The Carnival Job
Summary: It was supposed to be simple: undercover work at a traveling carnival, posing as a happy couple. Except you’re doing it with both of them — and they’re terrible at sharing.
Tags: #buckybarnes #clintbarton #polyship #undercovermission #slowburn #jealousbanter #foundfamilyvibes #comicversechaos #fluffwithfeelings
“Alright,” you say, adjusting the neckline of your floral top for the tenth time, “whose idea was it to use a carnival as cover?”
“Mine,” Clint says, smug as he flicks his shades down his nose. “You can’t hide in plain sight better than behind a funnel cake stand.”
Bucky snorts beside him, arms crossed, black Henley stretched tight over muscle and irritation. “You also said that last time when we went ‘undercover’ at a tiki bar and you ended up singing karaoke in a Hawaiian shirt.”
Clint grins. “Worked, didn’t it?”
“Barely.”
You roll your eyes and start walking toward the bright blur of lights and laughter, the evening sun dipping behind cotton candy clouds. The mission is simple: intercept a black-market tech handoff happening somewhere inside the carnival grounds. Low stakes. High sugar content. And unfortunately… high chaos potential.
Your comm crackles. “Remember, team — blend in,” Nat’s voice says, all dry authority. “No weapons, no fights, no stunts.”
You, Bucky, and Clint all murmur “copy” at the same time — the collective tone saying absolutely not.
Fifteen minutes later, you’re walking hand-in-hand between the two of them, mostly because Clint keeps insisting “it sells the act.” Except his thumb keeps tracing lazy circles against your palm, and Bucky’s hand is warm and solid and there on your waist, pulling you closer every time the crowd thickens.
You spot the suspects first — two men by the shooting gallery booth, exchanging a small flash drive for a stuffed bear. Classic.
You whisper their location into the comms, but neither of your partners is listening. Clint’s already paying the game operator, tossing down a few bills with a grin.
“Gimme a minute,” he says. “Just need to establish our cover.”
Bucky’s eyebrow lifts. “By playing carnival games?”
“Exactly.”
Clint’s first arrow hits dead center, the balloon popping with a satisfying crack. Then another. Then another. He wins a prize — a ridiculous pink bear the size of a toddler — and hands it to you with a flourish.
“Thanks, hotshot,” you say, smiling despite yourself.
“Don’t encourage him,” Bucky mutters.
“Oh, come on, Barnes,” Clint fires back, leaning close enough that you can feel the static of their rivalry humming through the air. “You jealous?”
“Of your aim?” Bucky deadpans. “Please.”
“Of my charm, then.”
Bucky’s smirk curves, lazy and lethal. “She’s standing next to me, isn’t she?”
You sigh. “You’re both insufferable.”
“True,” they chorus.
Later, as the sun melts into twilight, you’re standing beneath the ferris wheel, the mission technically over — the drive recovered, the deal interrupted, the culprits unconscious behind a cotton candy cart.
The crowd has gone on laughing, unaware of the three spies who just saved them from a minor catastrophe. You’re eating a candy apple, sticky and sweet, while Bucky leans against the railing beside you, looking unfairly gorgeous under the neon lights.
Clint joins you, two sodas in hand. “You two looked cozy up there.”
“You mean when you left me to deal with two armed men and a broken Ferris wheel seat?” you ask.
He grins. “Team-building.”
“Uh-huh.”
Bucky chuckles low, the sound warm as the night air. “You almost got shot, Barton.”
“Almost being the key word,” Clint says. “C’mon, you gotta admit — we make a hell of a team.”
Bucky hums. “Yeah, I’ll admit that.”
Then his eyes flick to you. “But next time? I’m the one who gets to win her the stuffed bear.”
Clint laughs, mock-offended. “Oh, so it’s a competition now?”
You look between them — two men who’ve survived the impossible, both trying so hard not to say what’s written all over their faces.
You take a slow sip of soda. “Boys,” you murmur, smiling. “If it’s really a competition…” You step between them, link your arms through theirs, and tilt your head. “Maybe I’ll just have to be the prize.”
They both freeze. And then — matching, dangerous smiles.
“Deal,” Clint says.
Bucky’s smirk deepens. “You sure you can handle two winners, doll?”
You just laugh, walking off toward the lights, tugging them both after you. The night hums with electricity, sugar, and trouble — and somewhere above the noise, Nat sighs over the comm again.
“You three are never going undercover together again.”
You grin. “Promises, promises.”
The carnival’s laughter hums all around you — bright, dizzy, and alive. Bells ring, lights spin, the smell of buttered popcorn and smoke hangs in the air. You’re half-drunk on the sound of it all, your arm looped through Clint’s, your other hand clutching the ridiculous pink bear he’d won you hours ago.
Bucky walks a step behind, scanning the crowd like he can’t switch the soldier off, even beneath the shimmer of fairy lights.
“Lighten up, Barnes,” Clint calls over his shoulder, grinning. “We’re off the clock. You can relax for five minutes.”
Bucky’s jaw flexes. “Five minutes is how long it takes to get killed in a place like this.”
You laugh softly, the sound carried away by the carousel music. “You two balance each other out, you know that?” you say. “One paranoid, one reckless—”
“Hey, I’m strategically spontaneous,” Clint interrupts.
You roll your eyes and bump your shoulder into his. “Sure, Legolas.”
He laughs, and Bucky smirks faintly behind you — a flicker of warmth, gone just as quick.
You’re mid-laugh when it happens.
A bell rings.
Someone cheers — “Winner!” — and the brass clang echoes above the noise, blending with the melody of the carousel.
You feel the impact before you hear anything — a white-hot punch between your ribs, sudden and merciless. The world stutters. Your breath catches mid-laugh, turning to something thin and sharp.
The bear in your arms jerks. You blink down at it, confused for one aching heartbeat — pink fur blooming red where the bullet tore through, sticky warmth soaking through your shirt.
Then your fingers go slack.
The bear slips from your arms, landing on the asphalt with a muffled thump. You stare, dazed, at the spreading crimson against pastel fluff.
And then your knees buckle.
“Y/N?” Clint’s voice. Too casual at first. Then — breaking. “Hey—hey, whoa—what—”
He catches you under the arms before you hit the ground, panic slamming into his chest like the recoil of a gun.
Bucky’s already moving. He’s a blur — metal arm flashing under the carnival lights as he shoves through the crowd, gun drawn before anyone notices the quiet chaos.
“Sniper,” he growls, scanning rooftops, eyes flicking to exits. “Silencer. Came from the south side. Someone used the noise cover.”
Clint presses his hand over the wound, voice shaking but steady. “Stay with me, okay? You’re okay—just keep looking at me.”
You blink up at him, breath shallow. “The bear—”
“Forget the damn bear,” Clint hisses, tears pricking his eyes even as he forces a crooked smile. “You’re fine. You’re fine.”
Bucky’s already crouched beside you, ripping off his overshirt and pressing it against your side. “Deep breath, doll. I’ve got you. We’ve got you.”
The crowd swells around you — laughter, oblivious, bells still ringing somewhere far away. It’s surreal, that sound.
You want to laugh again, but your lungs won’t let you.
“Barton, get her out of here,” Bucky snaps. “I’ll find the bastard.”
“Like hell,” Clint bites out. “We’re not leaving you alone—”
“She’s bleeding out,” Bucky snarls, metal fingers slick with blood now, voice cracking beneath the grit. “You think I’m letting her die because you wanna play hero?”
Clint hesitates for a fraction of a second — then nods. “Fine. I’ll get her to the car. You finish this.”
Bucky’s hand cups your cheek for half a second, trembling just enough to betray the steel in his voice.
“You hold on, sweetheart. You don’t get to check out now. Not after you made me laugh tonight.”
And then he’s gone — swallowed by the crowd, ghost-silent, hunting the man who thought he could touch what’s theirs.
Clint lifts you, one arm under your knees, the other pressed hard against the wound. The carnival lights flash across his face — pink, blue, gold — like the universe itself can’t decide what kind of story this is.
You try to say something, but your words come out soft, broken. “It— it went through the bear first.”
He huffs a laugh that’s half a sob. “Yeah. You and your damn bear.”
The world tilts. The carousel spins. You fade in and out to the sound of more bells, more laughter. And Clint whispers something fierce and desperate against your hair —
“You’re gonna be fine, baby. You hear me? You’re gonna be fine.”
The noise of the carnival fades behind him, swallowed by the hollow thud of his boots on wet pavement. The laughter, the lights, the sweetness — all of it turns sour in his chest.
He’s already spotted the man. Civilian clothes, calm gait, walking away from the crowd with practiced ease — a predator melting into the noise.
Bucky doesn’t bother with stealth. He stalks. A shadow made of rage.
The man slips into an alley behind the funnel cake stand. Big mistake.
“You should’ve aimed for me.”
The gun goes off once — too fast, too clean. Bucky sidesteps it, metal arm catching the bullet mid-air like a trick of the dark.
Then he moves.
A flash of silver. A grunt. The dull crack of bone. The man’s gun skitters across the ground, and Bucky has him by the throat before it stops spinning.
“You think you can just walk away after that?” Bucky hisses, voice low, feral. “After her?”
The assassin gurgles, eyes wide. “It— it was—”
Bucky slams him into the wall hard enough that plaster cracks.
“Was what? Orders? Wrong target?!”
Blood smears the bricks. The man gasps, reaching for a knife, but Bucky’s faster — metal fingers closing around his wrist with a snap.
“You shot her through a toy,” Bucky whispers, his voice shaking now, too human. “Through a damn teddy bear. And you smiled about it, didn’t you?”
The man’s face is wet — rain or tears, he can’t tell. Doesn’t care.
He presses him harder into the wall until the man chokes.
“You don’t get to smile anymore.”
When it’s over, the alley is quiet again. Just rain and breath and the sound of a heart that isn’t sure it deserves to beat anymore.
Bucky wipes his hands on the assassin’s jacket and finally breathes.
Then he runs.
The med bay lights hurt. White, sterile, cruel.
Clint’s sitting beside you, one leg bouncing, blood dried in the grooves of his fingers. The bear sits on the table next to him — torn open, stuffing half gone, the bullet still embedded deep in its center like a sick souvenir.
He hasn’t looked at it since the doctors took you in.
“It went through the bear first,” you’d said.
He laughs now — hollow, cracking. “Yeah, kid. It did.”
The door bursts open, and Bucky stumbles in, breathless, wild-eyed, shirt soaked through with rain and something darker.
Clint stands immediately. “You got him?”
Bucky just nods, jaw tight. He looks wrecked — hair plastered to his forehead, blood streaked down one cheek, hand trembling as he rubs at it like he can’t get it off.
“She’s stable,” Clint says quickly. “Surgeons said clean pass-through. Missed anything vital by an inch.”
Bucky exhales, long and broken, like someone cut the strings holding him up. His knees nearly give.
Clint catches him without thinking, metal and muscle sagging into him, both of them shaking in the cold hum of fluorescent light.
For a long time, they just stand there. Two men carved out by guilt and relief, anchored by the same woman bleeding on the other side of the glass.
Later
You wake to the sound of machines — soft rhythmic blips counting your heartbeats like lullabies.
Your throat is dry, your chest aches, and the first thing you see when your eyes open is Bucky, slumped in a chair beside your bed, metal fingers wrapped around your hand like it’s the only thing tethering him to earth.
Clint’s asleep on the couch near the window, hoodie pulled over his face, a pillow hugged to his chest like a shield.
“Hey,” you whisper, voice a scratch of sound.
Bucky jerks upright. “Doll—” His voice breaks on the word. “You scared the hell outta us.”
You smile faintly. “You look worse than I feel.”
He huffs out a shaky laugh, brushing a strand of hair from your face with calloused fingers. “That’s not funny.”
“Wasn’t trying to be.”
There’s a silence — heavy, thick with everything they didn’t say before. Then Clint stirs, blinks blearily, and when he sees you awake, he nearly trips over himself getting up.
“Hey, hey, hey—” he breathes, voice raw. “You absolute menace. You couldn’t just enjoy the damn carnival, could you?”
You grin weakly. “Didn’t know being your date came with a bulletproof vest requirement.”
“Next time it will,” he says, trying to sound light, but his eyes are glassy.
Bucky reaches over and grips Clint’s shoulder. They exchange a look — unspoken, understanding. Fear and fury and relief all tangled up in one heartbeat.
Then both their gazes land back on you.
You sigh softly. “You two look like hell.”
Bucky chuckles under his breath. “We earned it.”
Clint folds his arms, shaking his head. “You’re not leaving our sight again. Ever. You even look at a carnival, we’re tying you to the damn bed.”
You arch an eyebrow. “Promise?”
The corner of Bucky’s mouth lifts, slow and warm. “Careful what you ask for, sweetheart.”
For the first time since the bells rang, the room feels alive again — laughter cracked open by love and exhaustion.
Outside, the world hums with neon and noise, but in here it’s quiet — safe, the air stitched back together by the sound of your heartbeat.
The Morning of Release
The hospital smells like lemon disinfectant and exhaustion. You’re half-dressed in borrowed sweatpants and a Stark Industries hoodie when the nurse hands you your discharge papers, smiling like it’s any other day.
But to Clint and Bucky, this morning might as well be the Second Coming.
They hover near the door — one leaning against the wall, arms crossed (Bucky), the other sitting backwards on a chair like he’s twelve (Clint). Both glaring at the other with quiet, simmering stubbornness.
“So,” the nurse says cheerfully, oblivious to the tension thick enough to chew. “Which one of you’s taking her home?”
And that’s all it takes.
“I’ll take her,” Bucky says immediately, stepping forward. His tone leaves no room for argument — or at least, that’s what he thinks.
Clint barks a laugh. “Oh, sure. Mr. Brooding Trauma himself. You’ll have her bench-pressing kettlebells by morning.”
Bucky narrows his eyes. “And you’d have her scaling rooftops before the stitches dissolve?”
“Hey,” Clint shoots back, “I happen to be excellent company.”
“You don’t even remember to feed yourself, Barton.”
“That’s rich coming from the guy who once lived on instant noodles and guilt.”
You sigh from the bed. “Boys—”
Neither hears you.
“I’ve got a guest room,” Bucky insists. “Quiet, clean, good security. She’ll rest.”
Clint leans back, smirking. “Oh yeah, nothing says healing environment like a Brooklyn fortress guarded by a paranoid cyborg.”
“At least I don’t live in a condemned apartment with a hole in the ceiling.”
“That hole has character!”
You groan. “I’m starting to think I should just check myself back in.”
They both stop mid-bicker, heads whipping toward you in perfect unison.
“Don’t joke about that,” Bucky says quietly, and Clint’s smirk softens into something fragile.
You exhale, letting the air leak from your ribs slow and steady. “Then maybe stop arguing over who gets to babysit me.”
It takes another five minutes of glares, huffs, and one near eye-roll-induced aneurysm before you finally lift a hand.
“Okay, fine. You both come.”
They blink. “Both?”
“Yes, both. Clint, you’re good for comic relief. Bucky, you’re the only one who can cook something that won’t kill me. Congratulations, you’re now my co-nurses.”
Bucky crosses his arms, jaw tight — but you can see the relief flicker through his shoulders. Clint grins, smug.
“See?” he says, bumping Bucky’s arm as they help you stand. “She wants both of us. Probably ‘cause we’re irresistible.”
Bucky mutters something about regretting everything, but the corner of his mouth twitches — a tiny ghost of a smile.
You lean into them both as they guide you through the hospital doors, sunlight hitting your face for the first time in weeks. It’s warm. Real.
Freedom smells like asphalt, coffee, and the faint leather scent of Bucky’s jacket as he steadies you by the elbow.
Bucky’s apartment wins — mostly because it’s closer, and because Clint “accidentally” forgot his car keys.
By evening, you’re settled on the couch with a blanket, tea, and the world’s worst pair of bodyguards.
Clint’s pacing, listing off things he thinks you need (“ice cream, definitely ice cream”), while Bucky’s rearranging the medicine bottles like a librarian organizing trauma.
They keep circling around you, orbiting like protective planets.
“Y’know,” you murmur, “most people celebrate survival with champagne, not supervised naps.”
Bucky glances up from the counter. “You need rest, not bubbles.”
Clint tosses you a pillow. “He’s right. But also—” He grins. “I got champagne too.”
Bucky groans. “You’re unbelievable.”
“Thank you.”
And somehow, it feels normal. The bickering. The warmth. The quiet hum of life pushing forward after chaos.
Later
You drift in and out of sleep to the sound of them — Clint snoring softly from the recliner, Bucky reading on the couch beside you, legs stretched out, metal fingers absently tracing circles over your wrist.
“You don’t have to stay up,” you mumble, eyes half-closed.
“I know,” Bucky says softly. “Don’t wanna miss a beat.”
A pause. Then, quieter: “Don’t wanna miss you.”
You smile faintly. “You won’t.”
And just as you start to drift off again, you hear Clint’s sleepy mumble from across the room:
“If you two get all sappy without me, I’m faking another injury.”
You laugh — low, tired, but alive. And the sound, soft and steady, settles over all three of you like peace finally remembering where it belongs.
You said:
Give her moment with each boy one on
You wake to the smell of coffee and the low hum of an old jazz record. The sunlight crawls lazily across the floor, catching on the metal of Bucky’s arm as he stands by the counter — still, for once, peaceful.
You shift on the couch and he turns instantly, the soldier’s instinct that never dies. But the tension fades the second his eyes land on you.
“Mornin’, doll,” he says, voice warm, hoarse from lack of sleep.
“Did you sleep?” you ask, even though you already know the answer.
He shrugs. “Tried. Got bored.”
He brings you a mug, careful not to spill, and sets it in your hands like it’s sacred. The quiet between you is the good kind — soft, unarmored.
You study his face. The bruised half-moons under his eyes. The scar that cuts through his eyebrow. The way his hair curls at his temple when it’s too long.
“You found him, didn’t you?” you ask quietly.
He doesn’t pretend not to know what you mean. “Yeah.”
Your breath catches. “You—”
“I didn’t kill him,” he says, cutting gently through your thought. “Not because he didn’t deserve it. Because you didn’t deserve to wake up with that on your conscience.”
You stare down at your coffee, throat tight. “You always think you have to protect me.”
He leans forward, metal fingers ghosting under your chin, tilting your face up to his. “Not always,” he murmurs. “Just when I can.”
For a moment, the world holds its breath. Then he presses a kiss to your forehead — soft, reverent, like a vow.
“You scared the hell outta me, sweetheart. Don’t ever do that again.”
You laugh weakly. “I’ll try to schedule my near-death experiences better.”
He smiles — small, real — and settles beside you, his arm a weight of safety across your shoulders. Neither of you says another word for a long time.
Clint returns from the corner store with his arms full — chips, takeout, comic books, a few of your favorite candies. It’s a mess of comfort, all tossed onto the coffee table like a colorful apology.
“You realize I can’t eat all that,” you say, amused.
“Sure you can,” he says, tossing you a candy bar. “Doctor’s orders. Emotional support calories.”
He flops onto the couch beside you, legs open, posture lazy. The sunlight slants through the blinds and paints his freckles gold.
“You should’ve seen your face when that bear dropped,” he blurts suddenly, and then winces. “Crap, that sounded awful. I mean—”
You laugh softly. “It’s okay. You’re allowed to joke about it.”
He looks at you like he doesn’t believe it. “You almost died. I thought—” He cuts himself off, eyes darting away. “I thought I lost my best friend. Again.”
You reach over, brushing your hand against his. “You didn’t.”
He turns his palm up, threading your fingers together. His thumb traces the inside of your wrist, right where the hospital IV bruised your skin.
“I don’t know what I’d do if you hadn’t come back,” he says quietly.
You grin, because he’s trying not to cry and you can’t stand the look in his eyes. “You’d have to find another girl to beat your high score at darts.”
He huffs out a laugh, shoulders shaking. “Never. You’re irreplaceable.”
He leans closer, forehead nearly touching yours. For a heartbeat, the teasing fades. There’s just warmth, breath, heartbeat, truth.
“You’re it for me, you know?” he whispers. “Even if I’m too much of an idiot to say it right.”
You smile, eyes glassy. “I know.”
And you do — because you can feel it in the way his thumb won’t stop trembling against your skin.
By nightfall, you’ve migrated to the balcony — Bucky’s blanket wrapped around you, Clint sprawled out with his feet on the railing. The city hums below, alive and indifferent.
Bucky’s sitting cross-legged beside you, quietly tinkering with something metal and small. Clint’s mid-story, gesturing wildly with a handful of popcorn.
You’re not laughing loud, but you are laughing — for the first time since the carnival.
And both of them, in their own ways, fall quiet to listen.
It hits you then: the strange, stubborn safety of this — of them. Two men carved from chaos and kindness, orbiting the same broken sun and somehow making it glow again.
Bucky looks over at you and smiles, rare and soft. Clint bumps your knee with his.
“Next carnival,” Clint says, “we’re going back.”
Bucky frowns. “You serious?”
“Damn right. We’re gonna win her a bear that doesn’t take a bullet.”
Bucky rolls his eyes, but there’s something like hope hiding in it.
You sip your tea, gaze drifting to the skyline. “Yeah,” you murmur. “Next time, we take it back.”
And when Bucky’s hand finds yours, and Clint’s shoulder brushes your other side, you realize — you already have.
A Few Weeks Later…
You're almost back to full strength.
The stitches are out. The pain is a dull memory. You’re sleeping through the night again — mostly because Clint sings off-key lullabies and Bucky growls at anyone who breathes too loud.
And tonight?
Tonight is the first night you’re celebrating survival instead of just surviving.
Clint shows up with a bottle of whiskey he definitely wasn’t supposed to have. Bucky mutters about poor judgment but takes a shot anyway.
You’re three drinks in, stretched out on the floor in pajama shorts and someone’s flannel, cheeks flushed, head spinning in that perfect not-too-drunk kind of way.
“You two ever shut up?” you laugh, pointing your glass toward them as they bicker again — this time over which movie you should watch.
Clint throws popcorn at Bucky’s head. “You’ve got garbage taste, Barnes.”
Bucky catches it mid-air. “You watched Sharknado without irony. You have no moral high ground.”
You curl into yourself, giggling. “God, I love this.”
They both stop. Turn to look at you.
“Love what?” Bucky asks, voice low.
“This,” you say, gesturing vaguely between the three of you. “The chaos. The comfort. The... us-ness.” You hiccup a little. “It’s stupid how happy I am. Even with the bullet holes.”
Clint smiles, soft and crooked. “You’re allowed to be happy, sweetheart.”
You nod. “I know. That’s the scary part.”
There’s a long silence.
Then, with all the tact of a sledgehammer, Clint blurts out:
“So which one of us do you like more?”
Bucky chokes on his drink.
Your eyes widen. “Wh-what?”
“You heard me,” Clint says, smug and pink-cheeked. “C’mon. Don’t think I haven’t noticed the heart-eyes you give Bucky.”
“Heart-eyes?” Bucky echoes, scandalized. “She practically crawled into your lap last night.”
“That was for warmth!” you protest. “It was cold!”
Clint leans in. “You like me more, don’t you?”
Bucky huffs, standing and rolling his sleeves. “Oh, please. She blushes every time I call her ‘doll.’”
“I blush because you say it like you want to eat me alive!” you shout, flustered.
They both pause.
Then grin.
Clint sits up straighter, eyes sharp. “Do you want that?” Bucky raises an eyebrow. “Because I’d happily oblige.”
The air goes electric.
You swallow thickly. “You’re not seriously going to compete for me right now.”
“Oh,” Clint murmurs, his voice dropping. “But we are.”
Let the Games Begin
Clint moves first, crawling across the floor on his knees, settling beside you, fingers brushing your knee as he leans in.
“You remember that time I patched you up? Carried you outta that mess?” His voice is all low smoke. “I haven’t stopped thinking about how soft you looked in my arms.”
You shiver.
Bucky scoffs — then crosses the room in three steps, towering behind you. One hand rests heavy on your shoulder. The other tips your chin up so you’re looking straight into his eyes.
“And who was there every night after?” he growls. “Who stayed by your bed when you screamed in your sleep?”
Clint rolls his eyes. “Oh come on, stop guilt-tripping her. This isn’t a pity round.”
“She deserves to know who bleeds for her,” Bucky snaps.
“I would bleed for her!”
You groan, head spinning, thighs pressed together like that’ll help anything.
“Okay,” you blurt, “I like you both, okay?! I like both of you. I want both of you.”
Silence.
Then:
“Well,” Clint says, exhaling slowly. “Now we’re talkin’.”
Bucky’s breath catches. “Say it again.”
You swallow hard, mouth dry. “I want you both.”
They don’t speak.
They move.
Bucky’s hand slips down your arm, slow and reverent, like he’s rediscovering your skin. Clint leans in from the other side, lips brushing your ear, whispering:
“Then let us show you what that means.”
Fingers trace your hips. A kiss is pressed behind your ear. Someone lifts your legs into their lap. You’re trembling, breath hitching, drunk not on whiskey but on them.
Two sets of hands.
Two mouths.
And you — caught in the middle, adored like a prayer.
Clint is fire.
He’s already kissing your neck, open-mouthed and messy, hands hot on your thighs as he shoves your pajama shorts down like they offended him.
“She said both, Barnes. Don’t get greedy.”
But Bucky’s already behind you, palming your hips like he owns them. His voice is a growl in your ear, rough and filthy.
“She says she wants us. I don’t think she understands what that means.”
“Then teach her,” Clint mutters, licking into your collarbone like it’s his.
You’re being dragged into their war, and you’re thriving in the middle of it.
Bucky is ice.
Ice and metal, dragging cool fingertips up your spine as Clint dips between your legs. You cry out, hips bucking, and Bucky laughs — low, dark.
“Look at her, Barton. You barely touched her.”
Clint pulls back, smug.
“She’s just responsive. That’s what happens when you make her feel safe.”
“Safe?” Bucky murmurs, sliding a hand up to your throat. “Or ruined?”
You shudder. “Bucky—”
His lips ghost your ear. “Tell me to stop, sweetheart. Or tell me what you really want.”
Clint’s mouth between your legs is sin. He’s grinning like he knows every twitch of your body, and he does, he’s been cataloguing your gasps like a good archer tracks wind and breath.
“C’mon, baby. Give me that pretty little sound. Make him jealous.”
You do. Oh, you do. Your moan punches straight through Bucky’s chest.
He flips you before you can catch your breath, lifting you into his lap, grinding against your ass, voice venom and velvet.
“Now it’s my turn.”
“Don’t break her,” Clint warns, panting. “I’m not done.”
He watches your face as he slides in — slow, thick, unforgiving. You claw at his shoulders, his dog tags clinking against your skin.
“That’s it. Take it. All of me.” “You gonna let him watch while I wreck you, baby?”
You nod — a shaky, desperate thing — and Clint groans like he’s the one inside you. He’s stroking himself shamelessly from the chair, watching Bucky thrust up into you with jaw clenched and eyes black.
“Look at you,” he murmurs. “So pretty when you’re ruined.”
Bucky fucks you like he’s branding you.
Clint watches like it’s art — and then joins again, crawling up to kiss your mouth while Bucky’s still buried deep inside.
“Next round’s mine,” he whispers. “You’re not walking tomorrow.”
And you? You laugh — drunk on touch and power and belonging.
“I don’t want to walk. I want this. You. Both of you.”
Two mouths find your throat. Two voices break together. And when you come — loud, wrecked, legs shaking — you scream both their names in the same breath.
And neither of them cares who came first. Because in the end? They both won.
The room smells like sweat and skin and something sacred.
You’re sprawled across the bed — not even sure whose bed this is anymore — tangled in a mess of blankets, your pulse still fluttering beneath the skin. Every inch of you hums, sore and sated.
Your body aches in the sweetest way, muscles slack, thighs sticky, lips kiss-bitten.
Bucky’s behind you, spooning you close, his arm a steel band around your waist. One finger traces idle shapes on your hip, slow and tender, like he’s trying to memorize you through touch.
Clint is in front of you, chest pressed to yours, nose tucked against your cheek, his breath warm and even. He hasn't said anything in a while. He just holds you, like he’s afraid if he lets go, you’ll disappear.
You blink slowly. “...I think I died.”
Clint chuckles. “If you did, you went out real happy.”
Bucky presses a kiss to your shoulder. “Still breathing, doll. Barely.”
Bucky’s the first to move.
He slips away with a muttered, “Don’t move,” and returns minutes later with a warm, damp cloth. He’s so gentle cleaning between your legs you almost cry — not from pain, but from the reverence in it.
“Too much?” he murmurs.
“No,” you whisper. “Just… too good.”
He presses his forehead to your knee, and for a moment he doesn’t move — breathing in your scent like it steadies him.
Clint vanishes too, only to come back with a cold bottle of water, a granola bar, and one of his dumb graphic tees.
“Here,” he says, helping you sit up. “Hydrate or you’re gonna regret everything tomorrow.”
“I’m already regretting nothing,” you murmur, but you take the water anyway.
Bucky’s shirt ends up on you. Clint’s hoodie ends up on Bucky. Somehow, they both end up holding you again.
You’re the one who breaks the silence this time.
“I meant it,” you whisper into the dim room. “Earlier. When I said I want both of you.”
Bucky shifts behind you, his nose brushing your temple. “We know.”
Clint’s voice is quieter than you’ve ever heard it. “We want you too. Always have.”
Your throat tightens. “Is this… something? For real?”
Bucky’s hand slides under your borrowed shirt, palm over your heartbeat. “It’s real to me.”
“Same,” Clint says. “Messy and loud and stupid sometimes, but real.” He hesitates. “I don’t need a label. I just… don’t want anyone else. Not if I can have this.”
You nod slowly, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes. “I thought love was supposed to be easy.”
Bucky kisses your shoulder again. “Love’s not easy. But it’s worth it.”
Clint presses a kiss to your forehead. “You’re worth it.”
Eventually, the three of you drift off, breath syncing like some strange, sacred spell. Your head on Clint’s chest, Bucky curled around your back, their heartbeats anchoring you like stars you’ll never lose sight of.
The moon spills silver across the bed. Someone snores. Someone murmurs your name.
And all of it — the chaos, the comfort, the us-ness — finally makes sense.