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He loved them, each and both, and at times he couldn't even process it. He would look at them and feel so much love, so much wonder that he knew them, gratitude that they let him love them, incredulity that they loved him back just as much, that he would get restless.
Clint sometimes didn't know what to do with himself. He would feel this restlessness building, this need to for an outlet of what he felt beyond his normal means of outlet.
Times like this, if he had his head screwed on right and work availablility allowed, he would let them know and they would help.
This was one of those times.
The day before, he had mentioned, "Feeling like it might be time to go dancing."
Bucky and Nat didn't react strongly, which made it easier to say every time, merely glancing casually at him and then each other.
"You have an itch?" Bucky asked, as if asking about the weather.
As easy as they made it, that was still basically the end of his ability to talk about it. He just nodded. "Soon," he added. And 'soon' they delivered.
Now, less than 24 hours later, he was dripping sweat, his face red, his breathing course.
You could call the day's work dancing. It was certainly a form of intimate bonding.
But whereas at a party they could tango or Cha Cha for all to see, turning heads, this dance they only ever did in inviolable privacy.
Clint was tied up on his knees, on the floor, kneeling up with his arms strung up above him. His quads were in agony, his glutes were so tired, but he could relax his legs only by letting all his weight hang, which by this point was intolerable on his aching shoulders.
Right at this moment, Bucky was helping him with the predicament, supporting him a little as he was kneeling up right behind him, hips snugged right up to Clint, and one arm wrapped around Clint's waist and the other across his chest. It served to allow Clint to relax a little, sag a little into Bucky's hold, without his body sinking.
Bucky wasn't doing it to give Clint relief, though. It was also part of the sweet torture they had been unfolding on him for hours, to bleed off that certain kind of restlessness. Because Bucky was grinding up behind Clint, clearly enjoying himself from the sounds he wasn't stopping himself from loosing into Clint's neck where his face was pressed. The torment was the tease: Clint wanted Bucky in him, but Bucky wasn't giving him that.
And it was worse: Bucky would alternate between having his arms in that supportive bear hug around Clint's torso (allowing Clint to relax a little while he grinded against Clint's ass) and sliding his hands all over Clint's body.
This was just the latest position, the latest variation of the day. But they had been at this for hours. They would tease him, edge him, back him off, abandon him to give release to each other in front of him. The worst was when they would make him talk.
Bucky started sliding his hands around Clint's chest yet again, tweaking a nipple with metal fingers as he ground up against the crack of Clint's ass.
Bucky grunted quietly into Clint's shoulder, and Clint felt the rush as if Bucky had just moaned Clint's praises, because in Bucky-speak it was basically the equivalent. You're so good, you're so fucking hot, the feel of this body, and it's laid out for me like a feast for dogs, I can't believe I get to have this and I'm never letting go. He didn't have to say it for Clint to hear it.
Clint would say he had never been more hard, more desperate, but because of these two he knew otherwise. Also, Bucky's other hand was caressing a winding path down Clint's abdomen, and Clint couldn't stop thinking where he wanted that hand to go.
Suddenly the sharp pain of teeth clenching on his shoulder got his attention.
"Look at her!" Bucky ordered under his breath. Clint had let his eyes drift down to track Bucky's hand, as if by watching it he could will it to go where he needed it most.
It was disobedience. He knew where his eyes were supposed to be, and he returned them there.
Natasha was reclining in a chair that had been dragged in front of where her boys were kneeling. It may as well have been a throne. She was as naked as they were, her legs splayed wide, her hand sometimes idle, sometimes not. Which it was in a given moment was almost inconsequential, because her eyes never left Clint, and eating the meal of the sight of him was clearly feeding her.
When Clint brought his eyes back to her, she met and held his gaze, and that was the hardest torture of them all. Both for what he saw and what he couldn't hide. He was flayed alive, completely exposed under her gaze, and a part of him couldn't handle it, had to bury his head, avert his eyes. Only the strong body pressed to his back kept him from shutting his eyes, giving him the strength to take it.
She was drinking in the sight of them as if surveying her kingdom, imperious and absolute. She was looking at Clint as if he was the most precious thing in her domain.
"Speak," she said. How was her voice so even? How was it not broken across heaving breaths like his would be?
Returning her gaze was already taking everything in him. He couldn't fathom opening his mouth and making words come out.
She frowned and Bucky moved his hand, made Clint gasp and moan.
"Speak."
"I--" Clint's breathing had been heavy and ragged before, and now it was getting irregular. He was so turned on and so skewered under her gaze he could hardly think. "I-- ca-- I can't."
"You can," she said, with absolute certainty. "You can and you will. Say it."
"I-- can. And," he took a stuttering breath, "and I will."
"Good," she said, with the slightest smile in her eyes as reward, so subtle only he and Bucky could have seen it there.
The word and the smile rolled through him in a wave of bliss, and it took everything in him to keep his eyes open and on her. He didn't know if he was crying or if it was just sweat rolling down his face.
"See, you can, and you have. So speak."
He knew what they wanted him to say. I got you and you got me. It was easy to say at other times, but right now it felt impossible. It was both too true to utter and too inconceivable to say as fact.
He felt pressure from Bucky's metal hand squeezing comfortingly on Clint's hip, and it helped ground him. It was only the steadiness of the body against his and the steadiness of Natasha's gaze that enabled him to haltingly start to get out the words, even as it was those same things that made him so excruciatingly bare. That made the words harder to say, in this space of absolute incontrovertible truth.
"I-- I got you," he began. "And you-- and you got--"
How could he say they had him? It being true was so incredible that it couldn't be uttered aloud, lest it tempt fate to not permit something so incredible to exist any longer than it already had.
The prospect of speaking the truth of it was like the prospect of standing in a subway tunnel and putting his hand the third rail. It would obliterate him. He couldn't make himself do it, but he had to do it. Had to willpower his way through every internal resistance, every ingrained refusal. It was as if, flayed before them, they asked him to cut open his own chest, reach inside, and offer them his heart. He wanted to, but wanting to didn't override the body's refusal.
That's what the last 6 hours had been about. Getting him to the place of truth where it would be like that to say it, and then breaking him down, or really, breaking down his barriers and refusals, to the point where he could say it.
"--you got me," he finally whispered, the barest utterance of breath. Saying it sent what felt like waves of electricity through him.
Natasha gave a little nod, and Bucky's hand finally came to wrap around his length. The feeling of it was so overwhelming he could have gone over right there, in fact was about to, helplessly, but then Natasha ordered, "No! Wait!" and he found himself writhing on the brink with the effort of staving it off, throwing his head back against Bucky's shoulder.
Bucky's growl, when it came a moment later, was both approval and a reminder for Clint to mind his gaze.
Clint brought his eyes back to Natasha's yet again, and steadied himself in it until he has himself under control.
"Okay," he whispered, nodding, and Bucky started moving his hand.
By far, the hardest thing wasn't staving off release, it was doing to while holding his eyes open. Shutting his eyes, squeezing them tight, would let him focus on what he was feeling, on the internal play of reaching and grasping.
With his eyes open at all it was harder, but the sight of Natasha made it harder still, because now that Bucky had his hand moving, she was moving hers as well, clearly enjoying getting off watching them, watching Clint.
The thought of that was always heady, and never moreso than now.
Bucky kept his strokes on Clint slow and even, and while they were maddening, after a few minutes Clint realized that instead of holding himself back from the edge, he had sufficiently backed down that his body now wanted more.
He watched Natasha's fingers, watched her eyes, and bucked into the hot grip on him.
That got him a chuckle from Bucky, who both picked up the pace and allowed himself to join, grinding his own hardness against Clint's ass in the same tempo.
The movement against him was somehow even more erotic than everything already was, and it both wound him up more and reminded him of what he'd forgotten for several minutes: he wanted Bucky to fuck him.
Just thinking the word made his need worse.
Fuck.
"Bucky," he said, surprising himself. But he was desperate. He was consumed by it.
Bucky squeezed him a little rougher, moved a little faster, in reward.
"Da, moy dragotsennyy dorogoy?" Bucky answered, forgetting himself. Clint was even more turned on, to know he had Bucky so distracted he couldn't speak in English.
Yes, my precious darling? he had asked in a murmur, lips against Clint's neck.
"I need--" He couldn't say it. He had to stop, to start again.
"Fuck me," he said, instead. That was easier to get out, at least. "Give it to me."
He needed Bucky in him, he needed Natasha against him, he needed to be surrounded by them and consuming them, as much as possible.
"You, too," he said to Natasha, who luckily understood what he meant. She started scoot her chair forward, but then stopped with a reconsidering look.
She said something in Russian to Bucky that Clint didn't know, and Clint felt Bucky nod.
Bucky wrapped his arms around Clint, down the front of his body, hands sliding around the front of his thighs and between them, just above the knees, before implacably dragging them apart.
In front of them, Natasha got up and lowered the chain suspending Clint's arms. Not by much, less than a foot, but it gave room to bend forward a little, changed the angle of strain on his shoulders so he could let the chains take the weight of his top half. Bucky put a hand on Clint's midback briefly, to increase the arch if his back, and then brought his hands to Clint's hips to stabilize.
Before going back to her seat, Natasha came around behind Clint to watch Bucky enter him. The thought tightened the feeling in his chest.
That combined with the sensation of penetration, the sweet meeting of desire with fulfillment, was overwhelming. He took advantage of neither of them looking at his face to squeeze his eyes shut while he could and get a hold of himself even more firmly.
When he opened his eyes, Natasha was back in front of him, sitting in the chair and considering him kindly, clearly letting him do what he needed for a moment. It gave him a rush of gratitude, and though he has just finally gotten one need met, he was just as needy as before. He needed his mouth on her, needed to be lost in her thighs, needed her powerful legs clenched around him.
He looked at her with everything plain on his face and was able to get out, "Please."
Nat smiled, and gave a nod releasing Bucky from where he had been holding himself still in Clint. Bucky started to withdraw, slowly, and then just as slowly pressed back home. He set a slow but powerful pace, and while Clint was still wrapping his head around it, Nat finally scooted her chair forward until it was almost pressing against Clint's chest.
The amount of slack he'd been given in the chain was just enough to bend until his head was the perfect height. Nat had already scooted to the very edge of the chair's seat, leaning back to hold the backrest with her hands, back arching beautifully. Without thought, he was pressing his face against her, tasting her, moving against her.
This he could do without thought, and do well. And that was good, because he didn't really have coherent thought left to his faculties.
He was rewarded with an unchecked moan, the highest praise from Natasha, who was the least openly vocal of them when not putting on an affect.
She must have been really close from watching them and fingering herself, because soon enough she was shuddering against him, an almost silent stutter if breath the only other tell.
He knew to keep going, and how, and he did. And meanwhile, Bucky had built to a real pace, snapping his hips against Clint with each thrust.
Clint had started to get close again without realizing it. He felt like he was drowning in the best way. Lost in Nat, lost in Bucky, both of them in him. Lost in the sensations. He felt both completely helpless and like he could do anything.
Somehow, Natasha read it off him, as only she could. She prompted him, "Say it again."
"I got you," he said, feeling the tears start to fall this time, "and you got me." They really did, didn't they?
"We have you," Bucky agreed into his shoulder, draped over Clint's back as he fucked him more and more aggressively. "And you have us."
He reached a hand back down and started stroking Clint, and this time there would be no going back. Clint put his head into the work in front of him, and to his delight Natasha's voice was strained as she said, "You're ours, and I'm yours."
"And I'm yours," Bucky echoed, even as his movement started to stutter with his release, which was just before Clint's.
It felt like profound revelation as it washed over him, as he tensed and spasmed with it even as he tried to keep his face and tongue working through it, because Nat was so close.
Before he went limp, he felt her own climax start to seize her, and he pressed and held just the way she liked until she started to go limp, too.
----
"You got me," he said, his voice week but his resolution stronger than ever. It was still incredible to him, but it was undeniably true. What little thought he had was awe and wonder.
"We do," Nat said.
"And we always will," Bucky added.
----
Letting the chains down, tenderly addressing the resurgent pain in overtaxed shoulders, sipping water, careful bathing, and lots of firm, gentle holding. Rope was neatly coiled, cuffs and implements put back where they were stored, the chair dragged back to the kitchen table. They put away their dancing shoes, and climbed into bed.