#so so glad I fended off my dad asking if it was appropriate for family viewing

[fruity-phrog]

What I thought “sexiest show yet” meant: Chic, suave, slick songs, Death On The Nile vibes

What it actually meant: “My sack is heavy Tadius”

[lady-thor-foster]

A Little Broken, Still Good // Clint Barton x Reader

Anonymous asked: Clint request where the team finds the reader on a mission and saves her and Clint kind of sticks to her like a father figure she never had Pairing: Clint Barton x Reader (Familial) Word Count: 2.2k+ Warning: FLUFF, Angst, Language, Dad!Clint, brief mention of death (Post AOU)

A/N: Pietro is alive. That weird family Whedon cooked up doesn’t exist. Reader is an orphan. Also…hmu If you catch that lilo and stitch reference. I’ve come to accept that I will never understand the concept of drabbles. This is unbeta’d and I’m half asleep so I’ll fix errors after I’ve had coffee.

When Clint found you huddling behind a pile of bodies and rubble in Sokovia, he knew he couldn’t leave your side. There was something about you that made him want to protect you with every breath of his being.

“Barton! We need you!” Natasha called over the communicator built into his hearing aids.

“Can you make it without me for a little bit, Nat?” he asked while trying to locate the path of least resistance to you.

“I mean…I guess. It wouldn’t be the first time, Clint.”

“Ha, ha, ha. You’re never going to let Budapest go, are you?” he whispered as he started to inch closer to your shivering form.

“Nope!” she snorted.

“Can you just…,” he grunted while trying to avoid stepping on anyone, “give me a minute? I think I got something here.”

“Copy that, Widow out.”

You must have finally noticed movement around you because your head snapped up to locate the noise. Impossibly, once you saw an unknown figure approaching, you curled even further into yourself, whispering frantically. As Clint inched his way closer, he could just barely make out what you were saying.

“Please don’t hurt me. Please don’t hurt me. Please don’t hurt me,” you whimpered to both yourself and him. His chest tightened in response. Here you were, hiding under a pile of bodies, trying your best to keep yourself safe. He was both proud of and terrified for you.

“Hey…” he called out softly. Your petrified gaze med his; Clint could feel your fear as if it were his own. He so wanted to scoop you up and carry you off far away from here. Instead, he froze in place. If it meant keeping you from scurrying off into the night, he’d do just about anything.

“Please don’t hurt me,” you whispered, “You can go, I won’t tell anyone I saw you. I promise.”

“I’m not going to hurt you, sweetheart,” he said soothingly. Disbelief flashed in your eyes. If he hadn’t been watching closely, he would have missed the smile of contempt that crossed your face briefly as if to say ‘yeah right buddy, I’ve see what’s going on out there.’

“I’m an Avenger. We’re here to help.”

“You’re an Avenger?” you whispered in awe. Awe. He could work with this.

“Yep.”

“Do you know the Black Widow?” you asked excitedly.

Clint chuckled sardonically. Here you were surrounded by bodies half scared out of your mind but apparently that wouldn’t stop your inner fan geek. He knew Natasha had been listening to your entire exchange while she was out fending off Ultron’s army of evil robots. Evil robots…in all his years doing the crime fighting thing, he had finally and truly seen it all.

“I do,” he grinned. You’d relaxed enough that you didn’t even notice him slowly stepping closer.

“Prove it.”

“Tell you what, kid. How about I do you one better? How about you talk to her for yourself?” He pulled a spare comm from his pocket and held it out in an outstretched hand. Nodding reassuringly at you, he watched as you carefully took it and placed it in your own ear.

“Hello?” you asked hesitantly.

“So, I hear you’re a Black Widow fan,” Natasha’s voice crackled over the coms. Your face lit up like a Christmas tree; Clint couldn’t help but smile in response as he watched your eyes grow huge in excitement.

“Yeah!”

“Why don’t you let my friend, Hawkeye help you out and you can come meet me in person?” she suggested. Much to his surprise, your eyes grew even bigger when you finally realized the identity of the man trying to help you.

“You’re Hawkeye?”

“Yeah, kid. I’m Hawkeye. She’s Black Widow. If you come with me, you’ll even get to meet Iron man and Captain America.” You grabbed his hand half in excitement and relief. You were finally getting the hell out of there.

After meeting the Avengers at the quinjet, you decided you liked Clint the best and quite literally latched onto him the entire ride back to the Tower. You’d curled yourself into his lap and promptly fell asleep. Everyone found it obnoxiously adorable.

“So Barton,” Tony started, “what are you going to do about that stray of yours? Do you know if she’s house trained? I can get you some books on it. It’s really not that hard to do.”

“Can it, Stark. We literally just rescued her from what has to be the worst day of her what young life and you’re making jokes about her being a stray? Come on, man. Be better than that,” Sam snapped. The stress and the tragedy they’d all faced weighed heavily on everyone’s shoulders. Unfortunately, Tony’s ill timed humor was just an ounce too much. Sam regretted snapping at Tony the instant it happened, but it was too late to take the words back. Tony understood though; he didn’t like it but he understood.

“To answer your question, Mr. Stark, I’m 19. I’ve already been house trained. Not sure we can say the same about you,” you mumbled voice thick with sleep. Soft laughter broke the tension in the quinjet. Oh yeah, you’d fit in nicely.

Despite the many objections of Tony Stark and the rest of the team, you opted to stay with Clint at the apartment he sometimes shared with Natasha. It seemed that you’d imprinted onto him.

“Are you sure about this, kid? I’m not really the best at taking care of people. Sure you don’t want to stay with Nat instead?” he asked nervously.

“Why? Because she’s a woman? Well that’s sexist, I’ll be sure to tell her you said that,” you retorted.

“No! Th-That’s not what I meant! I just thought you’d be more comfortable with her, that’s all.”

“I’m 19, Mr. Barton. I’m not a toddler. I just need a place to crash until I get back on my feet. I’ll even get a job and pay rent if that helps.”

“Jeez, kid. You don’t need to pay rent. Of course you can stay with me. I just wanted to make sure you knew that you had options. And please, call me Clint. ‘Mr. Barton’ just makes me feel old.”

“I feel safe with you, Clint,” you whispered. Clint’s heart broke a little at that. He felt like a fool for not even considering why you’d want to stay with him. Of course you felt safe with him; he’d rescued you from hell. Pulling you into a tight hug, he pressed a gentle kiss on top of your dirty forehead.

“Come on kid, let’s go home.”

It took almost two months for the nightmares to start.

When you first moved in with him, he gave you the unused third bedroom he always claimed he was going to turn into a gym. Everyone knew that would never happen. It didn’t have much but you were grateful. Tony had an entire wardrobe shipped to you as well as things his clever assistant, Jenna, told him you’d need. He’d honestly stopped listening after she said ‘tampons’ and told her to order whatever she thought was appropriate for a 19 year old girl.

After a couple of weeks, you’d established a pretty easy routine. It turned out you and Clint were remarkably similar. Even Lucky took to you as if he’d known you his entire life. You were something more than roommates; there was an oddly familial bond that neither of you were entirely ready to acknowledge. Natasha noticed how quickly you stuck to Clint. You were like a shadow. He’d even started training you to shoot with a bow, surprised to find you were a natural. It was almost as if fate decreed the two of you should find each other; the orphan and the lonely archer.

If Clint were completely honest with himself, he’d admit he was glad they didn’t start sooner. He needed to some time to heal just as much as you did. When he woke up to you shrieking in terror he actually felt his heart stop. Had someone gotten into his apartment? He bolted out of bed, threw on a shirt and grabbed his bow. Dashing to your room, he’d already nocked three arrows. When he finally burst through the door he was greeted with the sight of you thrashing wildly in your sleep. Setting aside his bow and arrows, he moved to wake you up.

“Kid! Hey, kid. Come on, wake up,” he pleaded, shaking you gently. Your nightmares had a firm grip on you; they refused to let you go.

“Dad! Clint!” you cried out in anguish. Just when Clint thought his heart couldn’t break anymore for you, you went and called him ‘Dad’.

“Hey…sweetheart. Wake up, please. I’m right here, kid. I’m right here,” he soothed. You awoke with a start, eyes searching blindly in the dark. Clint pulled your shivering body into tightly his arms.

“I thought I lost you,” you whimpered, “I thought you were gone!”

“I’m not going anywhere, kid.”

“You promise?”

“I promise.”

It took a little while but you eventually fell asleep again, your arms wrapped fiercely around Clint’s waist. He laid there with you, his mind running a thousand miles a minute. Given the way he grew up and the nature of his line of work, he never had time for kids. Until he met you, it seems. When you called him ‘Dad’ something clicked into place. He finally understood why he was so drawn to you. You were his kid, through and through, biology be damned. ‘Dad’. That’s a code name he could definitely get used to.

Clint didn’t even notice when he dozed off. Sunlight shining through the window and the smell of coffee woke him from a better night’s sleep than he’s had in a while. Opening his eyes, he was greeted with the sight of Natasha standing in the doorway holding his favorite mug.

“Rise and shine, sleeping beauty,” she signed after she handed him the steaming mug.

“Hey, what are you doing here so early?” he signed back in confusion. You were still sleeping soundly against his chest, arms firmly around his middle.

“Stark and Fury wanted a check up on your stray,” she grinned, “I’d say things are going pretty well.”

Clint sighed as the memory of your nightmares game back to him. You’d called him ‘Dad’. He wasn’t sure how you’d feel about with when you woke up, but for now he got to bask in the glory of being needed.

“She called me, ‘Dad’, Tash.”

“It was only a matter of time. She imprinted on you like a baby bird. You know Sam calls her ‘Baby Hawk’ right?” He grinned at this. Leave it to Sam to come up with a ridiculous nickname for you.

“I’m not even surprised.”

“Is that coffee?” you asked with your eyes still closed.

“Oh yeah, Clint,” Natasha spoke aloud, “she’s definitely your kid.” Clint snorted and set the coffee mug on your nightstand. Sensing that the two of you needed to talk, she made herself scarce. It was time to bring up the name slip.

“Hey there, sweetheart. How ya doin’?” he asked softly. You cracked open one eye and looked at him warily. His sheepish grin was endearing.

“My head feels like it’s been run over by several tanks. Why are you here?”

“You had a pretty nasty nightmare,” he reminded you. Oh. Oh no. The light of realization hit you as your memories came flooding back.

“Oh no,” you whispered.

“What’s wrong?” he asked with a worried look on his face.

“I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to call you that. I mean, I know you’re not my dad. It was an accident.”

Clint felt his heart sink when he heard your apology. It was his own fault. He shouldn’t have gotten his hopes up too high. When you watched Clint’s face fall after your apology, you couldn’t help but feel a little heartbroken too. An awkward silence filled the air and you closed your eyes in embarrassment. You could hear Natasha playing with Lucky in the kitchen. Clint’s phone buzzed in his back pocket. He pulled it into view to discover a text from the meddlesome red head.

“Just tell her, you idiot!” she sent. How did she—? Never mind. Clearing his throat, Clint braced himself.

“What if I want to be…?” he asked.

“What if you want to be, what? I haven’t had coffee yet, old man. Now’s not the time to be cryptic,” you grouched. He snorted.

“What if I want to be your dad?” he clarified. That got your attention. Meeting his hopeful gaze, you could feel your heart soar. You’d never had a dad before.

“Seriously? I’m almost 20. You missed out on a lot here, old man.”

“Doesn’t mean I can’t still teach you things. I could be your dad. The Avengers could be your family. You could stay if you wanted,” he offered. You’d already made your decision before he’d even finished his offer. Something deep in your soul told you this was where you belonged.

“Yeah, okay.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. I’d like you to be my dad.”

“Finally!” Natasha shouted from the kitchen. Lucky bounded into your bedroom and leaped onto your bed, barking happily. You finally had a family. It was a little damaged, but it was still good. You finally had a place where you belonged.

End.

Forever Tags

@emilyevanston @bellamyblakesgun @morgandakotaq @avengersandlovers @happiness-is-sebstan @fangirlingisloud @melonberri @myluvislikewow @lexiboo29

Story tags

@arrow-guy

[whispcr]

💝- A memory that made them feel loved [ brent ]

💝- A memory that made them feel loved 

“Dad, can you help me with something?” 

Brent set down the Gagne book that he was reading, slipping the handmade bookmark where he had stopped, glancing to his side where his ten-year-old son was sitting, both of them perched at the dining room table as Beau worked on his homework. He had been about to flat out ask what it was that left Beau fidgeting and pacing as he had been for the past half hour. He was always full of energy, often hyped up on sugar, as was to be expected since he inherited Barbara’s sweet tooth, but he was disciplined enough to be able to concentrate on his studies when necessary. Yet he’d been squirming in his seat and had already gone to the kitchen to make toast twice. 

Beau was stalling. 

He didn’t devote himself to books like Brent had at his age, but Brent was, quite frankly, glad for it. When he was Beau’s age, books were all he had. He wanted more for his son, fresh air and sunshine and trips to the park, all the room to grow. There was no need for Beau’s nose to always be buried in a book when there was so much more to the world that he was able to explore.

“Of course,” was the simple response, eyeing the blank piece of paper curiously. His son had never hesitated to ask for help before. Brent had thought he made it pretty clear, especially when he became department head, that he would always make time for his family. It was a weekend and Barbara was on a trip with friends, leaving the two boys to fend for themselves. 

“Um,” Beau flicked his gaze to his paper, playing with the end of his pen. “We’re supposed to make a family tree to show where we come from and stuff.” 

Ah. Sliding his reading glasses off his face, he folded them and set them to the side. Brent could see where this was going. 

Beau was aware enough to realize there was an obvious missing branch to his family tree. 

“Why don’t you start by writing your name at the bottom there?” He indicated to the piece of paper. “And you know who you come from, right? You were born right here in England, as was your mother and I. Get started on that while I go start brewing us tea, okay?” He waited for an affirmative nod, Beau turning quietly to his work before he stood to walk to the kitchen. 

The tea was more a quick diversion than anything, providing him enough time to collect what he was going to say while he put a pot of water on the stove to begin boiling. Taking out barley and a strainer for rinsing, Brent mulled on the fact that he hadn’t thought about his parents in years. There was no reason for him to dwell on the past. Richard must have taken Brent’s threat seriously enough to know when a cause was lost. He hadn’t heard from either of his parents in a decade now. Not since he’d walked away. 

He had stopped holding his breath years ago, as if for awhile he still had been anticipating that the other shoe would drop and that Richard would attempt to bulldoze his way back into his life. Yet even as Brent climbed the ladder, Richard hadn’t reached out to him in an attempt to feed off his success. 

Brent was truly free. 

But when Beau was born, his parents had come into the equation. Not so much them as individuals, but the culture they instilled in him. Brent wasn’t as in-tuned with his Korean culture as he could be, arguably, but it was something he’d has to ask himself when his son was born. What he would want to teach him, what he would want him to know, and he and Barbara hadn’t shied away from the fact that they were raising a biracial child. They brought up the topic of race to Beau before someone else could question their child about it first. 

The most important thing to them was that Beau be healthy and that he thrive. Part of that was Beau having a healthy self-concept, allowing him explore his own identity. It had meant that Brent had to come to face with the reality that he was largely alienated from his own heritage, but when Beau asked, he could provide him with what he knew, could share his experiences. Brent was raised bilingual, learning both English and Korean at the same time, even as his fluency with the latter admittedly dulled slightly with age and less usage. He’d primarily been in Adolina’s care during his language developing ages, until he was deemed old enough to be independent enough on his own when Richard took over rearing him. Adolina’s English then hadn’t been fluent, so it only made sense for her to speak to Brent in Korean. For Richard, however, being English bred and born, Korean was a language he only picked up later in life. 

These were easy facts to share. It was the rest that was more labyrinthine, complex in nature and a maze where one could easily become lost in the entanglement. Settling the water with the barley, Brent left the mixture to simmer. 

He stood next to Beau’s chair, hovering over the paper where Beau had his name along with Brent and Barbara’s. “You know your grandparents. You should place them above your mother. I believe they were born in Bulgaria, but you can run that by her when she gets back on Sunday, yeah?”

Brent reached across the table for his own pen, drawing a bracket above his own name, connecting a second line underneath. “Your Aunt Valentina is my sister, as you know.” 

“Right.” Beau bobbed his head. “She was adopted.” 

“That’s right. By our parents.” There was only a slight pause. “Their names are Richard and Ae-Sook Nott. But she goes by Adolina. She was born in South Korea. He was born in Wales.” 

Beau diligently wrote down what he was being told before he cocked his head upward. “You never talk about them.”

Brent wondered how long the topic had been plaguing his son. He was a kind boy, didn’t like to see others upset, so maybe he had assumed it was something that his father didn’t want to talk about. 

It wasn’t particularly one that he did want to talk about, truth be told. It was better, however, that he let Beau know bits and pieces now rather than later. Beau would be going to Hogwarts the following year and that would open up a whole other discussion, Brent was sure, about the Sacred Twenty-Eight, about the Nott family role within it. They had already discussed the issue – and that it ought to be a non-issue at all – of blood status with him. 

“They haven’t been a part of my life for a long time,” Brent spoke candidly. Even when he knew it was necessary to filter what he told Beau based on what was appropriate for him to divulge, he was still honest when he could manage to be. “Since shortly before you were born.”

“Were they mad?” Round eyes bulged in concern. “About me?” 

Brent could see Richard’s face in the back of his head, blotchy rage, the vein on his forehead threatening to burst. “No.” It wasn’t a lie. Beau wasn’t the cause. He was merely the catalyst for what was bound to happen anyway. “My parents and I…well, it was time for us to separate, go our own ways. That happens, sometimes.” 

He thought it was a safe answer, yet Beau’s face continued to fall in surmounting distress. 

The true reason of why would have to wait for another day. He wanted to consult Barbara on the matter first so they could both come to a decision on how to handle the conversation. Beau was filled with the same positivism as Barbara. While he was old enough to understand that not everyone was nice, that people were capable of as much bad as they were good based on their choices, Brent was not sure how to approach the delicate reality that parents could be among those who made all the wrong choices. That they could cause more harm to their children than good. 

Brent did not think that he would ever disclose the full details, but Beau could know enough, one day. He just knew that today was not that day. 

Beau’s brow furrowed. “But they’re your family? They love you, no matter what.” 

Richard and Adolina did not know love. Not properly. Not like this. 

Brent clamped his mouth shut, chewing on the slew of words that he could select from, attempting to dissect what was the proper response. “You are my family. You, your mother, your Aunt Valentina. Adara and Persephone, too. That is more than enough for me.”

Beau appeared to soak in the information, his cheeks softening from their previously creased state as he settled. “You won’t leave us one day too, right?” 

“I am not going anywhere, no,” Brent assured, attempting to assuage any fears his son may have springing to his head with a clasp to his shoulder. 

Young but insightful in his most shining moments, Beau smiled brightly, knowingly. “Because you love us, right?”

Brent huffed in amusement, chest swelling with a blossom of unadulterated fondness. “I do. Very much,” he confessed with an ease. “Do not let your aunt know that, however. I will never be able to live it down. She has quite the ego and we do not want to inflate it lest it pop like a balloon.” 

Beau laughed at the mental image, the melody carrying through Brent’s ears, echoing all the way through the corridors that Brent no longer frequented in his mind. The ones with locked doors, dust collecting. He hadn’t felt the need to visit that head space in some time. 

“I love you, Dad.” It was such a simple declaration for the young boy, slipping from his lips with a practiced ease. A common expression for him to give considering all the love that he had received from his birth. For Brent, there were still days where it was difficult, the contrast in their upbringings stark. 

He may not have been dealt love in spades from his parents. That space inside of him had been a void for years before it began to be occupied. At this point in his life, it was near overflowing, filled to the brim. What he received now more than made up for what he had once lacked. 

Returning his son’s proclamation with a gentle, proud smile, Brent lifted a hand to ruffle through Beau’s hair, stretching his fingers over his head, affection leaking from his fingertips. 

“What else is it that you want to know, hm?”