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Birds of a Feather

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They found him in a HYDRA base that looked far too much like the one in Austria for anyone’s tastes. If not for Steve right there by his side and larger than life, Bucky’s not sure he would have been able to even walk through the doors.

“Thought you’d be taller,” Sgt Clint Barton of the 106th had said while Captain America snapped the restraints with his bare hands. Bucky had helped the guy limp out, swinging his arm across his shoulders, but it had been Steve who’d gone into the office to retrieve Barton’s effects when he stopped at the door and refused to take another step without them. He’d come back with puzzled look and a bow and quiver in his hands, which Barton quickly donned as casually as a rifle.

On the ride back, Agent Carter had shrugged. “There’s a British officer out there with a broadsword and longbow,” she’d said. Barton had grunted in the affirmative.

“Jack Churchill,” he agreed. “I ran into him, explained my problem. He had a spare.”

So apparently that was that.

It’s a few days later and Bucky watches as Barton carves a circle in a tree trunk at the edge of camp, walks about fifty paces away, and starts filling it with arrows.

“Practicing again?” he asks, slouching against a jeep in the motor pool.

“Yep,” Barton replies simply, pulling back and letting fly, and isn’t that the damned strangest thing to see a guy in an American uniform do?

“Why a bow and arrow?” Bucky wonders, knowing Barton’s probably got another smart-alec remark ready. It sticks in Bucky’s craw to see the guy up and walking around like a person and not the half-dead thing he’d been when Steve had rescued him. Like Barton’s the normal one and Bucky’s a shattered mess all over again.

Barton flexes his fingers, rolling his shoulders a bit. “Because I’m the Amazing Hawkeye, of course.” He winks, cheeky.

“ ‘The Amazing Hawkeye’,” Bucky repeats, tone flat.

“You’ve never been to one of my shows?” Barton feigns hurt. “Where’d you say you were from again?”

“Brooklyn.”

“I’ve played Coney Island tons of times,” the archer tells him, and if he isn’t full of bullshit, Bucky might almost believe him. He’s got that sideshow swagger.

“We didn’t go much,” Bucky explains, mildly satisfied when that wipes some of the smug off Barton’s face. “Steve and me never had much money, and we liked the rides better.”

(Well, maybe not the Cyclone.)

“That’s right,” Barton smirks, notching another arrow. “You and Captain Stars and Stripes are childhood sweethearts, aintcha?” He nods in the direction of Steve and Agent Carter across the way. Steve’s got the tent flap held open for her and the earnest grin on his face makes Bucky’s heart constrict painfully.

“We grew up together,” he says, careful to keep his voice neutral even though his insides are roiling. He’s not entirely sure what it is about Barton that’s got him rattled. Maybe it’s the way those blue eyes of his seem to see right through him. It makes him feel like something's slipped down the back of his shirt and is slithering down his spine.

Barton smirks and shakes his head ever so slightly. His next arrow buries itself smack dab in the middle of the target. “I can tell.”

An icy lump of dread drops through Bucky’s gut and he whirls on Barton, teeth bared.

“What exactly is that supposed to mean?” he growls, but Barton has his hands up in a gesture of surrender.

“Woah, absolutely nothing, brother,” he assures Bucky with a placating smile. “Birds of a feather, hey?”

Bucky blinks, taken aback a few seconds before reluctantly returning Barton’s smile.

“Oh, so that’s how it is, then?”

“That’s how it is,” Barton confirms, and now the way those eyes are looking at him sends a completely different shiver down Bucky’s spine. Suddenly, Barton swings his bow up behind himself and lets an arrow fly without turning his head. Bucky’s mouth drops open when it embeds itself in the center of the target, grouped neatly with the rest.

“How —?”

Barton laughs and points to their reflections in the windshield of the jeep Bucky’d been leaning on, and Buck can’t help but let out a startled laugh himself.

“Damn,” he swears. “I guess you are amazing.” Barton preens at the compliment and a thought occurs. “Let me get my rifle. You’ve got to show me how you do that.”

“Deal,” Barton agrees, “but I should warn you, I can get pretty competitive.”

Bucky feels the first real grin he can remember in a long time spread across his face.

“Guess that makes two of us, then.”

Chapter Text

Bucky is not sulking. Absolutely not. Just because it’s their first bout of leave in what feels like centuries and Steve just up and vanished after his debrief, last seen headed to HQ with Agent Carter, that has nothing whatsoever to do with the way he’s currently sitting alone in the barracks, shining his boots like his life depends on it.

James Buchanan Barnes does not sulk.

He’s buffing the heels again when a shadow suddenly looms over his shoulder. “I want to be able to see my face in those boot-tips, soldier!” a now-familiar voice barks in his ear, putting on a bad imitation of a drill sergeant. Bucky purposefully stills his hands and turns around to roll his eyes at Barton, who’s leaning against the door frame and wearing a shit-eating grin. He’s all dolled up for a night on the town, face shaved and shirt pressed, everything present and correct, which is so unlike the Clint Barton Bucky’s gotten to know over the past few weeks it’s hard not to do a double-take.

“Officers, am I right?” Barton says with a shrug before running a hand over his slicked-back hair. Bucky frowns.

“Did you steal my Brylcreem?” he asks, but Barton ignores him, striding into the room before swinging something over his shoulder and holding it out for inspection. Bucky belatedly realizes it’s his own dress uniform, also freshly pressed.

“I took the liberty,” Clint explains, brushing an invisible speck of lint from the jacket’s collar. “You know what you need, pal?”

“A bullet to the head?” Bucky replies, because Clint’s the only person he knows who won’t take that the wrong way.

“Doughnuts,” Barton supplies, unphased. He presses the uniform into Bucky’s hands with the air of someone who will not be refused. “And, of course, a whole lotta whiskey.”

The hospitality club run by the American Red Cross is better than Bucky would have expected, with Clint there. They slip jots from Barton’s hip flask into their coffee and dance with the girls and Bucky doesn’t have to posture because everyone knows the Doughnut Dollies don’t go home with anybody. He’s always liked dancing, to be honest, and he finds a swell little redhead who’s more than happy to try some fancier moves during the fast numbers. Clint asks to take a turn with her, too, and they trade off, each trying to outdo the other until the redhead steals the show by dancing with both of them at the same time. She executes a deft spin that has them suddenly in each other’s arms.

“I’m exhausted, boys,” she tells them over the raucous cheers of the crowd that’s gathered to watch. “I call ‘uncle’.”

Barton recovers first, grinning that dumbass smile of his and tossing Bucky a wink. “Looks like that’s our cue,” he says, taking the leader position with his right hand tucked under Bucky’s shoulder and his left arm lifting Bucky’s right. There’s not much Bucky can do but grip Clint’s bicep and play along as he clasps their bodies cheek-to-cheek and foxtrots them off the dance floor to outrageous laughter and applause. He barely has time to notice the warm, clean scent of beeswax and aftershave that’s rolling off of his dance partner before they break apart to laugh it off, well within sight of the crowd. As Clint claps a hand on his shoulder in a brotherly fashion and guides him into an exaggerated bow for their audience, all Bucky can think of is how to get the two of them pressed up together again as soon as humanly possible.

Once the attention’s turned away from them, he grips Clint’s elbow and steers him towards the exit, pointedly ignoring his knowing leer.

“We going somewhere, soldier?” Clint asks as they shrug on their jackets and step outside. The night is cool, chilly even, so nobody seems to notice the way Bucky hurries Clint down the street before he finds a suitably dark alley and hauls them down it. The moment they’re out of sight, he shoves Clint against the wall and presses himself against his chest, slipping his leg between Clint’s knees and kissing him with urgency. Clint, to his credit, is not one to play coy, and his mouth is hot and filthy against Bucky’s own, his cap falling to the ground forgotten as they rut and swallow each other’s moans. The pins and buttons of their uniforms jab at him uncomfortably and his tie is too tight but the way Clint bites his lip is perfect and he never wants it to stop. Clint’s hand comes up to grip at his hair and he feels his arousal against his thigh and Clint’s soft little whine when Bucky pulls back tugs at something right at the core of him.

“How much cash you got?” he pants, wishing he could actually see Clint’s face. All the streetlights are out and the windows shuttered in case of air raids, so Clint’s expression is lost to the darkness around them.

“This a stick-up?” Clint snickers and gives a little hip thrust to make it a pun. Bucky groans.

“No, I mean —” and he swallows, trying not to sound nervous “— I mean, maybe we could get a room. You know, like at a hotel or something.”

Clint’s hand slips from Bucky’s hair but doesn’t go far, sliding down his back to rest between his shoulder blades.

“A hotel or something, huh?” Clint sounds amused rather than offended, thank God. “Well, I don’t really have much on me…”

They pull apart enough for Clint to rummage around in his pocket. Bucky figures he’s going for his wallet, but instead Barton pulls out a key dangling a little brass tag.

“… since I already sprang for one a couple of hours ago.”

“You little shit!” Bucky whoops, forgetting himself for half a second before looking around to make sure nobody noticed. He lowers his voice and gives Barton a little shove in disbelief. “You planned this?!”

Clint bends to retrieve his cap and shoves the key back in his pocket. Bucky can hear the smirk in his voice. “I had a feeling you were easy. Looks like I was right.”

Bucky aims a kick at Clint’s ankle, which he just barely manages to avoid. “Punk. Like you didn’t offer me a blow job the first week you were in camp.” He goads Clint back towards the mouth of the alley. “You better remember how to get there without the street signs up. I’m not wandering around all night with a hard-on just because you’ve got a shit sense of direction.”

Chapter Text

They sneak into the hotel like they’re afraid of getting caught, as if a hundred other drunk GIs haven’t stumbled their way up these stairs, giggling and giddy at the prospect of a proper bed, a long soak in a hot bath. The clerk, a bored-looking teenager reading a newspaper, doesn’t even glance their way but Bucky tells himself it can’t hurt to be careful. They intend to engage in illegal activities, after all, the sooner the better.

Bucky fumbles for the light as Clint staggers blindly into the room, humming something off-key beneath his breath. An ugly little lamp flickers to life beside the bed, illuminating an unremarkable little room dominated by an unremarkable brass bed. That’s about as much detail as Bucky’s able to catch before Clint’s pushed him up against the door, slamming it shut behind him.

“Barton!” he hisses, trying to ignore the feel of warm, broad hands at his hips and hot breath on his neck. “You gotta be quiet! Do you want people to hear?”

Clint laughs into the shell of Bucky’s ear and swipes his tongue up behind it. “Nice thing about these old English places — the walls are practically three feet thick. We can scream our heads off and nobody’ll notice a thing.”

Bucky’s about to dispute that when Clint reaches a hand down to the front of his pants and palms him through the fabric. All he can do in response to that is whimper, and he hates himself for it because it gives Clint another thing to laugh at, and dammit, who exactly does that smug carnie think he’s toying with, here? In retaliation, Bucky grabs Clint’s ass and rubs his thigh between Clint’s legs like back in the alley, earning himself a full-throated groan.

“Off,” Clint pants, grabbing their caps and chucking them over his shoulder. He reaches for their ties next, loosening the knots before losing interest halfway through and unbuttoning his jacket instead. “Off, off, off!” he declares, and Bucky can’t help but laugh himself as he starts on his own buttons.

“I get it, I get it!” he assures Clint, shrugging out of his jacket. “Just gimme a sec —”

“Nope,” Clint cuts him off, already fumbling with his belt. Bucky catches a glimpse of what might be the head of Clint’s cock before suddenly the guy drops to his knees in front of him, mouthing at the fabric straining over Bucky’s crotch. The unexpected assault of hot breath and warm pressure throws Bucky’s head back against the door with a hollow “thunk”. It takes all his wits to grip his fingers in Clint’s hair and wrench his head away.

“Don’t,” he pleads, “or this is gonna be over way too fast.”

Clint smirks at that and licks his lips but relents, rising to his feet with his hands in the air in mock surrender.

“All right,” he agrees. “No need to rush.” But there’s a sparkle in his eye as he reaches up and unbuttons his collar, slipping his tie loose in one long, sinuous motion. Bucky never thought he could find one of those drab beige strips of cloth sexy, but Clint seems to know how to turn every movement into pure striptease. Bucky lets his body slide down the door and settle on the floor in a heap, content to grin like an idiot as Clint steps back a few paces and starts putting on a show. What it lacks in finesse it makes up for in enthusiasm, and Bucky’s not sure he’s ever had someone look so pleased to be getting naked for him before.

Clint’s trousers are open and just barely clinging to his hips while he unbuttons his shirt and sloughs it off behind him with a roll of his powerful shoulders. He reaches back and pulls his undershirt off over his head in one smooth motion before shooting Bucky a wink and runs his hand up his abs when he catches Buck looking. Clint promptly ruins the sexiness of that long, slow drag of fingers over skin by striking a series of muscle-man poses that have Bucky snorting with laughter. He flexes first one arm, then the other, showing off his (admittedly impressive) biceps, crouching a little so he can hunch his shoulders forward and get his deltoids into the mix, but when he straightens to pull back his arms and display his pecs his trousers give up their tenuous hold on his hips and fall abruptly to the floor.

“Aw, pants,” Clint moans, looking at them with an expression of utter betrayal while Bucky roars with laughter. While Clint sits back against the bed to try and disentangle his boots from his trouser legs, Bucky leverages himself off the floor and strolls over, grinning ear to ear.

“C’mere,” he murmurs, slipping a hand along Clint’s jaw and tilting his face towards his own. He bends at the waist a little and leans over to kiss Clint on the mouth. Clint’s hands abandon the pants and reach up as the kiss quickly grows into a heated, wild thing, cupping one against the back of Bucky’s neck while the other catches him at the waist. Before Bucky knows it, he’s being pulled to collapse gracelessly onto the bed. He just manages to catch himself on one elbow so he doesn’t completely crush Clint beneath him, but when they pull apart Clint’s grinning like he doesn’t particularly mind either way.

“Heh. Got you right where I want you,” he tells Bucky with a satisfied grin. Bucky raises a skeptical eyebrow.

“Fully clothed and on top of you?”

“Yep. I’m just gonna dry hump you like this until I come all over your uniform.” He sticks out his tongue in an utterly childish expression. “Then I’m gonna tell Cap that you did it.”

Bucky makes a noise of disgust that promptly turns into one of surprise when Clint rolls them over. Bucky lands on his back, looking up into those piercing blue eyes. He feels like he’s being laid open beneath Clint’s penetrating gaze, and his heart starts to speed up as Clint licks his lips.

“So what do you want?” Clint asks, searching his face. “You want me to blow you? You want to blow me? You want —” and here he reaches between them to undo Bucky’s fly, slow as you please, and finally grip his dick, skin-to-skin. Bucky groans, his eyes falling shut. “You want me,” Clint asks, voice hardly above a whisper in Bucky’s ear, “to grease you up and take you as slow as I want, draw you out until you’re begging me to let you come? Hm?”

Bucky lets out a strangled little whine because he honestly can’t think of what to say to that. He bites his lip hard to keep from coming in his pants and nods furiously. Clint lets up on him, letting go of his cock and levering his weight off a bit to kiss him, short and sweet.

“Good!” he says brightly, sounding almost like his normal self. “Let’s get you naked, then!”

Chapter Text

It was one thing to wrap a hand around each other’s dicks in the showers or drop to his knees behind a shed at camp, but pressing his whole body up against Clint’s and sliding against him like this, skin to skin in the bed… it’s an entirely different animal. Clint is warm and smooth and firm on top of him, tangling their legs together and running his rough fingers over Bucky’s neck, his shoulders, his ribs, his hips, everywhere he can get his hands on, hot breath panting in Bucky’s ear. Bucky braces his own hands against Clint’s shoulders, tries to use them for leverage so he can buck his hips up and rub their cocks together, but that just makes Clint pry him off by the wrists and nip his lips with a kiss that’s more like a bite.

“None of that,” Clint chides, licking Bucky’s mouth like an apology.

“Then stop fucking teasing and get on with it,” Bucky growls back, getting impatient. Clint sits up from his position, straddling Bucky’s lap, and drags a hand down Buck’s stomach, humming thoughtfully. His cheeks and his cock are flushed the same rosy hue, and he’s wearing a little half-smile that makes Bucky almost want to blush and look away. His heart is pounding in his ears and in his dick and he’s never felt so utterly naked in his entire life.

“Like what you see?” he asks in an attempt to cover a strange bout of nerves. Clint smiles broadly.

“Fuck yeah,” he breathes, casual as anything, and cocks his head to one side. He grins in a way Bucky’s come to learn means he either has a bad idea or a very, very good one. It’s got something feral in it, not a hint of apology, and the daredevil glint in his eye hits Bucky like an arrow sinking itself in a bullseye.

“I think I’d like to fuck you,” Clint says. Bucky shivers agreeably.

“Yeah, sure,” he breathes, thinking of Clint’s long, slim cock sliding inside of him and smothering a groan. He shuts his eyes to help himself think straight. “You got any, uh --”

There’s a rustling sound as Clint flops, ungainly, to the side and rummages for his clothes. Bucky sits up to watch him acrobatically reach for his pants on the middle of the floor without leaving the bed, his ankles hooked through the bars of the footboard like some kind of circus act, and Buck admires the sinuous strength of his back and legs while grinning at the ridiculous pose. Then Clint’s kneeling between his legs, triumphant, a little jar of Vaseline in his hands.

“Knees up,” he instructs, and Bucky obliges him, pulling a pillow behind his head and hoping he’s angling his hips right. He’s never done this in a bed before, never been on the receiving end, either, but the time he’d taken a queen in the back room of a queer bar in Manhattan -- one of those guilty nights he’d slunk off after Steve gave up and went home -- he’d hit some sort of spot inside and she’d come like a freight train. From time to time since, when he was desperate enough, he’d slick his fingers up and go looking for it by himself in the shower, but he’d never had any luck.

Clint seems to know what he’s doing, though, scooping out a generous dollop and whistling tunelessly to himself. He presses his lips to the inside of Bucky’s knee and reaches down to massage around his hole. Bucky bites back a whimper at the strangely intimate sensation.

“Shh,” Clint soothes him, murmuring like he’s trying to calm a skittish horse. “You’re all right, I got you, it’s okay.”

Bucky breathes through his nose and forces himself to stay still. “I’m not some dame you’ve gotta coddle,” he grunts, shooting Clint a glare. Clint just smiles.

“‘Course you’re not,” he agrees, but all the same starts kissing his way down the inside of Bucky’s thigh, using progressively more tongue and teeth until he’s working a love-bite right where Bucky’s leg meets his groin. It helps, but Bucky’s still aware that Clint’s worked the tip of his finger in, and he tries to let Clint’s mouth distract him from the weird slip and slide of the alien intrusion. Just like when he’s done this before, he has to fight his body’s natural impulse to push, and he forces down the strange, heady panic that comes when its next reflex actually draws the finger deeper in. He must make some kind of noise though (how humiliating), because Clint starts rubbing his other hand in slow circles over Bucky’s belly.

“That’s right,” Clint croons, and Bucky kind of wants to deck him. “Just relax.”

“I swear to God, Barton, if you say another word --” his voice catches on a high little whine as his body contracts again and Clint’s suddenly in to the first knuckle. Clint, that bastard, just laughs.

“You were saying?” he asks sweetly. Bucky bites back a growl that turns into a groan when Clint’s hand slides down and starts working his flagging erection. He leans in and licks a broad stripe up the length of Bucky’s cock, which makes Buck throw his head back and gasp. That seems to please Clint, because he does it a few more times before sucking the head of Bucky’s cock into his mouth altogether, working his finger back and forth in counterpoint, and wow, yeah, that’s not half bad. Bucky closes his eyes and grips handfuls of the bedding so he won’t be tempted to do something as ungentlemanly as grab Clint by the hair and fuck up into his mouth. Good thing, too, because next thing Bucky knows, Clint’s worked his finger all the way in and manages to brush against that spot Bucky had looked so hard for.

Fuck!” Bucky swears, body bowing up off the bed. Clint laughs, his free hand sliding down to grip the base of Bucky’s cock.

“Oh, did you like that?” he asks innocently, easing his finger away from the spot, goddamn him. Clint leans forward and tongues at the head of Bucky’s cock in a way he knows will bring him dangerously close to the edge, then backs off. Bucky grips his own hair in desperation, unable to hold back a tortured little whine.

“You bastard,” he grits out through clenched teeth.

“Do you want to come now?” Clint asks, voice perfectly content, like he’s willing to do whatever Bucky wants next. Bucky’s sorely tempted to say yes, but Clint’s expression when he’d talked about fucking him…

“No, not yet,” Bucky sobs, shaking his head. He wants to come with Clint’s dick inside him and he’s not sure he’d get it back up in time, but he’ll be damned if he ever says that out loud. Clint just smirks and goes back to fingering him, tracing feather-light touches along his cock and trailing his lips everywhere -- over Bucky’s thighs, across his stomach, then up to lick at one of his nipples. It’s not as intense as when Clint was sucking him, but it’s working Bucky into a state of light-headed dizziness, circling and circling with no sign of coming back down anytime soon.

Then Clint tries to slide a second finger in next to the first, and Bucky nearly bolts off the bed. And not in a good way.

Clint freezes, eyes locked on his face. “Something wrong?”

“No, nothing,” Bucky lies through clenched teeth, giving Clint an encouraging nod of his head. “Keep going.”

“Okay…” Clint says, starting up the motion of his hands again, and Bucky lies back and tries to make his body unclench.

Relax, he tells himself, breathing in deep from his nose and out through his mouth. Relax relax relax relax…

Clint goes in for the second finger again and Bucky’s whole body jerks away before he can stop it.

“Jesus Mary and Joseph!” he yelps, clamping a hand over his mouth. He braves a glance at Clint, who is now kneeling at the foot of the bed, looking distinctly unimpressed.

“You’ve never done this before, have you.” It’s a statement, not a question, and Bucky feels the blood rise to his cheeks, indignant.

“I have, too,” he insists. It sounds childish even to his own ears, and he finds he can’t meet Clint’s eyes. He lies back against the bed and spreads his legs again. “C’mon. Keep going.”

“Nope.”

Bucky props himself up on his elbows. “Whaddya mean, ‘nope’?” he demands, glaring at Clint, who raises both hands in the air, resolutely refusing to touch him. He sits up all the way and tries to grab Clint’s wrist, but it’s deftly snatched away. “Clin-Barton!

“You can’t make me do it,” Clint tells him, face and voice serious. “I’m not gonna hurt you. End of story.”

Bucky can’t believe his ears. “You weren’t,” he says, face hot with humiliation. God, what must Clint think of him right now, too pansy to even lay some pipe? “C’mon, Barton, I’m fine --”

“I ain’t that kinda guy,” Clint growls, and there’s an odd little hitch in the way he says it that makes Bucky go still.

“Clint…”

Clint swings his feet off the side of the bed and leans over with his elbows on his knees, dog tags dangling from his neck. He passes a shaky hand -- the clean one, Bucky notes -- over his face and rubs at his mouth, silent. Bucky waits, back against the headboard, wondering what’s going on behind those piercing eyes which now seem focused on something far, far away. Finally, Clint speaks.

“I ain’t gonna pry you apart just because you’re too stubborn or too stupid to admit it hurts,” he says, voice soft and without malice. He looks up at Bucky and meets his gaze, summoning up a smile from somewhere. “I can think of at least half a dozen other things I’ve been wanting to do with you soon as I had a bed and a door that locks, and none of them leave the Howlies’ second-best sniper with a limp tomorrow morning.”

It takes a beat or two for Bucky to produce a response, but he manages to get the machinery of his face and voice working again before the moment passes.

“Oh, so I’m supposed to go easy on you, Barton?” He musters up a smile and starts crawling towards him. “You could have just asked. I’m a gentleman that way.”

“Seems somebody’s forgetting which of us is ahead in the kill count,” Clint smarms, as Bucky leans in to press their lips together. It’s a surprisingly sweet kiss, practically affectionate, like they’re each saying something neither of them wants to speak aloud.

“Exploding arrows don’t count,” Bucky grumbles when they pull apart.

“You’re just jealous Stark hasn’t made any nifty toys for you,” Clint teases as he crawls back onto the bed and puts a hand on Bucky’s chest. As if on command, Bucky feels his heart begin to speed back up beneath Clint’s touch.

“Anyways,” Clint says, giving Bucky a gentle push to lean back against the pillows, “why don’t I pick up where we left off and you can come in my mouth, hm? Whaddya say?”

“Oh, fuck, does that sound good right now,” Bucky admits, spreading his legs. Clint slips back into position, helped by the Vaseline still inside him, and he latches his mouth onto the side of Bucky’s neck while his free hand starts fondling his balls.

“I have the best ideas,” Clint whispers smugly into Bucky’s ear, and Bucky’s honestly inclined to agree. Clint slides back down the bed and even with that pause in the middle, it doesn’t take much to work Bucky back up. He doesn’t have it in him to try and hold back from coming any longer, and apparently Clint doesn’t feel like teasing him either, because he takes Bucky in hand and sets to licking and sucking him like they’re next up for sentry duty and Dum Dum’s about to come looking for them any second.

Bucky’s breaths come in shallow pants as he looks down the length of his body at Clint bobbing his head, mouth stretched wet and obscene around Buck’s cock and eyes closed shut in concentration. He extends a shaky hand to brush a lock of Clint’s hair, long since tousled free from his slick evening ‘do, out of his face. As Bucky’s fingers smooth along his temple, Clint opens his eyes and hits that spot at the same time, and that’s it, he’s gone, a strangled little cry escaping from his throat as his orgasm crashes around him like a wave against stone. True to his word, Clint keeps his lips around Bucky’s dick, letting him spurt into that warm, wet space until the worst of the tremors have subsided, at which point he promptly gets up and jogs to the bathroom. Bucky’s distantly aware of the sounds of him spitting and running the sink, but he’s too blissed-out to even feign offense. A few moments later, Clint’s back and wrapping himself around him, hands washed and expression bright.

“So?” he asks Bucky after awhile. “How was it?”

“Mmnph,” Bucky responds eloquently, idly playing with Clint’s hair between his thumb and fingers. It’s shorter and darker than Steve’s, and Bucky realizes that it’s the first time he’s thought of him all night. “Just… lemme catch my breath. Think about which of your half-dozen things you wanna do.”

Clint flashes him a grin. “You mean I gotta just pick one? C’mon, Barnes, where’s your sense of ambition?” His dick is a hot length against Bucky’s hip, and when Clint leans up to lick at his ear Bucky’s own cock gives a twitch, making a game attempt at getting back into action.

“Fine,” he groans, squirming pleasantly beneath Clint’s touch. “What do you have in mind?”