#clint

[pinklemonadesociety]

Smoking, side profile + wedding ring, lethal combination.

[missyorkswhore]

HEAR ME FUCKING OUT

[pascalland]

Welcome back Javier Peña

[81gb]

pedro pascal as clint , freaky tales .

[juletheghoul]

father figure

a/n: Clint got me big time, and originally I wanted to write one hot scene but I am who I am and now I have 21 pages written lol. Thanks to @foli-vora & @just-here-for-the-moment for screaming at me about this and for letting me scream at them about it too, hopefully you enjoy the first chapter. I'm still on a little break from Tumblr but with the movie out I really wanted to share. xoxo

Warnings; 18+ no minors, vague but big-legal age gap, piv sex, dirty talk, shitty dad (neglect), absent mother, allusions to illegal activity, daddy kink, secret relationship, period piece - takes place in 1987, Clint being a big guard dog for you, let me know if I missed any!

Pairing: Clint Flood x F!Reader

Ko-fi link 🥲💕

word count: 5.3k

reblogs are appreciated

Masterlist series Masterlist

-

It’s so cold, the breath from your lungs steams a little. With an angry sigh, and the comforter from your bed wrapped tightly around your shoulders you descend the dark steps into the living room. It’s late, past midnight but the neighbourhood is still buzzing with life. 

The dial on the thermostat still shows what the temperature should be set to and then what the actual temperature is and they don’t align, that can only mean the heating bill hasn't been paid again. Your teeth clench, anger swirls like a sudden squall, a heavy sigh pushed roughly through your lips.

The kitchen door opens and the object of your ire walks in, speaking loudly to someone and the annoyance only climbs. On any regular day you’d be asleep by this time, not that he’d care, based on his fucking volume.

Your mouth is open, the scathing words already in the chamber when the bulk of him blocks the kitchen light and the words die in your throat; Clint, neighbourhood thug and overall goon. He follows your dad in, his leather jacket covered frame too big for the dingy little kitchen, his big boots squeaking against the linoleum. 

“Fuck, it’s cold in here—“ you dad frowns, pulling two glasses from the cupboard, “Clint, can I get you a drink?” 

“Uh, yeah, sure.” He shifts on his feet, the bulk of him moves slowly towards the too-small kitchen table, “Thanks.”

“You didn’t pay the heating bill.” The shock of Clint in your house doesn’t stop you from giving your dad a hard stare, his wide-eyed, mooncalf expression doesn’t inspire shame or regret at letting him know. He frowns after a few seconds, an angry huff leaving his lips before laughing, it annoys you that he meets Clint’s eyes before answering you. 

“Yeah yeah, I sent it in, must be another mail fuck-up, you know how it is.” He shakes his head but the pulse in your ear only quickens with anger. 

“When?” With more force than is necessary, you pull the blanket tighter, “When did you mail it in?” The clench in his jaw only compounds your suspicion.

“You didn’t send in shit, and now you’re here in the middle of the night with—“ your eyes find Clint, and what meets you isn’t what you expect. The perpetual scowl you’ve come to expect to see on his face, whether he was walking down the street, idling in his car at a stoplight, or even sitting in the diner having coffee is gone. What’s there is a piercing gaze, a knowing expression, pride? 

“You’re here, getting mixed up in God knows what instead of getting a fucking job—“

“I am getting a job. A good one, one that’s going to change our—“ Clint clears his throat, and the words die, his expression shifts from angry determination to a pleasant, paternal—yeah fucking right—blankness. 

“Go to bed, I’ll make a few calls tomorrow and get the heating turned back on.” 

The disgust is hard to hide, so you don’t even try. They both call out a soft goodnight when you turn and walk back up the stairs. You don’t respond.

-

The bell jingles, but your eyes stay on the pile of returned tapes in the bin under the window. The weekend crowd would be in soon, just like every other Friday, all of them flooding towards the new releases section to pick their movies for the weekend. The box is heavy, but you lug it over anyway.

“Let me help you with that—“ his voice cuts through the mental list flickering through your mind, startling you enough that you practically jump. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you.” He's taller than you remember, greyer, hotter. 

“You didn’t,” you lie, “just caught me off guard.” The step back is involuntary. 

“Where did you need it?” He holds the heavy box without trouble, it barely seems to register, a testament to at least one of the rumours you’ve heard about him, that everyone has heard about him—his strength. Seemingly just to compound the thought, he shifts it to get a better grip, and for a moment holds it with one hand. 

“Yeah uh, just there is fine. Thanks.”

He gives you a tight smile after putting down the box, highlighting the deep scar that begins from the top of one eyebrow and runs down his nose, ending just under the other eye. It’s jarring enough to see it healed. Unwanted images of what it must have looked like fresh, of having a bloody slash across his face fills your mind's eye. It sends a chill up your spine. 

Clint's smile evaporates under your gaze, the usual scowl takes over while a curious guilt burns within you.

“Thank you.” You repeat yourself, giving him a smile of your own. A tiny, silent apology. He nods.

“Is there something I can help you with?”

“Your dad asked me to meet him, I forgot you work here.”

“Forgot? I didn’t know you knew it in the first place.” You mumble it mostly to yourself as you begin the process of filling the shelves with the returned tapes. 

“I’ve seen you here before.” He leans against a bare space on the wall, the leather in his jacket creaking as he crosses his arms. You’re not sure what to do with that information, and the easy assumption is that he’d been in the store before, or that he’d walked by enough times, seen you during a shift enough times to recognize you as the video store girl. You accept this assumption.

“Been here a few years.”

“I know—“

“Look, whatever bullshit my dad is trying to get involved in, can you please just tell him to stop?” The words bubble up, spilling out as you slide tape after tape behind the corresponding case. He frowns, you continue.

“He doesn’t need to be getting himself mixed up in things he shouldn’t be getting mixed up in.” His expression is cold when your eyes lock, the reminder of who he is, of his reputation makes your stomach drop.

“It’s not my business, it’s not anything I want to know, but it shouldn’t be his business either.”

“Your dads a big boy sweetheart, not up to me to tell him what to do.” 

The bell chimes over the door, ripping your attention away from the endearment. Your father walks in. Something curdles in your gut that he smiles at the sight of Clint, smiles in a way that spells trouble.

“You’re late.” Clint’s tone is icy, the warmth that curled around the syllables he’d directed at you has frozen over into something unwelcoming. It served to highlight a warmth you hadn’t noticed. That curdled thing shifts to a warmth of your own to see the smile die on your fathers face, to see him chastised. Shame eclipses it however, you focus on your task and leave them to their business.

Your father leaves without a word once their meeting is done, Clint doesn’t say anything either, but his eyes find yours, they linger longer than necessary before he walks out of the store. Thoughts of him linger, of his strength, of his voice, of the shape of the word sweetheart in his mouth until the rush comes and you forget all about him.

-

It’s not until a week later that you see him again, another unofficial meeting at the video store. They stand in the x-rated section, the two of them speaking in hushed tones while half-heartedly pretending to look at the cheap pornos lined up on the shelf. The curtains for the section aren't completely closed off, giving you a clear view of them from where you stand at the aisle just outside of it, and you’ve stacked those shelves enough times to know exactly what Clint is looking at. Something inside jumps at the thought of knowing which tape caught his attention, however superficially. Barely legal babysitters, a girl that Bobby, your shithead coworker has taunted you with by saying she looked an awful lot like you.

Your brow creases when you see him idly pick up the case, watch him study the image of the bubbly girl smiling cheekily. He puts it down, and then looks back at you. Your stomach drops, but you don’t look away. Heat floods the whole of you, a cold drop of sweat following the line of your spine. They leave without a word, but the look in his eye stays with you.

-

The heat turns on a week after that, blessed warmth blows steadily through the vent in your room, chasing away the chill that’s haunted the whole of your house. Clint walks in with your father that night, a tight smile greeting you in the kitchen. 

“Shit, I didn’t know you were home tonight.” Your dad frowns, take-out bags in his hands and something burns clean through. Anger, annoyance, embarrassment when Clint frowns in understanding. 

“I never work on Thursdays.” 

“Fuck. Okay well—“

“You serve yourself a full plate, and we’ll make do with the rest.” Clint speaks over your dad, that same tone you’ve heard a few times, the one that leaves no room for argument fills the tiny kitchen but you protest anyway.

“It’s fine. I can just go out and get myself something.” It should make you happy that he wants you to have some, but all you can focus on is the fact that it’s him that offers it and not your dad.

“Get yourself a plate, and fill it. Come on.” Your feet bring you to him, your hands reach for the cupboard and obey while your dad says nothing. 

“That’s it sweetheart, go on, grab as much as you like.” He opens the containers and urges you, his tone softening up into something warm, something almost nurturing. You smile up at him, taking a little bit of the sticky sweet orange chicken, you huff out a laugh when he tuts at how little you take. 

“That’s not enough. Don’t be shy, there you go.” He slides a few more pieces onto your plate before opening up another container.

“You want fried rice? Or just the steamed one?” His hands are scarred, his knuckles littered with the tiny silver lines of stitched over skin. His fingers are deft when they open the containers, for a second you imagine how they’d look opening up the button of your jeans, or the tiny ones on your favourite cardigan. 

“Veggies too, here have some broccoli.” He tips another container, piling the shiny, bright green vegetables onto your plate while you reign your thoughts back in.

“That’s more than enough, I won’t eat all of this.” He waves you away.

“Eat.” He urges, and with a shy, tight lipped smile and less than wholesome thoughts, you sit at the table and eat. 

Your dad serves himself after Clint, silently. His plate has perhaps half the food that yours does. 

“I won’t eat this all, you—“

“No, that’s yours. He should’ve considered his daughter before coming home without enough food. Next time he will.” Clint eats, impervious to the sulk on your dads face. 

The strangeness of it all isn’t lost on you, to have someone who is for all intents and purposes a criminal, going to bat for you against your own father. If this had happened a few years ago, if you’d been younger, more naive, you might have felt bad for your dad, you might have stuck up for him and defended his actions, but you aren’t that person. The shut off heat comes to mind, the unpaid bills over the years, the endless schemes to make a quick buck, the general neglect moves your fork across your plate. 

Clint catches your eye and winks, a cheeky thing that fills your body with heat, shoos away the very idea of neglect. 

Undeterred, your dad continues a previous conversation you tune out. Your eyes are fixed on the man across from you, on the breadth of his shoulders and the flex in the muscles of his jaw and neck as he chews through his bites of food. 

When they leave, the thought of him lingers. The sound of his voice fills your ears when you tuck yourself in, the heat of his form beside you fills your bed like a ghost, until you fall asleep and dream of that wink. 

-

It doesn’t register at first, but after the take-out fiasco, the meetings at your house tend to take place on Thursdays. They fill out the kitchen, talking about things you have no reference for, coded language regarding God knows what while you make yourself dinner, or tidy up, while you fold laundry on the couch. Little things pop up too, the fridge is full of food, a rare occurrence and part of you suspects that Clint is responsible. How novel, that the neighbourhood goon would push your father into providing. 

It shifts eventually, from an influence on your father, to him providing directly. It starts with a coffee, a warm, sweet one from the diner down the street given to you without a word before another video store meeting. Fresh donuts on another night, breakfast before a shift on another morning and although completely confusing, it feels a bit like a feral cat bringing dead mice to your door. An offering, a courtship? You shake your head, eat the food, drink the coffee, and enjoy the donuts. 

-

Rain pours, heavy and relentless as you finish up vacuuming the musty old carpet of the store. A loud sigh leaves your mouth, already shivering in anticipation of the short walk home in what is quickly turning into a fucking monsoon. A car pulls up in front of the store, idling just outside the door and you recognize it as Clints. 

“Get in!” He shouts from the open window when you open the door, pressing yourself as close as you can to lock it without getting drenched.

With a frown you stare at him, noting the lack of your father. 

“Come on, get in sweetheart, I’ll drive you home!” He reaches over, unlocking the door and you jump in as fast as you can. You don’t escape the water, despite it only being a few seconds your jacket is soaked, water droplets run down the back of your neck. He turns the heat up full blast and you’re more grateful that you know what to do with. 

“Thanks, what are you doing here?” You rub your hands together in front of the vent, soaking up the warmth. 

“I didn’t want you walking home in this.” His tone is simple, matter of fact. He drives slowly, the windshield wipers are working as hard as they can but the visibility is still trash. 

“Why?” 

“It’s pouring, you shouldn’t have to walk home in this, you shouldn’t have to walk home at all.”

“And why shouldn’t I–”

“Because.” The word comes out in a huff, almost annoyed–no, not annoyed, passionate, “If it were up to me you wouldn’t even need to work.”

Your mouth clamps shut, your mind races. Thoughts swirl as he turns slowly down your street. Heat that has nothing to do with the air blowing through the vents claws at your chest, curls in your gut and trickles to the place between your legs. 

He parks outside your house, dark and lifeless, coming up out of the concrete like a rotten tooth. 

“Why are you saying that?” The car rumbles, the rain pelts against everything. His eyes are hungry when they meet yours and the air in the car, in your lungs is gone. 

“Because you deserve to be spoiled. You deserve to be taken care of and loved–” the words are a tide, a great big wave on the horizon of a barren desert. 

“You definitely shouldn’t have to worry about bills or whether there will be heat in your house, you shouldn’t be taking care of your dad, he should be taking care of you.” A crack spreads through the veneer of the fantasy and clarity comes through. Where you thought he was confessing his feelings for you, it was actually a paternal worry. 

Embarrassment burns so much hotter than desire.

“I’m fine–”

“I know, I know you’re fine but I don’t want you to just be fine. I want you to be happy, I want you to smile.” He frowns, his big hand engulfing yours and it only makes you feel worse, until he pulls you in and presses his mouth to yours. He swallows the gasp, along with an unintentional whimper. His kiss is softer than you'd ever expected, a delicate, plush press of his lips to yours until your arms drift up to slip along his neck. He feeds you a sound of his own, a low, rumbling thing as he deepens the kiss. He tilts his head and slips his tongue past your slightly open mouth, slides along yours, licks deep until you moan.

When he pulls away the world is on its ass, your heart races and your pulse pounds both in your ears and in your cunt. 

-

His jacket thwacks onto the ground of your tiny bedroom. It’s accompanied by your soaked jacket, the discarded items surrounded by tiny pools of rainwater but you couldn’t care any less. His hands squeeze at the meat of your hips, they slide around to the small of your back, press you close to feel the heavy weight of his cock against your hip as he presses you down onto your tiny bed. 

The lust, the want is so intense it drips onto your inner thighs. It clouds any and all thoughts that aren’t about his tongue licking a hot stripe up your neck, or the look on his face when he kneels between your legs, when he sees the glossy lips of your sex, the wet spread of you begging for any part of him. 

His cock barely bobs, it lands like a brand against your cunt when he settles in the cradle of your hips, bracketed by your thighs. His lips engulf a nipple, his tongue swirls mercilessly around the sensitive peak and liquid fire burns clean through you. With a steady suck and a life-altering flick of that tongue he rocks his hips. His cock spreads your seam wide, coating himself in your arousal, the fat tip of it bumping your clit with every push and pull. 

There isn’t enough air, there isn’t enough room in your lungs. 

“So fucking wet for me huh baby?” He nudges at your nipple with his nose, his tongue licking at it again and again before he moves to the other breast. He sounds almost pained as he worships your chest, breathing hard through his nose as you stare in horny silence.

It’s so hard to focus on anything but the all-consuming heat of his mouth on your nipple, or the heavy weight of his cock against your mound but you try to take in the details of him. The scars on his golden skin, the freckles on his shoulders, the size of him on top of you, so broad he blocks the light when he moves up towards your mouth. He’s an eclipse, a dark, welcome shadow across your sky, across your life. Until him, you hadn’t realized how fucking bright everything had been, how blinding, how exposed.

“Gonna take care of you.” He kisses a path up to your neck, leaving both nipples wet and puffy. “Gonna fuck you how you deserved to be fucked, you want that?” He reaches down, pressing himself harder against your clit. 

An inhuman sound comes from somewhere in your throat, the part of your brain that forms words has left the building. 

He laughs, a cocky, self-assured thing. 

“Come on, pretty baby, tell me. You want my dick don’t you? Because I really wanna give it to you, but I gotta hear it. You gonna be my good girl and tell me?” The tip of his dick slides deliciously over your clit and it’s so good you might come just from the stimulation, it’s already building at the base of your spine, spreading through your hips like a warm bath. 

“Oh yeah, she wants me so fucking bad huh? Look at her, all wet, trying to pull me in, greedy little thing.” He moans almost to himself, looking down to watch himself tease you halfway to madness, 

“Please Daddy–” It slips out, unbidden, unmistakable and panic hits like a bucket of cold water. 

His eyes shoot up, silently pinning you to your bed and for a split second, you can almost pinpoint every single drop that hits your window. 

“I–I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to, I–” You scramble for a second, trying and failing to get out from underneath him. You don’t make it far, his grip tightens, his eyes dilate, a grin spreads across his handsome face. 

“Oh baby, that’s what you need huh? Just a daddy to take care of you. A real one.” His lips drift across your skin as the rain pelts harder, the soft glow of your lamp casts his face in shadows at this angle, the scar on his face looks more pronounced, his normally slicked back hair falls in soft tendrils. Something swells, an emotion you can’t really parse, it lodges itself in the back of your throat. 

“Let me take care of you, baby.” His kiss is gentle, his hands too, hitching your legs high on his hips. You’re wet enough that he slides right in, but the size of him bottoming out inside you makes you gasp out a surprised moan. 

“Holy fuck–” You swallow thickly, breathing deep despite feeling like his dick is in your lungs.

He lets out a deep sigh, licking his lips before he looks down to see himself stretching you open on his length. 

“That’s so fucking pretty, Daddy’s in there nice and deep.” His words send a shock of pleasure through your body, like a lightning strike pulling more and more liquid arousal to seep out around him. He sees it, and smiles big. 

“Oh you like that, you just wanna be my baby don’t you?” 

You want to answer, you want to use your words and pull him apart, make his heart race the way yours does but he pulls his hips back and thrusts in deep and every word falls out of your head, leaks out around his cock, comes out as a breathy pant. 

Your inner thighs burn, sweat beads on your skin and his, the slick rhythmic noise between your legs fills the space between you along with your heavy breaths. Rain pelts outside, lightning flashes, shining a spotlight on the vulgar tableau like a spotlight, like a camera flash for an image you never want to forget. 

He’s so fucking beautiful, so warm against you, so fucking hard inside you. His eyes take in the no doubt cock-dumb expression on your face and there is only desire in his gaze. The rest of the world falls away under the weight of it. One big palm skates up, squeezing at the weight of your breast, his thumb brushes against the sensitive peak before sliding up and pressing gently against the base of your throat. There is no threat, only the comforting feel of him holding you down, the reassuring feel of just how much of your skin his hand can touch at once. It sends a hot lick of desire up your spine. 

“Harder–” You pull him closer, canting your hips up to meet his thrusts, wrapping your legs tighter around his waist, the blunt ends of your nails digging into the hard muscle of his shoulders and he pulls his lip into his mouth at the sound of your voice. 

There is no preamble, no teasing, in a moment he’s up and kneeling between your legs. Those big hands are holding onto your hips tight enough to bruise, thrusting, and pulling you towards him at the same time. Your bed rocks, your breasts bounce, and your brain runs celebratory laps around itself on just how lucky you are to have found this man. 

His face is a frown of concentration, mouth open, dark eyes fixed on the way you leak around him, on the way your hands scramble for purchase on anything they can reach. He grunts, moving one thigh up so your calf rests against his shoulder and the other reaches down to swirl mind-blanking circles at your clit. 

“Oh god–” Your stomach tenses at the threat of pleasure looming, heat spreads and he doesn’t alter his movements, he doesn’t speed up. 

“That’s it baby, come on, you can do it.” He nods at you, his eyes guiding you into the abyss, his thumb in place and it’s almost there, you can taste it. 

“Come on, pretty baby–” He leans forward a little while keeping his rhythm, lining himself up and then he lets a glob of spit fall slowly over the target of his thumb and the thought, the act, the feel of that extra hot slip sends you over the edge. 

Your voice breaks with it. Your body clenches tight as a bowstring, and he only grips tighter, fucks you harder, swirls his wet thumb faster. Your pulse pounds in your ears as you ride out the high, the vulgar sounds between your legs only get louder, more obscene until he pulls out, and tugs at himself in tight, fast movements. The sight of him over you, bathed in shadows and silhouetted by the streetlamp outside, his arm flexing, muscles shining with exertion while he strokes himself above you is enough to reignite that desire in your belly. 

It’s only compounded when he lets out his own unadulterated moans, when he leans forward again and palms your breast, squeezing as he paints you in himself. 

He’s the most relaxed you’ve ever seen him after he comes. That constant tension you’ve come to recognize in his shoulders is gone, the scowl he wears in the video store is replaced with a serene, soft expression as he wipes his cooling come away from your skin after making his way naked and unbothered to your bathroom next door. A shyness creeps in along with the clarity of what you’ve done. Any stress you’ve leached away from him, seeps into your body the longer you lay there, naked and hyper aware of the shift in who he is to you. 

“You okay? I didn’t hurt you did I?” He tosses the damp washcloth into your laundry basket, but lingers beside you, sitting at the edge while you lay there, naked, damp and fidgeting. 

“No, no, not at all.” You take a deep breath, try to smile but he frowns, his warm hand settles softly, lightly on your belly. You can see the way he draws up, shoulders rising with the growing tension. 

“Are you upset that this happened?” There’s something slithering through the tone, through the undercurrent of his question and you can see it clear as day, doubt that you wanted this, doubt that you wanted him. 

“No! No, this was, it was great, really.” Your smile is real, and his eyes are intense, trying to decipher your words and your body language. You rise, shoving down that self-conscious chatter about your body, about the fact that he can see everything. 

“I–Clint, it was really good…I’m just, I’m nervous about what happens now.” Your hand holds his arm, breathing through and ignoring the mean little voice that focuses on his hand on your belly. 

“What do you mean?” His thumb rubs at your skin, frown in place.

“Well, what is this?” You gesture to the two of you, “not to be that girl, but what are we? You’re working with my dad, are we dating? Was this just a one night thing? Are we going to pretend nothing happened–?” Questions spill out, word vomit in his lap like a sick cat. 

“Okay, okay–” His hands land on your arms, sliding up to cup your cheeks and the tension leaves him again, a smile replaces the frown and you mirror the expression back, embarrassed. 

“I am happy with whatever you want. I would prefer this wasn’t a one-time-thing, at this point I don’t even think my dick would get hard for anyone but you, sweetheart.” He pulls you forward softly, but firmly to straddle him. 

“As for your dad,” He lets out an annoyed sigh against your shoulder, pressing a soft kiss there before shaking his head.

“I’ll be honest, I’m not sure he has a future in what I do.” He doesn’t elaborate, doesn’t give you any details and you don’t ask. Your arms wrap around his neck, your fingers thread through the damp hair at the base of his skull. 

“So what happens now?” he pulls you closer, his strong arms make you swoon but you focus. 

“I’d like to keep seeing you. I’d like to take you out on a real date, show you off.” 

“Really?” Your teeth dig into the plump of your lower lip, heat spreads through every inch of you, pooling in the parts of you that are pressed up against the parts of him. 

“Yeah baby, of course, if you’d let me.” His smile is so soft, so sincere it bolsters you enough to pull you forward, his mouth begs for yours and you have no choice but to obey. It’s soft and sweet, and when you pull away your face is warm with the feelings swirling within. 

“I want that too, but–”

“What is it?” His hands stroke your back, soothing, strong, reassuring.

“Can we just keep it to ourselves for a little bit? I don’t want to deal with the drama of my dad. Not just yet.”

“Whatever you want, baby.” 

-

Your dad shoves himself into the kitchen an hour later, shaking himself off like a wet dog. Clint sits at your table, a steaming cup of coffee in his hands and the smile, the pleasant conversation between you is gone and it’s like he’s another person. 

“I’ve been looking everywhere for you.” Your dad speaks to Clint, ignoring you completely, it doesn't phase you. The clench in Clint's jaw though, that makes you smile to yourself. 

“Why? I told you I would come find you.” He frowns, rising and putting his cup into the sink. 

“This isn’t going to work if you aren’t going to listen to me.” He leans against the counter, pointedly staring your father down. Your father crumbles. 

You rise, knowing whatever they have to speak about is none of your business. 

“Thank you for the coffee, sweetheart.” He says it as you walk away, tone cold but you smile anyway. His smell lingers in your room, in your sheets, wraps itself around you as you fall asleep. 

-

Your heart leaps, a staccato, tachycardic thing that would worry you if weren't for the recognizable shape of him entering the video store. He smiles a private smile, hands you another sweet coffee he knows you like from the diner. His fingers linger on yours when you take it from him. He pulls a warm pastry from one of the big pockets in his jacket, and gives it to you with a wink. Your face warms and suddenly, keeping this whole thing a secret seems so stupid. Every molecule of you wants nothing more than to jump over the counter and climb him like a tree, wanting to feel those strong arms wrapped around you. 

Your dad walks in, and the urge dies. The thought of his expression if he saw that is enough to curdle milk. 

“You busy on Thursday?” Clint asks low, uncaring and you shake your head no. “Don’t make plans.” He winks again, and then turns, and leaves you with the sweet taste of coffee in your mouth, wishing it was his tongue instead.

-

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[clubsoft]

[ozarkthedog]

Raw. In the Monte Carlo. Raw. Over the hood of the Monte Carlo. Raw. On the kitchen table. Raw. Bent over the couch. Raw. On the bathroom sink. Raw. In an alleyway. Raw.

[itwasntimethatdidit40]

Big boy.

Gif by @berryispunk

Pairing: Clint x f!reader Rating: +18, NSFW, MDNI Words count: 2065 Summary: You enter a video rental shop looking for something spicy and end up finding the best fuck you've ever had. Basically PWP, I'm FERAL for this man, okay. Tags/Warnings: reader has no description, she wears leggings and a top, smut, sex in a public place, a dash of nipples play, oral (f receiving), unprotected p in v (do better irl, please, especially with strangers), sex with a stranger, pet names, dirty talk, Clint has a filthy mouth of course, no reference to the plot other than the video rental, reader is absolutely unhinged and feral, cream pie, reader is on the pill, some stereotypical ideas, reader doesn't like the name 'Clint', other filthy things I don't even remember, I wrote it basically in a frenzy LMAO. A/N: Inspired by the gif above, I saw this post by @berryispunk on my dash earlier today and started typing right away LOL English is not my first language, no beta, no proofreading, no nothing, I apologize for any mistake.

Thank to anyone who will read!

Masterlist

Your idiot boyfriend broke up with you six months ago, and you haven't seen a cock since. 

Nothing. 

Absolute desert. 

Until a few weeks ago you were too grossed out by the male gender to think about it but you need something now. 

You are thirsty. 

Hungry.

Working from home some days a week was distracting, and you found yourself increasingly brooding, taking long breaks to linger in long sessions with your favorite toys. 

The fantasies going on in your head, however, were always the same and as satisfying as they were, you felt you needed something more. 

At least until you had met a man worthy of your time.

That's how you found yourself after work in the video store near your office. You frequented it often but had never entered the adult video section. You were embarrassed, but you had no other way to find material of the kind you were craving.

The section was divided from the rest of the video store by a thick red velvet curtain, and as you approached it the guy behind the counter gave you an 'eloquent look. He was a thin guy in his early twenties, long black hair, a lower lip piercing, his tattooed arms poking out from a T-shirt cut off at the sides. 

“Hey baby, can I help you?” he had said with a grin painted on his face.

You had raised an eyebrow in response, “No thanks.”

Definitely too young and looking like someone who spends his time getting stoned and playing video games every day all day.

You peeled back the curtain and entered, prowling around the various shelves. Naked women everywhere on video covers, big boobs, bleached blond hair, full lips and winks. On another shelf, black women were smiling at you, on the one below Asian women. And a then shelves and shelves of everyone together.

The world of porn was organized.

Everything was silent, shrouded in the red light of three large neon X's hanging on the wall.

You were perusing at a video with a nice redhead woman, a black woman and a man with a huge cock when you heard steps coming from the opposite direction you were. 

A man appeared right in front of you. 

A very handsome man actually. 

Tall, broad shoulders, a face sculpted by God in person, big nose, kissable lips and slightly messy beard and mustache, thick deep brown hair and a gorgeous pair of brown eyes. 

Please tell me you are looking for my pussy, you thought. 

Fuck. I’m really unhinged at this point.

He ignored you and continued to search the shelves for something. You follow him with your eyes, drinking in his figure dressed in light jeans, a plaid shirt and a black leather jacket. 

He had a little too much gel in his hair, a scar under his right eye and seemed like a troublemaker. But at the same time he was certainly not someone you should have to explain where the clitoris is to, like the guy in his early twenties outside.

You spotted his big hands, long thick fingers, they seemed a little callous but definitely experts.

“What do you recommend?” You suddenly asked. 

You couldn't believe the nerve you'd just shown, but fuck it, we ball, you thought.

He turned and looked at you as if he had only just seen you: “Oh? Sorry, what did you ask me?”

He didn't seem annoyed, just very surprised. 

“What do you recommend?” you repeated as your knees weakened under his gaze. 

“Oh,” he said, as if he didn't care at all about being surrounded by video covers with naked women of all kinds. 

You bit your lip, touched your neck, and looked away after looking at him intensely for a moment. Your winning move, usually. 

“Well, I don't know...” he hesitated, coming closer to you. ”I guess it depends on what you like.”

His voice had become lower, it was hoarse, incredibly sensual. 

As he got closer you looked at his big boots, almost as if it didn't matter. In reality you were noticing his big feet. 

Big feet, big hands, big nose...he must have something else big, I hope.

You looked up, and he was just a step away from you. 

“What do you need tonight?” he teased you, with a sinful little smile on his face.

“Something really wild” you smiled “Do you know where I can find it?”

He smirked “Are you into women, too?” 

“Yes” you replied boldly, licking your upper lip. 

“Sexy” he stated. 

You laughed softly while he took a video from the shelf 

“This one is good” 

It was the one you were looking at when he entered. 

“Uhm.. did you see it?” You asked with a suggestive wink.

“Yes, darling, several times, actually. It never disappoints” he shrugged and looked at you like he wanted to devour you.

Oh yes, I caught him on the hook. You thought.

“Well, ladies are very beautiful... and he has a nice cock” you observed, trying to sound casual and nonchalant.

“You like big cocks?” it sounded even more raspy and went straight to your pussy.

“Actually…yes” you replied, getting dangerously close to him and looking at him from below, batting your eyelashes. “I bet you have a nice one, by the way”

“No one has ever complained, sweetheart” his hand reached your face, his knuckles grazing at your cheek.

“Then show me” you whispered.

His eyes had become even darker, practically just pupils. 

He ran a hand over his mustache and said, 

“Damn, you're really cheeky. You don't even know my name.” 

“I don't want to know that. I want to know if you want to fuck or not.”

“Here?” he asked, his eyes wide. 

“Why not? You scared?” You teased him.

“I'm no wuss, honey” he growled before slamming your against the shelf behind you

You were left breathless for a moment.

"Show me what you got, big boy" you purred a moment after.

You didn't know what had gotten into you, having sex with a stranger in the adult section of a video rental shop? It certainly wasn't on brand for you, but at that point you wouldn't have backed out. 

His hands had clasped your hips, moving over your ass and groping you strongly.

“Oh baby, when I'm done with you, you won't be able to walk straight for days.” 

“Good. I haven't been fucked properly for a while”

You regretted this confession until he squeezed your ass again, pulling you towards him and saying, “A pretty little thing like you? Fuck, there really is no religion left in this world.” 

“Well, make me shout to God then.” 

His mouth crashed on yours right after, his tongue immediately pushed at your lips and you let it in, licking it and trapping it in a dance with yours.

His hands went up to play with your nipples through your top; you weren't wearing a bra and your nipples immediately stiffened against the fabric.

"Fuck, yeah" you moaned. "I knew your hands were skilled" 

His thumbs kept brushing on your hard buds while his mouth moved to your jawline and your neck, peppering them with kisses, biting at your tender skin and soothing it right away with his tongue.

“You smell so good, baby” he whispered, inhaling the scent of your perfume “like apples and vanilla. It makes me want to eat you up” 

He immediately lowered himself, pulling down your leggings and panties in one go, leaving you naked from the waist down. The cool air in the room made you wince.

“Look at this pussy, she’s weeping huh?” 

He had said this, a moment before starting to kiss your thighs, biting and licking, slowly moving up towards your center.

“Fuck” you moaned burying a hand in his dark curls “please”

He had started by licking your outer lips, then dipping his tongue between your folds, going up to your clitoris and swirling around it.

You would pull his hair and moan, completely enraptured. He was so damn good. 

He definitely knew where your clit was and exactly what it needed.

He began to fondle it, alternating between licking and pressing and then started to jerking it off quickly with his tongue.

You'd completely lost it when he'd taken it in his mouth and started sucking it.

“Yeah baby, you like that huh?” He muttered before nudging at your entrance with his index and middle finger.

He curled his fingers inside you, continuing to suck on your bundle of nerves until you had actually called on the name of God, quivering under his touch.

Your back was hitting against the shelf and it hurt but you didn't care, you were moaning like someone possessed and you didn't care, no one had ever made you come like that with oral sex. 

You couldn't believe how lucky you were, right there and then you decided that your instinct was pretty reliable after all.

“Well, now that she’s nice and wet I think I'll serve her the main course” he groaned. 

“Please” you breathed.

“Still hungry, huh?” he chuckled as he got up. He lifted your top to reveal your tits. ”Gorgeous. Stay still for me”

He unfastened his belt and jeans, letting them fall to his ankles and then pulling them off stomping on them.

His cock was indeed as delicious as you'd thought. 

Big, thick, pink and incredibly hard right before your eyes. 

A small bush of hair all around it and two big balls just below. 

It made your mouth water.

He moved closer to you in an instant, one hand on your tit and the other on your clit as he slowly entered you.

“Fuck, you're so tight.” He grunted. 

“And you’re so big. Just the way I like” you cooed.

He was at least 8 inches and proceeded cautiously, feeling you stretch for him “You're so good, baby, I can't wait to be all inside your hot, soaking wet pussy”

“Make me full, please” you urged him, staring at his gorgeous brown eyes, taking in his lips agape and little beads of sweat running down his neck.

He grunted again before fully sinking inside you. “Can you feel it deep inside, baby? Are you full enough?”

“Fuck yeah, it’s perfect.” You moaned. “Move. Please”

He didn't have to be asked twice before starting to dive in and out of you, at a slow pace at first, making you feel every inch that stretched you, veins on his length gliding against your damp walls, his engorged tip hitting that special spot over and over again.

He increased the pace at your next prayer, squeezing one of your ass cheek with one hand and putting the other behind your back to prevent you from really hurting yourself.

“Christ, babe you’re gripping me so hard, I don't think I can hold on much longer” he muttered 

Your fingers were tangled in his curls at the base of his neck, you lured him into a deep, sloppy kiss, after whispering in his ear “Paint me. I'm on the pill” 

“Fuck, do you want me to come inside you? Do you want to go home with my seed dripping between your legs?”

“Yes” you purred “go on, big boy, that's exactly what I'm hoping for.”

“Come for me first, be a good girl. I can feel you're close”

You came after another couple of strong thrusts, your moans muffled by his lips on yours. 

He came just after you, unloading long, warm streaks of his seed inside you.

He kept thrusting into you until he softened, grunting and groping your tit with his large hand, his thick fingers tugging at your nipple.

“Fuck, that was amazing,” he said as he came out from you and wiped the sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand. ‘It's one of the craziest things that has ever happened to me.”

“Um... do crazy things happen to you often?’ you asked smiling

“Sometimes.”

He pulled on his pants, gave you another kiss and headed for the tent.

He didn't ask your name. He knew he didn't need to.

“Thanks,” you whispered.

“Thanks to you. I'm Clint, by the way. I often come here on Thursdays, if you'd like to see me again.” 

He left without saying anything else. 

Clint. What a crappy name. Good thing he doesn't look like it.

tag list: @aurorawritestoescape @milla-frenchy @joelmillerisapunk @lemon-nomel @probablyreadinsmut @almostempty @baronessvonglitter @thundermartini @cas-readsandwrites

archive tag: @pedrostories

let me know if you want to be added or removed, I'll do it right away. ❤️

[dilf-docs]

Darlin', Can I Be Your Favorite?

dbf!boxer pedro pascal x younger fem!reader

summary: it should be simple. helping your dad's best friend to train for his upcoming match in his hometown, chile. but turns out, world-renowned boxer the viper isn't just a menace in the ring.

warnings: 18+ (minors dni), age gap (girthy), smut, p. in v., oral (m. receiving), rough sex, public sex, praise kink, humilliation kink, daddy kink (she's got daddy issues; idc if this is mischaracterizing you, you'll live), dom!pedro, use of pet names (doll/baby), some angst because that's my staple, idk shit about boxing my bad (i'm more of a ufc girlie kinda) so let's focus on the filth!!

word count: 5,874 words

side note: this very different albeit genius request got me a small hit tweet. song of choice for this piece i sped up because of my ovulation is favorite, by isabel larosa. there are several paragraphs in this that could be used against me and are proof i'm loosing my mind during this midterm/fertile week had to use a clint gif because freaky tales clint is so sexy might watch the movie on theatres with my legs open

You weren't new to this.

The small walls, dim light, the sweat, the blood... you were shoved into it. By your father, since you were a baby. Long before you could even walk, grabby hands trying to reach for a ring that seemed so far, the violence and the rage contained inside the quadrilateral.

So you grew up wanting it. The desire. The ichor. Rough and brutal.

You'd never step in, but always stood by your father's side. Until the age of boys, over-coated glossy lips and blooming girlhood arrived. Long gone where the days were you'd be next to your dad inside the dim-light place, now filled with car rides and girly laughter about all and nothing. You changed the sweat scent of the place for vainilla, and the oversized t-shirts for skirts that showed your laced panties if you bent.

The fights started then, but the ring became your home. Slut, he'd call you, saying this wasn't the girl he raised. Your mother would cry, tired of trying to stop the fighting that extended sometimes until late at dawn, when you'd show up on the doorstep, skirt torn apart and panties wet despite the dry summer.

The beast laid dormant inside you. That primal raw hunger; it never ceased to exist.

Now it was on your roaring voice, refusing to shut up and take the harsh language spoken by your own blood. It was on the defiance, cutting your clothes even smaller, pushing the wearable limit. On the way your makeup and manners got more scandalous, and how you'd throw your door louder each time another confrontation took place, the once lively home now a wrestle between two forces refusing to back down. But when you weren't with a bottle in your mouth or a guy in between your legs, you'd think of his hands grabbing yours as he showed you the gym around, introducing you to regulars. My little girl, he'd said proudly, and you would smile like he did. You'd grab the broken frame you once threw against the wall in a fit of rage, crimson imprinted over the photograph below the broken shards you tried to miserably put together again. Fucking failure. But it's impossible to piece what's already broken back together.

But you were still a believer, despite it all: the same girl who saw the magic in the beasts trapped within the cage, thunderous brutality in the place you once called your second home.

Maybe that's why you agreed to help your dad on this. To see a bit of that smile that had faded in time like the colors of the rust painted lockers. To hear a good girl praise. Not slut. To see a glimpse of the man who said he'd pass this place to you, useless now on his mouth as the gym crumbled just like your relationship. In the end, you were his daughter, begging to be seen.

And you were seen. Not by him. But by him.

The Viper. Pronounced in a whisper, because out loud sounded like a curse, bound to risk too much.

He had been a casual before, remembering his days when no facial hair adorned his face and he'd talk with your dad while laughing in a boasting sound, like he knew he'd break out in the scene. He did. And then he stopped coming, because he was too busy winning and living life than to return to a place that was falling apart.

But then your dad came rushing home, like he was to bear bad news. And boy, wasn't he? The leather, the greys now starting to take over his hair like the bad choices in the form of women and alcohol, ones that had once carried a bad boy charm which now had ripen into a sour taste, a lifestyle that belonged to the golden years left in a past long left behind. He didn't belong anymore, but refused to quit. The violence was a vice, and despite loosing everything, he had never lost a match.

"He wants to train" your dad panted out to your worried mother, who thought worst. "For a match, in Chile, his hometown. He talks about coming back"

Your dad may have been the first to know such, but not the last. No, because what started with a call late at night on your dad's old office (He had said Remember me, old friend? oscilating between nostalgia and teasing, and when your dad called his name, a soft incredulous Pedro? he had let out one of his victorious golden laughs, like coins falling down, as to let him know it was still him, despite it all), ended up on the news.

He's coming. He's coming. He's coming. Like a warning before the big bad wolf struck again.

In a way, you think, as he stands before you, he is one: the sharp eyes and bearing teeth. A fighter never backs down, and he seemed to be always in guard.

Hadn't recognized you at first, blinking a few times before a lazy and easy sleazy smile appeared on his face.

"This the same girl that asked me to carry her on my shoulders?" and a chuckle. "I think I still could"

A low, dangerous rich rumble. A dare. Challenging. Pedro didn't know you too had changed in many ways, and he certainly didn't know either you had touched yourself at night to the sound of his velvety voice, wrapping you up like the sweat that set your skin ablaze, a fist in your mouth to stop his name from slithering past your lips, image set on the way his eyes roamed over your woman body like an all too well trap he always falls in like a vice, trying to think if it was real or just another one of the troubles you loved to cause yourself.

But once you're deep, you can only go deeper.

Your dad left for Chile a day earlier, to set preparations you could care less, which is why you're here.

You promised not to fuck it up, seeing a peek of that man who swore to protect you from the cruel world outside. You needed this. Wanted this. When his lips parted but closed, many words hanging on the air coated with burnt cigars and sweat (I'm sorry. I'm proud of you. Don't dissapoint me. Don't break my heart. Don't fuck this up. I love you), you decided you'd do everything in your power to get your dad back.

The task was rather easy: help The Viper train before his big match in Chile.

Easy, if said man wasn't your dad's best friend, Pedro Pascal.

You feel like a voyeuristic freak watching from a corner as he pounds into the boxing bag repeatedly. Drops of salty sweat begin to run through his back, the white cloth now near transparent with how it sticks to his tan skin.

Pedro is big. All boxers were, seeing them coming and going from your dad's gym. But he was beefy. Not the slender and compact, but the huge thick type. The one were just his hands alone looked like he could snap your neck in two if he wanted.

You're supposed to be out there, helping him, but after your dirty little session two nights ago, and yesterday's dinner at your home, you're just not capable to meet him in the eye, despite promises to your dad and the fire to get his affection back.

(He had come over for dinner. Your mom made lasagna, your favorite dish of hers, but the plate went cold as you took in his words like an oil, spreading the grave tone that coated your panties like a second skin. You pressed your legs together, a shaky breath escaping past your treacherous lips when he said how much you'd grown, blaming the sauce when he licked his lips. Your parents stood up to collect the dishes, and then he leaned down and whispered: Ain't you become a doll?)

(It was nothing. It was just a man who knew your father and no better. But you didn't, either)

Last night, to erase the spell he seemed to have cast upon you, you went to one of your old friends while he beat himself up on the gym, where you were supposed to be. But when your orgasm washed over, you said his name instead; no cold shower could scrub away the humilliation.

(And the house still smelled like him. Bitter coffee, leather and sweat. It was salty and citric, up in your nostrils with an invasion that was, if not, fitting. You were obssesed, with the champion and the legend, and he was an old man looking for a fresh doe-eyed girl who could take it)

You gawk like a man would, but, how not? Dude too appeared to be hung. What is it they say about men with big noses, big hands and big thighs? Big. Big. Big. Fucking hell, you needed to be locked up.

"I know you're in there, baby" his voice cuts through the silence. It's night, and you should be locking up already, scarce customers long gone. "Was never good at hiding"

You emerge from the shadows, sporting only a small black short and a white tank top. He chuckles. With you, nothing is a coincidence.

"Some things never change"

He snickers, "but glad some do"

You breath in, getting closer to him. Again, his scent intrudes your senses, making you dizzy like a drug. Your circuits are busy, and his high.

"You were supposed to help me 'round here" he motions the place. But you're stuck on his hands, wrapped in tape. Those hands, brief peek of his tattoo hidden between the white. "What would your dad say, huh?"

His tone is devoid of malice and full of teasing, but your stomach churns.

"He'd say what he always says" he shots up an eyebrow, as if daring you to speak. "That I'm a fucking failure"

Pedro seems taken back by the sudden change in the atmosphere, nonetheless, still charged with unspoken uncertainty.

"Your dad?" like he couldn't connect the man he knew to the one he is now.

"How would you know?" comes out harsher than you intended, a shameful bitter taste in your mouth. "A lot has changed since you left"

A quiet rage settles in his eyes, the beast caged behind the enclosure begging to be let out.

"Why you throwing it on my face? I ain't your daddy"

It shouldn't hurt. This is ridiculous. But, hell, it does; you're nobody's daughter.

"Good you aren't my fucking daddy"

The silence washes over you at the same time the embarrassment does. You realize too late the words that left your mouth, and if you're quick to try to run, he's faster, your back pressed to the material of the hanging punching bag.

"Say it" he demands, "again"

Your face grows hotter by the minute. "I have no idea what you're talking about"

"First a terrible discreet and now a bad liar" his spit spurts in your face, each word with punctuation and a seethe. "Anything else?"

Yes. So much. You're drowning at this point, still not deciding if it's because of the smell his body is emanating or your heavy heart's fault. But he's the last person you'll tell all of this to.

"Not that it matters to you, anyway"

Yet, to an extent, it seems like he knows. As if he's able to see past the forced sweetness, the sarcasm and the layers of makeup and numbingly intoxicating vainilla. Pedro thinks at least he does.

So if you're on fire, he'll let you keep burning.

"I could be him, you know?" your ears start ringing at some point, and you're sure your heart stops. "I could be your daddy"

There's no going deeper than this.

"Thank God you aren't"

And it's like a slap to his face. The oh-mighty undisputed champion steps back. There is always a first, and maybe this is what loss feels like.

"Baby-"

Your ears keep on ringing as you move far from him, your heart dangerously close to leaping from your throat to the cold hard ground. Who does he think he is? He hasn't even been back for a day and has already found a way to break you from inside. To ruin you. As if he never left and has known every secret hidden between your ribs, his memory nestled since forever. But he's too picked apart your bones, in just a matter of seconds, biting down on the marrow of your deepest insecurities.

You hate him. You hate Pedro. You hope he looses, and you accept you've already lost your dad.

But then, as you realize your sat at the end of the gym, the worn out lockers on display, you have an idea.

With you, it was always about revenge, wasn't it?

The beast is awake, howling upon you. Ichor. Rage. This rotten girlhood that started with Malibu dreams and has ended on beds that reek of cheap whiskey and a quick fix in the name of forgetting.

"Pedro"

His head almost snaps looking in your direction. Not like he wanted to search for you to ask for your forgiveness. A match to mark his comeback and change his life will happen in just a couple of hours; he's got bigger problems than a girl who can't see things the way they are. He isn't an apostle of acceptance, but his wicked selfish nature finds pleasure in punishing you for his same sins.

But to play a game, you need two.

"In here" he answers, as if he hasn't moved since your little altercation.

"You need to shower" he catches in time the towel you throw at him. He chuckles dryly at your childish behavior. "You stink"

"You sure? 'Cause just a minute ago, it seemed you were into it" he's quick to quip, matching your energy.

That cocky motherfucker. So full of himself. You hate the sleazy smile of a winner. Does he think you're going down as easy as that?

Of course, you aren't blind. He's attractive, but is this worth it? You see his damp shirt and sweat drenched thighs. No. You look away, flustered.

"I think you need a break, old man. You're not who you used to be" you turn your back to him, so he doesn't see your red hot face, "seeing things that aren't real"

You start to walk to the changing room, and even if not spoken, there's an implication to follow you. So Pedro does, because it's night and Friday and he's got nowhere else to go.

He follows you into the locker room, but this isn't you.

Not the little girl who looked up to him like he could beat the whole world, hand in hand. Not the broken woman, who tried so hard to keep up a mask he could easily see through, maybe because it was akin to his own.

No. This is a fucking temptress. A siren call to drown.

"Sit"

He decided to be a boxer the day he knew he wasn't meant to be bent. The day he realized he hated being weak and wanted to always lead his own path. If it was through violence and punches, so be it.

But he's obeying your command, like a lap dog. If the change isn't noticeable enough, your wicked grin gives it away. He takes his place on the bench, sitting down with aching joints.

"What were you thinking?" you whisper.

A vein on his neck pops out aggressively at the remark.

"I can still handle it"

The way his voice drops to a lower octave, the scowl on his face prominent, like he's both offended and peaked in interest by your remark.

"Is that a challenge?" you tease, playfully. "I'm not your opponent, Pascal. Save it for tomorrow night"

Your fingers itch, and before you think about it twice, they're digging across the soft flesh of his broad back.

"What-"

You hush him almost instantly. "Let me"

You trace patters across the expanse of his hard planes, arousal pooling at the rough of his edges, the dry and scarred of his skin. It's also the sturdy built, what makes it harder to not... appreciate. You happen to be into appreciating the small things, that's all.

(But small, he definitely isn't)

"You're tired" you trace his worn muscles, lost in the way he seems to equally tense and relax under your fluttering touch. "Let me help you"

"What's this?" equally soft. A tattoo. But not the one's you've seen; you wonder if it is for your bad memory or because it's new. "Vae victis"

"Woe to the defeated" he's quick to answer. Taking your silence as a signal to continue, he adds. "It's a way to remember the ones I fight are people, not numbers"

If his voice carries a tinge of vulnerability, you must've imagined it.

"Never took you as the empath type" and your fingers leave his skin, as if it burns.

He lets out a soft humorless laugh.

"There's a lot you don't know about me, baby"

You don't let him have the last word, and to punctuate your final blow, you press a short kiss to the tattoo. He didn't see it coming-- your mint breath ghosting over his shoulder onto his face. Pedro forgets how to breath.

"I've always loved a good mystery"

Knockout.

He looks up from the bench, breathing still panting as he sees your retreating figure, until all that's left in the room is him and his worn-out body. Then, the soft pit-pat of the water hitting the tiles jolts him awake.

"It's ready" your voice says, but you're still there, and not back to the lockers.

Why were you preparing him a shower? It's not like he couldn't turn on the switch.

Pedro removes the towel from his neck and walks over to the showers, only to find you still there, white blouse as damp as his.

"What-"

"Get in"

He's about to repeat it, this time harsher and louder (Have you gone insane, woman?), but then your sweet persistent voice digs on his mulish character like a knife to a wound, and his reasoning has flown out of the window.

"You're gonna wet yourself" is all Pedro can manage to say.

The (possible) double meaning makes his belly rumble.

"I know" you repeat, answering for both. And then get inside.

The water starts to make your clothes hug your body, and he's lost in the curves of your ass and tits. Your muscles, while albeit not worked out, are both soft and strong, plush skin inviting for a bite. You've got both the firm and the soft that comes with age and womanhood, and his cock is itching to have his invite to your warm walls.

"What are you waiting for? Are you going to bath with clothes on?"

He rolls his eyes. "Look who's talking"

The cold water hits him when you too have taken off your clothes.

Couldn't get challenged because your too stubborn ass fell right into the bait.

His breath gets caught in his throat as your soapy hands explore his body. His adam's apple bobs as he gulps, enthralled by your firm yet gentle scrubbing, washing away remnants of sweat and dirt. All words are lost at the devotion, worship and reverance that seems to pour from your digits as you sweep his body.

"How?" your voice drowns out with the drops of water.

"Bad move" he whispers, seeing it across his arm. It's runs across almost all of his inner bicep, big. It didn't heal as good as he'd liked, but chicks seemed to dig it. "Had to go to the hospital"

You, however, seem more into the... understanding side of it. Not on the thrill and the danger, but on the damage that's healed in time but never left. More on the pain, and not the punch.

"And this?"

"Gloves"

"What?"

"Gloves" he repeats, still not that loud, as if he's ashamed. "They can create cuts when the skin is pulled during a strike"

"I don't get it"

And instead of mocking you, Pedro finds himself trying to explain it.

"It's because of the friction of the gloves against the skin" he sighs. "Was too dumb and too full of myself to understand it. Then it happened and I got this"

"What has changed?" you tease him, but it's as tender as a lingering touch. "Don't worry, Pedro. Everyone makes mistakes, even the greats"

It's a rather sweet moment, only broken by your teeth sinking into the scarred tissue, yet you're quick to soothe it with a wet kiss.

He groans, head falling back as your greedy little hands now slide through the hard of his chest, his nipples perked under the cold of the water and the warm of your touch; body electric.

"Fuck, baby. You're going to be the death of me" he groans, shivering at your insistence on making him break. "Keep tryin', but you won't make me beg, muñeca" (doll)

Still hellbent on denying you of himself, the hotheaded stubborn prideful bastard. Not even with your tits in the air, bare cunt aching.

"No?" you feign innocence, batting those wet eyelashes of yours. Then your lips find his scars, licking and pressing sweet warm kisses across the expanse of his chest and body, ending on the one across his face. For a moment, he falters at the intensity of your gaze, almost slipping on the tiles. "Still no?"

You fucking minx. "Fighters don't beg" he says, but every contact of your lips and tongue against his wet body send bolts of electricity to his aching semi-hard cock.

"But real men do"

Without further ado, you descend until your knees hit the tiles, water running through your legs like a river. You don't wait for an answer, all you need to know in his parted lips and his deep stare at you through dark hooded eyes.

A low, guttural moan tears from Pedro's throat as your tongue flicks a quick lick at his sensitive head. He's grabbing your hair with rough hands, tangling into your damp curls, his hips jerking involuntarily as your lips wrap around the tip, tongue swirling and teasing the most sensitive parts.

"Fuck" he groans, "aren't you trouble, doll? Really gonna make me beg for that release, ain't you? With that tongue of yours"

You give another proud lick at his throbbing angry red flesh, head already leaking with precum.

"What'd your daddy think about his daughter sucking his best friend's cock in the showers?"

You ignore him, too busy lost in the way his cock throbs and pulses in your mouth, his balls tightening with a pressure that built more each passing second.

"Not a talker, huh? Were that loud mouth of yours go?" he teases, his grip not faltering on your hair. "That's what y'r daddy said. Or maybe he was talking of another daughter. Not this little obedient slut who devours my cock like she's starved" his voice is strained. "Such a good girl, though, taking care of an old man like this. You like how it tastes?"

You pull out, making him groan.

"Why'd stop?" his voice is strained, rough with desire. His pupils are blown wide, circling with desbelief and something more primal. But he'll never say that, will he?

Too bad for him, you don't know when to shut up. Or quit.

"I want to hear you say it"

He chuckles darkly, his grip on your hair tighter now. "What'd say?"

"Me? Nothing" your lips part, words slurring before you think better. "You is I wanna hear"

"Fucking cunt" his eyes darken, "think you can tease me and get away with it? No, you'll be a good little cocksleeve and take it all"

You moan at his lewd words, thighs clasping together in search for some relief for the pressure building on your bare cunt.

"That's right, you dirty cocksucker. Look at you, thinking you can bend a fucking champion like me"

He knew his power over you. Frankly, he had to thank your old man for fucking you up so bad. Pedro loved how all your resolute seemed to vanish in the air, looking so eager and willing, desperate to please him. Be it for praise or for how much you wanted this like him, but it is this what makes him feel like a true winner.

"Don't you wanna suck this dick so bad?" his thumb tugs down your lip, "Be a good girl and I might give it to you"

Just like that, you're done.

"Please, I want to be a good girl. Use me, fuck me with your mouth"

He lets out a growl, voice low and rough. "Oh, t's alright, muñeca. I'll use this dirty little mouth of yours, all right" he fists your hair again, pulling you closer. "Gonna fuck you so good, you'll be feeling me all week: every time you taste, swallow and speak. Fill your dirty mouth so good with so much cum, you'll be tasting it for hours, for days, 'n for the rest of your fucking life"

Pedro thrusts his hips forward, pushing more and more of his thick, hard cock past your lips. He sets a steady pace, eyes locked on your face as he fucks your mouth with deep strokes.

"Just like that" he praises, breaths sharp as he looses himself in how his girth is nestled in your mouth. "Take it all, like a good little girl. So show me, baby, show me how much you love the taste of my cock. How much you need it-- crave it"

Your moan gets lost in your constricted throat, struggling to take him deeper, breathing and swallowing almost impossible with his girth taking up all of the space inside of your mouth. If Pedro felt like a king before, now he feels like a god.

"Such a perfect little cock sleeve for me to use, to fill, to fuck" he groans, his hips picking up speed, thrusts growing harder and more urgent.

His orgasm starts building, and he knows it by the way his balls tighten and his cock pulses inside the heat of your throat. Pedro knows he's close to coming, that he's seconds away from it.

Even if he's lost completely in the act, he's foremost a gentleman, but when he's about to pull out, your hands grip tightly to this thighs, and hold him in place as he tries to move. A rush of lust washes him over the cold water, a dark desire coursing through him at your pathetic display of eagerness and desperation.

"Fuck, baby" Pedro's voice reduced to a low, guttural rumble as he gazes down at you. You swear you can see a brief glint of admiration on his eyes. "You want my cum that badly, muñeca? Do you want to swallow it all down like a good little slut?"

He's rocking his hips forward, burying himself balls-deep in your warm throat, his swollen cock pulsing and throbbing against your tonsils as his orgasm crashes over him. Pedro throws his head back as so do his eyes, body shuddering and convulsing as thick ropes of hot cum shoot from his cock.

"You're doin' great, baby" he pants, his grip on your hair tight as he grounds his hips against your face, pushing himself deep into your mouth as he physically could. "Show me what a good little cumslut you are and don't waste a fuckin' drop. Swallow it all"

Aren't you perfect? Gulping and swallowing, trying your best good girl shtick as you take everything he has to give you, his musky sweat filled scent up your nostrils, despite the soap still covering some of his body.

"Fuck, y/n" he groans, body going limp. He falls back against one of the shower's walls, chest up and down with uneven breaths. "Greedy little girl with a greedy little throat"

He slowly pulls out of your mouth, his softening cock slipping from your lips.

"Get up, baby. Your father's bill will be brutal if we don't hurry up" he hauls you up and into his arms. "But truth is, I'ont give a fuck. I'm still thinking 'bout your lips 'round my cock"

Before you say anything, he's dragging your body again like you weight nothing, but this time, it's to crush his hot desperate mouth into yours with a rough kiss. Pedro can taste himself mixed with your sweet and drool. He groans at that, the sound painfully animal.

"Hey" he gently tugs you, a mannerism you would never associate with him. "Where you think you're going?"

You blink once. Twice. Then again, slower.

"What are you talking about?"

Your back meets the wall, Pedro brutally slamming your body until the tiles dig into your skin.

"Ow- wait" you hiss, "the fuck's gotten into you?"

"Think I'll let you go after this?" he growls. Then, chuckles, darkly so. "No, baby. I gotta try first" his fingers grab the supple skin of your ass until you feel them melt into it. He then spanks it, creating a weird sound with the combined water droplets. "Need to see if the pussy is as sweet as your mouth. So be a good girl and let me handle this, alright? As I said, I still can"

And for a reason, that feels like a threat.

His calloused digits venture dangerously close to your entrance, fingers going in. He coats it with your slick, making him laugh that laugh uniquely his.

"Fuck, muñeca. You're as wet as this shower head" Pedro presses himself into you, his cock touching your stomach. "Don't ever try to lie to me again, I ain't no fool"

Traitorous body. But his seething voice, the way his dominance slithers into jolts through your slick folds. You whine, pressing your tighs together. Pedro's quick to see this, and before you get to say anything else, he parts them roughly.

"I said I ain't no fool" he grunts while rubbing the tip of his cock over your folds, applying pressure on your clit. "Bad girl"

No warning, just his cock slipping past your wet dripping folds. Your hands fly to reach his neck for support.

"S'fucking grabby" he teases, slipping his pulsating dick between your folds once more, pressing and then pushing in slowly.

He swallows your whimper in a kiss, your poor pussy stretching to accommodate his thick girth. His big hands pull your body closer to his.

"But I'm the grabby one"

He growls. "Quit talking"

With one brutal thrust, he buries himself to the hilt, balls pressed against the flesh of your ass. You grip his hair, chocolate curls tangled between your fingers. He leans in, pressing his forehead against yours. The pain carries waves of pleasure laced within, despite his aggressive thrusting and quick pace. You roll your hips upwards, eliciting a faint whimper out of your lips.

"No, doll" his fingers dig in your waist, a purple soon to follow. "You do what I say, clear?"

His cock grinds forward, stretching you out.

"Fuck-!" you choke out, "Pedro!"

He growls when he hears his name on your lips, an all consuming desire to make you his washing over him.

He then grabs you by your legs, hooking them around his waist.

You mewl out his name in a cry.

"See?" Pedro blurts out. "Told ya' I still had it on me, baby"

Your hands scramble to grab him by his shoulders, the pain and pleasure making your head spin. He can feel your tits jump with each bounce provoked by his thrusts, the rosy skin pressed against his chest.

"Gonna fill you up so bad, you won't ever doubt me again"

Pedro pulls back and uses his arms to push himself up and hover over you. He began to drive his hips faster, loud clapping noises mixing with the falling water.

"I'm- I'm gonna"

"Ask, baby. Remember what I told you?"

"Yes. Sorry, daddy" you whimper. "Please, let me-"

"Let you what?" Pedro chuckles.

"Cum. Let me cum. Please, daddy, please" the words slurred as you feel yourself on edge.

"Very well" grinning satisfied, "but don't you dare keep any of those pretty noises just for yourself"

A high-pitched wails falls past your lips as you throw your head and eyes back, your legs shaking.

"Pedro-!"

He grunts at the sensation of your juices on his cock, coating it. In the way your walls flutter around his length, pussy tight making him groan against your neck, where he has now buried his face.

"Stay there, baby. It's my turn" his hips snap and his thrusts turn sloppy. "Gonna paint all of your tight folds with my cum"

His grip tightens as he fucks himself silly into you, chasing his high.

"S'fucking tight" he groans loudly. "Such a good girl for me"

He comes undone, salty hot ropes of thick white cum spurting inside of you, his cock deeply nestled inside of your welcoming warm walls.

"Fuck. Need to fill you up, doll. Until you're so stuffed you can't move without making a mess"

The water keeps falling, as you whimper softly, burying your face in his neck. Pedro keeps rocking into you while riding his orgasm out, soft breathless groans leaving him. He places you down, some of his cum on your thighs. He uses his finger to push it all inside.

"We have been to wasteful to keep on being, right?" Pedro jokes before closing the valve.

"Be honest. You don't give a damn about the planet"

He lets out a hearty laugh.

"Guilty as charged"

There's some silence before he's helping you get back on your shorts.

(He smacks your ass, saying you did it on purpose. You agree. After all, he's quick to know when you lie)

"Good girl" he praises with a small kiss. "Did so well for me"

You kiss him back, fiercely, your mouth practically sucking his lips.

"For good luck, daddy"

Pedro chuckles at your antics. "You fucking minx"

He leaves you after that, going for his stuff. But you stand still in the middle, lost like a little deer. Your ragged breaths fill the room, and he feels a little guilty about having fucked his best friend's daughter on his gym before leaving first thing in the morning to his home country.

"C'mere" you turn your head. "What? C'mon, don't leave me hanging"

You carefully make way to where he is, back in the same bench.

"Sit" he orders.

Oh, the irony of it all.

Once you take place next to him, he makes sure to remove a strand of wet hair from your face, tucking it behind your ear.

"When I win, which I will" you chuckle at his ego, "I'll be sure to remember you, doll"

So when your dad sends you a video of Pedro's match in Chile a day later and The Viper winks to the camera as the referee raises his fist in the air, you like to think it's for you.

cr: divider @kodaswrld / gif @a7estrellas

[aurorawritestoescape]

HOLD MY HAND || Clint x f!reader

Summary: you have good news for Clint and it seems that you two are ready for another big step in your relationship.

Tw: 18+ mdni, smut, fluff, ANGST, unspecified age gap, gun violence, death, soft!Clint, Clint in love, f!oral, unprotected piv, creampie, multiple orgasms, pregnancy, mention of puking, swearing.

Word count: 1,4k

A/n: I’ve been obsessing over this story since this morning when I saw the ‘Freaky Tales’ trailer and I need it out of my head otherwise it’ll explode lol Kisses to my baby @milla-frenchy for beta-ing and helping me😘 Love y’all! Don’t hate me. Bye❤️ Dividers by @/saradika-graphics

MASTERLIST

“No, please, too much.”

“C’mon, jus’ one more, baby.”

You try to push away Clint’s massive hands on your hips, pinning you to the bed, but to no avail. You smile weakly, watching him rub his scruffy cheek against your inner thigh, his eyes glinting with lust in the dim light of the bedroom.

“For me, sweetheart.” His voice is soft and your heart melts when he asks you like that, looking at you like that.

“I need to tell you something.” You barely hear yourself, your heart pounding hard in your ears.

“You’ll tell me when I’m done with you.”

And he winks at you.

“Motherfucker,” you mumble and he chuckles before diving back in.

Your head dips into the pillow when Clint’s lips latch onto your poor puffy clit, but knowing how overstimulated you are, he laps at it gently, then carefully sucks your bud into his wet hot mouth, and you moan so loudly, you’re sure your neighbors can hear. To hell with them! You’re in heaven.

A little sob escapes your mouth when you feel yourself on the brink of another climax— third or fourth that night, you lost count, delirious with pleasure, drunk on his caress, drunk on him.

“Please, Clint,” you whine, asking for more or less, you have no idea.

“Here, hold my hand, sweetheart.”

His sweaty palm slides up your naked belly to your sternum, and you grab it, wrap your fingers around it tightly, ground yourself to him, while he’s eating your pussy out with his whole jaw, his thick digits pumping into your drenched cunt — in and out, in and out. Your core tightens, your nails scratch his hard skin and you come hard, your walls clamping around his fingers. Clint growls into your pussy, feeling the grip of your ecstasy,

“Mmm, yeah, good girl.”

You’re shaking against the damp sheets, crying— fuck — you’re really crying.

When your body relaxes, Clint immediately climbs up the bed, lies next to you and pulls you into his embrace.

“Shit, ‘m sorry, baby.” He cups your wet cheek and carefully wipes your tears off with his thumb. ”Didn’t mean to hurt you.”

You shake your head, sniffing.

“No-no, you didn’t. I’m fine.”

You reach up and kiss him, thanking him for the pleasure, silently confessing your love to your man.

He’s rock hard against your thigh, his hot tip smears wetness over your skin. Still making out, you pull him over yourself and he settles between your legs.

“You sure?” he asks, breaking the kiss, and you nod eagerly, tilting your hips up for him.

“Ok, sweetheart. Here we go.”

He feeds you his cock, slowly pushing it into your pussy, and then begins languidly fucking you, grunting into your mouth, your legs wrapped around his hips.

You feel him everywhere all at once and you love it. Love his tongue in your mouth, his chest hair caressing your nipples, his body caging you to the bed, his damp curls between your fingers, his cock kissing your soft spot. It’s too much and not enough at the same time. You break the kiss and take a deep breath.

“I love you,” you exhale, so quietly, you think he doesn’t hear you. You just can’t not say it right now.

“I love you too,” he echoes and you smile, nuzzling his jaw.

He makes you come on his cock and only then spills his cum inside you.

You make out while he’s softening inside your stuffed pussy, until you pull away and search for his warm eyes. A little smile curves your lips as you whisper,

”The thing I wanted to tell you. I’m pregnant.”

You knew Clint wanted your little family to grow as much as you did but you never expected him to fall so deeply in love with the bean growing inside you. He began cooing at your stomach as soon as he heard the good news, making you giggle with happiness.

He was next to you every step of the way - getting you to and from the doctor, caring about what you ate, holding your hair when you were puking out what you’d just eaten, patiently listening to your complaints about morning sickness, heartburn, raging hormones and anything that was making you irritable that day. You always found comfort on his lap and in his arms, big and strong, and when you inevitably would begin grinding your pussy against his thighs he’d give you as many orgasms as you pleased, carefully making you unravel on his fingers, his tongue, his cock. He was a perfect father-to-be.

For you, for the three of you, he retired, and when bad guys offered him one last job he always told them to go fuck themselves.

Clint helps you to get into his car and you plop into the seat with a huff.

“Told you everything’s fine,” he gruffs, getting behind the wheel.

“Yeah.”

You give him a little smile and look down at your huge belly. You rub it, deep in your thoughts after a doctor’s appointment.

“She’s gonna be here soon,” Clint cooes, putting his palm over your hand. His touch calms you down a bit but it still feels like you’re suffocating.

”Yes, very soon,” you nod, your eyes downcast. ”I can feel it.”

You try to steady your shaky voice but as usual Clint reads you like an open book.

“What is it, sweetheart?” he asks and you stay frozen. You’re afraid you’ll cry if you meet his eyes. His eyes full of excitement and happiness. ‘Of course,’ you grumble inside your head, ‘he‘s not the one getting ready to push out a giant baby. You are.’

You shake your head and stare in front of yourself.

“Hey.” He pinches your chin and gently turns your head to him. “Tell me.”

He doesn’t command. He begs. This huge dangerous guy begs for you to talk.

“I’m scared,” you finally squeak and tears well up in your eyes.

He leans closer to you and pulls you into his embrace. You push your face into the crease of his neck and let it all out. She’s gonna be here soon but you’re not ready. How can anyone be ready for it?

You’re crying quietly in his arms, enveloped by the scent of his cologne and his leather jacket as he’s hugging your shoulders, his hand on your stomach. He’s silent.

When your sobs get quieter and less frequent only then Clint starts talking. The vibrations of his chest make you sink deeper into his embrace as you listen to him.

“I know you’re scared. I’m terrified too. But you’re strong and — yeah, I’m not a fucking prize. I’m older and — shit, there’s so much blood on my hands. I—I don’t know how I’m gonna hold our babygirl with these hands.”

You lift your head off his chest and look at him. His eyes are slightly red, glossy with the emotions he’s been holding inside, for your sake, and now they’re spilling out.

“I’m done with that shit, sweetheart, but — .”

He’s shaking his head, his lower lip trembles and you take his face into your hands, your wet eyes darting between his.

“No. Listen to me. My fears are never because of you. Never. I know you’re gonna be the best dad for our girl. I’m sure of it.”

You shake his head a little and you both smile. He takes your hand off his face and presses a kiss to your palm.

“I love you, Clint. Your past— it’s behind you. And I’m happy that your future is with me. And her.”

You bring his hand to your belly and you both feel the second heartbeat under your palms.

“I love you. Both of you,” Clint mutters and kisses you. His chapped lips move slowly, his tongue pushes between your lips and tangles with yours. The taste of him ignites your core and you gush, squirming in your seat.

“Need you,” you whine against his mouth and he chuckles, pulling away from you.

“Let’s get you home, sweetheart.”

He sits straight and puts his hands on the wheel.

Suddenly you see a man, standing by the car.

A muzzle of a gun pushes into the window. Clint reacts fast and grabs it.

Bang!

You feel pain. So much pain.

You hear Clint. He’s talking to you. He’s crying.

“Hold my hand, baby. Hold my hand.”

His voice gets quieter and quieter until it disappears altogether and your world goes black.

Thank you for reading! Please comment and reblog if you enjoyed the fic!

MASTERLIST

Tag list: @milla-frenchy @harriedandharassed @iamasaddie @nervousmumbling @bbyanarchist @stevie75 @puduvallee @auteurdelabre @mountainsandmayhem @senoratess @flamingochick55 @theoraekenslover @schnarfer @mermaidgirl30 @staywildflowahchild @yesjazzywazzylove-blog @evolnoomym @keylimebeag @joelmillerisapunk @pascaltesaye @fruityreads @itwasntimethatdidit40 @meetmeatyourworst @callmebyyournick-name

[magpiepills]

Got Your Money

Rating: EXPLICIT 18+ MDNI

Pairing: Clint x sex worker!Reader

Word count: 2.1k

Summary: you’re a hooker who owes her pimp money and his right hand man, Clint comes to collect.

Warnings: SMUT! Including but not limited to: Porn with minimal plot, dub con, mean Clint, name calling and degradation, unprotected PIV, misogyny, rough sex, creampie, big dick, no beta, no proofreading, typos are all my own. You know what I’m about.

A word from the author: thanks to @youandmeand5bucks for the prompt that has had me in a tizzy for several days!

Masterlist

You’d barely made it past the front door when he knocked. Your dress was half unzipped down your back and your heels were left on the carpet where you’d stepped out of them.

It gave you pause. Nobody knocks this late. Not in this neighborhood. Not when you do the kind of work you do. You never did business here. You were careful and discrete and so was Angelo. He hustled and bargained and sold your ass for as much as he could. He made a pretty penny and paid for that Coupe Deville he liked to drive real slow around town when he took his cut, and he gave himself a very generous cut. He was a greedy son of a bitch, but he knew he better treat his top girl right. He wouldn’t put you at risk by letting anyone know where you stayed stashed away.

“I saw you walk in two minutes ago and I know you hear me. Open the fucking door,” the voice on the other side growled with the barest restraint. Clint. Of course.

You rolled your eyes and unlocked the door but kept the security chain latched, giving Clint three inches of room to say whatever dumb shit he needed to before he left to go back in whatever squalid shack he stayed in until Angelo yanked his chain too.

“I don’t have time for this bullshit, open the fucking door,” he boomed through the gap. “I’m coming in one way or another. You want your door on the hinges or off?”

He’s always like this.

You mutter under your breath at him coming between you and a hot bath after a long day, but you open the door anyway. He’s a fucking asshole but you know he’s safe. Angelo doesn’t trust many people anymore.

Clint pushes into your living room while you lock the door behind him, replacing the little chain that seems sort of useless now that you think about it. He stands in the middle of the room, hands on his slim hips, looking around. It offends you.

“What do you want, Clint? I had a long day and I’m going to bed. This better be important.”

His tongue flicks out over his bottom lip as he looks at you with that cold, detached look he likes to wear but doesn’t answer. Infuriating.

“Ok, just make yourself at home, then. I’m going to bed.” You turn a quarter step and tug up your sagging strapless dress, red, garish like they always like and aim casually for your bedroom.

“Let’s make this quick sweetheart. You know what the fuck I’m here for. Don’t play dumb. It’s dangerous.”

“Fuck off, Clint. I’m not doing this with you tonight,” you run your hand over your hair in exasperation and wished you’d never opened that door.

“Oh yeah?” he spits. “Tired after a long day of sucking and fucking? Yeah I bet you’re real worn out.”

In a fraction of a second your hand lands square across his scarred cheek, catching him by surprise and he’s a lot faster than you’d expect him to be for a man who smokes like a chimney and has all that grey hair. He grabs your wrist before you can run or defend yourself and twists your arm around your waist until he’s got your back to his chest and his arm braced against your now bare tits in a too-tight hold.

“Where’s the money?” He is too loud next to your ear and you wince, trying to be as cool as you can. Of course he wants the money. Good luck, you think to yourself. You learned a long time ago about keeping much cash around.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about Clint. If Angelo sent you, you can tell him he’s got his cut. He’s never the one with rug burns. He gets his share and I get mine.”

It does nothing but instigate Clint further. He shakes you. “Do you think I’m stupid? You think you’re the first whore who tried to short a pimp?” He is hot with anger. He wanted to be at home too. He’s old and he’s tired but maybe he doesn’t mind so much since your dress has slipped down and he has the perfect view of your tits over your shoulder. Angelo never said he couldn’t have a little fun on the job.

To your shock and surprise, Clint slaps your breast. It stings before he soothes it with his big bear paw palm covering the welt he left and squeezing. You can’t stop the whine that creeps from your throat.

“If you don’t have the money I guess I gotta take it out in trade.”

You pant nervously, wriggling in his arms at the insinuation. Clint smiles against your neck and sinks his teeth into the slope of your shoulder just enough to make you whine for him.

“Just business. Doesn’t have to hurt if you can play nice. You know I’ve seen you playin real nice before.” You can feel him thickening against you, the length of him jutting against the cleft of your ass. You try half heartedly to shake out of his arms, but it just makes him laugh. “Alright. Act like you don’t want it. Like I can’t smell you dripping. Take dick all day long and you’re still ready for more,” he drags his hand across your sensitive nipple and up to your throat, pressing just softly against your pulse. “I can feel your heart beating and I know it’s not cause you’re scared.”

His hand moves again, moving down, over your belly and the fabric bunches around your waist. He helps himself to your body, rubbing and pinching. He pushes your dress down the rest of the way, letting it drop to the floor around your feet and covers your mound with his hand. You don’t realize that your head has tipped back against his shoulder as he spits you unceremoniously with two fingers.

He pulls them back out and holds his slick shiny fingers in front of your face so you can see your arousal stretching between his fingers. “Look at that. I know Angelo won’t let anybody bust in this pussy. This is all you, baby. Slick as fuck.”

He crudely sucks your wetness from his fingers and pulls you down with him when he flops down onto your sofa, pretty and creamy and soft, a stark contrast to his roughness, his dark, plaid.

“Does Angelo even know you’re here? You think he’s gonna let you come over here and threaten me?” You struggle against his hold, but he doesn’t seem to care.

Clint shifts you over to unbuckle his belt and undo his jeans, freeing his turgid member.

“Angelo’s the one who told me where to find you. Told me how good you ride him, too,” He says as he positions you back over his lap with his cock hot and hard as steel against your throbbing pussy. “You owe Angelo, Angelo owes me. So I think we can sort this out right here and now.” You can’t help the way your body heats. The men you see are often rough. They pound into you and take you with harsh strokes on half limp dicks, blaming you when they can’t stay hard. They want you to watch them or they want to watch you or they cry with their heads in your lap.

They don’t talk to you like this. They don’t use their cockhead to rub your clit until you’re moving your hips yourself to chase the pleasure the way Clint’s doing now. He covers his impossibly thick length in your slippery wetness, spreading it all around.

“You gonna give it to me, or am I gonna take it?” he asks with a sharp swat against your ass.

You lick your lips and close your eyes, you’re still focused on how big he feels between your legs as you sigh. “Take it,” you breathed.

He was going to do it anyway. He presses you down on his cock, stealing your breath with the sheer size of him. He takes a moment with his hands firm on your hips, pushing down and thrusting up to full depth, holding you there, giving you that deep ache that so many men can’t.

Before you could even get your head around the way he stretched you past what you thought was possible, he was driving into you with enough force to make you wail. You were grateful that such noise wasn’t something that would raise an alarm in this building. People minded their business.

You arched your back and planted your feet on his thighs for a little control, but Clint was in charge.

“Yeah, that’s right. You feel this cock all the way in your throat? You still want to act like a bitch?”

You whined a response to his vulgar talk but he didn’t care. He liked hearing how fucked up you were on his cock.

“Fuck,” he shoved your knees down. “fuck your self on this dick.” You rebalanced on shaky legs and slowly slid your swollen, soaked pussy up and down the length of him. His hands found your ass and slapped it while you worked him up and down, making your skin sting and heat. “Come on, you got a debt to pay. Show me what this little whore pussy’s worth.” Your thighs trembled, and Clint grew impatient.

“Up,” he commanded. You stood and he shoved you toward your bedroom, following close behind you.

The streetlight shone in the window, casting stripes of light and shadow through your blinds and across the bed. You crossed your arms over your chest as Clint undressed himself, clothes heaped on the floor, along with his heavy boots. He scoffed at the way you tried to hide your body. “Get on the bed. Lay down.”

You climbed to the middle of your queen size bed, neatly made as it was every morning, with your heart shaped pillow between the two regular pillows, the chenille bedspread tucked in just so. Clint stood at the end of your bed, stroking himself while he inspected your body.

“Legs up. Spread your pussy for me. Let me see how fucked open you are.”

You drew your knees up and rubbed your clit in a messy circle, then dipped two fingers into your wet hole, followed by a third that made you groan. “You’re so fucking sick, Clint.”

“Yeah? I’m sick? You’re the one selling her greedy snatch in the street. Spread your pussy.” You did as he said, your manicured fingernails framing your delicate folds, swollen and wet so he could see how your entrance clenched for him.

“Look at that,” he marveled sarcastically, "Angelo's million dollar pussy.” He stared at your body, then spat, a thick glob of saliva dripped over your nails and mixed with your arousal. “You’re never gonna be happy with another dick again. You’ll be begging me to come over and shut you up.”

Clint tapped his cock against your pussy and entered you in one powerful thrust, bottoming out while he held the back of your knees. He leaned over you, folding you in half to hammer hard and fast, punching into your squelching pussy. He grunted above you, his body warm and sweat gathering along his hairline.

“Clint!” you yelped, nails cutting into his biceps. “Clint!” You couldn’t get out the words you needed. He kept you pinned in place while he devoured you, making the pressure and heat you felt grow.

“That’s it, say my name. Tell everybody in the place who’s got you screaming like a bitch.”

You felt delirious, your body was all raw nerves and that familiar pressure, until one snap of his hips and scrape of his coarse hair over your clit did you in. Your orgasm was intense. Rippling and wet and hot, you were suspended in protracted pleasure. You didn’t even notice Clint was coming too, pumping you full. He never even offered to wear a condom, and you kicked yourself for not insisting. Of course he wouldn’t have worn one, he never does.

Clint slipped out of you, followed by a trickle of cum that dripped onto your sheets. As you caught your breath, your body limp and exhausted, he pushed your knees apart and spread your tender pussy with his thick thumbs.

“I wish I had a camera,” he said with an ugly pride. “Bet you this pussy won’t ever be the same now.”

Without sentimentality, Clint got dressed, tied his boots, and turned to where you remained on your bed and said with a sinister wink “We’ll call that a partial payment.”

[millersdoll]

clint :

fifties

graying

beard

six foot tall

scar on his right cheek and nose

AND THEY SAY HE'S HANDSOME

[skj-weebmam]

Pow: some one took his coffee machine

[81gb]

pedro pascal as clint , freaky tales .

[juletheghoul]

father figure II

a/n: Y'all really pulled for Clint to win the poll, and I am nothing if not committed to giving you want you want! 💕 Thanks to @foli-vora & @just-here-for-the-moment for screaming at me about this and for letting me scream at them about it too. I know we're all pretty messed up about...well, you know, so lets focus on this hot older man being soft. xoxo

Warnings; 18+ no minors, vague but big-legal age gap, oral sex (female receiving), dirty talk, shitty dad (neglect), absent mother (abandonment issues), allusions to illegal activity, domestic violence, daddy kink, secret relationship, period piece - takes place in 1987, Clint being a big guard dog for you and others, and riding a motorcycle because of course he would, let me know if I missed any! (I haven’t seen the movie, so I went rogue in terms of where he lives, his backstory and pets)

Pairing: Clint Flood x F!Reader

Ko-fi link 🥲💕

word count: 6.2k

reblogs are appreciated

Masterlist series Masterlist

The days leading up to Thursday crawl, every minute until you see him again like a slow drip from a leaky faucet, each one indistinguishable from the last. Nothing was worse than the night before though, even with the exhaustion of a long shift, of being on your feet all day and dealing with picky customers, sulky teens and unruly children racing down the aisles, sleep was a stranger once you got into bed. The promise of seeing him, possibly going on a real date–or, whatever it was he had planned was too exciting to let you succumb to that heavy feeling in your limbs. 

The next morning found you curled up in that same position as the night before. With more energy than was necessary you were up and jumping into the shower. Your mind wandered as you scrubbed, all of the different possibilities of what he’d planned. Questions about what to wear, which shoes, would he want you to dress up? Question after question kept popping up as you rinsed and shut off the water. What would he wear? A toothpaste covered smile stares back at you at the thought of him in a suit. 

The house is empty, but that’s nothing new.

It’s peaceful without the frantic energy of your father bumbling about, the sounds of kids playing outside comes through the window, melding with the low hum of the little radio in the kitchen. You wonder idly what time he’ll come get you, hopefully not while your dad is home. 

Coffee steams as you start to worry over exactly how this’ll go down, he hadn’t exactly given you much detail, maybe he’d only said it offhand. A tiny flicker of fear burns low in your gut that you’d taken him too seriously, too literal and maybe today wasn’t a solid, definite plan. The soft knock on your kitchen door wrenches you out of the spiral. 

“Hi sweetheart.” He smiles big when the door swings open, warm brown eyes crinkling with mirth and you mirror the expression, worrying about him not keeping his word had been silly. 

“Hi.” You bite your lip, peeking around him in case your dad was around but he shakes his head no.

“He’s busy, we have time.” He steps through, and the smell of him mingles with the freshly brewed coffee. It settles somewhere in your chest, how comforting it is and when he closes the door and slips his big hand around your waist to pull you in for a toe-curling kiss, it drops into your gut like a stone. Your fingers clutch at the lapels of his jacket, your mouth curves into a smile and he hums into the kiss. 

“Hmm, you taste sweet, any coffee left for me?” His hand is so big, so warm, so firm on your lower back it forces your body into an arch against him. 

“Yes–I’m happy to see you.” Your body is so sensitive to him, every single inch attuned to the hard planes of his form. 

“I’m happy to see you too, baby.” With a few more soft, minty kisses he lets you go, winks when you sigh happily and move to pour him a cup of coffee. 

“So, what’s the plan?” You put the cup down in front of him, black and strong. He pulls you into his lap, the sharpness of him hits you again, the zipper of his jacket, the stiffness in his jeans. It only served to highlight your softness. 

“You’ll see. Go on, get ready.” His big palm lands a crack on your ass, not hard enough to hurt, but hard enough to send a thrill through you. 

“Okay okay, I’m going, bossy.”

Your heart races with every step you take up towards your room. Your attention keeps creeping down the stairs to that wonderful shape of him in your kitchen, sitting with him, imagining the small smile on his lips as you rush to get dressed. 

“You look beautiful.” His eyes travel the whole of you when you finally come back down, unabashed. Your face heats, everything in you wants to hide but he pulls you forward by your wrist, presses another kiss to your mouth and leads you out without another word. 

“Oh my god–” The motorcycle in your tiny driveway is a shock, big, acid black, so obviously him.

“You’re not scared are you baby?” He walks over, helping you with the extra helmet he’d brought. You shake your head and lie, chewing on your bottom lip as he carefully buckles it tight enough that it won’t come off, gentle enough that he doesn’t pinch your chin. There’s a slight tremble in your limbs when he helps you onto the back, the rumble of it underneath you is something else, like a big jungle cat purring against your bones, only louder. 

“Ready?” He looks over his shoulder, smiling at the no doubt terrified expression on your face. You nod.

“Okay, hold onto me, nice and tight.” Your arms around his waist tighten, your thighs grip outside of his hips as he slowly backs out of your driveway. When he finally takes off down your street, you scream in delight. 

It feels like flying. 

The wind almost whips through you, tears gather in your lashes as he winds between the cars and makes his way through the city. Never has anything felt so liberating. Despite the fear, the adrenaline courses from the top of your head to the very tips of your fingers and toes. 

“You okay back there?” He yells over his shoulder, slowing down for a turn and you nod before remembering he cannot see you. 

“Yes! This is amazing!” You speak into his ear, his palm presses against yours where you hold onto him, you inch yourself closer. 

All too quickly, he’s pulling into an underground garage, and parking the bike in a numbered spot, beside the car you’ve come to recognize as his. 

“Are we at your place?” He unclips the helmet, helps you down and hangs it on the handlebar. 

“Yes.” 

He’s quiet, but smiling as he leads you towards the entrance into the apartment building. 

The lobby is nothing to write home about, exceedingly beige, run down and not exactly a place you’d want to be in after dark. Not exactly a place you’d want to be in without his reassuring shape beside you. The elevator doesn’t help. The light flickers, the doors take an age to close. It smells neglected, dusty and dry, it creaks worryingly loud as it crawls up towards the tenth floor. 

“It’s an old building, but it’s really quiet.” 

“I’m not super into elevators, they freak me out a little.” His hand rubs your shoulder and you breathe deeply until finally it dings open. 

You’re not really sure what you expected his place to look like, but it certainly isn’t what greets you when his keys turn the lock and he guides you in. A giant, fluffy cat meows angrily from just inside. The windows are massive, and light bathes everything in the apartment. His furniture isn’t new, but it’s very well taken care of. Everything is neat and tidy, and a part of you feels almost ashamed at what you thought might be waiting for you. 

Maybe it was the younger guys you’ve dated, with their laundry piled on the floor, with their dirty dishes on different surfaces throughout their places, cigarette butts and empty beer bottles. 

“Go on, make yourself at home, I have to feed Louis before he rips my throat out.” He shakes his head, rolling his eyes. He walks past you towards where the grey cat sits, tail swishing in annoyance.

“Yeah yeah, I heard you. I was only gone for a couple of hours.” The cat stalks after him, meowing almost in response, an argument in two languages and you cannot help but laugh. 

You’re staring out the big window at the city below when he comes back. His chin rests on your shoulder, his hands slide over your hips and your heart races. 

“Want a tour?” He presses kisses to the side of your neck, the short scruff tickles the sensitive skin there, and you pull away with a laugh. 

“I’d love one.”  

His bedroom is just as neat as the rest of the apartment. His bed is bigger than yours, the whole room is. A chair sits in the corner beside a small side table with a lamp, it makes you smile big to see a book resting there too. 

He says nothing as you look your fill, only stands quietly, leaning against his door frame as you look at the things lining his dresser. The half empty bottle of cologne is him, the smell of it when you bring it to your nose almost makes your mouth water. You put it back down, noting the small pile of change, a set of car keys, a stick of gum. 

“How long have you lived here?” You stack the coins in order of size. 

“About ten years.”

“So. Louis.” It’s hard to stop the grin, and he laughs low. 

“Louis.” He shakes his head, “I adopted him, maybe a year after I moved in here. He’s a grumpy old thing, mouthy too.” It’s like he’s talking about a relative. 

“I never pictured you as a cat person.” The trinkets on his counter lose their appeal the longer you stare at him. 

“Oh, I’m not sure he’s actually a cat.” His shoulders are so broad, even without the big leather jacket on. The bed frame is up against the big window, light streams in but when he sits he blocks some of it, that image of him as an eclipse hits you again, a protection against the burning sun. 

“No?” You sit next to him, your thigh pressed against his. 

“He's some old man, cursed to live as a cat and having to change his litter box is a particularly creative way to keep me humble.” A bark of laughter escapes from your mouth at the thought, and his smile widens. His hand comes up from its place on the bed, and cups your cheek. 

His mouth is on yours before you’ve stopped laughing. 

Everything falls away with his kiss, the world tilts in so many ways and then you’re on your back and he’s following. His kiss is soft, but with an edge. Your bottom lip trapped between his, soft and sensual until his teeth nip at it playfully. The skin on your belly trembles from the tickle of his fingertips slipping under your layers, just feeling the warmth before undoing the button of your jeans. His mouth moves to your neck, warm and humid up towards your ear while your eyes track the way he pulls your zipper down. 

“Been thinking about you here, imagined having you in every single way I could—“ his big palm slips under the band of your panties, cupping your cunt; you swallow thickly, both of you watching him just hold you.

“I can’t stop thinking about you, naked, wet and spread around my cock.” Deft fingers slip through your seam, dipping into the pool of arousal at the mouth of your cunt. He groans at the feel, surges to kiss you while those thick fingers drag the slick up to swirl slow, decadent circles at your clit. 

His lips brush against yours, breathing in your soft moans and low whimpers while he drives you clean into madness.

“Does that feel good, baby?” He nudges your nose with his, “Tell me. Open that pretty mouth and tell me.” He slows his movements, and it’s like you could map out his fingerprints from just how attuned your body is to the feel of it.

With another thick swallow, you nod, breathing out a whispered yes.

“What are you thinking?” His knee shifts, but you don’t feel anything but his mouth on your cheek, and his fingers between your legs. Words are hard, and they don’t come to you right away, your heart pounds in your ears, your nipples are hard as diamonds under your layers. 

“Baby, talk to me, or I stop.” It’s a threat you cannot gamble with, so you whimper, gather what little wits are leaking out around his fingers.

“I-I’m thinking, I—“ he swirls a little harder and the words fail you again.

“You’re thinking?” He bites at your chin, he’s so fucking cruel, teasing you like this and expecting what, a dissertation?

“Yeah, thinking…thinking, oh god—thinking it feels really good, thinking that I want you to keep going and make me come.” It’s with Herculean effort that you push the words out through kiss-swollen lips and he rewards you. Two thick fingers slip inside you, deep and stretching.

“That’s my girl, good job baby, you want Daddy to make you come?” Slow, rhythmic pumping of his fingers makes your brain blank, before he bites your lip again. That he likes you calling him Daddy, that he encourages it makes your blood sizzle in your veins.

“Yes Daddy, please—“ it’s so fucking close, so warm and licking up your spine. 

“Do you want to come on my fingers, or on my tongue? Want me to spread those thighs and lick this cute little clit?” He laughs at the noise you make in response, you cannot be embarrassed though, not with the image of his face between your legs.

The whine you let out at the loss of his fingers is involuntary, he shushes you softly, an interesting juxtaposition with how forcefully he rips your jeans and panties down at the same time, your slick on his fingers leaves a little trail wherever they touch your skin. The prospect of him actually going down on you kicks the adrenaline up to eleven, within seconds he has you naked from the waist down, while kneeling on the floor at the edge of the bed. 

You let out a yelp when he yanks you towards his face, a heavy bruising grip on your hips, then at the flesh of your thighs. He doesn’t say anything, only breathes deep, groans somewhere deep in his chest at just how wet you are before he opens his mouth and eats.

Other guys have done this before, a tongue on your clit isn’t something new—but it’s never been like this. The guys that were willing to before may have given you a few kitten licks before moving onto the next feeling, the next position, just a prelude to fucking. What Clint is doing is miles away from whatever those other guys had done. 

The way he eats your cunt is hedonistic, animal, desperate in a way that makes you watch in awe, a way that pulls your hand down to spread the lips of your sex wider for his mouth. His tongue glides against your clit, up and down, swirling and writing words in a language you desperately want to learn. His brow is furrowed, his nose is pressed against your mound, his lips dragging down and then back up to collect the honey that leaks out for him. 

He moans obscenely, suctions his lips around your clit and strokes with his tongue. Your stomach clenches, your heart races, pleasure licks up your spine as he pulls you apart with every firm stroke of his tongue. 

“Oh fuck—yes, just like that, oh my god…I’m gonna fucking come—“ 

His eyes find yours, and the smile is clear in them as he doubles down. The suction gets tighter, one hand snakes up under your top and pulls the cup of your bra down to pinch at your nipple. Liquid heat burns a path through your being, it radiates out through your cunt and into your soul. Your hands practically claw at him, pushing his mouth where it continues its assault on your overly sensitive clit but he holds on, slows down, turns the suction into a kiss. 

“Such a sweet—“ he speaks, peppering in flat-tongued licks that make you flinch involuntarily away from his mouth, licks that morph into a noisy kiss, “pretty,” again, “wet little pussy.” He moans into your skin, like your pleasure is also his. His tongue dips low and drinks down what he’s pulled out, before finally moving up. You can taste your orgasm in his mouth, his lips, his tongue is drenched with it. His hands stop yours before they’ve undone his jeans.

“I just wanted to make you feel good, I’m okay.” He kisses you softly, smiling at your confused frown.

“You don’t want to fuck me?” There’s a pout you can’t hold back, and he laughs, not unkindly.

“Oh I am dying to fuck you, pretty baby, but I want to get started on dinner. If I do what I want to do to you we won’t leave the bed.” You sigh, turned on all over again. “I’ll go and start, you take your time and get dressed.” With another soft kiss, he rises, and leaves you, adjusting himself on the way out.

That pleasant, post-orgasm bliss weighs heavy on your limbs, you are almost too comfortable to move. His low voice slips under the crack between the floor and the door, a low conversation with the cat you never expected him to have. It’s quiet in his room, peaceful in a way that yours has never been, in a way your life has never been. You can’t help but think of your dad, you can’t help the barrage of memories and comparisons to the life you’ve lived since your mother–whoever she’d been–left. 

Part of you is obviously grateful that your dad stuck around, but there has always been that sense that you were somehow to blame for him having to do it alone. The thoughts annoy you. The mixture of your own slick and Clint's saliva between your legs cools, as does the arousal behind your belly button. Now was not the time to focus on your mommy, or daddy issues. 

He’s whistling when you finally emerge from his bedroom, clothes back in place, his comforter smoothed out. His smile is enough to shake the ugly thoughts and memories from your head.

“What are you making?” You stand beside him at his counter, leaning close to hug his middle. His lips press a soft kiss to your forehead. His kitchen is neat, there’s a bench near the big window full of healthy, thriving plants and you’re surprised all over again.

“I’m making us some cutlets, a salad, some asparagus.” Three shallow bowls are lined up, an assembly line to dredge, and coat thin pieces of chicken in flour, beaten eggs and breadcrumbs. Another unexpected aspect of him. 

“That sounds good, can I help?” 

“You want to wash the greens for me? There’s a strainer in the sink, lettuce is in the fridge. 

You get to work, picking leaves off of the head and rinsing them in cool water. It’s quiet, calming to move through the motions while he prepares the chicken, while he fries it. His lips keep pressing to your forehead, to your temple, your neck whenever he gets close. 

“Is there a big bowl I can put these in?” With your task finished and the greens dried, you search for where to prepare the salad. 

“Here, put them in here–” You frown when he pulls tupperware out from a cupboard and hands it to you. 

“We’re not eating here, baby. We’re packing it all to go.” Your frown deepens. “Just trust me, let's rinse these as well.” He hands you a container of cherry tomatoes, and winks before continuing with his task. It all comes together surprisingly quick, a bag packed with steaming hot, crispy cutlets, a big bowl of salad, some pan-seared asparagus. His expression is the happiest you’ve seen him, moving about his small, light-filled kitchen, gathering a couple of plates and cutlery, napkins and even a folded up table cloth. 

“Okay, let’s head out.” He tries to usher you out of the kitchen but you plant your feet.

“Wait–what about the dishes? Let's do them–”

“Don’t you worry about dishes, I’ll take care of them later.” Gently, but firmly, he guides you towards the entrance. 

“Where are we even going? Can’t we stay here?” The frown doesn’t dissipate, the thought of leaving his space, the comfort of it, the peace, you pray that he isn’t taking you back home.

“Can you please just let me surprise you? I am taking you somewhere nice, trust me.” He nods at your shoes, at your jacket and with a small sigh you follow. 

“You aren’t taking me home right? Can you just tell me that?” The thought of seeing the peeling vinyl of your kitchen table, of waiting with bated breath for your dad to walk in and kill the mood makes your stomach roil. He lets out a small huff of amused laughter. 

“No sweetheart, we’re not going back to your place.” He holds the door open, “Louis, I’ll be back later, don’t you dare scratch up the sofa.” You smile at the pitiful meow that follows you out the door. 

-

His bike has a little compartment under your seat and it fits the bundle of food perfectly. Your mind drifts to it, just as he drifts through the streets, just as the wind drifts through your hair and that sense of calm hits you once more. 

You almost laugh, the neighbourhood goon, the big bad criminal makes you feel safer and more loved in the short time you’ve known him, and the even shorter time there’s been any kind of romantic interest than anyone ever has. He pulls into a small parking lot for a park you vaguely remember visiting as a child. 

“What are we doing here?” He undoes the helmet, helps you off the bike and then pulls the bundle out from under where you sat. 

“Picnic, thought you might like it here.” He grabs your hand and leads you towards the wooded area. With anyone else, this might have caused you to panic, you might have found yourself legging it out of there as fast as you could but not with him. He’s a beacon of safety, funny enough. You don’t walk too far, and within a few minutes he has the cloth laid out, the food open and the salad dressed. With a smile he gestures for you to sit. 

“This is…I don’t know what to say.” Emotion swells, feelings that don’t make sense, feelings that don’t fit inside your body ebb and flow like a tide. 

“You don’t have to say anything, eat, relax, spend some time with me.” He presses a soft kiss to your mouth, and it spills into your heart. That tide overflows with the threat of tears. You turn away and take a deep breath, he’s kind enough to avert his gaze, lets you keep your dignity. 

The food is good. Really good. You eat in a comfortable silence, shoes slipped off, taking in the beauty of the flora. 

“It’s beautiful here.” You comment between bites, staring up at the lattice of tree branches criss-crossing high above you. 

“It is.” He nods, his head tilts up as well, his neck draws your attention. “I used to come here all the time when I was a kid.” He’s somewhere else, in another time, with other people. 

“With family?” You prod gently. He nods, taking a big bite, part of you can see the calculation in that bite, an excuse to not elaborate, you let him have it. 

“I don’t know if I’ve ever been here. Maybe once when I was little?” You poke around at your plate, spearing a cherry tomato. 

“What’s your favourite place to go to?” He wipes at his mouth, he looks somehow taller, half laying half sitting up, legs stretched out. 

“Oh God, I don’t know.”

“There’s gotta be somewhere you like being–” He takes another bite, his neck distracts you once more. 

“Well, I’ve always liked the outdoors, stargazing and all that. Actually a couple of years ago, my friend's mom drove us to that big planetarium to see Halley’s Comet.” 

“How was it?”

“Shit actually,”  you laugh at the memory, “We got there too late, but it was nice to be there anyway. The view was really pretty.” He laughs along with you. 

“That’s a long drive to miss the whole thing.” He puts his empty plate back in the bag. 

“I enjoyed the drive, my friend’s mom is really sweet, almost felt like I was part of the family.” Your empty plate joins his, back in the bag. 

“Can I ask what happened to your mom?” He replaces the lids on the food and you help. 

“Beats me. She left before my third birthday.” He frowns, but you shrug. “I don’t remember her, and my dad got rid of all her pictures so I have no clue what she looks like. I don’t even remember her voice.” You huff out a self-deprecating laugh, but he doesn’t join. 

“It’s whatever. Better that she left, she obviously didn’t want to be a mom so who knows how she might have treated me if she’d stayed.” You shrug again, he stays quiet. 

“That’s depressing though, let's talk about something else.” You smile to show him that it doesn’t matter, you’re definitely over the abandonment–at least, you tell yourself you are.

“What about you? What are your parents like?” 

“Well, my parents died a long time ago.” 

“Oh God, I’m sorry–” You kick yourself mentally, here you are on this nice picnic and the topic of conversation has changed from a shitty mom to dead parents.

“No, it’s okay really, happened a long time ago. My dad went first, he had issues with alcohol and he drank himself to death. My mom died a few years later, cancer. I didn’t have a good relationship with my father so to be brutally honest, it was a relief. My mom though, I was really close to her.” He frowns at the memory, you take his hand and squeeze. 

“I’m sorry.” It’s all you can offer.

“Thank you, she used to bring me here, no money but she’d pack up whatever we had and spend the day.” Your heart swells, cracks in two and he worms his way in, deeper than anyone or anything before him.

“Sweet of you to bring me here.” You press a kiss to his mouth, once, twice, and then a third time.

“I can be a pretty sweet guy.” He smiles, and while it’s obvious he’s happy to be here, there’s a flicker of something in his grin, the curve of it not quite reaching his eyes. 

“Do you want to talk about it–” He shakes his head no, and your words die in your throat, maybe you’ve pushed it a bit.

“No, it’s okay.” He presses another kiss to your lips, a silent, but effective distraction. A wordless truce, a peace treaty to not discuss those deep-seeded scars you both carry. You clutch at it, and enjoy just being with him. 

-

Seconds slip by, and every single one feels like an eternity. 

“Will that be all?” Your mouth does its best impression of a friendly smile, you’re grateful it’s enough. The bone-tired mother of three nods, attention split in quarters between her children and you. 

“Yes–hey, drop it.” One of her kids, a toothy little boy drops the tape and returns to her side while she pays for her rentals. 

“Please be sure to rewind your tapes before returning, if they’re not returned within two days, then late fees will apply for every extra day they’re late.” You hand the small stack of tapes to her and she nods, one eye on her kids. 

“Have a great day.” You speak to the back of her head, sighing loudly to no one in particular. 

It’s been a week since the date with Clint; it feels more like a month. Your dad still has his meetings, and by his uncharacteristically good mood in the last few days, something has gone well. You can’t say you’re entirely happy about the big wad of cash you spotted on his dresser this morning, but if it keeps your bills paid and the lights on, it’s none of your business. The realization, the decision–to ignore the implications doesn’t silence the doubts, it doesn’t alleviate the worry. They only swirl faster, amplify and haunt you throughout your shift, bounce along with you with every step you take home. 

Clint is at your house when you walk in, leaning against your kitchen counter engrossed in a conversation that doesn’t seem to be going well. His brow is furrowed, his voice is raised–until he meets your eye. His expression, his obvious bad mood doesn’t dissipate. Your father doesn’t acknowledge you, his attention is wrapped up in whatever issue they have between them. 

“I’m just going to grab a drink and I’ll head up.” You speak to both of them, your dad only tries to look around you when you cross his field of vision. 

“Don’t bother sweetheart, I’m leaving.” His voice is so neutral, so different to how it’s been when you’re alone. “You, go get what I asked for. Now.” It dips below freezing when he speaks to your dad, the urge to argue is thick in the sigh he lets out, but he rises with a huff and makes his way up the stairs anyway. Once out of sight, you feel his hand on your arm, and then he’s sweeping you into a crushing hug. He smells like cigarettes, like his cologne and engine oil. 

“You free next Thursday?” he whispers into your ear, his lips pressing to that place just under your ear. You nod into his neck, holding onto him tight enough to make your arms ache. 

“I’ll be here–” his mouth finds yours under the ugly yellow lights of your kitchen, frantic, consuming, you’ll see the evidence of this kiss in your panties later. Your dads steps sound down the stairs and then the Clint you’ve come to know evaporates. Instantly, you miss his grip, his smell, his touch. 

“Here.” Your dad sulks, handing Clint a small bundle wrapped in a cloth. He takes it, and leaves without so much as a word for your father. He catches your eye when you follow him to close the door however, leaving you with a wink, and a nervous feeling in your belly.

-

Saturday at the video store is always insane, especially when a bunch of new releases came in on Thursday night. They’re all gone of course, the Friday night crowd snatched them all up but that doesn’t stop people from coming in and asking, hopeful that some good samaritans have returned them early. 

“Sorry–” You speak over your shoulder, the young couple on the other side of the counter wilt, “Nothing in the return bin yet. Your best bet is to come back on Monday, usually they’re dropped off Sunday night.” They sigh, the hope gone. 

“Thanks anyway.” They pout, resigned to look through the aisles for something else, something they haven’t already seen. 

“Hey–” Your manager, Stephen, is going through a shipment at the end of the counter, he looks up at the sound of your voice.

“Need a coffee, want anything?”

“I’m good, you go ahead–Bobby!” He calls out to your coworker, “Come watch the register.” 

The sun is bright; enough so that the jacket hanging in the backroom of the store will probably make its way home in your arms instead of on. The diner is sunny, a little warm but the smell can’t be beat. Savoury and salty, threaded with whatever pies are fresh. Warm sugar and fresh coffee, a hint of sun-warmed plastic, and perfume. 

Lois, the waitress catches your eye and smiles knowingly. 

“Just coffee, honey?” She calls out, making her way behind the counter. 

“Maybe, how are the donuts?” You try to peek over the customers sitting at the counter. 

“If you wait a few minutes I could get you a fresh apple fritter.” She pours steaming coffee into the paper cup, smiling at your exaggerated nod. “Sure thing honey, give me a few.” 

You bounce on your heels, your tongue watering in anticipation. Your fingers practically shake with the promise of the sugar high as you try to dig the change out of your wallet. 

“I got it, here.” Clint’s voice nearly scares you half to death from where he appears behind you. He sets a twenty down on the counter, giving you a wink. 

“You don’t have to–” He tuts, gently holding your hands in their tableau, twisting into your wallet and hands Lois his money. 

“Keep the change Lois, let it cover whatever she wants tomorrow, or the next day.” Lois raises her eyebrow, but nods. 

Your cheeks ache from trying to hold in the smile while you take your coffee and warm donut. His hand settles on your lower back, guiding you gently away from the counter. 

“We keeping this thing a secret from everyone? Or just your dad?” He whispers beside you, your belly trembles, your heart races. 

“What’s more exciting?” You bite your lip, probably doing a very bad job of keeping emotions off your face. He lets out a low laugh. 

“Understood.” He nods, separating from you to move further into the diner, “Say hi to your dad for me, sweetheart.” You watch him make his way over to someone sitting alone in a booth, he doesn’t look back, and for that you’re grateful. 

The gears in your brain resume their regular rhythm, urging you to move from your place, and you do. They move you right into someone walking in through the door, luckily it’s only Jen, your other manager most likely stopping in to grab something before her shift. 

“Sorry!” You smile at her, holding your steaming coffee away from both your bodies. 

“You’re good, bit of a traffic jam.” She laughs, dancing her way around you. She’s closer to your dads age, but fit in a way that told you she took advantage of all those exercise tapes at the store. “Give me a couple of minutes and I’ll walk with you, just need my tea.” 

A few moments later she’s standing next to you once more, steaming tea and what you can only imagine is her usual bran muffin clutched in her hands. 

“Ready?” She pulls your attention away from where Clint sits, following your gaze but saying nothing until you’re both outside and walking down the street. 

“I remember him.” 

“Who?” You speak around a bite of fritter.

“Clint, he's in the diner.” She gestures with a shake of her head. 

“Oh?” 

“Yeah, you’re probably too young to remember but he almost killed a guy like ten-fifteen years ago? It was brutal.” She shakes her head, sipping carefully at her hot tea. You don’t respond, a deep frown settles on your face. You knew he had a reputation, everyone did but this wasn’t something you’d ever heard, and if you had you certainly didn’t remember. She sees the conflict.

“I don’t really know the whole story, but, okay you know Mercy? Sweet lady who works at the pharmacy?” You nod, because yes, everyone knows Mercy. 

“Yeah well, back in the day she was with this guy, real fucking prick–used to beat the shit out of her.” You gasp, “Yeah, we all knew, but she’d been with him since they were kids or something. I don’t know–well I guess he made an enemy out of Clint and long story short, Clint put him in a coma. Knocked out a bunch of teeth, broke his jaw, probably would have killed him if he hadn’t stopped.” 

Ice flows through your veins, the man she’s describing doesn’t align with the one you’ve come to know, come to care about. 

“If you ask me–�� She continues, oblivious to your internal crisis, “-he was protecting Mercy but they won’t say. Mercy loves him, refuses to say a single negative word against him, swore that her old man attacked Clint and that it was self-defense but he didn’t have a scratch on him. Makes sense though, with what happened to his mom.” 

“Clint's mom? What do you mean?” You keep forgetting just how small this town actually is, despite its size. 

“Oh yeah, his dad almost killed her. He would get loaded, go home and wail on her. My mom used to work with her before she passed away.” 

The video store bell dings as you make your way inside but it doesn’t feel right, the floor is wobbly, the air is thick. Jen says nothing else, leaves you with new knowledge and new feelings you don’t really know how to process. It doesn’t seem real, the version of him in the park, cooking in his neat little apartment, the version who owns Louis. It doesn’t mesh with the person Jen described. 

It churns and churns, water crashing against the shore, his bright eyes and warm smile–the grip of his hands on your thighs and then broken bones and blood. It’s not as though you can just ask him, something about hearing a rumour about him makes your stomach roil, he’s given you no reason to be afraid of him or to doubt his feelings. With the last bite of fritter, with the last sip of the cooling coffee, you decide to put it out of your mind. 

It’s none of your business. 

---

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[kittemfang]

tooth family