Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/11663349.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      F/M, M/M
  Fandom:
      The_Avengers_(Marvel)_-_All_Media_Types, The_Avengers_(Marvel_Movies),
      Marvel_Cinematic_Universe, Marvel
  Relationship:
      Clint_Barton/Pietro_Maximoff, Clint_Barton/Laura_Barton
  Character:
      Clint_Barton, Laura_Barton, Barney_Barton, Lance_Hunter
  Additional Tags:
      Alternate_Universe_-_Soulmates, Soulmates, Porn_With_Plot, Alternate
      Universe, Alternate_Universe_-_Canon, Underage_Sex, Consensual_Underage
      Sex, Extremely_Dubious_Consent, yes_-_Freeform, Both_at_the_same_time
  Series:
      Part 7 of United_States_of_Multifandom:_English_Edition
  Stats:
      Published: 2017-07-31 Words: 1581
****** am i more than you bargained for yet ******
by Hieiandshino
Summary
     “What?” He says and the boy (it’s a boy, underage, what the fuck)
     looks at him, opens his eyes and just looks. Clint’s hearts stops,
     because the blue of the eyes are sometimes the blue he sees in the
     mirror, the blue he swears he has seen in a dream, all his life.
     “You.” The boy says, in a foreign language Clint only identifies as
     closer to Russian or Lithuanian.
     “Wh—” He starts saying, the same question, but he is shut by the boy
     moving fast and cradling Clint’s head with his hands and pushing him
     down for a kiss.
     OR a soulmate AU where every soulmate sign/connection is different
     and Pietro and Clint's is through sex at the same time.
     (United States of Multifandom. Prompt 26: A fanfic set in the past.
     Unrevised work)
Notes
     Avengers: Age of Ultron and Marvel (all media types) do not belong to
     me.
     Title comes from the song "Sugar, We're Going Down", by The Fall Out
     Boy. Once again.
     This is an unrevised work, so I'm sorry for my mistakes.
     Set in the past, where Clint isn't even part of SHIELD, thus being a
     criminal. Pietro Maximoff is underage. I guess this is a little based
     on sense8, since I wrote this one in 2015.
See the end of the work for more notes
Every soulmate bond is different. It’s a rule of this chaotic universe that no
one has the same marks. They only have types of marks — on the skin, on the
eyes, on some part of the body that is visible (signatures, words, a tattoo,
birthmarks, eyes of the same color, eyes with what looks like a drawing etc),
or something that is much more subtle, something that brings them together with
one thought, one action — and no pattern, nothing that could say ‘this is the
family of signatures on wrists’; it changes from person to person. It makes
everyone more unique and soon they learned how to use the internet to search
for one another.
Clint Barton is twenty three when he gives up his soulmate. He is thirty-four
when he meets Laura, whose wrist has a burn mark that she says it was not
always there. She had a name there, but it was burnt when the other person died
— Laura would later find out the person died on the World Trade Center, the
name a sound that broke her to tears in ways she did not do with any other
victim, the burning mark on her wrist painful again. Two years later, they
marry. It’s a quiet ceremony in Las Vegas, Barney and Lance Hunter as their
only witness. He is a dangerous man, now. She will be the wife of a mercenary.
“I don’t care” she says, smiling. “I love you.”
Clint loves her too.
They are between jobs, just received an absurd amount of money for killing a
man. He uses his money to take her to an expensive hotel for their honeymoon
and she looks beautiful in her simple white dress, the red silk of the bed
sheets a stark contrast against her skin, her dress, her black hair. Her eyes
shine. He could never lot anyone else as much as he loves her.
They are in the middle of sex when it happens. She is wet and vocal under him,
her nails scratch his back, he thrusts again and again and then suddenly he
closes his eyes and the smell, the smell changes.
No more the sweet fragrance of their hotel room — a mixture of the roses and
oil with the smell of somewhere clean, like good soap —: there is the smell of
smoke in the air, something huskier, and the smell of sweat. Clint opens his
eyes on panic and finds himself staring at a cracked wall, the wallpaper
falling out. Everything is so dark, the only light coming from the street, cars
that pass through and move the furniture. Old, broken furniture; the bed
squeaks. He looks down and sees yellow sheets, and an extremely young body
writhing underneath him, biting his lips, his hands clutching at the old
sheets, tearing a little the fabric.
He looks around again, tries to understand how he appeared here when he was
with Laura. Was his wedding a hallucination? Or is this the illusion? Clint
tries to remember if in his last job he hit his head, a grave concussion the
only explanation. The air is too cold, colder than Las Vegas in the middle of
the night, and thick. Burnt gasoline, the sounds of people talking in foreign
tongues (screaming), that feeling he felt when he was twelve and his father was
home before Barney and he were; that feeling he felt again when he was working
in the Army. Warzones. Danger. The intensity of people fighting themselves. The
mood is all over him, all over the room, all over wherever he is.
His last job was in Paris. He bought the ring there, for Laura. Laura.
“What?” He says and the boy (it’s a boy, underage, whatthe fuck) looks at him,
opens his eyes and just looks. Clint’s hearts stops, because the blue of the
eyes are sometimes the blue he sees in the mirror, the blue he swears he has
seen in a dream, all his life.
“You.” The boy says, in a foreign language Clint only identifies as closer to
Russian or Lithuanian.
“Wh—” He starts saying, the same question, but he is shut by the boy moving
fast and cradling Clint’s head with his hands and pushing him down for a kiss.
Universes connect with their mouths, electricity a thousand times worse than he
has ever felt, transcending the pain and bringing him pleasure. Clint moans,
grabs the boy and pushes him back on the bed, changing the angle of the kiss,
so he can open his mouth and welcome that tongue. The boy is so young, and he
melts on his arms; his legs close around Clint’s waist and he cannot help
himself: he thrusts.
That is when he knows something is wrong.
The boy gasps for air, clenches around him and Clint feels the flutter in the
back of his mind, the telling that only one is enjoying himself. He breaks the
kiss, looks at the boy, his eyes bluer with the tears that he holds. Clint
feels anger swelling, the person that was with him before Clint clearly not
caring that he was hurting this boy.
Sixteen— his soulmate— “Shh…” He says, puts a finger on his lips. He does not
know if he makes the sound for the boy or himself. “It’s okay. I’ll make you
feel good.”
“Then you shouldn’t have stopped.” Laura says and suddenly the smell makes him
feel sick. The lights are too bright, the silk is too cold and guilty attacks
him like piranhas attack meat.
“Laura.” He says and tries his best to not turn it into a question, but it is
so hard. “I—”
“Clint.” She whispers, thrusts back at him until he gets back with the program
and moves again. They fall into a rhythm, but he cannot stop thinking about the
boy, his boy, possession bursting into his heart, blossoming there, making a
home where only Laura should enter. He thought his soulmate was dead and now it
is being hurt by an unknown man on a cheap motel, and Clint promised— He
promised—
—He breathes again and recognizes the smell of everything that brings bad
memories to him and the boy is there, again, arching his back, crying out.
Clint wonders who it is he is with. It does not matter, however. Not anymore.
He kisses the boy again, slows his pace and lets him get used with his size,
with this new thing he is having. “I want you to feel good.” Clint whispers and
the boy opens his eyes only to close again, his breath easing out in ways that
he recognizes as someone relaxing after panicking a little.
Clint wants to kill the person that is with this kid.
Same kid that shows Clint can move with a small peck on his lips, before he
opens his mouth and lets Clint’s tongue accommodate inside, lick him until he
is breathless. And Clint feels him slipping away, both scents mingling on the
air, making him dizzy, good and bad, American and Foreign, Laura and an
underage kid that has half of his heart ever since Clint left his mother’s
womb. Though he loves Laura, wants her, he cannot let go just as yet.
Typical of him to have a connection with his soulmate with sex.
So he thrusts. Thrusts until the kid breaks the kiss to moan, thrusts until he
explores Clint’s back with his small nails, his thick fingers, roaming his
tattered skin as he looks for a place to hold on. Thrusts and changes the angle
as Clint’s hands find the meat of those legs and clutch them like he is to fall
from a great height.
(and you know, you know why this chaotic universe gave you this teenager. Less
than five minutes and you understand why he is yours, why you love him ever
since you were born, why it takes so long for someone to meet your other part)
Clint comes hard, fast and the kid soon follows. He is quiet while hitting his
orgasm, but he clutches at Clint as if afraid he will just slip away. They both
know he will. It is already happening, the room becoming too bright, cleaner on
his senses, though the smell of the kid and his come and his sweat stay.
“Stay.” The boy says, pleading, his voice rough, and Clint finally notices he
understands everything the boy says without needing to know the language.
He kisses the boy, touches the tender skin in the back of his knees, asks
himself if he is a bad person for wanting so much a child. When he breaks the
contact and whispers sorry, it’s Laura who answers with a huffed laughter,
pleased, satisfied.
“For holding back on me until our wedding?” She says and Clint smiles at her,
his true expression of dread and guilt and mourn. He hopes the man his soulmate
is with is kinder now. Has had already an orgasm. “I’ll think about it.”
She kisses Clint and her taste is all wrong. He wonders if she senses he was
with someone else. He wonders if she can taste underage, foreign teenagers on
the tip of his tongue, on his chapped lips.
(you wonder where he is, if he is suffering, if you will ever see him again.
Inside you, you hope you won’t, because it always means you are on opposite
sides. You have never been more right, Clint)
End Notes
     I had this great idea in my mind: what if every soulmate had a
     different sign or connection that was triggered by something? Not
     just names or phrases on their wrists or other body parts, but also
     feelings and actions that happened at the same time? In this case,
     Pietro and Clint would connect every time they had sex at the same
     time, which is rare enough that make them think they don't have
     soulmates until this one day.
     I chose the past because I actually wanted to make a bigger story,
     until they meet each other. However, I don't feel very inclined to
     keep it. I still like it, though, so that's why I'm posting it.
     So this explains the whole thing about dubious consent at the same
     time it isn't: Pietro is having sex, unfortunately, with someone that
     is careless and thus the dubious consent (in which he consented to
     sex, but not like this). However, when it comes to Clint/Pietro, it
     is consented. It does not change it's underage, tho.
     Maybe I will write another installment of this, a Nat/Bucky that is
     the only thing that keeps me interested in this AU. Anyway, hope you
     guys like it and for those who follow other stories: yes, I will
     update them!!
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