Can I do Something?
The shift from sneaking around to something more open didn’t feel as dramatic as Clint thought it would. If anything, it felt natural. They ate breakfast together most mornings, trained side-by-side during the day, and by the time the sun set, Clint inevitably ended up in Tony’s bed. It wasn’t just about the comfort anymore—it was about him.
The others, of course, had opinions. Natasha teased them mercilessly, Steve seemed to vacillate between amused and vaguely disapproving, and Sam just said, “Took you long enough,” before walking away with a grin.
But none of that mattered when they were alone.
That night, Clint was sitting on the floor of Tony’s workshop, fiddling with one of the new arrow prototypes Tony had made for him. Tony was at his workbench, muttering to himself as he soldered something delicate and shiny.
“I don’t get how you do this all day,” Clint said, holding the arrow up to the light. “It’s like wizardry.”
Tony looked over his shoulder, smirking. “Says the guy who can hit a target the size of a dime from 200 yards away.”
“That’s skill,” Clint said. “This? This is… magic tech stuff.”
Tony chuckled, setting down his tools and turning his chair to face Clint. “You know, you’re lucky you’re cute when you’re confused. Otherwise, I might take offense.”
Clint snorted, tossing the arrow onto the table. “Cute, huh? That’s the best you’ve got?”
Tony raised an eyebrow, his smirk deepening. “What, you’d prefer ‘ruggedly handsome’? ‘Devastatingly charming’?”
Clint rolled his eyes but couldn’t stop the grin creeping onto his face. “You’re unbelievable.”
“And yet,” Tony said, standing and crossing the room toward Clint, “here you are.”
Tony’s voice was teasing, but there was something different in his eyes—something warmer, softer. He stopped in front of Clint, his gaze flickering down to Clint’s lips for just a second before meeting his eyes again.
Clint’s breath caught.
“Can I do something?” Tony asked, his voice quieter now.
Clint swallowed, his pulse pounding in his ears. “Depends on what it is.”
Tony grinned, but the humor didn’t quite reach his eyes. “This,” he said, leaning down slowly, giving Clint every chance to pull away.
Clint didn’t move.
The kiss was soft at first, tentative, as if Tony was afraid Clint might change his mind. But when Clint’s hand reached up to curl around the back of Tony’s neck, pulling him closer, the hesitation melted away.
Tony’s lips were warm and surprisingly gentle, a contrast to the sharp edges of his personality. Clint tilted his head, deepening the kiss, and felt Tony’s fingers brush against his jaw, anchoring him there.
When they finally broke apart, Clint was breathless. “That’s… one way to make a point.”
Tony smirked, his hand still lingering against Clint’s face. “Good point?”
Clint grinned, leaning up to kiss him again, this time with more certainty. “Yeah. Good point.”
The second kiss happened the next morning in the kitchen.
Tony had wandered in wearing sweatpants and one of his ridiculous band T-shirts, his hair sticking out in every direction. Clint was making coffee, still half-asleep himself, when Tony leaned over his shoulder and stole the mug he had just poured.
“Hey!” Clint protested, turning to glare at him.
Tony grinned, taking a sip. “You snooze, you lose, Barton.”
Clint narrowed his eyes, then grabbed the mug out of Tony’s hands and set it on the counter. “You’re insufferable.”
“Yeah, but you like it,” Tony said, leaning in with that cocky smirk that made Clint want to roll his eyes and kiss him all at once.
So Clint did.
It was quick and playful, just a press of lips that left Tony blinking in surprise.
“You were saying?” Clint said, grabbing the mug and taking a triumphant sip.
Tony stared at him for a moment, then burst out laughing. “Okay, that was hot. Annoying, but hot.”
The third kiss came later that day, during sparring practice.
Clint had been sparring with Natasha, but when she left to take a call, Tony wandered into the gym, clearly bored.
“Want a shot?” Clint asked, tossing a training staff at Tony.
Tony caught it, spinning it in his hands like he had something to prove. “I don’t know, Barton. You sure you can keep up with me?”
Clint snorted. “Let’s find out.”
The match was more entertaining than it was competitive—Tony wasn’t terrible, but he wasn’t exactly graceful either. Clint disarmed him easily and had him pinned to the mat within minutes.
“Say uncle,” Clint said, grinning down at him.
Tony squirmed beneath him, his expression defiant. “Never.”
Clint leaned closer, their faces inches apart. “Suit yourself.”
Tony’s hand lingered against Clint’s neck, his fingers pressing gently into the rough skin at the base of his hairline. Clint’s breathing was ragged, they just stared at each other—close, too close, the space between them charged with everything unsaid.
Tony’s gaze flickered to Clint’s lips, and before Clint could think twice, he kissed him.
He surged forward, catching Tony’s mouth in another kiss—this one slower, deeper, like he was trying to figure out what made Tony tick. His lips moved deliberately against Tony’s, testing, teasing, coaxing him to respond. Tony didn’t disappoint.
Tony’s fingers tightened against Clint’s neck as his other hand slid up Clint’s chest, fisting the fabric of his t-shirt. His lips parted, allowing Clint’s tongue to slip in, the kiss turning wetter, hotter, more insistent. It was a fight for dominance neither of them wanted to lose, their mouths clashing with a fervor that bordered on reckless.
Clint tilted his head, his teeth grazing Tony’s lower lip, tugging just enough to earn a sharp inhale from him. Tony retaliated, biting gently at Clint’s top lip before sucking on it, his movements precise, calculated, and devastatingly effective. Clint groaned into his mouth, his hands sliding down to grip Tony’s hips and pull him flush against him.
Their breaths came in short, uneven gasps as they broke apart for just a second before diving back in, mouths meeting again with renewed intensity. This time, Tony slowed the pace, his lips dragging against Clint’s in a way that sent shivers down his spine. He took his time, exploring every corner of Clint’s mouth, the taste of water and salt mingling with the faint trace of something sweeter—like popcorn and whatever beer Clint had been drinking earlier.
Clint’s hands slid up, one tangling in Tony’s hair as the other gripped his waist tighter. He kissed Tony like he was afraid this moment might slip away, pouring weeks of frustration and confusion into the way his lips moved against his.
Tony pulled back slightly, just enough to press a series of smaller, softer kisses to the corner of Clint’s mouth, his jaw, the spot just below his ear. Clint let out a shaky breath, his grip on Tony’s hair tightening as he tilted his head to give him more access.
“You’re—” Clint started, but Tony cut him off with another kiss, this one gentler, more deliberate, like he wanted to savor it.
“You talk too much,” Tony murmured against his lips, his voice low and rough.
Clint chuckled, the sound vibrating against Tony’s mouth. “And you don’t talk enough.”
Tony pulled back just enough to smirk, his lips still brushing against Clint’s. “Thought we were done talking?”
“Fair point,” Clint muttered, pulling Tony back in for another kiss.
This time, their movements softened, the urgency giving way to something more measured. Clint’s lips moved slowly against Tony’s, his tongue sweeping over the curve of his lower lip before dipping inside again, exploring every inch like he was committing it to memory. Tony let out a quiet hum of approval, his fingers slipping under the hem of Clint’s shirt to brush against his bare skin.
The kiss deepened again, their mouths fitting together like they were made for this, for each other. Tony tilted his head, his teeth grazing Clint’s bottom lip before he pressed one last, lingering kiss there, his lips lingering just a moment too long before finally pulling back.
They stood there, foreheads pressed together, their breaths mingling in the stillness of the room.
“Well,” Tony said after a beat, his voice a little hoarse, “that escalated quickly.”
Clint laughed, his hand still resting on the back of Tony’s neck. “Yeah, no kidding.”
“You good?” Tony asked, his tone soft but serious.
Clint nodded, his eyes flicking down to Tony’s lips before meeting his gaze again. “Better than good.”
At first Tony looked dazed, then his lips quirked into a smile, his thumb brushing against Clint’s side. “Good. Because I’m not done with you yet.”
“Okay,” Tony said, his voice hoarse. “I might be okay with losing to you.”
After that, the kisses came more often—lazy kisses in bed before they fell asleep, teasing kisses stolen in the hallways, and soft, lingering kisses when no one else was around.
It was new, but it felt right.
For Clint, who had spent so much of his life avoiding connection, and for Tony, who had spent his life hiding behind walls of his own making, it was terrifying and exhilarating all at once.
But it was theirs.
And neither of them was letting go.