Chapter 3
Natasha had lovely hands.
Fine-boned and graceful, they were the kind of hands that sculptors strove to emulate in their work. Her fingers were long and slender, holding deceptive strength: fingertips callused from years of fighting and pulling triggers.
And right then Clint could feel every. single. ridge.
"It's always such a novelty when you're incoherent," Natasha murmured against his ear, soft breath tickling the fine hairs there. "I think it's the only time when you aren't mouthing off, other than while you sleep."
"No, he does that in his sleep, too," Phil chuckled from the foot of the bed, his voice husky, eyes dark as he watched them move together. Natasha's breasts were pressed against Clint's back, his bound arms trapped between them. She had an arm hooked around her partner's waist while her free hand busied itself between his legs, slender fingers working him open. Both she and Phil were still clothed, watching Clint dissolve into pieces before them.
"You're letting him develop bad habits," Natasha chided. She twisted her wrist and Clint let out a strangled, gurgling whimper. "We were trained to not make any noise while asleep. It could have compromised the missions."
"Thankfully, you aren't sent on those kinds of missions very often, anymore," Phil replied. He moved up the bed to sit next to them, reaching out to stroke Clint's cheek. "Besides, I like it when he makes noise."
Natasha laughed. "I think you're the only one."
Clint moaned lowly, canting his hips up as Natasha's clever fingers stroked unerringly across his prostrate. She fucked him slow and easy for a long while, not pausing until Clint was gasping for breath as he writhed in her arms. She pressed a fond kiss to his temple.
"Shh, lapushka. Are you ready for another? Can you take it?"
Clint arched, a choking wail torn from his throat as Natasha slipped a third finger inside of him without waiting for a response. They all knew that he could take Phil with barely any prep given the right mood (and he was always in the right mood), but that wasn't what tonight was about. That wasn't the purpose of the exercise. While he often liked to reduce Clint to a shaky, boneless mess, Phil was perfectly capable of doing that on his own. He didn't need Natasha to accomplish that.
But Clint needed Natasha, and that was all that mattered.
Phil brushed his thumb across Clint's bottom lip, slipping just the tiniest bit inside his lover's slack mouth. Clint visibly battled to regain some of his senses, tongue flicking out to stroke across the pad of Phil's finger; eyes unfocused and hazy as he struggled to please on instinct.
"Let go, baby," Phil murmured softly. "Just let go. You don't have to do anything. Just let us take care of you."
"Nn...but...please...need--"
"We know, Clint," Natasha murmured softly. "And we'll give it to you. Trust us to give you what you need. Trust us to take care of you."
Clint let out a choking, broken sob, his eyes squeezing tightly shut.
"They left him there, Phil," Nick said as the remnants of Clint's team shuffled off the plane with haggard, guilty eyes. The medics followed behind, rolling Clint out on a gurney. He was deathly pale, his bared arms littered with cuts and burns from shrapnel; a thick bandage wrapped around his temple.
"He went to play decoy and once the mission was done, they abandoned him. It wasn't until after when they radioed in for extraction that we found out they'd left him behind."
Nick was silent for a long moment as Phil struggled to see past the red that blotted his vision. When he was able to regain himself he looked up to find Nick watching him with a carefully blank expression. The Director's eyes were cool.
"Make them look like accidents."
"Please," Clint whispered. "Please...what do you... I want to, just let me..."
"You don't need to do anything for us, lapushka," Natasha said gently. "Just let go."
Clint inhaled a shaky, shuddering breath. He was shivering violently in Natasha's arms, feet pressed flat against the bed, his thighs trembling uncontrollably. His cock pressed against his belly, smearing precome across tan skin with each buck of his hips. Every muscle in his body was taut as he struggled against what they were asking of him, eyelids still pressed together, and Phil exchanged a worried glance with Natasha.
He cupped Clint's jaw in his hand, delicate and careful, as he tilted his lover's head up to press a tender kiss to his lips.
"Trust us," he whispered. "Please."
Clint's eyes fluttered open, agonized and desperately wanting, and Phil could see the events of the failed mission replaying in his lover's gaze. Taking responsibility as a leader, throwing himself in harm's way; laying dazed and in pain and alone as he waited for a rescue that never came. Seeing his men's faces when he was retrieved: guilty for having been caught, but not for leaving him behind.
Clint sucked in a gasping breath of air like he'd just breached the surface of water, tears welling in his eyes as the guards he'd put up ever since the disastrous operation four months ago shattered into pieces around him. His eyes were pleading and vulnerable as he arched up to capture Phil's lips with his own, kissing him with a frantic need he hadn't been allowing himself to feel. Because as much as he was loved and as much as he was wanted, Clint had never been sure about his place with people. He approached them with the wary hopefulness of a kicked dog, hoping that if he pleased them enough, he could stay.
But even the most resilient of pups had their breaking point, and every hurt made trust that much harder to offer again.
'Don't hurt me,' the kiss pleaded, and Phil's lips responded with a firm, 'Never.'