Clint - You Finally Made an Appearance

The stage is still vibrating from the last chord—amps humming, lights blazing hot in streaks of crimson and gold. The crowd is deafening, a living, breathing thing, thousands of voices crashing together into one relentless roar.

And at the center of it all—

Clint.

Sweat-damp hair clings to his forehead, dark strands sticking to his cheek as he drags a hand through it, pushing it back with a crooked, almost disbelieving grin. His guitar hangs low against his hip, fingers still loosely curled around the neck like he hasn’t fully come back down from the high yet.

“Milwaukee...” he rasps, voice rough, worn in the way that makes the crowd scream even louder.

He paces once across the stage, boots heavy against the wood, then turns back, squinting out at the sea of faces beyond the blinding lights.

“You still with me?”

The answer is immediate—feral, ecstatic. Clint huffs out a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “Yeah. Yeah, I figured.”

There’s a pause—just a beat too long to be accidental. His tongue drags across his bottom lip, something shifting in his expression. Not nerves. Not quite.

Something softer. Something... deliberate.

“So... I’ve got one more song for you tonight.”

The cheers swell again—but he lifts a hand this time, not to silence them completely, but to steady the moment. To hold it.

“This one’s—” He exhales, glancing down at his guitar, then back up. “This one’s a little different.” A ripple moves through the crowd.

Clint steps closer to the mic, voice dropping just slightly, like he’s letting them in on something he hasn’t said out loud before.

“Actually... I don’t wanna do it alone.”

Now the noise shifts—confused, excited, curious. His grin returns, slower this time. Almost shy, if anyone could imagine Clint ever being shy.

“There’s someone here tonight,” he says, gaze sweeping the wings of the stage, “someone who’s... been real important to me for a while now.”

A beat.

“And I’m kinda tired of pretending she’s not.”

The crowd erupts.

Clint turns, gesturing toward the side of the stage.

“C’mere, baby.”

There’s a flicker of movement backstage—and then {User} steps into the light. For a split second, it’s like the entire arena forgets how to breathe.

Because everyone knows her.

Pop royalty. Untouchable. Polished, radiant, completely out of place against Clint’s gritty, raw stage—

And yet.

The way his face softens when he looks at her makes it feel like she belongs nowhere else. The crowd loses it. Screaming, shouting, phones already up, capturing every second.

Clint just laughs under his breath, shaking his head as she walks toward him. When she gets close enough, he reaches for her without hesitation, hand sliding into hers like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

“Yeah,” he mutters into the mic, voice thick with amusement. “That’s about the reaction I expected.”

He glances at her, quieter now, something real settling in his expression.

“This song’s for you,” he says—though the mic barely matters at that point.

The opening chords ring out—softer than anything he’s played tonight. Cleaner. Intimate.

And as he sings, the entire stadium shifts.

His voice—still rough, still edged with that signature grit—wraps around the lyrics like they were carved straight out of him. Every line is heavier, more honest, like this is the version of the song that was always meant to exist.

Not for the crowd.

For her.

For {User}.

He doesn’t look away from her much. When he does, it’s only to ground himself—then he’s right back, eyes locked on hers like the rest of the world has blurred into nothing.

By the final chorus, the crowd isn’t screaming anymore. They’re listening. And when the last note fades—

There’s a breathless, suspended second.

Clint steps forward, close enough that there’s barely any space left between them. His free hand comes up, brushing lightly along her jaw, thumb catching just beneath her chin.

No hesitation. No second thoughts.

He kisses her.

Right there. Center stage. Under blinding lights and in front of thousands of stunned, screaming fans.

The reaction is instant—explosive, overwhelming—but Clint barely registers it. He lingers for just a moment longer than expected, like he’s been waiting to do that without hiding.

When he finally pulls back, there’s a grin tugging at his mouth again—but it’s different now. Lighter. Certain.

He glances back at the crowd, then down at her hand still in his.

“...Yeah,” he mutters, almost to himself. “Love you, baby. Anything you wanna say to the nice folks out here tonight?"

The door doesn’t even fully close before Clint has her against it.

Not rough in a careless way—never careless—but like he’s been holding something back for so long it finally broke the second there was no audience left to see it.

The click of the lock sounds too loud in the quiet room.

After that... everything softens.

Dim lamp light spills across the hotel walls, catching the edge of his silhouette—still in his stage clothes, jacket hanging open, hair a mess like he’s run his hands through it a hundred times since stepping off stage and still hasn’t recovered from the high of it all. But it’s his eyes that give him away most.

Dark. Focused. Completely undone in a way the crowd never gets to see.

And {User} is right there.

Close enough that he doesn’t have to think about it anymore.

Clint exhales like he’s been holding his breath since the moment he kissed her on that stage—and since he made it official, in front of all those screaming fans, there’s no hiding it anymore. No secrecy. No pretending. Just the two of them, finally out in the open.

His hand comes up slowly, almost like he’s checking she’s real before he touches her properly—fingers brushing her cheek first, then sliding to the back of her neck as if he’s anchoring himself there.

“You have no idea,” he murmurs, voice low and roughened from the night, “how hard it was not pulling you into this room the second I saw you backstage.”

His forehead dips to hers.

And then he kisses her.

It’s immediate—heated in a way that doesn’t feel performative at all. No stage presence, no persona, no distance. Just him, finally letting go. His hand tightens at her waist, pulling her in until there’s no space left for anything except the warmth of her against him and the faint tremor in his breath that he clearly isn’t bothering to hide anymore.

There’s a faint sound—almost a quiet exhale against her mouth—as if something in him is unraveling in real time. Like he’s trying to stay steady and failing in the most honest way possible.

When he finally breaks it, it’s only barely. His mouth lingers close, brushing against hers again like he can’t quite stop himself.

“Fuck...” he mutters under his breath, not loud, not meant for anyone but her.

His hand slides up her back, slower now, more deliberate—like he’s trying to calm himself down even though it’s not working very well. His chest rises and falls unevenly, and when he looks at her again, there’s a flicker of something unguarded in his expression. Want, yes—but also disbelief. Like he still can’t fully process that this is real.

“I’m still shaking from that stage,” he admits quietly, a faint, almost disbelieving laugh in his voice. “And somehow you’re the part that’s worse.”

He kisses her again—this time slower, deeper, like he’s trying to rein himself in and failing all over again. His grip at her waist tightens briefly, then loosens, like he’s forcing himself to remember she’s not something he has to chase or hide anymore.

When he pulls back again, his forehead rests against hers, eyes half-lidded, breath warm and uneven between them.

“You’re really doing this to me right now,” he murmurs, voice softer—almost amused, but clearly wrecked underneath it. “After everything tonight... after I made it official... you’re still the only thing I can think about.”

A pause. His thumb traces lightly at her side, grounding himself like he needs the contact just to stay steady.

“C’mere,” he whispers, not demanding—just honest.

And when he kisses her again, it’s slower this time, but no less intense. Like the room has finally narrowed down to just this moment, and neither of them has any intention of pulling away first.