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AN: Thanks to forsweatervests for the quick beta, all remaining mistakes are mine. Used for my "taking care of somebody" square on my hc_bingo card.


Usually, Clint has to ask. Not beg, no, that will come later, but ask. A soft, casual, out-of-context, "Sir," to either of them is enough.

Tonight, he doesn't have to. It's almost funny, really. They all risk their lives on a regular basis. They risk each other. But the thing that ends with Clint desperately needing some time outside of his head--and Steve clearly eager to give it to him--is a night of playing nice at one of Stark's charity events.

Clint wouldn't normally have gone, and he knows Steve wouldn't have either, but it was for orphans this time, and Stark, damn him, knew what he was doing. It would have taken a stronger person than either of them to resist his, just-sarcastic-enough-to-carry-sting, "But think of the children."

On the plus side, the choice to attend means Clint has gotten to spend this evening watching Phil in a three-piece suit and Steve in an Army dress uniform: Phil had reminded him of that option when Steve had looked at the tux as if it might eat him alive. On the downside, outside of performing for a circus, Clint is a big fucking fan of not being on display, especially not in a tux and with his bow three rooms away.

They've made it back to their floor at the Tower, finally, after the event. The floor was originally Phil’s floor, but Clint migrated there first, and after a while, Steve had accepted that Phil and Clint weren’t playing around and really wanted him to move in as well.

All three of them are still fully dressed when Steve says, "On your knees," with that mixture of fondness and absolute firmness only he can manage. Phil is smoother, and unquestionable. Not that Steve's authority is lacking, at least, not now. The first few months after he'd acquiesced to doing something other than watching, every order had sounded like he was asking permission. Phil had to train it out of him. Clint, for his part, mostly tried pretending not to notice in the moments when Phil's hero-worship would kick back in and he'd realize he was teaching his childhood hero how to dom. Sessions never go anywhere if Clint is laughing too hard.

Clint hesitates, still standing, mostly to let Steve know that no matter how much he wants this, he's going to fight it tonight. Sometimes he can't help himself. Phil's nod is tiny. Steve just smiles a little and says, "Five more spankings for every order disobeyed. And I haven't told you the number we're starting at."

Clint was ready by the time they walked into their rooms. Now, with Steve taking initiative, his knees are weak. He loves Steve's hands. He loved them even when all Steve would do with them was caress and fondle, and maybe finger. Now, though, now that Steve will hold him captive and spank and every-once-in-a-special-while fist Clint with those hands? Just the thought makes Clint shiver with anticipation. He stays standing.

Something passes between Phil and Steve, something Clint misses in the first flush of yes, please, and Phil nods, says, "Very well."

Clint's gaze follows as Phil walks to Steve, undoes his dress uniform tie. It's navy blue and silk and Clint's breath catches at the casual, efficient way Phil works it free, at the look in Steve's eyes as Phil does so.

Phil approaches him, then, because in some things routine is important, Phil asks, "Safeword?"

Clint murmurs, "Gauntlet," and before he can finish the word, Phil is binding him in the dark. He stills, even knowing it was coming, rides out the moment when it's too much, when he's still a child in the dark, hiding, or a teenager, on the run.

Steve says, "I like that tie better on you," and suddenly he's back, with them, with two men who will never, ever let anything happen to him. It's a rush so intense his breathing quickens.

Clint hears Steve walking--different tread than Phil's, wider, less intent--to him, and Steve tells him, quietly, insistently, "We're going to take Hawkeye away, Clint. Leave just you." Steve’s tone is gentle, but commanding, the way it is when he has to order one of them into danger, only more intimate, more careful.

The thought is absolutely fucking terrifying and so, so fucking attractive Clint isn't even sure how to agree. He knows Steve is standing there, waiting, can hear the soft rasp of his breath. Steve says, "Answer."


"Five more," Steve tells him.

Clint grins into the dark, still cocky and just a little bit insouciant for the moment, "Yes, sir."

Clint can hear the amusement in Steve's sigh, and then he can't hear anything, Phil having taken away that sense, atop his sense of sight. Clint swallows down the fear, not even really having time to adjust before Phil's mouth is on his, before Steve's hands are on his shoulders, a silent, trust us, we're here.

Clint arches into the hands, leans into the kiss.


They pull him free of the tuxedo. One of them is always holding him while another unlaces and removes his shoes, peels off his socks, lifts his feet out of the pants; the other holding on as his buttons are undone, his cufflinks, his vest.

He cannot see, but they are close enough that he knows they are both still fully dressed, the starch of Steve's uniform brushing over Clint's skin, the soft feel of Phil's impeccably tailored suit. He is the only one left vulnerable.

They guide him in the direction of the bedroom, presuming Clint hasn’t lost all sense of direction without his eyes and ears, Steve's hand on his lower back, one of Phil's at his left shoulder. Taking the first few steps is the worst, it requires that he trust them to see him to the end safely. He keeps breathing, pushing into their points of contact. It is slow, the two of them patient, careful, until Clint stops feeling as though he will pitch forward, fall down, should he take the next step.

Steve lets Phil tie Clint up when they've arrived at their location. (Their bedroom, Clint knows by the feel of the carpet beneath his feet, the number of steps.) Phil likes this part, deciding how to restrain Clint, what Clint can take. Tonight ends up being fairly simple, which tells Clint that it will also be hard. Phil has gotten past his need to show off for Steve--and wow, Clint had begun to think they'd never get past that stage--and now has gone back to his more normal habit of making whatever he's done seem like nothing, until, with a bit of patience, it becomes very much something.

Clint's hands are tied above him, the back of each hand touching the other so that his wrists face outward. He is tied just high enough that standing on flat feet hurts after a few moments. Then, because this is Phil, a weight, Clint thinks five pounds or so, is attached to his scrotum. The cord holding the weight is long enough to rest on the floor so long as Clint stays flat footed, but short enough that whenever Clint goes to his toes, he brings the weight too, pulling painfully at his sac.

They let him tire as they play with him. Phil sucks at his nipples, biting whenever Clint goes down to relieve the tension on his balls. Steve strokes at his back, his ass, once rims him so that Clint jerks to his toes, screeching even as he does so.

Once they've gotten a sound out of him, Clint knows he's doomed. They work at surprising him into pulling in each direction, and it is not hard. Blind and deaf, he is nothing but sensation. He can feel himself moaning almost non-stop when Steve pulls backward on Clint's hips, canting both his arms and his balls away from where they are held captive. Clint's body is on fire, his cock aching nearly as much as the rest of him. He knows the rules, though, and no coming until told is cardinal. For a second, he contemplates ignoring the rules, seeing what his punishment would be, but in the end he is more interested in being rewarded by the two of them. He isn’t quite at the point where he will do anything for the simple joy of being praised, but the lure of it is attractive enough that he’s going to play by the rules for now.

Steve holds Clint steady as a drip of pure pain spikes onto the flesh of his ass and Clint goes still for a moment before trying frantically to get himself free of Steve. Wax his brain supplies after a moment, the on and off drip of it giving his mind and body only seconds to process the pain before more is added.

And then Steve lets go, and Phil takes the candle to the other side. To Clint's cock. Steve nibbles on Clint's neck even as his cock is covered in the closest thing to fire Clint can think of and Clint begs, but he couldn't say for what. He thinks probably to come. He just knows he doesn't want it to stop.

It does, eventually, and Steve plucks one of the ear plugs off just long enough to say, "Count."


Other than the command that preceded it, the first smack of Steve's hand against Clint's ass comes from nowhere, no work up, nothing, just serum-strength on wax-and-burn-sensitized skin. Clint swallows a howl and barks out, "One, sir."

He can't hear himself, but he knows he makes sound, because Phil's fingers caress his neck, a tacit, "good boy."

A second hit, a second count. Third, and the impact drives Clint forward, straining his shoulders, his balls, driving Clint back into Steve's hand again.

Somewhere around thirty, Clint loses track of the numbers he's counting aloud. He loses everything, except the punishing heat of Steve's hand, the pull of his muscles, the release of endorphins so intense he can barely breathe. He loses everything but the need to be theirs.

He has no idea how high he counts, no idea that when Steve stops, his face is wet with tears, his voice hoarse. They untie him--they've become indistinguishable, at least in the details--and Steve picks him up in a bridal hold, the breadth of his chest unmistakable.

Clint would make a smart remark, but he's not Clint, exactly, not like this. He's simpler, easier.

He becomes aware that he's positioned on his knees, straddling Steve, who still has his uniform on, the fabric rubbing against Clint's thighs, his back. There's no prep before Steve's hands go to Clint's hips, lifting Clint onto his cock and allowing gravity to do its work. Steve is lubed, and Clint's not exactly unpracticed, but Steve is also proportional in all things and it's intense, doing this without even a couple of fingers beforehand.

Clint pushes down, takes him all in.

There are lips on his, then, coming from the front, Phil, also still dressed. Phil touches a finger to Clint's lower lip, keep this open for me and Clint does, opening his throat when Phil puts his cock in Clint's mouth, slides in all the way. Clint swallows, feels a warm flush of pleasure at the tremor he senses off of Phil.

Phil pulls back, though, out of Clint's range, especially now that Steve is holding Clint's arms behind him in a much more personal version of bondage.

There's a moment of near vertigo as Steve lays back, taking Clint with him, and then, before Clint's entirely recovered, Phil is draping Clint's legs over his shoulders and--

Clint cannot imagine the sounds he makes as Phil pushes in alongside Steve are even vaguely human. Phil's hands are on Clint's arm, his chest, Steve's loosening his hold on Clint’s arms to rub at his stomach. Clint moans, thinks he might say, "More," if anything he could do anything coherent or rational at this point. Here, in the dark silence, he is nothing more than feeling, nothing more than the almost-too-much-just-just-enough of the both of them.

Clint is riding the fullness of it, the stinging stretch that hums with everything else in his body, when one of them, maybe both, takes out the earplugs and they say, in tandem, "Come."

Clint obeys.


Clint loses time. Not a lot, no, he's still between them, still filled by them when he comes back, but they are finished, withdrawing, slow and careful. Normally, Clint would be disappointed to have missed their climaxes, but he can't be bothered right now, not with Steve murmuring, "So, so good, Clint, baby," stressing the last word in a way that would bother Clint if it weren't Steve with his earnest sweetness.

Phil is removing the blindfold, his fingers coming up to make sure Clint's eyes are closed, his lips kissing the lids. He tells Clint, "We've got the lights dimmed, but take a moment, okay?"

"Tell me when," Clint mumbles, impressed he can make sounds at all. Phil's laugh suggests his words aren't as clear as he thinks they are.

Steve sits them both up, carefully, Clint still leaning against Steve's chest. Clint cuddles into it, because he's allowed to do that now. Steve strokes his hair. "Phil's going to get you some water now. I'm here."

Phil kisses his forehead. "Be right back. Let Steve take care of you."

Clint couldn't do anything else if he wanted, and he doesn't. He can't say for certain if this is his favorite part of a scene--he likes all of it too damn much to pick--but he knows that memories like this are the ones that can keep him calm and still and sure of the world when in a nest for days.

Steve is stroking the back of Clint's neck with his thumb and Clint can't stop the purr that erupts from his throat, the way he burrows even more deeply against Steve's chest.

"You took a lot there, sweetheart," Steve says. Gone is the tone of command from earlier, and left in its place is simply a good dose of care and reassuring. "Everything we gave you. It was amazing to watch. You're amazing."

Clint opens his eyes, because he wants to see the expression on Steve's face. It takes a second for them to adjust, but not long. The lights, as Phil said, are dimmed, and he's kept his eyes closed without the blindfold for long enough that it's fairly easy.

Steve has this way of looking at Clint after a scene that makes Clint's toes curl with pleasure, like Steve's found something he needed all his life and just never knew where to look. It's similar to the one Steve gives Clint after making an impossible and important shot, but just different enough that the pleasure from it is entirely something else as well.

Steve lets Clint look his fill for a bit, then brings his lips down to meet Clint's. It's not a hungry kiss, not deep, just reassuring, light and quick. Steve pulls back and Clint hears Phil return.

Seeing Clint’s eyes are open, Phil smiles, his gaze glancing over Clint. Clint knows Phil's already checked once, but he likes to again after he's left for a bit, make sure there wasn't anything he missed. Clint likes it, the attention, the focus.

Phil puts a hand to Clint’s face, the other bringing the glass to his lips. "Sip."

Clint sips, wanting to go faster, the awareness of thirst reawakened, but he takes it slow, as Phil has ordered. He drains the glass that way, sip by sip, Phil's eyes and hands on him.

Phil sets the glass aside and Clint asks, "Can I-- Can we all be naked now?"

Phil's smile is indulgent, and Steve ducks his head to kiss Clint's neck. Steve says, "Soon, babe. Soon."


Steve gathers Clint up and carries him to the bathroom in a bridal hold. Clint's too blissed out to do anything other than hold on and try and press closer. The clothes thing was hot, unbelievably hot, in the scene, but now he wants skin.

Steve sits on the toilet, Clint in his lap, while Phil runs a bath in the bathtub that can actually fit them all. (Tony, when he'd figured out, had insisted. Surprise, surprise. Clint couldn't roll his eyes too hard, though, since it was pretty much his favorite thing ever.) Phil puts in bubbles, and the air starts to smell like sandalwood and orange. Idly, Clint wonders where the hell Phil finds things like masculine-scented bubbles.

Then Phil starts to take off his suit, meticulously hanging it on the hangers he'd taken it off of earlier in the evening, to dress. Steve runs a hand up Clint's back and mumbles, "Nice, hm?"

"Very nice," Clint agrees, his gaze on Phil the whole time. When he's finished, Phil slips into the water, and Clint makes a small noise of disappointment, too exposed to bite anything back. Steve kisses his ear. "Sh."

Steve puts him on his feet and guides him into the water, where Phil is waiting to take him, hold him. Clint goes easily enough once he's got the idea, and there, there's the skin he wanted. The water is warm enough to sting on the burns, but not so warm as to hurt. Phil is already gently working at the spots that throb most, his hands careful and competent.

Watching Steve undress is always mesmerizing. Steve, like Phil, is neat, folding the uniform, even though they all know both uniform and suit will have to be laundered. Steve emerges, big and fit and perfect, and Clint finds himself actually making grabby hands. Phil laughs, but it's not mean, it's understanding. Steve grins and steps in the tub.

They both work on him then, flaking away the wax, getting his muscles to relax in the heat, soaping him up and washing him down. He goes to return the favor, but neither of them will allow it, Steve pushing him back into Phil's arms as he takes care of himself and vice versa, with words like, "Already done all the work tonight, such a good boy, such a good, giving boy."

Clint swallows up the praise, watches, watches and hums and floats.


They bundle Clint up in towels before he even has the chance to shiver. Steve dries his hair while Phil applies cooling cream to the burns. Clint allows himself to make little pleased noises. Steve kisses him, swallowing a few.

When Phil has doctored Clint to his heart's content, they usher him into the bed, and Phil gets another glass of water, this time accompanied by two ibuprofen. The first time they'd done a scene together, long before Steve, Phil had done the same thing afterward, and Clint had laughed, said, "I've had worse."

Phil's look had been both understanding and sad, and he'd said, "You'll still have the marks in the morning. You'll still feel it in the morning. This isn't about how tough you are."

Now, though, Clint just takes the pills, and drinks the water. Phil cards his fingers through Clint's damp hair, kisses his forehead. "You've been so good. So, so good."

"Phil," Clint says, and he means, thank you means don't leave means I love you.

"Clint," Phil says, and it means a lot of the same things, Clint knows. It's easier to know it in moments like this, which is one of the things Clint loves most about this after-space.

Steve pulls Clint so that he's lying down with a, "C'mere, you," that's so damn fond Clint feels like he could cry. Everything's close to the surface right now, it's hard to keep from flying apart.

Steve wraps him in strong arms, holds him together. Phil climbs in makes sure no parts of Clint can escape. Clint breathes in through his nose and closes his eyes, the feel of warm skin everywhere around him. Steve says, "Sweet dreams, mine."

"Yes," Phil says.

Clint makes a sound of agreement and drops off surrounded by their wishes for him.

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Skin by egelantier, photo by microbophile