Fic: Clinton Falls (MCU)
Title: Clinton Falls (AO3)
Fandom: Marvel Cinematic (Avengers) Universe
Summary: Clint, Natasha, and Coulson get snowed in at a hotel. With only one bed, of course.
Relationship/Characters: Clint/Natasha/Coulson
Rating: NC-17. Very.
Content Advisory: No content normally needing advising, to my knowledge.
Word Count: 6000
Notes: For boosette. Thanks to adorb_eggplant for listening to me whine about having to think about other people's sex faces, and for making random, uninformed choices ("a, b, or c?") to help me determine random elements in the fic.
Assume it's set somewhere between IM2 and Avengers. *shrugs*
--
“This is a joke,” Clint said, flipping through the folder Agent Coulson had provided him. “Please tell me this is a joke. Although, seriously, if this is SHIELD’s idea of a joke, I’m not laughing.”
“What makes you think this is a joke, Agent Barton?” Coulson asked, pleasant as ever.
“Because only someone with the worst sense of humor would send me there.”
There was Clinton Falls, Minnesota, a town notable for, well, nothing. With fewer than five hundred residents, it was a good hour from anywhere notable in the state. Except maybe the Spam Museum, and really? A museum dedicated to Spam?
“We need your expertise,” Coulson said.
“It doesn’t appear that you need mine,” Natasha said, tapping her nails on the table next to her copy of the folder.
“Yes, we do,” Coulson said, and Natasha tilted her head to one side.
“What expertise?” Clint asked.
“You’re from the area.”
“If by ‘the area’ you mean ‘a small town in an entirely different state,’ then yeah, sure,” Clint said, and crossed his arms over his chest.
Coulson wrote down a couple words on a piece of paper and slid the paper in front of Clint. “Pronounce that for me,” he said.
“Albert Lea,” Clint said, the second word as if it were spelled ‘Lee.’
“And that’s why you’re going.” Coulson stood, and held out his hand for both folders.
Clint frowned. “Doesn’t everyone know that?”
Natasha shrugged. “I did.”
“Yeah, but you know everything,” Clint said. “Oh, crap.” He buried his face in his hands. “Why me.” It wasn’t even a question anymore.
Coulson smiled.
* * *
Twelve hours later he’d shot two men and a side of bacon. He felt sorry about the bacon, but not the men; inexplicably, they were part of a terrorist cell trying to infiltrate the country. Why they’d decided to set up camp in Minnesota in January in a warehouse owned by a pork processing plant, Clint had no idea. Maybe they liked ham. But the two most annoying were now dead, another four were in the custody of the Minnesota State Troopers, Natasha had retrieved a USB key full of data, and everything was fine.
Well, except the weather.
“I’m afraid we’re on our own for the night,” Coulson said, after a rather lengthy and heated--well, heated for Coulson, which meant he frowned once--phone call. “There’s a Holiday Inn just on the other side of the 35.”
“Holiday Inn?” Natasha said, her lip curling. She wasn’t shivering, even though the warehouse was barely heated. Neither was Coulson.
“It’s just 35,” Clint said, huddled in on himself and wishing he’d brought a better coat, “or I-35 if you want to get picky. We’re in the Midwest. And how long did you live in California?”
“Long enough,” Coulson said. “Agent Romanoff, if you’d like to drive to Rochester or the Twin Cities to find a hotel that meets your standards, you’re welcome to, but I’m given to understand that the area will be getting approximately ten inches of snow before the storm is done, and that may make travel difficult in the near future.”
“You make a good argument,” Natasha said, and followed him to the car.
It took them nearly a half hour to make it the two miles to the hotel, creeping carefully in the rental car. Coulson left the car running while he went inside to get rooms for them, and came back ten minutes later with a single paper folder. “I had a choice between this room and finding another hotel,” he said. “We can be adults and share a room or we can drive up the street to the Best Western and try our luck there.”
“What’s going on here that’s using up so many hotel rooms?” Clint asked.
“Something about dairy farming,” Coulson said, and shrugged. “I asked, but the clerk didn’t seem to know much about it.”
“All right,” Natasha said. “I want a shower. I’m still covered in pig’s blood.” She shot a dirty look at Clint, who refrained from making a Carrie joke, although it was close.
The room had a single bed, a king-size, and Clint stretched out on it, kicking his shoes off, while Natasha showered and Coulson sat at the desk with his laptop, trying to get an internet connection. “The cable’s out,” Clint pointed out, having turned the TV on and off in disgust. “I doubt you’ll get internet.”
Phil held up a hockey-puck-sized black thing and said, “This should obviate that problem, but hasn’t so far. I may have to have words with its creator.”
Tony Stark, Clint translated, and chuckled. He linked his fingers behind his head and stared up at the ceiling until Nat got out of the shower and walked into the main room, her hair plastered against her head, the towel hiding just barely enough.
Clint wolf-whistled, and she flipped him the bird, shaking her head, as she grabbed a set of clothes and dropped the towel to put them on. He watched idly; it wasn’t as if he hadn’t seen her nude before, and she was hot. It was worth a watch.
Not, of course, that she was dressing in any sort of way that indicated that she wanted anyone to watch; she just shimmied into underwear, a t-shirt, and pajama pants and then went to put the towel back before she sprawled on the bed next to Clint. “Your turn,” she said, poking him in the arm, and it wasn’t an offer.
“Okay.” Who was he to say no to hot water and, if he was lucky, a massaging showerhead? He pulled his shirt over his head as he walked into the bathroom.
It wasn’t, unfortunately, a massaging showerhead, but the water pressure was still good and the water was hot. He enjoyed it for a few minutes, and then got out, brushed his teeth, and used the towel to dry his hair.
Unlike Natasha, he didn’t bother wrapping a towel around his waist when he walked over to his bag and dug out his sleep clothing, and unlike him, Natasha didn’t do anything as crude as whistle. She was watching, though, even though it looked like she was reading. He knew.
And, if he wasn’t mistaken, Coulson was using the reflections off of the mirror and the TV to watch him as well.
Hmm.
He grabbed his own book--yes, he could read--and went back to the bed, lying down opposite Natasha. He rested on his stomach with his head at the foot of the bed, and tucked his bare toes under her upper arm. She grumbled but didn’t cut his foot off, so he figured it was okay. Slowly, and with no visible attention anywhere other than his book, he tensed his foot in a variation on Morse code that they’d used between them a hundred times before. He watched me.
Me too, she signaled back, tensing just her triceps in what was actually a reasonably impressive feat of control. I have this.
OK, he returned.
In response, she tucked her bare--and ice cold--toes under his arm, and he yelped.
A few minutes later, Coulson shut the laptop with a quiet sigh, and said, “My turn.” Unlike either Clint or Natasha, he remembered to bring his pajamas into the bathroom with him, and when he finished, he came out fully dressed, even with fresh socks, hair neatly combed.
Clint tensed his toes under Natasha’s arm but just said, “Bedtime, boss?”
They’d long ago negotiated the arrangements if it was the three of them in a bed: Clint by the window, Coulson by the door, and Natasha in the middle, not as a barrier between the men but because she was the only one who didn’t kick when she had nightmares. Clint made sure that his bow was on the chair next to his side of the bed, tucked a knife between the mattress and the springs, checked to see that Natasha’s weapon collection wouldn’t leave bruises, and punched his pillow into shape.
Natasha did roughly the same, and Coulson hit the overhead light before joining them. He was reaching over to turn off the bedside lamp when Natasha did--something; Clint didn’t see quite what, but the end result was Natasha pinned to the bed, Coulson’s arm at her throat. “Natasha, what the hell,” he said, tone still resolutely even, but he was breathing a little faster than usual.
“Op’s over,” Natasha said. “You filed your paperwork. We’re stuck here overnight. There’s only one bed. We’d both prefer you take advantage of that.”
Coulson--Phil, Clint supposed--sat back on his heels, his knees still on either side of her hips. He slanted a glance at Clint, who tried to look as encouraging as he could, and then looked back down. “Tasha, I can’t,” he said. “You know that, and you know why.”
“It’s safe to say neither of us gives a flying fuck,” Clint said. Natasha turned to glare at him, and he closed his mouth.
She looked up at Phil and said something in--well, it almost sounded like Russian, but he only caught about one in every three words, and most of them were articles or pronouns. It was probably a dialect or something.
Phil let his breath out slowly, and said, a long moment later, “Нет.”
Clint understood that one--no--and although it was a negative, Natasha reacted as if it were the correct answer; she surged up and kissed Phil, one hand behind his head and the other signaling Clint to wait.
He could wait. Hell, it wasn’t anywhere near a hardship to watch Phil and Nat kiss. True, he’d rather be peeling those godawful plaid flannel pajamas off Phil, or sliding his fingers under Nat’s t-shirt to see if her skin was still warm from her shower, but if he had to lay back here and watch Phil’s hands go up her shirt, he was okay with that. He was okay with watching them fuck, if it came to that, but he’d really rather be involved.
Because, Jesus, how often did he get what could turn into a chance to touch Phil? Almost never. Twice, to be exact: that undercover op in West Hollywood, and then two months ago, when all three of them had fallen into bed like they were right now.
Well, not exactly like they were right now; that had started with Clint and Phil and what probably could have been written off as post-op adrenaline until Nat had taken it upon herself to join in. But Clint wasn’t going to complain about pointless differences, as long as he got to--oh, hey, that was the hand-sign for now.
He sat up, leaned forward, and ran a hand down Phil’s back, from collar to waistband. Phil turned, and then they were kissing, or wrestling, or maybe a little of both; Clint was bigger and likely stronger but he was perfectly okay with letting Phil win. Or at least that was what he told himself when he ended up flat on his back, Phil’s hands on his shoulders. He hitched his hips up into Phil’s and groaned against Phil’s mouth.
Phil broke the kiss briefly to say, “Tasha, I’d suggest using this time to strip,” in his most benign tone, and she did. Well, he assumed. He was too busy to watch, being driven out of his mind by the fact that he couldn’t both kiss Phil and undo the buttons on his pajama top.
At least, not successfully, but it turned out not to matter, because Natasha did it for him, Phil’s hands leaving his shoulders one at a time to strip off the sleeves. When they returned, it was to the mattress on either side of Clint’s head, and Phil held himself up in the air for a moment so Natasha could strip off his pants and underwear.
Well, that was what Clint assumed had happened, as some interesting shifts happened as Phil started biting on that spot on his neck, the one that was guaranteed to drive him wild, and then all of a sudden, Clint was the only one wearing any clothes in the bed.
When Phil let up for a moment, breath still warm against Clint’s skin, Clint sat up and frowned.
“Yes,” Nat said, and she was lying on her side, mouthwateringly gorgeous au naturel. “You’re still wearing clothes, and that’s not okay.”
Phil chuckled, and sat back on his heels again, allowing Clint to get up and strip off his pajamas in record time. He dove back onto the bed, and ahh, there it was: Nat’s soft skin and firm curves and Phil’s wiry angles. He kissed Nat, cupping her breast in one hand, as he pulled Phil back on top of him. “My turn first?” he said to her.
She shrugged. “If you insist.”
“You got him first last time.” Well, she’d gotten him inside her first, which was what counted here.
She thought about it for a moment, and then said, “Make it worth my while.” She smiled at Clint, all challenge.
He grinned back. “Oh, it will be.”
“Do I get a say in the matter?” Phil asked.
“Sure,” Clint said, and licked his lips.
Phil paused. “Lacking a more imperative plan, we’ll go with yours.” He leaned down to kiss Clint, lips warm, hands finding Clint’s wrists.
Clint hadn’t forgotten last time; two months wasn’t enough to dull a memory as vivid as that. He remembered everything, from the bullet scar on Phil’s shoulder--shiny now; still red and healing then--to the way Phil smelled, the way he kissed, the way he touched Clint’s face gently with his fingertips before settling his palm against his jaw.
And the way he took control of the situation effortlessly.
“Face down,” Phil said, sliding off Clint gracefully to stand at the side of the bed. “If you’re okay with that.”
Somehow he could make the order sound like a question and the question like an order, and Clint just nodded. Face down was good. He liked face down. He rolled over onto his stomach and said, “Like this, or hands and knees?”
“Up on your knees but down on your forearms.”
Well, okay, then. He shifted his weight onto his arms and pulled his knees under him. “This good?”
“Very,” Phil said, and Clint turned his head enough to see his face.
Truthfully, if he hadn’t known the man as well as he did, he might have thought that Phil was mildly interested in the sight before him. His eyebrows were raised, and the corners of his mouth were turned up, maybe slightly more than his usual. Comparatively, though, he was pretty much transfixed, and it made Clint feel a tad squirmy inside. He buried his face back into the pillow and concentrated on the hand tracing a line down his spine.
And then the tongue, which--
Clint groaned. Oh, sweet Jesus, he loved getting rimmed, and damn was Phil good at it. Which, to be fair, he could have guessed; he’d watched Nat turn into a shuddering mess last time and had been jealous of both of them.
Well, it was his turn now: his turn to--ohhh--be turned into a pile of goo. If, of course, a pile of goo could be hard as a fucking rock and--was that a finger? Yes, it was, and he’d warmed up the lube--well, no, probably Nat did, now that he thought of it. Not that it was easy to think--no, it was getting more difficult by the moment, as Phil did things with his tongue and fingers that were probably illegal but oh god they felt so good.
Two fingers, and Clint thought he was going to die. It was good that his face was buried in the mattress; he was normally capable of being pretty damn quiet, but oh god not with Phil grazing his prostate in some sort of pattern that made sense only to him. He dug his fingers into the sheet and tried not to sound needy as he groaned into the bed.
Three fingers, and Clint knew he was going to die. He shuddered and thought about snaking a hand down to grab his dick, but that probably wouldn’t go over all that well. “Oh, god, fuck me now,” he said, sucking in a breath, and his voice sounded ragged even to his ears.
“I’ll fuck you when you’re ready,” Phil said, which made Clint shudder again.
He thought about protesting, trying to convince Phil that he was ready, but really, by that point he was smart enough to know that it wouldn’t go over well. Instead, he just groaned more and pushed back against Phil’s fingers.
Eventually--about twenty hours later, if you asked his dick--Phil pulled his fingers out, leaving Clint with a weird empty feeling. “Finally,” he said to the bedsheet.
Phil chuckled quietly, and said, “Tasha, if you could--?”
Clint heard a brief foil-tearing noise and then a quiet, “Thanks,” before Phil stroked his hip and said, “You good?”
He pushed up on his forearms enough to look back and say, “I’ve been good for about two weeks now.”
“More than that, I think,” Phil said, tone light, but he gripped Clint’s hip in one hand and started pushing in--slowly, so slowly.
Clint’s head dropped. Fuck, it was intense. It was always intense, but it was Phil, and he’d wanted this, wanted more, for months, if not years. He concentrated on breathing, in through his nose, out through his mouth, and pushing back.
“Okay?” Phil asked, stilling.
Clint felt fingers on his arm--Nat’s, he was pretty sure. He turned his head to the side and said, “Yeah. Yeah, I’m fine. Don’t stop.”
Nat’s face was about three or four inches from his and he smiled at her as best he could. She smiled back, and pushed her fingers through his hair--fingers that were covered in lube, thanks a lot, although his hair was so sweaty that it really didn’t make much of a difference at this point. “He’s fine,” she said. “He can take a lot more than that.”
“Good,” Phil said, and there was an edge of darkness to his tone that ohhh, Clint liked. He liked it a lot.
Nat liked it too, he guessed, by the way she dug her nails into Clint’s arm briefly before settling back on her side of the bed, but he didn’t register anything after that because Phil started moving again and--oh god.
Clint lost track of time; it was pleasure and the finest edge of pain and Phil, oh god, Phil. It was Phil’s hands on his hips and Phil’s knees between his and Phil’s dick in his ass. Clint gasped and moaned and begged and probably said all sorts of things he should be embarrassed by later but god, Phil was fucking him and who could have control in that situation? No one with any sense.
A hand closed around his dick, and he was so close just from Phil that it barely took more than four or five strokes before he was coming, toes curling, vision whiting out from pleasure.
Clint came back to reality some time later--he really wasn’t sure how long, but he was wrapped around Natasha, his face pressed against her breasts. “Not that I’m complaining,” he said.
“The bathroom,” she said, before he could finish. “Seems he wanted mouthwash before he goes down on me.”
Clint chuckled. “Good show?”
“You make the funniest faces when someone hits your prostate,” she said, stroking his hair.
“You make silly faces when you come,” he said, but knew it wasn’t much of a comeback. Everyone made silly faces when they came, at least in his experience. He was a little too fucked-out to care.
The door to the bathroom opened, and Phil was back in the bed a moment later. “My turn,” Nat said, and pushed Clint until he rolled off of her and sprawled on his back on his side of the bed.
“You have a plan for me?” Phil asked her. He was still hard, and Clint admired his control for a moment as he watched him roll onto his back.
Nat smiled slowly. “Maybe,” she said, “but I’m open to suggestions.”
“Then I’d highly suggest you on top, because I’ve already done enough work for one evening.”
“I’d watch that,” Clint said.
Nat shivered, and lifted one leg to straddle him, but Phil caught her knee in one hand and said, “A couple things first.” He used her knee to push her onto her back, slowly. “Clint, I think Natasha’s going to need something to hold on to.”
Clint clenched a fist experimentally; his grip strength wasn’t back yet, but Phil probably knew that and maybe he’d go slow for a moment or two. He rolled onto his side and slid an arm beneath Nat’s pillow, giving her both of his hands.
It gave him a fantastic view down her body, too; he watched Phil bury his face in her breasts and then admit, in a low tone, “I’ve wanted to do that for a while.”
“Her rack is pretty amazing,” Clint said, agreeing, and then: “Oh my god, you’re dirty-talking her.”
“She gets off on it more than you do,” Phil said, looking up at him. “Now either make yourself useful or hush.”
Clint sucked in a breath at that, and Phil smiled. “And you get off on being ordered around more than she does.”
It was true, and usually resulted in Nat ordering him to talk dirty to her, making both of them happy, but how had he--? Never mind. He squeezed her hands, and watched Phil alternate between sucking on her nipples and describing what he was doing in filthy-hot detail.
“You have lovely breasts, you know--so sensitive. I barely have to touch you with my tongue and you writhe under me. If I use my teeth, just lightly, no more than a quick scrape, you arch your back--yes, just like that--so beautiful. And if I suck--oh, you are amazing, aren’t you.”
Clint continued watching as Phil moved down to her navel, and felt Nat tense when he blew hot breath on her. “You okay?” Clint murmured, and she nodded, clenching his hands.
Phil looked up, eyes dark in the dim light, and said, “Your turn to talk, Clint.”
“Fuck,” he said, and swallowed before saying, “Jesus, Nat, it’s hot watching him eat you out. Maybe more so because I know where that tongue has been; I know what he was doing half an hour ago.” His dick, which was definitely out of commission for the rest of the evening, tried to take an interest in the current situation and failed, but left him with a fizz of arousal in the base of his spine. “I can only see one of his hands--is the other one in you, or just under you?”
Nat nodded and then shook her head, letting out a quiet moan.
“Ah. In you. Is he licking around his fingers, or fucking you with them?” Clint raised his head just a little. “Oh, he’s definitely fucking you with his fingers. And by the way you’re squirming, he probably went straight for the g-spot. Which means, ‘cause, shit, it’s Phil, that you were soaking wet by the time he got down there.”
She glared at him.
“Don’t give me that look. It’s fucking awesome that just by watching Phil pound me into the goddamn mattress, you practically drenched the sheets.” He pushed himself up enough to kiss her, tongue sweeping against hers. “Who did you want to be,” he breathed against her lips, “the one doing the pounding or the one getting pounded?”
He couldn’t be eloquent or poetic like Phil, but damned if he didn’t know how to get the job done. Well, almost done: she jerked under his hands, but wasn’t quite there yet.
“And then, when you recover from his tongue, you get to push him on his back and ride his dick ‘til you both explode, and you know the best part? He’ll totally let you push him around--but just for this.”
Yeah, he knew where all of her buttons were--well, no, not all, but definitely enough. Of course, it was probably more Phil’s mouth on her clit and his fingers in her cunt that had done it, but she came anyway, straining off the bed, heels locked behind Phil’s back, crying out wordlessly.
Clint watched avidly, and saw, out of the corner of his eye, that Phil was watching, too, propped up on one elbow, his hand still moving slowly.
Natasha was beautiful; no one would deny that. But not many people got to see her lose control for real, rather than the faked version she would give if the situation needed it. This, as it had been the last time they’d fucked, was real--this panting, shuddering mess was her, as many shields dropped as she ever could.
He ached just watching her, and turned to Phil, who was tracing circles on her hip with his index finger. “Yeah,” Clint said, when he looked up. “This is real.”
And somewhere between his brain and Phil’s and Nat’s ears, the words turned on him and started meaning something different, because he’d meant this is solid, this is actual, this is happening, but after he said them, they meant . . . something else.
Fuck it, he loved both of them, and Natasha was going to make so much fun of him because--and he heard her voice in his head--love is for children. She’d said it multiple times when laughing at targets who made fools of themselves for other people, but he didn’t care. He untangled himself from her hands and slid over toward the middle of the bed and said, “Nat, I think it’s about time for you to blow his mind.”
“Hm,” she said, propping herself up on one elbow. Phil pulled his knees under him, so he was kneeling between her thighs. A moment later she’d flipped him, landing, oh, maybe an inch from Clint’s arm, holding a condom packet between her fingers.
“My mind’s not blown yet,” Phil said, affable as ever, but his hands were shaking slightly as he reached for Nat’s hips.
Clint narrowed his eyes and looked--had she tripped a landmine?--but no, he really was just that turned on.
Natasha didn’t say anything, just smirked as she ripped the foil packet open and rolled it onto Phil, handing the wrapper to Clint. He tossed it in the trash can--nothing but net--and watched Nat lift up onto the balls of her feet, hands braced on the mattress by Phil’s shoulders. Leaning forward until her lips touched his, she rolled her hips, settling against him. She sat up slowly, taking him in, nothing but pleasure on her face, until her ass met his hips.
“Давно бы так,” Phil said, and Nat laughed.
It’s about time, Clint mentally translated. And damn, it was. She wasn’t moving yet, so he reached out a hand and stroked his fingertips down her side.
She grabbed his hand and put it back on his chest with a glare, although it was a bare shadow of her usual. He grinned at her, and she shook her head and turned her attention back to Phil.
“Still not blown--ah!” he said, his hands finding her waist as she raised herself up.
Clint watched the muscles in her thighs and hips for a couple minutes, as they flexed and bunched. He wanted to touch, wanted to run his hands over her as she rode Phil, wanted to sit behind her and cup her breasts as she moved, but they hadn’t discussed it. Next time, maybe. She’d essentially ordered him to keep his hands to himself, so he rolled onto his side, propping his head up with one hand.
He didn’t confine himself to watching Nat only; he’d seen her on top before, although from a slightly different perspective, and while it was a good show, it wasn’t the only show. Phil was gripping her hips almost tightly enough to bruise, his fingers denting into her skin. “Tasha,” he said, gasping; he’d lost his pleasantly-blank mask, his eyebrows drawn together and beads of sweat forming on his upper lip.
If Clint had to guess, he’d have said that Phil was about three-quarters of the way there, and judging by the look on Nat’s face, she was determined to get him the rest of the way as soon as possible. Well. He could help with that, if she’d let him. “Nat, still hands-off?” he said, watching a bead of sweat slide down Phil’s temple.
“No,” she said, and there was a hitch in her voice that he liked. Phil apparently liked it too, judging by the small, pained noise he made.
Clint smiled as he fit himself to Phil’s side, biting his earlobe briefly as he kissed down the side of Phil’s face to his neck. “What are you watching,” he asked, “her breasts or her face?”
“You know--the answer,” Phil ground out.
Clint huffed out a short laugh. Yeah, he did--her face, even though Nat’s breasts were essentially perfect, round and full and, well, bouncing. He licked a drop of sweat off the side of Phil’s neck, pulled back enough to eyeball where exactly the line of his collar would hit, and bit ever so slightly below it.
“If you leave--a mark,” Phil said, gasping, “I’ll make you--do all of Tasha’s--paperwork.”
“Want me to stop?”
“No.”
It was just as clearly an order as ever, so Clint backed off the suction and added more tongue. His nose ended up buried behind Phil’s ear, which was just fine with him. Phil smelled good, like soap and sweat and sex, and a little like him and a little like Nat, which was the best part. He inhaled again, and hummed against Phil’s skin, feeling him tense more.
Phil groaned, and Clint spread a hand on his chest, wanting to feel it. He missed the vibrations, but could feel Phil’s heartbeat thudding against his fingertips. Smiling, he rubbed his palm over Phil’s chest, the short hairs there rough against his skin, and slid his hand downward.
Nat’s breasts suddenly appeared, one hand planting itself above Phil’s shoulder opposite Clint. “Move,” she said, and he scooted backward enough to let her plant her other hand on the mattress. She didn’t stop moving, even though her hair was falling in her face, but said, “Clint, make yourself useful.”
He knew what that meant, and pressed his hand between them, finding where Phil’s dick disappeared inside of her. Brushing the edge of the condom briefly, he pushed the pad of his thumb against her clit. “Are you going to come when she does?” he asked Phil, listening to Nat gasp.
“I don’t know,” Phil said. “I’m close.” And he sounded close, too, his breath harsh gasps in Clint’s ears; looked close, the tendons in his neck standing out.
Clint pressed his mouth to Phil’s shoulder so he didn’t say anything, didn’t blurt out how amazing he thought Phil looked, how much he wanted to see him come. He pulled in a breath through his nose and rubbed Nat’s clit a little faster, looking up at her. She was close, too--he could tell by the way her thighs were quivering and by the not-quite-wince on her face. Just a little bit more, and--
She twitched, huffing a series of short breaths through her mouth, and ground herself down against Clint’s hand and against Phil as she came, making a noise that Clint would have called a ‘whimper’ if he hadn’t thought that associating that noise to her would have gotten him a punch to the arm. He kept touching her, knowing better than to stop until she told him to, and when she grabbed his shoulder he pulled his hand out from between them and licked his thumb, still watching them.
Phil groaned, and Nat leaned down a few more inches, her lips almost touching Phil’s. “Come on, Phil,” she said, her voice rougher than usual. “Come for us.”
Clint backed up to watch as Phil grabbed her hips, pushing his shoulders against the bed. He thrust up into her only maybe a half dozen times before he shuddered, mouth open, back arching, coming. He sighed and held Natasha down against him for a moment, arms coming up to wrap around her back. A few last tremors went through him before he relaxed, hauling in deep breaths.
Clint closed back in, unable to stay away, unable to keep his hands off of either of them, trailing his fingers through the sheen of sweat on Nat’s back, kissing Phil’s shoulder. He slung one foot over to tangle with theirs and listened to the whirr of the heater, still tracing lines on Nat’s skin and Phil’s, where he could reach it. He shoved everything he wanted to say, about how gorgeous they both were, how much he loved them both, how much he never wanted this night to end, down so far that his throat hurt, but he ignored that.
It wasn’t more than a few breaths later that Phil lifted Nat off of him and rolled out of bed, disappearing into the bathroom again with a quiet word of apology. Clint watched him go, and the center of his palms ached with the need to touch.
When the door closed, cutting off Clint’s view of Phil’s ass, he found Nat looking at him, and rolled into her side to whisper in her ear, “We’re not letting him get away this time.”
“Of course not,” she breathed back, and said in a normal voice, “Ew. You’re sticky.”
“I’ll shower in the morning,” he said, shrugging. “You’re not exactly fresh as a daisy, yourself.” Not that it was much of a complaint; he was still more than willing to cup her ass and find the curve of her hip and waist.
Nat rolled her eyes, but didn’t pull away.
Phil came out of the bathroom again and headed for the bed, settling himself on the edge. He looked like he was about to say something, so Clint headed him off at the pass, saying, “So, was that good for you?”
Phil raised an eyebrow at Clint and said, “What do you think?”
“I think it was fucking amazing for all of us,” he said, and it was a little too honest, so he added, “And you’re denying me my rightful afterglow enjoyment, so get over here.”
Phil chuckled and reached over to turn the light off; Clint waited a moment for his senses to re-orient. He heard Nat say, “Here, let me--” and then a rustling noise, and then Phil was in the middle, skin a little cool from his trip out of bed.
Clint wrapped himself around Phil’s right side, and Nat mirrored him on the left, pulling the blankets up over them. “You know we’re not letting you run off, right?” Clint said, and goddamn it, he had to stop sounding so needy.
“Not if you’re that good with your tongue,” Natasha said.
Phil sighed, but didn’t tense under Clint’s cheek. “If this starts interfering in any way--”
“It won’t,” she said.
“I mean, shit, how long have Nat and and I been sleeping together?” Clint said, fighting back a yawn.
“Four years, six months, and about five days,” Phil said, his hand coming up to rest on Clint’s back.
Clint thought for a moment, and laughed. “Yeah, okay. But see? It hasn’t fucked everything up.”
“No. No, it hasn’t.”
And it sounded so--warm, and so final, that Clint just had to say something else, had to have the last word. “So, morning sex?”
“Don’t push your luck, Barton.”
Nat just laughed.
Fandom: Marvel Cinematic (Avengers) Universe
Summary: Clint, Natasha, and Coulson get snowed in at a hotel. With only one bed, of course.
Relationship/Characters: Clint/Natasha/Coulson
Rating: NC-17. Very.
Content Advisory: No content normally needing advising, to my knowledge.
Word Count: 6000
Notes: For boosette. Thanks to adorb_eggplant for listening to me whine about having to think about other people's sex faces, and for making random, uninformed choices ("a, b, or c?") to help me determine random elements in the fic.
Assume it's set somewhere between IM2 and Avengers. *shrugs*
--
“This is a joke,” Clint said, flipping through the folder Agent Coulson had provided him. “Please tell me this is a joke. Although, seriously, if this is SHIELD’s idea of a joke, I’m not laughing.”
“What makes you think this is a joke, Agent Barton?” Coulson asked, pleasant as ever.
“Because only someone with the worst sense of humor would send me there.”
There was Clinton Falls, Minnesota, a town notable for, well, nothing. With fewer than five hundred residents, it was a good hour from anywhere notable in the state. Except maybe the Spam Museum, and really? A museum dedicated to Spam?
“We need your expertise,” Coulson said.
“It doesn’t appear that you need mine,” Natasha said, tapping her nails on the table next to her copy of the folder.
“Yes, we do,” Coulson said, and Natasha tilted her head to one side.
“What expertise?” Clint asked.
“You’re from the area.”
“If by ‘the area’ you mean ‘a small town in an entirely different state,’ then yeah, sure,” Clint said, and crossed his arms over his chest.
Coulson wrote down a couple words on a piece of paper and slid the paper in front of Clint. “Pronounce that for me,” he said.
“Albert Lea,” Clint said, the second word as if it were spelled ‘Lee.’
“And that’s why you’re going.” Coulson stood, and held out his hand for both folders.
Clint frowned. “Doesn’t everyone know that?”
Natasha shrugged. “I did.”
“Yeah, but you know everything,” Clint said. “Oh, crap.” He buried his face in his hands. “Why me.” It wasn’t even a question anymore.
Coulson smiled.
* * *
Twelve hours later he’d shot two men and a side of bacon. He felt sorry about the bacon, but not the men; inexplicably, they were part of a terrorist cell trying to infiltrate the country. Why they’d decided to set up camp in Minnesota in January in a warehouse owned by a pork processing plant, Clint had no idea. Maybe they liked ham. But the two most annoying were now dead, another four were in the custody of the Minnesota State Troopers, Natasha had retrieved a USB key full of data, and everything was fine.
Well, except the weather.
“I’m afraid we’re on our own for the night,” Coulson said, after a rather lengthy and heated--well, heated for Coulson, which meant he frowned once--phone call. “There’s a Holiday Inn just on the other side of the 35.”
“Holiday Inn?” Natasha said, her lip curling. She wasn’t shivering, even though the warehouse was barely heated. Neither was Coulson.
“It’s just 35,” Clint said, huddled in on himself and wishing he’d brought a better coat, “or I-35 if you want to get picky. We’re in the Midwest. And how long did you live in California?”
“Long enough,” Coulson said. “Agent Romanoff, if you’d like to drive to Rochester or the Twin Cities to find a hotel that meets your standards, you’re welcome to, but I’m given to understand that the area will be getting approximately ten inches of snow before the storm is done, and that may make travel difficult in the near future.”
“You make a good argument,” Natasha said, and followed him to the car.
It took them nearly a half hour to make it the two miles to the hotel, creeping carefully in the rental car. Coulson left the car running while he went inside to get rooms for them, and came back ten minutes later with a single paper folder. “I had a choice between this room and finding another hotel,” he said. “We can be adults and share a room or we can drive up the street to the Best Western and try our luck there.”
“What’s going on here that’s using up so many hotel rooms?” Clint asked.
“Something about dairy farming,” Coulson said, and shrugged. “I asked, but the clerk didn’t seem to know much about it.”
“All right,” Natasha said. “I want a shower. I’m still covered in pig’s blood.” She shot a dirty look at Clint, who refrained from making a Carrie joke, although it was close.
The room had a single bed, a king-size, and Clint stretched out on it, kicking his shoes off, while Natasha showered and Coulson sat at the desk with his laptop, trying to get an internet connection. “The cable’s out,” Clint pointed out, having turned the TV on and off in disgust. “I doubt you’ll get internet.”
Phil held up a hockey-puck-sized black thing and said, “This should obviate that problem, but hasn’t so far. I may have to have words with its creator.”
Tony Stark, Clint translated, and chuckled. He linked his fingers behind his head and stared up at the ceiling until Nat got out of the shower and walked into the main room, her hair plastered against her head, the towel hiding just barely enough.
Clint wolf-whistled, and she flipped him the bird, shaking her head, as she grabbed a set of clothes and dropped the towel to put them on. He watched idly; it wasn’t as if he hadn’t seen her nude before, and she was hot. It was worth a watch.
Not, of course, that she was dressing in any sort of way that indicated that she wanted anyone to watch; she just shimmied into underwear, a t-shirt, and pajama pants and then went to put the towel back before she sprawled on the bed next to Clint. “Your turn,” she said, poking him in the arm, and it wasn’t an offer.
“Okay.” Who was he to say no to hot water and, if he was lucky, a massaging showerhead? He pulled his shirt over his head as he walked into the bathroom.
It wasn’t, unfortunately, a massaging showerhead, but the water pressure was still good and the water was hot. He enjoyed it for a few minutes, and then got out, brushed his teeth, and used the towel to dry his hair.
Unlike Natasha, he didn’t bother wrapping a towel around his waist when he walked over to his bag and dug out his sleep clothing, and unlike him, Natasha didn’t do anything as crude as whistle. She was watching, though, even though it looked like she was reading. He knew.
And, if he wasn’t mistaken, Coulson was using the reflections off of the mirror and the TV to watch him as well.
Hmm.
He grabbed his own book--yes, he could read--and went back to the bed, lying down opposite Natasha. He rested on his stomach with his head at the foot of the bed, and tucked his bare toes under her upper arm. She grumbled but didn’t cut his foot off, so he figured it was okay. Slowly, and with no visible attention anywhere other than his book, he tensed his foot in a variation on Morse code that they’d used between them a hundred times before. He watched me.
Me too, she signaled back, tensing just her triceps in what was actually a reasonably impressive feat of control. I have this.
OK, he returned.
In response, she tucked her bare--and ice cold--toes under his arm, and he yelped.
A few minutes later, Coulson shut the laptop with a quiet sigh, and said, “My turn.” Unlike either Clint or Natasha, he remembered to bring his pajamas into the bathroom with him, and when he finished, he came out fully dressed, even with fresh socks, hair neatly combed.
Clint tensed his toes under Natasha’s arm but just said, “Bedtime, boss?”
They’d long ago negotiated the arrangements if it was the three of them in a bed: Clint by the window, Coulson by the door, and Natasha in the middle, not as a barrier between the men but because she was the only one who didn’t kick when she had nightmares. Clint made sure that his bow was on the chair next to his side of the bed, tucked a knife between the mattress and the springs, checked to see that Natasha’s weapon collection wouldn’t leave bruises, and punched his pillow into shape.
Natasha did roughly the same, and Coulson hit the overhead light before joining them. He was reaching over to turn off the bedside lamp when Natasha did--something; Clint didn’t see quite what, but the end result was Natasha pinned to the bed, Coulson’s arm at her throat. “Natasha, what the hell,” he said, tone still resolutely even, but he was breathing a little faster than usual.
“Op’s over,” Natasha said. “You filed your paperwork. We’re stuck here overnight. There’s only one bed. We’d both prefer you take advantage of that.”
Coulson--Phil, Clint supposed--sat back on his heels, his knees still on either side of her hips. He slanted a glance at Clint, who tried to look as encouraging as he could, and then looked back down. “Tasha, I can’t,” he said. “You know that, and you know why.”
“It’s safe to say neither of us gives a flying fuck,” Clint said. Natasha turned to glare at him, and he closed his mouth.
She looked up at Phil and said something in--well, it almost sounded like Russian, but he only caught about one in every three words, and most of them were articles or pronouns. It was probably a dialect or something.
Phil let his breath out slowly, and said, a long moment later, “Нет.”
Clint understood that one--no--and although it was a negative, Natasha reacted as if it were the correct answer; she surged up and kissed Phil, one hand behind his head and the other signaling Clint to wait.
He could wait. Hell, it wasn’t anywhere near a hardship to watch Phil and Nat kiss. True, he’d rather be peeling those godawful plaid flannel pajamas off Phil, or sliding his fingers under Nat’s t-shirt to see if her skin was still warm from her shower, but if he had to lay back here and watch Phil’s hands go up her shirt, he was okay with that. He was okay with watching them fuck, if it came to that, but he’d really rather be involved.
Because, Jesus, how often did he get what could turn into a chance to touch Phil? Almost never. Twice, to be exact: that undercover op in West Hollywood, and then two months ago, when all three of them had fallen into bed like they were right now.
Well, not exactly like they were right now; that had started with Clint and Phil and what probably could have been written off as post-op adrenaline until Nat had taken it upon herself to join in. But Clint wasn’t going to complain about pointless differences, as long as he got to--oh, hey, that was the hand-sign for now.
He sat up, leaned forward, and ran a hand down Phil’s back, from collar to waistband. Phil turned, and then they were kissing, or wrestling, or maybe a little of both; Clint was bigger and likely stronger but he was perfectly okay with letting Phil win. Or at least that was what he told himself when he ended up flat on his back, Phil’s hands on his shoulders. He hitched his hips up into Phil’s and groaned against Phil’s mouth.
Phil broke the kiss briefly to say, “Tasha, I’d suggest using this time to strip,” in his most benign tone, and she did. Well, he assumed. He was too busy to watch, being driven out of his mind by the fact that he couldn’t both kiss Phil and undo the buttons on his pajama top.
At least, not successfully, but it turned out not to matter, because Natasha did it for him, Phil’s hands leaving his shoulders one at a time to strip off the sleeves. When they returned, it was to the mattress on either side of Clint’s head, and Phil held himself up in the air for a moment so Natasha could strip off his pants and underwear.
Well, that was what Clint assumed had happened, as some interesting shifts happened as Phil started biting on that spot on his neck, the one that was guaranteed to drive him wild, and then all of a sudden, Clint was the only one wearing any clothes in the bed.
When Phil let up for a moment, breath still warm against Clint’s skin, Clint sat up and frowned.
“Yes,” Nat said, and she was lying on her side, mouthwateringly gorgeous au naturel. “You’re still wearing clothes, and that’s not okay.”
Phil chuckled, and sat back on his heels again, allowing Clint to get up and strip off his pajamas in record time. He dove back onto the bed, and ahh, there it was: Nat’s soft skin and firm curves and Phil’s wiry angles. He kissed Nat, cupping her breast in one hand, as he pulled Phil back on top of him. “My turn first?” he said to her.
She shrugged. “If you insist.”
“You got him first last time.” Well, she’d gotten him inside her first, which was what counted here.
She thought about it for a moment, and then said, “Make it worth my while.” She smiled at Clint, all challenge.
He grinned back. “Oh, it will be.”
“Do I get a say in the matter?” Phil asked.
“Sure,” Clint said, and licked his lips.
Phil paused. “Lacking a more imperative plan, we’ll go with yours.” He leaned down to kiss Clint, lips warm, hands finding Clint’s wrists.
Clint hadn’t forgotten last time; two months wasn’t enough to dull a memory as vivid as that. He remembered everything, from the bullet scar on Phil’s shoulder--shiny now; still red and healing then--to the way Phil smelled, the way he kissed, the way he touched Clint’s face gently with his fingertips before settling his palm against his jaw.
And the way he took control of the situation effortlessly.
“Face down,” Phil said, sliding off Clint gracefully to stand at the side of the bed. “If you’re okay with that.”
Somehow he could make the order sound like a question and the question like an order, and Clint just nodded. Face down was good. He liked face down. He rolled over onto his stomach and said, “Like this, or hands and knees?”
“Up on your knees but down on your forearms.”
Well, okay, then. He shifted his weight onto his arms and pulled his knees under him. “This good?”
“Very,” Phil said, and Clint turned his head enough to see his face.
Truthfully, if he hadn’t known the man as well as he did, he might have thought that Phil was mildly interested in the sight before him. His eyebrows were raised, and the corners of his mouth were turned up, maybe slightly more than his usual. Comparatively, though, he was pretty much transfixed, and it made Clint feel a tad squirmy inside. He buried his face back into the pillow and concentrated on the hand tracing a line down his spine.
And then the tongue, which--
Clint groaned. Oh, sweet Jesus, he loved getting rimmed, and damn was Phil good at it. Which, to be fair, he could have guessed; he’d watched Nat turn into a shuddering mess last time and had been jealous of both of them.
Well, it was his turn now: his turn to--ohhh--be turned into a pile of goo. If, of course, a pile of goo could be hard as a fucking rock and--was that a finger? Yes, it was, and he’d warmed up the lube--well, no, probably Nat did, now that he thought of it. Not that it was easy to think--no, it was getting more difficult by the moment, as Phil did things with his tongue and fingers that were probably illegal but oh god they felt so good.
Two fingers, and Clint thought he was going to die. It was good that his face was buried in the mattress; he was normally capable of being pretty damn quiet, but oh god not with Phil grazing his prostate in some sort of pattern that made sense only to him. He dug his fingers into the sheet and tried not to sound needy as he groaned into the bed.
Three fingers, and Clint knew he was going to die. He shuddered and thought about snaking a hand down to grab his dick, but that probably wouldn’t go over all that well. “Oh, god, fuck me now,” he said, sucking in a breath, and his voice sounded ragged even to his ears.
“I’ll fuck you when you’re ready,” Phil said, which made Clint shudder again.
He thought about protesting, trying to convince Phil that he was ready, but really, by that point he was smart enough to know that it wouldn’t go over well. Instead, he just groaned more and pushed back against Phil’s fingers.
Eventually--about twenty hours later, if you asked his dick--Phil pulled his fingers out, leaving Clint with a weird empty feeling. “Finally,” he said to the bedsheet.
Phil chuckled quietly, and said, “Tasha, if you could--?”
Clint heard a brief foil-tearing noise and then a quiet, “Thanks,” before Phil stroked his hip and said, “You good?”
He pushed up on his forearms enough to look back and say, “I’ve been good for about two weeks now.”
“More than that, I think,” Phil said, tone light, but he gripped Clint’s hip in one hand and started pushing in--slowly, so slowly.
Clint’s head dropped. Fuck, it was intense. It was always intense, but it was Phil, and he’d wanted this, wanted more, for months, if not years. He concentrated on breathing, in through his nose, out through his mouth, and pushing back.
“Okay?” Phil asked, stilling.
Clint felt fingers on his arm--Nat’s, he was pretty sure. He turned his head to the side and said, “Yeah. Yeah, I’m fine. Don’t stop.”
Nat’s face was about three or four inches from his and he smiled at her as best he could. She smiled back, and pushed her fingers through his hair--fingers that were covered in lube, thanks a lot, although his hair was so sweaty that it really didn’t make much of a difference at this point. “He’s fine,” she said. “He can take a lot more than that.”
“Good,” Phil said, and there was an edge of darkness to his tone that ohhh, Clint liked. He liked it a lot.
Nat liked it too, he guessed, by the way she dug her nails into Clint’s arm briefly before settling back on her side of the bed, but he didn’t register anything after that because Phil started moving again and--oh god.
Clint lost track of time; it was pleasure and the finest edge of pain and Phil, oh god, Phil. It was Phil’s hands on his hips and Phil’s knees between his and Phil’s dick in his ass. Clint gasped and moaned and begged and probably said all sorts of things he should be embarrassed by later but god, Phil was fucking him and who could have control in that situation? No one with any sense.
A hand closed around his dick, and he was so close just from Phil that it barely took more than four or five strokes before he was coming, toes curling, vision whiting out from pleasure.
Clint came back to reality some time later--he really wasn’t sure how long, but he was wrapped around Natasha, his face pressed against her breasts. “Not that I’m complaining,” he said.
“The bathroom,” she said, before he could finish. “Seems he wanted mouthwash before he goes down on me.”
Clint chuckled. “Good show?”
“You make the funniest faces when someone hits your prostate,” she said, stroking his hair.
“You make silly faces when you come,” he said, but knew it wasn’t much of a comeback. Everyone made silly faces when they came, at least in his experience. He was a little too fucked-out to care.
The door to the bathroom opened, and Phil was back in the bed a moment later. “My turn,” Nat said, and pushed Clint until he rolled off of her and sprawled on his back on his side of the bed.
“You have a plan for me?” Phil asked her. He was still hard, and Clint admired his control for a moment as he watched him roll onto his back.
Nat smiled slowly. “Maybe,” she said, “but I’m open to suggestions.”
“Then I’d highly suggest you on top, because I’ve already done enough work for one evening.”
“I’d watch that,” Clint said.
Nat shivered, and lifted one leg to straddle him, but Phil caught her knee in one hand and said, “A couple things first.” He used her knee to push her onto her back, slowly. “Clint, I think Natasha’s going to need something to hold on to.”
Clint clenched a fist experimentally; his grip strength wasn’t back yet, but Phil probably knew that and maybe he’d go slow for a moment or two. He rolled onto his side and slid an arm beneath Nat’s pillow, giving her both of his hands.
It gave him a fantastic view down her body, too; he watched Phil bury his face in her breasts and then admit, in a low tone, “I’ve wanted to do that for a while.”
“Her rack is pretty amazing,” Clint said, agreeing, and then: “Oh my god, you’re dirty-talking her.”
“She gets off on it more than you do,” Phil said, looking up at him. “Now either make yourself useful or hush.”
Clint sucked in a breath at that, and Phil smiled. “And you get off on being ordered around more than she does.”
It was true, and usually resulted in Nat ordering him to talk dirty to her, making both of them happy, but how had he--? Never mind. He squeezed her hands, and watched Phil alternate between sucking on her nipples and describing what he was doing in filthy-hot detail.
“You have lovely breasts, you know--so sensitive. I barely have to touch you with my tongue and you writhe under me. If I use my teeth, just lightly, no more than a quick scrape, you arch your back--yes, just like that--so beautiful. And if I suck--oh, you are amazing, aren’t you.”
Clint continued watching as Phil moved down to her navel, and felt Nat tense when he blew hot breath on her. “You okay?” Clint murmured, and she nodded, clenching his hands.
Phil looked up, eyes dark in the dim light, and said, “Your turn to talk, Clint.”
“Fuck,” he said, and swallowed before saying, “Jesus, Nat, it’s hot watching him eat you out. Maybe more so because I know where that tongue has been; I know what he was doing half an hour ago.” His dick, which was definitely out of commission for the rest of the evening, tried to take an interest in the current situation and failed, but left him with a fizz of arousal in the base of his spine. “I can only see one of his hands--is the other one in you, or just under you?”
Nat nodded and then shook her head, letting out a quiet moan.
“Ah. In you. Is he licking around his fingers, or fucking you with them?” Clint raised his head just a little. “Oh, he’s definitely fucking you with his fingers. And by the way you’re squirming, he probably went straight for the g-spot. Which means, ‘cause, shit, it’s Phil, that you were soaking wet by the time he got down there.”
She glared at him.
“Don’t give me that look. It’s fucking awesome that just by watching Phil pound me into the goddamn mattress, you practically drenched the sheets.” He pushed himself up enough to kiss her, tongue sweeping against hers. “Who did you want to be,” he breathed against her lips, “the one doing the pounding or the one getting pounded?”
He couldn’t be eloquent or poetic like Phil, but damned if he didn’t know how to get the job done. Well, almost done: she jerked under his hands, but wasn’t quite there yet.
“And then, when you recover from his tongue, you get to push him on his back and ride his dick ‘til you both explode, and you know the best part? He’ll totally let you push him around--but just for this.”
Yeah, he knew where all of her buttons were--well, no, not all, but definitely enough. Of course, it was probably more Phil’s mouth on her clit and his fingers in her cunt that had done it, but she came anyway, straining off the bed, heels locked behind Phil’s back, crying out wordlessly.
Clint watched avidly, and saw, out of the corner of his eye, that Phil was watching, too, propped up on one elbow, his hand still moving slowly.
Natasha was beautiful; no one would deny that. But not many people got to see her lose control for real, rather than the faked version she would give if the situation needed it. This, as it had been the last time they’d fucked, was real--this panting, shuddering mess was her, as many shields dropped as she ever could.
He ached just watching her, and turned to Phil, who was tracing circles on her hip with his index finger. “Yeah,” Clint said, when he looked up. “This is real.”
And somewhere between his brain and Phil’s and Nat’s ears, the words turned on him and started meaning something different, because he’d meant this is solid, this is actual, this is happening, but after he said them, they meant . . . something else.
Fuck it, he loved both of them, and Natasha was going to make so much fun of him because--and he heard her voice in his head--love is for children. She’d said it multiple times when laughing at targets who made fools of themselves for other people, but he didn’t care. He untangled himself from her hands and slid over toward the middle of the bed and said, “Nat, I think it’s about time for you to blow his mind.”
“Hm,” she said, propping herself up on one elbow. Phil pulled his knees under him, so he was kneeling between her thighs. A moment later she’d flipped him, landing, oh, maybe an inch from Clint’s arm, holding a condom packet between her fingers.
“My mind’s not blown yet,” Phil said, affable as ever, but his hands were shaking slightly as he reached for Nat’s hips.
Clint narrowed his eyes and looked--had she tripped a landmine?--but no, he really was just that turned on.
Natasha didn’t say anything, just smirked as she ripped the foil packet open and rolled it onto Phil, handing the wrapper to Clint. He tossed it in the trash can--nothing but net--and watched Nat lift up onto the balls of her feet, hands braced on the mattress by Phil’s shoulders. Leaning forward until her lips touched his, she rolled her hips, settling against him. She sat up slowly, taking him in, nothing but pleasure on her face, until her ass met his hips.
“Давно бы так,” Phil said, and Nat laughed.
It’s about time, Clint mentally translated. And damn, it was. She wasn’t moving yet, so he reached out a hand and stroked his fingertips down her side.
She grabbed his hand and put it back on his chest with a glare, although it was a bare shadow of her usual. He grinned at her, and she shook her head and turned her attention back to Phil.
“Still not blown--ah!” he said, his hands finding her waist as she raised herself up.
Clint watched the muscles in her thighs and hips for a couple minutes, as they flexed and bunched. He wanted to touch, wanted to run his hands over her as she rode Phil, wanted to sit behind her and cup her breasts as she moved, but they hadn’t discussed it. Next time, maybe. She’d essentially ordered him to keep his hands to himself, so he rolled onto his side, propping his head up with one hand.
He didn’t confine himself to watching Nat only; he’d seen her on top before, although from a slightly different perspective, and while it was a good show, it wasn’t the only show. Phil was gripping her hips almost tightly enough to bruise, his fingers denting into her skin. “Tasha,” he said, gasping; he’d lost his pleasantly-blank mask, his eyebrows drawn together and beads of sweat forming on his upper lip.
If Clint had to guess, he’d have said that Phil was about three-quarters of the way there, and judging by the look on Nat’s face, she was determined to get him the rest of the way as soon as possible. Well. He could help with that, if she’d let him. “Nat, still hands-off?” he said, watching a bead of sweat slide down Phil’s temple.
“No,” she said, and there was a hitch in her voice that he liked. Phil apparently liked it too, judging by the small, pained noise he made.
Clint smiled as he fit himself to Phil’s side, biting his earlobe briefly as he kissed down the side of Phil’s face to his neck. “What are you watching,” he asked, “her breasts or her face?”
“You know--the answer,” Phil ground out.
Clint huffed out a short laugh. Yeah, he did--her face, even though Nat’s breasts were essentially perfect, round and full and, well, bouncing. He licked a drop of sweat off the side of Phil’s neck, pulled back enough to eyeball where exactly the line of his collar would hit, and bit ever so slightly below it.
“If you leave--a mark,” Phil said, gasping, “I’ll make you--do all of Tasha’s--paperwork.”
“Want me to stop?”
“No.”
It was just as clearly an order as ever, so Clint backed off the suction and added more tongue. His nose ended up buried behind Phil’s ear, which was just fine with him. Phil smelled good, like soap and sweat and sex, and a little like him and a little like Nat, which was the best part. He inhaled again, and hummed against Phil’s skin, feeling him tense more.
Phil groaned, and Clint spread a hand on his chest, wanting to feel it. He missed the vibrations, but could feel Phil’s heartbeat thudding against his fingertips. Smiling, he rubbed his palm over Phil’s chest, the short hairs there rough against his skin, and slid his hand downward.
Nat’s breasts suddenly appeared, one hand planting itself above Phil’s shoulder opposite Clint. “Move,” she said, and he scooted backward enough to let her plant her other hand on the mattress. She didn’t stop moving, even though her hair was falling in her face, but said, “Clint, make yourself useful.”
He knew what that meant, and pressed his hand between them, finding where Phil’s dick disappeared inside of her. Brushing the edge of the condom briefly, he pushed the pad of his thumb against her clit. “Are you going to come when she does?” he asked Phil, listening to Nat gasp.
“I don’t know,” Phil said. “I’m close.” And he sounded close, too, his breath harsh gasps in Clint’s ears; looked close, the tendons in his neck standing out.
Clint pressed his mouth to Phil’s shoulder so he didn’t say anything, didn’t blurt out how amazing he thought Phil looked, how much he wanted to see him come. He pulled in a breath through his nose and rubbed Nat’s clit a little faster, looking up at her. She was close, too--he could tell by the way her thighs were quivering and by the not-quite-wince on her face. Just a little bit more, and--
She twitched, huffing a series of short breaths through her mouth, and ground herself down against Clint’s hand and against Phil as she came, making a noise that Clint would have called a ‘whimper’ if he hadn’t thought that associating that noise to her would have gotten him a punch to the arm. He kept touching her, knowing better than to stop until she told him to, and when she grabbed his shoulder he pulled his hand out from between them and licked his thumb, still watching them.
Phil groaned, and Nat leaned down a few more inches, her lips almost touching Phil’s. “Come on, Phil,” she said, her voice rougher than usual. “Come for us.”
Clint backed up to watch as Phil grabbed her hips, pushing his shoulders against the bed. He thrust up into her only maybe a half dozen times before he shuddered, mouth open, back arching, coming. He sighed and held Natasha down against him for a moment, arms coming up to wrap around her back. A few last tremors went through him before he relaxed, hauling in deep breaths.
Clint closed back in, unable to stay away, unable to keep his hands off of either of them, trailing his fingers through the sheen of sweat on Nat’s back, kissing Phil’s shoulder. He slung one foot over to tangle with theirs and listened to the whirr of the heater, still tracing lines on Nat’s skin and Phil’s, where he could reach it. He shoved everything he wanted to say, about how gorgeous they both were, how much he loved them both, how much he never wanted this night to end, down so far that his throat hurt, but he ignored that.
It wasn’t more than a few breaths later that Phil lifted Nat off of him and rolled out of bed, disappearing into the bathroom again with a quiet word of apology. Clint watched him go, and the center of his palms ached with the need to touch.
When the door closed, cutting off Clint’s view of Phil’s ass, he found Nat looking at him, and rolled into her side to whisper in her ear, “We’re not letting him get away this time.”
“Of course not,” she breathed back, and said in a normal voice, “Ew. You’re sticky.”
“I’ll shower in the morning,” he said, shrugging. “You’re not exactly fresh as a daisy, yourself.” Not that it was much of a complaint; he was still more than willing to cup her ass and find the curve of her hip and waist.
Nat rolled her eyes, but didn’t pull away.
Phil came out of the bathroom again and headed for the bed, settling himself on the edge. He looked like he was about to say something, so Clint headed him off at the pass, saying, “So, was that good for you?”
Phil raised an eyebrow at Clint and said, “What do you think?”
“I think it was fucking amazing for all of us,” he said, and it was a little too honest, so he added, “And you’re denying me my rightful afterglow enjoyment, so get over here.”
Phil chuckled and reached over to turn the light off; Clint waited a moment for his senses to re-orient. He heard Nat say, “Here, let me--” and then a rustling noise, and then Phil was in the middle, skin a little cool from his trip out of bed.
Clint wrapped himself around Phil’s right side, and Nat mirrored him on the left, pulling the blankets up over them. “You know we’re not letting you run off, right?” Clint said, and goddamn it, he had to stop sounding so needy.
“Not if you’re that good with your tongue,” Natasha said.
Phil sighed, but didn’t tense under Clint’s cheek. “If this starts interfering in any way--”
“It won’t,” she said.
“I mean, shit, how long have Nat and and I been sleeping together?” Clint said, fighting back a yawn.
“Four years, six months, and about five days,” Phil said, his hand coming up to rest on Clint’s back.
Clint thought for a moment, and laughed. “Yeah, okay. But see? It hasn’t fucked everything up.”
“No. No, it hasn’t.”
And it sounded so--warm, and so final, that Clint just had to say something else, had to have the last word. “So, morning sex?”
“Don’t push your luck, Barton.”
Nat just laughed.