want you to give it to me.”

Clint closed his eyes for a long moment, and a breath slid out of him. His fist slowed, and you realized with a surge of arousal that he was trying not to finish.

His stomach tensed, and veins stood out in his forearms. He was close, and you felt drunk on it – this huge, gorgeous man, coming undone at only the sight of you. He made you feel perfect.

You brought both your hands to the slick between your legs, and gasped. You were so sensitive now that the slightest brush of your clit sent a ripple through your body.

Clint opened his eyes, and they flashed with appreciation.

You drew a tender circle around your clit and sighed with relief. For easier access, you spread your legs wide, hinging an ankle on the back of the couch. The pose was obscene, but you were too far gone to care – and yeah, you wanted Clint to see.

Clint let out a strangled grunt. You were spread-eagle now, your pussy just one thrust away from his cock. That tattoo on his hip quivered with tension, and you ached to trace it with your fingers, to take ahold of Clint’s base and guide him into you.

A bright knot of pleasure began to tighten inside you. You knew what you liked, and you knew you’d finish fast tonight.

Clint stared, trancelike, at your pussy. He was jerking himself even more slowly now, his fist hardly moving, and you realized he was waiting for you to catch up. It felt a little sweet, and more than a little filthy – like he needed to see what he’d done to you.

“You feel good?” he asked. “Tell me how good you feel, baby.”

“Yes,” you panted. “And no. I’d feel better with your cock inside me.”

Clint shuddered. His fist sped up again, like he couldn’t help himself anymore.

“Yeah, gorgeous? He’s a lot bigger than that needy cunt of yours. She’d have to stretch real big for him.”

“I can take it,” you breathed. You worked your fingers faster over your clit.

“That – fuck – how you like it, baby? Like your holes stretched all the way open? Want my cock so deep you can’t even breathe?”

Oh, fuck. Your legs shook with pleasure, and you slowed your fingers.

You closed your eyes and took a slow breath. Not yet.

“Don’t stop,” Clint begged. “Wanna see you.”

You held his eyes and resumed your pace on your clit. He was breathtaking, really – all tense muscle and rippling blue ink, panting now, and jerking himself fast.

“God,” you mumbled. “I wish you could cum inside me tonight.”

Clint shuddered. He grabbed one of your thighs and held on tight enough to hurt.

“Fuck,” he panted. “Oh, fuck. If you – nngh – keep talking like that, I’m gonna fucking cum.”

“Yeah?”

Clint nodded. His jaw clenched.

“Yes,” he moaned. “Oh, fuck, you’re so hot. I wanna – fuck – I want –”

“Tell me.”

“I wanna cum on your cunt,” Clint gasped.

Holy fuck. Oh, God.

“Yes,” you said. “Yes. Oh, fuck, please. Please.”

Clint’s hand sped up, and the slapping of his fist filled the room. His whole body was shaking now, and when he opened his mouth to speak, it seemed he had to strain for the words.

“Yeah? You want my cum all over her?”

He was so goddamn hot like this. You angled yourself so your pussy was right beneath him and held yourself open with your fingers.

Clint’s fingers tightened on your thigh. His chest heaved. He let out a final strangled moan, and then you felt the hot spatter of his release.

He came for a long time. His cum coated not only your pussy, but your inner thighs and low belly. It dripped down your center and ran up onto your stomach.

Clint’s breath evened out, and he looked up, dazed, at the mess that he’d made.

“Oh, yeah,” he panted. “Look at her.”

Need fogged over all your senses. You slid your fingers back between your legs, and smeared Clint’s cum over your clit.

“Yeah,” he murmured. “Your cunt was made to take my cum, huh? I wanna –”

He cut himself off.

“What?” you asked. “Tell me.”

He met your eyes. “I want to take a picture,” he said. “Shouldn’t have said anything.”

An image popped into your mind of Clint, home alone, jerking himself off to a picture of your pussy – to a picture of what he’d done to your pussy.

“Fuck,” you gasped. “Do it.”

Clint stilled. “Yeah?”

“Please,” you said. “I – fuck, I’m close – I want you to. Just don’t get my face.”

“Good thing I didn’t cum there, huh?”

You moaned. “Stop – stop putting ideas in my head.”

Clint grinned. He leaned over to the end table and grabbed his phone, then aimed the camera in between your legs.

He stared at the screen, and his eyes darkened.

“Goddamn is she pretty.”

The shutter clicked, and you whimpered. You worked your clit frantically, and felt your orgasm mounting. Your hips twitched on the pillow.

Then Clint touched you. He reached out with two broad fingers, and spread your pussy open.

“There I am,” he muttered. “Dripping right into your cunt, ain’t I?”

He held the camera close, and it clicked again. Your body began to shake.

Clint trailed his fingers through the mess on your thighs, gathering up his cum on his fingers.

“Gonna put this all where it belongs,” he said. “Okay, baby? Can I give you my cum?”

Oh, fuck. Did he mean –

“Wanna fuck you with my hand,” Clint said. “Fill up this hole like she needs.”

White spots flickered on the edges of your vision.

“Please.”

Clint rumbled in approval and pushed a single, impossibly thick finger inside you. The stretch seared through you, deep and perfect.

“So soft,” Clint murmured. “So fucking tight. She’s taking it so good.”

He curled his finger upward and the pad of it found that sensitive place. He began to stroke you, pleasuring you from the inside, keeping time with your own rhythm on your clit. Tension coiled between your legs.

Clint worked in a second finger, then, without waiting, a third. He felt huge inside you – so thick it would have hurt, if you weren’t so wet.

Your toes curled. Your back arched up off the couch.

Clint held up his phone once again and centered the camera on your entrance.

“Oh, fuck, baby. Your cunt is pretty when she’s full.”

The shutter clicked, and the tension inside you snapped.

You came all at once, a thousand nerve endings dissolving into pleasure. Your thoughts fuzzed, your blood blazed, and a broken whine fell from your throat. For a moment, you thought you might be crying.

Your orgasm burnt itself out, and you collapsed, breathless on the leather. Clint slid his hand from your pussy, and you took long swallows of air as your pulse steadied. Your face was wet. You really had cried.

The strange sadness you’d felt earlier had somehow worked its way into your chest. You looked around for Clint.

He gazed back at you from the other side of the couch, his phone forgotten and his eyes soft. He leaned back in his seat, and you realized he was caught in between your legs.

He didn’t seem to mind. You’d stretched out one leg across his lap at some point, and his hand rested just beneath your knee.

“God,” you said. “You made me cum so fucking hard.”

“I saw. You looked real good doing it.”

“You… you looked real good doing it, too.”

Clint let out a low chuckle, and you felt his chest vibrate between your legs.

“I hope… I hope you’re not too attached to this pillow,” you said.

Clint grinned. “Hated it.”

You laughed. Clint’s hand slid gently down your leg.

Since when was he touching you? And since when did it feel normal?

You sighed. Your body felt so heavy now, and Clint’s hand was so very warm.

“Are you sleepy?” Clint asked, and you realized your eyes had closed.

“A little. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. You should rest for a minute.”

You shook your head. “Can’t. Unprofessional.”

“I won’t tell,” Clint murmured. “You’re doing what I want tonight, and I want you to feel good. Take a break, baby.”

Baby. It felt different, hearing him say it like this, outside the heat of the moment. Good, and a little painful, right in the center of your chest.

You’d think about it later. Clint was touching you with both hands now, drawing warm lines up the side of your body.

“Okay,” you mumbled. “You win this time.”

You closed your eyes again. Then something occurred to you.

“Clint. Was this an okay first step?”

You felt his laugh more than you heard it this time.

“Yeah,” he said quietly. “This was okay.”

You sank back onto the soft leather and let your mind float. The lulls between your thoughts grew longer and longer. You could feel the steady rhythm of Clint’s breath.

A sound blared from somewhere. An alarm. Your alarm?

The glow slipped from your mind, and you remembered where you were – a client’s house, and you’d burned through all the time he’d paid for.

You opened your eyes and pushed yourself up to a seat. Clint met your gaze, and his brow creased.

“My phone,” you said.

“Is it in your coat?” he asked. “I got it.”

He began pushing to his feet, untangling himself from in between your legs. Your body felt cold in all the places he’d been.

You were being ridiculous. You had to get up.

“It’s okay,” you said. “Let me.”

Clint didn’t argue. You followed the ringing to the closet and fished your phone from the pocket of your coat. You stared at the time. 1:08 AM.

“Everything good?” Clint asked.

You closed the closet door, clutching your phone in your hand. “Yeah. It’s my alarm. I’ve been here for two hours.”

Clint nodded. He glanced at your hand, then directed his words at a lamp on the end table.

“Right. We’ll get you out of here fast.”

“Okay,” you said. “Yeah.”

“There’s a bathroom down the hall where you can wash up. Towels are in the cabinet.”

“I don’t have to. You’re not a dick if you send me home like this.”

“Yeah, well. Agree to disagree.”

You had a routine for the end of your dates. Settle up, get dressed, get home, get showered. It didn’t involve going deeper into your client’s homes, and it definitely didn’t involve caring whether or not they met your eyes.

But a moment alone would be good. You could get your head on straight. You made your way down the hall, and Clint stood in silence behind you.

Beside Clint’s bathtub, there was a box of tiny rubber toys – about a million of them. You saw a pair of pastel duckies and imagined Clint, elbow-deep in suds, swimming them around for his daughter.

He hadn’t told you her name, you realized. Or his last name. He didn’t even know your first.

You looked at your reflection and understood why he’d insisted you clean up. Makeup ran in streaks down your face, and there was dried cum all over your stomach and legs.

You found a towel in the cabinet like he’d said. You ran the edge of it under the faucet, then began to wipe the mess away. Maybe he’d meant for you to take a shower, but it felt way too intimate to do that here. Not in that bathtub, not when you were already staying past your welcome.

A sharp feeling pressed up inside your chest.

You knew what this was. You felt vulnerable after sex sometimes – especially after you came. This was only hormones, and it was to be expected. You’d be perfectly fine in the morning.

The hollow feeling clutched suddenly tight inside you, and maybe you knew where it came from, but it wouldn’t go away. Tears burned behind your eyes, and your face twisted. A hoarse noise pushed up from your throat. And then the sobs came, silent and open-mouthed, each one shaking your chest.

You curled your naked body around the towel and waited it out, praying that Clint wouldn’t hear you.

This would pass. Your body was just confused.

You were fine. You were always fine, in the end.

Tonight wasn’t any exception. You rode out the surge and regained control of your body. You checked your reflection, and it was impossible to tell which tears were new. Clint wouldn’t know anything had happened. You ran fresh water over the towel and scrubbed off your face as best you could.

When you emerged from the bathroom, the living room was empty. The pillow you’d defiled was gone from the couch, and your dress and lingerie sat folded in a pile on the coffee table.

A stack of bills had been set on top of your bra. You counted them out. Fifty dollars.

What the hell? Clint had already paid double. You didn’t need more of his money.

You set the cash aside and put on your clothes, minus the garter belt and your ruined panties. The sound of a faucet running came from the kitchen. You followed it and found Clint washing out your mugs.

His back was to the door, and he seemed not to hear you enter. A pair of pajama pants hung from his hips, and he’d thrown on a thin white t-shirt. Muscles shifted beneath it as he scrubbed, and steam drifted up from the faucet.

Why was he scrubbing? You’d only had hot chocolate.

He washed the same mug for a long time without stopping. It wasn’t until you said his name that he switched off the water.

Clint placed the mug back in the sink. He dried his hands off on his pants and brought them to his face for a moment before he turned.

“Hey,” he said.

His voice sounded strange. You opened your mouth to point out the dish towel he could’ve used. Then you saw that his eyes were red.

“Hi,” you said. You walked over to lean on the counter beside him. “Do you want to talk about it?”

Clint shook his head. “Can’t really afford another conversation.”

It had the cadence of a joke, but neither of you laughed. You set the fifty dollars on the counter.

“Then why did you give me this?”

“12.5%,” Clint said.  “Double. It’s almost 1:30 already. I kept you here too long.”

“Don’t be stupid,” you said. “I’ve been cleaning up for the last fifteen minutes, and I fully fell asleep before then. I can’t charge you for that.”

“I took pictures,” Clint said.

“I begged you to take them.”

“I came all over you.”

“I begged for that, too.”

“But that’s your job. I know you charge extra for shit like that.”

You did, actually, but not as much as he’d paid. And it wasn’t the point.

“I’m not charging you,” you said.

“Then call it a tip.”

“Clint. Why are you trying so hard to give me your money?”

He paused, and his eyes found yours.  

“I don’t know,” he said. “I had a good time tonight.”

“So did I.”

Clint gave you a sad smile. "You don’t need to say that.”

“No,” you said. “Really. Do you seriously think Iwould bother lying to you? If I’d had a bad time, I’d be home by now. And there wouldn’t be pictures on your phone.”

“Do you want me to delete them? You weren’t in your right mind when you agreed.”

“Not unless you want to. And it’s fine if you do. I know photos go against our whole ‘what happens here stays here’ agreement.”

“Right,” Clint said.

He fell quiet. His hands were pink from the water. He still wore his ring – he hadn’t even taken it off to do the dishes.

He’d lost his wife only a year ago.

You were standing here too long, weren’t you? You’d done your job.

“I’m going to leave,” you said.

Clint nodded. Then he reached for your hand.

His skin was warm and damp from the faucet. He swept his thumb over your knuckles, and when he spoke, his voice was hoarse.

“What if I don’t want you to go?”

Your throat felt tight.

“I also don’t want me to go,” you admitted. “But… I don’t think you want me to stay.”

Clint’s brows pulled together. He dropped his eyes and nodded slowly.

“Maybe not,” he said. “I don’t know.”

You squeezed his hand.

“We could do this again? If there’s a first step, there’s got to be a second, right?”

“I don’t know if I can afford that anytime soon.”

You’d meant you could do it for free. You opened your mouth to say as much, and a web of questions tangled around you. What were you going to do, half-date Clint while he was still in the throes of his grief? While you were making a living as a call girl? When there was a little kid involved?

Each one of you was kind of a mess. Together, right now, you’d be a disaster.

You swallowed a heavy feeling.

“Maybe that’s for the best,” you said. “When we got started tonight, you told me there was somebody new in your life, right? Somebody who made you want to take this first step. Maybe the second step can be with her.”

Clint looked at you strangely. He was quiet for a long time.

“Right,” he said finally. “That’s right.”

“Good,” you managed to say. “Thank you, then. For tonight.”

Clint didn’t let go of your hand. With single long motion, he pulled you into his chest.

The warmth of him surrounded you. He smelled like clean laundry, and his body was solid. You melted against him with a sigh.

He slid one hand around your waist. The other cupped the back of your head, and he held you close. You tightened your arms and clutched two fistfuls of his shirt.

You stayed like that longer than you should, the drum of Clint’s heart sounding low beneath your cheek.

Saturday afternoon was close enough to Saturday morning that the diner still bustled with the breakfast rush. Bacon sizzled on the grill and hashbrowns flew from the kitchen. A ton of hashbrowns, really. You guessed that most of the patrons were hungover.

A newborn wailed somewhere in Casey’s section, and nobody was happy about it. Two red-eyed teenagers had already migrated over to your tables, and you didn’t think they’d be the only ones.

Every booth by the window was filled, including Clint’s. But the family who’d taken it was almost done – their plates were empty, and when you offered to refill their coffees, all they wanted was the check.

Not that it mattered. You’d promised yourself that you wouldn’t get your hopes up. Last night had been confusing, and Clint might not want to come back to the diner. You had to be okay with that.

And, yeah, on your way out the door today, maybe you’d made one little decision, one thing you thought he might like.

But you’d be fine if he didn’t show.

You grabbed the family’s check and took a look at the clock. 2:10.

This was about to be the only open booth in your section, and it wouldn’t stay that way for long.

Fuck it. You set a Reserved sign on the table.

Casey greeted you with a knowing look when you came back behind the counter.

“We don’t take reservations on weekends.”

“It’s a one-time thing.”

“Uh-huh. A one-time thing that drives a blue Chevy?”

You stacked up an armful of menus. “It’s good business to look after our regulars.”

Casey nodded solemnly. “Yeah, I’m sure that banana revenue is make-or-break.”

“Shut up,” you muttered.

Casey laughed. “I’m not judging. Hot Dad is hot enough that you’re only being a little insane right now.”

You were being a lot insane, but you didn’t want to dwell on it. You got to work taking the teenagers’ orders. Short stack, eggs, double hashbrowns.

The bell over the door rang, and you spun your head around. It wasn’t him – just the three ladies from the nail salon around the corner. It was only 2:13.

By 2:20, Clint still hadn’t come. Your section clattered with conversation, and Casey’s was starting to fill up too. She looked at the empty table by the window, then back at you.

You’d brewed fresh coffee at the start of your shift, but the pot was already empty. You put on another.

2:28. You were being stupid now. Clint lived so close that he couldn’t be stuck in traffic. You needed the tips from his table, and your manager would start asking questions if he noticed the sign.

At 2:35, you opened up the table. Three men in Warriors colors claimed it at once.

You got the kitchen working on their burgers. You weren’t going to think about the pit in your stomach.

“He’ll come by tomorrow,” Casey said.

You nodded, but you felt certain he wouldn’t. He’d probably come and gone already before your shift.

It was easier this way. In a few days, when you’d gotten a little more sleep, the crush would be out of your system.

You considered taking your fifteen, but you didn’t want to strand Casey with the diner as packed as it was. Instead, you kept yourself busy. You double-checked every order as it came in. You refilled the ketchup bottles. You kept the coffee brewing and cleared empty plates before the busboys could get to them. When the punk kids once again paid with coins, you sorted each one out into the register.

You were sliding the last nickel into place when Casey closed the drawer for you.

“I need your help,” she said. “Hot Dad is here and he won’t take a seat in my section.”

You whipped your head up. There he was, taking up an absurd amount of space behind the hostess stand. His daughter squirmed in his arms and grabbed at his collar with chubby little hands. He didn’t seem to notice. He met your eyes, and his mouth lifted into a smile.

He’d come. He was late as hell, and he was getting in the way of the customers, but he was here.

You left Casey at the register and set off across the diner. Customers tried to catch your attention, but you only barely heard. A busboy swerved out of your path. The long row of booths passed behind you, and you came to a stop at the hostess stand.

This close to Clint, everything else faded. He was back in his usual flannel. His chest rose and fell beneath it when you met his eyes.

“Hey.” His voice was a low, warm rumble. You felt it in your stomach.

“Hi,” you said. “I heard a rumor that you’ve rejected some of our finest tables.”

“I don’t like those tables,” Clint said. “They’re not my table.”

“Yeah, well. Your table is full.”

“I noticed. Can’t believe you gave it away.”

“I gave it away half an hour ago. I thought you weren’t coming.”

“I’m sorry,” Clint said. “Somebody threw a temper tantrum on our way out the door. Sugar crash thanks to her babysitter.”

His daughter chose that moment to snuggle up against him, smushing her tiny cheek into his chest. She looked up at you with big, dark eyes. Oh God, they ran in the family.

“I don’t know,” you said. “She looks pretty innocent to me.”

As if to prove your point, her mouth stretched into a yawn.

“Don’t fall for it,” Clint said. “She had me on the ropes ten minutes ago.” He looked down at her. “Hey, Emily,” he said softly. “Tell the nice lady what you did.”

She blinked sleepily. “Da.”

“She’s trying to say she screamed out a lung.”

“Oh, obviously,” you said. “But it’s a hard sound for toddlers to make, right?”

Clint grinned. “Exactly.”

He looked back up to you, then caught sight of something on your uniform. He froze.

You felt a nervous little rush in your chest.

“Hey,” Clint said. “You remembered your name tag.”

“I… yeah. I thought maybe… some customers… would want to know.”

“That’s good,” Clint said quietly. “I’m happy for… them.”

There was no reason for the giddy feeling inside you. Nothing had changed since your conversation with Clint last night. Nothing had really changed since yesterday.

You let out a shaky breath.

“Okay,” you said. “Well. Can I get you set up at one of the other tables?”

Clint looked over to Casey’s side of the diner, where two booths were still free. The newborn had finally stopped crying, but it was taking the crowd a moment to reset.

“Those tables aren’t in your section.”

“No. But it’s the same banana you’d get from me.”

“That’s alright,” Clint said. “I’ll stick with my normal spot. I don’t want any other, uh, table.”

He held your eyes carefully. A warm feeling bloomed inside your chest.

“That table isn’t ready,” you said. “It’s going to be a long time before it’s ready. And you might not be ready. To, uh, sit at it.”

A smile played at the edges of Clint’s mouth.

“I know,” he said. “But I want to stick around. I’ve got a feeling it’s gonna be worth the wait.”

If you enjoyed the story, comments and reblogs make my day! 💖💖

end notes: If you liked the way Clint ordered reader around, I did something similar in part 3 of my completed series what you can't have. Cameraman!Joel is a similar pining-y, flannel-clad dad, so you may like that one.

taglist: @burningnerdchild @okiegal68 @shadowqueen2024 @milla-frenchy @the-sophverse @cozymochaa @pleurspetal @bratty-spicee @pedrit0-pascalit0 @ptolemaea444 @perpetualharpyresonance @littlepedrito @whimsywhisper0899 @copperhalfcent @time-for-my-weekly-spanking @daniel-bruhhl @mcthsman

If you'd like to be added to my generic taglist, please shoot me a message.

[djotime]

Pedro Pascal as Clint Flood Freaky Tales (2025) dir. Anna Boden & Ryan Fleck

[pedrospascaled]

PEDRO PASCAL as Clint Flood Freaky Tales (2025) dir. Ryan Fleck & Anna Boden

[missadangel]

Safety Off

Pairing: Clint Flood x F!Reader

Summary: There’s a lotta ways a Friday night can go sideways. For a debt collector, most of them ain’t pretty. But getting robbed by a fine-ass thief? That’s new. Her gun? Safety off. His temper? Already ON.

WC: 18.5k (oops)

Rating: Explicit +18 MDNI

Tags and Warnings: smut, graphic violence, explicit sexual content, injury, dubious morality, mentions of abuse, mention of drugs, gun violence, mention of death, spoilers from the movie, smoking, alcohol use, swearing, 80s vibes, sexual tension, explicit language, hair pulling, spanking, choking, nipple play, rough kissing, multiple orgasms, creampie, dirty talk, rough sex, angry sex, fingering, p i v sex, doggy style, size kink (Clint is a big boy), gun play kink, sexual tension, power dynamics, possessive behavior, angst, dom/sub undertones, enemies to lovers, slow burn-ish, mutual pining (subtle), morally grey characters, crime au, protective clint, dangerous reader, smart reader, badass female reader, non-specific age gap, reader robs Clint, minimal description of reader, she only has a neck scar, younger and shorter than Clint, canon-divergent (clint’s wife and daughter did not survive), set one year later

A/N: this fic was written for the sweetest @time-for-my-weekly-spanking 's #2026kinkychallenge — thank you so much for giving me the chance to take part in it, my darling. ❤️ sorry it took me a while… I really wanted to do it justice (and you know i can never keep things short). This is my first Clint fic, so please be kind, hope you all like it! Enjoy the ride!

and special thanks to my lovely @arcane-fox — for beta-ing and always being there for me. you’re truly an angel 💋

angel's masterlist . ao3

May 12, 1989

CLINT The engine had been off long enough for the ticking to fade.

Clint didn’t check the time. He didn’t need to. The sky had already done the counting—sunset bleeding into a bruised purple, the last strip of orange swallowed behind the motel roofline. The neon sign flickered once, twice, then steadied.

SUNDOWN MOTEL.

The S buzzed like it was thinking about giving up.

He kept both hands on the steering wheel. Not tight. Not loose. Just there.

Second floor. Third door from the stairs. He’d watched it long enough to be certain.

The light was on. You were inside. Waiting.

He knew it.

The gun sat in the glove compartment. Cleaned that morning. Loaded. Safety on.

The job was simple.

Go in. Take the money. Bring her in. Leave.

Except it wasn’t.

A truck roared past on the highway, headlights slicing across the motel windows before disappearing into the dark. The office television cast a dull blue glow through dusty blinds. No one watching. No one caring.

Clint shifted in his seat.

The two-weeks old wound tugged when he moved his arm too far. Not deep. Not fatal. But it had stayed with him. His fingers brushed the scar beneath his shirt before he caught himself and let his hand fall.

It left a mark in the muscle. It left something else deeper.

And that made tonight harder than it should’ve been.

He lit a cigarette. The flare of the lighter burned too bright inside the car. He didn’t take his eyes off the room. Smoke gathered between him and the windshield, thin and restless.

Weeks of chasing ghosts.

A rental clerk who remembered the scar. Kids who wouldn’t say your name twice. Dead ends dressed up as leads.

And now you were ten yards away.

Two minutes to the stairs. Thirty seconds to the door. One pull of a trigger.

If he pulled it.

He’d been angry before. Wanted people dead before.

That part was easy.

This wasn’t.

You’d shot him. Stolen from him. Made him look weak.

That should’ve been enough.

It wasn’t.

Ever since the day he lost everything, he’d made rules for himself. Lines he didn’t cross. Things he didn’t allow. Attachments. Weakness. Hope.

You complicated everything.

And something else.

Like Russian roulette—no middle ground.

Either he hated you.

Or—

He crushed the thought before it finished forming.

The neon buzzed again.

He didn’t move.

The curtain shifted. Or maybe it was just the air conditioner kicking on. Hard to tell from this distance. Clint reached for the glove compartment this time. Opened it. Took the gun. The metal felt steady. Familiar. Reliable in a way nothing else was.

He stepped out of the car.

The night air was cooler than he expected. Early May still carried the edge of spring after dark.

He dropped the cigarette, ground it beneath his heel. Slid the gun into the back of his waistband.

He looked up at the window one last time.

His pulse kicked— not fear. Something worse.

Reckless.

Like he was about to make a mistake instead of a decision.

He shook it off.

Didn’t help.

Then he started toward the stairs.

Slow. Measured.

One hand hovering near the gun at his back.

The memory came anyway.

The first time he saw you.

The start of the whole damn mess.

May 6, 1989

One Week Earlier

On a Friday night in Oakland, normal people did normal things.

They lined up outside neon-lit bars. They packed into loud houses where music bled into the street. Someone fell in love. Someone got into a fight.

That’s how Fridays worked.

Clint didn’t do Fridays.

Fridays were collection nights.

They hadn’t always been.

A year and a half ago, Fridays used to mean something else.

Dinner reservations. Takeout cartons on the coffee table. Her feet in his lap while some late movie played in the background.

Then a job followed him home.

After that, the calendar stopped meaning anything.

He didn’t laugh much anymore. Didn’t joke. Didn’t smile unless it was strictly functional.

The men he collected from used to call him cold. Now they called him efficient. He preferred that.

Now you might be wondering — Why was he still doing this? Why keep walking into rooms full of men who would shoot him if they thought they could get away with it?

Fair question.

Because The Guy had made him an offer.

One last stretch. A few high-value collections.

After that, his file disappears.

No warrants. No flagged reports. No ghosts on paper. A clean slate. New city. New name.

And before you ask —Did he trust The Guy?

No. Hell no.

But that wasn’t really the point. Trust was for people with options. This was leverage. A transaction.

The Guy needed Clint to finish strong. Clint needed The Guy to erase him.

Simple. On paper. Trust wasn’t part of the agreement. Leverage was. And Clint didn’t have much left to trade. When a man loses everything, the last thing he holds onto isn’t hope.

It’s control.

He’d spent the last year and a half punishing himself with the worst jobs.

The dirtiest ones.

The kind you don’t tell stories about.

He told himself it was penance.

That if he stayed in the dark long enough, it might balance something out.

Normal life felt like mercy.

And mercy was something he didn’t believe he deserved.

But he was tired.

Tired of Oakland. Tired of walking into rooms where everyone already knew what he was. Tired of being the man who ruined evenings.

If he stayed, he would always be that Clint.

Time hadn’t softened the loss.

It hadn’t dulled the shot that still echoed in his head.

But maybe distance would.

Maybe if he left, the air would feel different.

Maybe somewhere else he could breathe without remembering.

This Friday was supposed to be the last one.

Deliver the money. Collect the file. Disappear.

He wouldn’t retire. He would vanish. So much for a quiet exit. Clint, of course, had no idea.

In less than fifteen minutes, he would meet the woman who was about to derail the last plan he had left.

The pool hall on 14th was thick with cigarette smoke and cheap cologne.

Neon beer signs hummed against wood-paneled walls.

The crack of billiard balls echoed sharp and clean over low rock playing from a jukebox that hadn’t been updated since ’79.

Men laughed too loud. Money changed hands too fast.

Clint stood near the back office door, quiet as a shadow in a leather jacket that had seen more nights than most of the men in the room.

The owner handed over an envelope without argument.

Smart.

Inside: cash. Folded tight. Warm from someone else’s pocket.

“Tell him we’re square this week,” the owner muttered.

Clint didn’t promise anything.

He tucked the envelope inside his jacket and walked out without finishing his beer.

Outside, Oakland air hit cooler than it had any right to be.

The parking lot was a mix of shadow and broken streetlight glow.

His car sat where he’d left it. Quiet. Unremarkable. He unlocked it. Slid into the driver’s seat. Door shut. Key turned. Click—

Cold steel pressed into the back of his neck.

A barrel. Not shaking. Not accidental.

“Don’t.”

A woman’s voice. Calm. Close.

Clint didn’t flinch.

His eyes flicked to the rearview mirror.

The weight told him plenty — small frame, steady grip. Not amateur.

His fingers eased off the steering wheel slightly.

Buying himself a second.

From the back seat, you leaned forward into the rearview reflection.

Eyes sharp.

Amused.

The gun steady in your hand.

“Put the money on the dash, handsome,” you said, gesturing lightly with the barrel.

Clint’s eyes flicked to the mirror again. Assessing. Not panicked. Just irritated. “You’re making a mistake,” he said.

“Money, Clint. Dash. Now.”

His eyes narrowed. You knew his name. That changed things.

For half a second it looked like he might refuse. Then he moved.

One hand slipped inside his leather jacket.

You adjusted the barrel slightly against his temple. “Easy,” you said softly. His fingers found the envelope against his ribs. He pulled it free slowly. “Good,” you murmured. “Nice and slow.”

His jaw flexed. The envelope came out fully. He could try for the gun. He’d done worse under pressure. But he wasn’t interested in getting his head blown off tonight. He placed the envelope on the dashboard.

Then you moved. Fluid. Controlled.

One leg sliding over the console, folding forward between the seats with quiet precision.

Your hair brushed the shoulder of his leather jacket. Not perfume. Something lighter. Clean.

Wrong place for a scent like that.

The muzzle never drifted. Too smooth to be luck.

His shoulder tensed.

“Uh-uh,” you murmured. “Don’t move. I’m not in the mood to clean brains off the leather… and I like your face the way it is.” There was amusement in your voice. You took the money. Never breaking eye contact. Clint finally turned his head enough to see you fully.

Up close.

For a second, it didn’t register.

Then it did.

And his mind went straight to work—

distance, angle, timing.

How to take you down—

without getting his brains blown out first.

The choker caught his attention, then the scar beneath it.

Right side of your neck. Not recent.

“Who the hell are you?” he asked.

You gave him a small, knowing smile. “Someone who checks the back seat. You should try it sometime.”

His eyes darkened. Stealing his money and cracking jokes.

Jesus.

You leaned closer, the gun still steady.

“That all?” you asked quietly. “Or you hiding something else in that jacket?”

Your hand brushed lower than necessary along his thigh before correcting upward.

He went rigid. A small flinch he couldn’t stop.

“Oops,” you said, not sounding sorry at all. “My bad.”

His voice dropped. “You’re playing a dangerous game.”

“Relax,” you replied softly. “I did my homework.” That made him still.

“You’re predictable.”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“You’ll figure it out.” Your fingers slipped inside his inner jacket pocket. You found the cigarette pack. Paused. Smiled. “Well,” you said lightly, pulling your hand back out, “looks like you’re telling the truth.”

His jaw tightened. “Done?”

“Almost.”

Still watching him, you slipped the envelope inside your own jacket.

“You touch that,” he said quietly, “you better be ready for what comes after.”

“Hm,” you said. “Tempting.”

“Put it back.”

You tilted your head like you were considering it. “Hm. I’m thinking no.”

He exhaled slowly.

“Nothing personal, Clint.”

His eyes darkened. “You shove a gun in my face, dig through my jacket, steal my money, and you’re tellin’ me it ain’t personal? You bet your ass it’s personal.”

“Oh,” you said lightly. “Are you flirting with me?”

“Lady, you’re about three bad decisions away from getting yourself shot.”

You smiled faintly. “Then I guess you’d better make the first one count.” Still aiming at him, you opened the passenger door slowly. One foot touched pavement. Then the other. “Well,” you said lightly, “this has been a lovely conversation.”

You moved like you’d rehearsed it. “Try checking the back seat next time.”

Then you were gone.

Clint counted to one.

Then he moved.

He grabbed the revolver from the glove compartment and flipped the cylinder open. Empty. “The fuck?”

Across the lot, an engine roared to life. A red ’86 Camaro. You leaned out the driver’s window. “Looking for these?”

Something small arced through the air. Metal clattered across the asphalt. Bullets rolled across the pavement. You held his gaze through the windshield. You gave him a slow wink. “See you around, handsome.” Then you blew him a kiss. The Camaro peeled out of the lot.

Clint exhaled once. “Fuck.” He jumped back into his car. Key turned. The engine coughed. Once. Twice.

Then died. “You’ve gotta be kidding me…” He tried again. Nothing. “Son of a—” He stepped out and popped the hood. Under the dim streetlight he scanned the engine.

It didn’t take long. Distributor cap — loosened just enough to fail.

He tightened it. Then he saw it.

A small square of paper tucked near the hood latch. A lipstick mark.

Under it, in neat handwriting:

Should’ve listened.

Clint stared at it.

Then reached into his jacket pocket. The first note was still there. Left on his windshield last week. He unfolded it beneath the streetlight.

How many more jobs follow you home?

Then another slip of paper. Two days ago.

Not every job is worth finishing. Come find me.

He held both slips side by side.

Same handwriting. Same pressure. Same deliberate slant.

Yeah.

You’d been watching him.

Looks like she found me first, he thought.

He let out a slow breath. “Who the hell…”

He folded the notes carefully. Thinking.

Nobody had ever tried to rob Clint Flood before.

Most people knew better.

But this woman had.

And you’d done it while looking him straight in the eye.

“Alright,” he muttered, his jaw tightening as he slid the notes back into his jacket.

“My fucking turn.”

The next morning.

Dick's restaurant.

Dawson chewed slowly, watching Clint over the fork.

“The Guy’s not happy, Clint.”

Clint leaned back slightly. “Didn’t realize you’d been promoted to messenger.”

“So how’d you lose it?” Dawson asked, grinning like a rat. “What, she blew you and you tipped her with his money?”

He snorted and shoveled another forkful of eggs into his mouth.

For a moment, Clint pictured it—

fist in Dawson’s hair, slamming his face into the table, hard enough to shake it—plates jumping.

He was good at that.

Especially with people who deserved it.

He let it go.

“Careful, Dawson,” he snarled. “Wouldn’t want that to be your last meal.”

For a second Dawson’s grin faltered.

Then it came back.

“You lost the money,” he said between bites. “That makes it your debt now.”

Of course it did.

That was how these things worked.

Dawson wiped his mouth with a napkin and slid out of the booth.

“Find the girl.”

He adjusted his jacket.

“If I were you…” he said casually, “I’d start with the car.”

He turned and walked toward the door.

Clint grabbed his coffee and took a slow sip.

“Yeah,” he muttered. “Guess I will.”

An hour later.

The rental office smelled like old carpet and burnt coffee.

A dusty fan turned slowly above the counter.

Clint rested one hand on the desk.

“Red ’86 Camaro,” he said. “Rented last week.”

The man behind the counter squinted at the computer screen.

“Yeah,” he muttered. “Still out.”

Clint’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Still out?”

The clerk leaned back in his chair.

“Girl who rented it never brought it back.”

Clint waited a moment.

“No ID?”

The man shook his head.

“Cash rental. Happens sometimes.”

“You sure she didn’t leave anything?”

“Look, pal—”

“Clint.”

“—Clint. I already told the cops the same thing. No ID. No address. No phone.”

His gaze didn’t move.

“Think again.”

The man rubbed his temple like Clint was giving him a headache.

“I am thinking. And I’m telling you the same damn thing. Lady walked in, paid cash, took the keys.”

Clint leaned slightly on the counter.

“You remember what she looked like.”

The man frowned, trying to recall.

“Couple things, yeah.”

For a moment he described you, piecing the memory together.

Then he lifted a hand and gestured near his own neck.

“Had a scar. Right here.”

Clint felt the faintest pull in his chest.

Yeah.

That was you.

“Leather jacket. Boots. Classy kinda woman.”

He added and glanced over his shoulder at the wall behind him.

A couple old movie posters were pinned there.

“More like… movie-star.”

Clint followed his gaze to the posters.

“Sounds like her.”

He exhaled quietly.

“You got any idea where she was headed? Mention anything?”

The clerk’s patience snapped.

“Listen, homie—”

He jabbed a finger toward Clint.

“I want my car back a hell of a lot more than you do.”

His voice rose.

“Cops already dragged me into this mess because that damn Camaro got mixed up in some crime.”

“I can’t even get the car back from impound right now, alright?”

Clint didn’t react.

The man huffed and pointed toward the back of the shop.

“My kid was there that day too.”

Near the back door, a teenager stiffened.

“Lucid,” the man said. “My son.”

Lucid didn’t look up.

“Uh… yeah. I mean—I-I was there but d-don't know anything about t-that woman.”

Then he grabbed a broom leaning against the wall and started sweeping a perfectly clean floor.

Clint watched him.

Too fast. Too nervous.

Not lying.

Just not saying.

Clint’s eyes narrowed slightly.

Silence stretched for a second.

Then Clint tapped the counter twice with his fingers.

“Alright,” he said.

He stepped back.

Turned toward the door.

He already knew where to look next.

Later that day.

Grease-streaked glass between him and the diner. Clint watched from across the street.

Lucid sat in a booth near the front. Across from him sat a girl Clint didn’t recognize. Lucid slid a small box across the table.

The girl opened it. “Oh, shit—whoa.”

Even through the glass Clint saw metal catch the morning light.

Inside—dark metal. Spiked. Not subtle. “It’s fucking awesome.” She turned it in her hands, admiring it.“I love it. Thank you.”

Lucid shrugged, trying to look casual. “Of course.”

The girl slipped the bracelet onto her wrist and lifted her arm, watching the spikes glint.

Then Lucid froze. His eyes shifted toward the window. Toward Clint. “Wait,” he muttered. “You might wanna put that away.”

Across the street Clint opened the car door and stepped out. He crossed the street without rushing. Didn’t need to.

A moment later he pushed through the diner door. The bell above it jingled.

Lucid went rigid in the booth. The girl lowered her arm quickly, sliding the bracelet beneath the table.

Clint didn’t look at them. Not yet.

He walked past their booth like he hadn’t even noticed they were there and slid into an empty table a few feet away.

A waitress somewhere behind the counter called out a tired “Morning.”

Clint gave the smallest nod. Then his eyes drifted across the diner.

Coffee cups. Chrome napkin holders. A tired trucker at the counter. Then they stopped.

On the girl’s neck.

Black leather. Silver charm.

Clint’s jaw tightened. Yeah. He knew that.

He’d seen it before—against your throat. The detail had lodged somewhere in his mind without him realizing it.

Clint sat there for another second. Then he stood. Turned. And walked back toward their booth. He stopped beside the table. “Can I see it?”

They exchanged a glance. Lucid gave the smallest nod. The girl lifted the choker slightly so Clint could see it.

Clint studied it for a second. “Who’s it for?”

“Nazis.”

“Aim for the neck.”

They looked at each other and grinned.

Clint rested one hand on the back of a chair and leaned slightly toward them. “That necklace,” he said quietly. “Looks familiar.” His eyes shifted to the girl. Meaningfully. “Someone give it to you?” Silence hung over the table. Then Clint spoke again, softer now. “You saw her that night, didn’t you.” His eyes moved between them. “I need to find that woman before the cops do. Maybe you can help me out.”

“It was a crazy night,” the girl said. “Couple skinheads cornered us outside the rink. And this red Camaro pulled up.”

“She stepped out.” Lucid shook his head. “Man… it was like a fucking movie scene.”

Clint narrowed his eyes.

“She beat the hell out of them.” She touched the choker. “One of those idiots grabbed my necklace and ripped it off.” She shrugged. "After she finished with them…She gave me this.”

Clint’s eyes lingered on it. “She take them all down?” he asked. “By herself?”

They nodded.

Still a little amazed.

Lucid grinned. “She moved like Bruce Lee or something. Like she knew what she was doing.”

She laughed. “Yeah. Fuckin’ Nazis got what they deserved. She’s kinda my hero now.”

Clint straightened slowly. The smiles at the table faded. “Why’d she leave the car?” He asked. “And how’d she get out of there?”

She thought for a second. “I don’t know why. But we heard police sirens. She grabbed a bag from the car and just disappeared.”

Something clicked.

Cooper’s money.

For a brief second, something almost like a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

Cooper humiliated. Nazis beaten. Not bad work. “Alright,” he said, turning toward the door.“Thanks, kids.”

The girl hesitated. “You’re not gonna hurt her… right?”

Clint didn’t answer.

He just gave them a small nod over his shoulder. “Stay safe.” Then he walked out.

They watched him go.

Neither of them spoke until the door closed.

Clint found the Camaro two days later.

Parked three blocks from where it had been abandoned. The cops had already gone through it. There was nothing useful inside.

No name. No address. No paper trail.

Just the faint smell of your perfume in the upholstery. Still there.

And a cigarette pack in the glove compartment. One cigarette missing.

Another one crushed in the ashtray. A faint smear of lipstick on the filter.

Clint stared at it. Too long. That was all you left behind.

That—and questions. He’d spent enough time thinking about who you were. Now— what you were doing.

Not random. Pool hall. Small money. Protection.

Cooper. Mid-level. Distribution.

Next step wasn’t smaller.

It was bigger.

And it all landed somewhere.

Usually the same place.

Rico?

Clint wrote the name beneath the others.

POOL HALL COOPER RICO

He tapped the pen once against the table. “Red Lagoon,” he murmured. Rico’s nightclub. “Working her way up.” Clint stood and grabbed his jacket from the chair. “She’s going straight for the vault.”

YOU

Red Lagoon.

The bass hit before you even stepped inside.

Low. Heavy. Mechanical.

By the time the door shut behind you, the music had already climbed into your ribs.

Smoke hung under the ceiling lights like fog trapped indoors.

Red neon bled across sweating bodies on the dance floor.

Laughter echoed somewhere in the dark.

A glass shattered near the bar.

The sharp chemical smell of cheap cocaine floated above everything else.

Perfect.

Exactly the kind of place where people stopped paying attention.

You walked toward the bar without rushing.

Slow steps.

Confident.

The dark-red dress hugged your body just enough to turn heads, the slit high along your thigh revealing a flash of skin every time you moved.

Damn.

You looked devastating tonight.

And you knew it.

Heads turned as you passed—

a drink paused mid-air, someone whistled under their breath.

You ignored it.

They weren’t the target.

You reached the bar and slid onto a stool, leaning one elbow lazily on the counter.

“Whiskey… please,” you said softly, letting just a hint of playful sweetness slip into your voice.

The bartender looked up immediately.

Of course he did.

He poured.

Your eyes moved casually around the room while he worked.

Security by the door.

Two of them.

Armed.

Three more stood scattered near the dance floor pretending to enjoy the music.

And above it all—

The office.

Frosted glass overlooked the club floor like a watchtower. That was where the safe would be. You felt the weight of the revolver strapped against your garter. Comforting. Hidden. Exactly where it needed to be.

You took the glass when it slid toward you and brought it slowly to your lips.

The whiskey burned as it went down. Strong. Clean. You let the warmth settle in your chest. A little courage never hurt. Alright. You glanced up again. There.

Rico.

At the top of the stairs like the place belonged to him.

And it did.

Silk shirt open at the chest, gold chain catching the light.

Cigarette between his fingers.

Whiskey in the other hand.

Two men trailed behind him like shadows.

He leaned against the railing, looking down over the crowd—not watching.

Owning.

Your eyes narrowed slightly.

So that was him.

Everyone in Oakland knew the name Red Rico.

Nobody seemed to know his real one.

His attention drifted lazily across the floor, lingering too long on the women below.

One laughed when he whistled.

That told you enough.

You suppressed a small grimace.

Not your type.

But tonight, that didn’t matter.

Rico moved product for The Guy.

Which meant upstairs—cash.

And the list.

Your gaze stayed on him just a second longer.

Get him alone. Find the safe. Take what you came for.

Simple. In theory.

You exhaled quietly.

Men like Rico noticed two kinds of women— the ones begging for attention, and the ones who didn’t need it. The second kind drove them crazy.

You rested your elbow on the bar and slowly circled the rim of your glass with a finger tipped in dark red polish.

Come on. Notice.

You took another slow sip of whiskey.

Let him come to you. Except he didn’t.

He was too busy eyeing the women around the dance floor, his gaze shameless and hungry.

One of them leaned against the bar laughing too loudly, swaying slightly as she talked to someone.

Her makeup was heavy, mascara smudged under her eyes, lipstick bleeding at the edges.

Rico whistled at her.

She threw her head back dramatically.

He watched her for a moment, then took a long drink of whiskey without even trying to hide it.

You studied him quietly.

Ah.

So maybe you had overestimated him. Simple man. Simple tastes.

Your lips twitched slightly.

Sexy and dumb it was.

Just then one of his men stepped closer and leaned in, whispering something in Rico’s ear.

Rico nodded once and started heading down the stairs toward the floor, saying something to his men as they moved toward the hallway.

Damn.

If he walked away—game over.

You didn’t let that happen. You moved. Fast. New plan.

You slid off the stool, taking a quick breath as you adjusted the neckline of your dress—just enough.

Then you moved.

Straight toward him. Head tilted. Eyes soft. Locked. Halfway there, you let your step falter—just enough.

“Careful there, sweetheart— you alright?”

You barely looked at the man.

And then—

You stumbled into Rico. His drink sloshed as his hands caught your arms. For a split second, he froze.

“Hey—”

“’S fine,” Rico said, lifting a hand without looking away from you.

Good.

Your lips parted softly.

“Oh—I’m so sorry,” you murmured, leaning in just enough for him to hear you. “I was trying to find the restroom.” You shifted slightly. Just enough. Then you pulled back.Your fingers smoothed your dress over your hips, slow and deliberate. Your eyes never left his. Five seconds. That was all it took. Then you turned—and walked.

You felt it immediately.

His gaze on you. Heavy. Tracking. Perfect. Just before the restroom door, you glanced back over your shoulder—and gave him a slow, teasing wink.

Then you disappeared inside.

The music dulled behind the door.

You exhaled slowly.

“God… he looked like a hyena in a silk shirt,” you muttered. “Fucking sleazeball.” You reapplied your lipstick in the mirror, steady. The bait was in the water. Now it just had to bite.

A quick check—the revolver still sat snug against your thigh.

You looked at your reflection. “I look like a damn hooker.” A small smile. “Come on, girl… you’ve got this.”

Back on the floor— his eyes found you instantly. Still on you.

Nice.

The bartender leaned in with a lazy grin. “Another whiskey, pretty thing? A face like yours could make a man forget his own name.”

You laughed lightly. “Well, thank you,” you said, lifting the glass. “That’s very kind of you.”

Halfway through your drink— “Hey lady. Boss wants a word.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Does he?”

“Yeah, doll. Looks like it’s your lucky day.”

Slowly, you turned your head.

Rico.

Watching. Waiting.

You smiled sweetly. “Oh… you have no idea.” You slid off the stool.

Perfect.

Exactly how you wanted this to go.

You walked toward the VIP section without rushing, the slit of your dress shifting with each step.

A few heads turned.

You didn’t look.

Rico didn’t move when you reached him.

He leaned back instead, taking his time looking you over—slow. Appraising. Then he grinned. “Well damn,” he said. “Didn’t think you’d actually accept my invitation, sweetheart.”

You slid onto the couch beside him.

Close enough.

“Invitation?” you said lightly. “Your guy made it sound more like a command.”

That made him laugh.

His arm stretched along the back of the couch behind you, settling like it belonged there. “You gave me a hard time earlier,” he said, voice lower now. “Walking away like that.”

You tilted your head.“Did I?”

“Yeah,” he said with a crooked grin. “Most girls around here try a lot harder.”

Your lips curved slightly. “Maybe I’m not most girls.”

He liked that. You saw it. His hand slid down to your thigh. Your stomach turned. You didn’t show it. “You know,” you murmured near his ear, “this place is a little loud for conversation.” Your fingers brushed the rim of his glass—then slipped away. “Why don’t we find somewhere quieter?” A glance. Upstairs.

He followed it.

Then looked back at you— grinning. “Well hell…” he muttered. “Now that’s the best idea I’ve heard all night.” He finished his drink in one swallow. “C’mon, baby.”

Perfect.

Upstairs, his arm draped around your shoulders as he talked— money, the club, himself.

You barely listened.

The office door shut behind you. The bass dulled to a distant pulse.

Cologne. Smoke. Coke.

Your eyes moved once— and landed on it. The safe. There.

Rico didn’t notice. He was too busy watching you. “Drink, angel?” he asked.

“Sure.” You moved deeper into the room, fingers trailing along the back of the couch. The glass slid toward you. You took it. Didn’t break eye contact. That, he liked.

Rico leaned against the desk, studying you. Your mind ran through it—

door closed. noise covered. guards outside. time limited.

“Nice office,” you said.

He spread his arms. “Like it?”

You glanced around once. “Big. So is your ego.”

He grinned. “Oh yeah?” he chuckled. “Baby, my ego ain’t the only thing around here that’s big.”

Of course.

His hand found your waist. Then your hip. Pulling you down— on the couch. On top of you. Your stomach twisted. You held steady.

“I think we’re done with the small talk,” he said. “C’mon, baby…”

His hand slid— testing.

Owning.

You smiled. Sweet. Your hand moved slowly down your thigh. Found the grip. Cold metal. Ready.

Too close now.

His breath—sour. His mouth at your neck—Ugh. Enough.

You moved. Fast.

CRACK.

The butt of the gun slammed into his temple. His eyes rolled back. He collapsed forward into you. You shoved him off. He hit the carpet hard. You stepped back, straightening your dress.

“Sweet dreams,” you murmured.

You grabbed the roll of tape from the desk drawer, quickly wrapping his wrists and ankles before dragging him up into the leather chair and securing him there.

You searched his pockets quickly.

Wallet. Lighter. But no key. Of course it wasn’t that easy.

You glanced back at the safe. Combination. You tried the handle.

Locked.

Which meant you needed him awake. You turned and slapped Rico across the face. Once. Twice. A third time harder.

His eyelids fluttered. He groaned, blinking up at you in confusion before recognition hit. The side of his face was already turning red where you struck him. “What the—”

You pressed the gun hard against his forehead.

“Tell me the code,” you said coldly. “Now. Or I blow your brains all over this nice carpet. Understand?”

Rico stared at you for a second. Then he started laughing. “So it’s you,” he muttered. “That bitch robbed Clint and Cooper?” He snorted. “Ah shit… you have no idea what you had just walked into.”

You rolled your eyes. “Blah blah blah. I didn’t have time for this. The code.”

“Fuck you,” he spat. “You thought you could walk in here, pull this shit and walk out? I’m gonna kill you.”

“The code,” you said, pressed the barrel harder into his skin. “Or you die first.”

Then his eyes narrowed. “You don’t have the balls, lady.”

You studied him for a second. Then you leaned closer.“Yeah,” you said quietly. “You’re right.” A beat. “But you have a pair I could work with.”

Your hand moved down suddenly.

Before he even realized what was happening, your fingers closed around him through the fabric of his pants, cupping his balls —and you squeezed.

Hard.

Rico’s entire body jolted against the chair. “What the—”

Your grip tightened. “The code, lover boy.”

Your fingers tightened again. “Say it.”

Rico gasped. “Jesus—! Stop, stop!” His face turned bright red.

You tilted your head slightly. “Oh.” A small smile curled on your lips. “So that’s why they called you Red Rico.”

“Fucking whore!” he snarled, spit flying. “I’m gonna carve that pretty face of yours up when I got loose, ya hear me?”

You squeezed harder.

“Alright! Alright!” he gasped. “Stop—ahh. Damn it.”

He panted sharply.

“Fifteen left— seventeen right— twenty-one left! Stop it—”

You held the pressure one second longer.

Just to be sure.

Then you released him.

Rico collapsed back into the chair, breathing like he had just run a mile.

You straightened slowly.

“See?” you said calmly. “That wasn’t so hard.”

You turned to the safe.

The lock turned with a heavy metallic click.

The door opened.

Stacks of cash.

Bundles wrapped in rubber bands.

Two handguns.

And a black ledger notebook.

Names. Numbers. Routes. Police payoffs.

Jackpot.

You shoved the ledger into your bag and swept several bundles of cash into the duffel you found near the desk.

Behind you Rico growled through clenched teeth. “You crazy fuckin’ bitch,” he snarled. “You really think you can walk into my club, hit my safe, and just walk the hell out?” The chair scraped across the floor. “That’s The Guy’s money you just touched.” A sharp, ugly grin. “You’re dead the second he hears about this.”

You slung the duffel over your shoulder. “Your boss is about to have much bigger things to worry about.”

“The hell was that supposed to mean?” He leaned forward in the chair, straining against the tape. “You think you’re walking outta here with that?” he snarled. “My boys’ll tear this whole city apart looking for you. They’ll find you. Drag you back here piece by piece.”

You sighed, stepping in and pressing the tape firmly over his mouth. “Ugh… you’re cuter when you’re quiet.”

Rico jerked against the chair immediately. “Mmmph—! Mmff—!”

You gave him a sweet smile. “Much better.”

Then you turned and walked toward the door. His muffled curse followed you.

You tucked the revolver back into the garter beneath the slit of your dress and opened the door.

Time to disappear. You stepped toward the door—

And froze.

From the narrow crack of the door you looked down over the club floor, past the railing and the stairwell below and you saw him.

Clint.

Your pulse jumped.

You went still.

The music from the club throbbed through the walls, bass shaking the floor beneath your feet, bodies moving in red neon below—but underneath it, cutting clean through the noise—

His voice.

Low. Calm. Dangerous.

Rico’s men shifted uneasily near the stairwell.

One of them paused halfway up the steps, frowning when he saw who had just entered the hallway.

“Flood?” he said, surprised. “The hell you doin’ here? It ain’t collection night.”

A couple of the other guards exchanged looks, half-grinning like idiots who had just realized the board had changed and nobody told them.

Clint didn’t smile. He stepped forward slowly. The hallway felt smaller. “Where’s Rico?”

“Boss is… um… busy.”

Clint tilted his head slightly.

“Busy how?”

Another guard snorted. “With a chick.”

Something tightened in Clint’s expression. “Which chick?”

His eyes lifted toward the balcony above just as the office door shifted—barely a movement.

But he caught it.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

You eased the door shut again and shoved a chair beneath the handle—just enough to slow someone down if they tried to push it open.

A few seconds.

That was all you needed.

You grabbed the duffel and slung it under your arm.

Rico jerked violently in the chair behind you, muffled rage bursting through the tape across his mouth as he struggled against the bindings.

You gave him a light pat on the shoulder. “Enjoy the afterglow.”

Then you slipped through the side door behind the desk.

The back passage twisted through the building like a narrow artery—dim lights, damp walls, the smell of spilled beer and old cigarette smoke clinging to everything.

You moved quickly but carefully. No alarms. No mistakes. Behind you the muffled chaos of the club continued—music pounding, voices shouting—until another sound slipped through it.

Bootsteps. Heavy. Fast.

You reached the alley exit just as two guards stepped in front of the door, blocking your path.

Instinct took over.

Your first movement was light, almost graceful.

The nearest guard swung an arm at you— too slow.

You slipped under it. Your elbow drove hard into his ribs. The air blasted out of him in a strangled grunt as he staggered sideways. The second guard lunged. You pivoted on the ball of your foot, sweeping your leg low. Your heel hooked behind his ankle and twisted sharply.

His balance vanished. He crashed into the brick wall beside the door. Behind you the first guard scrambled toward the revolver that had slipped from his hand during the struggle. You stepped down hard. Your heel crushed onto his wrist.

Bone smacked against concrete with a dull crack.

The gun slipped uselessly from his fingers.

You kicked it away and drove your shoulder into his chest, sending him collapsing against the alley wall.

Smooth.

Years of training distilled into a few seconds of movement. Then you were running again. Back through the corridor. Down the stairs.

The club floor exploded into view—lights flashing, music roaring, bodies packed together on the dance floor.

You pushed through the crowd, someone shouted, you turned—then your eyes caught him.

Clint.

His jaw was set, eyes scanning the dance floor from the balcony above with sharp, controlled focus.

Rico’s men were already moving — rushing down the stairs, tense, on edge.

But you didn’t notice them. Your eyes locked on him. Then he saw you.

Everything slowed. Just for a second. Just him.

What the hell?

You knew you should look away. You should run. Instead you held his gaze. And he held yours.

Since when did a man’s eyes do that to you?

That was new. You didn’t like it. Then—

You turned and ran.

His voice cut through the chaos behind you. “Stop.”

Boots thundered down the steps behind you as he dropped into the crowd like a predator moving through water, shoving people aside as he came.

You didn’t look back. But you heard the reaction ripple through the room. Someone swore loudly as Clint barreled past them. Then you were through the door and out into the alley. The night air hit sharp.

Cold.

For a second the street felt almost peaceful. Music from the club thumped faintly through the walls behind you. A couple leaned against the far wall, making out beneath a flickering streetlight, oblivious to everything else.

A gunshot cracked.

The bullet slammed into the metal dumpster beside you. The impact screamed through the alley. The couple yelped and bolted in opposite directions.

You froze.

“Slowly turn around.” Clint’s voice came from behind you. “Now.”

God.

Even when he was threatening you, his voice did something dangerous to your nerves.

For half a second you almost listened. Almost obeyed.

Then instinct beat everything else. Your hand slid down your thigh. The revolver slipped smoothly into your grip. You turned, raising the gun and aiming it straight at Clint.

He stood about five meters away, his own gun trained directly on you.

For a moment, you were both perfectly still.

Two guns. Two triggers. Neither of you blinking.

Under the alley light he looked even more dangerous than before.

Red neon from the club sign streaked across the leather of his jacket while moonlight caught the edge of his jaw.

His finger rested tight against the trigger. Ready.

Your lips curved slightly. “Clint. Long time no see.”

His expression didn’t change. Not even a flicker. “You’re gonna drop the bag.”

You tilted your head slightly. “Sweetheart… no, I ain’t.”

His eyes flicked briefly toward the duffel on your shoulder.

“You really think you’re walkin’ outta here with that?”

You shrugged lightly. “That was the plan.”

“Bad plan.”

“Oh?”

Clint drew in a slow breath, eyes narrowing. “You got any idea what happens to people who steal from The Guy?”

You made a thoughtful face, tapping your lip like you were trying to remember. “Yeah… I think I heard that one before.”

His jaw tightened. “This ain’t a game.”

You shifted the bag slightly on your shoulder. “Maybe not.” A faint smile tugged at your lips. “But it’s been a very profitable evening.”

Clint studied you for a long moment. “So that’s it?” he said. “You’re just a thief who can fight?”

“And you?” you said. “Calling it ‘collecting’ makes it cleaner?”

He exhaled slowly through his nose. “Look… I don’t wanna shoot you.”

“I know,” you said with a small smirk.

“Put the bag down,” he said. “End this right here.”

You tapped your fingers lightly against the strap of the duffel, pretending to think. “Hm… Okay.” For half a second something like relief crossed Clint’s face. Then your smile widened. “I’ll give you the bag… if you pay me more than what’s inside.”

Clint’s eyes darkened.

You shrugged sweetly. “Fair deal.”

For a moment he hesitated. Just long enough. You took one slow step back. “Don’t.” His voice cracked through the alley like a whip. “Not one more step.”

Behind him voices echoed deeper in the alley.

Your pulse jumped. Your grip tightened around the revolver. “Let me go, Clint.”

He shook his head slowly. “No.”

You exhaled. “I will shoot, you know.”

Clint lowered the revolver just a fraction. “Nah. You won’t.” A beat. “I know you won’t.”

Your chest tightened. “You don’t know anything about me.”

“Then tell me,” he said quietly. Something almost pleading in his voice now. “C’mon… before those idiots get here.” His eyes flicked toward the duffel. “Give me the bag.”

Footsteps thundered closer. Too close.

You met his gaze one last time. “Sorry.” You raised the gun— and fired.

The shot cracked through the alley.

The bullet hit his shoulder.

Clean. Muscle, not bone.

Clint spun violently into the brick wall with a grunt.

He caught himself against the wall, one hand clamping down over the wound as he sucked in a sharp breath through clenched teeth.

Your hand tightened on the gun.

“Fuck. I warned you,” you said, your voice cracking just a little as your eyes caught the dark blood spreading through the leather on his shoulder.

“Why’d you have to get in my way, Clint?”

For a second he just stared at you. Then slowly, through the pain, Clint raised the revolver again.

His arm was shaking slightly now. Blood ran between his fingers where he held his shoulder. But the gun still found you. Steady, aimed straight at your chest.

His finger tightened on the trigger—

You swallowed. But he couldn’t.

Footsteps echoed.

“They’re in the alley!” “Go! Go!”

Your head snapped toward the sound. Without another word you turned and ran.

Gunfire exploded behind you as Rico’s men poured into the alley shouting.

A bullet sparked off the pavement beside you—another whining past your ear close enough to make your heart jump into your throat.

You disappeared into the darkness at the end of the street.

Behind you one of the men dropped beside Clint. “Hey homie— you good?”

Clint shoved him off with a rough grunt, pressing his hand harder against the bleeding shoulder.

His eyes lifted toward the mouth of the alley where you had vanished.

He shook his head once, breathing hard.

“…goddamn. Hell of a woman.”

A week later.

The Guy’s office smelled like expensive cigars and old money. Clint sat across from the desk, his fingers drifting back to the wound in his shoulder, still burning.

Across from him, The Guy struck a match. The small flame flared bright in the dim office. He leaned forward, lighting Clint’s cigarette.

“Does it hurt?” he asked casually.

“No.” Clint took a slow drag. “Appreciate it.”

The Guy leaned back in his chair, studying him through the smoke. “That girl… robbed you… shot you.” A small smile crept across his face. “But you didn’t shoot her.”

Clint took another drag from the cigarette, eyes drifting toward the window. “Didn’t line up.”

“Bullshit.” He rested his elbows on the desk. “You had the chance.” His eyes sharpened. “So tell me something, Clint. You got a weakness for her?”

Clint’s jaw tightened slightly. Then he flicked ash into the tray. “She got lucky.”

“Hm, yeah.” The Guy watched him for another moment. Then he reached to the side of the desk and tossed a thin file across the wood. It slid to a stop in front of Clint.

“Her luck’s about to run out. We found her.”

Clint picked up the folder. Notes. Photos. Names. Everything. Clint’s eyes moved slowly across the pages. When he looked up again, The Guy was smiling.

“Contacts,” he said. “Connections. Very useful things to have.”

Clint closed the file.

The Guy reached into his jacket and flicked something else across the desk. A motel card.

“She’s stayin’ there.”

Clint’s eyes settled on the card.

The Guy leaned back in his chair again. “I’ll send Tuck and Cooper,” he said, like he was talking about lunch. “They’ll bring the girl in.” A faint smile. “We’ll have ourselves a nice little conversation.”

Clint’s chest tightened. He knew exactly how Tuck and Cooper handled “conversations.” The scar across his face twitched faintly at the memory.

He crushed his cigarette slowly into the ashtray. “I’ll handle it.”

The Guy’s eyes narrowed slightly. “You sure ‘bout that?”

Clint stood. “Debt’s mine, ain’t it? I got it.”

The Guy studied him for a long moment. Then he hummed softly. “Alright.”

Clint gave a small nod and turned toward the door.

“Flood.” Clint paused. “Bring her in.” The Guy’s voice stayed calm. “I’ll deal with her myself.”

Clint gave another nod without looking back and walked out.

Outside, the hallway felt colder. Clint stopped under the dim light and looked down at the card.

SUNDOWN MOTEL.

Now.

The metal staircase groaned softly under Clint’s weight. He took the steps slow, measured. The neon from the parking lot bled through the railing, painting everything in a sick red glow. Somewhere below, a car radio crackled through blown speakers. Laughter spilled from one of the rooms down the hall.

Clint barely heard any of it. He reached the top of the stairs. Second floor.

The hallway smelled like old carpet, cheap detergent, and cigarette smoke baked into the walls sometime around 1978.

Clint’s eyes moved once down the corridor.

Room numbers. 20, 21…

22

Third door from the stairs. Light spilled faintly from beneath the door.

He stopped. For a moment he just stood there watching it. Thinking. Then his hand moved. The revolver slid free from the back of his waistband with the soft scrape of metal leaving leather.

He held it low. Not raised. Not yet.

Clint stepped closer to the door. Leant slightly toward it. Listened. Too quiet. His jaw tightened. He knocked once. Not loud. Not polite either.

Just enough to say—I know you're in there.

Clint’s hand closed around the handle. He pushed the door open slowly.

Dim light spilled out—cheap yellow, tired. A bed that had seen better decades. He stepped inside, gun lifting instinctively, eyes sweeping.

Motel soap. Faint. And something else—perfume. Familiar now.

And then—click.

Cold steel pressed into his back, right between his shoulder blades. Clint didn’t flinch. He stepped fully inside. Then turned—slow, controlled, eyes already on you. Now he was facing you.

For a second—nothing moved.

Then you tilted your head slightly. “Well… that’s the best looking room service I’ve ever had.”

Clint pushed the door the rest of the way closed with his free hand. His eyes never left yours. “Flattered.” A beat. “Try ‘debt collector.’”

You smiled. “That’s adorable.” The revolver in your hand stayed perfectly steady.

Clint took one slow step toward you. “Put it down.”

“No.”

Another step. “You’re out of options.”

You raised an eyebrow. “You’d be surprised.”

Clint moved forward again. You adjusted instinctively, stepping sideways, the two of you circled each other slowly, guns still raised, a quiet half-circle forming between you as the room seemed to shrink around the tension.

Clint’s gaze flicked briefly to your gun, his mouth twitched. Then he moved. Fast.

His hand shot forward, grabbing the barrel and twisting the revolver aside just enough that the shot couldn’t land clean. The gun shifted in your grip. He ripped it free in one sharp motion.

Clint glanced down at it briefly. A quiet huff of amusement escaped him. “Safety’s still on.”

You blinked. For half a second you genuinely hadn’t noticed. Your surprise lasted exactly one heartbeat. Then you exhaled. “Well.” You rolled your shoulders slightly. “Everyone makes mistakes.”

Clint tossed your revolver onto the motel bed behind him without looking.

The second his attention shifted, you lunged. Your hand shot toward his wrist. Clint reacted instantly, stepping into your space and blocking the grab with his forearm.

You pivoted fast. Your leg snapped upward in a sharp kick aimed at his ribs. Clint caught it against his hip and shoved it aside. “Easy,” he muttered.

You spun again, elbow driving toward his jaw. Clint caught that too. His hand closed around your wrist and pulled you forward.

For a second you were chest to chest. Breathing harder now. Too close.

You tried to twist free. Clint tightened his grip and shoved you back against the wall.

His hand slid up, closing around your throat—not hard enough to choke, but enough to remind you he could.

His voice dropped. “You done?”

“For now.”

“I could kill you.”

“Then why wait?” you shot back. “Planning to do it while we’re naked or something?”

“Cut the shit. Listen to me,” he said, voice low, soft even. “This ain’t a game. There’s a price on your head. A real one. Tell me why you took the money. Maybe I can help you.”

“Well,” you sighed lightly, “this is getting old, don’t you think?”

“I don’t have time for this. Where is the damn money?”

“Depends what you’re offering in return, handsome.”

He leaned in closer, leather brushing your lace. His jacket was warm from his body — thick, broken-in, the surface creased where it bent at the shoulders. You could smell it now: worn leather, gun oil, smoke. Solid. Heavy. Like armor.

His grip tightened at your throat. Your pulse jumped beneath his fingers. His gaze dropped. “You want me to check?”

“Come on, Clint. We both know you’re not going to kill me.”

“You’ve given me plenty of damn reasons.”

“Well,” you breathed, eyes steady on his, “that’s a fair argument. But you don’t want to.”

Your other hand slid up, curling into the collar of his jacket. The leather was thick beneath your fingers. You tightened your grip, pulling him half an inch closer.

“You have no idea what I want, sweetheart,” he said, his breath hot against your mouth. His lips hovered there—close enough to steal your air. But his voice wasn’t steady anymore.

“Oh, I think I do,” you whispered.

Something in him snapped. His mouth slammed into yours—hungry, rough, weeks of restraint breaking in a single, reckless second.

Your back hit the wall harder. His hand slid from your throat to your waist without him realizing. As he leaned into you, the zipper of his jacket dragged lightly against the lace at your neckline, catching for the briefest second. A faint metallic sound cut through the air between you—sharp, intimate.

The rough edge of it skimmed your skin as your bodies shifted closer, fabric against fabric, heat against heat.

You felt it. He felt it.

And that was your opening. Even as the kiss deepened, your hand slipped lower—beneath the hem of your skirt.

A small breath escaped you. He broke the kiss first.

“You just don’t quit.” he muttered, irritation rough in his voice.

Too late.

The barrel of his gun dipped, lifting the edge of your skirt just enough.

His other hand caught your wrist again.

There it was.

Strapped high against your thigh.

A slim throwing knife secured in a garter band.

You shrugged slightly. “A girl should always be prepared.”

He exhaled slowly through his nose.

He pulled the blade free, feeling its weight in his palm.

Then he slipped it inside the inner pocket of his leather jacket, the thick material swallowing the metal with a muted slide.

Now you were standing there, stripped of steel.

The barrel of his gun never lowered. It stayed hooked beneath the hem of your skirt, lifting it just enough.

He stepped back half an inch—not to give you space, but to look.

His eyes dragged slowly over the line of your garter straps against your thighs.

You caught it again. That subtle darkening in his eyes. The tension in his jaw. The way his fingers flexed once around the grip of his gun.

He was working very hard not to react.

“See something you like, trigger boy?”

His gaze snapped back to your chest, lingering on the swell of your breasts beneath the fabric, before he gestured with the gun toward your burgundy leather jacket.

“What else are you hiding under there, huh?” he asked quietly. “Take it off.”

“Oh… you want the full tour?” you whispered, your voice dipping lower, slower. “I didn’t realize you were that desperate.”

“Take. It. Off.”

You rolled your eyes, but the corner of your mouth curved upward. As you unzipped it inch by inch, you didn’t take your eyes off him. "Alright, but... Careful… try not to cum in your pants, big guy.”

Clint’s jaw tightened as his manhood twitched in his pants at your words.

The room suddenly felt warmer. Too warm. Like the motel’s cheap air conditioner had decided to give up all at once. You noticed it immediately. “Getting hard already?” you teased softly. “I haven’t even finished yet.”

Clint exhaled through his nose. “You don’t have to take everything off.”

You tilted your head, a slow smile forming. “Oh?” you murmured. “Would you rather do it yourself?”

His eyes flashed with irritation. “The hell am I supposed to do with you?” he muttered.

You stepped a little closer, voice lowering. “Well,” you said lightly, “you can’t kill me.” A beat. “And you can’t take me to him.” Your gaze held his. “So that leaves one alternative. You can just say it.”

He swallowed, his gun was still aimed at you. Steady. But not quite as steady as before.

“I know you didn’t come all this way just to drag me back,” you continued. “They could’ve sent someone else. Or maybe they did, but...You wanted to come yourself.”

For a second Clint didn’t move. Didn’t breathe.

The memory of the kiss from minutes earlier flickered through his mind whether he wanted it to or not.

Your fingers pressed lightly against his shoulder. You leaned closer, deliberately pressing the muzzle of his gun into the soft space between your breasts.

His eyes flicked down instantly, drawn to where the barrel rested against the lace. Your voice dropped to a whisper.

“You know,” you whispered, “we could stop pretending. You want me just as much as I want you.”

“That’s not what this is,” Clint snapped.

Cute.

It was a lie, and you could hear it in the slight roughness of his voice, see it in the way his brown eyes flickered for just a second before hardening again.

If anything, it only made you want him more.

You’d never really needed a man before. Not like this.

You took what you wanted when you wanted it—and walked away just as easily.

But Clint was different.

There was something about him — the weight he carried in those dark eyes, the quiet anger under his skin, the way he looked at you like he was trying very hard not to want you.

His stupidly handsome face. The stubborn line of his jaw. And that scar.

Your eyes kept drifting back to it—the thin, pale line cutting across his skin, sharp and imperfect against everything else that was unfairly beautiful about him.

You wondered how it felt beneath your lips.

The thought slipped into your mind before you could stop it—slowly tracing it with your mouth, following the length of it, tasting the rough edge of it just to see if he’d let you.

And of course, his eyes.

Those dark brown, wounded eyes watched you like he was already losing the fight.

It made you impossibly horny, made you want him.

Yes—you wanted him to fuck you senseless until you were so ruined and you could barely walk. You could already picture the look on his face—brows drawn tight, jaw set, muttering something under his breath as he pounded you mercilessly.

You almost came just from the thought.

And you were sure he was close too.

Yes… he was almost there. Just a little push.

“You can lie to yourself all you want,” you murmured, “I can smell it on you, Clint,” your lips almost brushing his as you guided his hand under your skirt. “You want to fuck me.”

Clint swore quietly under his breath as his fingers brushed against your damp panties. His throat was too dry, apparently, for anything but a strangled noise to escape.

“Feel how wet I am for you,” you teased. Your fingers slid into his hair, tugging just enough to make him grunt. “You should take this chance to get your frustration out.”

“God damn you, woman,” he growled — his mouth was on yours again, hard and unforgiving. Once again, your back struck the wall hard as his body pressed into yours, solid and immovable, like a storm finally breaking against stone.

A breathless mix of laughter and pain escaped your throat. His hand slid down your side and closed around your waist, firm enough to steal the air from your lungs.

You moved before you could stop yourself. Your hips shifted against him, the contact immediate.

The bulge in his pants was impossible to ignore now. Through the rough denim of his jeans you felt the hard line of him, the heat of his body pressing back against yours.

But even then, he still wasn’t giving you his full weight.

You could feel it in the tension of his body, in the way his muscles held tight—as if some last thread of restraint still kept him from collapsing into you completely.

Like a wild animal caught in a trap, he seemed to be fighting his own instincts, straining against something invisible.

And yet you were determined to tame him.

You lifted your hips, pressing against his groin. A soft breath slipped from your lips as you felt him through the thin fabric of your panties, heat pooling low in your stomach — slow, hungry, like the first spark catching dry wood.

Clint went still.

Only for a heartbeat — the last remnants of his restraint.

Then he pulled back just enough to look at you, all over you.

He saw your nipples were hard, making small tents in the fabric of your dress, nearly driving him out of his mind.

His heart was racing, breathing seemed to stop entirely.

Your fingers had already tangled in the front of his jacket, clutching the worn leather like it was the only thing holding you upright. Your chest rose and fell against his, each breath brushing his mouth.

Your eyes met his.

And whatever he saw there made something dark flicker in his.

The kind that lived somewhere deeper than reason.

His cock throbbed painfully against his jeans, he was tremendously aroused, his balls felt impossibly full and heavy.

He hadn't come in what felt like forever, so long since he had buried himself balls-deep inside a tight, warm, wet pussy that he had almost forgotten what it felt like.

The desire burned through him now, fierce and relentless. All he wanted was to push deep inside you, to feel you take him completely.

“You’re practically shaking,” you murmured, almost begging. “All that anger.” A slow breath. “Go on, baby. Take it out on me.”

Clint’s jaw tightened. “Christ…” he breathed.

You were damn right. Of course you were.

Because he could feel it now — not just his own body betraying him, but yours too.

The subtle tension in the way you held him, the way you leaned closer instead of stepping back, the way your breathing had grown slower, heavier.

Like both of you were standing too close to something dangerous.

Something already burning.

Carnal.

Beneath it something far more primal had begun to rise.

Anger still lived there, yes — sharp and restless.

Raw.

He hadn’t thought about a woman that way in a long time.

Not since everything had gone to hell.

For months he’d convinced himself that part of him was gone, buried somewhere under anger, grief, and the kind of quiet loneliness that followed him everywhere.

A week ago he might have even believed it.

But you had started showing up in his thoughts anyway.

At first it had just been irritation.

The way you talked. The way you looked at him like you could see straight through him.

Damn.

By the end of the week he’d found himself lying awake more than once, trying to get the image of you out of his head. It hadn’t worked.

Nothing about it felt right. Nothing about it felt fair.

Because whatever had woken up inside him again wasn’t the quiet, controlled thing he used to know.

Primal.

A deep, physical hunger he hadn’t felt in a long damn time.

And now here you were. Standing right in front of him. Saying things like that. Looking like that. Pushing him further than anyone had dared in years.

He was furious with you. And somehow that only made it worse.He felt dangerously close to losing his damn mind.

Even Clint Flood was just a man, after all.

Frankly, the fact that he’d lasted this long around you was a miracle.

Someone should probably give him a damn medal.

And just like that, his revolver left his hand, clattering across the motel floor — neither of you caring where it landed.

His nostrils flared as he grabbed the back of your neck and dragged your mouth back to his, crashing his lips against yours again, the back of your head bumping against the wall a little rough — but you didn’t care.

He wasn’t kissing you, he was devouring you.

Your breaths tangled together as his mouth moved against yours with reckless urgency. A quiet sound escaped your throat before you could stop it, swallowed instantly as he pulled you closer, his hand tightened in your hair.

You couldn’t help the stray thought — did he eat like this too when he was starving?

There was nothing restrained about it now.

Whatever had been holding him back finally snapped, sending everything spiraling with no brakes.

You felt it in the way his body pressed into yours — no space left between you, no hesitation in the way his hands gripped you.

The fight was over.

And the realization sent a sharp thrill through you.

Your heart was racing now, pounding hard against your ribs as the weight of what came next settled in.

The wild thing that had resisted you moments ago had finally given in.

He was all yours now.

You had no idea how long he had been kissing you. Clint drank from your mouth like a starving man, like something feral had finally been let loose after being caged far too long.

Teeth, breath, heat—nothing controlled about it anymore. His grip tightened at your waist as he pressed you against the wall, his body crowding into yours like he needed to feel every inch of you pressed against him.

His hand slipped from your shoulder, sliding down your side before disappearing beneath the hem of your skirt. He pushed aside your panties and ran a finger along your folds. A desperate whine escaped your throat, only urging him on. He repeated the motion a few more times before sliding a finger into your tight pussy, making you shiver and moan. His other hand was busy undressing you, yanking the straps of your dress down and letting it pool around your feet.

His mouth kept devouring yours, swallowing your breath and every broken sound that escaped you.

The rough scrape of his stubble grazed your cheeks as his thumb found your clit, circling it roughly until you were panting helplessly into his mouth.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

You had no idea how, but he seemed to know the ins and outs of your body, making you fall apart in his hands.

He was so good at it—better than you expected.

Fucking sexy bastard, you thought, a smile tugging at your lips beneath his.

Butterflies swirled wildly in your stomach, the feeling rising until it tightened into a small knot in your throat. Your nails dug into his shoulders, the leather jacket creaking under your grip.

He pushed a second finger inside you, making you jerk slightly against his palm, your eyes rolling back.

When his lips finally detached from yours, he moved to your neck, leaving small bites along your pulse point and jaw before soothing them with his tongue. It didn’t take long before you felt your orgasm approaching. Then you realized how madly you were grinding against his palm—only for his fingers to suddenly leave you. You let out a pathetic whine as he hoisted you up with one arm, carried you a few steps, and threw you onto the bed.

Hasty and a little rough, he turned you over, hauled your hips up and forced you onto your hands and knees, his strength almost inhuman as he dragged you to the edge of the bed.

“Yeah. Do it,” you said, managing to keep it from sounding like a beg.

The sound of the impatient, almost animal grunt he let out as he grabbed his belt and unzipped his denim sent a rush of hot lust straight to your core.

Impatiently, you looked over your shoulder, giving him a smoldering look—only to see his pants and boxers drop to the floor with a heavy thud.

His cock sprang free, slapping heavily against his stomach.

Your mouth fell open in awe as you realized how big he was, biting your lower lip hard at the sight. Your mind reeling. Almost instinctively, like a cat in heat raising its tail, your ass lifted invitingly into the air, your legs spreading apart and opening the folds of your pussy.

“Fuck,” he growled as he grabbed your ass, his thick fingers hooking, yanking your panties down your legs.

He sank onto his knees behind you, the mattress dipping beneath his weight and pulling your body back toward him. For a moment he simply watched, admiring the curve of your ass before his hand closed around it, squeezing the flesh hard enough to leave a bruise as he stroked himself. Then you felt him pressing right up against your core, the contact pulled a breath from you. You needed this—fuck, how badly you needed it, you had never been this aroused.

You could feel your pussy growing wetter, almost dripping, aching with need—so ready for him, so desperate to be fucked. You pushed your hips back, grinding your ass against his throbbing, rock-hard cock, your body tightening and trembling, your pussy clenching and contracting as the thick shaft pressed insistently against you.

He was painfully hard, veins standing out and straining along his length, the tip slick with precum as it dragged slowly between your thighs — teasing, claiming, making your breath catch in your throat.

Your eyes rolled back, the room seemed to tilt around you.

His knee tucked under yours to spread your folds before he finally thrust into you from behind. He pushed his raging cock forward, the head forcing your wet, swollen lips apart until they felt like they might tear. Your head fell back with a sharp cry as he filled you, stretching you open—almost too much—your walls tightening around him, your slick heat taking him inch by inch, clinging like it refusing to let him go. He grunted, eyes shutting as he threw his head back. You barely caught your breath before he pulled back, his cock almost slipping out of you before he pushed it back inside again. His grip on you tightened before his palm came down in a sharp spank and another. You were damn sure red handprints were already blooming across your ass. But you didn’t even care. If anything, it only made your stomach flutter.

All you could think about was how good it felt—how badly you wanted those chubby fingers on you again. There was an equal mix of anger and desire in the way he fucked you from behind, rocking you forward on your hands and knees. His big palms locked around your hips as he drove into you faster and faster. Then his hand came down again—harder this time—the sharp crack drawing a helpless moan from your lips and pushing you closer to your orgasm. And then it hit suddenly—your walls tightening and trembling as you came hard around him, squeezing him just right. Your nails dug into the sheets, scratching down the fabric with a sharp sound. He grunted but didn’t stop. You were still shivering in the aftershocks when he remained buried deep inside you, leaning close to whisper into your ear. “Easy. Fuck… Thought you could handle it.” Wait… Was he chuckling?

Before you could say a word, he fisted your hair and yanked you back against his chest, your bare back colliding with the hard plane of his still-clothed torso, the rough fabric of his shirt and jacket scraping against your skin. The metal zipper of his jacket grazed against your ass as he thrust into you, the contact sharp enough to drive you crazy. “You asked for it,” he muttered, thrusting into you harder. “C’mon… take it.” His breath was hot against your ear. “Yeah… you can do that again, right, tough girl? Take it— fuck…Just like that."

You weren’t sure if he was angry anymore. If you could see his face, maybe you could tell, but right now he was fucking you like he hated you—yet deep down you felt something else. The way he kissed your neck, his hands finding your breasts over the bra, thumbs brushing your nipples through the fabric, his arms wrapped tight around you—possessive—his teeth grazing your earlobe… all of it told a different story. Well, you didn’t give a fuck. You just wanted to come all over him again, because the first one had been so delicious yet so sudden—and the second one would be even better. His cock just felt amazing inside you. Anger was swallowed up by lust—and something else. You pushed your hips back, taking every inch of him, groaning with pleasure when he grabbed your hips even tighter and fucked you harder.

Your ass smacked hard against his stomach with every thrust— no rhythm, just force. You could feel the deep pulse of his head banging against your cervix. A helpless sound broke from you as he drove into you again—deeper, rougher—your inner muscles tightening around him, pulling him in like it needed more. Clint too, low sounds escaping him at the slick heat of you wrapped tightly around his cock. Your sounds mingled together, pleasure driving him wild. He continued to pound you hard, slamming the full length of that glorious cock right inside you, slapping his heavy balls hard against your cunt every time he went fully deep, savoring the heat of your insides squeezing around him.  The headboard slammed against the wall, the room filled with the loud, sinful sounds of your hard fucking—noise loud enough to wake the dead. Soon, Clint felt like he was burning from the inside out as he drove forward with relentless force, heat flooding his body until it was almost unbearable. A rough growl left his throat, his brows drawn tight with focus as sweat dampened his skin. He snarled against your skin as he shrugged off his jacket, dragging it down his shoulders with his mouth still at your neck before tossing it to the floor without slowing down. The sudden movement sent you pitching forward, catching yourself on your forearms against the mattress. The flannel followed seconds later. Then he grabbed you again, sliding his arm around your neck from behind and pulling you tightly back against him, hauling you flush against his body. Your nails dug into his bicep as you clung to him, eyes squeezed shut, feeling the rough brush of hair along his arms and the solid press of his thighs against your bare ones, sending delicious vibrations through your core. He kept moving. Driving into you with hard, relentless thrusts. Your warmth tightened around him, gripping him with every movement. The pressure kept building, higher and tighter with each stroke. Your moans grew louder, breath breaking as the sound of skin slapping against skin kept filling the room. Your head felt hazy, overwhelmed by the heat and the delicious fullness of him moving inside you. You only realized he’d torn off his gray T-shirt too when his bare chest pressed against your back—warm, damp with sweat. Clint groaned low in his throat as you clenched and pulsed around him, the heat rushing straight through him. “Fuck… Clint—oh God,” you gasped as you came for the second time. Fucking hell. You were perfect.  The last of his control snapped. He buried himself deeper and came hard, the force of it ripping a rough sound from his chest. You glanced back, wanting to see his face when he cums. He looked wrecked in the best way—brows drawn tight, jaw tense as he groaned against your collarbone. Your head fell back against his shoulder, breathing hard, your eyes fixed on him. On his lashes. On the tight line of his jaw. He didn’t notice. He was so lost in the wave crashing through him, eyes shut as the last of the tension drained from his body. Your walls tightened once more, pulling a final shudder from him as you milked him dry, and he poured every last drop deep inside you. For a moment neither of you moved. You stayed pressed together, the slick warmth between you almost gluing your bodies together, breathing hard as the pounding in your ears slowly faded.  His arms were still around you when his eyes finally opened. There was no regret there.

Just heavy-lidded exhaustion and something softer—like he wasn’t sure if the moment had really happened. Then his half-hard cock slipped from you as he fell back onto the mattress. He dragged the back of his hand across his forehead, his perfect torso rising and falling with heavy breaths. You watched him for a moment.

Then you reached for the edge of the sheet and wiped the warm mixture of your combined release that had spilled between your thighs onto the mattress. Your eyes never left the wound on his shoulder. Curious, you crawled toward him across the bed. With one hand you brushed a damp lock of hair away from your forehead and tucked it behind your ear before leaning closer, studying the wound. Clint opened his eyes. For a moment neither of you spoke. You simply looked at each other. You smiled first. “Hey.” His gaze softened. A quiet breath left him and the corner of his mouth twitched. “Hey,” he replied. Your smile widened. You leaned across the other side of the bed toward the nightstand, grabbing a pack of cigarettes. You slid one between your lips, flicked the lighter, and took a slow drag before exhaling. For a moment you simply enjoyed it. Then you leaned back against the pillows.

Clint’s eyes had dropped to your bare ass as you moved across the bed. Slowly his gaze lifted to your face again. He still looked like he wasn’t entirely convinced this was real. You pulled the cigarette from your lips and held it out toward him. “Want one?” He shook his head once. You ignored him. Reaching over the nightstand again, you pulled another cigarette from the pack and placed it between his lips. You cupped the lighter with your hand and lit it for him. Clint inhaled slowly, his eyes lifting to yours through the flame for a brief second before the lighter clicked shut. Smoke drifted lazily from his mouth as he leaned back. God, he looked unfairly good like this. Bare chest, rumpled sheets, cigarette between his meaty lips. He rested his hand over his knee while watching the smoke curl upward. You leaned closer, resting the hand holding your cigarette on his shoulder, your pinky finger tracing gently around the scar. “Does it hurt?” He turned his head toward you. Then he shook it once. “Not anymore,” he said simply, taking another drag. You did the same and moved closer beside him, propping yourself up on your elbow. “You know I should’ve shot you,” you said smugly. “They would’ve gotten suspicious otherwise.” Clint barked out a rough laugh. “Ah,” he said, shaking his head. “So you’re not completely heartless after all. Guess I should be grateful. For shooting me.” You shrugged. “I barely grazed you. And yeah… you should.” You both laughed quietly. God. He looked even more handsome when he laughed. Especially lying there beside you, naked in the aftermath of the best sex you’d had in your life, smoke curling lazily from his cigarette. Then Clint’s expression shifted.

He rubbed his thumb along the edge of the cigarette before taking another drag. He studied your face more carefully now, like he was trying to memorize every detail. His gaze drifted briefly to the scar at your neck. He hesitated. “I don’t get you,” he said finally. “Why risk your life like this?” You took another drag from your cigarette, tapping the ash off with your finger. Then you shrugged. “Got bored.” Clint didn’t buy it. “Be straight with me for once,” he said, giving you a hard look. You took a long pull from the cigarette and exhaled slowly, smoke drifting between you as your eyes stayed locked on his. This time you were sincere. You trusted him enough for that. “Revenge,” you said quietly. “Settling a score. And I need the money.” The corner of his mouth twitched. “That’s a hell of a combination. Now maybe try being a little more specific.” You smirked faintly, took one last drag, and crushed the cigarette into the ashtray. “You know my story.” He said softly. “What’s yours?”  You looked away. “For a long time,” you said quietly, “I didn’t get to choose anything.” A beat. “Now I do.” You reached for the cigarette pack again. Clint watched you quietly, the cigarette burning low between his fingers. The ashtray sat on your side of the bed. Without a word, you held it out toward him. Clint leaned closer and crushed his cigarette into it. For a moment he stayed there, close enough that you could still smell the smoke on him. Then his eyes lifted. “So that’s what this is about,” he said quietly. A small pause. “The Guy.” His gaze sharpened slightly. “Is that why you left me the notes?” You shrugged. “Your file didn’t say much. Just dates. Places. Jobs.” He said your name for the first time, you glanced at him. “That stepfather of yours…” he tried again. His eyes flicked briefly to the scar on your neck. “That where this started?” “Yeah,” you said quietly. "Everything started with him.” A slow drag. “My mom married him when I was nine.” A humorless smile touched your lips. “That’s when hell started.” Clint reached out, his fingers gently brushing against your scar. "Did he do that to you?" “That?” you said. “No.” You leaned back slightly and pointed to another faint scar near your stomach. “This one was the first. I was ten.” Another drag of the cigarette. “There are more. Some healed. Some didn’t.” You exhaled slowly. “My mom loved him too much to see it. Or maybe she did. She just never did a damn thing about it.” Clint said nothing. Listening. “The worst part wasn’t the beatings, ” you continued quietly. “Not even when he hit her while she was pregnant… or when he hit me every night. The worst part was the act.” You stared at the cigarette between your fingers. “She played the perfect wife. The perfect mom. When teachers asked about the bruises…” You exhaled smoke slowly. “She told them I was clumsy.” Your voice tightened. “I didn’t understand why she hated me. Not until I was sixteen.” A pause settled between you. Your eyes dropped slightly. “That was the first night he walked into my room.” The words hung in the air. Your hand moved quickly, brushing the corner of your eye before the tear could fall. Clint lowered his head for a moment. None of this had been in the file. Not a word. When he looked back up, his voice was quiet. “He was a cop. And connected to The Guy.”

You leaned back against the headboard, smoke curling slowly toward the ceiling. “Friendly neighborhood cop,” you said. “The kind people trusted. Perfect husband. Perfect father.” A faint, humorless smile touched your lips. “But inside that house… he was a monster.” You leaned back against the headboard and said, “I ran away when I turned eighteen.” Your tone had steadied now as you talked about the years that followed—training and learning to fight. You wanted to ensure that no man would ever touch you like that again or hurt you in the same way. Clint listened without interrupting. Finally he said quietly, recalling the file, “He died two years ago. House fire.” His eyes flickered slightly as he remembered the name in the file — and the same name in a news report he’d seen back then. “I remember seeing that one.” You looked at him, a faint smile tugging at your lips. “I did it.” Clint froze.

You exhaled slowly, flicking ash into the tray. “Mom was already dead by the time I got the call. I went back to Oakland for the funeral. That’s when I found out my sister wasn’t even living there anymore.” Your jaw tightened slightly. “They’d locked her in a care facility.” Clint frowned. “She has cerebral palsy,” you said, your voice steady. “She was just a baby when I left.” You took another drag of your cigarette. “Something in me snapped right there.” Your gaze drifted, distant now.“I stayed the night.” A bitter smile. “He was real happy to see me.” Your mouth twisted in disgust. “Drunk. Same as always. Hands everywhere…  Like my mother hadn’t just died.” Your eyes darkened. “Called my sister a burden. Said she barely counted as human. That she didn’t deserve to live in a house.”

Clint closed his eyes and muttered a quiet curse under his breath. You watched the smoke curl upward. “And just like that… I decided it was time.” Your voice stayed calm. “I opened the gas. Walked outside. Then tossed my lighter through the window.” You snapped your fingers softly. “Boom.” A dark smile crossed your face. “The whole damn house lit up. Like fireworks.” Your fingers brushed the scar on your neck. “Only problem was… I didn’t duck fast enough.”  Clint exhaled slowly. Something clicked.  Now it made sense. The Guy had known exactly who you were. “You were right,” he said quietly. “He sent the others after you.” A pause. “He wants you.” His jaw tightened. “Listen… You don’t move alone anymore.” You tilted your head slightly. “What is this, Clint?” you asked. “You pitying me?” A faint smile tugged at your lips.

“Or are you falling for me?” Clint studied you for a long moment. “Don’t know what it is,” he said quietly. “But I know one thing.” His eyes held yours. “He had this coming.” He leaned in slightly. “So yeah. Let me help you finish it.” You raised an eyebrow. “Why? Because you think I can’t do it alone?” “I didn’t say you can’t.” You sighed, long and tired. “I’m not stupid, Clint,” you said quietly. “Of course I can’t keep doing this alone. But I’m done. Rico was my last stop.” A faint smirk crossed your face. “Finish The Guy, you said? He’s already finished.” Clint frowned. “What are you talking about?” “The list.” You leaned back slightly. “My stepdad kept records.” “Records?” “Old ones. Names. Accounts. Years of it. Rico’s shipments filled in the rest. I gave the whole thing to the FBI.”  Clint leaned back slightly, processing. “Jesus…” “The Guy’s empire is about to get audited.” Clint narrowed his eyes. “You left me those notes… If I’d listened, I’d be clear of this.” His gaze sharpened. “…you trying to keep me out of it?” You slipped the cigarette between your lips. “Maybe.” Clint reached forward, taking the cigarette from your lips. His eyes locked onto yours. “Well,” he muttered, a faint smirk pulling at his mouth, “That’ll do it.” “You’re falling for the woman who shot you?” Clint’s gaze flicked to your lips. “Worth the bullet.” Then he leaned in and kissed you. This time it wasn’t rough like before. Not angry. Not desperate. Different. His mouth parted over yours and you answered instantly, letting him in, the kiss deepening as if both of you had been holding your breath for too long.

His hands slid around you, drawing you closer, warm and steady at your back. Your fingers curled into his shoulders as the kiss lingered. There was something slower in the way he touched you now. Careful. Almost curious. “For the record… I’m still a little sorry I shot you,” you murmured, breaking the kiss. Clint’s mouth twitched. “Yeah? Didn’t feel that sorry.” You rolled your eyes, your fingers drifting to the scar on his shoulder. Lightly, you traced the edge of it. “Oh, I felt it,” you said softly. Clint’s gaze darkened. “Hm..” His hand moved along your back, finding the clasp there with an ease that made your breath hitch. When the fabric loosened, his fingers traced slowly over your skin, the contrast between his earlier roughness and this quiet patience sending a strange, electric warmth through your chest. He cupped your breasts, his thumbs brushing across your nipples until they hardened beneath his touch. You bit your lip, trying to steady your breathing. “Feel this too?” he murmured. His mouth followed a second later, warm and slow. You sighed and nodded. He trailed kisses downward, slow and teasing, his tongue flicking over your nipples until they tightened into hard points. His hands slid lower, spreading across your hips before curling beneath your ass, pulling you closer against him. Then he shifted. Rising slightly, He got up and climbed in between your legs. His cock waved in front of him, slapping his right leg and then swinging and getting even bigger.  Your breath caught. Almost without thinking, your hand drifted down between your legs. You touched yourself, fingers sliding over your pussy, and felt just how wet you already were—slick and dripping with need for him. Clint lowered his head, pressing a line of soft kisses along your neck, your shoulder, the place where your pulse fluttered beneath his lips. His cock felt heavy and solid against your belly, pressing into you with weight and heat. Then he lifted himself above you, his body hovering over yours as he guided himself down, positioning himself between your thighs. Slowly, he rubbed against you, the head of his cock sliding over your mound before drifting lower, brushing against your slick folds. A shiver ran through you. He pushed forward slightly, the tip easing against your entrance before slipping in just a little. You whimpered, watching his length disappear inside you inch by inch. He was big—so much that even the smallest movement stretched you, filling you with a firm, steady pressure. His mouth closed around your nipple again, tongue warm and wet as he sucked hungrily. You moaned, lifting your hips and pushing forward. That small movement was enough. Clint’s cock slid fully into you. Your walls tightened around him immediately and he let out a low grunt at the sudden heat. “Look at me.” You did. His hand tightened around your waist. “Yeah… feel that?” A smirk tugged at his mouth. “She squeezin’ me tight like she already know she mine now.” You panted softly, teasing, “Yours, huh?” “Damn right you are.” Then he began to move, pulling back slowly before pressing into you again in a steady rhythm. Each thrust sent another wave of heat through your body as the tension built higher and higher. You cried out, your hands clutching at his neck. He lowered himself toward you, and you began kissing him madly, passionately, while that solid length kept plunging into your sloppy-wet pussy. It didn’t take long after that.

The tension that had been building between you finally snapped, and the two of you reached the edge together, breathless and shaking. For a while neither of you moved. Eventually Clint rolled onto his back, pulling you with him. The room was quiet except for the sound of your breathing as you both tried to calm down. A moment later you reached for another cigarette, lighting it before passing it to him. You lay there beside him, the dim glow of the ember flickering in the darkness. Somewhere between quiet laughs, lingering touches, and half-whispered confessions, the walls between you started to fall away. The anger that had sparked everything earlier felt distant now, replaced by something warmer—something real. At some point you ended up kissing again. Slowly at first. Then faster, deeper. Like neither of you had just spent hours fucking. One thing led to another, and you explored every inch of each other’s bodies—every curve, every shiver—until soon you were wrapped up in each other again, the night stretching on around you. Again and again, you came together, sometimes at the same time, sometimes one after the other, talking, laughing, touching—until eventually the darkness outside the window began to fade.

Pale morning light slipped through the thin motel curtains. You woke slowly, warm and tangled in unfamiliar sheets. Clint’s arm was draped loosely around your back, heavy with sleep. Your cheek rested against his chest, rising and falling with each slow breath. His skin was warm. The steady rhythm of his heartbeat hummed beneath your ear. One of his hands still rested on your hip, like even in sleep he hadn’t quite let you go. The room smelled faintly of last night — sex, cigarette smoke, and something new neither of you had quite figured out yet. A sharp knock broke the quiet. Clint woke instantly. Knock. Knock.  “Housekeeping!” Clint groaned, voice rough with sleep. “Go away.” You smiled against his chest. “Charming.” He cracked one eye open. “What time is it?” You shifted slightly, still half draped over him.

“Late enough that someone’s trying to clean up our bad decisions.” Clint snorted softly. “Too late for that.” You lifted your head and kissed him. Slow at first. Then not so slow. When you pulled back, you studied his face in the morning light. “Hmm,” you murmured. “You’re even more handsome in daylight.” Clint squinted at you. “Don’t spread that around. Got a reputation to keep.” That made you giggle. Knock. Knock. Knock. This time louder. Clint exhaled sharply. “I said-” He stopped suddenly. And there was no answer this time. You both looked at each other. That was wrong. Your smile disappeared. In one smooth motion you reached for the nightstand, fingers closing around your gun. You slid out of bed and raised it toward the door. Clint was already moving. Boxers, then his jeans — pulled on fast, belt buckled in one sharp motion.

He straightened and lifted a hand toward you. A silent wait.  Then he stepped slowly toward the door. Another knock. Closer now. From the other side came a calm voice. “Mr. Flood.” Clint stopped. Your grip tightened on the gun. Then the man outside continued. “Got a call for you. Asked me to pass along a message.” Clint’s jaw tightened. “What message?” Silence for a beat. “Payment’s due.” The room went still. Clint slowly turned his head toward you. You already knew what that meant. Outside, somewhere in the parking lot, a car door slammed. Clint grabbed his shirt from the chair. “Get dressed.” You were already halfway there. You stepped into your underwear and pulled your dress over your head, fingers quickly combing through your hair to tame the worst of it. Clint moved to the window and lifted the curtain just enough to look out. “Fuck.They’re here.” He pulled on his shirt, then reached for his leather jacket, checking the revolver before sliding it into the back of his waistband. You snapped open the cylinder of your own gun and fed fresh rounds into it.  Click. Click. Click.  Then you closed it and grabbed your jacket from the floor. You stepped beside him and peeked through the curtain. One sedan. And a van pulling into the lot behind it. Doors opened. Men climbing out. Your brows lifted slightly. “Well… that escalated fast.” Clint didn’t smile. “Almost ten.” You watched them spread out across the parking lot. “So,” you said quietly, slipping into that calm, operational tone, “how are we playing this?” Clint shook his head immediately. “We’re not.” He let the curtain fall. You glanced at him. “Excuse me?” He didn't reply, he just sat on the edge of the bed and pulled on his boots.

You slipped into your heels and started toward the door. Clint’s hand shot out, grabbing your arm before you could reach it. “What are you doing?” You looked at him like the answer was obvious. “We take them out.” He shook his head immediately. “Too many. We don’t win that fight.” You scoffed. “Since when do you scare easy, Flood?” “Since the day you robbed me.” He zipped up his jacket and glanced toward your bag. “Take the money. Go.” He nodded toward the back of the room. “Fire escape.” You stared at him. “Clint, don’t be stupid. What do you think you’re doing?” “Buying you time.” “They’ll kill you.” A small, humorless smile crossed his face. “No. They won’t. Not right away.” Your expression hardened. “Damn it Clint. That supposed to make me feel better?” Clint shook his head. “They’re after you. And the money.” You swore under your breath. “Fuck… fuck. I can’t believe this.” You shoved the rest of your things into the bag and slung it over your shoulder. For a second you just looked at him. “You expect me to just walk away?” Clint’s gaze softened for half a second. “I expect you to survive.” You stepped closer and grabbed the collar of his leather jacket, pulling him down into a hard kiss. His arm wrapped around your waist instantly, pulling you closer as the kiss deepened for one brief reckless moment. Then he pulled back first. “Go.” You held his gaze. “Don’t die, Clint Flood. I still need that perfect ass in one piece, got it?” Clint let out a quiet breath that almost sounded like a laugh. “I’ll try.” He opened the window and pushed it toward the metal fire escape. You climbed out onto the narrow landing, the cold metal railing biting into your hands.

Behind you, Clint was already moving toward the door as voices and footsteps spilling across the motel lot below.

The music reached you before anything else. Low. Muffled. Bleeding through walls like a distant pulse. Voices layered over it—indistinct, blurred together. Your head throbbed. For a second, it almost felt like you’d passed out at some crowded party, left somewhere you didn’t belong. Heavy-limbed, warm, disoriented. Then the pain settled in. Sharp. Real. Anchoring. You inhaled slowly, blinking against the dim light as your vision struggled to focus. Memory didn’t come back all at once. It crept in—fragment by fragment. The care center. Fluorescent lights. The smell of antiseptic. Your sister’s hand in yours. The envelope of cash pressed across the desk. The administrator’s careful nod. The rest of the money—hidden. Safe.

Tucked away where no one would think to look. Then the parking lot. Cool air. The quiet hum of the night. A sound behind you. Too many footsteps. You had turned. Instinct. One of them went down fast—your body moving before your mind could catch up, a clean strike that sent him collapsing onto the pavement. But there had been another. A flash of movement. Then— impact. Blunt. Brutal. Right at the base of your skull. Darkness rushed in before you even hit the ground. You remembered hands catching you. Rough. Impersonal. Voices. Laughter. Someone swearing as you kicked blindly. Being dragged. Then nothing. Your eyes opened fully. Your wrists burned. The sensation hit first—tight, unforgiving pressure biting into your skin. Tied to the chair, your hands bound behind your back. You didn’t move immediately. Just breathed. Listened. Measured. Then, slowly, you tested the ropes.

They held. Tight, but not so tight. “Amateurs,” you murmured under your breath, voice dry despite the copper taste still lingering in your mouth. Your gaze drifted toward the window. Dark outside. Not just evening—night. Three hours, at least. Maybe more. Your pulse steadied. Panic would get you killed. You shifted slightly in the chair, subtle, controlled. Your shoulders rolled back just enough to give your wrists space to move. The rope didn’t loosen—but it gave. A fraction. That was enough. Under the sleeve of your leather jacket, tight against your wrist, the small blade was still there — a faint, familiar pressure against your skin. If you could just work your wrist lower— angle your hand— slide it free— “Look who finally decided to wake up.” Your head snapped up. The Guy stood in the doorway, a glass of whiskey in his hand,

the amber liquid catching the low light as he stepped inside. He moved without urgency. Without tension. Like this—all of this—was already under control. Suspenders stretched clean over a crisp shirt. Sleeves rolled just enough. Every detail deliberate. Composed. He set the glass down on his desk with a soft clink. Your eyes tracked the room again. Desk. Door behind him. Voices below—clearer now. Multiple men. Armed.No easy exits. And Clint— Your chest tightened before you could stop it. Where was he? Alive? The thought hit hard enough to sting.You shoved it down immediately. Not now. The Guy said your name. You looked at him. He didn’t move right away—just stood there, watching you like he had all the time in the world. He stepped closer, slow and unhurried, his shoes barely making a sound. “I was wondering how long you’d last.” His gaze dipped—brief, precise—to the restraints at your wrists, then back to your face. Nothing rushed. Nothing wasted. “You’ve had quite the night.” You tilted your head slightly, studying him right back. “Didn’t hear you complaining earlier.” That earned the faintest shift in his mouth. A smile—but not warm. Not kind. Just… amused. “Oh, I’m not complaining.” A beat. “I’m impressed.” He moved then, circling you slowly, measured—like he was inspecting something rare. Something dangerous. “You hit one of my men. Emptied Rico’s safe. And found things you weren’t supposed to find.”He stepped behind you, close enough that you could feel him without seeing him. “Old records. My records. And somehow…” Another beat. “…you managed to turn my best collector into a liability.” His voice dropped. “All that…” A soft chuckle. “…brought down by a woman. That’s almost embarrassing.” You held his gaze. “Sounds like poor management.” His eyes settled on you. “So now I have a problem.” A slight tilt of his head. Almost curious. “And you are either going to solve it for me—” a brief pause, controlled— “or become an example.” He moved, slower now, more deliberate, and sat on the edge of the desk across from you. Close enough that you could see the tension in his jaw. “Here’s what’s going to happen,” he said. No raised voice. No anger. Worse. Control. “You tell me where the money is. You give me the list. And I don’t kill you.” You let out a quiet breath, almost thoughtful.“Mm. No.” His eyes darkened. “Spent it,” you added lightly. “As for the list…” You leaned back as much as the ropes allowed, expression calm. “Let’s just say it’s in very interested hands.” A faint smile.

“Hands that love digging into things like yours.” The shift was instant. His hand came fast. The crack echoed in the room as your head snapped to the side. Pain bloomed sharp and bright. Blood filled your mouth. You spat it onto the floor. “Wow,” you muttered, voice rough. “That’s how you treat a lady?” His fingers fisted into your collar, dragging you forward. “I don’t make distinctions,” he said coldly, inches from your face. “Men. Women. Doesn’t matter. I’m very progressive like that.” Behind your back, your fingers finally closed around the knife. Relief flickered—brief, controlled. You angled the blade against the rope. Started cutting. Slow. Careful. He let you go, stepping back. “You deserve worse.” You looked up at him, blood trailing from your lip. “Funny,” you breathed. “Guess we don’t always get what we deserve.” The fibers began to give. Almost there. He reached for the shotgun leaning beside the desk and brought it up, setting it down with deliberate weight. Metal against wood. Final. “Well,” he said, sliding a shell in with a sharp click. “There’s something you should understand about me.” Another click. “I always win.” The sound made something in your chest tighten— The door opened. One of his men leaned in, eyes flicking over you with a crude kind of amusement. “She’s awake, huh? Cooper’s been waiting,” he added, grin widening. “Figured maybe you let him have a little fun, y’know… do it in front of Flood.” A low chuckle. “Looks like he’s got a thing for this one.” The name hit you like a jolt. Your eyes snapped toward the other side of the room. Toward the door. The way they looked— he was there? The Guy’s eyes flicked toward the man—sharp.

“Tell him to sit the hell down.” A beat. “I’ll deal with her myself.” His gaze shifted to you. The man only smirked. “Alright.” He jerked his thumb over his shoulder, glancing back toward the corner of the room. “Maybe we let him wake up first, yeah? Might make things more interesting.” A crooked grin. “Fuck, man… you should see him.” He nodded again, this time slower. “Tuck’s crew worked him over pretty good in the van.” A shrug. “He’s not waking up anytime soon.” Your head tilted—just slightly. Not enough to give it away. But enough to follow his gaze. There. A shape in the shadows. Still. Too still. Your chest tightened. Clint. The Guy didn’t smile. Didn’t blink. “Travis,” he said, flat. "Shut your mouth and get out of my office.” The grin faded—just a little. “Yeah, yeah…” Travis turned toward the door— just as it opened.

Another man rushed in, breath short, eyes wide. “Boss— we got a problem. FBI’s here. They’re moving in—taking our men in, front and back.” “Oops,” you murmured lightly. Every eye in the room snapped to you. The Guy didn’t move at first. Then slowly— he looked at the man. “Could you repeat that? 'Cause it sounded to me like you said FBI' in my house and taking my people?" "Yes, sir, that's what I said." Then his gaze turned to you. Sharp. Calculating. You met it. And smiled. “You don’t look like you’re winning right now.” The Guy’s jaw clenched. “Handle it,” he said sharply. “Don’t let them inside.” Boots thundered out of the room. The door slammed. And your rope gave. You didn’t hesitate. You lunged. The chair crashed backward as you drove into him, both of you hitting the ground hard. The shotgun slid off the desk.

You went for his throat— He drove his elbow into your ribs. Air exploded from your lungs. Outside— “FBI! DOWN! DOWN!” Gunfire. Chaos ripping through the building. He kicked you—hard. Chest. Then your jaw. White light burst across your vision. The knife flew from your hand, skidding across the floor. He grabbed the shotgun. Turned it on you. “Fucking bitch—” his voice shook now, raw with rage. “You ruined everything!” His finger tightened. “If I’m going down—” The barrel leveled at your chest. “You’re coming with me.” The shot rang out. You flinched— Waited— Nothing. The Guy’s expression changed. Confusion. Then— absence. A dark hole opened in his forehead. The shotgun slipped from his hands. His body dropped. Dead before it hit the floor. Silence swallowed the room. You looked up. And saw him. Clint. In the doorway. Barely standing.

Blood everywhere.Gun still raised.Smoke curling from the barrel. He swayed. You were moving before you realized it. “Clint—” You caught him as he stumbled, your hands coming up to his face, holding him there. Bruised. Split lip. Cuts across his face, his brow. His eyes found yours. “You okay?” he rasped. His gaze dropped to your mouth. “Your face…” You huffed out a breath, almost a laugh, even as your eyes moved over him—taking in the bruises, the blood, the way he was holding himself. “You’re one to talk.” Clint barely reacted. Just glanced down at the blood on his shirt, then back at you. “I’ve seen worse,” he said. His eyes lingered on your lip again. You pulled him into you, holding him tighter than you meant to. Then— The door burst open. “FBI!” Agents flooded in, weapons raised, voices sharp. One of them stopped when he saw you. Recognition.

You rolled your eyes. “About damn time, Jefferson.” He sighed, a faint smile tugging at his mouth. “Oakland traffic.” Clint glanced between you, confused. “Friends of yours?” You shifted his arm more securely around your shoulders, taking his weight. “Long story.” Behind you— “Alright, move!” Jefferson snapped, his tone shifting instantly. “Spread out—secure the room. Bag everything.” Agents moved fast, voices overlapping, metal drawers opening, evidence bags snapping shut. Jefferson stepped further in, eyes sweeping once—then landing on The Guy. He nodded toward the body. “You do that?” he asked, casual. You didn’t even look back.“No,” you said, steady. A small pause. “His own man did.” Jefferson exhaled through his nose, almost amused. “Yeah,” he muttered. “That tracks.” A quick glance at Clint. Then back to you. “Guess we’re even now.” You nodded. Then he turned away. “Lock it down!” You started toward the door. “Come on, big guy.” Agents spread through the room, shouting, securing, cataloging. You and Clint moved through it all— down the hallway. Down the stairs. He leaned into you more now. You adjusted, steady. “Careful,” you muttered. “I’d rather you pin me to a bed than crush me on a staircase.” A breath of a laugh left him. “Noted.” You glanced up at him, eyes flicking over the bruises. “Someone’s gonna pay for that face.” He looked at you, tired but sharp. “Thought I was the one falling for you.”You smirked. “Don’t push it.” Outside— The Guy’s men lined up in cuffs. Chaos settling into order. You walked past it. Together. Toward his car. Red and blue lights washed over the street behind you. Agents moved through the house, voices sharp,

controlled—pulling men out in cuffs, stacking them against the flashing cruisers. The Guy’s world, unraveling piece by piece. You glanced at him. “Guess that makes you officially retired now, Clint.” A beat. “Now what?” Clint didn’t answer right away. Still watching as the last of them were dragged out. “Haven’t figured that out yet.” Then he looked at you. A small smile. “Guess I’ll see where you go.” “That’s cute.” You patted the roof of the car—once, twice. "Then try not to fall behind, tough guy.”

Two weeks later. Santa Cruz.

The air smelled like salt and clean sunlight. You stood just outside the fenced garden, one hand resting lightly against the railing, watching. They were helping her walk. Slow steps. Careful. Supported on both sides by staff. Your chest tightened anyway. But she was standing. That was enough. More than enough.

You reached into your pocket, pulling out a cigarette, rolling it between your fingers— A lighter clicked before you could. You glanced sideways. Clint. You leaned in slightly, letting him light it. “Thanks.” Your eyes dropped briefly to the duffel at his feet. You smirked faintly. “Someone finally decided to leave Oakland.” Clint exhaled, gaze drifting toward the horizon. “Yeah. Shoulda done it sooner.” Silence settled easy between you. Then— “Offer still good?” he asked. You didn’t answer right away. Your eyes found her again. She was laughing now. Weak, uneven—but real. One of the staff said something. She tried to wave them off. Almost stumbled. They caught her. You smiled, softer this time. Then took a drag from your cigarette. “Can’t,” you said. "Got someone to take care of.” Clint followed your gaze. Saw her.

Something shifted in his expression—small, but there. Your sister looked up suddenly. Like she felt it. Her eyes landed on you. Then drifted. To him. A slow, unsteady smile. She lifted her hand. A weak wave. Clint hesitated— Then raised his hand back. “Hey,” he muttered under his breath. You huffed a quiet laugh. “They’re letting her out this weekend,” you said, softer now. “I’m taking her home.” Clint nodded once. Then, casually, “There room for anyone else?” A slight tilt of his head. Almost teasing. You looked at him. Really looked. Then smiled. “Don’t have another room. But my bed’s pretty big.” Clint huffed a quiet breath, almost a laugh. “Yeah? Good. ‘Cause I’m outta work.” His gaze flicked to you. “Gonna take me a while to pay rent.” You shrugged lightly. “I got a job. I’ll keep us afloat for a while.” His brow lifted slightly.

“Yeah? What, you rob people full-time now?” You snorted. “Relax. I teach.” He glanced at you. “Teach what?” You took a drag from your cigarette, then looked back at him. “How to hit people properly." A faint smirk. "Less chaos. More technique.” Clint let out a low chuckle. “Sounds like a hell of a class.” You tilted your head. “It pays.” A beat. Then softer— “So… we got a deal?” Your eyes held his. “Or you need it in writing? Could always seal it with a—” He didn’t let you finish. He stepped in—and kissed you. Firm. Certain. Like he’d been thinking about it for longer than he’d admit. When he pulled back, his forehead rested against yours, his hand still in your hair. You stayed like that, watching as your sister’s session ended. Neither of you said anything. You didn’t need to. This time—you both stayed.

And for the first time in a long time—it didn’t feel like you were on your own.

hope you enjoyed reading ❤️ feel free to leave your thoughts if you’d like — i’d love to hear them 💋

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[nicolethered]

Pedro Pascal as Clint Flood in Freaky Tales (2024)

[a7estrellas]

PEDRO PASCAL as Clint Flood FREAKY TALES 2025 | dir. Anna Boden & Ryan Fleck