Summary: When you confess to Clint that Peter Parker has been stalking you, Clint vows to take care of it himself
Warnings: Murder, Cheating, Violence, Gun Violence, Blood and Gore
Pairing: Mafia! Clint Barton x Female!Reader
WC: 612
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“You love me, don’t you, Clint?” you mumbled against his lips as he licked at your bottom lip. The question trembled out of you, a whisper half-buried in the taste of whiskey still lingering on his tongue.
“You’d do anything for me, right?”
“You’re damn right, I will, baby doll,” he mumbled, leaving your mouth and trailing feather kisses along your jawline and down your throat, nibbling and sucking at the skin until it bloomed red beneath his teeth.
“Would you kill someone if I asked you?” Your fingers threaded through his perfectly combed hair, styled to the side tonight like he’d just walked out of some noir film.
“Of course.” His voice dropped rough as gravel as he leaned on his elbows to hover over you. He licked at his lips before asking, “What is up with all these questions tonight? Did someone hurt you? Is it that Parker kid again? Do I need to send my men after him? Tell me.”
“That’s the point, love,” you murmured, stroking his hair with your fingertips as though soothing a beast. “You always send your men to do your dirty work, and I don’t know how I’d feel if you were the one behind the trigger.”
“Who do you want me to end, Y/N?” he hummed, practically melting beneath your touch despite the steel in his words. “Give me a name.”
“Peter Parker.” You whispered with a sigh, chest tightening as you let the name slip. “He’s been stalking me again. He terrifies me. I think he’s planning on doing something to me.”
“I’ll deal with him. I’ll hang around the saloon tomorrow and I’ll catch him. I promise.”
You kissed his lips softly before throwing the bedsheets away from your body and stalking to the bathroom for a quick shower before the night’s end. Steam curled in the cracked light as Clint lay back against the pillows, already plotting.
The following day, the saloon buzzed with smoke and soft jazz from the jukebox in the corner. You were serving an older gentleman a beer, balancing the glass against the polished counter, when a scuffle broke out outside. It was loud enough to cut through the music, loud enough to still the chatter of your patrons.
“What’s going on?” a man shouted over the hush.
Your blood went cold, though your face stayed calm. You knew exactly what was happening; that Parker punk had been stalking you yet again and Clint was dealing with the issue.
A breath later, the doors slammed open. Peter Parker stumbled inside, half-dragged, half-kicked. Behind him came Clint Barton, blood splattered across his face and freshly pressed button-up shirt. He looked like sin incarnate, gun heavy in his hand.
“This the punk you wanted out of your sight, Y/N?” he clarified, punctuating the question with a sharp kick to Peter’s ribs. The boy cried out, earning gasps and protests from the gathered crowd—only for Clint to casually raise his gun and fire off a shot. The bullet tore through the air, silencing the room as an elderly woman collapsed in her chair, dead before she hit the ground.
“That’s him,” you said coolly, nodding in confirmation.
“Say bye bye, punk.” Clint scowled as he pressed the trigger again. One shot. Final. Peter Parker’s body went limp at his feet.
Holstering his gun without ceremony, Clint stalked behind the counter and pressed his bloodied lips to your own. “I’ll send Barnes on over to clear out the body and clean the place up, a’ight?”
“Thank you,” you murmured, kissing his nose before calling for attention and resuming the bartending, as though nothing at all had happened.
