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clean up in aisle marriage

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Five minutes ago, they were standing in the freezer section, wondering if Greer would think frozen chicken nuggets were an appropriate food item for the mansion. Considering neither of them had ever really been good at buying food for themselves, let alone multiple people, Clint thought they'd been doing pretty well. There were apples in their cart. He'd never bought apples before, like, ever.

Except now Clint has his back against the bathroom door, groaning as Bobbi grinds her thigh between his legs, shoving his shirt up to get her hands on his chest. "God I love this."

"Stop objectifying me," he mutters, but he's grinning against her mouth, her skirt pooling at his wrists as he lifts it up, trying to get his hands on her, wherever he can. Bobbi moans as he slips his hand under the waistband of her underwear. They're probably being too loud because, if he's honest, they're always really fucking loud. But Clint's completely lost in the steady thrust of her hand on his cock, in the way she moans in his ear, tells him she loves him, how much she wants him. She's reaching into his back pocket for a condom when someone starts banging down the door and Clint remembers at a very terrible time that they're definitely in the middle of a grocery store bathroom.

He doesn't even really remember how they get out. All he knows is their cart is left behind and Bobbi is running through the store, clutching his hand and laughing, grabbing a can of Spam from a stand on her way out. Clint slides over the hood of the car, gets in the driver's seat and they're off. Bobbi's still shrieking with laughter next to him, holding her trophy high and grinning.

"You stole a can of Spam."

"That I did, Hawkeye."

He laughs, shaking his head. "Greer's going to murder us."

"Everyone's gonna murder us, but you're team leader, baby. Get out of jail free pass." She leans over and kisses his cheek, murmuring that she wants him inside her, wants him now, right now Clint, want you right now, right here -- she takes his hand and pushes it between her legs.

This woman, he thinks. She might be the end of everything.

 

 

 

It's not like there's something especially sexy about a grocery store. Clint doesn't walk into one with a boner and, if thing go the way they're supposed to, he doesn't walk out with one either. But sometimes, in the middle of it all, Bobbi turns and just looks at him a certain way, tucks a piece of hair behind her ear as she bends down to get something from a bottom shelf, pushes herself up on her toes for something too high, shirt lifting to show him the smooth skin of her side -- and Clint's hard, he's needy, he suddenly wants. And she always wants back, dropping whatever she was getting on the floor, in the cart, whichever's closest, and wrapping her arms around him, dragging him down to kiss him deep, kiss him like this is it, this is the last one.

All she has to say is, "I want you," and he's there, he's with her, he wants her, too. He loves that she wants him all the time, that this is what they are, desperate for one another, lonely without each other. He's never felt this way before, doesn't know if he ever will.

They always get caught because they're always loud. Because Bobbi likes to say his name and Clint has always just been a really loud fuck, if he's honest with himself. And he likes to be honest with himself.

As loud as Clint is, Bobbi's just as fast, always dashing ahead of him as they escape one store after another, finally reaching a point where they can't really grocery shop in Orange County anymore.

It's fucking embarrassing, is what it is, but Clint can't seem to care. Not when she looks at him from the passenger side of the car, her bare feet on the dash in front of her, shoving his sunglasses over her face and turning up the radio. "Let's just drive, baby," she'll say, and Clint could drive with her for hours, if only the gas take would let him.

But they always go home. That's just the way it is with them.

 

 

 

So they're not allowed to do the grocery shopping anymore. That's fine. It's totally okay. Except Clint's suddenly got this thing, this itch he can't seem to scratch, and Bobbi's noticed. Noticed pretty damn quick, too, and he'll be damned if that isn't on of the reasons he married her. She sees it all, but she isn't kind with the way she picks it out.

"What's crawled up your ass, Hawkeye?" He shrugs and receives a sharp poke in the side. "Hey. Don't deflect."

"I just..." Clint stares down at his coffee cup, trying not to sound stupid. "I liked it?"

Bobbi looks confused. "Liked what?"

"The, uh." He clears his throat. "The sex. In the grocery store." He shrugs again. "I liked it." Bobbi lifts a brow, her mouth curving up into the smile Clint's starting to know too well. "It's not a big deal, forget I said anything--"

"Baby." She reaches out, holding his face in her hands and kissing him. "We can fix this."

 

 

 

'Fixing it' involves basically no planning on Clint's part, and he doesn't even realize it's happening until the third time they do it. She instructs him to drive, and he does without any more direction than that, parking where she tells him and letting her slide into his lap, whisper in his ear how much she loves him, how much she'll always love him, always want him.

It's enough for him. No, it's more than enough. It satisfies him ten times over and if he thought he couldn't fall more in love with her, he was wrong. He was so, so wrong.