a/n: So life is pretty fucking crazy right now. To be completely transparent I am struggling, I have my unemployment which is great, pays my rent and most of the bills but with my credit cards being maxed, and having to dip into the literal last penny I had to cover things until it kicked in, I am just consistently in the red. So if It seems like I'm MIA, I'm just trying to figure out a way to replace my overdraft🥲 lol. But enough about that, lets get into Clint. I have received so many amazing asks for him, so many wonderful thoughts and thots that I had to weave a few throughout this chapter. Thanks so much for your support (for anyone who's kicked over a ko-fi or a kind word, I love you all💕) ps. I took a liberty and made a change to the lore of Clint, let me know what you think!) special thanks to my girlie @wheresarizona for her input and support for this chapter 🥰
Warnings; 18+ no minors, vague but big-legal age gap, piv sex, oral sex f rec'g, some allusions to shitty exes not really caring about you not being in the mood, *trauma* (on both sides), hurt/comfort (for him and you), Clint get injured and you help him, some old school gender roles, Clint talks about his ex who was more than okay with the gender roles, the L-bomb, Clint being a munch as requested, Clint using his criminal persuasions to make you laugh, him building furniture which needs its own warning, allusions to child abuse and domestic violence, period piece - takes place in 1987, let me know if I missed any!
Pairing: Clint Flood x F!Reader
Ko-fi link 🥲💕
word count: 7.9k 😅
reblogs are appreciated
Masterlist series Masterlist
Louis purrs in your lap. A loud, deep rumble that shakes your bones while you sit crossed legged, watching Clint build the low, wooden bookshelf he’d bought for the living room. Your hand moves, ruffles through the cat's soft fur absentmindedly while your eyes eat up the sight of him, tools and furniture pieces sprawled out.
Your lip slips up between your teeth at the broadness of his shoulders, so visible in his soft cotton shirt; at the peak of his lower back when he reaches for his tools. He grunts when pulling two pieces of wood together, his biceps flex reaching for the drill. He grunts again when he uses his strength to screw them in place.
Sunlight floods in through the open blinds, lighting up the scene, turning his grey strands to silver tinsel. When he’d first started your stomach had been in knots. Memories of your father trying to put something together flooded and you imagined frustrated sighs, loud cursewords flying, volume and male aggression but none of that had happened as of yet.
He read the instructions, he laid out the pieces, he separated and counted the hardware, and when you asked if he needed help he’d simply smiled and shook his head no.
“Okay, now we’re getting somewhere.” He lifts the half completed bookshelf right side up, grabs another piece and slots it into place. More drilling, more flexing from him, more drooling from you. Louis jumps down from your lap and circles his workspace for a moment before seeking out a sunny patch on the floor.
Clint rises, stretches long, his shirt lifts up giving you a clear view of the soft dusting of hair on his belly that you know ends at the base of his–
“We should take off soon, or you’ll be late.” He speaks to you, completely unaware of the effect he’s having. Fuck, your shift.
“Oh yeah, ugh, I don’t want to go to work.” You sigh, falling back onto the couch.
“Want me to call in a bomb threat?” He clicks another shelf into place, a burst of laughter comes out at the thought of it. He smiles, his eyes finding yours.
“Be serious.” You twist to lay on your side, watching him click another shelf into place.
“Oh I am serious. There’s a payphone on the corner I could call it in from, you’d have the day off.” He winks, and you realize with half shock, half amusement that he is serious.
“Maybe another time.” It’s wrong, a federal crime you’re almost sure, not a practical suggestion but there is something incredibly sweet in it. Maybe there’s something wrong with that thought, but you can’t be bothered to care.
“Whatever you want, Princess.” He continues his work, moving methodically, securing the shelves and within a few minutes, he’s done.
“There we go. All done.” He claps his hands together. “What do you think, move the tv onto it and use it as a stand? Or should we put it against the window behind the couch?” He turns, waiting for your opinion, hands on his hips.
“I’m not sure, what do you think?” You move to stand next to him.
“I’m happy with whatever you like.” His hand slips around your waist, moves down to give your ass a quick squeeze. You hug his middle.
“If we put it under the window, I’m sure Louis would appreciate the vantage point.”
“You’re right about that, okay I’ll move it under the window.” He presses a quick kiss to your temple before dragging the unit towards the window. You move to help him but he swats your hand away, frowning while he moves it where it needs to go. When it’s in place, Louis jumps up, chirping as he walks the length of it. Clint huffs out a laugh.
“Okay, let’s get going.” He gathers his tools and puts them back into his toolbox before collecting all of the cardboard and styrofoam.
“Too bad I have to work, watching you put that together really did it for me.”
“Did it?” His eyes find yours, one eyebrow raised.
“Oh yeah, so competent, so manly. Made me wet watching you use that drill.” You sigh out the words.
“Are we one hundred percent sure about that bomb threat?” His smile is wolfish, and for a moment you actually consider it. You laugh it off though, the store is short today.
“Don’t tease me, come on I need to be responsible and get to work.” You back away, nervous at the way he drops the cardboard and stalks after you. “Clint–I’m serious.” It comes out half a laugh, half a breathy pant. You scream when he catches you, burying his face into your neck while you squeal.
“Okay okay, let me get dressed and I’ll drop you off.”
–
The entire shift is a shitshow. Everyone and their mother seems to pick today to come and rent a movie, and it’s difficult to keep the return box empty. You didn’t even have time to run to the diner for a bite.
You’re almost half an hour late by the time you grab your things from the backroom, huffing through the annoyance of having to pick up the slack for being short-staffed.
“Everything okay?” Clint is out of his car, hands outstretched for your bag when you finally make it to him.
“I’ll be fine, just annoyed.” He presses a kiss to your forehead when you come close. Already the bad mood is slipping away. He opens the car door for you and you slip in.
“Bobby’s an idiot, forgot to catalogue some stuff before he left and I had to do it. Took for fucking ever.”
“Want me to burn the store down?” He pulls away, heading home and you laugh at the suggestion.
“No, that wouldn’t help.” You kiss the back of his hand, lips twitching up in a smile.
“You sure? I could rob it first. Get you all the movies you love, some cash, and then burn it to the ground.” He smiles, winking at you before focusing on the road. The thought of him coming home with a bag full of tapes and cash makes you laugh harder.
“No, I’m good, but thank you.”
-
It’s dark in the apartment, save for the few lamps you have on. Louis watches with sleepy eyes from the top of the shelf while you organize movies and books into it. Slowly but surely the piles on the floor, your things and Clint’s come together within the place you’ve assigned them.
It’s soothing, putting each book or tape into its rightful spot. The sight of his things mixing with yours makes you beam, a private little sunburst at how well you fit together. You’re excited to show him when he gets home from the job he’d left to go do.
Once everything is organized, the second part of your evening task begins. Clint usually cooks, he’s good at it but with him being busy tonight you take it upon yourself to make dinner. Something simple, pasta, a quick sauce, a salad. Living with your dad forced you to learn a handful of recipes to keep in your back pocket, it was either that or suffer through whatever he threw together.
The food is ready, and the salad sits waiting to be dressed by the time the keys jingle in the door.
“Baby, I’m sorry, but I need your help.” Clint calls out from the door, uncharacteristically stressed.
“What’s wrong–” His face is a little pale when you reach him. “Clint, what happened?”
“I’m fine, just a little cut.” He’s holding his side in a way you don’t like. You follow closely behind, frowning all the way to the bathroom.
“Can you grab the first aid kit for me, baby?” He gestures to the cupboard under the sink.
“What happened?” You pull the kit out, set it on the counter while he strips out of his layers.
“Guy I shook up had a knife, didn’t catch it in time and he nicked me.” He slips his jacket off, wincing with almost every movement. He’s come home with an injury before. A split knuckle, a black eye once, things he shook off within a few days. This felt bigger, it sat in the pit of your stomach, swelling with every item of clothing he shed. With his dark clothes it was hard to tell the extent of the damage, until he gingerly pulled his shirt off.
“Jesus Christ Clint! That’s more than a nick, we should go to the hospital–” His abdomen was stained red, a pulsing, red gash on his lower side makes your stomach roil.
“No. Can’t do that, Princess. No hospitals.” He undoes his pants, groaning with the effort before your brain catches up. You still his hands and help him undress down to his boxers.
“Gonna need you to help clean it and stitch me up, I’d usually do it myself but I can’t exactly hold it together and stitch.” He rinses his hands before rooting around in the kit, he pulls out gauze, pulls out a bunch of things while you stand there gawking at him.
“Clint, I can’t–” You begin but he shakes his head.
“Yes you can, I know you can. Grab one of the older towels please, baby.” Your stomach roils, your hands shake as you open the linen closet and pull out a faded blue towel. He hops up onto the bathroom counter, a bottle of peroxide in his hand.
“Babe, I really think we should see a doctor, what if it’s worse than you think?” You push, gentle in your delivery. The thought of him ignoring this, of the injury being really bad, of him dying–
“Baby, I promise you, I’m fine. You can do this.” He’s so calm, so steady it only highlights the fact that there have been times he’s had to do this on his own, all those scars you’ve traced on his skin are just times he’d done this before you were in his life.
“Wash your hands for me really well, lots of soap, and then douse them in the rubbing alcohol under the sink.” You do as you're told, worrying at your lip as you follow his directions. He holds his hands out and you pour some of the alcohol onto them as well.
He threads the needle, then holds it out for you. His eyebrow raises when you hesitate.
“Come on, we’ll get through it together, and I’ll do my best to never ask you to do this again.” Blind trust stares out at you from his eyes, so you take the needle from him.
Something about that makes you pause. The real concern for you is him being hurt, not having to help him patch himself up.
“Okay, we’re gonna take this nice and slow. I’m going to clean it out, then pinch the skin and you’re going to sew. One stitch at a time.” You nod.
The sound he lets out after pouring alcohol onto it makes you wince, not in fear, but in pain. A low fuck, and some low grumbling follows while he wipes away the mess with gauze from the kit. You feel a little helpless watching him, useless until he takes a deep, steadying breath and then nods for you to come closer. He winces when you pierce him and you instantly want to stop, you can’t be responsible for hurting him but he tuts at you, reading you like a book.
“You’re doing great, Princess. Just keep going, only a few more.” It’s said through gritted teeth. His muscles are tense, all of him shaking with the effort of holding still, pinching the wound closed.
By the time you’re finished he’s breathing hard, letting out each breath with more force than is necessary.
“I’m sorry, one more and I think we’re done.” He shakes his head, dismissing your apology. Once finished, you tie it off as best you can, and snip the end. He lets out a long sigh while you cover it with gauze and medical tape.
“Thank you baby, great job.” He smiles, a little pale, a little delirious with pain. He washes his hands again before reaching for a bottle of pills in the medicine cabinet, swallows two dry, throws all of his clothes in the laundry basket. He moves to clean the mess on the counter but you stop him.
“Leave it, go lie down, I'll tidy up.” With a gentle push, you kick him out of the bathroom and clear the evidence of his injury away. Your reflection looks tired when you catch a glimpse of yourself in the mirror.
What he did for a living was no secret. It hadn’t exactly been a mystery before you actually knew him, and it’s never been a taboo topic since moving in. It’s his life, it’s his business and as long as he’s careful you don’t really have much to say about it. Sure, it’s not the profession you imagined your significant other holding, but you’re not one to judge. This feels different though, this is scary, this is dangerous. This life could take him from you.
He’s sprawled on the bed when you return to his side.
He lets out a long sigh. A steadying breath to focus on instead of the pain, you can tell by the way his eyes are clenched shut.
“I made food.” You can’t help but pout at him. There’s something in your stomach, eels fighting for space borne of his injury.
“You did?” He frowns at the expression on your face, at the way you shift nervously from one foot to the other, fingernails digging into your nailbeds.
“Princess, I’m fine–” He winces when he sits up, clutching at his side.
“No you aren’t!” It comes out higher than you mean it to. “Clint this is big!” You don’t want to cry, but tears well in your lashes all the same.
“I’m sorry I made you do that, next time I’ll handle it on my own. I didn’t mean to upset you.” He pulls you to him, big hands on your waist.
“I’m not upset at having to help you Clint, my god, I’m upset that you got hurt!” Your fingers curl into his waves, unshed tears blurring the image of him staring up at you. “You know I’ve never interfered or asked about your business, but would it be so bad if you took a step back?”
His thumbs swipe gently at the tears that fall, quiet and gentle.
“I just—” you push his hair back out of his face, “I just want you to be safe.”
“It’s very sweet of you to worry about me like this but there’s something I really need you to know. I have been doing this a long, long time and I am perfectly capable of handling myself.”
“I know you are–” He shushes you gently.
“Yes, I am. And I also know that me coming in here like I did was very scary for you but you did a great job at patching me up.” His smile is soft, caring, placating. He pulls you closer, makes you straddle him despite your protests at how it must hurt. You smile at him, a watery, wobbly thing that makes your vision blurry again.
“Let’s eat, hm?” He wipes at your eyes again and presses his lips to yours.
-
His breaths are deep and even in the dark, quiet cave of your bedroom. You’re making sure of that. It’s a good sign you think, that he’s sleeping so deeply, that he’s resting after his injury.
He’d been all smiles at dinner, had made a big deal of you cooking for him and you could see it was a means to get your mind off the way his hand settled over the place you’d stitched up. It didn’t work, it was all you could think about but you appreciated the thought.
He shifts, pulls you closer. You sigh, letting him. The clock on his nightstand shows that it’s well past midnight, you sigh again.
Love swells in the corners of you, champagne bubbles along your skin at the smell of him, at the feel of that strong, steady heartbeat under your ear. You haven’t said it yet but you definitely feel it. It can’t be anything else. Funny how the absence of love throughout your life only helps you identify it so quickly when it finally comes around. It doesn’t scare you to love him, to know that you love him, the only thing that scares you is the thought of losing him.
-
Her soft shift wakes him and it takes the hand of God for him not to groan out in pain. The pills he’d taken, although strong, had worn out hours ago. Carefully, so as not to wake her, he pulls the cover back, lifts his shirt to see if he’d torn something while asleep. The gauze is still white however, and he’s more relieved than he’d expected to be.
His head falls back onto his pillow. His jaw is tight, a telltale sign of the migraine to come later on.
He wants to roll over and pull her close, he wants to bury his nose into her neck, cover every inch of her in kisses. He wants to wake her up with his tongue between her legs but he knows he can’t do that without risking further damage. Her obvious worry had touched him in an unexpected way. He already knew that she cared for him but it was different. Maybe it was the contrast of her reaction to him getting hurt as opposed to that of his ex. With his ex, it had been more on the side of disgust. His injuries, his black eyes and busted knuckles had been met with annoyance and a healthy dose of criticism.
He rises softly, careful not to jostle her, and makes his way to the bathroom to start his day.
Louis greets him at the door to their bedroom and despite the pain, he picks him up before he can sneak in.
“She’s tired buddy, let's let her sleep.” He whispers to the cat, whisking him away.
-
Breakfast comes together quickly. Buttered, toasted bread, sunnyside eggs as perfect as he could get them, crispy bacon. He smiles to himself, filling her favourite mug with coffee and the sweet creamer she likes. He goes so far as to cut up some strawberries for her and adds them to the spread. Clint wishes he had some flowers, it would be a nice touch to have a little jar of them on the tray.
Louis chirps from his place on the windowsill.
“I know, you think flowers would be a nice touch too right? I’ll have to pick some up for her later.” He speaks to the cat, arranges things a little neater on the tray. Finally, he grabs some cutlery, wraps it in a napkin and adds it.
“Don’t go poking around in the sink. I’ll do these dishes once she’s done.” He gives the cat a stern look, Louis is unbothered.
She doesn’t stir when he manages to somehow get the door open, doesn’t stir when he sets the tray on his side of the bed. He can’t contain the happiness when he finally makes his way around, when he sits next to her sleeping form.
“Princess, come on honey, wake up.” With a soft shake of her shoulder, she whines, a low, annoyed hum.
“Baby, I made you coffee.” He whispers it into her ear, leaning over her to press his mouth to her cheek, ignoring the pain in his side.
“Mmm, coffee.” She turns into him, her arms wrap around his neck automatically and he revels in the fact.
“That’s right, pretty baby, nice and sweet. Get up and drink it while it’s hot.” He kisses her mouth, soft, gentler than he wants to.
“You’re the fucking best.” She smiles dreamily before frowning, with consciousness comes realization. “Wait, aren’t you in pain?” She frowns now, pushing him up to sit before joining him.
“A little, I took more meds so it’s not so bad now.” He cups her face with his big hand. He doesn’t know what he’s done to get so lucky, to be able to touch her, kiss her, spoil her but he doesn’t question it.
“Clint.” She puts some steel into her voice and he hates that it makes his cock jump.
“Yes, Princess?” He reaches across her lower body for the tray, pulling towards her.
“Stop! No more heavy stuff, I don’t want you to hurt yourself more.” She’s annoyed now, worried and fussing over him and the novelty of it makes him glow. “I can grab that, I wish you would have woken me up and let me do this.”
“I wanted to do it for you.” He takes a piece of bacon from her plate, eats it while she rolls her eyes at him.
“Yes yes, very sweet, the sweetest most handsome, most thoughtful man alive. But, still injured.”
“Oh, say that again please, I don’t think I heard you.” He reaches under the covers and squeezes her knee.
“Oh you know perfectly well what I think of you–” She narrows her eyes around a bite of toast, her mood shifting from annoyed, to playfully annoyed. “The eggs are perfect, babe.” She breaks the yoke, dipping her toast into it, then takes a big bite. She does it again, scoops some of the egg onto the bread, adds a piece of bacon and offers it to him. He smiles and accepts.
His heart swells with every bite she takes, and every bite she shares with him.
“I know you said no hospitals, but if it hurts really bad, or if it looks like you’re getting an infection, we’re going.”
He nods, not only because he thinks she’ll be very upset with him if he doesn’t, but because he agrees.
“Good. Okay so what's the plan for today? I’m assuming you can’t work like that.” She pushes the tray away.
“No, unfortunately not. I know I probably should just so I’m not short on cash but–”
“No. You shouldn’t, and it doesn’t matter if you’re short on cash. I have cash.” He frowns at her, it's a conversation they haven’t really had but it’s something he’s firm on. Now’s as good a time as any.
“I know you have your own money, and that's how it should be. I, however, am the man and I take care of the bills.” He raises an eyebrow, her expression matches his.
“Yes, I know you’re the man, and I know you usually take care of the bills but that doesn't mean I can’t contribute. I work, I have a steady income, it’s not exactly a fortune but I have a bit of money saved up now, especially since moving out and with your refusal to let me even pay for groceries, it’s just sitting there.”
“So let it sit there, or go shopping, get your hair done or whatever else you want to do with it. It’s yours, and I want it to stay yours.” He remembers having this conversation, or some form of it with his ex, the glee in her eyes at his notions of their respective places and roles within the house. He’d been happy then, at the easy acceptance, the joy she took in being taken care of. The joy faded at the eventual way it became an expectation. He’d had to work a lot in those days to support them not only in the form of basic necessities, but in the lifestyle she wanted.
“And I will do whatever I want with my money, that includes helping. So no more of this macho bullshit about you having to carry it all by yourself.”
“It’s not macho bullshit baby, it’s my job. I want to take care of you, I want to make sure everything is handled, I don’t want you worrying about any of that.”
“Clint–”
“Listen. I don’t expect you to live under my thumb, or to cater to me or to ask me permission for anything, you’re an adult. I’m firm on this though, the apartment, the bills, the food, that's on me.”
“You can’t stop me from helping.” She crosses her arms, he melts. “You can’t stop me from buying things for this place, or slipping some money into your pocket when you aren’t looking, or paying for dinner every once in a while.” He lets out a huff of laughter.
“Fine. Every once in a while, few and far, far between.”
“Good. Does this mean you’re not working today?” She bites her lip, smiling wide.
“Yes, I’m not working today.” He laughs at the squeal she lets out.
“I’m calling in sick!” She presses forward, hugging him tightly before practically jumping out of bed and running for the bathroom.
“Then–” She sticks her head back out, toothbrush in hand. “We can hang out all day, eat junk and watch movies!” She’s never looked more beautiful to him than she does in that moment.
“Whatever you want, pretty baby.”
-
“Looks pretty good, considering I practically butchered you.” Your fingers trace over the pink seam of his scar. He’d had to go to the clinic despite his protests. A few days after the fact, the skin around it had started to get really red, and the wound had begun to ooze.
“You did not butcher me, I’m just prone to infections I guess.” He slathers a little more ointment onto it, “It does look much better though, and I’m finally done with the pills.” He smiles.
You lean into his shoulder, exhausted from the day, from the week.
“God, I can’t wait to crash.” You sigh, nuzzling into his neck. “You cannot know how fucking excited I am to sleep in tomorrow.” You press your lips to his cheek before moving away to wash your face.
“Rough few days huh? We should do something fun tomorrow, after we sleep in.” He lands a spank when you bend over to rinse, pulling a squeal from you.
“That sounds fun, something low-key though, please.” He presses the towel into your hand.
“Of course.” His hand finds your back, a soothing press before he leaves you in the bathroom.
Dinner is perfect, warm and comforting, and you eat it curled up on the couch with your feet in his lap. He laughs at the movie, a deep rumble, a smile big enough that his eyes disappear and that love you feel for him fills you to the brim.
The night goes by, and eventually you end up lying with him behind you, the living room is dark except for the low light of the television. The ache of your week catches up and you’re so comfortable, so tired you start to drift; until his lips find your neck.
“Hm, you smell so fucking good pretty baby.” His tongue traces the shell of your ear, his hand migrates up from your belly, to hold the weight of your breast. Panic floods. Usually his advances are well received, the way he kisses you, the way he touches you leads to sex. But you’re so tired, so achy you don’t want to. Your hand stops him when he cups your pussy.
“Baby I’m sorry, but I’m just really not in the mood. I’m so drained from this week I just…I don’t want to.” You speak low, careful, the tone you’ve used with other boyfriends in the past. Your body tenses, waiting for the resigned sigh, or the begging, or the assurances that he’ll be quick. Or for him to ignore you altogether and continue.
“Tomorrow for sure, I promise.” You bring his hand up, kiss the back of it. “Is that okay?”
“Okay? Princess, of course, it’s not a problem. Want to go to bed early? I can make you some tea or something.” He puts his hand back on your belly, kisses your shoulder softly.
“Yeah, that would be great. You’re not mad right?” You turn in his arms, hold his cheeks with your palms, bottom lip caught between your teeth.
“I promise we can tomorrow.” He frowns, not angry but confused.
“You don’t have to promise me anything, if you don’t want to, that's the end of it. How could I be mad at you for that?” His hand finds your cheek, his thumb smooths your brow, you press your face into his neck to hide the tears that fill your eyes.
“Let’s get ready for bed, go on and get cozy, I’ll make you some tea. Okay?” He rubs your back, squeezes you just as tightly as you need him to. You nod, and leave without saying another word.
-
He lays there in the dark, her face against his bare chest and something sour curdles in his gut. Her reaction worries him, that reluctance to voice the fact that she didn’t want to have sex makes him worry not just about what others have expected or demanded, or heaven forbid taken from her. It also calls to mind other times he’s initiated a sexual encounter. Has she not wanted to in the past? Has she gone along with it out of fear that he might be upset if she didn’t? He presses his lips to her forehead, and stews in it.
-
It’s late when your eyes open, the sun shines in through the window much brighter. God, you fucking needed that sleep. The stretch feels so good, deep, all consuming. Your hand taps his side of the bed, empty. You frown, the time on the clock shows almost eleven am.
It takes another fifteen minutes to actually get out of bed. The apartment is quiet, Louis is asleep near the window, and Clint is nowhere to be found. Work you think, he must have left early and let you sleep in. He’s such a good man, truly.
You’re pouring coffee when he comes through the door, a burst of yellow flowers clutched in his hand.
“Morning babe.” You smile, rushing towards him.
“Morning Princess, how did you sleep? I brought you some donuts, and these.” His eyes are bright, and the bag in his hand is warm. “Here, have one while they’re warm, and I’ll put these in water.”
The sugar clings to your fingers with each piece you tear off. He accepts a bite around his task, lips turned up in amusement at your clear enjoyment.
“Wanna go for a ride? Weather’s nice.” The bouquet filled vase lands like a spot of sunshine in the middle of the small kitchen table.
“Sure, maybe we can grab a bite or something?” Your tongue makes short work of that sticky sugar, before it’s all rinsed away in the sink.
“Sure, go on and get ready.” The kiss he sends you away with tastes like the donut.
-
Riding on his bike feels like nothing in this world, with the wind in your face, and his solid form in front of you, nothing matters. A laugh escapes your mouth, carried off by the wind for what feels like the hundredth time. The rumble shakes your bones, exciting and half terrifying, much like him before you’d gotten to really know him. Your nose skims along the little peek of his neck under that leather jacket, he smells like home. That great big feeling of love blooms again, fills every inch, every crack inside you, makes you glow and smile like a fool. He squeezes your hand at his belly and it feels like a direct response to your thoughts. A secret interpretation, I love you too.
Lunch is a comfortable affair, a different diner in a part of the city you’ve never been to but he swears is worth the trip. And he’s right, the food is good, the atmosphere is friendly. Conversation flows as you both eat. He talks about his work, in a vague, plausibly deniable way. You talk about yours, in gruelling, boring detail.
The ride back home is just as exciting, just as fun and windswept.
Louis chirps when you both walk in through the door, he winds through your feet until you pick him up. Clint raises an eyebrow at the way he melts in your arms.
“Throw on a tape, I’m just going to shower.” He gestures while hanging up your coats.
“I’ll join you.” You’re excited, after the rest and the perfection of the day you want the intimacy. He says nothing, and so you set Louis down despite his yowls of dissatisfaction in the time spent cuddling him and follow Clint into the bathroom.
Steam fills the small space as you both undress, butterflies swarm in your belly at the thought of his hands on you. It doesn’t seem to matter how many times he’s had you, it always feels like the first time.
The scars on his back, the bigger one on his side, all of those little silver streaks across his skin do nothing to take away from his beauty. He’s strong, the flex of his biceps when he brings his palms to his face highlight that. The long line of his neck, the muscles in his back and shoulders, it all lights a fire in your belly to know he’s all yours.
You wrap yourself around his back, chase that same scent that lingers on his skin, even damp. He turns, and hugs you back, strong and firm, but doesn’t linger. Before your mouth has reached his he turns once more, and continues with his shower. You frown, maybe he isn’t getting the signal.
When he grabs the soap, you slip around him, stand under the water and do your best to look as appealing as possible. An accidental bump into him, leaning back onto his chest brings his arms around you once more, success. His lips brush against your shoulder as he lathers soap over your belly, your chest, whatever part of your body he can reach. Arousal collects at the mouth of your cunt, but it progresses no further. He steps away.
There’s a strange tension in the air, a stiffness, a barrier you can’t really define. Memories of the night before return, the denial of his advances, the assurances that he was okay with not engaging.
“Sorry baby, let me just get under the water.” He shuffles, smiling and rinses. “I’m going to go start dinner, enjoy.” He pulls you close, presses his lips to yours and then leaves you there, alone under the hot spray.
He’s cooking when you finally emerge, slightly disoriented from your own imagination. His smile looks normal, but you begin to wonder if it’s a little clipped. His embrace feels like it usually does, but maybe it’s a little cold. Is he upset at having been denied? Is he giving you his version of the cold shoulder? A little payback for having been shut down? The thoughts feel cruel, and that’s the one thing he’s never been.
There’s no action on the couch, and the worry grows. There’s affection, he’s not shy about it. Your feet still end up on his lap, your head still finds the dip in his shoulder, but his hand doesn’t slip between your legs.
Maybe I should just make a move.
It lingers, the idea of just straddling him, of kissing him passionately enough to make it crystal clear that you want–no, need to be fucked. But then a vision of him firmly, and forcefully pushing you off comes to mind and you don’t really think your heart could handle that. While it’s completely fine for him not to be in the mood, it’s another thing to be rejected in retaliation, or as a means of punishment.
When you find yourselves in bed for the night, he falls asleep quickly, and all of your hopes of him maybe just not reading your signals goes out the window.
-
It’s no better in the morning. He’s already up and out of bed when you wake, another silent denial. Tears come, hot and heavy at the thought that he might be upset with you, or worse, that he doesn’t desire you. All of that love you have for him burns clean through, melts along your skin, chokes you.
The door creaks open and he walks in with coffee and another pastry bag.
“You up Princess? I brought you–what’s wrong?” He frowns, putting down his purchases on the dresser before rushing to your side.
“Do you not want me?” It spills out of you, unfiltered and unrefined.
“What?” The confusion in his voice would make you laugh, if you weren’t so heartbroken.
“I didn’t want to have sex, I was just tired–but then you didn’t try anything, and I made it so obvious.” You wipe at your eyes, hiccup through a sob. His frown deepens, lets out a sigh before moving closer.
“And because I didn’t make a move you thought I didn’t want you anymore?” You nod at him. There’s a distinct sadness in his expression you don’t like.
“Am I right? Do you not want me anymore?” You’re terrified to know, maybe that love that’s been growing in your chest has been growing alone. He shakes his head no.
“I didn’t want to pressure you into anything. The way you talked about being too tired made it seem like you’ve felt forced to do things before that you didn’t want to do, and it got me thinking maybe I’ve made you feel like you had to. I wanted to be sure, or at least talk about it before we did anything again. You shouldn't be afraid to say no to me.” His thumb swipes at a tear. It’s a sunburst, a supernova of emotion that bursts at his reasoning. You crumble into tears again and this time he pulls you to him, curls you up in his lap and lets you cry.
“We have to be able to talk about things.” He whispers into your ear, runs his hand up and down your back, absorbs everything you have and gives you peace, calmness and understanding in return.
“I was so scared you’d be mad, I was scared you would leave me.” You clutch at him, squeeze him tight.
“Don’t you know I’m crazy about you? You’ve got me by the throat, kid.” A huff of laughter escapes, and something bubbles in your throat, unstoppable.
“I love you, Clint.”
“I love you too, Princess.”
-
His kisses taste sweeter with love in his mouth, more passionate. Permanent. It’s quiet save for the soft whispers of the sheets, low pants and moans with every press of your lips to his. You try to stay in the moment, but a smile keeps tugging at your lips at the realization that he feels that same love you feel.
Wordlessly, softly, he pulls your layers off in the bright light of the morning. You do the same, relishing every inch of him that’s revealed. You're all mine, you think, practically vibrating at the thought, the confirmation that not only are you on the same page, but that it’s real. The tips of your fingers slide across his shoulder, curl around his neck when he surges up to kiss you. Naked, warm skin on naked, warm skin.
Your hands cradle his skull, fingertips slip through his grey waves while his lips slide across your throat, your collar bones, the plump of your breast. A pink flash of tongue before it connects to your nipple. A soft moan. A groan from his chest. The champagne bubbles of that feeling for him burst along your skin with every lick, with every playful bite, with every lust–love drenched smile.
His facial hair tickles, makes the muscles in your belly twitch when he kisses you there. The nervous twitching doesn’t stop when he parts your thighs and bites his lip at your wet, glossy sex.
A sigh full to the brim with pleasure escapes at that first flat, wide lick from hole to clit. He doesn’t play around when he eats you, he likes it too much. There’s never any teasing, he can’t seem to help himself. Not that you mind. Not with the way his eyes glaze over in sheer euphoria at tasting you. It’s still a little hard to watch him, too erotic, too intense but you can’t look away either. His tongue slips inside as deep as he can get it, making your heart race, making your cunt ache.
Tendrils of his hair fall in his face, and you move them aside with a gentle hand, gentler than the hands that grip your thighs hard enough to hurt. You can feel yourself leaking onto his tongue, he moans, the vibration of it only unravels more strings of your lust for him, floods his mouth with your desire.
He pulls away, stares at your cunt spread wide for his mouth. He looks as drunk as you feel. Those gorgeous, dark eyes find yours, focus on you while his tongue dips, holding your gaze while he tastes and tastes and tastes your clit. Up and down, up and down again and again until it burns you up, until your hips chase his tongue; until your fingers turn into talons in his hair. He moans when you come, drinks your orgasm down, holds you tight to his mouth, until you finally push his face away.
He doesn’t say anything, only smiles in that self-satisfied, it-was-me-who-made-you-come, way. He’s so smug, so full of himself, so fucking hot you could combust.
You taste your orgasm in his mouth, feel his own want slipping against your thigh, your hip, between your legs and then finally inside. The unabashed moan of pleasure he lets out when he’s buried deep enough to make you take in a gasp of breath is enough to put you right back on that rollercoaster, climbing higher and higher towards another delicious release under him.
He’s a lightning strike, a battery, a loaded weapon, charged and tense but so controlled. It’s there, on his skin like static before a storm, under your hands and under the place your thighs rest against his hips. It’s a hum in his muscles, the drip of sweat that forms and collects on his forehead, the sheen of his effort shining on his face.
You pull him closer, unable to tap into the same control. Where he is steady, devastating strokes, you’re a filthy kiss. Hips that chase his rhythm, hands that grip his face. Moans that fade into harsh pants.
The control finally slips, and his hips snap harder, harsher, deeper. His cock kisses something almost painful, surely divine, something all fucking his.
His last stroke does hurt, but it makes you come just the same.
-
“You beat me to it.” His smile is dopey, relaxed. “Saying I love you first, I’ve been wanting to for a while and you beat me to it.”
“I’ve been feeling it for a while too.” It feels so good to be open about it, to not be afraid of being the only one ready. He pulls you somehow closer, legs tangled, your head resting on on his bicep while his other hand holds onto your thigh over his side. It’s such a big feeling, such a huge gift to be here with him, in a real home. In another universe you’d be bringing him home to meet your dad, you tell him that.
“And I’d be introducing you to my parents, were they alive, and had my father been someone worthy of meeting you.” You understand what he means, your father isn’t worthy of him either.
“My mom definitely would’ve liked you. She would've given me shit about the age difference but she’d have been happy once she met you.” There’s a sadness in his voice, it’s different from the sadness that fills your mouth at the mention of your own mother, death is not the same as abandonment.
“I’m sure I would’ve loved her.” You cup his cheek, swipe your thumb across his skin. “Guess we’ll just talk about each other to our friends. No parents, no siblings, I don’t even have cousins that I know of. You got any cousins I can meet?”
“Actually, I do have a sibling.” He frowns, and so do you. “He doesn’t live here, hasn’t for a long time but I have a little brother. I don’t really talk about him.” It’s a shock to your system, for there to be an extension of him somewhere out in the world.
“I didn’t know that.” It’s all you can say.
“I know, I want you to know.” His hand finds yours, fingers linking. “He was a lot younger than me, a surprise my dad really didn’t want. I took a lot of shit so my dad would leave him alone.” It hurts to imagine it, a teenage Clint fighting a full grown man to protect his baby brother, protect his mom. You imagine what kind of woman she must have been and there’s an anger there, unfair and unwarranted maybe, but there regardless.
“I’m sorry you had to endure that babe, I really wish you hadn’t needed to.” You frown, holding in the rage at how he’d been forced to grow up.
“Me too. I wish he would have just left, or let my mom leave, let her take us with her but he was too cruel for that. So she stayed, protected us as much as she could.” The anger shifts to sadness, to a raging sense of injustice at how the world had treated them. You press your mouth to his forehead, offer him the comfort of your embrace.
“What’s his name? Your brother?”
“George.” His lips quirk up, memories and stories he may or may not share with you flash across his features.
“I hope I do get to meet him one day.” Emotions swell, another layer of intimacy has been peeled back for both of you. It’s cut short by angry yowls at the door to the bedroom. You let out a laugh.
“He’s got spectacular timing, I’ll give him that.” Clint rolls his eyes in amusement, groaning as he rises, gloriously naked, gloriously yours. “Yeah yeah, I heard you.” He opens the door and Louis struts in, jumps onto the bed to join in the cuddle pile. He meows, blinks slowly when Clint slips in, settles between you and purrs loudly.
“I love my boys.” You kiss Louis’ forehead, smile at the sheer perfection of it all.
“Me more though right?” Clint presses closer, somehow manages to pull you closer without jostling the cat too much. You laugh, giddy with luck and gratitude. “I’m number one, right Princess?”
“Don’t tell me you’re jealous of the cat–” You squeal, laughing harder at the way his fingers dig into your sides.
“I have no need to be jealous of the cat, because I come first.” You laugh harder, the cat meows and you give in.
“Yes yes, okay.” You settle back into your place, shaking your head at the self-satisfied smile on Clint’s face, looking at the cat as though he understands, you actually think he might.
“And don’t you forget it.”
-
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