Avengers Fic
So sorry, it has been way too long! I come bearing, gifts, though.
Title: Sex, Death, and Love
Author: mabonwitch
Pairing: Clint/Natasha/Phil
Rating: soft R
Wordcount: ~500
Summary: Sometimes they fuck up, but they always make it better.
Content Notes: H/C, threesome, implied use of sex as a weapon
Author's Notes: My first completed Avenger's fanfic!
He knows how it started, of course, but it still kind of astounded Clint that they're here: Natasha's hair spilling around them as she makes soft, gasping noises, Phil's grip perfect and hard on the back of his neck as he thrusts in. On ops, at home, in bed, the three of them just fit. It's the most perfect thing in Clint's life.
That doesn't mean they don't fuck up. Once, when they had collapsed together in a shivering, fucked out heap, Clint had turned to Natasha and said, "So, still pissed at me about getting shot?" It was supposed to be a joke, but Natasha pulled away so fast, utterly stiff as she stalked out of the room, that it left Clint scrambling. It only took him a minute to put it together, sex and lies and manipulation, and then he'd turned to Phil and said, helpless, "Shit. Shit."
He'd gone after her. Of course he had. They'd fixed it, and Clint never made that mistake again.
Phil was harder to read, naturally, so it took Clint three whole days to realize that something had gone wrong, and another five to track it down. It was surprising, in their line of work, but it turned out that Phil really hated to hear people joking about dying. Especially specialists he handled. (Clint couldn't help the way that was always going to sounds like a dirty joke to him now, he really couldn't.) When Clint had finally pried that out of Phil, the round of make-up sex was intense. Phil gasped into his skin, "I can't, I can't lose you," and Clint whispered back apologies and promises and pleas until they were both a sweaty mess. The fingerprints didn't fade from his waist for a week.
Maybe they were just smarter than him, because somehow Natasha and Phil knew what was going to hit his weak spots before they did it. He knew that because they pinned him to the bed- not playfully, seriously pinned him down- before they told him they loved him. Clint jerked, thrashed, trying to run in a knee-jerk panic. They let him struggle. It took awhile, but eventually he quieted, trembling with adrenaline and fear.
Natasha leaned close, brushing the hair off his forehead. "Shush, Clint," she said lightly. "No getting away." She paused. "I love you." Clint stared at her, shaking with fear.
"Look at me, Clint." Clint turned his gaze reluctantly to Phil, whose weight was still steady on top of him, giving him no leverage. Phil leaned down until his lips were nearly against Clint's. With that eerie sense that he had, Phil must've known Clint was reaching the end of his rope, because he didn't say anything about love. Instead, he just said, "Mine," his voice that utterly even tone he used when he knew something for certain.
"Ours," Natasha corrected, curling against his side.
"Ours," Phil agreed. Something hot uncurled in Clint's chest and he settled. He slept in the middle that night.
It took him a year to say it back to them.
It didn't matter. They got there in the end.
Title: Sex, Death, and Love
Author: mabonwitch
Pairing: Clint/Natasha/Phil
Rating: soft R
Wordcount: ~500
Summary: Sometimes they fuck up, but they always make it better.
Content Notes: H/C, threesome, implied use of sex as a weapon
Author's Notes: My first completed Avenger's fanfic!
He knows how it started, of course, but it still kind of astounded Clint that they're here: Natasha's hair spilling around them as she makes soft, gasping noises, Phil's grip perfect and hard on the back of his neck as he thrusts in. On ops, at home, in bed, the three of them just fit. It's the most perfect thing in Clint's life.
That doesn't mean they don't fuck up. Once, when they had collapsed together in a shivering, fucked out heap, Clint had turned to Natasha and said, "So, still pissed at me about getting shot?" It was supposed to be a joke, but Natasha pulled away so fast, utterly stiff as she stalked out of the room, that it left Clint scrambling. It only took him a minute to put it together, sex and lies and manipulation, and then he'd turned to Phil and said, helpless, "Shit. Shit."
He'd gone after her. Of course he had. They'd fixed it, and Clint never made that mistake again.
Phil was harder to read, naturally, so it took Clint three whole days to realize that something had gone wrong, and another five to track it down. It was surprising, in their line of work, but it turned out that Phil really hated to hear people joking about dying. Especially specialists he handled. (Clint couldn't help the way that was always going to sounds like a dirty joke to him now, he really couldn't.) When Clint had finally pried that out of Phil, the round of make-up sex was intense. Phil gasped into his skin, "I can't, I can't lose you," and Clint whispered back apologies and promises and pleas until they were both a sweaty mess. The fingerprints didn't fade from his waist for a week.
Maybe they were just smarter than him, because somehow Natasha and Phil knew what was going to hit his weak spots before they did it. He knew that because they pinned him to the bed- not playfully, seriously pinned him down- before they told him they loved him. Clint jerked, thrashed, trying to run in a knee-jerk panic. They let him struggle. It took awhile, but eventually he quieted, trembling with adrenaline and fear.
Natasha leaned close, brushing the hair off his forehead. "Shush, Clint," she said lightly. "No getting away." She paused. "I love you." Clint stared at her, shaking with fear.
"Look at me, Clint." Clint turned his gaze reluctantly to Phil, whose weight was still steady on top of him, giving him no leverage. Phil leaned down until his lips were nearly against Clint's. With that eerie sense that he had, Phil must've known Clint was reaching the end of his rope, because he didn't say anything about love. Instead, he just said, "Mine," his voice that utterly even tone he used when he knew something for certain.
"Ours," Natasha corrected, curling against his side.
"Ours," Phil agreed. Something hot uncurled in Clint's chest and he settled. He slept in the middle that night.
It took him a year to say it back to them.
It didn't matter. They got there in the end.