Clint’s soft groan shivered into Bucky’s ear. He’d been gone for a month now, somewhere in Europe, somewhere with mountains and bad guys and spotty cell reception, and Bucky had been going slowly mad.
He wouldn’t have said relationship, before Clint had gone. There’d’ve been words like ‘convenient’, like ‘buddy’, like the gentle fricative of ‘fuck’ stretched out over a bitten lip. Perspective changed a little when you hadn’t slept right in a month.
“Which answer d’you want?” Clint said, and Bucky tilted his head, ‘cos this wasn’t how things usually went.
“Which answers can I choose?”
“Phone sex, honest, us,” Clint rattled off like he was counting off on his fingers.
“Us isn’t honest?” There was a little more meaning in that than he’d meant.
“In a different way. That’s what you’re going for?”
“Yeah.”
Bucky could almost feel the long breath Clint let out against the skin of his neck, and the fraction of an inch between almost and could was hell.
“Well I’d kiss you first,” Clint said, and his tone said a lot about the colour of his cheeks. “Just a little, ‘cos I’ve been travelling, and my face is like sandpaper, but enough to remind myself what I’ve been missing. What’s been missing from me.” And hey if those words weren’t a punch in the gut. “Then I’d wrap myself around you for a bit, probably. Shove my face in your neck and fuck the stubble rash. Squeeze you a little too tight, make you kinda uncomfortable, if I’m reading this wrong.”
“You’re not,” Bucky said. Had no idea what Clint would hear in his voice.
“Okay.” Relief. That was relief. “Then I’d haul you into the shower,” Clint continued, “make a fucking poor effort at getting you off, hands or mouth, whichever was easiest, drag you to bed and then pass out on you half way through a shitty hand job.”
“Sounds perfect,” Bucky said, no word of a lie.
“I’d make you breakfast in the morning,” Clint said, “maybe tell you I love you, I dunno, I haven’t figured that bit out yet.”
“Pretty sure I love you too,” Bucky said, and let out a shaky laugh. “Fuck, Barton, the hell was the honest answer?”
“Honestly?” Clint said, his words bending a little around a grin, “I’m outside your front door.”
Just so we’re clear: People Magazine’s sadly predictable celebration of white American mediocrity aside, we all know that Idris Elba is, unequivocally, without any dispute, the sexiest man alive, right? Like, I don’t even mean this as an issue of personal preference. I am literally just making a statement of objective fact based on scientific evidence which suggests more people would hypnotically follow a pan flute-playing Idris Elba out of a village never to be seen again than any other male celebrity.
The number of lesbian and ace bloggers backing me up in the tags is proof that my science is both sound and accurate:
theproblemwithstardust 