Work Text:
Clint liked you on top of him.
Not just during sex, though he was a fan of that too.
He liked you on top of him when you cuddled, when you watched TV, sometimes he would even pull you into his lap while you ate dinner together. He liked the weight of your body on his, the press of you on his bones, the constant reminder that you were there.
He had always enjoyed reminders of you. The first time you left your scarf at his shop, he hung it on the wall until the next time you would inevitably come through his door. He told you at the time that it was so he wouldn't forget to give it to you, but later on he admitted he had mostly liked the reminder that you had been there, rosy cheeks and excited words and that wink you had tossed in his direction that made him feel things he didn't know he could.
Like hope.
Like being seen.
Like a bubble in his chest, filling him until a smile stuck on his cheeks for the longest it had in years.
Before you even started spending the night, he cleared a drawer for you, just in case. He kept things in his bathroom that you might need, stocked the cramped shelves of his small kitchen with snacks you had mentioned off-handedly that you liked.
He'd told you back then that he had a hard time being normal about things, about people, that he liked. He had apologized for that, the anxiety sitting heavy in his lined face until you took that face in your hands and kissed it all over.
The tingle of your lips on his cheeks lasted for days, another reminder of you.
You left a sock on his living room floor once. You noticed over a couple of weeks that it didn't move, though the fastidious smith swept and tidied around it. You thought maybe it was a passive-aggressive statement to clean up your own mess. When you asked, he blushed the color of the wine at your lips, telling you he smiled every time he saw it. He told you that when he woke up, alone, thinking that maybe every glance, every soft kiss was a dream, that sock told him that it was real.
He didn't wake up alone very often after that.
That first time you made love, you had expected him to be rough, anxious, unwieldy. All strength and no finesse. You couldn't have been more wrong.
The gentleness and precision of his hands shocked your mind as much as it sent shocks through every inch of your body. Sure, he could lift you and hold you and place you exactly where he wanted despite you not being a particularly small person, but he also handled you with an achingly tender touch. He was unpracticed back then, but not hesitant, with a raw enthusiasm that saw you both through. He took every suggestion, every redirection, every request with gusto. He would do anything, anything, for your pleasure, and, at first, had to be coaxed into taking his own.
You always made sure to leave him with at least one mark on his skin. You knew what those reminders were for him, the significance of your claim on his body. You saw the way his eyes turned dark and hazy when you asked him to return the favor. The idea that you wanted proof of him on your own skin meant more to him than he could ever tell you.
When you had put the mermaid pendant around his neck, he looked at you like you were the only thing anchoring him to this planet. You were fairly certain that he had never taken it off.
Years later, his anxious enthusiasm had mellowed into a stable confidence. He was your rock, and he loved to be your foundation in more ways than one. Laying in bed reading, he would pull you closer until you were on top of him, your book propped on his shoulder as you lay on his chest. He stroked your hair, your back, and you knew what was coming.
Soon the kisses would start: gentle, probing, usually just on your cheeks, testing the waters to see if you were receptive. You tipped your head to meet his lips with your own, and it was game on.
No point in hanging onto your book now, so you tossed it off to the side. You'd find your place again later.
Clint’s hands deftly pulled your pajama shirt off, pulling you up further on his body and sucking a peaked nipple into his mouth, kneading the other one with a rough, calloused hand.
You let your elbows rest next to his ears, hands woven into his hair as you kissed the greying hair at the crown of his head and began to swivel your hips around on his torso, his soft belly rising and falling more quickly now that he laved your breast with his tongue. This doesn't last long before his hands are on your waist, pushing you back as he drags at the waistband of your pajama pants. You stand to toss them off, watching him undress himself as rapidly as you do before he grabs you by the thighs and yanks you right back to where you were, except now he's got his hand between your legs instead of on your breast, slowly circling you with a rough thumb in time with his tongue around your nipple.
Clint tended toward being quiet during sex, silent even. He preferred to hear you instead, breathing in every moan, every hiss, every whisper —or slap— of skin on skin. This works out, because when he grabs your ass and hauls you forward so that your thighs touch his ears and his tongue meets your wet folds, you can't help but make the most delicious noises he's ever heard.
The bed creaks as his hips cant up into the air over and over again, meeting nothing because your pussy is on his face, your hands on the wall with your fingernails uselessly scrabbling for something to hold onto.
You ask if you can turn around, if you can work his cock with your mouth as the softness of his lips and the scratch of his beard bring you ever closer to your peak. The vibration of his low growl rumbles through your body, telling you exactly what he thinks of that idea. As if that was his cue, licking turns to sucking, and within seconds you've teetered over the edge, thighs clamping hard around Clint's head in a way he's assured you he loves, even though you're always a little scared you're going to hurt him.
He doesn't let you recover. As soon as your muscles relax, he's pushed you back down his body, huge hands positioning you right onto his cock without any teasing or pretense.
This is one of the only times he’ll make noise.
He groans as he enters you, a soft, deep purr of pleasure and contentment that sets your heart on fire. Your breath catches at the smooth stretch of him, the familiar comfort of a dick that has always been yours alone. That night with the sock, when you'd claimed each other for the first time, for his first time, you had whispered to him: This is mine. Always only ever mine. You're all mine. He’d cum in about twenty seconds, but you'd expected that.
His stamina had improved since then.
His knees stayed bent, feet pressed to the bed as he slammed up into you, sometimes bouncing you up into the air with a force that made you see stars when you came back down on him. He would clasp his hands with yours, a way to keep you stabilized as well as make sure you stayed at exactly the right angle to best feel the heavy drag on your inner walls.
Sometimes he would put his hands on your stomach to still you. His explanation was always the same: he wouldn't last much longer with you like this and he wanted to enjoy the view for a minute. You tried to humor him, but your hips moved of their own accord, slow at first, a gentle grind, but the sweet perfection of his cock filling you up was too enticing for both of you, and the movement began again, more relentless than before.
Clint's hands dropped yours and flew to your waist as his thrusts became shorter and sharper. He squeezed your sides, manhandling you up and down on him as his eyes flickered shut, your name escaping his lips on a whispered breath. He pulled you all the way down onto him, as hard and tight and secure as he possibly could, until the pressure was a blossom of pain that made your head swim with lust as he spilled himself into you.
When he finally opened his eyes, he hit you with that dopey, adorable smile. The same one every time, as if he was apologizing for something. It never failed to make you giggle as you leaned over with him softening inside of you and settled your head on his shoulder, his arms reaching around you to hold you close.
Of all the reasons Clint liked you on top of him, this was his favorite. Holding his person, his wife, the one that chose him. The one who was always there. The one who would never let go.