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Bucky trailed along behind Steve and Sam, his boots scuffing the sidewalk and no he was not dragging his feet like a toddler, thank you very much, but he was feeling somewhat disgruntled.
“Stop pouting, Buck.”
Steve hadn’t even turned around, the asshole.
Bucky had been perfectly happy in his apartment. He had been perfectly content to continue lounging on his couch, watching shitty reality tv, and eating take out. He had been perfectly satisfied with his Thursday night plans of more reality television, more take out, and possibly a pint of ice cream. He had not wanted to be dragged out as the awkward third wheel of Sam and Steve’s weekly date.
Steve, however, had not been satisfied with any of this.
Possibly because Bucky had been doing the exact same thing every night for the last three weeks since he’d moved out of Steve’s apartment - with it’s extremely thin walls - and into his own. Steve had been hounding him for days and days, making all sorts of worrying noises about depression and hiding and social anxiety that Bucky had ignored as completely as he ignored the advice of his VA-appointed psychologist and the mess of mental trauma that was losing his left arm to an IED.
Unfortunately, Steven Grant Rogers didn’t take well to being ignored.
Which was something James Buchanan Barnes, his best friend since approximately forever, had accidentally forgotten.
This forgetfulness had resulted in Steve and Sam showing up at his apartment, bullying him into the shower, bullying him into ‘real’ clothes - which in this case only meant jeans and a t-shirt instead of the ratty sweatpants and tank top he’d been wearing for probably too many days - and bullying him onto the sidewalk and out into the muggy Brooklyn night air.
“Fuck you, Stevie.” Bucky muttered, only to be ignored.
Or possibly not heard, but more likely ignored.
He rocked to a halt, however, when Sam stepped to the right and moved to pull open the door of their apparent destination.
The bar had Red in huge, flaming letters above the entrance. And in smaller, less flaming but no less alarming print, it said “Lounge - Bar - Karaoke.” Bucky blanched.
“Oh fuck no, Steve, why are we here? I’m not doing karaoke, you know I’m not.”
Bucky got stared at quite enough because of his arm, he wasn’t going to make an utter ass of himself on a stage in a bar full of strangers, and the idea that Steve thought he would was-
Well, Steve should fuckin’ know better than that, is all. Maybe old Bucky - pre-explosive device, two-armed Bucky - would have been all over it. But Bucky as he was now? Not a chance in hell.
Sam gave him a look, but taking in Bucky’s expression his face softened into something that looked uncomfortably like sympathy. It only made Bucky’s hackles rise higher.
“We’re not here to sing, asshole,” Sam said, instead of whatever nice thing Bucky had expected him to say. That was what Bucky liked about Sam, he always looked like a nice guy, and he really had good intentions, but he was kind of a shit and not shy at all about treating Bucky exactly like his behavior deserved. “We’re here because you like to watch people make fools of themselves.”
Sam was not wrong about that.
“C’mon Buck. It’s a Russian karaoke bar. They have good vodka.” Steve did, actually, know what Bucky liked, and Russian vodka was on the short list.
Years ago, before the military and the whole getting blown up thing, Bucky had been in college, getting a History and Philosophy of Science degree, with a minor in Russian and Eastern European studies. He’d had plans . Plans that included getting some military experience and applying to various government agencies and making a difference. Along the way he’d picked up some pretty impressive language skills and a taste for very smooth vodka.
Then he’d lost an arm and that-
Wasn’t something he was interested in thinking about right now. The vodka, on the other hand, was.
“Yeah, alright, but you’re buying,” Bucky finally conceded, and Sam opened the door to the dimly-lit interior and Bucky followed Steve in.
The bar was perfect. There were red lights behind the bar, presumably to go with the name, but the whole thing was dark and anonymous and probably should have been smoky, except for the fact that bars didn’t allow smoking anymore. Bucky was old enough to remember smoky bar atmospheres, and sometimes he missed it. Sometimes he missed smoking, not that he’d ever tell Steve ‘Health Nut’ ‘I-went-organic-and-free-range-and-had-a-late-growth-spurt-and-turned-into-a-brick-shithouse’ Rogers that.
The three of them - all combined eighteen feet and six hundred plus pounds of them - crammed into a small booth a dozen feet from the bar. Sam and Steve took one side together, leaving Bucky with the other. The side that conveniently put his back to the wall and let him see both the entrance and the side of the room where people would be doing the most moving around. It set the high-alert part of him enough at ease that he thought he might actually be able to relax.
He gave Sam a look, eyebrow raised, but the other man just smiled cheerfully back at him.
A perky waitress glided over to take their orders. Sam and Steve were looking over the drink menu, but Bucky was looking at the familiar bottles on the shelves behind the bar, and he already knew what he was going to order.
“Hello boys,” she said, with a smile on her face. She was pretty, in that kind of homecoming, all-American cheerleader way, long black hair in a curly ponytail, wearing the uniform of bar waitresses everywhere - tight tank top and short shorts. “What can I get for you?”
“Yamskaya, double, on the rocks.” Bucky answered, and her grin widened.
“Buck, you don’t wanna-”
“Shut up Stevie,” Bucky cut him off and, miraculously, Steve did.
He and Sam ordered beers, along with a couple of baskets of fries - probably more for Bucky’s benefit than theirs, considering Bucky knew Steve was a goddamn health food freak, but he let it slide.
“Karaoke starts up in twenty minutes gentlemen, if you want to get your name on the list, I suggest you start early, it gets full fast.”
Bucky snorted.
“We’re just here to watch, but thanks,” Sam told her, and she shrugged amiably before moving on to another table to take drink orders.
The bar had a DJ, and the music was an eclectic mix of current hits, songs that were clearly Russian, though Bucky couldn’t have told anyone if they were new or old or anything about them really, except what the words meant, and older music that seemed to be targeted at his particular age group.
For all that it was strange, it was also well done, and a good move. The bar was a mix of barely old enough to drink college kids looking to have a good, drunken time and people that were more in Bucky, Sam and Steve’s peer group. And nothing got people going like the music of their generation. It was smart business.
Bucky took the time to look around more, at the exposed brick and wooden wall accents, the small dance floor and the staging area that wasn’t really a stage, just more of a sectioned off area near the DJ’s booth. It would make any would-be singers feel less on the spot, and therefore more comfortable and likely to participate. Everything in the room was well-cared for, though not brand new, and the floors were clean instead of uncomfortably sticky.
He was surprised to find he liked the place. And seeing as it was walking distance from his apartment and had his favorite vodka.
Well.
It might be a new hangout.
Not that he would tell Steve.
Sam was already grinning at him in a knowing way that made Bucky want to punch him a little. Not that he would . But he kind of wanted to. Just to knock the look off of his face.
The waitress was back before he could put any more thought into it, depositing their drinks with a flourish.
“The bartender says you have good taste,” she added flippantly, and then swirled off again to drop off the rest of the drinks on her tray.
Sam and Steve both looked at him with raised eyebrows, but Bucky leaned over a little in the booth to get a clear view and raised his glass at the petite redhead behind the bar in a toast. She smirked at him, just a small lifting of the corner of her mouth, and turned back to her next patron.
“Man did you just order the most expensive vodka on the menu?” Sam griped, and Bucky grinned at him around the edge of the glass.
“You made me come out here, I’m just tryin’ to enjoy myself,” he said, once he was done swallowing the vodka. And oh man, it was just as good as he remembered.
The fries appeared on the table a few minutes later, and the three of them were drinking and munching in companionable silence when the DJ announced that they were five minutes from karaoke and this was their last chance to add their names to the list because it was filling up fast.
Steve gave Bucky an inquisitive look, but Bucky just rolled his eyes and shook his head.
No amount of Russia’s finest was going to get him on that stage.
There was no shortage of participants anyway, even a few who had no qualms about attempting Russian drinking songs, which made Bucky snort into his glass in amusement but refuse to explain to Sam or Steve what was so funny. It ran the entire gamut of expected participation. From drunken college girls screaming Don’t Stop Believin’ into the mic, to old frat bros singing Friends in Low Places , to one particularly sad older dude singing Barry Manilow, to a probably-lesbian couple trying very hard to sing Barbie Girl in between leaning all over each other and snickering.
They were his favorite, because at least they didn’t take themselves seriously, though the one with long, light brown hair took a very sarcastic bow before she handed the mic off and her probably-girlfriend hauled her back over to the bar for more drinks they definitely didn’t need. Bucky had thought the Barry Manilow guy was going to start crying all over his own self.
The waitress was back, taking away the empty fry baskets and pointing at nearly-empty glasses and bottles in silent request, when the DJ made an announcement that caused her to freeze, momentarily, before a delighted smile spread across her face.
“Alright where’s Barton?” came the booming voice over the speakers. “I thought you were banned from the list, but here it is, in black and white. Where are you at, jackass, it’s your turn to sing.”
And that was another thing Bucky had decided he liked about the bar. Absolutely no one gave any shits whatsoever. He’d already seen two assholes muscled out the door by a blond guy even bigger than Steve who’d carried them out with a jovial smile on his face, and absolutely no one had even attempted to slap the waitress’s ass.
“Oh this is gonna be good,” their waitress stage-whispered conspiratorially to the three of them, and then she bounced off again to lean against the wall by the door.
She hadn’t, Bucky noticed, actually gotten to the part where she got their drink orders, and Bucky resigned himself to a trip to the bar.
In the staging area, a blond guy stumbled up to the DJ booth as though he’d been shoved, and sure enough, he turned to give someone a dirty look before straightening his purple t-shirt and accepting the mic from whoever was manning the booth. He turned to face the crowd with a blinding smile on his face and Bucky nearly choked on his own saliva.
The guy was hot .
It was, some part of Bucky’s brain noticed dispassionately, the first time he’d had such a visceral reaction to anyone since he’d gotten blown up.
Barton was blond, blue-eyed, and had all the attractiveness of that typical corn-fed, midwestern thing that really revved Bucky’s engine. He looked so goddamn good and nice and wholesome that Bucky wanted to wreck him. His shoulders were broad, and Bucky could see his biceps flexing from here as he lifted the mic to his mouth and there was a brief fantasy-overlaid-with-reality where Bucky was picturing his dick instead of the mic and-
And then the first few bars of the song came over the speakers and Bucky accidentally inhaled vodka and starting choking, trying to keep silent and also not die.
There were several seconds of music before the first words of the song, and Barton took advantage.
“I don’t have a partner to help me out here guys, so I’m gonna try and sing both parts of this, unless someone’s gonna volunteer right now to be a pal.”
Bucky was now laughing and coughing at the same time, Steve was staring at him in complete disbelief, and Sam’s face was beginning to dawn with equal parts recognition and horror.
There was a raucous cheer from about half the bar patrons, ones that Bucky had already pegged as regulars, and Bucky finally managed to clear the vodka from his airway. He wiped tears off his face and turned so he had a better view of the man who was about to make an absolute and complete ass out of himself.
No one got up to join him on the stage.
The song was full-on twenty years old. Bucky recognized it almost immediately from high school, circa probably around his sophomore year, and he had a vague memory of something from a homecoming dance and a bunch of girls shout-screaming it on the dance floor. Steve, it was clear, didn’t recognize it at all until about four lines in.
So the first time Barton sang the boy is mine Steve choked on his beer.
Bucky started laughing at Steve.
Sam rolled his eyes and pretended he didn’t know either one of them.
Barton couldn’t sing, but what he lacked in talent, he made up in enthusiasm. He closed his eyes and belted the song out, power-ballad style, complete with elaborate hand motions and what could have been construed as crooning, if the man could have taken a tune out back and buried it. Every once in a while he - accidentally, Bucky figured - hit the perfect note, harmonizing exactly with the music, but mostly he was loud and off key and fuckin’ adorable .
When the last few notes were easing out of the speakers, Bucky got up and made his way to the bar. He was halfway there when more cheering broke out, from the entire bar this time, and he slid onto one of the two available stools at the bar and waited on the redhead to notice him.
Ten seconds later, Barton slid onto the stool next to him, vaguely sweaty and still smiling like a dope.
The redhead slid a beer across the bar to the blond, who accepted it gratefully and beamed up at her.
“ ты идиот, ” she said, but it sounded fond, and Bucky huffed a quiet laugh.
“я твой любимчик,” Barton countered, still smiling.
“My favorite idiot, maybe,” the redhead said - her English perfect and crisp with no hint of an accent, despite the equally perfect Russian she and Barton had exchanged - rolling her eyes.
The blond shrugged. “You smiled,” he said, as though that were both obvious and obviously the only thing that mattered. The man did have an accent, something that made Bucky think of cornfields and wide open spaces, and seriously could any more of his fantasy boxes get ticked off?
The redhead didn’t answer him, turning instead to Bucky, an eyebrow raised. “More Yamskaya? Beers for your friends?”
Bucky glanced over his shoulder, found that the dark-haired waitress had returned, and turned back to the bar. “Yes to the vodka. No to the beers. Waitress has them covered.”
“Are you starting a new tab?” she asked as she reached for the bottle of Yamskaya, pouring it generously over the ice. It was definitely more than a double.
“Nope,” Bucky said, popping the p at the end of the word as she passed the glass over. “They dragged me out here, they get to pay the tab.”
Next to him, Barton snorted his own laugh. “What, you’re not having a good time?”
Bucky turned his head to look at the other man. Barton had sat down on his right, and it was possible the other man hadn’t seen the lack of arm on his left, but Bucky somehow doubted it. For all that he seemed to play the aw shucks, earnest dingbat card, there was a look in his eyes that suggested intelligence, and the way he watched the bar made Bucky think not much went unnoticed.
Up close, Barton was, incredibly, even better looking. Bucky pegged him for a few years older than him, with lines around his eyes that suggested he laughed a lot, and a tan that implied he got a lot of outdoor time, unlike Bucky. He had freckles across his nose and about a day’s worth of stubble that Bucky was itching to put his mouth on. His shoulders and arms were just as impressive as they’d been across the bar.
And he’d sung something that suggested, perhaps, he might be open to someone of Bucky’s persuasion.
Bucky turned a little further in his seat, leaning a bit on the bar, and making his left shoulder easily visible. Better to avoid any misunderstandings up front.
“Naw, I’m having a great time being the third wheel on my best friend’s date night,” he drawled, jerking his head towards the booth where Sam and Steve were still crammed into one side of the booth like a couple of assholes, heads bent close together while they talked - probably about Bucky - low and quiet.
Barton’s eyes darted over to Bucky’s empty sleeve, but if he was surprised he didn’t show it, before following Bucky’s head motion to look at the booth he’d indicated.
Bucky noticed, to his surprise, the bright purple hearing aids tucked behind the other man’s ears.
“I’m Clint,” the man said, holding his hand out, and Bucky put his glass down on the bartop and scrubbed his palm across his jeans before accepting the handshake.
“Bucky,” he said, and then attempted to cover his wince. He’d been trying - for years, dammit - to go by James, or at least Barnes like when he’d been in the army, instead of his childhood nickname, but he’d been living with Steve for the last six months, ever since he’d been discharged from the hospital, and it had been nothing but Bucky, Buck, Bucko, and pal for those six months. And now he’d just introduced himself to the hottest guy he’d been interested in in ages as Bucky .
Fuckin’ Steve.
Barton - Clint - smirked at him but didn’t say anything about the name. “Nice to meetcha Bucky. Sorry about your sad date luck.”
Bucky shrugged. “It’s alright. They’ll probably head off soon to have obnoxious, loud sex and leave me to my own devices.”
Clint chortled, lifting his beer to take a drink, and Bucky watched him swallow with far, far too much interest.
“So any particular reason you chose that song?” Bucky blurted, and then grimaced. He used to be good at this, he thought, at flirting casually and chatting with strangers. He could remember being good at it, but he couldn’t remember how he’d done so. Frankly, there was a lot Bucky couldn’t remember, a result of head trauma from the explosion, and it was frustrating and embarrassing at the best of times.
Either Clint didn’t notice his awkwardness, or he pretended not to. “Nah. Just like to make Nat laugh, even if it’s at my expense.” He gestured towards the bartender, who was snapping tops off of beers and shaking mixers with practiced ease. She noticed Clint’s movement and made her way towards them, grabbing another beer for Clint on the way. Plonking it down in front of the blond man she glanced at Bucky’s glass, which was still nearly half full.
“Good for now?” she asked him, and Bucky nodded.
“Bucky, Natasha. Nat, Bucky.” Clint half-assed introduced them, and the redhead - Natasha - blinked at Clint before turning to nod at Bucky. He raised his glass at her in greeting, and she whirled away again.
“Huh.” Clint said contemplatively, and Bucky shifted to look at him.
“What?”
Clint shrugged. “She likes you.”
Bucky looked from Clint to Natasha and back again. “You sure about that?”
The other man shrugged again, but nodded. “Been friends a long time. Pretty sure.”
It was Bucky’s turn to shrug, and he drank more vodka to cover the fact that he didn’t really have much of a response to that. A second later, a large hand clapped down on his right shoulder, and Bucky flinched violently before he recognized Steve’s familiar grip.
“You fuckin’ asshole,” he grumbled, shaking off the vodka that had sloshed over the glass and onto his hand.
Sam snorted and Steve looked appropriately apologetic. “We’re gonna head out-” Clint gave an aborted laugh that had Steve glancing at him oddly and made Bucky snicker. “We didn’t know if you wanted to stay or go.”
“If you stay I’m closing my tab though, so you have to pay for your own expensive-ass vodka.” Sam added, grinning at Bucky.
Bucky took an exaggerated sip of the vodka, humming his appreciation, and Clint smirked at him before making another hand gesture at Natasha. Ten seconds later, a third glass of clear liquor appeared in front of him as she passed by. Bucky grinned up at Sam. “I think I’m good.”
Steve rolled his eyes and Sam narrowed his gaze between Bucky, Clint, and the bartender.
“I think I just got swindled,” Sam muttered before pulling out his wallet.
“Nah,” Clint said, “that one’s on me.”
Everyone turned to look at Clint with varying degrees of surprise, and he shrugged before reaching for his second beer. He tossed the empty bottle with unerring accuracy into the trash can behind the bar, where it clinked against the other bottles.
“Steve and Sam, this is Clint. Clint, this is Sam and Steve.”
Handshakes were exchanged as Natasha ran Sam’s credit card and passed the slip over for his signature.
Steve was still giving Bucky and Clint the same odd, assessing gaze from before, and Bucky gave Sam a meaningful look.
Meaning scram, punk, and take my annoying friend with you.
Sam, bless him, took the hint, sliding his hand under Steve’s elbow and tugging him towards the door. Steve followed without complaint, but glanced back twice more before Sam leaned in to say something in his ear that had Steve scrambling to follow him.
“Gross,” Bucky muttered into his glass, and Clint turned to look at him in surprise. “They’re so disgustingly ‘ in love’ ,” Bucky elaborated, complete with air quotes, “that they’re impossible to be around. I lived with Steve for six months and they’re like that all the time .” He took another swallow of his drink as Clint snickered. “And they fuck really loud too.” Bucky added, causing Clint to laugh out loud.
“You’re not a fan of loud fucking?” the other man asked, his eyes trailing across Bucky with what felt like heat and meaning, and this was finally starting to feel familiar. Flirting, or whatever they were doing. It was starting to feel like something he knew how to do, kind of.
“Not unless I’m the one doing the fucking,” Bucky said with a smirk, and- yeah, this was starting to feel really familiar.
Bucky’s second glass was now empty and he placed it on the back of the bar where it would be easily disposed of and reached for the third. He was, he thought, starting to feel the warm burn of the alcohol in his gut, the relaxing buzz of intoxication in his veins. He wasn’t drunk, but he was pleasantly loose and warm, and that was a nice change from his usual high-alert status. Some food might be a good idea if he was planning to finish the last drink, and he’d no sooner had the thought than a plate of steaming dumplings appeared, courtesy of Natasha, in front of Clint and Bucky.
Between the two of them they demolished the plate, talking about everything and nothing. Clint, Bucky learned, taught archery and was the building super for a nearby apartment he lived in - “Don’t ask, it’s a long story.” - and occasionally helped Natasha out at the bar, which she owned, either as door muscle or behind the bar. Bucky talked a little, haltingly, about his pre-army life, and a little more freely about his time as a sniper, the two of them lost for a few minutes in the differences between calculating wind speeds and drag for bullets versus arrows, and absolutely nothing at all about the incident that had ended Bucky’s military career and life goals.
Clint was leaning close to Bucky, a warm line down his side and hip, using napkins and empty glasses and anything else he could get his hands on to explain a complicated story about when he’d been in the circus, when they were interrupted by someone clearing their throat.
Both of them looked up in surprise to find Natasha standing in front of them, bar rag in hand. She glanced around pointedly, and Bucky was surprised to find they were the last people left in the bar, and the lights were all turned up.
“I believe the line is ‘You don’t have to go home, but you can’t stay here.’” she said, smirking, and Bucky felt heat creeping into his cheeks. “And if you stay, I will put you to work Barton.”
Clint slid off the stool, still pressed entirely too close to Bucky for it to be accidental in an empty bar, and pulled his wallet out of his pocket, but Natasha waved him off.
“At least let me pay for Buck’s drink,” Clint wheedled, but she just glared at him. Without looking, she pulled the bottle of Yamskaya back out, poured herself a shot, and downed it without breaking eye contact.
“It’s my vodka, I do with it what I please.” she said, putting both the glass and bottle away before striding towards the other end of the bar. It was like the Russian version of ‘you don’t know me, I do what I want’.
“Your friend is terrifying,” Bucky said, impressed.
“I know,” Clint said, but he sounded as fond of her and she’d sounded of him earlier when she’d called him an idiot. “She can probably kill a man with her thighs.”
Bucky didn’t doubt it.
They weren’t, however, the thighs he wanted to die between.
He glanced at Clint out of the corner of his eye as they made their way out of the bar, both of them turning right without discussion. Clint’s apartment, Bucky had gathered through casual conversation, was both nearby and in the same general direction as Bucky’s, though Bucky had a further walk home. Clint walked close to Bucky, close enough that their shoulders bumped and their arms brushed, and Bucky could see him sneaking little glances under his eyelashes.
It had been a good night. Bucky had gotten out of his apartment and partially out of his funk, he’d had just enough to drink to feel loose and relaxed, and he was walking with a very attractive man and it seemed, for all the world, like the attraction was mutual.
Bucky decided fuck it , and at the next small alley, he reached out and tugged Clint sideways and into the shadows, backing him up against the brick wall and resting his arm on the brick beside his shoulders. Bucky was just a hair taller than Clint, and he’d probably been a bit broader before he’d lost his arm and the subsequent body mass, but in this position they were very nearly eye to eye. Clint’s eyes were wide and blue and even in the darkness Bucky could tell he was flushed, though he wasn’t sure if it was alcohol or arousal. He let his eyes flick down to Clint’s lips in something like a question, and the other man tilted his head invitingly and leaned forward.
Their lips met in a kiss that started out soft and questioning and quickly turned hot as hell.
Clint’s mouth was wet and welcoming, and the things he was doing with his tongue were positively sinful, and Bucky groaned against him, shifting forward until they were pressed together and he was helping himself to a handful of ass. Clint’s hands were wrapped around his hips, fingers just underneath the hem of his t-shirt and pulling him closer.
Bucky had lost track of time by the time Clint broke the kiss off, breathing heavily, his lips swollen, the sight of which went straight to Bucky’s already impossibly hard dick.
“You wanna come back to mine?” Clint offered, and Bucky-
Well, Bucky tried not to break his own neck nodding his agreement. “Yeah,” he said, and his voice sounded like he’d been gargling ground glass for the last ten minutes.
Clint’s smile spread like fire, equal parts delighted and dangerous, and Bucky felt his dick twitch in his pants.
They were halfway up the second set of stairs to Clint’s apartment when Bucky suddenly realized this was the first time he was even attempting sex since he lost his arm, and he stumbled on the step and nearly fell.
Clint threw a questioning look over his shoulder, but Bucky shook his head in response and kept following.
His arousal flagged, briefly, at the thought and while Clint fumbled at the lock on his door, before they were inside his apartment - some kind of high-ceilinged loft, from the glimpse Bucky caught before he was shoved back against the door and his mouth plundered and he forgot what he was nervous about at all. Bucky had his hand halfway up the back of Clint’s shirt and Clint’s mouth was on his neck, leaving sharp, biting kisses along his collarbone when he opened his eyes again and noticed the dog sitting in the corner watching them with his head cocked.
Bucky couldn’t stop the huff of laughter that escaped him and Clint lifted his head.
“You’re not seriously laughing at me right now?”
“No,” but Bucky laughed harder, “no I swear, I just- your dog is watching.”
Clint blinked at him in confusion and then turned to look, almost seeming surprised to see the animal across the room. “Oh. Yeah. Sorry. He’s- kind of a new addition.” There was a thoughtful pause, and then Clint snickered. “His name is Lucky.”
Bucky rolled his eyes. “Yeah, yeah, it rhymes, yeah I got it.” He ran his hand up Clint’s spine and buried his fingers in the short hair that back of his head to pull his mouth back to Bucky’s. “You named a one-eyed dog Lucky, Natasha’s right, you are an idiot.”
He swallowed the offended noise Clint made as he resumed kissing the other man.
All traces of laughter were gone when they broke apart again and Clint yanked his shirt over his head, tossing it aside. “Bed?” he asked, breathless and flushed, and Bucky nodded wordlessly. Clint turned, tugging Bucky by the hand and made his way towards the metal stairs near the kitchen. “Stay,” he said, pointing at the dog, who laid his head down on his paws and watched them.
Bucky followed Clint up to the loft, and the view from the back was pretty goddamn spectacular. Back muscles aside - and they were mouth wateringly good - the man’s ass was absolutely something to write home about.
In the loft, Clint pulled him close again and pushed his shirt up his stomach to his armpits, dragging his fingers along Bucky’s abs and unsnapping the first button on his jeans. His mouth was still dragging over Bucky’s neck, and Bucky was busy exploring all the exposed skin of Clint’s back and sides that he could reach.
“Hey,” Clint said, and leaned back. “Can I?” He tugged at Bucky’s shirt, but left the decision to him.
Bucky hesitated, and Clint raised his hands in surrender.
“Whatever you want, man, it’s cool.”
After a second Bucky shrugged and reached back to tug the shirt over his head. The light was low - just streetlamps coming through slatted blinds. His left shoulder was a mess of scars, but it wouldn’t be too noticeable in the dark, and it was gonna be weird to fuck with nothing but a shirt on, probably weirder than Clint seeing his missing arm.
It wasn’t like he didn’t know it was gone.
Clint’s eyes trailed down his torso, not avoiding his shoulder, but not lingering either, taking in the shrapnel scars along his flank and down to the partially unbuttoned jeans and the erection straining at his pants.
“Goddamn,” the other man breathed, and Bucky braced himself for anything, really, tense and anxious. “Can I- I wanna go find something in the kitchen to lick off your abs.”
Bucky let out a surprised bark of laughter, reaching to pull Clint back to him, but the other man dodged his hand. “Well I wanna spend a lot of time with my mouth on your shoulders, so I guess we’re about even.”
Clint stepped in close and dragged his hand down Bucky’s stomach to his jeans, to palm him through his pants and squeeze - a nice, firm grip that made Bucky moan. Clint tugged him towards the bed, backing him up until his knees hit the mattress. There was a flurry of movement - a sharp tug that left him with his pants around his thighs, followed by a soft shove - and Bucky found himself half-falling onto the mattress, his knees trapped in his jeans and his erection jutting out as he leaned back on his hand to catch himself.
“I’ve changed my mind,” Clint said, digging into the drawer of the night stand and pulling out a strip of foil-wrapped condoms. “I don’t wanna go to the kitchen after all.”
The man was fucking fast as hell, because the next thing Bucky knew, there was a condom rolled down his cock and Clint’s mouth right behind it, swallowing him down in one, fast go, all the way to the base.
Bucky made a garbled half-shout and his arm trembled underneath him as his head spun. “Holy fuck,” he panted, watching as Clint dragged his mouth back up, cheeks hollow and eyes closed in concentration or pleasure, Bucky wasn’t sure. He’d never been deep-throated so fast or so thoroughly in his life , but he damn sure wasn’t complaining.
Clint did it again and again, until Bucky lost count and his hips were rocking upwards with every stroke, until his balls were hot and tight and he was babbling nonsense and he’d reached for Clint’s head a half dozen times with an arm he didn’t fucking have anymore, which was the only disappointing moment of the night so far. Clint let him go with an obscene, wet pop, and sat back on his heels, reaching to unsnap his own jeans for room.
His mouth, his fucking mouth , looked just like every fantasy Bucky had ever had, wet and swollen and red from sucking cock and Bucky thought for a half second that he was going to come all over himself.
“Top or bottom?” Clint asked, and Bucky blinked unintelligently at him, his brain still somewhere in orbit. “You prefer to fuck or be fucked?” the other man clarified, standing up to shuck his jeans.
Because that was not gonna distract him from this conversation at all . Clint’s cock hard and damp, thrusting out from his body and Bucky wanted everything , he wanted to fuck and be fucked and suck Clint’s cock and could he just fuckin’ make a list already?
“Cause I’m flexible,” Clint continued, even as he reached to pull Bucky’s jeans off the rest of the way and drop them on the floor, letting Bucky’s knees fall open and dragging his nails down Bucky’s thighs. “Literally and figuratively.” Clint winked and Bucky’s cock jumped.
“Jesus fuck ,” Bucky said, with feeling. “How flexible? Wait, nevermind, stop, I can’t even fuckin think anymore, if you answer that I’m gonna come in my pants.”
“You’re not wearing pants,” Clint reminded him, amusement in his tone.
“I don’t have a strong preference,” Bucky said, finally answering the original question, “but I’m kinda at a slight disadvantage for leverage.” He shrugged his bad shoulder. “So I’m down for whatever you want.”
Clint eyed him for a second, a hungry look on his face and then jerked his head towards the headboard. “Scoot up. I’m gonna ride you like a rodeo star.”
Bucky was pretty seriously sure he was not going to survive this experience and he honest to god didn’t fucking care. He scrambled to move, shifting himself up until he was leaning against the headboard as Clint dug a bottle of lube out of the nightstand and crawled up after him. He straddled Bucky and slid up until his cock was on Bucky’s chest, damp and leaving a trail of precome along his abdomen, and then leaned down to kiss him more, and goddamn he was flexible. Bucky heard the flick of a cap, and then he was surprised to feel cool gel being squeezed out onto his fingers.
Surprised, but grateful.
Clint was, Bucky noted, accommodating without being coddling, making Bucky feel like an equal partner and not a - well, a pity fuck, or worse.
Bucky reached around Clint’s thigh, sliding his fingers down the crease of his ass until he reached the puckered entrance there, smearing slippery gel in light, teasing touches, and Clint shivered, reaching to brace himself on the headboard. He leaned back from the kiss, arching his spine into Bucky’s touch, and Bucky relaxed back into the pillows so he could watch Clint’s face as he prepped him.
One finger slid in, smooth and easy, and Clint leaned into it, his lips parted and a flush working it’s way down from his face to his chest. Bucky rocked his finger slowly, in and out, until Clint was pushing down to meet him and making low, gutteral noises, and then he added a second, curling them inwards gently, pressing and rocking, until Clint’s whole body jerked and he moaned. Bucky kept thrusting, kept rubbing that spot, until Clint was rolling his hips and muttering fuck fuck fuck and Bucky slid a third finger in with the first two, making Clint hiss with either pleasure or pain, but he didn’t stop moving, so Bucky didn’t stop stroking.
Clint had broken out in a fine sheen of sweat, and Bucky couldn’t stop staring at the way his chest and shoulders moved, the way his stomach clenched as Bucky fucked him with his fingers - the man looked goddamn incredible.
“Look at you,” Bucky murmured, twisting his fingers, and Clint’s head dropped to his chest so he could look down at Bucky, dragging his lids open with what looked like supreme effort. His pupils were blown totally out, Bucky could barely tell his eyes were even blue, and he had his lower lip caught between his teeth. Bucky’s words seemed to penetrate finally, and Clint huffed a laugh that Bucky felt around his fingers. It made him shudder.
“You ready?” Clint asked, and that made Bucky laugh.
“Ready?” Bucky asked in disbelief. “I’m probably going to die if I don’t get inside you soon. Hell, I might die if I do get inside you. More worried about you bein’ ready than me.”
Clint snorted but lifted up, and Bucky let his fingers slide out slowly, reaching down to smear what was left of the lube over his condom-covered cock before reaching to grip the base and hold it steady. Clint scooted backwards, arched his back again, and slid down Bucky’s cock in one slow, smooth glide, the same way he’d swallowed Bucky’s dick earlier.
Bucky was pretty sure his eyes rolled back in his skull, and he reached down to fists the sheets underneath him to keep his hips still.
There was a moment of complete stillness while both of them adjusted, and then Clint rolled his hips and-
Yeah, Bucky was probably going to die, but goddamn what a way to go.
He dragged his eyes open so he could watch as Clint rolled his body in undulating waves that made Bucky’s arousal draw up even tighter, all that muscle clenching and unclenching, and then Clint lifted up and dropped back down and both of them made garbled, gasping sounds of pleasure.
“Bucky,” Clint said, in a pleading, moaning sound that went straight to Bucky’s gut.
“Yeah doll?” Bucky responded, breathless.
Clint looked down to meet his eyes, and there was a glint of humor in them as Bucky realized what he’d said. All Clint said, however, was “Move, already.”
“Yessir,” Bucky answered, reaching up to grasp Clint’s hip in his hand as he bent his knees and did exactly as he was told.
He fucked up into Clint in short, sharp thrusts, adjusting his angle until the other man was shuddering and moaning above him, hands braced on the headboard, treating Bucky to an astonishing view of all those muscles, standing out in glorious relief.
“Right there?” Bucky asked, picking up the pace when he found a position that caused Clint to make a punched out, wrecked sound that Bucky wanted to hear over and over again.
“Fuck yes,” Clint moaned, pushing back into Bucky’s thrusts, making them that much sharper. “Right there, don’t stop.”
Bucky shook his hair out of his face. “Touch yourself,” he demanded, because good goddamn this wasn’t going to last much longer and he wanted Clint to come, wanted to watch him come all over both of them.
Clint made another of the involuntary, low noises and let go of the headboard with his right hand to jerk himself off roughly. Bucky didn’t think he got six whole strokes in before he came with a shout, all over Bucky’s chest, spasming around him as his whole body tightened up and Bucky only had the presence of mind to think thank fuck before his own orgasm overwhelmed him, snatching his breath and coherent thought away in a pleasurable inferno.
A million years later, Bucky’s brain re-engaged while he was still panting for air and shuddering in aftershocks, his arm wrapped around Clint’s back where the other man was slumped over his chest, breathing just as hard.
“Holy fuck,” the blond man breathed, before shifting a little and wincing, before lifting off of Bucky to flop down on the bed next to him. “Don’t go. Stay the night. I want round two in the morning, I promise not to make it weird, I swear.”
Bucky laughed out loud, again. He wasn’t sure he’d ever laughed and had amazing sex at the same time. He turned to look at Clint’s face and judge the seriousness of his offer. The other man looked relaxed and happy, but not like he was joking. Bucky shrugged. “Yeah, alright. Sounds good.” Sounded great actually. “Be careful though, if you feed me, you’ll never be rid of me.”
Clint grinned, sly and amused. “How do you feel about pancakes?”