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Desperate Side of Town

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“This is the last time,” Clint said as soon as he wrestled free of his thermal shirt.

 

“Yeah,” Bucky agreed from below, on his knees, hands gripping Clint’s bare ass cheeks and mouth pressed to that spot on Clint’s hip that made his shiver and moan and try to decide if he wanted more or less sensation there. 

 

“Last time. Absolutely.” Bucky ran his teeth over the hickey he’d left there yesterday, still so fresh and tender that Clint made a sound he hoped the apartment across the hall wrote off as like… the television or something.

 

Bucky pulled away, which was not the point of that sound , and got to his feet. His face was flushed, hair wild from Clint’s hands in it, lips dark and wet, and Clint was only partially responsible for those - a solid fifteen minutes of kissing against the door before Bucky dragged him upstairs was, he supposed, half on him.

 

“Get your ass on the bed,” Bucky ordered, voice rough and a little raw from fucking his mouth on Clint’s dick until Clint was begging to come - at which point Bucky pulled off and started in on the teeth and tongue and lips torture of Clint’s hips and thighs and waist.

 

Clint scrambled to obey - because he was a guest in Bucky’s apartment (technically Natasha’s, but Bucky was sort of illegally sort of subletting from her while she was off who the fuck knew where doing who the fuck knew what. Clint was only her best friend and landlord - he wasn’t allowed to know these things). 

 

“Hands over your head,” Bucky added when Clint was stretched out, legs splayed wide because Clint had always kinda been a slut and Bucky always brought out the best and worst in him. Clint reached up, grabbed the iron cross-brace of Natasha’s headboard, and Bucky smirked with approval.

 

Clint had never given it much thought before - the wrought iron bed frame in Natasha’s otherwise bland as fuck bedroom and apartment overall. Even when Clint and Natasha had been fucking - before the best friend thing but after the landlord thing started, because Clint was a disaster and Natasha made her own boundaries, and apparently, this wasn’t going to be one - Clint hadn’t thought about the iron bed frame after the first time he hit his head on it. After the third time he started shoving pillows against the headboard to protect his brain.

 

But with Bucky…

 

With Bucky, Clint had been tied to this bed frame, had been told to hold on and threatened with an empty ass if he didn’t comply. He’d also had to hold onto the damn thing for dear life whenever Bucky ate out his ass. Especially when Bucky did that. Especially when Bucky hadn’t shaved in a few days.

 

Clint looked up at Bucky, looking down at him and smirking that damn smug smirk that made Clint want to call him an asshole and also made Clint want to beg Bucky to let him suck his dick.

 

“Last time,” Clint said again.

 

“Uh huh.” Bucky climbed onto the bed, shoved Clint’s legs out and up until he was almost folded in half. “That’s what you said yesterday. And the day before that. And-” Bucky looked up from Clint’s ass to his face. He held eye contact while he sucked two fingers between his dark lips and then pulled them out with an obscene sound.

 

“Aw, fuck,” Clint groaned when Bucky traced over his hole, wet fingers leaving a cool trail over the hot skin.

 

“Mmm,” Bucky all but purred when he found Clint already prepped. He bent down, over Clint’s folded legs and gave him a kiss on the mouth that was mostly teeth. “Good boy.”

 

Clint whimpered.

 

“Fuck,” he groaned again. “Fuck.”



-o-



The first time had been in November. 

 

Bucky moved to the city in September, after his contract with Disney expired. That Bucky had spent five years working for Disney, running lights for the theatrical productions on their cruise ships and wearing enough clothes at all times to keep his frankly gluttonous number of tattoos hidden, would never not blow Clint’s mind.

 

He had been Steve’s friend first, had grown up with him or something, and he already knew Sam too, and - it turned out, the first night all of them met up for drinks - Natasha. Though Bucky and Natasha both refused to elaborate on the how and when they had met, and maybe that was part of why Clint hated him. That and the tattoos, the hair, that fucking smirk and those eyes, and the way Bucky looked at Clint, sized him up in one swift glance, and never stopped giving him shit after. 

 

At least Bucky and Natasha never fucked. Probably not, anyway. Bucky was apparently a ‘dicks-only’ kind of guy, and Natasha, while hot shit with a strap-on, did not have a dick.

 

Still.

 

September bled into October, Bucky settling in like he’d always been there - which, Clint supposed, he kind of had, for everyone else. He was living in Steve and Sam’s guest room, floating between jobs on Broadway that, to Clint, who had no fucking idea what any of it was but also had no fucking problem being Natasha’s plus one any time Bucky gave her free tickets to whatever show he was working, was cool as all hell.

 

The thing was… Clint had known Steve from Steve’s Grindr days. Those being the days before Sam Wilson strolled into his life - first as his roommate, then his roommate with benefits, then his boyfriend, and now his fiance. Sam didn’t seem to feel weird at all about the fact that Steve’s semi-regular hookup - Clint - still hung out with him. He went so far as to hang out with Clint on his own, so that Clint and Sam became actual friends before Clint even felt confident applying that label to his relationship with Steve

 

So Steve and Sam had met Clint’s parade of… well, of mostly one-night stands and the occasional medium to long-term bad decision. They always insisted Clint bring someone with him to their nights out - if he wanted to, if his someone wasn’t a bathroom hookup or, if they were, Clint at least knew their name. So Clint usually did, because Sam was a good barometer for ‘this one is gonna ruin your life’ and, after the whole thing with Penny, Clint could finally admit he needed that. And Steve was just… good company and always put Clint at ease, so Clint usually came off better than he would on his own - less one-night stand material and more dating material. 

 

Clint brought Natasha along one night, two years ago now, six weeks into their… casual fuck buddies arrangement because Natasha didn’t date and Clint really would do just about anything to stay in her orbit, because sure, the sex was out of this world, on fire, hot like the sun, but, more than that, Natasha looked at him and saw him and didn’t run away or laugh at him. It was both terrifying and so damn addicting that Clint was pretty sure he wouldn’t survive it when she finally ditched his sorry ass.

 

Natasha and Steve took to each other like only two real delinquents could, but Sam liked her too, genuinely liked her and had her laughing and smiling within an hour, and that was that. Friend group cemented.

 

Even when, eventually, inevitably, Natasha and Clint stopped fucking - she let him down gently, put his head in her lap and told him she was getting too attached to him and she needed to stop having sex with him so they could still be friends, because otherwise, she would break his heart. It was, at least, gentle for Natasha. Like she was cutting his already totally broken heart out, but slowly, softly, delicately - but still very precisely. Clint made it through a week of radio silence - his bad idea, not hers - before he showed up at her apartment with her favorite vodka and they spent the night getting drunk and watching Dog Cops reruns. When Clint woke up the next morning curled around Natasha, her hair in his mouth and her cat glaring at him as if Clint was the scum of the universe - the cat had always regarded Clint as such - everything felt surprisingly okay.

 

And it was.

 

Until Bucky.

 

Until October and Bucky bringing his dates to their group nights out. Maybe Clint should have felt some kind of comfort or kinship in the fact that Bucky seemed to be into the same lifestyle of serial hookups and awkward/bad decision dating. But he wasn’t. 

 

Every time Clint brought someone to their nights out, no matter their gender or sexuality, Bucky flirted and charmed and made such a lasting goddamn impression that the someone Clint took home usually commented on Bucky later. Your friend Bucky , they called him. Seems great , they said. You two known each other long? they asked. It usually took Clint going to his knees to distract them away from the Bucky line of questioning - not that Clint could complain. Oral sex, especially giving it, was a particular passion - practically a damn hobby of his. 

 

But Bucky’s ‘dates’ - gym-toned or runner skinny, all had that effortless-looking style thing going on, the same as Bucky. They were confident and cocky and held Bucky’s attention, and they were annoying. Clint usually ended up saying something - or a lot of somethings - stupid whenever Bucky brought along a date and earned a side-eye from Sam and a sympathetic look from Steve and a kick under the table from Natasha.

 

At least Thanksgiving - Not Thanksgiving, Fuck Thanksgiving, Fuck Capitalism and Fuck Colonialism, Steve reminded - was just the four of them.

 

Sam cooked, let Bucky help him in the kitchen, even though Clint had never been allowed within touching distance of the stove and both Steve and Natasha pretended that food arrived in front of their faces via magic and never once expressed an interest in its creation.

 

They drank a lot, because no one had work the next day and because they had all been working a little feverishly the last week or so before that.

 

They drank a lot and they laughed a lot, ate a lot and talked a lot and one thing led to another, led to Steve talking about the disaster of a first ‘date’ he and Clint had gone on and then Sam pitched in with his own bad date stories. Natasha laughed at them all, because the universe would never dare to send a bad date Natasha’s way, and even Bucky eventually shared some disaster tales. 

 

“Tell them about the guy who called you ‘Father’, “ Steve directed, laughing as soon as Bucky scowled at him.

 

“Father like… religious or formal for Daddy?” Sam asked, sounding horrified and interested and confused.

 

“Formal for Daddy,” Bucky confirmed with an eye roll and a shudder.

 

Clint couldn’t help but laugh. He might not like Bucky, might genuinely dislike his dates, but the guy was funny. And, well, why not laugh at his obvious discomfort.

 

Bucky shot him a glare, and Clint smirked and shrugged one shoulder.

 

“What? You’ve got a type. It tracks.”

 

Bucky scowled at him.

 

“I do not have a type,” he argued.

 

Sam coughed something that sounded like bullshit , Natasha took a very large sip of wine when Bucky looked at her for support, and Steve examined his fingernails.

 

“Oh, fuck off,” Bucky sighed.

 

“Listen dude, just embrace it. We all know you go for twinks with daddy issues. Know thyself or whatever.” 

 

Bucky’s glare melted almost immediately. His eyes turned that glimmery shade of silver-blue that made Clint wish he could look away, and Bucky smirked at him.

 

“So like you, then?” Bucky suggested.

 

Clint scoffed, immediately offended. For one, he didn’t go for twinks - he didn’t turn them down, necessarily, but Clint was self-aware enough to know he was happiest when he had someone else calling the shots and twinks generally took one long look at him, up at him, and told Clint he could do whatever he wanted to them. For another, he was… decently? Maybe? Confident he didn’t go after anyone with obvious daddy issues. Not that he’d turn anyone away, not for that - he wasn’t a fucking creep or a judgemental hypocrite, was all. But-

 

But then he realized.

 

Realized, because everyone was looking at him.

 

Bucky wasn’t accusing Clint of poaching from his dating pool. Bucky was suggesting Clint was in his dating pool. Hook-up pool. Whatever.

 

Clint felt his face flush and he felt like an idiot, and he- he drank more. Easy answer to everything.

 

Sam, the fucking saint, saved him by telling them about his senior prom.

 

And that was that.

 

Conversation moved on. Attention waned. Clint kept drinking.

 

Everything was fine.

 

Until Clint was washing dishes while everyone else argued about which movie to start on for their usual Star Wars marathon. 

 

Until Bucky was leaning against the counter, beer in his hand, and just smirked at Clint when Clint threw a towel at his face and told him to be useful.

 

Bucky set his beer to one side, took a dish from Clint’s soapy hands and started to dry it.

 

“You’re so full of shit,” Clint finally said, when he was down to the last piece of silverware, a big ass carving knife that wasn’t electric because Steve and his fucking biceps could probably rip a log in half and watching him saw through a turkey was kind of everyone’s favorite spectator sport.

 

“Am I?” Bucky was so fucking smug, once again sipping his beer, watching Clint prolong washing the knife for as long as he possibly could.

 

“I’m not a twink,” Clint grumbled, hating himself and his fucking face when he blushed again.

 

Bucky took a sip from his beer, looked at Clint the entire time and smirked after he swallowed.

 

“Who the fuck doesn’t have daddy issues?” Clint snapped. There were so many teeth on the knife. He took his time running the sponge over each one. He wished there were more.

 

In the other room, it sounded like A New Hope had won out, again. The familiar opening music would have put Clint at ease if Bucky wasn’t still right fucking there.

 

Bucky shrugged, a sinuous roll of his shoulders under his fitted red henley that was way too distracting.

 

“Sam. Me. Lots of people.”

 

That Steve very notably didn’t make that list wasn’t surprising. Clint and Steve were both talkers, post-coital and sweaty and cuddly, and while most of Clint’s partners didn’t care for it, Steve had been aggressively into it. So Clint knew a lot of Steve’s shit, and Steve knew a lot of Clint’s. Yeah, they both had daddy issues.

 

“So, what, you like being called Daddy? That’s what you get out of it?”

 

Bucky snorted, amused and derisive, and Clint felt, yet again, always , like an idiot.

 

“It’s not about that,” Bucky said, and he set his beer down on the counter. Moved even closer to Clint, until his front was a solid, hot line so close to Clint’s back all he needed to do to touch him was breath deeply.

 

“Yeah? You prefer Father ?”

 

Bucky leaned close, hooked his chin over Clint’s shoulder, and Clint froze. Time froze. The fucking universe forgot how to breathe.

 

“Nope. I just like to make people feel good.” He stressed the last word, turned his face so it was breathed against Clint’s neck. “I like it when they’re good for me.”

 

That- 

 

It- 

 

He couldn’t just-

 

“You wanna be good for me, Clint?” Bucky asked, breath so fucking hot he was probably scorching the skin on Clint’s neck. “You wanna be my good boy?”

 

Clint’s hand slipped.

 

The world was suddenly crashing into motion again, and the sink was- 

 

Filled with bubbles and the scent of citrus and pine, and the bubbles were turning pink? What the fuck?

 

“Jesus,” Bucky snarled. He grabbed Clint’s hands, pulled them out of the water and-

 

Oh.

 

Shit.

 

That was a big ass cut across his left index finger. 

 

That- 

 

That was a cut that ran the entire length of his index finger.

 

It started as a thin line, just a red trail, but as Bucky held Clint’s hand above the water, away from the heat and the wet of it, blood welled up from the cut and- 

 

Wow.

 

That was- 

 

That was a lot of blood.

 

Bucky grabbed the hand towel. A little damp now, from drying those dishes, and wrapped it around Clint’s finger.

 

“It’s fine,” Clint said and tried to pull away.

 

“Clint, you sliced your fucking finger open. You can see the fucking bone.”

 

“No, you can’t,” Clint argued and tried to pull the towel away. It was turning red really fast. That was… a little alarming.

 

“I fucking could if I pulled it open,” Bucky said. He sounded furious, more pissed off than Clint had ever heard him - including the time one of Bucky’s theatre coworkers had pointed out a safety issue with their boss and been fired for his efforts.

 

“Dude, it’s fine. I’m fine. I just need a bandaid and-”

 

“I’m taking you to the ER,” Bucky snapped.

 

“No, the fuck you aren’t.”

 

“You’re not gonna bleed out in my kitchen, Clint.”

 

“One, it’s not your kitchen. Two, I’m not gonna fucking bleed out. Three, chill the fuck out. You don’t even like me, Bucky.”

 

It had been the… wrong thing? - right thing? - to say.

 

Because Bucky didn’t take him to the ER.

 

Instead, he hauled Clint to the bathroom and made him sit on the closed toilet while he jerked Clint’s arm up so his hand was as high above his head as it could go and cleaned and cursed and bandaged him up.

 

“I fucking like you, Clint,” Bucky said when it was over and there was just a pile of bloody tissues in the trash can - thank fuck Sam had convinced Steve that trashcan liners weren’t actually going to be the planet’s death knell in the global warming crisis - and Bucky was still holding Clint’s hand above his head, and Clint was still sitting on the damn toilet.

 

And, well, as furious as Bucky sounded, he was also right there, and Clint was tired, still super drunk, and, okay, his hand hurt like hell, and Bucky was right there .

 

So he leaned his face against Bucky’s stomach, and Bucky didn’t shove him away or even tense up all that much. Just a little. Then he relaxed into Clint and put his free hand on the back of Clint’s neck.

 

“Why d’you like me?” Clint asked. 

 

For all that Bucky was a built guy - broad-shouldered and a little bulky, but the kind of bulk that came from heavy lifting at work and liking carbs, not the bulk so many of his gym starlet dates had - he was really comfortable to lean against.

 

Clint had a very weird, very inappropriate realization that Bucky would be awesome at post-sex cuddling.

 

Bucky huffed a laugh, and his hand tightened on Clint’s neck for a moment.

 

“Because you’re a twink with daddy issues.”

 

Something in Clint felt tight and… not bad, but not good. His heart and his hand were both throbbing, the feeling intense and distracting as all hell. It felt like the only thing keeping Clint upright at all were Bucky’s hands - the one on his neck and the one holding his injured hand high.

 

“I could do it, you know,” Clint mumbled into Bucky’s shirt and belly.

 

“Do what?”

 

“I could… I could be, you know… I could do it, for you.” Clint’s face felt hot again, which was a fucking riot, because seriously, there were so many bloody tissues in the trash can. Did his fucking body have any to spare right now? Was making him blush really a priority?

 

“Clint, what the fuck are you talking about?” Bucky’s hand tightened on his neck again, fingers curling up into the short hair at the base of his skull and tugging, tilting until Clint had to look up Bucky’s chest and see Bucky looking down at him.

 

“I could… I could be good for you,” Clint said in a rush, words mostly lost in the fabric of Bucky’s shirt where his mouth pressed against it.

 

“For fuck’s sake, Clint,” Bucky growled. But he didn’t let go, and he didn’t shove Clint away.

 

“Please?” Clint asked, and it didn’t even feel weird, didn’t even feel wrong. It actually… Yeah. He was still blushing, but the heat in his cheeks didn’t feel so fucking awful right now.

 

Bucky scowled, brow furrowed and lips tight, and still so fucking attractive it was ridiuculous. 

 

“You’re drunk. Probably in shock from the blood loss.”

 

“Not in shock.”

 

“But definitely drunk.”

 

Clint realized, very suddenly and very, very horribly, that Bucky might not actually be into him. That Bucky might be doing his standard ‘give Clint shit’ thing and that maybe the blood thing had made him feel all… protective and reminded him of Steve when Steve was a baby gay picking fights left and right and Bucky had had to patch him up and kiss it better because they’d dated or whatever way back when. It was just… that, probably. Big blond idiot and blood, probably crossed wires in Bucky’s brain and-

 

“S’okay,” Clint pulled away, sat up straighter on the toilet and Bucky’s hand fell away from his neck. “Don’t- don’t worry about it.”

 

Bucky was still scowling. Was still Holding Clint’s other hand up. Clint wondered just how long he was going to do that.

 

“Just - fucking forget about it, Bucky.” Clint tugged on his caught hand.

 

Bucky refused to budge.

 

Clint glared up at him.

 

Bucky’s face settled, smoothed out, and his eyes did that thing - that silver-blue thing.

 

The moment stretched, and Clint was still throbbing, heart and hand and fucking blushing face and-

 

“You wanna be good for me, Clint?” Bucky asked, voice a rough rasp that made the words sound dragged from him.

 

Clint felt like his whole damn body melted - at the words, the tone, the eyes boring into his.

 

“Yeah. Yeah, I do.”

 

Bucky took a small step back, putting distance between them, and Clint was about to complain but then Bucky was lowering Clint’s hand.

 

“Get on your knees for me, sweetheart.”

 

Clint wasn’t normally clumsy, but, well - drunk, shock from blood loss - he more or less face-planted into Bucky’s groin as he knelt down on the fuzzy blue bath mat under Bucky’s feet.

 

Bucky didn’t push him away, didn’t shift at all except to tug Clint’s hand up so that his bandaged fingers were splayed against Bucky’s chest.

 

“This is a bad idea,” Bucky groaned, gaze on Clint’s lips.

 

“Only kind I have,” Clint commiserated. 

 

Bucky snorted a laugh.

 

“Doesn’t have to- doesn’t have to mean anything,” Clint bargained. “It’s just, uh,” he licked his lips, tried to think of what could possibly sway Bucky, “just a one-time thing. You can’t tell me you haven’t wanted to shut me up since the first time we met.” He tried on a grin, cocky and guaranteed to make Bucky roll his eyes.

 

Only this time, he didn’t.

 

“Just a one-time thing?” Bucky repeated.

 

Clint nodded fervently. 

 

“Promise.”

 

Bucky let out a breath, and Clint… Clint made himself not think about that.

 

“Alright, Clint, show me how good you can be for me.”

 

It was definitely the blood loss, Clint decided when he fumbled with the fingers of his free hand to open the fly of Bucky’s rust colored corduroy trousers. Not nerves.

 

Not… not a few months of wondering just what Bucky’s dick looked like, felt like, tasted -

 

“Condom,” Clint remembered.

 

He looked up and saw that Bucky was actually smirking down at him.

 

“Slut,” Bucky said and it sounded… fond? A little… proud?

 

Clint felt his face burn brightly again - seriously, between the blood loss and the blood filling his dick, did his body really have any to spare for his fucking blushing?

 

“So’r you,” he mumbled as he finally got the fly open.

 

“Mm,” Bucky hummed, agreement and amusement in one. “Hang tight.”

 

Clint wanted to make a smart ass comment - something about Bucky being the one holding him tight - but Bucky shifted, leaning over Clint to reach for the cabinet over the toilet and the move did two really fantastic things.

 

One, it made Bucky’s trousers slip down over his hips.

 

Two, it pressed his dick - well, his boxer brief covered dick - against Clint’s cheek.

 

And Bucky was right, Clint was a slut, and while he might have gone through an extended period of hating himself for that, he was well past that and fully fucking embraced it these days.

 

So he turned his head and opened his mouth over the hard line of Bucky’s dick. 

 

“Fucking - impatient, are you?” Bucky growled from above, doing something that sounded a lot like crushing a paper box in his fingers.

 

Clint didn’t bother to say anything - after all, his mouth was sufficiently occupied and also -

 

Did Bucky use lavender scented laundry detergent?

 

There was something a little floral, a little sharp to the earthier, saltier scent of Bucky and his arousal.

 

“Who the fuck doesn’t keep condoms in the bathroom?” Bucky snarled above him.

 

“An engaged couple who’ve been fucking bare for the the last sixteen months?” Clint pulled off to say. Some things needed saying, after all.

 

Bucky glared down at him, but the look was lacking its usual murderous undertone. That, compared with his flushed face and lips that looked bitten-dark, made the glare less intimidating and very, very hot.

 

“I thought you were gonna show me what a good boy you could be?”

 

Obediently, eagerly, Clint put his mouth back on Bucky’s dick. He’d gone from half-hard to fully hard under Clint and Clint… Clint really wanted to get his mouth on him. He wasn’t really sure what it was, the words, or that Bucky was the one saying them, but… this was really doing it for him.

 

“Fuck,” Bucky groaned. He gave up his fruitless search for condoms and put both hands in Clint’s hair, holding him steady, not pushing, not pulling, just… holding.

 

And that too, was really unexpectedly nice.

 

“Fuck,” Bucky groaned again. “Okay, up on your feet, Clint. We’re moving this to my room.”

 

Clint was so very, very on board with that. 

 

Bucky struggled back into his trousers, the tight fit doing nothing to hide the bulge of his cock and Clint couldn’t help staring at it.

 

Goddamn, that was a pretty sight.

 

“My eyes are up here,” Bucky said, dry and amused.

 

Blushing fucking again , Clint glared at his eyes .

 

“Fuck you,” he said.

 

Bucky just smirked.

 

“If you’re real good, yeah.” Bucky stepped close, backed Clint against the sink and pressed his palm against Clint’s own hard cock, uncomfortably trapped in his jeans and boxers. “Always wanted to go for a ride on this,” he added.

 

And then he opened the door, leaving Clint gaping at him and -

 

Natasha stood on the other side of the door, arms crossed, one eyebrow raised.

 

“Uh…” Clint started, with absolutely no idea where to go from there.

 

“Clint cut himself,” Bucky said, holding Clint’s bandaged hand up.

 

Natasha’s judgy, judgemental gaze narrowed down to focus in on just Clint.

 

“Of course he did,” she said.

 

“It’s fine,” Clint jumped in. “I’m fine.”

 

Bucky had been unexpected - his reaction to the blood, his anger and - frankly kind of hot - determination to save Clint from bleeding out. But Natasha and her reaction to Clint and injury was not unexpected. He’d been through this too many times not to know what she was about to say.

 

“You need to go to the hospital.”

 

Clint rolled his eyes and she glared at him.

 

“I’m fine ,” he insisted.

 

“You only say that when you’re not,” Bucky said and both Natasha and Clint looked at him. Bucky shrugged. “Am I wrong?”

 

“No,” Natasha said at the same time as Clint’s -

 

“Yes.”

 

Bucky smirked, back to smug asshole.

 

“I’ll take him to the urgent care down the block,” Bucky said. 

 

“What? No. I - you - we -” he stumbled over that. It wasn’t like he could just come out and say we had plans for your dick and my mouth. 

 

“Good,” Natasha decided.

 

And that, apparently, settled that.

 

Star Wars was paused while Sam made concerned noises over Clint’s very minor injury and Steve smirked and looked between Clint and Bucky as if he fucking knew what they’d been up to and - 

 

Fuck.

 

What if he did?

 

Was Clint that obvious?

 

Probably.

 

At least Bucky was back to full-strength murder glare. It kept the questions at a minimum, even if it did nothing for the teasing.

 

It felt like an hour before they made it out of the apartment.

 

“I really don’t need urgent care,” Clint argued as he and Bucky took the stairs down to building’s lobby.

 

Bucky didn’t respond.

 

“Seriously, you can’t actually see the bone in my fucking finger, Bucky.”

 

Still nothing.

 

“Please, don’t make me sit there like a fucking asshole when other people actually need help and -”

 

“Let me take you to the ER and then I’ll take you home and you can suck me off before I ride your dick. Sound fair?”

 

Clint missed a step, but Bucky caught him.

 

“This - it - we - one time thing,” Clint bargained, reminded himself. This was not going to be a thing. Clint had already fucked enough of his friend group. Clint already knew Bucky wasn’t going to put up with his shit any longer than Natasha had and he was under zero illusions as to how he’d feel about it when Bucky inevitably brought a new hot, built twink to their nights out.  

 

One time or no times, because even two times would be too many for Clint not to need more.

 

Bucky rolled his eyes.

 

“Yeah. Sure, sweetheart. One and done.”

 

Asshole.

 

“Fine. Take me to urgent care.”

 

-o-