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Bucky’s on his third beer of the night when things start to get heated.
It’s not exactly a classy place - but it’s less than five minutes walk from his and Steve’s apartment and they sell halfway decent beer at not the worst prices he’s ever seen, so they call it theirs. The floor is ominously sticky and the tables are scratched to hell and back, but the four of them - him, Steve, Sam and Sharon - slide into their usual booth on Friday nights, or Bucky heads over to the pool table in the back, which has about one and a half acceptable pool cues and a slight list to the bottom right pocket which Bucky uses to his advantage.
Tonight’s more of a talking night. It’s been the kind of week that’s left all of them with energy to burn. Bucky’s not sure where it came from, would have sworn he was dog-tired two hours ago, but put a couple of beers in him and apparently he’s raring to go. It doesn’t help that the rest of the table is just plain wrong.
“Wrong!” he says, for probably the third time. “That’s just wrong.”
“It’s my opinion,” Sam says. “You can’t tell me my opinion on a game of Fuck, Marry, Kill is wrong.”
“I can.” Bucky says. “‘Cause it is.”
“Here he goes,” Steve says, trying to make it sound like Bucky’s the crazy one in this friendship.
“You’re both wrong,” Bucky says.
“You think we should fuck Stark and marry Thor?” Sam asks. “But… dude, the guys got like three lambourghinis. I wanna drive Stark’s lambourghini, Bucky. And when we’re married, that shit is half mine. Sure, Thor’s a prince, but does he have a lambourghini?”
“Stark would make you sign a prenup,” Sharon says, leaning back in her seat. She has yet to voice her opinion on the current line-up of Thor, Iron Man and Hawkeye. She’s probably not going to, either. The look on her face tells Bucky that she’s just going to enjoy the carnage.
“Fuck no,” Bucky agrees. “Yeah, there’d be a prenup, but definitely marry Stark. I’m not arguing with that.”
“So what? You want us to kill the God of Thunder?”
“Want? No,” Bucky says. “But you’re looking at this all wrong.”
“And this has nothing to do with your massive crush on Hawkeye?” Steve asks. Bucky doesn’t blush, but he does glare at him.
“This is completely objective,” he tells them as firmly as he can manage.
“Barnes has a crush on Hawkeye?” Sam asks, both of his eyebrows rising up in something that might be disdain.
“Okay,” Sharon says, crossing her legs and turning to look at him. “Tell us your completely objective reasoning behind why you’d choose to fuck a man with a bow and arrow over the literal God of Thunder.”
“Yeah, Barnes,” Sam agrees.
Steve sighs again.
“Please don’t,” he says. “I’m getting more drinks.” He slides out from opposite Bucky. “Give them the short version, Bucky, okay? I don’t want to still be listening to how much you want to lick his biceps this time tomorrow.”
“Fuck off, Steve,” Bucky says. “This is objective.”
“You’ve said that,” Sam agrees as Steve wanders off towards the bar. “But so far you’re not telling us anything other than you’ve got a crush on Hawkeye.”
“Fine,” Bucky says, setting his beer down and leaning over the table. “Thor’s got power, sure. He could probably pound you into next week.”
“Exactl-”
“BUT,” Bucky says. “Is that all you want?” He raises an eyebrow. “Hawkeye’s got accuracy, he’s got flexibility, have you seen the acrobatic moves he pulls off? Sure he’s not a god, but who needs a god when you can bend yourself in half like a pretzel. Not to mention the fact that he’s called Hawkeye for a reason! He pays attention. He’s observant. He’s going to find every way to make you beg, and then some you didn’t even know about yourself.” Sam’s opening his mouth, so Bucky ploughs on, getting louder, “Also! He keeps going in some of those fights for hours. Maybe you just want to be nailed for a few minutes like a pile driver then roll over and go to sleep, but some of us have higher standards than just plain power, Wilson.”
“And you want to lick his biceps,” Sharon says.
“I am not playing favourites here,” Bucky says, picking up his drink again. “I want to lick all of his muscles equally.” He grins. “But trust me, if I had an opportunity to fuck Hawkeye, it would be the most athletic, acrobatic, mind blowing sex of my entire life and I would probably die, but I’d die happy.”
There is the sound of smashing glass and Bucky turns to see Steve, halfway back to their table, glass and beer on the floor at his feet, his mouth open as he stares at something… behind Bucky?
Bucky turns, leaning around the edge of the booth and comes face to face with…
“Holy fuck.”
“Hi,” Hawkeye says, grinning like a maniac.
Bucky’s mind goes blank. His heart skips about five beats. His brain is full of static because that’s definitely Hawkeye staring back at him. He needs to reboot. He needs to rewind the last five minutes and just…
“Hi,” he says. Somewhere behind him he hears Sam swearing and he’s dimly aware of Sharon turning around to kneel on the seat to look over into the booth behind them - where Hawkeye and… Black Widow? Bucky blinks. Yep, that’s Black Widow, grinning at him with an arch little smile - are sitting.
“Clint Barton,” Hawkeye says, offering him a hand.
“Bucky Barnes,” Bucky replies, shaking hands automatically. Rather than curling around his palm, the tip of Hawkeye’s index finger rubs lightly against the inside of Bucky’s wrist, sending tingles down his arm.
He thinks Sam is taking a photo of this. Bucky doesn’t care, because he can feel Hawkeye’s skin under his hands and his hands are perfectly shaped, large and firm and warm and Bucky has spent way too many hours imagining these hands taking him apart and putting him back together again.
“I think you were talking about me,” Hawkeye - Clint - says, and Bucky knows that he has two choices. He can hope that the ground swallows him whole and file this entire encounter under ‘horribly embarrassing things in my life that I never want to think about again’, or he can just… take his fucking shot.
“Yeah,” he says.
“My hearing’s not so great,” Clint says, “so I think I missed a few of the details. You wanna fill me in.”
“Or I could give you a practical demonstration,” Bucky says. He has drunk just enough to be brave, but not so much that his pulse isn’t thundering in his ears. He realises that he’s still holding Hawkeye - Clint’s - hand and he’s rubbing his thumb over the back of it.
For a second, he’s sure that was a dumb thing to say and that Steve, Sam and Sharon will be mocking him for this for years to come, but then a slow, slightly dopey, slightly wicked grin spreads over Hawkeye’s face.
“That might be better,” he says. “I’m a hands-on kinda guy.”
“Fuck yes, me too,” Bucky agrees. It’s not his smoothest line, but who cares. He’s ninety percent sure he’s about to fuck motherfucking Hawkeye. He’s the smoothest guy in this place.
“Probably best we do that in private, though,” Hawkeye says with a wink. “I mean, if you want to lick all my muscles, some of them might be a little awkward in public.”
“And I’m not getting Tony to bail you out of jail for public indecency again,” Black Widow comments. Bucky doesn’t know how to answer that, but Hawkeye just flips her off. For a second, Bucky thinks that they are all going to die, but then, somehow, miraculously, Black Widow smiles. “Get out of here already. You’re putting me off my drink.”
Hawkeye bounds to his feet, pulling Bucky up with him.
“You wanna head out?” he asks, looking almost uncertain as he blinks and seems to realise exactly what’s going on. Like Bucky’s anything other than a sure thing at this moment in time.
“Fuck yes,” Bucky says. He turns to the others, who are staring, open mouthed at him, and snags his jacket. “Don’t wait up, Stevie.”
“Damn, Barnes,” Sam mutters. Sharon salutes him with her beer bottle. Steve shakes his head.
“Only you, Buck,” he says. Then Steve turns to Hawkeye - the Avenger - and gives him this long, hard look.
“Just make sure he comes back in one piece,” he says, in a tone that makes Bucky roll his eyes.
“I’ll try,” Clint says, giving a little salute.
“Bye guys!” Bucky says, giving a little wave as Hawkeye practically drags him out of the bar.
Best. Night. Ever.
*
Hawkeye has a motorbike, black and purple, and Bucky takes one look at it and drags him in for a kiss, unable to keep his hands off for another minute.
It should be awkward. Bucky’s kissing a superhero. It should be insanely awkward, but it isn’t. It skips past awkward and it’s just plain hot as Bucky pushes his hands under Clint’s leather jacket where the fabric’s body-warm and soft, and he slides them down to cup at Clint’s ass in his jeans, pulling them together. Clint’s mouth is hot, and Bucky’s always thought about how talented his hands must be, how flexible he is, and he’s never thought enough about Hawkeye’s mouth, clearly, because Clint’s mouth is a revelation, hot and enthusiastic and very much designed to take Bucky’s breath away as he seizes control of the moment and gets a hand in Bucky’s hair, guiding his head until Clint can get a better angle.
Breathing is overrated anyway.
Bucky’s hard already and they’ve barely started yet. Clint’s body is a hot, hard press up against him and Bucky’s starting to lose sight of what they were even doing before Clint pulls back, returning to press another quick kiss to Bucky’s lax lips and stare at him, breathing heavily.
“Really interested in finishing that,” Clint says. “But it’s fucking hard to ride a motorbike with an erection.”
Bucky laughs and palms at Clint’s ass one more time before forcing himself to step back.
“Right,” he agrees. “To be continued.”
“Absolutely.”
They climb onto the motorbike and Bucky has to bite his lips not to moan as he positions himself behind Clint, their legs aligning against each other, his crotch way too close to Clint’s ass for comfort. Clint passes him a helmet and Bucky puts it on, even as Clint tugs on his own - purple, of course.
“Hold on,” Clint says, and Bucky wraps his arms around Clint’s waist, sliding his hands over abs that he’s now getting to feel rather than just ogle on a poster or YouTube video. He has just enough time to think ‘holy shit’, before Clint guns the engine and they’re flying through the streets.
Stark Tower is just as huge as he remembers, although Bucky’s certainly never driven into the private underground parking lot before. They make out against the wall as they wait for the elevator and Clint finds the pulse point on Bucky’s neck and bites at it, making Bucky shudder. He gasps out Clint’s name and that makes Clint pull back and beam at him.
“You’d really do it?” Clint asks, as the elevator doors whoosh open.
“Really do what?” Bucky stumbles back into the elevator and yanks Clint in by the front of his t-shirt until they’re all pressed up against each other again. He’s addicted to the warmth of Clint’s body on his.
“Pick me over Thor,” Clint says.
“Every time,” Bucky says, pulling Clint into another searing kiss, laying claim to him because if Bucky Barnes is getting to kiss Hawkeye, he’s going to do his absolute best to be the greatest everything Clint has ever had. From the way Clint’s moaning and clutching at him, Bucky thinks he’s doing a good job.
“Why?” Clint asks, pulling his head back.
“I thought you heard-” Bucky says.
“Yeah, but… “ Clint cocks his head to one side. “Why?”
“Why wouldn’t I?” Bucky asks. “Look, you’re hot and whenever you do press conferences you have a killer sense of humour, and you gave all that money to that dog shelter and your instagram is just pictures of you and your stupidly cute dog and half the time you’re shirtless and… “ Bucky kisses at Clint’s jaw. “Why the fuck wouldn’t I?”
Clint seems almost abashed by this, but throws himself back into the kissing.
“Your floor, Agent Barton,” a voice says and Bucky starts, pulling back, looking around.
“Thanks, J”, Clint says, unconcerned, and he tugs Bucky out the doors and then across to a door, which opens with - honest to god - a palm print. “Here we are, home sweet…” Clint is cut off as a blue of golden fur runs at his legs, tail wagging fast enough to take the dog it’s attached to into orbit. “Hey Lucky! Hey! Who’s a good boy?” And then Clint Barton - fucking Hawkeye - is kneeling on the ground, hugging his dog with a huge sappy grin on his face and Bucky’s heart is swelling to five times its usual size or something ridiculous because… well, it’s never just been attraction, okay? Steve’s right, it’s a crush, and this is not helping it, at all.
“Hi,” Bucky says, crouching down. “You must be Lucky.”
“He’s the best dog,” Clint says, looking a little worried, like Bucky’s going to decide that the dog is some kind of deal breaker for him. “The best.”
“Of course he is,” Bucky says, and he rubs at Lucky’s head as the dog tries to climb on top of him. Bucky laughs and grins over at Clint, who looks sort of, blind-sided by this.
“Right, but… uh,” Clint reaches for Lucky’s collar. “This isn’t what you-”
“Clint,” Bucky says. “I don’t mind. I told you - I think your dog’s cute.” Clint stares up at him as though he’s not sure whether to believe Bucky or not, but after a second he grins.
“If you think he’s cute, you must not have seen yourself in a mirror,” Clint says and Bucky’s mouth falls open.
“I’m not cute,” Bucky says. Clint laughs and gives Lucky one last scratch before he stands up again.
“I beg to differ.”
He slides his hand into Bucky’s again and starts to tow him forwards, not looking where he’s going.
“I’ve got a mirror in my bedroom if you want to take a second look,” Clint offers. His grin is lopsided and just the right side of smug.
“I’m more interested in the bed,” Bucky says, pulling Clint back towards him so he can slide the leather jacket off his shoulders. He gives Clint the half smile that he knows looks damn hot and quirks an eyebrow upwards, dropping Clint’s jacket over the back of the sofa.
“Me too,” Clint agrees, then he’s groping for the hem of Bucky’s shirt, pulling it upwards until both it and Bucky’s own jacket are on the floor in a tangled puddle of fabric. Clint stares at him with a hungry look.
“I know you said you wanted to lick all of my muscles, but I hope you don’t mind if I return the favour, okay?”
Bucky’s head is a cloud of lust and disbelief that this is actually happening, but he must say something because Clint grins at him, and Bucky leans forwards to taste that grin, letting Clint’s hands roam all over the skin of his torso, leaving trails of fire in their wake.
He wasn’t wrong about Clint’s hands. For all they’re big, they’re frighteningly precise when he wants them to be, and they seem to learn Bucky’s body without even trying.
Bucky wasn’t wrong about a lot of things, actually. Clint more than lives up to expectations, even as Bucky’s gasping and begging into the crook of Clint’s shoulder, mouthing over the skin and hard, warm muscle there, tasting the salty tang of Clint’s body with every word he speaks.
It’s fun, too. That’s the weird thing. Clint’s attitude to sex isn’t serious, like some other people Bucky’s been with. He doesn’t seem to think that every second needs to be an overload of sexual tension. They talk, they laugh. When Bucky gets his words mixed up in the middle of the dirty talk and Clint laughs so hard he bangs his head against the headboard, it doesn’t ruin anything, it becomes a weird sort of in joke for the rest of the night and it doesn’t feel like Clint’s mocking him, it just feels like… they get each other.
Even though he’s not taking it seriously, Clint’s still somehow taking it seriously. He seems utterly dedicated to blowing Bucky’s mind, and Bucky tries his best to return the favour. He’s not going to let this be a regret, and he can hardly let Clint do all the work. He learns that he’s a lot more flexible than he would have thought, and he knows, as Clint’s tugging on his hair and rolling his nipple between his lips, that he is never going to be able to get past this. He’s going to be utterly ruined tomorrow.
When then finally sag back into the bed, sticky, slick and sated, Bucky can do little more than stare at the ceiling, his brain blank and drifting on the happy aftermath of the best sex of his life. Every muscle in his body feels overworked and heavy with the dizzy, dreamy post-coital heaviness. He wants to lie here forever, basking in just the memory of it. He wants to rewind the evening so he can do it all over again.
He forces himself to flop over onto his side and his face is presented with Clint’s round, muscled shoulder. He presses a kiss to it automatically, and reaches out an unco-ordinated hand to pet at the muscles of Clint’s stomach where they rise and fall with every panting breath.
“Oh… uh… give me a minute,” Clint says. He sounds exhausted.
“Wha?” Bucky asks, only half aware of anything. “No… no, just… Wanted to touch you,” he says.
“Oh,” Clint says, and he turns towards him. His eyes are bright and round and there is something in his face that Bucky would probably be able to read if his mind weren’t so sex-stupid.
“Just… you’re amazing,” Bucky says.
“You were pretty awesome yourself,” Clint says, grinning. “It takes two.”
“Yeah,” Bucky says. “I just… Keep me,” he says, his words thick with sleep and exhaustion.
“Uh?” Clint says, but Bucky’s already curling into the side of Clint’s body and sagging into sleep, so he doesn’t catch what Clint says next.
*
Bucky wakes up in the wrong bed. There is something heavy and moving on his feet and he forces his head up, feeling the dull ache of well-used muscles in every inch of him, and finds himself looking at a one-eyed dog, its tail wagging happily as it grins a lop-sided doggy grin at him.
Bucky does not have a dog.
He drops his head back onto the pillow as the night before replays itself across his memory, leaving his mouth spread in a huge smile.
“Lucky?” he asks the dog, looking down again. The tail speeds up and Lucky lets out a happy boof in response to his name. “Hi… I guess that wasn’t just a fever dream, huh?” Lucky boofs again, and Bucky pulls a hand out from under the covers to scratch at his ears. Lucky clearly approves.
There is no one else in the room, but Bucky doubts that anyone is left to their own devices in Avengers Tower.
He pulls himself out of bed and finds his boxers on the floor by the door, pulling them on as Lucky jumps off the bed and heads for the door, tail still wagging.
“Let’s go find your owner, shall we?” Bucky asks. Lucky nudges at the door with his nose, and Bucky swings it open.
He heads out into the apartment he had barely seen the night before. It’s… well, nice wouldn’t really cover it, Bucky supposes, because this is what a superhero’s apartment inside a billionaire’s private tower looks like. Huh.
The living area is recessed into the floor, the television looks like a small cinema, and everything appears to be built in. There are pillars. Actual pillars. Probably because the room’s so big that something needs to support the ceiling. There’s a table that’s probably intended to be a dining table, but it’s covered in bows and arrows and weird looking circuitry. Bucky steps towards it, looking with interest. He’s done a little electrical engineering, but he stops himself from looking properly, aware that almost everything in this place is probably under about fifty different international secrets acts.
He’s in an Avenger’s apartment.
He’s in Hawkeye’s apartment.
The door swings open and Bucky steps away from the table guiltily, trying to look like he’s not a spy. Hawkeye appears, with two coffee cups in his hands and stares at him.
“You woke up,” Hawkeye says. Clint, Bucky thinks. Because once you’ve had a guy rim you for twenty minutes you should probably call him by name. And after you’ve had his cock in your mouth and his hands in your hair telling you how pretty you look sucking cock, yeah… He’s definitely Clint.
And Bucky should probably have… left? He’s had a few one night stands in his life and he knows that there are certain… protocols.
Like not hanging around in the morning.
“Yeah,” Bucky says.
“I got you coffee,” Clint says, holding out one of the cups. “But I got there and realised I didn’t know how you take your coffee so… it’s black and I’ve got milk and sugar around here somewhere.”
“Thanks,” Bucky says, taking it. “Both would be good.” It’s sweet, and Bucky can’t help smiling at the uncertain, bashful look on Clint’s face.
“Right,” Clint agrees, heading for the kitchen. He finds a pint of milk and a bag of sugar and presents them, setting them down on the island counter before scratching his head. “So…”
“So,” Bucky says, waiting for the speech about how he has to sign an NDA and agree never to tell people how he had the best sex of his life with an Avenger that one time, and how they’ll never see each other again.
“You like pancakes?” Clint asks instead.
“I…” Bucky pauses. “Yeah.”
“Cool…” Clint says. Bucky wonders if Clint is planning to make pancakes, but he makes no move to do anything. Lucky comes up and sits next to them, tail still wagging. Bucky isn’t sure if it ever stops. Clint is just staring at Bucky as he sips at his coffee. He doesn’t start saying goodbye or asking for Bucky to sign anything, just looks at him, sort of soft around the edges. He doesn’t look like the hyper-competent marksman that Bucky’s watched on the news. He doesn’t look like the mischievous and deadly sex fiend Bucky met last night. He looks human and Bucky likes it.
He likes it too much, because it’s starting to feel domestic.
Bucky should have left last night, because it’s one thing to have sex with the superhero you’ve had a crush on for five years. It’s another thing entirely to… is it possible to get a bigger crush on the guy? Steve would say no. Steve has been saying for years that the only thing bigger than Bucky’s crush on Hawkeye is the known universe, and that’s only because it expanded so it could fit Bucky’s crush inside it.
But he feels it sort of humming behind his ribs, this sensation of wanting to keep this man.
Bucky freezes. His words from last night drifting into his mind.
Keep me, he’d said. He’d meant it one hundred percent. Still means it. But that’s not a thing you say. It’s not a thing you say to a one night stand and it’s certainly not a thing you say to an internationally famous Avenger who is having a bit of fun banging a fan.
“What’s wrong?” Clint asks.
“Nothing,” Bucky says. Clint probably thinks he’s a stalker or something. But Clint had invited him back last night. He’d been the one to offer. He’d been completely involved every step of the way. But asking Clint to keep him, that’s creepy, right? That’s a step too far.
He reaches for his phone only to realise that he’s still only wearing his boxers, and he flushes a little. Oh, right. Clint has seen it all before, of course, has seen more than that before, but still, it feels different now, in daylight, standing practically naked in Avengers’ Tower with Hawkeye’s dog looking up at him.
“I should check my phone,” Bucky says.
“Oh, yeah, your friend messaged,” Clint says. “Your phone was flashing earlier before I went out. I didn’t see the message, just that it was from someone called Steve? You should tell him I didn’t kill you with my dick.”
“I would have died happy,” Bucky says, the words automatic. Clint laughs, his face bright. He wouldn’t be smiling like that if he thought Bucky was a stalker. It’s probably okay. Clint probably didn’t even hear him. Bucky was almost asleep himself.
Then Bucky remembers what the picture on his lockscreen is and he grits his teeth.
It’s a really good picture. It’s Clint and he’s got this puppy in his quiver and it’s sort of adorable and Clint’s got a goofy grin on his face as he’s looking at the puppy and-
Yeah, Bucky’s probably a stalker.
“So, if you message him back, you can have a shower if you want, and then we’ll go for pancakes,” Clint says.
Bucky blinks.
“Go for…”
“Unless you don’t want to,” Clint says. “I mean I… I thought, but it makes sense if this was just a one time deal. But I kind of thought. You seemed cool and… we… Right. One time thing. Sorry.”
“No,” Bucky says - almost shouts. “Pancakes are good. I just… you want to go for pancakes with me?” Clint stares at him as though he doesn’t understand the question. “Isn’t there… I mean, isn’t there a policy or something?”
“You think we have a policy saying I’m not allowed to have pancakes with you?”
“About… fans, and… uh… interacting with them.” Bucky clears his throat awkwardly. Clint wrinkles his nose and scratches at the back of his head, actually considering it.
“I mean, I don’t think there is… Why would we?”
“Because… you know, I could be anyone,” Bucky says. “I could be a stalker. You’re kind of… a big deal.”
“Nat’s probably done a background check on you by now,” Clint tells him, slurping at his coffee. “And if she’s not here threatening you with a knife, then you’ve probably passed.” Bucky swallows a little at that, his eyes flickering around the room to all the places that Black Widow could hide if she wanted to. He sees no one, but then, he probably wouldn’t. “Look, if you don’t want to. I mean, I get that you were into the sex. I’m good at sex, but if you’re not into anything else, well… I get that I’m not really what people think of when they think of superheroes.”
Bucky’s forehead wrinkles in confusion.
“You think that I… don’t want you?” Bucky says slowly.
“Well, yeah. I’m good at the sex, and I’m good at shooting things, but I’m not… It’s called Fuck, Marry, Kill, right? I’m not the one you pick to marry.”
“Well, that’s probably getting a bit ahead of ourselves,” Bucky says. “But if it weren’t for the stupid rules I would absolutely have fucked and married you and killed both the others.”
Clint stares at him.
“You said you’d marry Tony.”
“For his money,” Bucky says. “It’s a dumb game. I just… it’s not real.”
“So…”
“So if it’s Fuck, Coffee, Pancakes, I think I’ll pick you for all three,” Bucky says. “But I guess that only works if you pick me for all three, too.”
“Yeah,” Clint says.
“So,” Bucky says. “We should get pancakes. And I should shower Steve- Call Steve, and take a shower. Do those things. And then we can go and get pancakes.”
“Excellent!” Clint says, his grin returning.
Bucky downs his coffee and heads back to the bedroom, finding his phone where it’s fallen on the floor. Steve has left twenty messages, Sam and Sharon have left another eleven between them. Bucky doesn’t bother to read them - he knows what they’ll say - just hits to call Steve.
“Bucky?” Steve picks up on the second ring. “Are you-”
“I’m good. I’m better than good,” Bucky says. “I’d tell you all about it, but I have to shower so we can go for pancakes without me stinking of sex.”
“…Pancakes?” Steve asks.
“Yep,” Bucky agrees. “Don’t wait up.” And he hangs up before Steve can protest.