#dark!clint

🦋 babysitting 🦋

@smutsonian

🦋 angel eyes 🦋

The Hawkeye has a lot of secrets. Like… a lot. He’s also really good at keeping his secrets away from the limelight. 

The spy is fun to be around when you’re considered as his friend. His jokes are distinctively witty and his remarks are humorous. His persona around his friends and his teammates are the complete opposite when he’s with you.

His demeanor is nothing but gloaming. His protectiveness and possessiveness are to an extent which terrifies you. You envied those who he treats differently but he would always tell you that you’re special and that you deserve the special treatment.

He wasn’t always like that but nonetheless, he was creepy. Even from the start. His creepiness just got progressively worse when he and his wife got a divorce. You were their babysitter and whenever you would babysit their kids, he would always watch you like a hawk. Ironic.

He would shamelessly scan your body and it would always make you feel uneasy. Yes, he might be attractive. Aging has been treating him well, you have to admit. His training also did his body wondrous deeds. He’s an attractive man but the way that his aura changes instantly whenever he finds his way alone in a room with you stray you away from his good looks.

After the divorce, you were still called in to babysit. It’s not the same as before because Laura, his wife, is no longer in the picture. The kids would be sent to her house at scheduled dates and vice versa for Clint. Weirdly enough, Clint would still call you in even though he would be at home the whole day for the kids. He would say that he needed help with taming the little rascals and would compliment you at how good you are with your job. That’s another thing that you’ve noticed. He’s become more outspoken to you. He never really talked to you before. Mostly, it was Laura who speaks to you. 

Little did you know, that was the start of something much worse.

You should’ve seen it coming. You should’ve known that he would manage to trick you. And that’s what he did. You’re currently in his abode, sitting on the sofa and wondering why the house lacks the sound of children. It’s quiet. Too quiet. 

He’s in the kitchen making you a cup of hot chocolate that he insisted upon your arrival. Your tense posture faltered when your phone dinged as a message popped up on your lock screen.

‘You coming later?’ 

Clint walked up to you with a cup of beverage and smiled at you as you took a sip of the sweet liquid. His attention strayed from your face to your phone when it dinged once again.

‘Come on, baby. It wouldn’t be fun without you ;)’

Clint cleared his throat and rubbed the back of his neck as he gave you a cheeky smile. “I apologize for forgetting. I should’ve texted you that the kids will be at Laura’s today.” 

“Oh…” you turned to him with a surprised look but offered him a forced smile. “It’s no problem.” Another ding sounded.

‘Come on babyy’

“I could just leave” you made a move to stand up but Clint moved towards you, placing a hand on your shoulder to keep you seated.

“I’m getting too old to remember things…” he chuckled to himself, giving you a look that made you gulp in panic. His hand traveled from your shoulder to your cheek, rubbing his thumb softly on it. 

“Clint, wh-what are you-” you got cut off by him forcefully shoving his lips onto yours and invading your mouth with his tongue. You sat frozen in surprise and it took you a few seconds to comprehend what was happening but when you did, you pushed on his chest as hard as you could but it was to no avail. Your phone gave out another ding. And then another. And another…

‘Are you ignoring me?’

‘You playing hard to get, baby?’

‘Come on. Don’t be such a bitch’

Clint roughly pulled away from you and snatched the phone from the table, ignoring your attempts at getting it back and scrolling through the text messages. You regretted not putting a lock on it now.

Clint’s face sported a scowl as the phone lit up half of his face. He turned to look at you and gave you a false smile. 

“Is this your boyfriend?” He threw the phone away, crawling towards you with a sinister look on his face. You felt your stomach churn in anticipation and it frightened you. The way that your body is reacting to this man disturbed you.

You let out a shaky breath as he positioned himself on top of you, leaning his body closer to yours but never giving your body the satisfaction of his touch. 

“You’re starting to feel it now, huh?”

He ignored the questioning look you gave him along with your terrified expression. Sweat started to dribble down your face and you just now noticed how your breathing started to speed up.

He hiked up the skirt you were wearing, revealing your damped panties to himself like a treasure box. 

“How’re you feeling, sweetheart? Wanna drink some more of that hot chocolate?”

Then it hit you. The thought and whatever the fuck he put in that hot chocolate. 

“Put something there so you can be more compliant. I need to be able to control something, sweetheart. It just so happen to be you.” he smirks at you when you tried to grind your lower half against his with a desperate whine.

He chided you as he clicked his tongue. “Not yet, sweetheart.” he leaned down, barely brushing his lips against yours as you whined. It’s almost painful to have him so close yet so far. You find yourself missing his rough kiss from earlier.

“First things first. Who’s texting you? Is he your boyfriend?” he continued to tease you by getting too close but never enough to be touching. You almost moaned when he touched your shoulder to push you down the sofa, away from his body. 

“You have to answer me first, sweetheart. Can you do that?”

Clint smiled. Like a real genuine smile when he saw you finally submitting to him with a determined nod.

“Th-That’s Mike texting. He’s not my boyfriend. He’s just a guy who keeps asking me out…” you breathed a shaky breath as he grinds his hips down your panties for each question you just answered.

“That’s it, sweetheart. You’re doing good…” you couldn’t help but feel proud that you were able to please him just by answering his questions. All the thoughts about him being creepy left your mind. He let out a melodic moan when he grinds his crotch against yours once again, earning a whimper from your desperate state of mind.

“You want to be a good girl for me, sweetheart?” Clint didn’t spare another second once you gave him a nod. With skillful movements, he managed to position your body where your legs are hanging off the back of the sofa and your head just on the edge of the seat, your vision turning upside down.

“Open wide, sweetheart.” he cooed and immediately snatched his cock out of his leather pants and shoving it on your mouth. You gagged as he pushed it deeper down your throat. The sight of his cock bulging through your neck made him groan and rub himself through your neck with his thumb. Your gagging only added to his pleasure as he felt the vibration around his cock.

You felt his cock twitch inside your mouth and you expected him to cum down your throat but it never happened because he pulled out before he could even cum. You felt disappointed at yourself for missing the feeling of his cock down your throat.

“As much as I love your mouth around my cock, I have to feel your pretty cunt around it.” He grabbed your upper body with less struggle and laid your back down the sofa once again, spreading your legs apart with his arms. He tore your panties apart and pocketed it. His eyes gleamed when he studied your womanhood.

He towered over you and lined his cock against your slit, sliding it up and down in a teasing manner. You whined and bucked your hips up to satisfy yourself but he wasn’t having any of that. He chuckled as you let out a cry when he pulled his cock away from you, shaking his head in a condescending way.

“Please” you whined once more.

He reached a hand towards your face, brushing away stray hairs as softly as he can with his calloused palm. “What do you want, sweetheart? Tell me.” He looked at you tauntingly. He teased your entrance once more when you refused to answer him. 

“I-I want you inside of me, please!” you cried out in desperation and disappointment for yourself. You’ve never been so needy. The hell with that hot chocolate.

Clint seemingly over with waiting, didn’t miss a beat as he forced his cock into your slit, groaning when your walls made it hard for him to enter you. Your back rubbed against the sofa as he slammed into you in a rhythmic pattern. You learned that Clint is very vocal during sex and it only spurred your appetite. Hearing his melodious moans made you wetter as he rammed into you like an animal.

“Mmm, sweetheart. Fuck!” you watched him tilt his head back, his face holding a pleasured frown as he jerked his hips against yours. His thrusts started to become sloppy as you felt his cock twitch against your walls. 

He stops for a second to put your right leg on his left shoulder, getting more access and stroking much deeper into you which sparks something inside of you. He feels your walls clench around him, alerting him that you’re close to coming as he is. He doubled his efforts, thrusting slowly yet deeply into your cunt. His hand fount its way to your clit, rubbing furiously on it until you’re a crying mess under him.

“You have to wait for me, sweetheart.” he moans as he speeds up, the sound of skin slapping each other fills the living room.

“Okay sweetheart. Come for me, baby.” he groans loudly as your walls clench tightly around him, crying out cutely as your body spasms under him.

“Fuck” he groans loudly as he buries himself inside of you, cock twitching as it spills cum inside of you. He stays inside you as he held you in his arms, breathing heavily as he buries his head on the side of your neck, whispering sweet nothings.

After a while, he still hasn’t pulled out from you but he repositioned the both of you so your back was against his chest now as he stroked your hair softly. He leaned down to kiss the side of your head as he whispered,

“You take such good care of the kids and myself, sweetheart. Let me take care of you this time around.”

The Hawkeye has a lot of secrets. Like… a lot. He’s also really good at keeping his secrets away from the limelight. 

It just so happens that you are one of his secrets.

——————

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You always wondered on those nights, with your feet circling over your head- an endless repetition of stationary cartwheels- would his intentions veer direction when he released the knives? Would they be thrown to hit you instead of miss you?

Those nights, his blades nicked your arms and thighs. Because how fast could you run away with chafing and bloody thighs?

Everything and nothing you did seemed to antagonize Clint. It was always more gas to an already lit temper and you were too tired of skipping through his mine field. So you shut down and wouldn't argue back. You saved time by apathetically agreeing with him- it was the quickest way to get him to leave you alone.

Thumbing the garter, you gave in once again without meeting his eyes. “You're right. I missed it.”

But belly up and submissive was the wrong response tonight. With a hot snarl, Clint stepped further in the trailer, annoyed with your mindless agreements.

“Stop fucking around out there! If you want me to hurt you, come out and say it- I will.” he said, tightening his threat around you. His knuckles whitening on the table’s edge when he bent down to your field of vision. “Christ girl, are you even aware of what you're doing anymore?”

You remained quiet on your knees, garter and garments in your hands. You weren't usually a person to admit defeat but you were too tired, too apathetic from constant fighting.

In the beginning, the arguments led to makeup sex- boisterous, rough and fun. But now they left you drained and him disgusted with your lack of response. The quick barbs that were once traded cheekily, now left a residue of despondence and boredom.

You were starting to fear it wasn't just the disagreements you grew tired of- but your husband as well.

These days, the less emotions you held for Clint- the more his boiled, because he noticed all your lackluster movements. Even the light reflecting off the scratched and cracked costumes' sequins held more life than your eyes.

The only times you showed him any emotions were during your acts, and a part of him grew envious and resentful of that. He knew something was wrong, but didn't know how to fix it since you weren't sharing.  

So maybe he did grip you tighter and pull your restraints harsher. Maybe this was a small way to ensure himself that he could still keep you close. A way to see if your blood still moved under your dull skin and cold shoulders. And maybe he became resentful how you needed to be anchored down and spinning with blades hurled at you, in order for him to witness the slightest sign of life in your eyes.

It's been too long since you really looked Clint, even longer since you held a gaze of adoration. Weeks ago when you last fucked, you stoically told him to take you from behind.

He started off with dominating kisses, trying to pull some form of passion from you. He trailed his hands down your body but was met with no response. He didn't feel you shiver or lean into his touch like you once did. Even with his fingers deep inside you, hooking themselves how you liked- you remained emotionless, reaction less.

You fought with yourself in showing him any positive responses. The man still made you wet and edged you closer for release, but you withheld any satisfaction for yourself or him. As the moments ticked by, his temper ticked higher. He knew what you were doing- even before you told him to hurry up, get it over with.

He wished he had removed his hearing aid earlier when catching what you said next.

“Just… take me from behind so this can end,” you lamented.

It ended with you flipped over, face roughly smashed down in the bedding. Clint chased his own orgasm, cursing you under his breath with each harsh thrust. Finally, you let yourself feel something- and you felt like shit- even after your thighs trembled through your orgasm.

The door slammed behind him and the costume trailer rocked over the waves of Clint's anger. Dropping the garments, you locked the trailer door behind him and watched him walk towards the lunch tent. The fortune teller's words echoed in your head from last night's reading.

The tarot cards hated you, you were sure of it. You could practically hear them snickering at your future; colorfully arranged on the table, a mosaic of misfortunate fate. Your friend flipped the last card over, dragging her eyes up to meet yours. The incense circled in the air, spiral patterns aiding the message. Your friend braced herself before translating the cards, the soft jewel-tone lighting in the room did little to soothe as you waited for her to speak.

“He's your person,” her ringed fingers ran along the last card's edges.

“Can't be.”

“He's your forever person.”

“Repeating that doesn't make my reaction change.”

“And you denying it, don’t make my cards any less true.”

“We fight... all the time.”

“Oh love, you two will get past this. It'll take time and bending on both sides, but it'll get better.”

“No,” You shook your head admittedly. “My person wouldn't pick fights with me like he does and his wouldn't feel like I do towards him.”

“And yet, I don't need my cards to know you both love each other. The arguments will stop,” your friend held up a card. “This shows it will, but you both need to communicate. Have you tried? And not in your usual way of communicating, one shouts- the other remains silent.”

“Hate that you wasted the good incense on me for this crappy message,” you muttered, glaring at the table.

“Stop trying to burn holes in my cards, love. They don't lie. People do, especially to themselves. But not my cards.”

You knew what she meant. You might still love Clint but you were having a hard time with liking him.

Slouching back in the chair, you looked around your friend's trailer. Scarves draped over lamps creating a serene, glowing rainbow. Soothing music mixed with the incense. All these aids for calmness but you still felt anxious and confused. Were you annoyed you'd still be stuck with him or relieved you’d still have him? Maybe it’d be better to be away, at least for a little while?

“Don't do it,” your friend warned, giving a knowing look to the thoughts rolling in your head.

“What are you on about now?”

“I know that look. Stop plotting. Stop avoiding. No more playing possum. Don't make a run for it and leave him behind. One, he wouldn't let you. And two, you're fated. You can't out run fate, love. No one has enough endurance for that.”

Narrowing your eyes at the unintentional challenge she gave, you pondered, “I could try though, couldn't I? We only need some space for now.”

“Look love, all the best tragedies tried running out fate. That's why they're tragedies. And you know what they found out? In the end, fate treated them far worse for their escape attempt. Don't make fate drag you back home by your ear. You may not have an ear left, if you do. ”

“You are insanely dramatic and that doesn't even make sense. If you're fated to an ending you don't want, it's already a tragedy. Regardless if it's accepted or not.”

“Oh be quiet, you knew what I’m getting at. You're stubborn and stupid, but I still find a way to love you,” your friend chided. “Find a way to clear your head and not lose your husband. Go home- and stay home. Think about talking to him- and then, talk to him. That’s what’s needed. We both know you'd be worse off if you left. Could you really leave this showman life? Because that's what would happen.”

“...I could always come up with a solo act.”

“How much time would that take? Which company would you join once they hear you ditched yours mid-act? What are you going to do- throw knives at yourself?” your friend scoffed. “How fast can you run? You going to throw a knife from one end of the tent and then race up onto the target before the blade lands? Go home, to him.”

Maybe you couldn't permanently leave this life, but you sure as hell could take a short reprieve from it. There was a gap between shows after tomorrow's performance. You could slip away after the act and take some time for yourself before arriving to Minneapolis for next week's show date. It'd give you at least four days to yourself. Small but promising, if you timed everything correctly- you were starting to feel better already.

That night, you packed a bag while Clint drove to town with Thor to promote the show. While hiding your bag, a soft knock came at the door. Your friend stood outside your trailer, the setting sun and her colorful skirt clashing with one another.

Before you could greet the fortune teller, she warned, “Don't do it, love.”

You exhaled a huff of disbelief before an inhale of annoyance took its place, “I'll see you in Minneapolis.”

You closed the door on her, her reminder that you couldn’t run away from fate dying in her tongue.

___

“What changed?” Backstage Clint wiped his face with a towel, the crowd still cheering for your completed act.

“New day, new attitude?” you quipped playfully.

Clint hummed lowly at your response, “We need to go over the new trick before Minneapolis' show.”

Shit.

“Um, yeah sure. How about tomorrow?”

“No,” Clint was all business when it came to new routines. “It'll be tonight after this one ends. We'll lose too much practice time between now and next week with the traveling.”

“Clint, it'll be fine. We can wait till Minneapolis.”

He hissed out your name and pulled you away from the acrobats lining up for their cue. “I'm not fucking around. We practice tonight. Stay by me, I don't need you trying to sneak off just yet.”

____

“Stand by the target,” Clint instructed. “We only have an hour before the next group comes to practice.”

“Just one group? Why aren't they here now?”

“Most are resting or packing for tomorrow's departure. Loki and his new assistant are the only ones adding anything new to their routine. Said he's rechecking the water tanks before he'd be able to get in here.”

“Wait, another assistant? Already?”

“Claimed to have a good feeling about this one. Slide the ramp up to the target and climb up, we need to sort some things out.”

Kissing the tips of your fingers, you pressed your hand on the edge of the target for good luck. Positioning yourself against the large circular target, you slid between the hip bars and twisted around on the small foot ledge. Hearing the ramp creak, you looked up startled to find Clint right in front you.

“God, you scared me. Why are you up here, what's wrong?”

Clint stepped to the ramp's edge and crowded your minimal space.

“Clint?”

He brought his finger up to your lips, “Shh, gonna see which side I need you to be angled at.”

“This isn't how we usually-”

His fingers ran over your cheekbones and trailed them under your chin. Left to right, his slowly manipulated your head to each side.

“Clint?”

He hummed, raising a leg off the ramp's edge and wedged his knee between your thighs, “Figuring things out, seems I need to memorize you.”

You bit your bottom lip feeling Clint settle more of his weight on the target's ledge, spreading your legs further apart. His body heat began seeping into your skin.

“O-oh, okay..” you said, uncertain of his next movements.

This was not how he usually planned a new act. Normally he'd stand at the throwing line, practice his arm movements to spot his placements. Then he'd tell you how to angle your body for the knives to landing accurately.

But with him right there, pressing you back against the target and crowding your space- your body was slowly waking up.

His chest rubbed over yours as he leaned in further, running his hands over your arms. Collaring your wrists, he drew them away from your body and guided your arms higher up along the target. The raised edges from the knife markings scratched your skin, snagging your sleeves as he moved your arms above your head.

The warm touches and slow movements teased your body more. The familiar mold of your back against the dimpled target made you relax and drop your guard.

Clint ghosted his large hands down your arms and over your breasts, making you moan softly. You realized how much your body missed him.

As you got lost in Clint's comfort and leaned your chest into him, you missed how his anger gradually brewed. You started to feel again, started to yearn again- and the more he noticed your eyes brighten, the more you missed his darken.

He suddenly took a step back. You grabbed the target's hip bars to steady yourself, your foot almost slipping. Before you had a chance to shake yourself out of the haze his touch put you in, Clint strapped your wrists down to the hip bars and walked off the ramp.

He positioned himself at the throwing line and pulled a knife from his back.

The target shook as the blade landed next to your strapped hand, grazing your knuckles.

You hissed, more surprised by Clint launching a knife without signaling you first than the slice he gifted.

The target shook again, vibrations radiating out and the wood rattling against your back. Turning your head, your reflection greeted you in the large blade by the side of your head.

Your heart rate quickened- none of this was routine, “Clint- what are you-”

THUD. The target shook harder. Vibrations smacked into the back of your calves and ass.

This time you hissed from the pain. Two knives on either side of your thighs; your leggings ripped, skin cut.

“What the fuck, Clint?!”

THUD.

A knife hung above your shoulder, more vibrations knocking into your back.

“I can only get a reaction from you when you're up there,” Clint seethed.

THUD.

A knife speared the hem of your shirt, catching your waist. You winced from another cut he delivered.

Light flashed off the blade Clint twirled in his fingers, “Found your fucking bag. You were just going to leave, huh? Just like that?”

THUD.

The knife embedded itself into the target, next to your neck.

“Clint, stop!”

“Why? You're only you when you're up on that thing- in danger. I'm helping you find yourself, baby.”

THUD.

Straining your neck up, you saw the knife's handle over your head.

“What the fuck do you want, Clint?!”

By the time you moved your head back to face him, Clint was on you. He reached between your legs and pulled the knife stuck between your inner thighs.

“I want you,” Clint spat out. “Only ever wanted you.”

He grabbed the top of your leggings and pulled at the waistband. Before you could yell, he ran the knife between the apex of your thighs and cut the seam of the leggings.

“Gonna fuck some life back into you.”

The strips around your wrists and hands cut into your skin as you tried moving them off the bars, “Not like this, Clint!”

You didn't recognize him as he pushed your sliced panties to the side and ran his fingers over your folds.

“Clint, please-”

“Baby,” Clint smirked at you. “I can feel your pulse starting up already.”

He dipped two fingers in you, your slick helping his way. Your breath hitched and your back smacked against the target as he circled his knuckle around your clit.

Pulling his fingers away from your core, he brought them up to your trembling chin and ran them over your bottom lip. His mouth covered your moan as he undid his pants.

“No baby,” Clint moved back from you and grabbed the knife embedded over your shoulder. Taking his free hand, he squeezed your cheeks open and laid the flat of the blade between your lips, “Me first.”

He ran a hand over his length and stepped up to you. Your ass pushed against the target as he pushed himself into you, one of your legs involuntary wrapping around his waist.

The edge of the blade scrapped the corners of your mouth, your teeth bit down on the steel. Clint rocked into you, the back of your head knocked along the target as he gripped the blade's handle.  

“Fuck, baby,” Clint grunted, tightening his grip on the knife. “Feel so fucking good.”

You whimpered around the metal, Clint's hips snapping dangerously into you. Your core tightened around him when your whimpers grew. Clint took the knife from your mouth and smashed it into the target above your head. He pace quickened as he grabbed your hips

“Undo my wrists,” you begged between moans, “want to touch.”

“Fuck what you want,” Clint growled out your name and drove himself deeper in you. “Tell me you're staying..”

“..Clint...”

“Tell me.”

Strapped down with Clint deep in your pussy, you didn't want to out run. You just wanted a release.

“Sta-Staying,” you choked out through your orgasm.

Clint’s breath hitched when he felt you squeeze around him, sending him over the edge.   

“I missed you,” you confessed, your head resting on his shoulder.

“We still need to talk and practice the act, baby.”

“We will. Can you untie me now?”

“Nah,” Clint smirked and reached above your head for the knife. “More practice first.”

“Clint, we're not fucking in front of an audience-”

The rain pelts down as you rush along a deserted sidewalk, occasionally glancing over your shoulder and glancing at any corners or dark spots. Just a little further and you'll be back at the abandoned apartment you've been calling home the past week. You never remain in one place too long and you try to stick to busy cities, lose yourself in the anonymity. Not that many cities are 'busy' these days. Ever since your father succeeded in decimating half of the universe. The process killing four of your siblings and almost costing you Nebula too. Though she may as well have died, you haven't seen her in almost three years. And once he had won, once he had completed his lifelong mission he went and disappeared. Abandoning you in Wakanda, abandoning you to be captured or killed. Fortunately, in all the pain and confusion of the eradication, you were able to slip away undetected, and from there you ran. You ran until you couldn't breathe and then you ran some more. You found yourself in Kenya, and then Johannesburg, Mexico, Texas, Arizona, Washington, Alberta, Ontario, and who knows where else. Five years later finds you in Shanghai, China. It used to be the most populated place before the snap, and even now it is still busy enough for you to feel semi-secure. But you never let your guard down, you have to keep your head down, stay in your lane and keep moving if you want the slightest chance of surviving. This planet has become chaotic and lawless since the snap. With politicians, soldiers and police force disappearing the remaining population turned on each other. Many turned to crime to survive or for the fun of it, it wasn't like there was anyone to catch them. Petty theft, brawls and the unwanted claiming of omegas weren't anyone's priorities anymore, which puts you at yet another disadvantage. You were a child of Thanos; you helped in the decimation of many people's friends and families, and you were an unclaimed omega ripe for the taking. In this new world there were only a few outcomes for you; dead, forcefully claimed or trafficked. Always moving, wearing second-hand clothes from alphas and betas, stolen suppressant and heat blockers were the only ways you could keep yourself safe. And even that was getting harder and harder. Border security was getting tighter, and the medicine you needed was getting scarce. Three years without any more being made, you were surprised there were any left at all. But that's likely due to most omegas being claimed or trafficked, you were probably one of the only ones still around, still using them. Your hand reaches down and holds the package in your jacket pocket. The suppressants you had risked your life for. Travelling around so close to your heat, stealing from a drug cartel, but you had no other choice. You had skipped town, only taking the clothes on your back, you hadn't the time to grab any of your things, including your medicines. You had been thrift shopping in Osaka, but your gut told you someone was watching you, someone dangerous, so you hitched a ride as soon as you could. Swapping cars and directions every so often, trying to ensure you lost whoever may have been following you. You didn't even get everything you needed tonight, but you had heard fighting and gunshots across the road and left as fast as possible. You'd try again somewhere else tomorrow, but for now, the suppressant will do just fine. You'll layer up on alpha clothes and stick to more populated stores. You finally make it to your building and push on the heavy old door. You amble up seven flights of stairs and enter the apartment you've been borrowing. Whoever lived there before was long gone, most likely dusted, but you still slept on their couch. You only ever slept on couches or floors. Sleeping in their beds felt wrong like you had killed them and then violated their personal space and belongings. You flick the lock, attach the chain and slide the deadbolt, placing one of the dining room chairs under the doorknob just in case. "Wasted effort, seeing as I'm already here," a deep voice rumbles. You freeze in place, your hands shaking as they let go of the chair. You start to turn, but hands are already on your arms, spinning you around and forcing you against the wall by the door. You look up into hate-filled, cold blue eyes on an otherwise handsome face. "Who are you?" you ask softly. The stranger grins down at you, but it holds no warmth. "I'm a guy whose family you killed." "That wasn't me," you try to wriggle out of his hold, but he slams you back into the wall, harder than before. "You may not have been the one to snap your fingers, but you helped the monster who did. He's already dead so I can't get my revenger on him, you're the next best thing." "My father's dead?" that's impossible, he was almost invincible. But that explains why he left you behind, he had no choice, he was dead "that's why he left me," you whisper to yourself. The man keeping you captive chuckles "he was killed months after the snap, he left you and then he was killed." You try to blink back your tears, shaking your head "no, you're lying." "I'm no liar sweetheart." "Just a killer." "Big talk coming from the daughter of Thanos," he glares down at you. "I had no choice! He killed my family and kidnapped me as a child. Forced me to fight my sisters and tortured me when I refused. Or tortured me if I lost or tortured me if my technique was flawed. And when that stopped working, he'd hurt my sisters when I did something wrong. He turned them against me so that all I had was him and his will." You start struggling against him again, managing to shove him away. You turn to the door and pull at the chair and reach for the deadbolt before a heavy weight knocks you to the floor. You kick and flail, manages to kick his stomach and hit his mouth, he spits blood on you before growling. "I was just going to kill you because you killed my family. But now I'm going to make it hurt," he grins down at you before slamming his forehead into your face. The last thing you see is his malicious, blood-stained smile. X X X You slowly open your eyes, blinking away the darkness. You're in the lounge room, tied to a dining room chair. You can't even shift in place. You try looking around. It seems as if the room is empty, but you can't see into any of the other rooms, or behind you. He could be doing anything, could be anywhere.

You feel the ever-familiar prickling under your skin, a warmth spreading throughout your body. The slight burn on your throat where a mating mark would go, the desperate clenching of your heart, trying to fill a void. Your heat is starting. You have to get out, get away from this crazy alpha before he picks up on it.

You start struggling in earnest, desperate to free yourself before the unthinkable can happen. "Finally joining the party," you startle at the sound of his voice, your heart leaping to your throat. You swallow thickly as he comes around the chair and faces you. Your mouth tastes metallic. He points to the cut on his mouth "we match now." "You're sick," his lips quirk into a half-smile. "No, I'm desperate." "Desperate?" you question. "Desperate for vengeance, desperate for revenge, desperate for my family back. Guess where you fall?" his hand strokes down your clammy cheek, and you flinch away, though the omega in you is desperate to lean in to his touch. "Do your worst," you spit blood onto his shoe and bare your teeth. "Feisty," he laughs before turning serious once more "you won't be for long." "I've survived daily torture at the hands of the mad titan Thanos, you think you, a tiny mortal man, could do any worse?" "Guess we'll find out."

X X X

You try to blink away the fuzziness in your vision, you need a clear head if you’re going to think up an escape in this short reprieve of torture. Though you have endured worse at the hands of your ‘father’ it never quite felt like this. All those times being tortured by Thanos your omega nature was supressed. Now, so close to your heat, being tortured by an alpha, it’s somehow nowhere near on Thanos’ level and yet so much worse.

“This would end faster if you were to beg,” the alpha come closer to you.

“What?” you rasp.

“Beg for forgiveness, beg for mercy, and I will end this.” He stares into your eyes, so close and yet worlds away.

You look back at him and let out a deep breath “I’m sorry,” you start “I’m sorry that you’re such a pathetic excuse of an alpha that you need to beat omegas to make yourself feel strong.”

He sneers down at you before aiming a punch to your head. You feel the pain radiate on your temple but it’s slightly muted. It’s nothing more than an unpleasant tingle in comparison to the crushing pain in your lower abdomen. Courtesy of your heat, not his pathetic attempts at torture.

He raises his fist as if to hit you again but freezes, his nose twitches and he glances around the room before his gaze zeroes in on you. He breathes in deeply and a wicked grin takes over his face.

“Omega.”

Your heart stops, ice cold panic fills your veins “stay away from me,” you try to sound tough, but it comes out as more of a whine.

He laughs as he unties you from the chair. You try to fight him, to free yourself from his grasp now that you are free of the chair, but your heat and his beating has taken a toll on your body. You feel so weak, and your limbs are lethargic, they refuse to cooperate. He drags you into the bedroom and throws you down on the bed and ties your wrists to the headboard.

“So, what, now you’re going to rape me before killing me?”

“I’m not going to kill you omega. I have plans for you.”

Your eyes widen in fear. He’s going to traffic you, or breed you, or both. “What are you going to do with me?”

“Well you took my family from me omega, I think it’s only fair you make that even, don’t you?”

“I would bring back your family if I could, but I don’t have that kind of power,” you feel tears running down your bruised cheeks.

“I know you don’t. I don’t expect you to bring my family back, no, I expect you to give me a new family. It is what you were born to do after all.”

“NO!” “I won’t do it.”

“I think you’ll find that you don’t have much of a choice,” he strokes your face as you try to squirm away from him.

“Were you always a sick rapist or is this your desperation talking again?”

The police scanner bounced off your old Tower bedroom walls again.

You knew FRIDAY could simply stream the chatter, but there was something nostalgic about pushing buttons and twirling knobs.

You’ve listened to scans and phone calls, examined emails and files, plotted an idea of homegrown justice, and researched possible suspects. It was a haunting police case taking up your attention in between the missions. Maps and photos hugged your wall with notes crisscrossing over other various notes.

FRIDAY recorded the scans and police emails when you were away. Ever vigilant to highlight any details or new findings from the police mainframe about the intruder, who was preying on families with young children.

Which is where you read that the gags he placed between the children’s teeth- were all torn from what they determined to be one main source, a blanket. A dark line of all the better to hush them with came to your mind.

According to the notes, the gags' frayed ends matched each other when lined up. FRIDAY displayed the crime photos that showcased how the arrangement made an old, faded cartoon character emerge. Police thought the sexual intruder, dubbed the boogeyman, was ripping up his own childhood blanket to use in his assaults. One detective scribbled a possibility that the intruder's gags meant he was sentimental- and this was a way to intimately share himself and be closer to the victims.

You hoped the sentimental criminal slipped up on a small detail, perhaps overlooking the copyright year by the licensed character design. A small something to help narrow down his age, but unfortunately no. The print design was too timelessly popular and none of the victims left living could describe him.

And with no leads, the crimes continued. The boogeyman kept breaking into homes in the middle of the night to preform heinous acts. He threatened to kill the parents and siblings of the terrified children to keep them quiet and pliable.

Families were terrified for their children, scared their homes would be next. If victimizing the children out of their innocence wasn't monstrous enough, he'd hog tie them with duct tape and hide them away in their closets or stuff them into toy chests. Then he'd ransack the homes, randomly pocketing worthless items before leaving.

It was a grim thought you always had when reviewing the crime photos, it was like the children were his play things and he was simply plucking them off the floor, clearing them away when he was done with them. This monster needed to be stopped before he broke more toys and threw them away completely.

But it was always the same- until it wasn't.

Michael Robertson's small body recovered from river.

Steve was well-aware how this case was taking over your attention. From the smaller missions you traded or tried to give away to other teammates- to the many nights you kept the middle of his and Clint's bed empty.

Both men clearly remembered the cold shoulder you served them when Steve sent you out on a two week mission, pulling rank and ordering you to comply. Clint sided with him believing a break away from the case would help. As begrudgingly as you felt at the time, it did help to be away from the white noise of the scanners. Until FRIDAY sent you an urgent message- another child victimized a few days into the mission, this one resulting in death. His body found a day before you got back.

Breaking News: CHILD TAKEN, BODY FOUND.

Michael Robertson, age 6, kidnapped from home while parents slept. Killer removed boy's pajamas and laid them out on child's bed for parents to find next morning.

You knew you were losing yourself more and more in this police case, but with the hysteria emerging on the streets now that the boogeyman claimed another victim, one resulting in death, you expected additional branches of law force to step in soon. And you didn't want to deal with another player on the field.

You wanted this guy. He gave you something to sharpen your attention on and the want grew in you to strike him down. It was a tumor-like revenge. The team noticed you pulled away from evening dinners and movie nights. They began murmuring their concerns among each other and then to Steve and Clint. 

While looking over more crime scene photos about the Robertson case, FRIDAY announced Wanda would be making cottage pie for dinner tonight. Glancing at your watch, 3pm, you mindlessly mumbled a 'no thank you' and then froze. Slapping the desk, you knocked an empty cup over onto mission reports you've been avoiding to fill out much to Steve's annoyance.

“FRIDAY, please bring up the old police notes about cottage- about home repairs or work crews. Wait, how far back did the police look?”

“The officers went back three years, Miss. No common links appeared.”

You scanned over the photos of children and their similar ages of 6 and 7. Would he have waited for more than three years to attack? He would have known the homes' layouts, he broke in so easily to each child's bedroom. If he did wait, for how long? Why wait so long?

Your gut was rarely wrong, and the home repair angle felt like something solid, “FRIDAY, please run all the family's credit cards and bank accounts to see if there were any repair companies or purchases done within the last five years.”

Looking at the youngest victims' age, Gabrielle Reyes with her toothy smile just turned 6, “If nothing, please try six.”

An electronic chorus poured in your room as computer alerts went off, reports fired across the screen.

A description and photo of self-employed contractor photo, Randall Williams, looked back at you.

FRIDAY ran off the newly found information. The victims' families hired his company in the past four to five years. Rachel Collins' home was his last before heading out of state. He was recently released five months ago from an out of state prison for a buffet of reasons, one being incident exposure.  

“Miss, I took the liberty to run his payment history. He's been paying for a storage unit over the last eight years under a different name and P.O. Box number.”

You scoffed with a mix of thankfulness for Williams' laziness of leaving a trail and a curse that the repair history was not run back further in the beginning.

“Send me the address for the storage unit and his current address please, FRIDAY. And don't forget you're beautiful!”

Snatching your leather jacket and utility bag, you ran past Steve and Clint, who were folded against one another on the couch.

“I'll be back tomorrow. Don't wait up, my loves!” You called out to them over the action movie.

Clint and Steve stared at your figure fading quickly out the door, both pairs of eyes zeroing in on your large utility bag. They turned back towards each other and exchanged a knowing look. Steve dragged his hand over his face with a heavy sigh.

Unfolding himself from Steve, Clint kissed his cheek and patted his thigh, “I'm on it.”

Picking up his keys and jacket, Clint paused and took in Steve's concerned expression. “Hey, don't worry.”

Steve only sighed again as a reply and let his head hit the back of the couch. The sound of the door locking behind Clint drowned out the explosions on screen.

—

A fresh tank of gas, a new box of protein bars and a couple bottles of water later, you pulled into the storage facility. Stretching your limbs from the two hour drive, you took in the old property. It was run down with no foot traffic or desk clerk. The only camera you could see around the buildings was pointed at the office door, lens broken.

After grabbing your leather gloves and pulling the crowbar from the trunk, you went to work on the unit's lock.

Randall Williams reminded you of New York's grandfather serial killer, Albert Fish. Breaking into the storage container and shifting through his boxes, the incriminating photos he had of known and unknown victims were simply too hard to look at.

This man, this thing, was something that needed to be put down. The police were right in calling him a boogeyman. But they didn't know the accuracy of the nickname especially since it was once bestowed to Albert Fish himself.

You hoped Williams wasn't a cannibal, yet.

The young faces looked out at you from the photographs, some with tears and others with defiance. There so many, so many unrecognizable faces. You could feel the acid burn starting to rise in your chest. For a second, you wanted to talk yourself into believing these newly discovered victims were fake snuff photos he collected along the way, but you knew better and you saw the gags. Some with the same design used on the recorded victims. This was the man you’ve been looking for, and this man was a monster. 

Eyes watered and the taste of bile rose in the back of your throat. With a shaky hand, you read a recipe of brown butter and sautéed onions with human flesh. A list of spices and measurements. Your memory flashed to the little Robertson boy with questionable wound and knife markings.

Flipping through the journal you read Williams’ comments next to the favored recipes and the preferred cooking techniques.

How long has this been going on? Your eyes darted to the stacks of photos with mystery faces.

There was a strange recipe of your own growing within you; ingredients of anger, sadness, disgust, revenge.

Laying the photos out on the cement floor, you surveyed the expanding collection of tragedy. You shuffled your feet across the ground and paused before each photo. 4x6, 5x7 and 8x10’s created a paper train of frozen mementos from each child’s nightmare. On the shelf, another box of negatives caught your eye. 

Monster.

Your body felt heavier with each photo; guilt and sorrow for not stopping these events from happening, even if you never knew some occurred until now. You sent out an apology and prayer in your mind for them all. 

“I’m fine. Be back in a few days. Love you, see you.” You quickly sent the text to Steve and Clint. Leaving you the grim photos on the ground, you pulled the storage door closed behind you. Pointing your car west, you drove off to deliver revenge and extract other things.

Randall Williams lived outside of a small town on a neighbor-less dirt road. Parking your car a safe distance away, you quietly made your way to his neglected looking home.

The house was quiet, dark and smelled sour. The sliding door was unlocked. Flipping the safety off your gun, you slowly slid it open. Suppose monsters don't have a lot to worry about.

Closing it behind you, you immediately covered your nose with back of your hand and tried to save your sense of smell from the pungent stench. The kitchen reeked of moldy food and ignored trash. You would have thought the home was abandoned, except the mail on the counter was stamped with this week's date.

Walking around, a calendar caught your attention. Next week's dates were circled and marked, Growing Dreams Day Care- install shelving. Biting your cheek, you tried to bury down the rage.

Creeping quietly in what you assumed to be the direction of the bedroom, you gingerly opened the door with your fingertips, gun ready in your other hand. Bathroom.

Squaring your shoulders, you made your way further down the hall. The second door held the right answer. There laying on his stomach, snoring in a pair of dirty briefs was the small statured, unaware boogeyman.

Three quick fast steps into the room, you came up to the bed and kicked the mattress. “Hey! Devil's Reject!”

Randall's eyes shot open and he flipped himself over to sit up.

CRACK!

You slammed the butt of your gun on his jaw. “Hurts, don't it?”

He let out an unearthly growl and groggily scrambled up, attempting to right himself to lunge at you. Bringing your boot up and kicking him back in his sternum, his head slammed against the wall and cracked the stained plaster.

“Nighty-night, fucker,” you smashed your gun against his face again.

Grabbing his legs, you pulled his unconscious, dirty body down the hallway. Dragging him through the kitchen, you were about to set him up at the kitchen table when you saw another door.

The door creaked open and basement steps greeted you, “Bingo.”

Bringing Randall's body around, you positioned him by the stairs and let him topple down the steps without a care.

Skipping down after him, you heaved Randall's body into position. After securing him to a chair, you took the time to exam the basement and survey his workspace until he woke.

You stared almost uninterested at the bound man before you. The toe of your boot lifted the lid of his unlocked tool box and knocked it open.

“So how’s the carpentry business?” an air of indifference in your question as you reached in and pulled out several hammers before spying a box of nails.

The man only muffled and grunted against the material wrapped around his mouth.

“Yeah, sorry about that gag I suppose,” you examined the different tools in your hands, flipping them from side to side testing their weight.

“Not the same blanket you tore off for your victims, but I did make sure to grab your dirtiest work rags. So please, wet it down real good and enjoy the taste.”

Standing up, you swung the hammer around, “Ah, this is the one.”

He eyed you with hatred as he rocked and rammed his body against the ropes in hopes to loosen them. Frantic sounds erupted deep from within his chest only to be stifled by the gag, when he realized the restraints wouldn’t give. 

You hummed in pleasure at the trapped animal before you.

“Girl Scouts,” you nodded toward the knots on his body, “Don’t let the cookie sales fool you, asshole. Us little Daisies grow up to be Venus flytraps later in life.” 

He rocked his body forward again as you bent down and picked up the box of nails.

“Not interested in what you want to say. Plead innocent, plead guilty. Shit, I don't even care if you regret every monstrously thing you've ever did. Actually, don’t give a fuck if you don’t regret it either. All that matters is that it ends here, that you end here. I know you checked out those homes you worked on, picking out the children and then coming back for them. Like some twisted human layaway plan. That was a hell of wait, but I bet you had nothing else to think about when you were locked away. ”

Reveling in his fear, you circled him. You could practically smell the panic ooze out his pores. “Ever hear about the serial killer, Albert Fish? Preyed on kids, ate them even. You both had common interests, similar ways- he your inspiration? My gut told me within time, you'd be like him.”  

Dancing your fingertips across the tops of his shoulders, you emphasized each word with a tap, “And. You're. Already. There.”

Williams knocked his head side to side, trying to shake off your touch. He glared in your direction but refused to make eye contact.

“But there's a thing you’re missing from being so very much like him. A subtle difference to some, but devil's in the detail- am I right?”

You shook the box of nails up to his ear as you leaned by his other.

“He stuck pins in his groan, 29 to be exact. They have x-rays of it. No, no, I shit you not. So we're going to improvise with these nails and recreate it on you,” you bopped him on the nose. “Artistic interpretation and all.”

Driving the nails into him with a hammer, you randomly picked spots along his inner thigh and pelvis. “Do you like astronomy? Should I make the Little Dipper?”

He howled against his restraints. Drool and hatred running down his chin. Randall passed out on nail number eight, when it was jammed into his testicle, but came back around for the thirteenth nail while you slapped him awake. He passed out again on the twenty-third nail and you carried on without your audience.

“Oh good! You're awake- again,” false happiness laced your voice. “Take a look at the new additions!”

Swiftly grabbing the back of his head, you forced him to crane his neck awkwardly downward as he tried resisting.

“Oh good god. Stop bawling already,” walking around to his front, you brought the hammer down and smashed it against his left kneecap.

More cries of anguish poured out of Randall.

Reaching back into his toolbox, you crouched down in front of him, “you only have yourself to blame- for all of this. But also because you kept passing out on me- and that… well that, gave me time to think.”

You delivered a Cheshire grin and held up a pair of pruners.

His body shook and he screamed at you through the gag as you painfully pulled down on his nailed testicles. You quickly shoved the pruners around one sweaty ball. His right nut rested between the tool's blades, the nail stuck out below. His body convulsed in pain as you smiled and began cutting into him.

Randall's shoulders involuntarily shook as he wailed incoherently. After a few minutes his shoulders fell down around him, making him smaller with the weight of defeat.

Pressing the toe of your boot into his broken kneecap, you slowly and gradually applied more pressure, “Pay attention, fuckface. There’s still more I can cut from you.”

Blood painted his cheek as you tapped his face with the pruner’s blades, You pulled down his gag and he reeled his head away.

You plucked his testicle off the floor, “Hm. Kind of looks like a weird party appetizer, meatball and blood gravy. Gore gravy? You think that sounds better? Here. Want to try?”

Twirling the hammered nail between your thumb and finger, his detached ball freckled his cheek and forehead with blood. Threads of veins and skin twirled on the air like streamers. 

“Blow on it, might be hot,” you cackled at your joke.

“Fuck you!” Randall cursed through shaky, chapped lips, gaping in pained disbelief at his removed appendage.

“Tsk-tsk,” you snapped the meatball appetizer back and forth on front of his eyes. “That bad, lousy fucking attitude and those actions is what got you here, motherfucker.” 

You sneered at him coldly. “Don't make me get creative. Could always skin away pieces of you and wrap them around other parts,” you dramatically cut the air with the human hors d'oeuvre and pointed at his crotch with it, “like pigs in a blanket. Foreskin's optional, you know.”

He started paling between your words and the blood loss, silently staring wide-eyed when visualizing your threat.

“Now,” you stepped between his bounded legs, “Open up, fucker. Time to try, then die.”

Pinching his cheeks, you forced his mouth open and scrapped the nail against his teeth until his ball rested in the back of his mouth. Horror filled Randall's eyes as the taste of warm iron hit his tongue.

Quickly grabbing the sides of his head, you abruptly raised your knee and slammed it up against his jaw. “Enjoy.”

A mixed sound of wet squishing and teeth cracking sang throughout the basement as Randall sobbed. The deflated testicle and pieces of teeth fell from his mouth between his hysterical wails. You leaned against the wall until his banshee screams subsided, a mask of boredom across your face.

When his shoulders stopped shaking and he settled to broken whimpers, you punched him again and slid the gag back in place between blood-coated teeth.

“And now, for our final act,” you callously taunted as you eyed his maimed and bloody crotch. Locking eyes with Randall, you jerked your chin in to the direction of his tools, “Ready?”

—

Standing before Randall's crumpled body, you heard your name float down from the top of the stairs, “Sweetheart, it’s time to go now.”

Clint silently made his way over, stepping between you and Williams’ broken corpse.  

He pulled out a plastic bag from his utility vest and held it out to you with his own gloved hands.

“Meet you back at the car?” you inquired as you stuffed your bloody gloves into the bag he always provided.

“Always,” Clint kissed your forehead and tucked the soiled bag away. “Go on now, gonna do a once over here and I'll meet you. Love you.”

“Love you,” you backed away and made your way to the car.

Clint pulled out several photographs of Williams’ victims and scattered them around his corpse. Picking up the bloodied hammer, he cringed when seeing a few pubic hairs stuck to it. He promptly dropped the tool on top of the victim's photos.

When he followed you to the storage unit, he figured the photos would come in handy for what he knew you'd do next. As he resumed to tail you from the warehouse, he decided to make an anonymous tip to the police about the storage unit when you were done. He didn't want to risk any evidence showing who Randall Williams really was could be overlooked.  

Back at the car, you turned up the volume and resumed listening to your audiobook. You didn't have to wait long, soon Clint tapped on your passenger window asking you to unlock the door.

Dropping into the passenger seat and assessing your appearance, Clint raised your hand to his lips for a quick kiss, “You look more content already.”

“Only because it’s over and I get to go home to you and Steve,” you smiled and cupped his face. “Thank you.”

“Never have to thank us, sweetheart.”

He rolled his cheek into the warmth of your hand. Your fingers skimmed through the top of his hair. You liked to tease that his hair felt softer with the mohawk. 

Blessed is what you felt. You found a home with Clint and Steve. And they accepted your need to play judge, jury and executioner. 

Clint tapped your thigh and gave it a squeeze, “Let’s get home to him, sweetheart. He’s been worried.”

He reached behind your seat and pulled out the unopened box of protein bars, “See, you plan well but then forget details like this.”

Ripping the box open, he freed a bar from its wrapper, “Eat.”

You wanted to object for a moment and say you were fine, but Clint's tone was laced with a plead, not a command.

“When we get back he'll want to feed us, you know. No one was happy you skipped another dinner.”

You chuckled at Clint's reminder about Steve's concerns and opened a bottled water, “What about your car?”  

“Had FRIDAY drive itself home.”

Humming at his answer, you capped the water, “Ready?”

Clint nudged your arm and took the bottle for himself, “Yes. And tomorrow we'll have a long talk about you being more aware of your surroundings. You were so blindly driven, you didn't notice me following like you usually do.”

—

When FRIDAY announced your return home, Steve felt he could breath easy again. He knew what these kills meant to you and the sense of serenity they brought.

Determined to make your and Clint’s return as smooth as possible, he put on your favorite playlist and he spread out the 24hr takeout menus.

He heard you before seeing you, smiling at the sight of you and Clint rounding the corner. Your legs swung back and forth, head tipped back with laughter, humor staining your expressive lips as Clint gave you a piggy back ride. A smile of Clint’s own beamed across his face at Steve as he set you down. 

“Hey, doll.” Not hiding his admiration for you, Steve scooped you up into a tight embrace.

“Hey, handsome.” With a kiss on his jaw, you nuzzled in closer to him. 

Opening up your embrace, you both pulled Clint into the hug.

Steve pressed his forehead against Clint's temple, “Thank you for being careful and bring you both back safely.”

Clint leaned into Steve's words, “Never have to thank me.”

Steve kissed Clint soundly and turned his gaze on you, “Give me everything you need burned.”

You nodded at his request and pulled out the bloody bag.

“Weapons?”

You turned your head shyly towards Clint, and he slightly shivered as he replayed in his mind what you orchestrated in the basement. 

“She used his own. Left them there with some incriminating photos. Less things to carry back,” Clint explained to Steve.

Tilting your head at Clint's mention of photos, you truly realized then just how absorbed you were for not noticing him at the storage unit. Hearing Steve call your name, you gave Clint a soft smile before turning back around.   

“Alright, doll. You know the next part. Strip.”

Without a second thought to his request, you swiftly slipped out of your jacket and boots, followed by your top and pants.

“Always love this part, sweetheart, ” Clint murmured behind you.

“Me, too. She looks so pretty with that new sense of accomplishment. Don’t you, doll?”

You laughed at your boyfriends’ praises, “Gonna go shower now. We eating soon?”

“Pulled out some menus when you two got back. I was thinking that little Italian place.”

“Sounds delicious,” you left for the shower after gifting both men a slow, appreciative kiss. “Maybe come join me before the food arrives?”

Both men hummed in appreciation as they watch you walk down the hall.

“I’ll get hers. Gotta wash mine, too.” Clint offered, collecting your soiled items from Steve to bring to the laundry room and incinerator. 

Clint stepped into the elevator but froze suddenly when he saw Steve holding the Italian menu.