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voiceoffenrisulfr · 4 months ago

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Multitudes Chapter Sixteen

Are We Crazy...

𝐏𝐀𝐈𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒 -> Clint Barton/Natasha Romanov, James "Bucky" Barnes/Clint Barton/Natasha Romanov, James "Bucky" Barnes/Clint Barton, James "Bucky" Barnes/Natasha Romanov, Clint Barton/Steve Rogers, James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers, Steve Rogers/Natasha Romanov, James "Bucky" Barnes/Clint Barton/Natasha Romanov/Steve Rogers

𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐘 -> The pair meet a therapist, and Widow meets Clint... In a nicer way.

𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐓 -> 5920

𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒 -> (E) Shitty therapists, dismissal of symptoms, forced viewpoints, just general crappy approaches to mental health, particularly psychosis. But also self-realisation and cute stuff.

𝐀/𝐍 -> Dead Dove: Do Not Eat. Please read the warnings, and proceed with caution. You know the drill. A surprisingly feel-good chapter in the end, though. Corresponds to Magic and Madness - Chapter Five, though the two events are unrelated. Masterlist can be found here. It's here that the main reality starts to become evident in this work, in a way that is, for us, beautifully poetic. We deeply hope you enjoy this turn of events. Creators reserve the right to discuss their own condition however they see fit. And uh, smut. Lots o' smut. Sorrynotsorry. Is squirting a porn trope not often seen in real life? Maybe. Is it still something that we think needs to be normalised? Yes. (consider this a content warning for uh mess rip)

Check it out below, or on AO3 here! The snazzy Black Widow divider comes from @/firefly-graphics and I love it <3 The Multitudes Universe one is our own!

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Bruce still wouldn’t let me look at the scale, but between his subtle smile and the bloat still settling in my abdomen, I knew my weight had gone up.

Lunch was a buffet of reheated dishes, quickly polished off throughout the morning by a cycle of Avengers dipping in and out.

For once, Clint and I were the only ones actually sat at the table – a condition of my treatment plan – and it was a startlingly laid-back meal, for once.

… I could get away with it. There’s only Clint here to watch me. He’ll never notice if something that made its way to my plate carefully makes its way back.

Maybe, Widow conceded, but then we looked in unison to the archer beside us, gesticulating wildly, crumbs spilling from his mouth, and they smiled fondly. But you shouldn’t. For him.

For him, I agreed, taking another bite.

“Why don’t you tell me why we’re here?”

I hate her.

The disdain was instant as she’d settled herself opposite me, all sharp angles and high cheekbones, gaze flicking over my body indiscreetly.

Someone that looks like that is supposed teach me to eat?

Widow snorted, rolling their eyes. Talk about the blind leading the blind, huh?

“I have an eating disorder rooted in a history of sexual, emotional, psychological and physical abuse, both in childhood and in adulthood. Oh, and there’s a voice in my head that tells me if I don’t starve myself, I’ll be killed when the people who raised – tortured - me from a young age finally hunt me down and take me back there. I go days at a time without eating, I make myself sick, and I dig knives into my flesh; the most recent example of this actually put me into a coma for two weeks. We're here because it’s reached a point of no return, and if this doesn’t stop now, it won’t stop all.”

Widow winced as I spoke of them, and I murmured an internal apology. I just want to shock her. She seems unflappable.

“A voice?” she prompted evenly, making a note on the sheet on her lap. “What voice is that?”

“A part of me,” I countered quickly, eyes narrowed. “An irrefutable and profound part of who I am.”

She hummed, watching me carefully. “You seem very attached to something you say causes you distress.”

“They’re learning to do better.”

“’They’? I thought you said there was only one.”

I rolled my eyes at her arbitrary focus, unable to hide my petulance much longer. “They’re a ‘they’ because they don’t fit in to human concepts of gender, not because they are plural.” An amused snort echoed in my mind, wryly but gently pointing to the amount of times I’d referred to us as ‘we’.

“I see,” she murmured, making way more notes than my response had warranted. “And this ‘voice’. Is it here with us now?”

“They are always here.”

“I see. What is it saying?”

Fuck this bitch. I’m not an it.

I bit back a smirk, shrugging. “They don’t always say much.”

Her eyebrow quirked, unimpressed. “Then how do you know it’s there?”

“They are always there. A part of me, like I said.” Fuck this bitch. You're not an it.

“I’m concerned about the validation you are giving to this ‘voice’ through your personification.”

Since when was therapy about just bashing me? I’ve made mistakes, but damn...

I shook my head, willing to give her one more chance. “They aren’t especially relevant; can we just get back to my issues?”

She hummed, chin balancing on perfectly tented fingers. “Actually, I think it is profoundly relevant. I think that most of your behaviour – which I’m reluctant to label an eating disorder, or trauma – is based upon this ‘voice’, and your steadfast dedication to it is deeply troubling. I think it’s highly possible that normal human emotions – sadness when something goes wrong, low self-esteem – have been twisted, not as a result of a litany of various mental illnesses, as you seem to believe, but as a result of an auditory hallucination, your determined belief of which seems akin to psychosis. I think that you would find significant relief in treating and eradicating this ‘voice’, and that the removal of it would be endlessly beneficial for you. Would you say my assessment is accurate?”

I blinked.

I blinked again.

Please… Please let me take this one.

Have at it.

I was jerked backwards, body unmoving but impossibly distant, and I vaguely recognised the sensation when I had conceded control to Widow once before – when they broke Clint’s heart.

“You know nothing,” they ground out, fingers curled into intimidating fists by their sides as they stood, entire body bristling with fury. “You are nothing. You are a poorly-trained fool who wouldn’t understand a real problem if it slapped her in the face – and believe me, it is tempted.”

The therapist paled with understanding, fingers reaching unconsciously for something unseen. “I-I didn’t mean to imply-”

“You did not imply anything. You told this poor, damaged girl that all of her issues are in her head – that they are her fault, rather than the blame resting solely on those who treated her – treated us – the way they did. Do you have any idea how much damage you could have caused? Three days ago, Nat just might have believed you, and it would have killed her.”

“And as for my own ‘treatment and eradication’,” they quipped, fingers quoting sarcastically as they stepped closer, predatory and terrifying, “what do you think now? Do you think I am just an ‘auditory hallucination’, a symptom of psychosis? A voice without a name, or even deserving of the basic fucking dignity of not being repeatedly addressed as an ‘it’, despite being told that I am, in fact, not an it?” Their hands slammed down on the arms of the chair, leaning closer to her trembling face, no longer an inspiration of cheekbones and jawlines, but instead a mess of sweat and terror as she shook her head quickly. “My name is Widow, you little bitch. And if Natasha was asleep right now, you would not be walking out of this room. I will always protect her, and fuck you for trying to tell her otherwise.”

There was no blackout this time, no disconnect as Widow brought true fear to the dangerously underqualified therapist, and I whooped my support as they turned on a heel, storming from the interview room, the glass above the door cracking with the impact.

That was amazing – you are amazing!

“Thank you,” they grunted, bare knuckles stinging as they collided again and again with the heavy boxing bag, sweat running in rivulets down their arms.

“Heart rate spike – Natasha Romanoff, gymnasium.” Friday’s lyrical voice was soft but distant, and I rolled my eyes.

You know we shouldn’t be exercising, right?

“Punch the bag or punch the bitch, it is your choice,” they quipped, and I revelled in the passionate ache in our straining muscles.

“Nat? You in here?”

Widow froze, panting lightly, dropping instinctively into a half crouch. What do I do?

I shrugged internally, stepping back as they tried to drag me forward. It’s your call. But you don’t have to be afraid of facing him as yourself. He might not understand – not at first – but he loves me, and you’re a part of me. He loves us; he just doesn’t understand that we’re not one and the same yet.

Nodding stiffly, they straightened, bruised knuckles curled through habit as Clint stepped around the corner, taking in the bedraggled person stood before him and the steady swaying of the bag.

“Nat, what the hell? Your therapist just left, looking like she’d had the fright of her life – she said… Well, it doesn’t matter what she said, but she definitely won’t be coming back. You’re not supposed to be exercising, either. C’mon, let’s get you out of here.”

“Нет,” Widow replied, shaking their head as they stepped back, hands raised defensively. (No.)

… You’re scared. How did I never realise, all this time? You’re not mean, or angry, or vindictive. You’re just scared.

“Nat?” Clint pressed, head cocked with concern, extending his fingers.

Widow met his gaze steadily. I’m terrified. “Нет.”

His brow furrowed, and then cleared, nervous understanding dawning. “You’re not Natasha.” They nodded once, jerkily, eyes narrowing as the proffered fingers receeded. “You’re… You’re The Voice, aren’t you?”

“She calls me Widow now,” they replied, tongue still thick and heavy through a lack of familiarity.

C’mon, Clint. You’ve got this. Please, please don’t be afraid of them.

Please… Don’t be afraid of me.

Clint nodded, fingertips brushing the tattoo on his wrist unconsciously. “She’s safe?”

They flinched minutely, wounded at the implication. “I will always keep her safe.”

Snorting softly, his gaze found the cracks on their knuckles. “You’ve not always done the best job, have you?”

I winced, but Widow simply rolled their jaw, head shaking. “Нет… But I am trying to be better.”

Clint paused, watching them carefully before he inched slowly closer. “That therapist… She didn’t have many nice things to say about our Natasha. Is that why you scared her?” They nodded, gaze dropping, and he extended his fingers once more, reaching across the space between us and him. “Then I’m glad you were there to protect her. Thank you, Widow.”

They looked up in shock, finding his eyes, firm and genuine, resting on their own. “… You are welcome, Clint.”

I gasped as Widow backed away, finding myself once more in control of our body, muscles trembling with exertion and adrenaline, heaving air into tired lungs. My knees trembled and I sat quickly, hands buried in my hair as I sobbed.

There were no more words until I was tucked up in our bed, Clint’s hands gently smoothing antiseptic across our battered knuckles, the skin softened by lack of training. “…Nat?”

I nodded quietly, burrowing closer against his side. “Hi.”

He exhaled softly, placing a gentle kiss to my hair. “Hi.”

“Am I crazy? She… The therapist – she said Widow is a hallucination, and that I’m psychotic. Is the right?” My words were soft, muttered against his hipbone shamefully, but he tipped my head to meet his eyes.

“I can’t say I exactly understand what is happening in that head of yours – but I don’t think you’re crazy, Nat, and I definitely don’t think Widow is a hallucination. She seems as real as you or me.”

I nodded once, swallowing around the lump in my throat, but Widow baulked. “They,” I amended quickly, sensing the cause of their discomfort. “They don’t like ‘she’ – and definitely not ‘it’. They like ‘they’.”

His fingertips brushed my forehead, smiling softly. “They. Got it. Sorry, Widow.”

I grinned as they did, my fingers wrapping with his. “They appreciate that. The therapist… No matter how many times we corrected her, or when I explained that Widow doesn’t really fit gender, she just kept saying ‘it’.”

He grimaced, returning to his careful ministrations on our cracked knuckles. “Yeah… I think Fury might need to reassess the therapists he employs. And, ideally, get rid of a few in the process.” He leant to kiss my hair, and I purred. “Don’t worry. We’ll talk to Bruce, see if he has any thoughts, and then we’ll find one more suitable. If you’re willing to try again,” he added, lip curling. I nodded, and he paused. “I… If both of you are willing to try again.”

Are you?

Widow snorted, rolling their eyes. I’m always happy to scare the shit out of an idiot, so yeah. But thanks… for asking.

Smiling fondly, I burrowed closer against my partner. “Yeah. I think we can do that.”

There was a pause, and then he sighed, wrapping light bandages around my hands. “You know we’re going to have to tell Bruce you were beating up a punching bag, right? I mean, he knew about the alert, and the therapist hauling ass, but I’m gonna have to tell him you were exercising.”

I flinched, but nodded my acceptance, a blossom of pride blooming in my chest at him making the difficult choice. “It’s okay. I get it.” His lips brushed my tender knuckles, soft and tentative, and he hummed thoughtfully. “... I know recovery should be motivation enough for its own sake, but I had an idea for our own little contract.”

I quirked a brow uncertainly. “We... We’re not meant to be deviating from the treatment plan, Clint. Last time-”

He shook his head quickly. “No, nothing like that. This is more of a reward-punishment kind of deal.”

“Oh? That’s... Interesting.”

He smirked, pulling me bodily onto his lap. “Well, Bruce cleared us to still... Be us, right? So… How about we try that ‘pillow princess’ thing, huh?”

I grinned in response, arms snaking around his neck, purring lightly. “I can’t say I’m opposed to the idea.”

He shivered as my tongue met his jaw, then drew back, swallowing. “Well, there lies the reward-punishment part. I’ll spend all evening, every evening, letting you just lay on that pillow... As long as you’ve been following your treatment plan that day,” he added, his thumbs skimming the bandages on my knuckles, and I scowled.

“But I didn’t know today – that’s not fair. Besides, I did so many good things today, remember? A good first day. I even...” Head ducked, I looked away. “It was just us for lunch, and I knew I could have gotten away with it. But I didn’t.”

I glanced up as his chest puffed with pride, lips brushing my forehead tenderly. “I really appreciate you telling me that, Nat... I guess you’re right. We’ll consider adherence from now. But this is your only free pass,” he added, one finger raised warningly, expression barely shifting as I wriggled in his lap. I nodded and grinned, wrapping my fingers with his, delighted by this new motivation I’d been given. Clint, however, simply paused and cocked his head, watching me uncertainly.

“What is it?”

“How does this... Work, now? I mean... It’s their body too, right? And you know how important consent is to me. I don’t want to... Do anything they don’t want, too.”

Fingertips brushing my chest, I sighed softly, touched. “Clint...”

He really is nice, isn’t he?

He really is.

“Honestly, I don’t think either of us quite know the answer to that. It’s... Complicated – and I’m sure Widow will correct me if I’m wrong – but I think... It’s largely up to whoever is currently in control, y’know? There’s... We don’t have to be around for something, if we don’t want to be.”

Though we should probably discuss any ‘hard no’ limits at some point. Like Clint said... It’s our body. There’s a difference between not wanting to be present for something, and not wanting it to happen at all.

Clint hummed, oblivious, and then glanced at me. “... Has it always been you?”

My hand wavered back and fourth, indecisive. “It’s always been at least me. I’ve always been the one in control. And before you ask, yes – the other night was my idea. Widow wasn’t even around for most of it. It actually... It was a turning point for us, when we took care of you, after. I think it was the start of stuff changing.”

I couldn’t have said it better myself.

“I’d like to get to know them better,” Clint murmured, his hands trailing my sides lightly. “I think we have a lot in common – we both only want to protect you. And we’ve both been a little… Misguided about how to do that in the past, but we’re trying to do better.”

… I think I’d like that.

I relayed their sentiment, and he grinned, fingers smoothing my hair gently. “And hey, you never know… Maybe one day I’ll find out what they like, too,” he noted, smirking, before paling in panic. “Not that I would ever assume… I don’t think I have a right, or anything. And you’d have to be okay with it, of course. I mean, is it cheating? You’re separate people, but it’s still your body…”

I laughed, pressing my hand soothingly to his chest. “Clint, take a breath. It’s fine. I think we’d enjoy that.”

Speak for yourself. I jerked back, horrified at my lack of clarification, and they laughed. I’m kidding, Nat. I’d very much like a front row seat to his… Prowess. You’ve had your first, I think I’m overdue.

I snorted, rolling my eyes affectionately and pressing my forehead to my partner’s. “Does this mean we’re in a throuple, or something?”

“I think the kids these days call it ‘polyamory’, Nat,” he laughed, lips brushing mine. “But I think we don’t need to put a label on it – at least not yet.”

“You’re the one who called us a couple,” I pointed out with a smirk, recalling his declaration after the attempted car theft. “They picked ‘the wrong couple’, remember?”

Blushing lightly, he nodded. “I remember. I also really hoped you hadn’t heard that. I wanted to ask in a better way.”

“Ask what?” I pressed, biting the inside of my cheek to keep from grinning.

“If you – oh, God, I feel like a child, but I want this to be official,” he muttered, running a hand through his hair, face darkening from pink to magenta. “If you’d be my girlfriend, Natasha.”

A pure, innocent thrum travelled through my body, a happy shiver following in its wake. “I’d be honoured, Mr. Barton.”

After dinner – an uneventful, if somewhat challenging affair – Clint and I cornered Bruce, retiring to the lab with mugs of coffee.

“… And that was when Nat came back – our Nat, I mean. But it’s not the first time – and sometimes it’s not a full takeover like that, she just goes a little… Blank, you know?”

Bruce hummed, watching me carefully. “Do you lose time? Come around in places you don’t remember getting to?” I nodded enthusiastically, unable to count the amount of times I’d disappeared during a particularly stressful mission, or even just ‘woke up’ in the middle of my kitchen, with no recollection of getting out of bed. “How’s your memory?”

I rolled one shoulder thoughtfully, chewing on my lip. “Not too bad, now. But… I don’t remember a lot of stuff from my past. Even things I should. I get flashes sometimes, but… Mostly it’s just a feeling. Fear. Panic. Desperation.” The nights spent exercising and purging that I can only get vague impressions of.

Leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees, Bruce surveyed me, head cocked. “How long have you been hearing her for?”

“’Them’,” Clint and I corrected together, and I shot him a fond smile. “I’ve heard them… I guess since the thing with Cl-… The thing with Loki,” I amended, wincing apologetically. “But… I think they’ve been around longer. I think the reason I don’t remember a lot of the horrible things that happened to me is because they do. I think they just… Want to protect me.”

His fingers pressed to his lips, deep in thought, and I exchanged another glance with my partner – my boyfriend, I amended with a shy giggle. “Natasha, I am not a psychologist. But I have some thoughts, and I believe I know exactly who I need to refer you to.”

I swallowed dryly, hands clenched tight. “Do you think I’m crazy? Or psychotic?” I added, heart hammering.

The doctor simply smiled sympathetically, shaking his head. “No, Nat. I don’t think you’re crazy. And I certainly don't think you're psychotic.”

“So… What is it? What’s going on with me?”

He hesitated briefly, glancing between the two of us. “I can’t say for certain, and I don’t want to give you inaccurate information if I turn out to be wrong.”

“Just a theory, Bruce. Please. I… I feel like I’m losing my mind sometimes,” I admitted, voice dropping to a whisper.

Wincing empathetically, he nodded. “… What do you know about Dissociative Identity Disorder?”

“So it’s often thought to be caused by childhood trauma?”

Bruce nodded, the end of his pen between his teeth. “Though there are arguments about that – but this isn’t the time, and nor is it applicable to Natasha’s situation. I think it’s pretty clear that Widow has been around since her childhood, trying to protect her from the things she endured in the Red Room.”

“Oh, so I’m a textbook crazy,” I snorted, pushing a hand through my hair.

All jokes aside, I felt lighter than I had in a long time. Widow and I had listened quietly as Bruce explained the disorder and common symptoms, becoming increasingly awestruck as to the accuracy of what he was saying.

Though if anyone ever calls me a ‘personality state’ again, I’m going to get violent.

I laughed aloud, drawing the men’s eyes to me. “Widow doesn’t agree with some of the terminology,” I explained, still grinning. Bruce reached for a piece of paper, and Clint leaned forward, listening intently.

“Why don’t you tell us how we can make them more comfortable, then?” the Doctor pressed, pen poised.

My archer nodded, gaze flicking briefly to Bruce. “I’d like a copy, too.”

“Of course.”

I blinked in disbelief, startled and touched by this display of consideration, a far cry from the trained professional who had simply questioned my sanity. “W-Well, uh… ‘Personality state’. ‘Alter’. They’re just… Widow. A person. It makes them feel less important – nobody refers to me like that, after all.” Bruce nodded, his pen moving blindly across the paper, his eyes still focused on me. “Uh… I guess the idea of their existence being a ‘disorder’ kind of sucks too, you know? Like… They’re not something that needs to be cured.”

“Is there another way you’d like us to refer to your… Situation?”

I smiled fondly as a suggestion echoed in my head, nodding in agreement. “We are… Multitudes. Many. I guess we're just... Nat and Widow, you know? Natasha.”

Clint beamed, reaching out to take my hand fondly. “And I love every part of your multitudes, my dear, sweet Natasha,” he assured me – us – while Widow flushed.

“And we don’t want ‘treatment’,” I added, brow furrowed. “They’re not something that needs ‘eradicating’. The only thing we need is to learn how to communicate more effectively.”

Bruce nodded again, making another note. “I’ll make sure to find a therapist who doesn’t push for integration – fusion, of the alt- the people present, into a single individual,” he explained, wincing sweetly at his fumble.

I shook my head fiercely. “I don’t want that. Neither of us want that.”

… Really? I’d have thought you couldn’t wait to get rid of me, if you had a real chance.

No way, I scoffed, shaking my head once more and drawing looks of confusion from the two men around me. You’ve saved my life, Widow.

I also tried to end it.

What you tried to do – everything you’ve ever tried to do – might have been… Misguided, at times. But you were just trying to keep me safe, even though I never extended the same courtesy to you. I’m sorry, I added, eyes lowering in shame. I… I hated you, and that wasn’t fair of me. No wonder you lashed out – I never once thought about how you actually felt. But we can both do better, right? Together.

Together.

I was exhausted and shaking by the time we finally made our way back to the room, my body and mind not used to so much work. But that didn’t stop me from flopping back against the pillow with a grin, extending my arms to my lover. “I did good, right?”

He smirked, nodding. “You did… But Bruce had stipulations, remember?” He turned on his heel, leaving without another word, while I blinked quizzically after him.

Juice before, snack after.

Oh yeah. Ugh. Fine.

The small bottle was delightfully cool as he handed it to me, and I purred, pressing the condensation-peppered container against my chest. Clint simply swallowed, looking away, jaw tight, as he drained his own juice in two long pulls.

…He didn’t want you to have to do it alone.

Grinning, I shook my head. Nope.

The archer’s eyes flicked back to me, eyeing the still-sealed OJ. “Nat. Drink your juice. Please.”

I quirked an eyebrow, momentarily offended – I was only enjoying the coolness for a second – before I noticed the slight increase in his breathing rate, the mild expansion of his pupils, and the hands curved into fists in his lap.

… Oh. He’s not being a jackass – he’s impatient.

I slowly unscrewed the lid, humming casually under my breath, while he twitched and fidgeted, teeth grinding audibly. I was halfway through the bottle before he met my gaze steadily, suddenly serious – and nervous.

“I… I’d like to know who… Who’s around for this. If that’s okay?” he added hesitantly. Smiling, I wrapped my fingers around his.

You don’t have to stay, if you don’t want to.

Oh, I want to. Neither do you, you know.

I smirked, meeting the oceanic eyes of my dear, beloved Clint. There’s no way I’m missing this.

I wonder if I could…

There was an odd feeling somewhere indescribable, almost a shuffling and rearranging, and we sighed in soft wonder, finally together.

“We can share,” we whispered, half in answer to his question, and half in awe.

His eyes grew wide, trembling fingers caressing our cheek. “Widow?” We nodded, and he smiled. “And also Nat?” Another nod, and he shivered, gaze dropping back to the bottle in our hands. “Finish your goddamn juice, guys.”

The container was empty and tossed away a heartbeat later, and we dropped heavily back against the pillows, arms extended once more. “Now?”

He growled, dropping himself over us, his lips finding ours. “God, yes.”

Clint was patient despite his hunger, and we spent a significant amount of time just kissing and reaffirming consent before he eventually slid his hand under our shirt, light fingertips brushing our ribs. “Is this okay?” he clarified once more, brow furrowed in sweet confusion.

“Clint, Natasha has had several orgasms at your hands by now. It is my turn. Please stop hesitating. This is fine.”

I snorted at Widow’s words, and Clint’s eyes widened comically. “You want me to… Give you your first?” He laughed softly, pushing a hand through his hair. “I could get used to this honour. You’re going to make me cocky.”

We raised a brow at the double entendre, and he pinkened slightly, but our amusement was quickly forgotten as his teasing, tugging fingers found our breast, toying with the pert nipple gently. A soft sigh was dragged from our lips, head tipping back as we hummed. His lips found our throat, licking and nipping, and our hands balled in the sheets, back arching into him. A brief interruption while our shirt was pulled from our body, and then he was on top of us once more, body weight pinning us to the bed. I felt our breathing hitch nervously, and Clint paused.

“Is this okay?”

I… I think so. I think so.

“Nervous,” I murmured on their behalf, gesturing to our position. “Submissive. Vulnerable.”

He winced, raising himself higher on one arm. “Should I move?”

Our legs wrapped around his waist, pulling him back closer, pressing our hips against his. “No,” Widow growled, fingers tightening in his forearms. “Make me love it.”

He swallowed dryly, then nodded, rolling his body against ours, eliciting a stuttered groan from our parted lips.

His mouth started again on our throat, but slowly began to migrate down, pausing briefly to press his teeth lightly around our nipple, drawing out another hiss and whimper of desperation, before he continued his trail, stopping at the line of our sweatpants and meeting our eyes imploringly.

I shivered at the memory of his tongue on me, and we nodded fiercely.

By the time he was back between our legs, which were anxiously half-closed to hide our now-naked body from view, a low tremble had started in our bones.

Are you okay?

Terrified, they admitted, voice soft. … What if he hurts me?

I glanced down, taking in the man patiently rubbing our thigh while he waited for us to relax, content to wait as long as it took, knowing he’d stop if we asked him to – or even if we didn’t, because he didn't need us to say anything to know we'd had enough.

He won’t.

Whether through my words or Clint’s careful ministrations, Widow unlocked our muscles, allowing our knees to fall apart slowly, the archer’s eyes flaring with desire, gaze locked on ours as he slowly inched forward.

“Oh…” Widow sighed, our body leaning into the contact as his tongue trailed slowly over our heat. “Wow.”

I felt Clint chuckle, hands around our thighs to pull us closer as he set to work, licking and nibbling and sucking and – Dear God, what sorcery is this?

I hummed in agreement, our head dropping back. He was, admittedly, even more adept when he wasn’t tied down, the full range of his talents at our disposal.

Though there was another benefit, too.

Widow froze as an uncertain, questioning fingertip touched to our hole, patient and inquisitive.

… We’ll be okay?

I promise.

“Green. Green, Clint.”

They groaned as he entered us slowly, our own fingers finding his hair and tugging lightly, desperately. “Fuck, Barton. Nat was right. You really are worth it.”

He simply moaned in response, redoubling his efforts - tongue swirling - first one, then two digits pumping steadily inside us, caressing and perfect.

We swallowed around the lump in our throat, unintelligible words beginning to fall thick and fast from our lips, hips twitching desperately.

You know what to do, Clint. You know how to break them.

On cue, he looked up, face still buried between our legs, his cerulean eyes on ours as he drew back just long enough to speak. “You wanna come for me, Widow? Prove it. Come for me.”

They whimpered desperately, hips jerking, thighs clenching, our hands grasping frantically to push him ever closer as the climax hit. We – they – couldn’t help ourselves, an undeniably deafening scream of pleasure tearing from our lips as he fucked us enthusiastically, tongue caressing every inch of us, driving us through with unrelenting passion until we were mewling and whimpering, writhing beneath him.

He tapped our thigh, and we unclenched, permitting him to draw back for breath, ears red from the force of our hold. “… Sorry.”

“Are you kidding?” he groaned, raising his head to look at us. “That was the hottest thing I’ve ever experienced.” He wiped his face, and our head cocked in confusion at the droplets peppering his skin, eliciting a wry smirk. “It seems Widow has a talent I hadn’t yet found in this body.” When we merely frowned further, he gestured to the significant wetness on his cheeks. “Squirting. Female ejaculation. Basically, shooting instead of flowing,” he added when our confusion didn’t ease up.

Oh. Oh. “Oh.”

Our face flamed, and he scrabbled quickly up the bed to grasp our chin. “No. No embarrassment. God, no embarrassment. I fucking loved it. You’re so hot.” His fingers tightened in our hips as he growled, his arousal pressing against us indiscreetly. We reached for him, hand brushing the very tip of his member through his boxers before he twitched his hips away, shaking his head.

“Pillow princess, remember?”

“But…”

“You don’t have to worry about me, guys. I’m more than happy to go without if it means you two are satisfied.”

We hummed, back arching, legs around him once more. “There’s ways we can help without putting in much effort, you know,” we murmured, hips rolling meaningfully. He let our a staccato groan, one hand finding our waist.

“You don’t have to-” “Clint. Shut up and fuck us. And besides,” I added, grinning. “Widow now has an experience I don’t. We’ve gotta even things out, right?”

He moaned, rutting shamelessly against us. “Pretty sure you experienced it too, Nat.”

I nodded thoughtfully, reaching down to slide his boxers down as far as I could reach. “True… But I want to start it. If you think you can manage that,” I implored, eyes wide and innocent as his tip touched to our wet heat.

He slid inside us easily, drawing a sigh of pleasure from our lips and a ragged groan from his own. “Fuck… You’re so wet,” he purred against our ear, hips setting up an immediate, punishing pace. We whimpered at his words, body growing impossibly hotter.

“I love it when you speak to us like that,” Widow admitted tentatively, fingers catching on the skin of his back. “We both do.”

“Oh?” His teeth found our throat, free hand pawing blindly at our breast as he stretched us. “You like hearing how good you feel, huh? How hard it makes me, just thinking about you?”

“Y-yes,” we stammered, head falling back once more. He growled against our skin, deep and predatory.

“You do – you feel so good around me. So tight, so wet… So desperate for me to fuck you, huh?” We nodded with a whine, our own hips jerking upwards to meet him. He hesitated briefly, swallowing audibly, then- “I just love this slutty pussy.”

A gasp of surprise and a moan of delight, our fingers reaching for him desperately, pulling him closer, deeper. “Please-”

“What is it, my little ones? Do you want me to let you come? To let you squirt?” We nodded frantically, and one hand pulled our hair back, his lips finding our ear as his hips snapped forward, frantic and furious. “Do it. Squirt for me, my loves. You can do it.”

We cried out as our body imploded, forcing him out as we contracted, wetness flooding the sheets below. Clint leaned back quickly, pushing himself back in as he watched, revelling in the bursts leaking around him, hands finding our hips to jerk us closer, his thrusts short and deep. “God, you’re hot. You’re so fucking hot-” With a surrendering groan, he pumped himself impossibly deeper, comforting heat filling us up from the inside.

We lay panting in his arms, drenched in sweat – and other things – as his seed slowly leaked from between our legs.

Ok. I… I need a break. But that…

Good, isn’t he? I smirked.

Incredible.

I stretched my tender muscles as Widow receded, sighing contentedly. “I think you broke them.”

Clint glanced down in sleepy alarm, heavy lids as wide as they could be. “Fuck. I’m sorry. Are-”

Shaking my head quickly, I placed one exhausted finger to his lips. “In the best possible way. Evidently, you’re ‘incredible’.”

He laughed, embarrassedly rubbing the back of his neck. “I wouldn’t go that far…”

I gestured idly at the mess of our bed, placing a tender kiss to his chest. “You already did. The words were a bold choice,” I added, one brow cocked in amusement.

He flushed crimson and sat upright, shifting himself from beneath me. “I… Aren’t you supposed to have a snack?”

“Clint.”

He paused from pulling on a fresh pair of boxers, red and nervous.

“Yeah?”

“We loved it.” I gestured to the bed once more, smirking. “That should have been obvious. And besides, Widow was right – you know how you love the marks? Well, we love the words.”

He swallowed dryly, colour fading. “…Noted.”

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