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Synaptic Responses

Summary:

“I don’t know how to be in a relationship,” Clint admits one night after a failed third date with a girl he met through the animal shelter where he volunteers walking the dogs. She’s cute, but obviously has limited tolerance for his bullshit, and “quirky and charming” only goes so far. Sometimes on his days off he can’t get out of bed in the morning from indecision. Sometimes he can’t speak, let alone tell a girl what she wants to hear.

“Maybe you just don’t know how to be in a neurotypical relationship,” Bruce gently suggests, laying his hand on top of Clint’s on the counter.

Notes:

ETA: This story has been updated to address critiques of the portrayal of DID in the narrative. It is very important to note (see original notes below) that this is a story where trauma is handled in part through kink, sometimes in unhealthy or questionable ways. Clint is not always a super reliable narrator, and I want to especially make it clear that his POV is NOT meant to be taken as BDSM education, or as informed about DID. He’s learning, and he has his own issues. His opinions don't always reflect mine! As always, I am happy to answer any questions or critiques in the comments! I want to give it one final continuity read, but it was important for me to get these edits up asap to avoid causing harm to readers, so please know that one more edit is coming!

~*~

Welp, when I started this story I was undiagnosed ADHD hoping to get meds and by the time I started editing it I both got a diagnosis and realized I'm additionally on the spectrum (thanks to both the nurse treating my ADHD and some amazing long conversations with friends, as well as the observations of my autistic partners). And that period of time was only three months 😂

Much love to all my fellow team neurodivergent folx! It took me so long having almost all neurodivergent friends, reading amazing neurodivergent creators' stuff, and noticing traits in myself before I realized that it was even possible to be neurodivergent with all my privileges. But despite that dissonance, I never saw autism or ADHD as bad things. I just didn't think I could possibly be as cool as my neurodivergent friends! 🤣 I'm really grateful to all those folks, past and present, for giving me spaces to feel belonging to the point I didn't realize my lacking neurotypical social skills until I thought real hard about it (and had a number of my masks pointed out to me).

Now that I've turned this corner, I'm looking at Clint in the following story like oh... oh. I think I was writing myself. (Though I'm not dyslexic and don't have C-PTSD, the other diagnoses we share. While I was writing I thought I was identifying with Tony, but literally when do I ever identify with the top? 😀) If anyone has feedback around how I portray any of the conditions here, don't hesitate to let me know in the comments, especially if speaking from experience. DID, (C-)PTSD, and dyslexia in particular aren't things I can write about from experience. It's important to me that my characters resonate or at least don't jar or disturb readers with the same diagnosis, and I love to learn!

CWs: neurodivergent experiences including description of a meltdown, mentions of child abuse (non-graphic), dissociation. I also want to specifically flag that there is one scene that includes characters exploring heavy Daddy kink / sexual ageplay as trauma processing in a consensual container, and that scene also includes puppy play and humiliation. If you want to skip that scene, you still get a substantial story! Just stop reading at “Got it. Anything you want, sweetheart?” and scroll down to the ~*~ and then past the first full paragraph, which includes mentions of that kind of play. There is also a much briefer/lighter mention of Daddy kink in a shorter bit, to avoid skip the section that starts “Clint has blanket permission…” Finally, important to note that there is a character in this story who is a DID system (multiple alters sharing a body), and there are kinks that the alters do not share. Just want to avoid confusion—any kinks practiced in this story are consensual and you can assume that in the cases of differences between alters, there has been sufficient offscreen negotiation to make sure everyone is comfortable!

(See the end of the work for more notes.)

Work Text:

One of the shitty things about SHIELD is the psych battery, which gives Clint a list of diagnoses he didn't really want and a mandatory therapist he definitely didn't want. (ADHD, ASD, APD, anxious-avoidant attachment—definitely the only “As” Clint’s ever gotten in his life. Also dyslexia, which he guesses is better than “ya read slow, kid.”) 

But his skill level in the field is such that Coulson doesn't really give a fuck about his neurodivergencies (or maybe it's just that no one in this profession escapes a mental health diagnosis or two and these are easy enough to work around, even beneficial sometimes). The therapist asks probing questions about his childhood whenever Clint’s scheduled for a session, and he lies convincingly about certain details. He learned to do that long before he was trained in espionage. 

And then somehow after years as a spy he's also an Avenger, and through some sort of weirdo-bonding ritual involving shared late-night snacks, easy acceptance of very specific personal boundaries, and sparse but surprisingly comfortable conversation on topics that are actually interesting (“Clint, don’t be a dick,” a voice that sounds a lot like Barney says in his head), he becomes friends with Bruce Banner.

They spend a lot of time in the same room just doing their own thing, but Bruce never once complains about Clint’s constant fidgeting or his inconsistent ability to make eye contact or his weird tangents and infodumps. “I don’t know how to be in a relationship,” Clint admits one night after a failed third date with a girl he met through the animal shelter where he volunteers walking the dogs. She’s cute, but obviously has limited tolerance for his bullshit, and “quirky and charming” only goes so far. Sometimes on his days off he can’t get out of bed in the morning from indecision. Sometimes he can’t speak , let alone tell a girl what she wants to hear. 

“Maybe you just don’t know how to be in a neurotypical relationship,” Bruce gently suggests, laying his hand on top of Clint’s on the counter. Clint blinks in surprise. They rarely touch, and he doesn’t know the rules for Bruce’s suddenly unusual behavior. Is this a come-on? Wait, “neurotypical”… how does he even know I’m not? Did he read my file? Could he just tell ? Oh God, that’s embarrassing. What does he even mean, though?

“What?” is all Clint actually manages to get out, his throat dry. Bruce smiles sympathetically and lifts his hand to tap the side of his own nose. Clint still feels phantom pressure on the back of his hand, and notes that the touch itself was not unpleasant.

“You’re not the only one,” Bruce explains. “I don’t get exhausted talking to you like I do with most people, so I figured you must be neurodivergent in some way, too.”

“Oh.” Clint grins. “Yeah. That’s… huh.” He tilts his head to the side, considering the short list of people over the course of his life who haven’t made him duck out of conversations at the earliest opportunity.

Bruce watches him patiently, then offers a gentle prompt. “Noticing a pattern?”

“Yeah, now that you say it.” Clint frowns. “Except Nat’s all right, and she’s not.” (Not that any SHIELD psych battery would have picked up on it, if she were, the way she was trained. But given how Clint knows her, bone-deep, he doesn’t think he would have missed it.)

“She’s very empathic, though. She can sense what you need.”

“You’ve noticed that?” Clint raises his eyebrows slightly, and Bruce just smiles and doesn’t give anything away. Most people think of Natasha as cold or just dangerous, and it raises Bruce even higher in Clint’s esteem to realize that he sees at least one key aspect of what’s underneath.

“Here’s my unsolicited advice: don’t date anyone who can’t see you for exactly who you are and at least acknowledge what you need.”

“Is that why you’re alone?” Clint blurts out, and it’s the kind of blunt question that usually gets him in trouble. But Bruce just tilts his head and smiles a little sheepishly. 

“Yeah. More or less.”

“Huh. Well… maybe you’re right. I’ll stop going on dumb dates.”

Bruce smiles again, just a little, and offers his fist for Clint to bump. It’s such a not-Bruce gesture that Clint can’t help but grin as they tap knuckles. “That’s the spirit.”

~*~ 

One evening when Jane Foster’s in town for a convention, her intern in tow, all of the Avengers plus Pepper Potts and Colonel Rhodes end up milling around with them in the common area. It starts out okay, but soon there are at least three conversations happening simultaneously, escalating in volume, and Clint can’t key into any one conversation but he can’t quite tune them out either. Nor is there a quick way to vanish without someone calling attention to it. People keep pulling him in with questions or touch and his skin is starting to crawl, which is really not good. He knows how to dissociate, how to leave his body without anyone noticing—has to, given his line of work. But he’s been off all week and some of his coping mechanisms aren’t available. 

Finally he at least gets over towards a corner, though he doesn’t have a clear and discreet path to a vent or the elevators. He tries to keep his meltdown as non-obvious as possible, rocking a little and crossing his arms over his chest, humming to himself. As long as no one notices, as long as no one notices…

“Clint?”

Bruce. Thank God . Clint tries to say something, but nothing comes out, he just hums a little louder and shakes his head. 

“Okay, me too. I’ve got you.” He throws an arm around Clint’s shoulders in a casual manner, walking with him along the edge of the room and gesturing like they’re in some fascinating conversation, when really all he’s saying is “stay with me, I know, we just have to get to the elevators and it will be quiet…” 

Steve must be able to hear, but Clint can’t focus on that right now, just lets Bruce lead. Fortunately his touch doesn’t feel sandpapery like many sensations do when Clint’s in this space. The elevator doors slide shut and Bruce drops his arm, tells JARVIS to go up a couple of floors and then hold. Clint’s rocking again and buzzing through his lips, probably too loud, but Bruce is perfect and doesn’t tell him to stop. 

“I hate crowds, too,” Bruce shares after a minute, neither making eye contact nor telling Clint to stop stimming. “Not just because of the other guy.”

“I don’t hear good,” Clint mumbles, his voice going soft and small. He can hear the shift but he can’t stop it. 

Bruce just smiles, doesn’t call attention to it. “That’s okay.” 

After a few minutes of silence save for his soft buzzing, Clint volunteers, “There’s a kinda… voice in my head. It tells me to do things a certain way.” 

“Yeah?” Bruce’s expression is soft and open when Clint glances up. “I’ve got all sorts of voices in my head telling me how to do things.” There’s a pause where Clint wonders what he means… psychosis of some kind? But then he clarifies, “I’m a system. I have Dissociative Identity Disorder. Meaning there are literally multiple separately conscious people sharing my body. And sometimes we communicate with each other even when one of us is technically in charge. It’s like passing messages, sort of. Anyway, that's my neurodivergence.”

“Huh.” Clint thinks about it for a moment. “Well, you’re good at this. Helping.”

“It’s my job.”

Clint frowns. “I thought you were a scientist.”

“No,” Bruce laughs softly. “Not like that. I’m an emotional protector. That’s my role in the system.”

“Your role?”

“I’m not Bruce. I’m... another one of our system alters.”

“...oh. Okay.” Clint’s not sure he totally gets it, but he’s game to try.

“It’s not always the same person who’s conscious, but we’re all good at being Bruce when we need to be.”

“You… pretend?”

“Sure.” Bruce (or whoever it actually is) shrugs. “Like when you mask.” Clint frowns quizzically, and Bruce gestures to his rocking, slower now. “When you hide your stims. Or try to talk like neurotypical people. Or… you’re very good at masking your hypervigilance as something else. Trauma responses are tricky.”

“...right.” Clint frowns again. He didn’t think Bruce had ( they had) noticed. Quiet hands, Clint , he thinks, and shudders. He learned to hide long before he ever met a psychiatrist. SHIELD may have diagnosed him, but he didn't make it easy on them. They read between the lines, three different evaluators and a couple of agents trained in profiling, rather than taking his answers to their screening questions at face value. (Natasha took the entire psych staff and they still couldn't agree on any diagnoses, even after the deconditioning protocol.) “Wait, is the other guy one of the alters?”

“Not… really?” Bruce shrugs. “I don’t know how a psychiatrist would describe it. We think of him as different, though. He didn’t exist until the incident, we’re pretty sure. It’s just a big inconvenient coincidence. Or… maybe it’s not, but if our brain structure has anything to do with why the gamma radiation affected us this way… most of us wouldn’t want to know. Systems get enough shit as it is.”

“Huh. That’s fair. So was Bruce… well… Bruce-Bruce…” Clint shrugs, and Bruce smiles and nods his understanding, “...was he the first?”

“No. It’s not really like that.”

“What’s it like?”

“More… like I didn’t form a self the way you did. When I was a kid, my consciousness didn’t coalesce into a single identity. It’s a response to severe trauma, only happens when you’re young enough not to really have a full sense of self, yet. Bruce is our system host, and he’s out the most. Usually when you’re interacting with us, it’s him. But it’s never just been him.”

“Oh.” Clint considers that, his own trauma, wonders why Bruce’s brain formed this way and Clint’s formed with its own set of diagnoses. “How old were you, when it first happened?”

“Four or five.” Clint sucks in through his teeth. It’s not an unfamiliar story, though, what he finds between Bruce’s lines. “I’m pretty sure, anyway. I didn’t understand for a long time. But that was the worst of it, with my family.”

Clint nods. “So does the other guy… really hold all your anger?”

“No.” He looks up and Bruce’s eyes flash with something, something hot and sharp and kind of appealing to Clint’s fucked up brain. It’s like someone else is looking at Clint through those eyes for a few seconds, his micro-expressions subtly shifting. And then Bruce blinks rapidly a few times, shakes his head a little bit, and softens. 

“We’re all complex people,” Bruce says, back in the tone of the emotional protector self Clint’s already learning to recognize. “We just have different roles to play in the system.” He doesn’t say it like boasting, just matter-of-fact. 

“Right. Okay. That makes sense… I think.”

“I can read you some articles,” Bruce suggests, and there’s something about that, the way Bruce immediately knows that both reading and audiobooks are hard for him and offers an alternative option without batting an eye, that makes Clint relax a lot more and feel warm in his chest. “The science is always changing, and it’s not gonna tell you anything about the other guy, but… it might help you understand.”

“Okay,” Clint agrees. He shifts a little from foot to foot, then slowly comes in close, realizing he’s stopped rocking and actually wants to touch. He can be hypersexual and tactile and then completely touch-averse in waves. It’s incredibly irritating for most people, he knows, but Bruce welcomes the sudden closeness and accepts a full-body hug. His sweater has a pleasant texture, cashmere maybe. Clint has weirdly diverse but specific favorite textures. Plush and soft like this, but also buttery smooth worn leather, jersey cotton. Bare skin. Well-kempt facial hair. Poker chips. Coffee beans. River rocks. Paintbrush bristles, but only certain types. A dog's fur. 

The hug is really long and their breathing matches up, their heart rates sync. Bruce holds him with his arms around Clint’s waist, his chin on Clint’s shoulder. Bruce is barely shorter, just enough that Clint’s shoulder catches him a bit tight at the throat. He doesn’t complain, which is interesting. But also just one alter, Clint reminds himself.

“You don’t have to tell me, but… do you all have different names? Ages and genders and stuff?”

“Yes,” Bruce agrees. “For the most part. Not everyone has a name. Some ageslide. A couple don’t have a gender. There are non-human alters, too.”

“Oh. Right.” Then Clint’s impulsiveness takes over. “Bruce?” he asks, pulling back just enough that his lips are at Bruce’s ear. “Can I kiss you?”

There’s a very long pause where Clint wonders if he’s way off the mark. He’s never been very good at distinguishing flirting from other interactions, and he has an apology ready. But then instead of responding, Bruce pulls back another couple of inches, his cheek dragging against Clint’s. “It’s me, Clint.” He smiles a little, so close Clint can feel the warm breath on his cheek. “Bruce-Bruce.”

“Oh,” Clint murmurs. “Hi.”

“Hi,” Bruce grins. “Still good?” Clint nods quickly, and Bruce immediately catches Clint’s mouth with his own. He tastes like the anise he likes to chew when he’s anxious, and his lips are warm and dry. He gradually takes control of the kiss, rather than forcing a switch in dominance, and Clint lets him.

“My room okay?” Bruce asks, and Clint immediately agrees. As JARVIS directs the elevator, Bruce kisses him again to match the swoop in Clint’s stomach. His hands cradle Clint’s skull, his thumbs grazing Clint’s cheeks. Bruce’s demeanor as they leave the elevator is noticeably different from how he was before the kiss, something about his posture and the way he walks. Clint files it away for future reference.

Clint follows Bruce to the kitchen where he pours them each a glass of water, then puts both glasses on the counter and slides his arms around Clint’s waist again, slow like he doesn’t want to scare Clint off. He kisses with that subtle dominance, but his hands are gentle on Clint’s hips, thumbs sneaking under the hem of his t-shirt and brushing over bare skin. It’s an intriguing combination. 

“I’m glad you asked me,” Bruce murmurs. “At least… it felt like you were asking me. Not that she would’ve minded, but…”

“Yeah.” Clint reaches up, touches the sides of his face, mentally filing the pronoun away. “Well… mostly.” He traces the ridge of Bruce’s cheekbone with one calloused thumb. “I mean, I guess… I don’t know the difference, yet, between… alters? But I want to learn. I didn’t realize you would… come out? Is there a better word for it?”

“Switch out,” Bruce smiles. “It’s called a switch. It doesn’t always happen that quickly or voluntarily, usually I dissociate at least a bit first, but… sometimes something triggers it. You asked me, or at least it felt that way, so… I wanted to be there. To kiss you.”

“Okay.” Clint kisses him once, tugging Bruce’s lower lip gently with his teeth. “I’m glad. You… see me for who I am. You understand what I need,” he murmurs, echoing Bruce’s words from their conversation after his failed date. “And also… I guess… honestly I would’ve kissed the person I was talking to?” Clint shrugs, pulling back a little but not out of Bruce’s hold, letting his hands slide down to rest against Bruce’s chest. “I mean, I really needed that save. Also I’m a bit of a slut.” 

“Save?” Bruce asks, cocking his head to the side. But before Clint can respond his gaze unfocuses and drifts down and left again, just past Clint’s arm. And after just a few seconds of Clint wondering whether he should try to bring Bruce’s focus back or avoid drawing attention to it, his eyes suddenly widen and refocus on Clint. “Oh! I’m glad we got you out of there, then.” 

Clint blinks. “What?”

“I wasn’t there, Clint,” Bruce gently reminds him. “That wasn’t me downstairs. When we’re in our inner world, we’re not always conscious of what’s going on in the outer world. Sometimes one or more of us watches, but not all the time. Especially if we’re taking a break to avoid something, like me and crowds. But we can… share memories with each other, after the fact. I just saw you, uh...”

“Having a meltdown.”

Bruce nods. “To be clear, I’m not judging you. I can’t even be conscious in large groups of people sometimes.” He smiles and squeezes Clint’s waist. “Wouldn’t have a leg to stand on.”

“Did you… switch out? Just now?” Clint wonders. “To see the memory?”

“No,” Bruce shakes his head. “That would be exhausting, if we had to do it every time. We talk to each other in our inner world… sometimes we share memories. Other times it’s like… watching through a window. Where one of us isn’t fronting but can still see what’s happening. I guess… think of it as a spectrum, from deep in the inner world to fully present here. And sometimes more than one of us is fronting, when we’re co-conscious.”

“Huh. Sounds… really complicated, honestly.”

“I guess. It’s the only thing we’ve ever known, so…”

Clint nods, then breaks the somewhat awkward silence that follows. “Can we… go back to making out? Possibly in your bed?”

“Yeah,” Bruce agrees, his voice going low and throaty. He reaches for his water glass, hands Clint his, and then tugs Clint by one hand towards his bedroom. It’s sparsely decorated, but there’s a wide bookcase full of books along the wall opposite the windows, and a big bed in the center of the room. Clint downs half his water, then sets it on the empty nightstand and toes his sneakers off, kicking them under the bed so he won’t trip (cause he so would). 

Bruce follows suit and they rejoin in the center of the bed, slipping into the makeout session Clint was promised. Bruce’s tongue teases his own, and one hand finds a grip on Clint’s hair, tight enough to make him moan softly. Eventually Bruce’s thigh slips between Clint’s but he doesn’t escalate into full-on grinding, nor does he make any moves to remove more clothing. Clint considers Bruce’s age and wonders if maybe he just needs a little more buildup than some of Clint’s past partners. And hell, Clint’s not complaining.

But then Bruce pulls away, looking a little anxious. “I’d like to get you off,” he says, and Clint certainly doesn’t see anything wrong with that, especially not if Bruce is going to keep talking to him in that low, pleasantly rough tone. “But I… don’t normally come. In front of other people. It’s kind of a dealbreaker, too much risk involved.”

“Because your heart rate might trigger the other guy?”

“It’s not just my heart rate. I monitor my heart rate because it’s relevant in the context of a fear response or an anger response. There’s… cold anger and hot anger. It’s hard to explain. But I know what to look for. And being that vulnerable, in that way, in front of people, it…”

“It’s okay,” Clint offers gently, kissing him. “You don’t have to explain. I’ve got shit like that too. Your… thing… goes pretty well with my things. Would you be willing to finger me, though? Or, if you’ve got a toy…”

Bruce raises his eyebrows. “Really?”

“Yeah, why not? Do you?”

“I can borrow,” Bruce says with a bit of a blush, and it takes Clint a moment to realize he means “from one of the other people who inhabit this body.” The idea of them each having their own stuff is interesting, but he won’t ask right now. He has some impulse control. Sort of. Sometimes. Mostly when pursuing a different impulse—in this case, sex.

“That’d be cool. If it’s okay. I really would like you to fuck me. I could top, too, but...”

“No, this is good.” Bruce kisses him hard, hotter, pushing his thigh more deliberately against Clint’s package now. “Hang on a sec. I’ll be right back.”

He disappears into a closet and Clint unzips his jeans, strips down as far as his underwear before Bruce returns with a dildo and a bottle of lube, looking hungry. “Eager?”

“Maybe,” Clint deflects, running his hands down his body because he’s a tease sometimes, lifting his hips and rolling his torso like a dancer. Natasha taught him some moves, once, useful for marks of a certain persuasion. Bruce looks appreciative, anyway. “Do you want me, sir?” Clint licks his lips. Slow. 

“I do.” Bruce’s voice is a little raspy again. He puts the toy to the side and tugs at Clint’s underwear a little. “You won’t be needing these.”

Clint shivers, strips them off, and spreads his legs as Bruce climbs onto the mattress again. 

“Are you sensitive?” Bruce asks, stroking his fingers lightly over Clint’s hole, and Clint gasps.

“Yeah, fuck.”

“Oh, that’s good for me,” Bruce grins like he’s genuinely delighted. He teases at Clint’s rim, never applying any pressure, just stimulating the nerves. It’s a hell of a tease. Clint’s keening and whimpering by the time Bruce has applied some lube and started circling the tip of an index finger at Clint’s hole. He’s a trained spy, goddamnit, this is embarrassing. “Your hole is so pretty,” Bruce murmurs, and he sounds like he’s serious but Clint still flushes with humiliation. The combination of embarrassment and fluttery feelings from the praise makes Clint’s dick even harder. “What if I just made you come on my fingers?” Bruce muses aloud. “What if you didn’t even make it onto my fake dick?” Clint gasps and jerks and Bruce’s finger slips in. It’s immediately not enough.

“Please!”

“Please what, pet? Tell me, pretty.”

Clint whimpers. “Please… more fingers.”

“Ah, good boy,” Bruce smiles, and he immediately slips his finger out and pushes two back in. It’s intoxicating, getting what he wants like this, without bargaining or even having to offer anything in return. It feels so uncomplicated, so good . Clint gasps and plants his feet into the mattress, rolls his hips with Bruce’s fingers up his ass. Bruce laughs. 

“Is this what you want?” he asks, perfectly calm and academic as he crooks his fingers and starts to massage Clint’s prostate as unerringly as if he were an actual MD. 

Clint moans and his knees fall open. “Please,” he gasps. “Oh fuck, Bruce, pound me.” It’s still on the good side of sensation, Bruce’s rhythm a pleasing stim rather than overstimulation. Bruce thrusts into him with three fingers, sloppy with lube, and Clint starts to whine puppy-like in the back of his throat, an instinctive sound as he builds towards climax. 

Oh God, Bruce was right. He’s gonna come before he even makes it to the toy. But he loves that it’s Bruce inside him like this, Bruce’s fingertips jackhammering his prostate, Bruce giving him steady intense eye contact that feels like it’s hypnotizing Clint. 

His body starts to shake all over, and it comes on slow and diffuse with his dick left ignored, but gradually the prostate stimulation forces an orgasm out of him, building waves that crest finally when he shoots his load. It’s intense and complete and when he’s done he’s done , collapsing in a non-verbal puddle, his whole body shaking with light tremors. Bruce doesn’t panic, though, just kisses him lightly and goes to get a cool cloth and wipe Clint’s body down after washing his own hands. When he’s done with that, Bruce strips out of his clothes and spoons up behind Clint, his erection slotting under Clint’s ass. 

“Do you want me to go in the other room while you take care of that?” Clint offers, not wanting to be a total asshole. Bruce shakes his head, though, lips brushing against Clint’s neck. 

“It’ll go down. I want to hold you.” And so that appears to be that.

~*~

Clint and Bruce have been together for a week and a half when Tony confronts Bruce in that subtle, easy way of his that slips immediately under the skin. It’s Clint’s fourth visit to the workshop since they started this thing and he’s been talking to Bruce for five minutes, aware that someone is co-conscious but not entirely sure who, and not wanting to ask in Tony’s presence. He’s more focused on trying to identify the alter than on Tony, so it takes Clint a minute to realize he’s staring. 

“What?”

“I was just wondering… Bruce, when was the other guy born? And does he have a name he’d prefer we use?”

Bruce freezes, stares at Tony, and looks like he might panic a bit. But before Clint can do anything, say anything (they haven’t talked through what to do in case of an Incident, fuck , Clint hopes their relationship will survive this if Bruce can’t hold him back), Tony smiles, apparently totally calm, and keeps talking in a relatively even tone. 

“I mean, I didn’t necessarily mean I want to meet him now , it’d be kind of cramped.” Tony’s relaxed and easy but doesn’t get too close, his body language soft and non-threatening. Clint stays poised and still behind Bruce, ready to spring into action and run for it if needed. Tony has his suits. But Bruce stays in human form, his eyes closed, hands tensing and relaxing. When he opens his eyes they’re blank, hazy, but Tony seems to know what to do with the dissociation and doesn’t move, just lets Bruce get through it until he blinks into some clarity again.

“Hey.” Tony smiles. His body language goes soft, and Clint’s instinctively gets a little harder, his eyes flicking protectively to the potential points of ingress and egress. He might not admit it readily, but the protective streak is for both of them. “You don’t normally talk, do you?” Clint frowns, then realizes, more observant than most give him credit for when he’s hyperfocusing. Protecting the people who make him feel safe is one of his special interests. So it clicks for Clint, just before Bruce’s mouth opens, that it’s an alter he hasn’t met rather than Bruce just needing to be quiet and meditate after his close calls. 

“No,” Bruce’s lips say in a soft, slightly higher rasp. 

“That’s all right,” Tony encourages. “I can do enough talking for the both of us. What’s your name, though, kid?” 

“Robert,” he mumbles, sounding very young. Tony doesn’t flinch, and Clint’s not surprised, exactly, but maybe a bit relieved. Some people, he has no doubt, would be an asshole about meeting a kid in an adult body, or at least confused. Tony seems to take it in stride, though. 

"You help Hulk when it's not a good time for him to come out, dontcha? That's a pretty awesome thing." Robert shrugs, a slight movement as if his shoulders were smaller. 

"He needs t’know I'm safe. I'm the only one who can keep ‘im from comin’ to the front. He’s not an alter like me, but… I can talk to ‘im." 

"Yeah?" Tony grins. "That's pretty cool. I wish I had someone like Hulk when I was a kid." Robert frowns. 

"Your dad was mean too, wasn'he?" Tony bites his lip, and Clint wonders what Bruce knows. 

"Are you two sharing information in there?" Tony's smile is gentle, but also full of pain. Clint's willingness to kill for these men only increases. 

"I'd let Hulk get 'im," Robert whispers. "If he wasn’ already dead." 

"Aw, thanks kid." Tony smiles and slings his arm around Robert's shoulders like he's Tony's son. Something primal in Clint settles, watching them together, like they're his family and he can protect them. His own daddy issues don't need elaborating. "You like motors?" 

Robert grins. "Sure!" 

Clint watches fondly as they geek out, settling comfortably into the background. Later, Bruce switches out and they order takeout, Clint and Tony taking up the most conversational space as Bruce is quiet and a little dissociated. And then a couple of days later, Bruce and Clint are back in the workshop when Tony says something inane and sciency that Clint doesn’t get, but Bruce obviously does, and suddenly he’s kissing Tony hard on the mouth. “Would you… care to join us?” he asks awkwardly. “In bed?”

“Oh my God, you sound like a teenager reading a fortune cookie,” Tony murmurs, his mouth slowly cracking into a grin. Clint kind of has to agree with him. They’ve talked about the possibility, more as a fantasy scenario, but it’s reasonable enough for Bruce to go on, at least as a start. “Fuck yeah, I’d care to join you, if it’s okay with Barton.” Tony licks his lips, fixing Clint with a direct gaze full of heat, and Clint immediately has to look down from the intensity of it. He suspects Tony likes that, anyway. 

“Well, we do kinda have a ‘no fucking with neurotypicals’ policy,” Clint drawls after a moment to gather himself, making it obvious he’s teasing. “Are you exempt?”

“Am I…?” Tony laughs out loud, throwing his head back. 

“He is kind of the textbook definition of ADHD,” Bruce concedes, and Clint can’t deny it. It’s not what his own ADHD looks like, the autism blending it into a special cocktail of very specific fun-brain, but it’s easy to recognize once Bruce says it. 

“Also C-PTSD if you listen to my therapist, so like, fun for the whole family let’s never talk about it again.”

Clint assumes Tony’s being literal—guy didn’t have a stellar family life, by any account. Clint doesn’t know if it was bad for him the same way it was bad for Clint and Bruce, but he can see in Tony both Clint’s desire to run away or escape his body and Bruce’s need to express his rage. 

Either way, he takes Tony at his word and kisses him until Tony’s mumbling “come up to the penthouse” into Clint’s mouth. “I have toys in both the stim and sex variety.” Clint can’t help but laugh at that, and they all move to the elevator together. 

“Honestly, couldn’t you do both?” Clint argues. “Sometimes I’d like to have a stim toy during sex, when I get distracted.”

“I’ve got better ways of commanding your attention,” Tony says, and he’s very confident. Clint’s still pretty sure he’ll think of something about arrow trajectories or paperwork or Dog Cops during sex, but then again he suspects that Tony tends to hyperfocus on sex, and maybe he could trigger Clint’s own hyperfocus somehow. Sex, especially when his personal kinks are involved, tends to be a fixation for Clint.

He’s a bit of a pillow princess, if he thinks in the nastiest terms about his own self-worth. Other times he can accept his own trauma and understand that he’d rather be touched than touch. Some of the things his father and later Barney, modeling him, made Clint do to earn his rations he doesn’t want to ever have to relive. But he can handle getting fucked, he can even suck cock sometimes, if he’s really personally getting off on it. He needs to be the center of attention, is the main thing. His pleasure needs to be the most important, in sharp contrast to his early life experience. 

That works out fine with Bruce’s natural self-deprecation, his desire to heal and help others. He’s basically stone, and loves approaching his partner’s pleasure as a challenge, so he fits in nicely with Clint’s needs. (Some of the other alters, he suspects, may be a little bit more flexible, but he’s not even sure they want to have sex with him, so that’s a question for another day.) Tony on the other hand is unashamedly and notoriously sexual. Having Tony’s attention focused on him is a lot —both incredibly arousing for its potential and a little scary as he doesn’t know exactly how that potential might be directed. 

“Don’t ask me to get you off with my hands,” Clint blurts out, blushing terribly. Tony just nods. 

“Sure. What else?” They exit the elevator, following Tony’s lead to the bedroom. 

“Don’t make me hold eye contact. Don’t blindfold me, either. I might lose my words but that’s okay. Don’t make me blow you unless Bruce gives you the okay. He can read me.” Yeah, it’s not exactly standard consent practice, but by-the-book has never really worked for Clint in the first place.

Bruce frowns a little. “Clint…”

“You can.” They share a long look, standing just inside the doorway to Tony’s bedroom, and then Bruce finally nods. 

“Non-verbal safeword?” Tony asks. 

“I’ll tap three times. …or just temporarily disable you,” Clint points out, grinning like a shark and probably too effusive, but Tony just laughs.

“Noted. To be crystal clear, I can fuck your ass?”

“Yeah. Yes, sir. Definitely.”

Tony steps forward, into his personal space. “And what if it’s not a cock? Can I fuck your mouth with a toy, or gag you?”

“Fuck. Yes, sir.” Tony’s interest, the fact that he can easily spitball ideas about what he might like on the menu to do to Clint, is highly arousing.

“Good slut.” Tony slaps him lightly across the face and he shivers. “That’s all right? Can I spank your ass?”

“Yeah. With your hand. No belts. Honestly… anything outside of the limits I’ve given you is fair game. I… like a lot of heavy shit.” He glances briefly to Bruce, who gives an encouraging nod.

“Well that sounds promising.” Tony grins. “Anything in particular that you want, sweetheart?”

Clint swallows hard and his eyes prick with sudden tears of shame, because he gets the question and suddenly knows his answer exactly. “Can I call you Daddy?”

“Oh fuck ,” Tony whispers. His eyes fall closed, his head tips back, and Clint’s about to apologize so hard when Tony grabs him and kisses him fiercely, one hand on his ass and the other fisting in his hair hard enough to sting. “Okay, Bruce?” he still asks before proceeding, and Clint appreciates him for it. Bruce nods. 

“Don’t call me that,” he clarifies. “But I can witness it.”

“You’re sure?” Clint feels so fragile and small and disgusting, but Bruce smiles and nods reassuringly, reaching out to stroke Clint’s cheek with his knuckles.

“There you go, pet. Brucie’s fine. Maybe I’ll do him next.” 

“Bruce doesn’t have orgasms in front of other people,” Clint clarifies. “Just so you know.”

“That’s fine, puppy.” Clint shudders all over, like he’s home , like Tony knows exactly how to destroy him and take him down to his fragile foundations, his shallow roots. The hair on his arms stands to attention. Tony takes it all in, obviously, but doesn’t comment other than a firm squeeze of Clint’s rear. “Now how hard can I go with this Daddy shit? Sexual? Creepy? Cause I’m in.” 

“Oh.” Clint blinks and drops his gaze to Tony’s chest. “Fuck. I… yeah.”

“You lose your words, sweetheart?” Tony kisses him once on the forehead, lingering, then murmurs against his hairline. “Need Daddy to fuck your virgin hole so you can use your brain again?”

Clint inhales sharply, but his reply is a little pouty, even as he nuzzles at Tony’s shoulder. “Not a virgin, Daddy.” Still he communicates with a dirty body roll that he wants to play it out, that it’s hot to him.

“No?” Tony’s hand drifts down to the back of his neck, squeezing lightly. “Is my little boy a good little slut then?”

“ Bad little slut,” Clint insists, grinning to himself. “Need a spankin.’”

Tony barks out a laugh and pops him once through his jeans. “Brat. Gonna turn that ass red, then. Or actually… you want a punishment so bad, get on that bed, present your ass to me, and spread your cheeks. If you aren’t game to have your hole tortured, you can call yellow now and we’ll do something else.” 

Clint sucks in a breath, all his blood rushing down to his cock, and scrambles onto the bed, stripping naked and getting into position with his chest on the mattress, hands reaching back to hold himself open, knees spread wide. He’s always chased risk, sensation. He has a high pain tolerance. At least a scene is unlikely to kill him.

“If you’ve been such a bad little slut, so young ,” Tony coos, his voice so loving that it doesn’t tip Clint over the bad edge but keeps him in that place of lust and coursing adrenaline, “I’d better discipline this eager hole to know that being such a nasty slag in this world has consequences. Yelp if you need to, puppy. Master’s gonna spank your dirty little hole.” And then something like fire strikes his sensitive flesh, right down the center and Clint’s hands slip as he screams. 

“Daddy!!” he cries out at the second strike, which pops a couple of his fingers before he regains a grip. A third sets his whole body ablaze. Whatever it is doesn’t hit hard , exactly, but it’s so fucking precise and the nature of the pain is shocking.

“I’m punishing your hole, right? Showing you that little boys only get fucked when Daddy feels like sticking it to you? Otherwise I’ll make your pussy sooo puffy…” Clint gasps and bucks, arching his back into the fourth and fifth strikes. “...that no man will want you. But Daddy will take care of you. Daddy will fuck your ruined hole,” Tony murmurs, draping over his back for a bit of relief but still thrusting against Clint’s exposed hole in his slacks. “Daddy’s gonna own your… private flower,” Tony snickers. 

Clint wouldn’t have expected to like the romance novel language, but… “Oh precious, your little penis is so hard. Don’t worry, Daddy can make you come. Five more strikes with the evil stick on your little hole, and then I’ll fuck it open. Lotsa lube, I promise.” Clint nods shakily. “I’m gonna buy you so many pairs of little girl panties,” Tony hisses before snapping Clint’s hole five times in quick succession with the thin carbon fiber rod. Six . “Six of the best,” Tony snickers. “Proper English schoolboy punishment. Though I don’t think they traditionally took the teacher’s cock. You’re special.” 

Clint whines “Daaaaaaddy,” the only word he can say, as Tony lubes up and fucks in. His cock feels so wide, and he has to go slow, working with Clint’s body’s resistance to fill him up. It’s extremely weird but he stims on the rhythmic irritation of Tony’s cock, even the lubed condom feeling rough against inflamed tissues. Bruce is crouched next to the bed, staring at him. No, not Bruce. The one with the hot, hard, angry eyes. The sexual protector who holds a good bit of the system’s anger and darkness. The one who looks like he practices meditative murder, and would slowly consume your insides (respecting all parts of the animal). The one Clint secretly wants to beg for his cock, wherever he wants to put it. An unusual desire for him, but Bruce is unusual and his alters get special privileges.

“My real sweet,” Tony growls, “little fuckpuppy on daddy’s cock.” Clint ducks his head and whines, and he can’t help that it comes out canine. "Yeah, bark like a good doggy," Tony groans.

The alter stares harder, like he could light Clint’s body on fire with his eyes. He wonders if this feeling, if the feeling of suddenly being Daddy’s sweet little fuckpuppy who doesn’t need words, is in any way akin to how a switch feels to Bruce’s system. 

“I want to whip him,” the alter pipes up, raspy-voiced but also enunciating more clearly than Bruce. “While he sits on your cock.”

“Would you cry, puppy? Bark for me?” Clint nods, defeated. 

“Perfect.”

“I also intend to use his mouth.”

“Oh, my sweet fuckpuppy will love that,” Tony reassures without even asking Clint. It’s so hot. He trusts Bruce’s alters, and this … well… fuck. Tony pulls out, shifts him so they’re sideways across the mattress, and then pushes back inside. Then Clint’s mouth is suddenly stuffed, and he’s taking it hard from both ends. He dissociates a bit but mostly stays engaged and active. He’s never been double-stuffed, but it’s always been a fantasy he’s held in the back of his mind.

What he didn’t imagine is that he’d finally achieve it barking on a nameless alter’s cock while Tony Stark shoves the puppy squeals out of him, practically punching into Clint’s prostate with his cock. 

“Oh fuck, this puffed up little flower ,” Tony mocks him. “Wanna fuck it like a girl’s cherry.”

The alter growls, practically dislocates Clint’s jaw, and makes him choke as he comes down Clint’s throat. Then he steps away, and Tony shifts them against so Tony’s back is against the pillows, Clint seated on his cock. The position rings some bell but he can’t find it until the alter re-appears with a thin, short whip in hand. Clint shudders.

“I’ve had a lot of practice,” the alter says, and he’s looking over Clint’s shoulder, so Tony must have non-verbally expressed some dubiousness about Clint getting whipped while still on Tony’s cock. “So many hours.” He leans in, rubs his thumb along Clint’s cheek. He looks a little crazed, a little sex-drunk. Then he straightens again, and the thin tail of the whip cracks down against Clint’s cheek. He howls, his head falling back onto Tony’s shoulder.

“Oh you poor little slut,” Tony coos in false sympathy, his hunger clear underneath. Clint wonders if Tony somehow knows the kinds of things this particular alter wants to do to him. “You’re gonna be in so much pain . He’s got your number, sweetheart. And daddy’s gonna hold you down while he opens you up. Daddy loves watching you take pain.”

Clint squeals as the alter targets his chest, gets so bold as to even flick the tip of his whip against the head of Clint’s cock. It’s gentle but still makes Clint fly , and he manages not to hit any part of Tony, which is impressive. Clint loses his words, riding Tony, coming as the alter whips him. 

~*~

It isn’t perfect. 

Yes, the three of them keep having sex, and that’s hot, almost unbearably hot. Tony continues to play with treating Clint like a puppy, even gets him a leather mask and a leash and a chain collar with a silver bone on the front that says Bitch in pretty cursive. He also gets Clint a custom puppy tail attached to a vibrating butt plug with a remote, and a dozen pairs of cutesy feminine underwear that Tony keeps in his own closet. Many of the pairs have strategic cutouts. Others are labeled with the days of the week. Clint knows from the dinner table stories that Tony’s impulsive shopping hadn’t turned out well for him with Pepper, but Clint doesn’t mind. He was never really the “I’m too proud to take your money” kind of poor—unlike, say, Steve. When he has access to nice shit, he’s happy to enjoy it, and Tony likes pampering him. (Bruce takes better to science toys, and his lab’s already pretty decked out, so Clint is an easier target.)

To be honest, Clint gets why Pepper might’ve found Tony frustrating as a boyfriend. 90% of the time, his focus is scattered. He doesn’t remember dates. Half the time you’re talking to him, he’s not actually paying attention, and the other half he might be interrupting you. But he’s not malicious. His brain goes a mile a minute, and Clint actually likes their conversational overlap when they’re both excited about something. He does weirdly thoughtful things, like learning to sign when he finds out about Clint’s auditory processing issues and the fact that Clint knows some ASL. And when he hyperfocuses? Whoo boy. Tony’s hyperfocus can be unpredictable but when it happens and Clint’s the object of that undivided attention, he feels flayed open. 

Bruce still fucks Clint in his own way when it’s just the two of them, and it’s gorgeous. Occasionally the sexual protector with the fiery eyes will switch out, and then Clint gets fucked in ways he might not heal from for a week. He’s the one alter who doesn’t worry about bringing out the Hulk with an orgasm. That’s because the sexual protector’s role is in part to keep Bruce from Hulking out during sex, and it’s intense but he’s good at it. 

And sometimes the emotional protector will switch out, and she tells Clint her name is Emily. She’s beautifully submissive to Clint, and Tony makes her blush. Clint buys her a white sundress and asks her to wear it, in their bedroom with no mirrors, when Clint fucks her. He tells her that her pussy is beautiful, and leaves her dripping with his come (the other guy keeps their body from getting any infections, so condoms are optional with them). She still doesn’t let herself come, but she clearly enjoys it. 

And in team settings it’s nice to know they all have each other’s backs, to have Tony pass him a stim toy stealthily during a briefing or Bruce start signing to Clint when the auditory din is too much to parse out. (He spent some time volunteering with Deaf kids in West Africa using ASL-based languages, apparently. His vocabulary is limited but his fingerspelling is impressively rapid to the point that it actually helps Clint with his own receptive skills.)

So all of that is good, but also they all have a tendency to bolt, and sometimes someone will disappear for a week, and it’s a thing, and they learn to live with it without actual discussion. They can be moody when it happens, though usually angsty sex is a reasonable outlet. Sometimes Clint goes non-verbal, or Tony disappears in the middle of bedroom activities because he had a brilliant idea (never, at least, when Clint is in bondage—if nothing else, Clint’s pretty sure JARVIS would prevent that). Sometimes Bruce is in a foul mood because the alters have been rapidly switching all day or he’s just full-on dissociated for a while and he can’t get anything done. While switches are sometimes smooth, often they’re not, and Bruce is quiet and kind of blank for many minutes or even hours. Sometimes he’s just headachy, irritable. And trauma gets triggered, because that’s what trauma does. 

Clint hates formal events, some of which are necessary for Avengers. There’s huge stress not to have a meltdown in public, and he has to lipread constantly because he can’t distinguish individual voices from the dull roar of conversation. Lipreading wears him out and makes him feel vulnerable, like he’s always on the edge of a mistake. He’d much rather be alone with a high-quality comms device in his ear, on the roof of a building trying to avoid being shot at. Tony advises him to put nice textures in his pocket, something he can rub between his fingers without being obvious. It helps, though signing with Bruce and filtering out auditory input helps more.

“You could always learn a socially acceptable stim,” Tony offers one evening when Clint’s very grumpily getting ready for a charity event. “Mine's literally just talking everyone to death." He winks, and Clint realizes so many things in an instant and his heart completely breaks. 

"You mask, too," he murmurs. "Your public personality, it's not just..." 

"Mmm," Tony hums. Clint thinks about how much quieter he is with them, when he’s bouncing and wringing his hands and tapping on things and picking up anything not bolted down. Tony averages seventeen positions per minute in a chair, and they wouldn’t have him any other way (even if Bruce wishes he would pay a little more attention to back support).

“People are terrible,” Clint judges, and Tony laughs but also kisses him. 

“You’re not wrong.”

~*~

One afternoon Clint is in Tony’s workshop, and he can’t remember why, but he knows it’s been a Bad Day since he woke up, migraines, and now he’s nonverbal. Tony asks him a question and he tries to respond, but it only comes out as a kind of growly puppy sound in his throat that should be humiliating but feels right. “Rrrrr,” he adds softly, with clenched teeth. Tony’s smile is incredibly gentle, and he abandons his work to show Clint to a kind of safe room, or safe cave more like, in a back corner of the workshop. 

“Full blackout capabilities,” Tony explains. “JARVIS is on security, so you don’t need to pay attention to anything. Weighted blanket…” The floor is padded with something foam, and Clint just stares at Tony for a moment before he makes another growling sound, a fond one, and nuzzles his face against Tony’s neck for a moment. He wants to make words come out, but words are hard, and being in this warm safe comfortable cave to just sleep a bit sounds fantastic. When did he last sleep? It doesn’t matter. Hypervigilance feels safe, but JARVIS is trustworthy. He grabs Tony’s ankle before he can leave Clint alone in the room. Clint signs “blindfold” and Tony gets it. 

“Yeah, hang on…”

He comes back just a few minutes later with some kind of thick soft fabric that he carefully secures at the back of Clint’s head, binding over his eyes. He feels the firm press of Tony’s hand between his shoulderblades before he leaves the room and plunges Clint into total darkness. Sleep claims him almost immediately.

~*~

It’s a little embarrassing the way Hulk becomes super protective of both Clint and Tony in battle. He tends to hover close to Clint’s perch, like he’s waiting to catch the archer if something happens, but he also targets enemies with extreme prejudice anytime someone aims a weapon at Iron Man. The rest of the team notices, but their relationship isn’t exactly a secret. Natasha never misses a thing, and Steve may not know but he also clearly gets the idea that there’s something special going on between the three of them.

Clint or Tony hangs out with Hulk after a battle if he’s still out, and he’s friendly with them if not very verbose. When Bruce switches out and the body changes shape, they’re always ready with a clean pair of pants and a bottle of water. Sometimes afterward he passes out for his ten hours of sleep in Clint’s bed. He admits once, looking embarrassed, that he likes the smell of Clint’s pillow.

When a mission goes a little sideways, and Clint cracks a few ribs, Bruce freaks out a little. He comes back to himself in the middle of the woods, propped up against a tree, and Clint in his lap can’t help groaning in pain from the inevitable jostles of the man underneath him rapidly changing shape. He’s incredibly gentle as he helps Clint shift out of his lap and onto the ground (not really an improvement, as far as Clint’s concerned), but he’s white as a sheet, taking in Clint’s very thoroughly bruised form and his pained hisses. He immediately starts panic-mumbling about how Clint isn’t safe, how they’ve got to get him back to the tower and Bruce far, far away from him. 

“Bruce, no . No, not even… listen to me.” Clint reaches out and grabs Bruce’s face in both hands, stopping his shame spiral firmly mid-sentence. “Hulk saved me.” His tone is firm, brooking no argument, and he won’t let Bruce look away. Bruce looks dubious still, but of course he does. Bruce always has trouble seeing the side of a story that paints Hulk as anything other than a monster. “I would literally be dead right now if Hulk hadn’t been there. That’s not an exaggeration. Look at me. He saved me, Bruce.”

And then Bruce crumples a little, his hands resting gently on Clint’s thighs but his whole upper body sagging in relief. “Tony?” he whispers with the last of his energy reserves.

“Safe. Transport will be here soon.” Bruce nods and collapses all the way, and Clint just guides Bruce’s head into his lap, stroking his hair. He’s hurt, and exhausted, but he never once doubted them, not a single one of them. He can give Hulk that, even if Bruce is never able to.

~*~

Some of Clint’s favorite times are when Tony unconsciously starts using him as a stim toy. Especially when they’re in bed. Especially when they’re naked. He’ll tap his fingers on Clint’s body without asking, smack him rhythmically, dig his nails in like he’s looking for the buttons to make Clint squeal and bark the loudest. Tony’s the best at fucking the pup out of Clint. Clint’s noisy in bed because he can be, because he’s not being tortured and trying to show no reaction, he’s consensually indulging his masochism and flailing a little in pleasure. He needs that contrast.

Sometimes Clint likes to stim on words. He’ll repeat things, or make these chains of nonsense words that just feel good, and neither of them ask “what??” or make fun of him or tell him to stop. Sometimes he talks too loud, but they each have a way of signaling to him that the volume’s a bit high without embarrassing him. Sometimes when he stims on a snippet of music, singing the lyrics under his breath, Tony will start in on his body with the drum part. 

Clint can’t remember a time he felt this good. Tony’s had mind-boggling amounts of good sex, he’s made that clear. He’s impulsive about sex, he explains, and he doesn’t ever want to be exclusive because he knows he’d fuck it up. But it’s not a dealbreaker for either of them, and it’s obvious that Tony finds sex with them unique in some way, intriguing enough to keep coming back for more (or maybe it’s not the sex at all, but Clint’s sure Tony will never admit that and Clint doesn’t need him to). Sex for Bruce is obviously complicated, but he had more of it before the Incident, and some of it was good. Clint doesn’t want to act like a swooning teenage girl, but he honestly draws a blank when he tries to compare sex with them to anything else.

“Maybe you’re demisexual,” Tony suggests. “Like, you have to know someone well to be into them sexually.”

“That’s a thing?”

“Sure. Like some people don’t experience sexual attraction until they connect on another level. It happens.”

“Maybe I am.”

Tony shrugs. “Google it.” (Clint emerges from that rabbithole 6.5 hours later. He buys a thin demisexual pride anklet from Etsy, and is very pleased about the colors).

~*~

Clint has blanket permission from both Tony and each member of the Schrödinger System he’s close with to watch from the vents if he’s nonverbal and can’t ask for help, but is finding spying comforting. (Tony, being Tony, came up with the system name. When he admitted that they’re all like quantum probabilities to him—just as intriguing and fantastic—Bruce blushed and said he’d allow it.) This is one of those days. Tony’s opening line stops Clint in his tracks, high above the labs but able to hear with a comms device linked up to JARVIS’s mics that Tony gave him for the purpose. 

“Hey, girlslut.” 

Clint slowly, carefully shifts out of a vent when neither of them are looking his way and finds a perch in the shadows with an easy line of sight to them.  

“Me, Daddy?” As Clint settles into place, Bruce—or not Bruce, apparently—spins around and faces Tony with the lab table at her back. Emily’s blinking innocent expression distinguishes her from Bruce on sight. 

“Yes you, doodlebug.” Tony approaches slowly, stalking Emily’s position. “Do you want a nice big cock inside you, sweetheart? You were squirming a bit over there, Daddy caught you.”

“Oh.” Emily face falls. “How did you know it was me?”

“Aww, princess,” Tony mocks, getting close and a little mean. “Daddy can tell.”

Emily shivers all over, to the point that Clint can actually see it from his perch, her legs swinging up around Tony’s waist when he presses in against her body. Tony lifts her up onto the bench, and Emily starts to grind against him. Clint watches without shame. He loves Tony’s intuition, the way he can tell exactly what any one of them needs. But he also loves the way Emily can be a bit naughty, assuming she really was rocking her bum the way Tony’s words implied. 

“What if we go upstairs,” Tony suggests, bouncing her a bit against the lab bench, “and I put you in that white dress and ignore this pretty clit you have and go straight to fucking you up the ass when we get there? And I don’t let you come. It’s got nothing to do with you. How does that sound?” 

(Tony, Clint thinks, really is a genius. Sometimes Emily gets embarrassed or sad about the fact that she can’t safely orgasm, that she can’t give them everything. But tying it into her submission like this is a clever way to tweak the parameters.)

Emily moans, begs “please, Daddy,” and Clint watches them leave, never knowing he was there. He scuttles off to scale an elevator shaft. 

~*~

The custom stim toy Tony designed for Clint is ridiculous. It’s made up of nanoparticles, voice-activated, and has thousands of possible textures and configurations. There’s a glove that feels like he’s constantly plunging his hand into a barrel of dry beans, that’s his favorite. But he can also pluck a simulated bowstring and knead at something that responds like human muscle. 

They never really talk about whether they’re dating. For some that might be an anxiety, but for Clint it’s a relief. They’ve got him, in a way that’s far more significant than any particular label that comes with expectations and inevitable disappointments. They spent quiet evenings, together, often, all doing their own thing, and Clint always knows he can hide out in Tony’s safe room when he needs it. Bruce and Tony spend hours nerding out about science and Clint brings them coffee, while Bruce makes delicious stir frys and curry to tempt them whenever Clint and Tony forget to eat.

One afternoon they end up fighting a mutant in San Diego who communicates through a loudspeaker from his supposedly unbreakable pod and controls an army of robots. It’s their fifth robot army this year. The difference is that this one starts taunting Tony about how he’ll never be as good as Howard Stark, and Hulk goes ballistic .

“Big Green, coming in hot!” Natasha warns over the comms. None of Clint’s arrows do anything to the damn pod, nor do Tony’s repulsors. But when Hulk grabs the thing and smashes it about fifty times in rapid succession, the mad engineer’s control is apparently broken and all the robots go down at once. After another fifty times it cracks, and something rolls out. If it’s alive, it won’t be for long.

Fury lashes out at Tony, but Tony quickly shuts it down, arguing that if they bring up Howard in a fight with him they’ve already made their bed, Hulk involvement or no.

After the battle Bruce’s eyes are blank for a long time. He doesn’t know who he is, but he absentmindedly fingers Clint’s stim toy like a comfort object and maybe there’s something about how it represents both of them that gives Clint hope.

They keep having sex, all three of them, or sometimes in pairs. Maybe it’s obvious that they’re in a triad together, whether they’ve said it out loud or not. Polyamory works weirdly well for their neurodivergencies, increasing the odds that a partner will be available when needed and reducing guilt when they need alone time. And if Tony’s end is less exclusive than the other two, it doesn’t bother anyone. Some of Bruce’s other alters participate, others don’t. It’s fluid and they get used to it over time.

On Fathers’ Day they all get really, really drunk. Even Emily, who’s out as the emotional protector, drinks. It’s unusual, but maybe Bruce trusts Clint and Tony to handle themselves if the other guy makes an appearance. Or maybe he’s just not worried about the alcohol making him angry in the same way with sex to distract him. 

On Steve’s birthday they somehow end up doing body shots off of each other under the fireworks display, so they’re officially out to the team and their closest friends, at least. 

Sometimes Tony has a hot hookup and then he tells them about it, whispers the story in Clint’s ear while he’s fucking him. Clint likes it when Tony’s rough. 

The sexual protector alter buys Clint a leather cuff to wear around his wrist, and he never takes it off. Bruce absentmindedly fingers it sometimes, and other times closes his hand around Clint’s wrist, over the leather, possessively. They might be co-conscious at those times, or maybe it’s just Bruce, but it doesn’t really matter. Tony gets him diamond ear cuffs, and he wears them only occasionally but kind of loves the way he looks when he does. Eventually they all get matching platinum rings.

Clint is too clingy sometimes, and three times he legitimately tries to bolt. But they have him. They have him, and it’s a feeling that grounds him like literally nothing ever has. They make him maybe want to think twice before jumping off buildings. Just for a second. 










Notes:

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