love: clintasha

Tol and Smol things

the tol randomly lifting the smol and putting them down somewhere else like people do with babies and the smol being so confused like “why??????”

the smol being the perfect height for surprise tickle attacks because no one looks down so no one sees them coming

the tol using the smol as an armrest and the smol acts annoyed but secretly loves it

the smol just burrowing into the tol’s shoulder/chest when they hug and the tol resting their chin on the top of the smol’s head

the smol hiding behind the tol and literally no one can see them because they’re so smol or because the tol is so tol

the smol being a tiny little ball of energy and rage and constantly jumping around and threatening to fight people 

the tol being the one who has to calm down the smol and apologize when the smol says “fite me” to that five year old who took the last box of lucky charms in the store 

the tol giving the smol piggyback rides

the smol running full speed at the tol and barrelling into them but only succeeding in bouncing off because they’re so smol

the smol being the big spoon and the tol being the little spoon sometimes

the tol puts all the things on the top shelf so that the smol has to jump to reach them

the smol retaliating by putting all the things on the bottom shelf so the tol has to bend over or kneel on the floor to reach them

the smol having a huge ass dog like a saint bernard or a wolfhound or something big enough to ride

the tol having a fucking chihuahua

OTP Prompt

“I’m gonna fuck the next person that walks through that door,” Person A announces. The brightly coloured cocktail in their hand sloshes over the sides of the glass as they point drunkenly at the front door of the bar. 

Person B walks in.

“I’m gonna fuck you so hard!”

Person B walks out.

  • Me: *sees a 80k word fic with 42 chapters*
  • Me: *slowly moves mouse towards it*
  • Me: Nope..Nope nope no! Don't click it!
  • Me: *clicks it*
  • Me: Oh my god look what you've done.

“Why me?” Clint utters into the hot flesh on her neck. The disbelief in his voice and the quiver in his touch almost burns her.

“What do you mean?” Natasha pulls back and his hooded gaze already answers the question she just asked.

“I’m not- you’re so- gosh, Nat, I mean-” he stutters and shuts his eyes to catch his breath, “I mean…I’m me. And you’re, you’re you.” And heck, if their lips weren’t swollen from sucking face and his gloved hand halfway up her tac suit, you’d think him to be a blushing virgin.

Natasha’s brows crease and she quirks her lips the way she does when she gets what she wants from interrogation. Clint knows he screwed this one up. World’s most amazing and beautiful (literally) woman is sitting in his lap in his quarters kissing the life out of him and he wants to question why a girl like her is with a guy like him. Genius.

“Well geez, Clint if I wanted a pretty boy to make out with, I’d have Steve Rogers in my bed weeks ago,” she doesn’t miss how he flinches when she compares him to Steve, “I mean, is that how you see me? Belonging to some tall blonde hunk?”

“I dunno, Tasha. Just someone better than me, I guess,” Clint shrugs like a child in front of a disappointed adult.

At this, Natasha tosses her head back, red curls dancing like leaves in the fall breeze and god, Clint is so gone for her. He just can’t fathom how he got to be so fortunate to even know a woman like Natasha Romanoff. To have someone he could call his best friend, his partner, his confidant, and now almost-lover before he opened his stupid mouth. He just couldn’t be so fortunate to have someone in this world who would be so loyal and trusting and strong for him and to him. It wasn’t in the cards for a man like Clinton Francis Barton.

“Barton you idiot,” Natasha’s laughter is punctuated by the calm mirth in her voice. Her lethal hands grip his face and yeah, she could snap his neck or nick his carotid artery with her nail and Clint could care less because she’s so breathtaking he might as well be dead already.

“There is no one better than you, Clint,” her face is angled centimeters from his, “You’re the best man I know. The only person I trust with this,” she motions between their hearts, “And in case you haven’t noticed, you’re pretty sexy to me.”

She pulls the rest of the zipper to her suit down and watches Clint’s jaw hit the floor.

cute things your otp can do:

  • go on walks at sunset
  • buy each other random things that remind them of each other
  • get matching tattoos
  • take cooking classes together
  • stay-at-home date nights once a week
  • fuck until their throats are raw from screaming
  • get a pet
the best types of otp

the type where one is a ray of sunshine who lights up everyone’s worlds and the other is the storm cloud that sometimes blocks the light, but eventually the light shines through and makes the stormcloud fluffy and white

the type where one is death and the other is life, where one is dark and the other is light, where one is yin and the other is yang, where they are complete opposites but they balance each other out so completely

the type where they’re both so broken and scattered that it doesn’t hurt them to pick up the pieces of each other and put them back together, sometimes using a piece of themselves to fix a tiny crack in the otherwise flawless shard of what used to be a soul

the type where they’re both suns and every other little planet and moon gravitates towards them, but they’re special to each other, they light up the spaces where the other can’t reach, and with their combined gravitational pulls they know they’ll never be apart from each other

the kind where one is a spark and the other is kerosene, where all it takes is a single spark to create an explosion of fire and light so powerful that it destroys everything but them

the type where one is diamond, hard and unforgiving and cold, and the other is light, warm and inviting and safe, and apart they are nothing more than themselves, but when they’re together the diamond becomes a rainbow, a kaleidoscope of beauty and color as it reflects the light

the type where one is shattered and jagged and haphazard in how they’d put themselves back together, and the other is unblemished and new and unmarked, and they don’t mind breaking off a few pieces of themself to fix the cracks left in the other’s heart