#and while the opposition used the existence of the Hulk as a counter argument

[daydreamerdrew]

Marvel Team-Up (1972) #102

[memescomicswriting]

Brooklyn Baby

Fandom: Marvel

Pairing: Clint x Reader

Warnings: Age gap, lots of potty language, and implied sexy times

Summary: Your boyfriend is in a classic band. You work at a hot club in The City. Is your love enough to overcome his securities?

Masterlist

A/N: Clint’s in his early forties here. I don’t pay attention to cannon age Based off “Brooklyn Baby” by Lana Del Rey

--

The night was old but the bar ragged on. You didn't mind working as a bartender. The place was named SHEILD, after some old inside joke, and it was a nice club. You made good money from your boss, Tony. He was a generous man and insisted on paying the girls more for all the shit you had to put up with from drunk men. With tips from the high traffic flow of rich idiots and eager tourists, you lived comfortably. Some regulars were being taken care of by Wanda down at the other end of the bar. Regulars were people Tony deemed 'not the biggest asshole' that frequented enough to hold a VIP card. That left you with the drifters on the opposite side. This wasn't the only bar in the place and it wasn't the most central bar either. Your bar was on the open, inward-facing loft that looked over the stage and dance floor. Due to the acoustics, the music was awesome up there but not too loud because the speakers sat below you.

At first, your customers were genuine fans of music, but soon they shuffled out and the 'biggest asshole' type sauntered in. They didn't bother you much. They were too busy trying to impress their dates or the people they picked up bellow. When their guests became less enthusiastic they began to grumble about how they should've gone to club Hydra. You almost told them to go there, but you didn't think it was worth the confrontation.

Tony originally bought the club to relive the glory days of his band, the Avengers. It was comprised of his friends: Steve, the Captain; Natasha, Black Widow; Thor, Point Break; Bruce, Hulk; and Clint, Hawkeye. Tony, or Iron Man as he liked to be called, took it upon himself to give some of the staff and club friends nicknames too. Wanda was the Scarlett Witch for her red lipstick and wit. Her brother Pietro was named QuickSilver for his silver hair and his ability to move around the club quickly. You were girlfriend, but the name had no inappropriate connotation. It had everything to do with who you started dating after you began to work there. The Avengers played earlier in the night. Now the DJ controlled the stage and created mixes of their top hits. The place was decorated commemorating the band. The music was a little before your time, but your older siblings often blared the radios in their rooms with Avenger music. You knew most of the songs by heart at this point. Like your siblings' rooms, commemorative posters were all over. Each bar was themed with a band member. Tony's was the largest, central bar- go figure. Yours, in the loft above, was for Hawkeye. You didn't mind that at all. Your boyfriend was the lead guitarist in his band. You often found yourself singing along while he played at home. Usually, it was whoever inspired him. You liked it when he played Lou Reed. He liked to play things from the seventies because he was a seventies baby even if it were '79. A lot of his friends, outside his band, didn't understand what he got from being with you. Someone your age couldn't understand the time he came from or his taste in music. He was a free spirit and you tied him down by simply existing. You'd zoned out in thought of your boyfriend. God, was he so cool and attractive, and oh how you loved him. The growing calls brought you back to the present. "Yo, bar babe!" A thick and sweaty hand waved in front of you. You quickly repressed the disgust on your face. "Yes?" You asked in the nicest tone you could muster, which was decent. "Thanks for sparring some attention to your customers." The guy snickered. He was tall enough, built enough. His face a bit intimidating; enough to the point you decided lunging across the bar at him wasn't the best idea. "Another round of Bud Light pitchers." They already reeked of alcohol but they weren't exhibiting signs of needing to be cut off. "Sure." You quickly went on to get their order just to be away from them. When you came back with the fresh pitchers the guests with them turned up their noses at the drink. You couldn't blame them. Light beer was gross, to begin with, and mass quantities of Bud Light were the cheapest way to get drunk at a bar like yours. As the group of men called it, 'the pieces of ass' walked off, no longer wanting anything to do with them. It was a mix of pretty young girls and guys. They could do better anyway. Soon, they all began arguing about who was to blame for their guests leaving. The one who asked for the pitchers quickly became the center of the argument. Another member of the group, younger and somehow more greasy looking, sauntered up to you. "Yo Rumlow, get back here!" He was called back to the table but refused to return. "Hell nah, not with you hens clucking. I'm not wasting my time on your squawking, I'm going home with someone tonight." With that, he turned to you with the slimiest smile. 'Oh fuck no!.' Was all you thought while your eyes rolled. "Awe, now don't be like that baby." He crooned. "No." You replied shortly. He leaned over the bar. "Come on, I could treat you real good baby." You snorted at how dumb he sounded. "No." He didn't like that. His tone began to slip from icky charm to agitation. "What, you got a boyfriend? You're not a baby, you're a taken bi-" The call of your name interrupted your fist from flying into the guy's face. "Y/N!" It was the cheerful voice you never tired of hearing. Clint briskly walked up to the counter and leaned over for a quick peck. "Tony said he'd have Happy rope off the bar for the night so you could head home early." The Rumlow guy erupted in a vicious chuckle. "You gotta be kidding me baby. You're too young and cool for this washed-up loser. Do yourself a favor and leave with me." You saw Clint's jaw grind while the rest of his body stiffened. The nearly twenty-year age gap was a sore spot for him. No matter how many times you reassured him, told him you loved him age gap and all, he still felt insecure about it. Something in the back of his mind crept upon him from time to time, telling him he was too old to keep you happy. He feared you'd leave him one day. The New Yorker in you, specifically the Brooklyn in you, began rising from the depths of your personality. "Oh fuck off you mother fucking loser, My boyfriend is cooler than you'll ever fucking be. Get out of my bar you piece of shit." The man slammed his hands down on the bar but you didn't flinch a muscle. You were wound that tight. "The fuck did you just say to me you bitch." You slowed your words and annunciated for the dumbass. "Get out of my bar, you mother fucking asshole before I knock your ass on the ground." "Oh, your gonna pay for that you little slu-" Before he could finish his insult his ass was knocked on the ground, but not by you. Clint was hovering over him delivering punch after punch. Soon, the guy's goons were rushing over to get their boy. Clint was immersed in a mosh pit of jerkoffs, but it didn't phase him a bit. Despite their efforts to restrain him long enough to get a punch in, Clint was shrugging them off and delivering more grounding blows. When the original douche was up again and itching for a hit, Clint used the guy's own momentum to throw him behind and straight to securities feet. Coulson, and the rest of the bouncers he brought made quick work of collecting the rest of the goon squad. Soon they disappeared down the steps towards the entrance. They'd probably pass hands from club security to the usual cops stationed outside. Clint was a heaving, disheveled, and sweat smeared mess. And god was it hot! When he finally dragged his stare off the vanishing morons and onto you, his body started to relax. He looked down at himself and huffed out a sigh. "I'm sorry babe, but when I heard that name slip from his mouth with him leering at you like that, I saw red." You let out a good giggle. He was confused at first but accepted it when you hopped on the bar counter with a clean cloth to wipe down his body. "Don't apologize. That was fucking hot!" You poked his chest with seriousness. "Only thing that bothers me is that I didn't get to hit 'em." Clint's head tipped back as he roared with laughter. "You would be upset about that." He allowed you to continue cleaning him up until you were nearly done. He grabbed your wrists and held them to his chest. "But in all seriousness, you don't mind your senior boyfriend punching a jerk's lights out for yah?" His head cocked to the side as he studied your face for any hint of disgust. "Mind?" You scoffed. With his hands still on yours, you directed him to grasp your hips. "I'm turned on!" Before you could say more, Clint was between your legs and you were firmly ground into the counter. Your lips were locked in a searing kiss. Clint put a lot of pressure into this one. Teeth clashed and your lips swelled. His tongue slipped through your gasps to dominate every inch of your mouth. You had no air so when he pulled away you were gasping. You hiccuped as you tried to speak. From the grin plastered ear to ear, he enjoyed that. "And you're not a senior. You're barely forty and for barely forty I want to jump your bones every second of the day. So invest in some arthritis medicine for when you are old." Clint lifted you off the bar and plopped you on the ground, still pressed against him. "So I'm cool, huh?" You swatted his arm playfully. "Really?! That's what you took away from this?" "That, and you're horny." He nodded, being a little shit with his fake, nonchalant attitude. "Mhm..." You rolled your eyes with no subtlety. Then you pushed him off so you could get your purse from behind the bar. As you leaned over the wooden counter, you made sure your ass was in full show for your boyfriend. If Tony was letting you leave early then Wanda would be left to do your side of the bar; which was a mess thanks to those assholes. You left most of your tips for her as a thank you. "You're not as cool as me." You shouted to Clint, who was following behind you, still fixated on your rear. A satisfied smirk formed on your lips. "Damn straight!" He cheered. "Now let's go home so you can show me how cool you think I am. My Brooklyn Baby." Clint squeezed your sides which caused you to squeak. Again, you playfully hit him like you were annoyed. It was damn well clear that you were anything but annoyed with him. You were frustrated but in the best way. He was gonna get it when you got home or any place private enough.

[eddiejpoplar]

Playing in the All-Stars Game

I’ve been a judge in annual “best car” competitions, with various magazines, for decades now, and I won’t deny the obvious: For a car enthusiast, taking part in such a contest is the equivalent of a sugar junkie running amok in the Reese’s Pieces factory. There you are, surrounded by row after row of the sweetest new rides of the year, and somebody is actually insisting you sample every single one of them. People have asked me, “Don’t you get tired of driving around in cars after all these years?” Oh, sure—and Hugh Hefner once said, “I think I’m done here.”

Then again, there are candy makers, and then there is Willy Wonka’s Chocolate Factory. And Automobile’s yearly All-Stars competition, the centerpiece of this issue, is that wondrous, fanciful land of vehicular Oompa-Loompas and Everlasting Gobstoppers. While other competitions introduce price caps or production quotas or other objective bars to entry on their annual “best of” fields (frankly, that’s way too much math for us), All-Stars is wide open to any new machine that we deem interesting. Thus, right alongside the new-for-2018 Honda Accord and 2017 Mazda CX-5, this year’s competition included such phantasmagorical four-wheeled unicorns as the Ford GT, the Lamborghini Huracán Performante, and the McLaren 720S. In fact, the 2018 field would’ve included the $2.99 million, 1,500-horsepower Bugatti Chiron, but someone dinged the test car Bugatti had in the U.S., and the company shipped it back to France for a repaint, eliminating it from our field. Yes, I can already hear some of you sucking in a big pre-scream breath: “A $3 million car? Absurd! Who in hell could ever buy such a thing!” To which I would counter, “Hey, NASA won’t let me fly to the International Space Station, but I still want to read about what it’s like to eat a weightless pound cake.”

Blurred trees and uncoiling Armco and lane stripes fire like tracer rounds. There is no world outside the flashing-past panorama in your windshield.

Sure enough, when I arrived at the Speedvegas circuit just outside Sin City for the first morning of this year’s All-Stars shootout, I could’ve been Charlie Bucket stepping up to the Wonka gates with a precious Golden Ticket in my hands. There, arrayed in and around a huge pit lane garage, were 26 gleaming new taste sensations just waiting to be nibbled, chewed, and anatomized. And there was our own Willy Wonka himself, editor-in-chief Mike Floyd, barking out the week’s arduous agenda: “Make sure you swim in the river of chocolate (the Mercedes-AMG GT R)! Let me know what you think of the new Fizzy Lifting Drink (the Lexus LC 500)! I need feedback from all of you on the 2018 Whipple-Scrumptious Fudgemallow Delight (the Ferrari GTC4Lusso T)! Let’s get to it, people! Get out there, and find me the winners!” Yes, participating in All-Stars is a pinch-yourself enterprise—we all get to run wild in a world of pure imagination.

On one level, All-Stars is a collaborative event. For days, the entire Automobile staff puts aside the real world of deadlines and bills and feeding the cat to do nothing but drive, analyze, photograph, compare, videotape, write about, and pontificate about the entries in this year’s event. Over lunch, we share driving impressions, discuss pros and cons, champion our favorites, and engage in no shortage of arguments. Passions run high, and at times these bull sessions can get animated: My pal Marc Noordeloos, an otherwise unfailingly mannered gentleman who goes full Hulk at the sight of a McLaren 720S parked with its rear wing left up, has been known to prod me with the point of his pepperoni pizza while pressing his views on, say, the transcendence of the Porsche 911 GTS’ steering. Later, after the keys are put away for the night, the round table continues at the bar—where volume goes up and inhibitions go down. Overheard at one evening’s beer call: “I know I shouldn’t say this, but I actually think the Civic Type R’s rear wing needs to be bigger!”

Yet All-Stars is also very much an individual event. Yes, driving on the Speedvegas circuit can be crowded—with everything from the Camaro ZL1 1LE to the new Camry mixing it up out there at the same time—but it’s still just you and the car (well, at least until our pro shoe, Andy Pilgrim, catches you and lands in your rear seat). But as much as I enjoy flogging the sports cars on the track—free from speed limits, exploring maximum braking and cornering capabilities—in some ways I prefer the road loop section of our All-Stars contest. Out on our mountain road route, it really is just you and the machine underneath. (Except for occasionally coming across a colleague driving in the opposite direction, rarely did I see another vehicle.) The driving is far more realistic, too: You’re moving briskly, yes, but well under control, mindful of being on a public road, on the lookout for deer or black ice, at times driving slow enough to investigate how well a $300,000 supercar … just putters along.

I did my first drive up and down the mountain in the Lamborghini. Forget the racetrack: The Huracán Performante was made for mountain twisties. Gunning uphill, the 640-horsepower V-10 screaming at 8,000 rpm, banging off another upshift with the spectacular dual-clutch seven-speed, the sinuous two-lane tarmac unfurling in a funnel of blurred trees and uncoiling Armco and lane stripes firing like tracer rounds … I may have been driving in one of the most picturesque corners of Nevada, but I didn’t see it. Such is the focus, the involvement, and the rhythm of unleashing a great sports car on a fabulous road. The unpaid bills, the deadline you missed two days ago, the leaking faucet in the kitchen—none of it matters or even exists right now. There is no world outside the flashing-past panorama in your windshield; there is no care beyond the grip of four Pirelli P Zero Trofeos and the tremble of road through the steering wheel and the stupendous surge whenever your right foot presses down. Your mind is fully alive, attuned to the whine of four whirling camshafts, alert to the touchiness of the carbon-ceramic brakes, aware that the next corner lies in shade and might be a trap of unseen ice. All of this and more floods your cerebellum, reaches deep into the synapses, etches impressions and sensations and reflections on all the impossibly wrinkled folds inside your skull. Then, at a view site, you pull off, the Huracán’s mighty engine settling into a throbbing idle behind your ears, the g forces gone but still strangely tugging at your insides while you break out your notebook and try to record some salient notions of what you’ve just experienced. And only then do you gaze up at the mountains and realize, my God, look where I am.

Charlie might think otherwise, but I’m the one with the Golden Ticket.

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