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To The Brink

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Clint's face is pressed against his thigh - his bare thigh - and Bruce has a moment to wonder what he was thinking.

It had seemed so funny in the coffee shop, cradling a cup of chai, staring across the table at Phil and Natasha, marveling at the fact that there were people, normal people, who wanted to be around him. And he'd just listened to them talk, letting their conversation wash over him but contributing little; it's been a long time since Bruce discussed anything but medicine or science, and he isn't sure how to relate to the casual and casually domestic.

And then Natasha'd asked about Clint (How is he doing?) and Phil had gone quiet (Still mad at me I think) and Natasha had smirked (Not so mad, I still heard the two of you last night) and Bruce had butted in.

I don't understand how anyone could sleep with him. He's so... beautiful, with his eyes glazed in pleasure as Phil's fingers work in and out, slowly stretching him. Bruce is paralyzed with need, his fingers clench the sheets as Clint mouths his thigh, wet kisses that lead slowly, inexorably up. He stares at the back of Clint's head, the tense knot of his shoulders, the sweep and scoop of his spine and back. Phil is there, murmuring, pressing kisses to the small of Clint's back, pushing another finger in. Bruce can't look at him, can't face the mockery in the agent's eyes.

Clint breathes out, a puff of warm air against the base of Bruce's cock. He moans low. How long has it been? Years at least, and that's since he had sex at all; it's been since junior year of college since he was with another man and that was all awkward fumbling. This is so smooth, so effortless, Clint and Phil, Phil and Clint, they know what they want, what they need and now they've brought him into it and he feels like a stone, cold and immovable and strange.

Clint's lips fasten around the head of his prick, blissfully warm, and he makes a noise between a scream and a moan. Clint tips his head back, looks up at him. It is impossible to believe that this is the same brash agent that he knows. There is no challenge now, no flirtation, no lewdness; Clint is deliciously submissive, his eyes wide and dazed with pleasure, and Bruce wants so badly to touch him. To cup his face. To guide those swollen lips down.

He shifts, laying his hand alongside his leg, chewing at his lower lip. It's all so strange, like being suspended in a moment that does not want him; even with Clint's mouth on his cock, he feels rejected, like this is something for the two of them and he is only an accessory. The thought, paradoxically, emboldens him and he presses his fingertips to Clint's cheek.

He is rewarded with a moan and sweet suction as Clint shifts forward, taking him in deeper (he'd laughed when Bruce drew his cock out, his eyes lighting up, and he'd whispered 'god, you're thick, look at that, fuck' as he crawled up onto the bed) stretching his lips around the widest part of Bruce's shaft. It is nothing short of sublime, the best head he's ever had, and then Clint screams against him and jerks forward and Bruce's eyes snap up.

Phil is there still, holding Clint open with both hands, tongue flicking teasingly across Clint's tight hole. Bruce draws a slow, shuddering breath as he watches. Clint squirms and sucks greedily at his cock, lips and tongue moving in frantic concert even as he grinds his hips back against Phil's face. Phil, who holds him effortlessly, controls the motion of his body, applies the perfect amount of pressure. Phil, who knows Clint so deeply.

Phil, who invited Bruce into their lives and their bed.

He is deft, crouched there behind Clint, driving him to the edge with his flickering tongue and then laving the over-sensitive skin, soothing the whimpering cries that burst from Clint's throat. It's perfection to watch, this calculated tease, the easiness of knowing exactly what will reduce another human being to pure impulse. Bruce admires that in Phil and even for a moment imagines what that wicked tongue would feel like against his own skin.

Bruce's mind, driven to the edge of lust itself and infuriatingly adept at imagining sensations - born, he supposes, from long years of having only his thoughts and his hand to keep him company - triggers the basest instincts of his body. His hips roll up. His hand cups the back of Clint's head. Fingers tangle in mussed blond hair. Clint moans low, chokes as Bruce pushes up into his mouth, and all of Bruce's inhibitions melt away in the heat of Clint's throat.

He doesn't know how long he's like that, head thrown back, thrusting into the endless eager wetness of Clint's mouth. He knows that he loves it, knows that Clint is good at it. Terrifyingly good, all soft lips and eager tongue and clutching, greedy fingers. He knows that if he pushes too far in, Clint will gag, and he knows that there is a perverse pleasure in doing just that. He knows that Clint is swallowing around him, moaning to encourage him. He knows this is the first time he has ever allowed himself to be like this, uninhibited, taking what he wants.

And then Phil's voice breaks through the haze of lust and he can feel warm breath against his ear, teeth nipping at his earlobe. The words fall like stones into his mind (Bruce do you want him, do you want to fuck him, he's so tight, he nearly broke my fingers when you touched his face) and Bruce sobs in his throat and nods his head and Phil's lips trail down the column of his throat, down the side of his chest, down his belly, down and down and down until Clint's warmth lifts away and another takes its place.

Phil's mouth is different, harder, hotter. His lips are thinner, his throat deeper. Bruce pushes all the way in, hands shaking against Phil's shoulders, waiting for him to choke, waiting for him to pull back, but he doesn't. He opens up to it, sucking and swallowing, and his lips are against the base of Bruce's shaft and he grinds his teeth so hard that it drowns out the thunder of blood in his ears.

He can hear Clint laughing, hear the slap of hand against ass, and then Phil's mouth is gone and Clint is swinging a leg over him, his hands resting on Bruce's shoulders. He is more gorgeous now than before, swollen lips and flushed cheeks, and he stares down at Bruce with a smile that borders on adoration. Ready? he mouths and Bruce nods and a hand grips his prick and slicks it. Phil, back at his ear, kissing Bruce's jaw and holding his cock steady as Clint sinks down. Bruce feels Clint's thighs flex, feels Phil's hand slip up to aim the head of his prick, and then he is engulfed again and Clint is sobbing with pleasure as he rocks his hips down, taking Bruce deeper and deeper until he's fully inside and Clint is resting in Bruce's lap with hectic spots of color in his cheeks and a dazed light in his half-lidded eyes.

He rests for a minute and then begins to move. Bruce grips his thighs, loving the way the muscles bunch and pull against his palms as Clint rides him. He is tight, gloriously so, and the roll of his hips pulls Bruce deep inside his body. His prick, full and swollen and aching, bobs between them as he moves. He doesn't reach down to touch it, doesn't so much as acknowledge his own pleasure - though clearly he loves the way another man feels inside him. His eyes roll, a flush of red creeps down his neck.

Good boy and slow down drip from Phil's lips like honey, wicked and low and sweet as he shifts around behind Clint and rests his hands possessively on those compact hips. He hasn't even taken his pants off, a fact which Bruce notes with abstract amusement. Still perfectly controlled and controlling, even as he forces Clint forward, leaning over his shoulder to press light, teasing kisses against Bruce's eager mouth.

He's so tight Bruce whispers and isn't he perfect? Phil answers and Clint laughs and bites Bruce's chest and murmurs against his skin I'm right here, I'm right here, say it to me. And Bruce cups the back of Clint's head and breathes filthy words into the shell of his ear as his hips move, grinding up, setting a new, harder pace. Phil backs off, his hands falling to his waist, and Bruce hears the rasp of a zipper. He wants to look but doesn't, wants to prolong this but can't. Clint squeezes him too tight, takes him too deep, and it has been too, too long. Pleasure swells like a balloon in his belly and then Clint bites his throat and whimpers please Bruce please fuck come on baby please and his hips feel bruised from slamming up into Clint.

He comes with a low scream, raw and primal. His fingers bite into Clint's skin, dragging him down, holding him still and Clint sobs as Bruce tenses, trembling on the edge of his own orgasm but denied it by the sudden cessation of movement. Bruce twitches, licks sweat from his lips. Clint shifts tenderly, lifting himself up, breathing hard. He keeps his knees planted on either side of Bruce's hips and, after a moment, utters a low moan.

Bruce opens his eyes and smiles wearily; it is Phil's turn now, his fingers tangled in Clint's hair, pulling his head back, slamming into him over and over and it's clear from Clint's expression that he loves it, clear that the pain and pleasure have become entwined in his mind whenever Phil is touching him. Bruce watches them, the coordination of their movements, the way Clint knows Phil's pace and responds to it, the way Phil exerts just enough pressure to keep Clint's back bowed and his throat exposed. It's beautiful. And he is a part of it.

His fingers stretch, shift, enclose Clint's prick, and he howls in pleasure as Bruce begins to stroke him in time with Phil's thrusts. His cock is so hard that it must be painful; tears of agonized ecstasy drip down his face. Please, he mouths, oh god please and Bruce laughs softly and nods his head and Clint convulses as he comes, spilling himself across Bruce's belly, clenching so tight around Phil that he cries out, cursing and gasping as he drives in again and again and again, fucking Clint's over-stimulated body until he too shudders and stops moving.

There is a frozen moment then. Sweat drips from Clint's brow. Phil rests inside the archer, Bruce rests beneath him. The three of them have shared something now and there is no going back from it. Bruce feels the weight of that truth pressing down on him, triggering darker emotions. Fear. Confusion. Rage. He pushes himself up onto his elbows, breaking the tableau.

Phil pulls out with a soft sigh and grabs the tissues to clean up. Clint purrs and drops his head, lazily licking the come off of Bruce's stomach. Slut murmurs Phil affectionately. Clint laughs, warm against Bruce's skin. You get it now?

And Bruce nods, resting his hand against Clint's head, taking the anger and tucking it away. Not now. Not today. Yeah he says to Phil yeah I get it now.