I’m forming a posse with all the other people in your notes so you off her mother in a horrible way and you allude to the ‘migraines’ being more then just that… ma’am we need to have a talk lol you’re right there’s something clearly wrong with you that you like torturing us this much! lol Meanwhile i’m just gonna linger in Clints arms for a bit thanks! lol (also more please)
Summary: As a senior in college, you kept your nose clean and never partied. You were at the top of your class, set to graduate with honors summa cum laude; unlike Clint Barton. In an effort to get a passing grade and graduate, he asked for your help. What could possibly go wrong? Word Count: 1,204 Warnings: Language, fluff, possible smut, heavy angst [I’m sorry] Author’s Note: I shouldn’t be this excited about how much angst there is. Something is wrong with me. GIF Credit [X]
My work is not to be posted on any other sites (AO3, Wattpad, etc.) without my express written permission. Reblogs are fine.
It had been so long since you’d had dinner with another person who wasn’t your father that you almost forgot how to hold a simple conversation. The fact that the steak practically melted in your mouth didn’t help matters, nor did the fact that your company, Clint Barton, kept looking at you the way he was.
“What?” you finally asked, reaching for the napkin. “Do I have something on my face?”
Clint gave a chuckle and shook his head. “No, it’s not that.”
“Then what is it?” you wanted to know, growing self-conscious under his gaze.
“Nothin’,” was his simple answer.
You didn’t believe it for one second. “Liar,” you mused, your eyebrow arched.
Clint grabbed his left pec with an exaggerated groan. “Your words hurt me, my lady.”
You gave a snorting laugh. “Sticks and stones,” you teased him before shoving a bite of steak in your mouth and moaning in appreciation. You hadn’t meant to let it slip out, but there it was, clearly audible and sensual-sounding.
One of Clint’s eyebrows rose and he shifted in his seat. “Enjoying yourself, sweetheart?”
Aaaaaaah, I stg I love this story so much. Is it just me or does (you) being sick give people A Walk to Remember vibes??? Cause if I die at the end of this Imma be rioting just giving a heads up
Aaaaaaah, I stg I love this story so much. Is it just me or does (you) being sick give people A Walk to Remember vibes??? Cause if I die at the end of this Imma be rioting just giving a heads up
Author’s Notes: Inspired by the books/movies in the Fifty Shades of Grey trilogy. Hopefully, they’re better. I do use the books/movies as a reference, so some dialogue, etc, may sneak in.
***My work is not to be posted on any other sites (AO3, Wattpad, etc.) without my express written permission. Reblogs are fine.***
Summary: As a senior in college, you kept your nose clean and never partied. You were at the top of your class, set to graduate with honors summa cum laude; unlike Clint Barton. In an effort to get a passing grade and graduate, he asked for your help. What could possibly go wrong? Word Count: 1,204 Warnings: Language, fluff, possible smut, heavy angst [I’m sorry] Author’s Note: I shouldn’t be this excited about how much angst there is. Something is wrong with me. GIF Credit [X]
My work is not to be posted on any other sites (AO3, Wattpad, etc.) without my express written permission. Reblogs are fine.
It had been so long since you’d had dinner with another person who wasn’t your father that you almost forgot how to hold a simple conversation. The fact that the steak practically melted in your mouth didn’t help matters, nor did the fact that your company, Clint Barton, kept looking at you the way he was.
“What?” you finally asked, reaching for the napkin. “Do I have something on my face?”
Clint gave a chuckle and shook his head. “No, it’s not that.”
“Then what is it?” you wanted to know, growing self-conscious under his gaze.
“Nothin’,” was his simple answer.
You didn’t believe it for one second. “Liar,” you mused, your eyebrow arched.
Clint grabbed his left pec with an exaggerated groan. “Your words hurt me, my lady.”
You gave a snorting laugh. “Sticks and stones,” you teased him before shoving a bite of steak in your mouth and moaning in appreciation. You hadn’t meant to let it slip out, but there it was, clearly audible and sensual-sounding.
One of Clint’s eyebrows rose and he shifted in his seat. “Enjoying yourself, sweetheart?”
A blush colored your cheeks and neck. “Sorry,” you mumbled, shaking your head. “I just… this steak is really good.”
“My dad left when I was little,” Clint admitted, his eyes falling to his plate. “My mom taught me how to cook.”
“Oh, Clint,” you lamented, your heart clenching in understanding. “I’m so sorry.”
Clint gave a small wave of his hand. “It’s okay, it’s not like you’re the one that drove him away. He didn’t want to be a father, said my mother trapped him.”
You reached over and grabbed his hand, giving it a squeeze. “Neither of you deserved that, especially you. You were just a kid.”
“Thank you for saying that,” he murmured, turning his hand over, his thumb sweeping over your knuckles in a way that made a shiver roll down your spine.
You slid your hand from his and took a long pull of your water, which you then choked on when Clint asked a question.
“What about you? I noticed there were only pictures of you with your dad. At least, I assume it’s your dad,” Clint chuckled, a tinge of pink coloring his neck. “You don’t have a secret older boyfriend, do you?”
After you got your coughing under control, you gave him an answer. “No, no, nothing that salacious. It’s just me and my dad, nothing exciting or crazy.”
“We’ve got more in common than I thought,” Clint admitted. “Me without a father, you without a mother.”
Grief clogged your throat and made your heart stutter painfully in your chest. “Yeah, look at us,” you muttered sullenly before pushing away from the table. The rest of your food was dumped into the trash with a loud scrape of the fork against ceramic. You were rinsing off the plate when Clint approached the island.
“What happened there?” he wanted to know. “What did I say wrong?”
Tears sprang to your eyes whether you wanted them to or not. “No- nothing. I’m fine,” you lied.
He murmured your name with something that sounded like pity. “You can talk to me, you know. I know I’m only here because you agreed to tutor me and because of earlier. That doesn’t mean we can’t be friends.”
You gripped the edge of the counter, groaning at the bite of it in your palm. “I was six when she died. She went into town to get some more fruit juice. She got hit by a drunk driver doing seventy through a red light. The doctor said she didn’t feel a thing, that she died on impact.”
“Jesus,” Clint hissed, a hand scraping over his face.
“It’s my fault she’s dead,” you choked out, your head falling forward.
Clint was at your side, a large hand smoothing up and down your back. “I know that it can feel like that, but it’s not your fault.”
“It was my bir- birthday, Clint,” you managed to say. “And I threw a damn fit because she didn’t get the juice I wanted.”
With a heavy sigh, Clint pulled you into him and wrapped his arms around you, comforting you as the overwhelming grief and guilt took hold, spilling over as the dam holding it at bay shattered to a million pieces. You hated how all it took was one question for you to fall apart. It had been almost twenty years, and there you were, crying in the arms of a man you hardly knew as if she had died only yesterday.
Clint didn’t say anything, just stood there and held you until you gained your composure, which took entirely too long, in your opinion. When you pulled back, you wiped the tears from your face with a paper towel and wouldn’t look Clint in the eye.
“Look, I really appreciate you helping me home and cooking me dinner -”
“Yeah, no, I’ll get out of your hair,” he sighed, disappointment glittering in his eyes.
“I’m sorry, Clint.” God, you hated apologizing all the damn time.
Clint was shaking his head. “You don’t need to apologize, sweetheart. You’ve had a hell of day. God knows I didn’t help matters.” He grabbed his jacket, slipped on his shoes, and gave you a warm smile before he left.
The guilt you were feeling before made your stomach roll. “Way to go, Y/N.”
After cleaning up the kitchen, you took a quick shower, slipped into your pajamas, and called your dad. It had been about a week since you had talked to him, and after the intense migraine earlier, you knew he’d be pissed if you didn’t tell him.
“Hey, kid,” your dad greeted you warmly.
“Hey, old man,” you joked, settling into bed.
Phil muted the television before asking, “How ya been?”
You really didn’t want to tell him, but even if you tried lying, he’d call you out on it. “Today wasn’t the greatest.”
“One of your headaches.” It wasn’t a question.
“It came out of nowhere,” you tried to explain. “I was helping a friend study -”
“Y/N,” he sighed heavily. “You’re doing it again.”
“I am not, dad,” you argued.
“Yes, you are,” Phil shot back, not in anger. “You’re taking on too much. Again.”
You swiped a hand over your face, barely able to suppress a yawn. “If I don’t help him, he won’t graduate, dad.”
“Kid, it’s not your job to help everyone, all of the time. You’re not a superhero.”
“Helping Clint isn’t going to kill me,” you snapped, grunting in frustration in the next breath. “I’m sorry, dad. I didn’t… I’m just tired.”
Phil blew out a shuddering breath, and if you closed your eyes, you could see his eyes grow teary. “Get some sleep, okay? And do me a favor, kid.”
“What’s the favor?” you asked, even though you already knew what he was going to say.
“I know helping people is ingrained in your DNA, just take it easy, okay?” he begged of you.
Despite having cried your heart out earlier, tears pricked your eyes. “I can do that.”
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