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Honey you just wrote some money

the babysitter

pairing: clint flood x f! reader

summary: You’ve been babysitting Clint's daughter for months. You didn’t expect Clint to want you. But when your boyfriend doesn’t show, Clint makes his move and makes sure you’ll never waste your time on little boys again.

word count - ~3.2k

rating - E

content - age gap (mid twenties to early thirties reader, clint is in his 50s), story is set in the 80s like the movie, possessive clint, mild violence, explicit smut, p in v sex, fingering, creampie

author's note - I watched Freaky Tales and got horny. Shocking I know. I wrote this super quick and wasn't beta'd, I just needed to get it out lolllllll

The Goonies plays low on the TV, the hum of the VCR mixing with the chirp of cicadas through the cracked windows of an East Oakland summer. The heat is thick, clinging to your skin like honey, curling around your bare legs where your sundress rides up as you sit cross-legged on the carpet. You shift a little, tugging the fabric down instinctively, but it doesn’t help much. The dress is thin, soft, pale. No bra — it’s too damn hot for that — and you can feel every movement, every sway, every time the fan shifts direction.

Mae hums beside you, tongue poked out as she concentrates on the last few pieces of the puzzle. She’s sweet, bright, easy company and you adore her. Babysitting started as a way to fill your nights, but somewhere along the way, it became something else. Familiar. Steady. Important.

Your fingers move absentmindedly across the puzzle pieces, but your mind isn’t fully there.

You keep glancing at the phone.

Jason said he’d pick you up after Clint got back. Some burger place he liked across town, nothing fancy. You’d worn the dress because he said you looked good in it once. He’s not a bad guy, not really. Just… scattered. Fast car, fast words, slow follow-through.

You never asked for much. You figured that made it easier.

But you’ve been sitting here a while now, and the phone’s still quiet. Your chest tugs. You hate that you feel like this, embarrassed and exposed before the night’s even started.

And then you feel it.

That presence. That warmth behind you.

You turn slightly and see Clint in the doorway.

You didn’t hear him come in.

He’s standing there with a beer in one hand, the other crossed over his chest, watching you in that quiet way he does, eyes dark, unreadable. You offer him a small smile, one that’s more breath than joy, but it’s something.

“Hey,” you say softly.

Clint nods once. “You headin’ out after?”

“Yeah. Kind of a date.”

You brush your palms along your thighs, smoothing down fabric that won’t stay where it’s supposed to. Glance at the phone again like that might make it ring.

“Jason’s picking me up after you get back. Supposed to go get something to eat.”

You try to keep it casual, but it lands like an apology. Even you hear it.

Clint doesn’t respond right away. Just keeps watching you with that same quiet intensity. You always thought he was handsome, in a gruff, unapproachable way. Broad shoulders, strong jaw, hands that always look like they’ve been busy doing something that matters. There’s something about the way he moves, economical, restrained, that makes you feel small and seen all at once.

He intimidates you. And maybe that’s part of why you keep coming back.

Clint leans in the doorway, beer in hand, trying not to let his face show what his chest is doing.

Jason Delaney.

Of all the cocky little pricks to get her attention.

Clint’s jaw ticks as he watches her, all bare legs and glossed lips, in that soft dress that clings every time she shifts. No bra. He knows. He noticed the moment she sat down. And now she’s waiting around for a kid who sells dime bags out of his Camaro and forgets birthdays unless they come with head.

And she’s dressed up for him.

If that dumbass leaves her waitin’...

Clint’s eyes flick to Mae, still humming softly, placing the last piece of the puzzle. She’s happy. Relaxed. Unbothered by the tension quietly humming through the room.

But he sees the way you rub her back, gentle, instinctive, maternal. Like she’s yours. Like this house is yours.

She doesn’t just watch my kid. She cares for her. Like I would. Better than I ever could.

His chest tightens with it, not jealousy, not exactly. Just something close. Something primal.

He sets the beer in the sink. Grabs his keys. Shrugs into his leather jacket, fingers catching briefly on the cuff before he turns back.

“You good with her till 9?”

“Always,” you say with a smile. “We’re gonna finish the puzzle and maybe throw The Little Mermaid back on.”

Your laugh is soft. Clint feels it somewhere low in his stomach.

“She likes what she likes,” he says.

You tilt your head, that glint in your eye returning. “So do I.”

He freezes for a beat too long.

She’s flirting and don’t even realize it. Or maybe she does.

His eyes drag from your mouth down to the hem of your dress, where it’s bunched up around the top of your thigh. And then back to the kitchen phone. Still quiet. Still nothing.

She’s not just sweet. She knows what she’s doin’. Maybe not all the way. But enough. Enough to make me wanna keep her from every punk who thinks she’s just something to waste time on.

She’s not.

She’s made for slow mornings. For a hand resting on her leg while the coffee brews. For nights that end with someone staying.

And he wants that. Wants her.

But tonight, tonight he’s got one job.

His voice is low when it comes. Measured. Rough.

“Don’t wait outside alone. And don’t wait too long if he don’t show.”

He leaves without waiting for a reply.

And when the door shuts, she’s still sitting there, same soft dress, same sweet smile dimmed a little at the edges.

Mae hums. The puzzle’s finished. The movie rolls on.

And Clint drives into the night, already thinking about whether he’ll see that rusted-out Camaro in the driveway when he gets back, and what he’s going to do if he doesn’t.

The truck rumbles to life, but Clint doesn’t turn the radio on.

Doesn’t need the noise.

He drives in silence, the kind that settles low in his chest like smoke, thick and waiting. He turns down 35th to meet a client, tires crunching over loose gravel as the street narrows. The sun’s dipping low now, making the liquor store glow burnt orange at the edges. He pulls into the side lot slow, deliberate, parking just far enough to watch.

But instead of his client, he sees someone else. 

Jason Delaney, leaning on the hood of that rust-red Camaro like he’s posing for a fuckin’ magazine. Cigarette in hand, one boot kicked up behind him, laughing like the world owes him something. He’s not alone. That girl from the gas station, tight jeans, big earrings, is all over him. Twirling her hair, giggling, running a hand over his chest.

Clint watches, unmoving. Blank.

His jaw tightens when Jason leans in and says something low in her ear, probably some bullshit pickup line that he thinks sounds cool. Clint’s heard his type too many times. Bragging when he should be grateful.  

By the time Jason slips behind the store to light another smoke, Clint’s already out of the truck.

He moves fast. Controlled. Steps crunch over broken glass and cigarette butts as he rounds the corner.

Jason doesn’t hear him coming,  not until Clint grabs him by the collar and slams him hard against the wall. Brick to shoulder. His head snaps back, eyes wide, breath caught.

Clint leans in, voice low. Cold.

“That girl you left sittin’ on my couch tonight?” he says, calm as a gun cocking. “She ain’t yours to fuck with.”

Jason chokes on the air. “What the—who the fuck—”

Clint doesn’t give him the chance.

SNAP.

Two fingers. Fast. Clean. The sound echoes like a firecracker in the alley.

Jason howls, folding forward instinctively, clutching his hand like it might fall off.

Clint doesn’t blink.

“Next time,” he murmurs, leaning in just close enough that the kid can smell the Marlboro on his breath, “I won’t leave your hands intact.”

He lets him drop, a crumpled heap against the bricks, bleeding, whimpering, gasping between curses. Clint turns without another word. Doesn’t look back.

Some men think sweetness makes a girl small. Disposable.

Clint knows better.

You don’t leave a girl like her waiting. You don’t make her doubt herself. 

Not while he’s breathing.

The side door creaks open at exactly 8:56 PM.

You barely register it at first. Just the sound of boots on cracked tile, steady and familiar. The smell of wood polish, faint cigarette smoke, and something else, maybe shampoo from Mae’s bubble bath or the air freshener Clint keeps meaning to replace. It all blends into the background, the way it always does here. Safe. Familiar.

You keep your eyes on the TV, even though you’re not really watching it anymore.

The Little Mermaid is replaying again. Ariel’s silhouette washes over your bare shoulder in flickers of blue and purple light. Your sundress sticks slightly to your thighs where the heat and the waiting have soaked in. You hadn’t planned on staying this long. You hadn’t planned on crying either.

But here you are.

Mascara smudged. Lipstick faded. Shoes kicked off and tucked under the couch hours ago.

You feel stupid.

Stupid for the dress. For the soft perfume you picked out. For brushing your hair and glossing your lips like any of it mattered. No bra. A little hope. And a lot of waiting. Stupid for believing Jason when he said he’d come. For thinking this time he’d show up when he said he would. That he’d see you sitting here and actually feel something.

Your chest tightens again. Not a fresh wave of sadness, just the quiet ache of realizing you let yourself hope and hope betrayed you.

Again.

You almost don’t notice Clint until you hear the sharp clink of keys on the counter.

He moves through the house like gravity. Controlled. Certain. Heavy in a way that makes your heart stutter.

You look up, startled, like you’d forgotten anyone else existed in the world.

He’s standing by the doorway now, pulling off that worn black leather jacket he always throws on like armor. His jaw is tight, the muscles in his arms flexing subtly beneath the sleeves of his gray tee. His knuckles are scraped. His shoulders look even broader than usual, like something’s still sitting on them.

Clint Flood is not a soft man. He’s not delicate or particularly gentle, but there’s something about the way he moves, the way he sees you, that makes you feel like maybe you’re not completely invisible.

Your voice cracks before it even forms fully.

“Guess I overdressed for disappointment.”

You try to laugh. It comes out thin and watery. You wipe under one eye with your knuckle before he can look too long.

“He didn’t show,” you say, barely above a whisper. “Probably forgot.”

You say it like it doesn’t matter. Like it doesn’t sting. But it does.

Clint walks toward you, slow and deliberate. Each step like a question he’s already answered for himself. He lowers himself onto the couch beside you, not too close, just enough to make the cushion dip beneath his weight.

You glance sideways at him.

He’s too composed. Quiet in a way that makes your pulse pick up. His thighs are wide apart, forearms resting heavy on his knees. His hand is loose, relaxed, but you notice the tension in it anyway.

There’s blood on the edge of one knuckle.

And then he says it, voice low, calm, but firm enough that it still makes your spine straighten.

“He’s not gonna bother you again.”

Your head snaps toward him.

You study his face, that hardened brow, the set of his mouth, the storm in his eyes. Your heart stutters.

“What do you mean?”

He doesn’t look at you right away. Just shrugs, like it’s nothing. Like he didn’t just shake your entire world loose with six words.

“Saw him,” he says. “He was busy.”

A pause. Barely a breath.

“I made sure he got the message.”

You go completely still.

Not because you don’t know what that means, you do, but because of how easy he says it.

“Clint…” Your voice barely makes it past your lips. “What did you do?”

He turns his head now. Meets your eyes without flinching.

“What needed doing.”

You stare at him. There’s heat rising in your chest now, not panic, not fear, but something else entirely.

“Why?” you ask, and your voice shakes. “Why would you… why would you even care?”

He exhales through his nose. His fingers rub slowly over his palm, like he’s grounding himself.

“Because I care.”

The words land heavy between you, heavier than anything Jason ever said. He doesn’t say it like he’s trying to earn anything from you. Doesn’t say it to be sweet.

He says it because it’s true.

Clint leans forward, elbows on his knees, eyes straight ahead.

“Because I see the way you get treated, and it makes me fucking sick.”

You don’t speak. Can’t.

“You walk in here week after week,” he continues, voice lower now but no less steady. “Taking care of my kid like she’s yours. Laughing like you don’t got pain in you. Being good. Good to people who don’t see what they’ve got.”

Your throat tightens. Your chest aches.

“And that bastard, that boy, gets your time like he earned it.”

You blink quickly. Your bottom lip trembles. You want to say something, but your breath is caught in your chest.

Because he’s right.

And somehow, he saw you when the person you were waiting on didn’t even bother to try.

You swallow hard.

Your voice is barely a whisper when you ask:

“You think you could give me more?”

The air in the room shifts. Grows thicker.

Clint turns to look at you, really look.

His gaze drops to your mouth. The curve of your cheek. Your bare shoulders. The soft cotton of your sundress where it’s still bunched high on your thighs. Your feet tucked up beneath you, vulnerable, curled in like you’re trying to disappear.

Something passes behind his eyes. Something quiet and unspoken.

And in that moment, you realize it.

You’ve been wanting him this whole time.

Not in some loud, dramatic way. But in the quiet way your eyes always flicked toward him when he walked through the door. The way you noticed the veins in his hands when he wiped down the counter. The way your heart picked up when he smiled at Mae like she was the only thing that mattered.

You’ve been wanting someone steady. Someone who shows up.

And Clint Flood, scraped knuckles, leather jacket, rough voice, and all, just did.

You don’t know who moves first.

But suddenly, everything’s changed.

The line between you and him, whatever it was, no longer exists.

It starts with the kiss.

Clint leans in slow, like he’s giving you every chance to stop him.

You don’t.

Your lips meet his, and it’s heat right away. His mouth is rough and warm, kissing you deep and steady. One of his hands cups the back of your neck, fingers threading into your hair, the other gripping your thigh tight enough that you feel it in your bones. You let him pull you closer, knees to either side of his leg, your sundress bunched high on your hips. The friction makes you gasp.

His tongue licks into your mouth with a low sound in his throat, and you moan, hips shifting, grinding just barely against his thigh.

You’ve never wanted anyone like this. Never felt wanted like this.

Your fingers curl around his wrist and guide his hand beneath your dress.

“Touch me.”

He groans like it physically hurts him not to have done it sooner.

His fingers slide up, finding the edge of your panties, dragging them to the side with practiced ease. His middle finger runs through your folds, slow and slick, and his jaw clenches when he feels how wet you already are.

“Jesus Christ,” he murmurs. “You were sittin’ on my couch like this?”

You gasp when he slides two fingers into you without warning, thick and steady, pushing deep. He curls them just right and your hips jerk forward. The wet sounds fill the room, obscene and desperate.

“Listen to that,” Clint whispers. “You’re soaked.”

He fingers you slowly, deliberately, drawing it out while his thumb circles your clit, coaxing soft gasps from your lips. The stretch of his fingers is intense, thick knuckles dragging in and out, his palm heavy against your cunt. You can feel yourself clench around him, the buildup already tight in your gut.

“You gonna come like this?” he asks, voice hot in your ear. “Just from my fingers?”

You nod, breath caught.

“That's right. Let me feel it.”

You break with a soft cry, thighs trembling around his hand. He doesn’t stop until you’re breathless and twitching, and even then he keeps them inside you for a moment, like he doesn’t want to leave just yet.

When he finally pulls his fingers free, he brings them to his mouth and sucks them clean, eyes locked on yours the whole time.

“Bedroom,” you breathe.

He lifts you up without hesitation, arms strong around your waist, and carries you down the hall. You cling to him, thighs still slick and trembling.

He lays you down gently on the bed. You reach for the hem of your dress, but he stops you with a shake of his head.

“I’m takin’ this off,” Clint says. “I want to see you.”

You sit up slowly as he kneels in front of you, hands dragging up your thighs. He pushes the fabric of your dress up and over your head, tossing it to the side. His eyes move over your body like he’s trying to memorize every inch.

He pulls your panties off slowly, watching the way the wet cotton clings before slipping free. His voice is quiet, but thick with something rougher.

“Been dreamin’ about this.”

He moves closer, mouth brushing your knee, your thigh, your hip. When you reach for him, pulling him in by the collar of his shirt, he finally strips it off. His chest is solid, thick with muscle, hair dusting down to his waistband.

You palm over the bulge in his jeans and he groans into your skin.

You look up at him, flushed and needy.

“Clint. Please.”

He unbuckles his belt with slow, deliberate movements, and when his cock springs free, your breath catches.

He’s big. Thick. Long. Heavy against his hand as he strokes himself once, then twice, just to see the way you look at it.

“Yeah,” he murmurs. “You like that?”

You nod, biting your lip.

“Gonna stretch you real good, sweetheart.”

He kisses you again as he settles between your thighs, not hurried, not fumbling. He lines himself up, dragging the tip through your slick before pressing in slow. Inch by inch. You gasp at the stretch, your walls tightening around him.

“Fuck,” he grits out, eyes fluttering shut. “So tight.”

You wrap your arms around his shoulders as he bottoms out, buried to the hilt.

Clint doesn’t move at first. He holds himself there, letting you feel all of him, letting you catch your breath.

When he does start to thrust, it’s slow at first, deep and measured, each one pressing right against that spot inside that makes you moan into his mouth. He cups your thigh and pushes it higher, opening you wider.

“This is mine now,” he whispers. “You understand me?”

You nod, nails dragging lightly down his back.

“Say it.”

“I’m yours,” you breathe. “All yours.”

That flips something in him.

He groans low, thrusts harder, his hand sliding down to rub your clit as he fucks into you.

You come again with a cry, clenching hard around him, and he doesn’t stop. His hips keep driving into you, deeper, rougher, chasing his own edge now.

“Gonna fill you up,” he pants. “Wanna come so deep you feel it all night.”

You pull him in tighter, wrapping your legs around him.

“Do it,” you whisper. “Please.”

Clint grunts, low and guttural, and pushes deep one last time as he spills into you, thick and hot, hips jerking with each pulse. You feel it flood you, the warmth between your thighs unmistakable.

He collapses against you, chest heaving, one hand cradling your jaw as he presses a soft kiss to your cheek.

Neither of you speak for a moment. Just the sound of your breathing, the creak of the mattress, the fan in the hallway spinning slow.

Eventually, Clint pulls out gently and reaches for the towel on the dresser, wiping between your legs with soft care. He doesn't rush. Doesn’t say a word about it. Just takes care of you like it’s something he’s always meant to do.

He tosses the towel aside, then pulls the blanket up and lifts you against his chest.

You settle there, warm and exhausted, your head on his shoulder, one arm draped across his chest.

His fingers trace slow circles into your hip.

“You stayin’ tonight?” he murmurs.

You nod without opening your eyes.

“Good,” he says. “That’s real good.”

He doesn’t move away.

Doesn’t leave space between you.

And as sleep starts to settle in, you realize it’s the first time in a long time someone followed through.

You feel safe. Seen. Wanted.

And Clint Flood holds you like he’s not letting go.

Not now. Not ever.

I'm divided... either Peña or Max...

YES....

Yes, I do. I call it "Mystic's Hoard"

Literally

does anybody else have a discord server thats only yourself and nobody else exclusively used to send images from your mobile phone to your tablet or computer

I thought the "graying tendrils/dreads with age" was cannon.... every fiction I have ever read that features an elder Predator has that.... is it not cannon? I'm so confused now

White haired Predator?????????

I don't typically comment. Mainly because I don't know what to say... I'm terrible with words. So when I like your post, I'm telling you I loved it.

"I didn't comment on a fic I liked because I don't think the author would care or remember my comment anyway". fanfic writer here, I still remember comments I got on my fics from seven years ago. I still think about them and they still make me smile. your kind comments are what motivates us and what helps us keep writing.

I personally know writers who take screenshot and print out comments they got from their readers.

TL;DR comments matter to us writers more than you think. if you like a fanfic, never be shy to let the author know ♡

This is the second one...

He has no name because he doesn't have a personality yet... he does have a mate... well, he is the mate... I need help with him... here is one idea...

#100041493

If you feel like helping me... please 😅

My first G1 that I've completed...

I have a second one to work on as well... but the second one is tricky...

I read that last one in that meme's audio

That one ⬆️

THE LAST OF US + the collective emotional trauma it causes <3