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“I’m bored,” Clint whines.
“I’m working,” Bucky replies, a little more exasperated sounding than he was a minute ago. “I’m sorry you’re bored, but I have shit to do.”
“Let me help,” Clint says. “Please. I’m so bored. I’ll do paperwork. I’ll do anything.”
“You’re not supposed to be looking at screens right now, Clint. This is your second concussion in four months.”
“They made that up,” Clint says stubbornly. “Medical hates me. They just want me to suffer. It’s payback for all the shit I’ve given them over the years.”
Bucky’s mouth twitches in amusement. “I don’t think that’s the case,” he says. “I’m sure they care about you and your wellbeing.”
“Lies and slander.”
“Well, I’m not going to go against them. You don’t want to be on medical leave, stop whacking your head out in the field. Problem solved.”
“I didn’t do anything!” Clint protests. “The bad guy set off a bomb, that wasn’t my fault! How was I supposed to know!”
“So when I yelled, ‘Clint, wait, there’s a bomb,’ did you think that was just for fun, or...?”
Clint scowls at him. “Whatever. I’m still bored.”
“I heard you the first ten times,” Bucky says, and now there’s a hard edge to his voice. “But the sooner you stop bothering me, the sooner I can get this done, and the sooner we can go home.”
“How much longer?”
“Another hour, maybe.”
Clint groans and rolls over on the shitty little couch, shoving his face into a pillow. “Buckyyyy.”
“Clint.”
Ooh. He’s in trouble. He should stop, probably. Reign himself in, quit bothering Bucky, let it go.
Or...
He rolls over and throws the pillow at Bucky, nailing him in the face. Bucky splutters, surprised, and grabs it. “What the hell—“
“Pay attention to me,” Clint demands, which is probably the brattiest, most childish thing he’s ever said in his life. He regrets it the moment the words are out of his mouth, but he can’t take them back. He just stares at Bucky, a half-formed apology already on his lips. “I mean—“
Bucky narrows his eyes. “Excuse me?”
“I’m—“ Clint winces. Bucky’s not mad, but Clint knows that look means he’s going to regret his actions in about two seconds. “I’m sorry?”
“Oh, you will be,” Bucky promises, and a thrill of dark anticipation runs up Clint’s spine. “Get up. Come here.”
Clint immediately rolls to his feet. The walk from the couch to Bucky’s desk is maybe ten feet, but it feels like every step is a mile. Bucky’s eyes are locked on his, blue gaze piercing through him. They've talked about this before—about how Clint likes to be a brat sometimes, and about what Bucky's response to that would look like, but this is the first time he's seen it in action.
He fucking loves it.
“I’m sorry,” he says again when he’s maybe a foot from the desk. “Bucky.”
“I heard you,” Bucky says quietly. “Closer.”
Clint swallows nervously, moving until his thighs are pressed against the wooden edge of the desk. He has a pretty decent idea of where this is going, but he still has to ask. “What are you—“
“I’m gonna do what you asked,” Bucky interrupts, still quiet. “I’m going to pay attention to you.”
Clint swallows again. “I changed my mind,” he says. “I’ll leave you alone. You can work.”
“Oh no.” Bucky shakes his head. “Because if that happens, five minutes from now you're going to start bouncing a ball, or throw another pillow to relieve the boredom. No. We’re going to take care of this now.” He levels his gaze at Clint. “Understand?”
“Yes sir,” Clint whispers, and Bucky inhales slightly, fingers tightening on the desk.
“Good boy,” he says. “Tell me your words.”
“Red, yellow, green,” Clint says immediately. “Stop, slow down, good.” He pauses, then adds, “Are you mad at me?”
“No,” Bucky says immediately, and Clint knew that, but something eases in him anyway. “I’m not mad. But I am going to punish you.”
“I know,” Clint murmurs, and he can’t help the prickle of excitement that flutters over his skin.
“Good boy,” he says again. “Clothes off.”
Clint glances over his shoulder. “Door’s not locked.”
“Is that okay?”
Clint feels a flash of heat at those words, arousal curling through him. He’d imagined this, all those months ago, one hand on his cock while he pictured Bucky ordering him to his knees. It’s a little extra thrill of danger—Bucky doesn’t exactly have an open door policy, but people can and do come up here. There’s a risk.
“You can say no,” Bucky murmurs, and for a moment the hard mask melts away, exchanged for concern. “You can always say no.”
Clint shakes his head. “It won’t be a problem,” he says, and a pleased look crosses Bucky’s face. He’s hard too, erection tenting the fabric of his tactical pants, but he makes no move to deal with it. Just watches as Clint pulls his shirt off, tossing both it and his pants in a pile by the desk.
“Fold them,” Bucky says, and Clint quickly picks them up, folding them and moving them to the couch. “Better. You’re already in trouble, don’t make a mess of my office.”
“Sorry,” Clint says, moving back to the front of his desk.
“Yes, you will be.” Bucky gets up, stretching. Clint eyes the shifting muscles—what can he say, his boyfriend’s fucking hot—and waits. Bucky smirks a little, then walks around to the other side of the desk. “Give me a color.”
“Green,” Clint says.
“Good.” He stands behind Clint, trailing a hand over his shoulders. Clint stares straight ahead, a nervous shiver wracking him. “You scared?”
Clint shakes his head. Bucky makes an approving sound, then slides his hand up to the back of Clint’s neck, applying gentle pressure. It’s not a suggestion, and Clint goes, bending over the desk until he’s braced against it.
“No,” Bucky says. “All the way down.”
Clint leans forward more, lowering his chest against the cool wood. His hands come forward, gripping the far edge of it, and he exhales slowly, pressing his forehead down. “I’m sorry.”
“I heard you the first time.” Bucky’s hand rubs over his back, making a soothing circle. “Wanna tell me why you did that?”
Clint shakes his head. “I don’t know.”
“Sure you do.” He leans forward, lips by Clint’s ear. “You feeling neglected? Lonely? You need something from me?”
“I always want things from you,” Clint says, turning his head a little.
“You usually don’t throw pillows at my head,” Bucky murmurs, kissing the side of his neck. Clint makes a high-pitched, embarrassing sound, and shoves his face back in the desk. “Is this what you wanted? You sitting over there thinking about me bending you over this desk?”
“No,” Clint lies. He was, but not for the last few minutes. “I mean—”
“Don’t lie to me.” He presses down on Clint’s back—a warning—then steps back a little. Clint whines as his weight disappears, already missing the comforting press of it. “You wanted this, so you thought acting like a brat would be the best way to get it. Is that the case?”
“Maybe,” Clint admits. “I mean—I didn’t really mean to throw it, it just kind of...happened.”
“Mm.” Bucky trails his fingers over Clint’s skin. “You can always ask, you know. I’m happy to give you what you need. You don’t have to throw things at me.”
Clint squirms. “I’ll try to think ahead, next time.”
Bucky snorts. “I’ll believe that when I see it.” He squeezes a handful of Clint’s ass, then gently pats him. “Alright. Give me a number.”
Clint hesitates, then turns slightly. “For what?”
“I’m going to spank you,” Bucky says. “You’ve never been spanked before, right?”
Clint nearly passes out as all the blood in his body rushes south at once. They'd talked about this too, another late night conversation held in the protective darkness of his bedroom. He makes a strangled noise, then shakes his head. “Not in a fun way.”
“I’ll make it fun,” Bucky promises. “Or, well—I think you’ll like it. I don’t know about fun. Okay?”
“I trust you,” Clint says, turning his head. He strains a little bit, twisting to meet Bucky’s eyes. “I—I trust you.”
Bucky’s gaze seems to soften, a look of affection crossing his face. He leans down and presses a gentle kiss to Clint’s temple. “Good boy,” he murmurs, and Clint closes his eyes, a tiny shiver running down his spine. “I like hearing that.”
He straightens up. “Okay. Pick a number. How many do you think you’ve earned?”
“Is this a trick question?”
Bucky smirks. “No.”
Clint hesitates again, then says, “...Five?”
“You asking me, or telling me?”
Five suddenly seems too low, judging from that tone. Clint licks his lips, then says, “Ten,” in what he hopes is a more confident voice. “Ten. For the pillow, and for bothering you, and for...” He shrugs as much as he can. “I don’t know. Being me?”
“I like you being you,” Bucky tells him, and a little bite of warmth curls through him. “But I think that’s a good number.” He raps his metal hand on the desk. “Okay. You’re going to count. I want to hear every one. If you’re not loud enough, I’ll do it again. Got it?”
“Got it,” Clint promises.
“Good,” Bucky says, and then his other hand comes down without any warning. Clint hears the sharp crack of it, and then the pain bursts in his mind, a bright shower of sparks behind his closed eyes. He yells without meaning to, the sound tearing itself from him in a rush. Bucky rubs a hand over the skin, easing the sting of it, then lands another right on top of it. “I told you to count,” he says, voice firm and loud over Clint’s undignified little shriek. “I’m not telling you again.”
“Two,” Clint manages, blinking back tears. “Fuck. I’m sorry. That’s two.”
“Good boy,” Bucky praises, before hitting him again.
“Three.” Clint makes a choked noise, turns his face down into the wood. He’s hard, achingly so, but he knows better than to touch himself. Or even to ask. This is about punishment. This is about his lack of self-control, he really shouldn’t demonstrate more— “Four!”
Bucky hums in approval. “This looks damn good on you,” he says, nudging Clint’s legs a little wider. “You mark up real nice. I always wondered.” He lays down another hit, waiting for Clint to gasp out a number before continuing. “I’d see you after missions, you know. Bruises everywhere. Always wished some of them were mine.” He switches to the other side. Clint thinks for a moment that this might be better—less sensitive skin—but then Bucky’s hand connects, and he immediately realizes that’s not the case.
“Six,” Clint gasps, and turns his head. “I want that, please—”
“Yeah? You want me to mark you up?”
“Yes.” Fuck, he wants that so bad. Real, tangible reminders that Bucky’s here, and wants him— he’d give anything. “Yes, please.”
“We’ll see,” Bucky murmurs. “I’ve got some things we can play with.” He aims the next one a little lower, almost on the thigh, and Clint jumps, whole body jolting forward. His cock rubs against the desk and he makes a high-pitched noise of pleasure, hips rocking forward again—
“Oh, no you don’t,” Bucky says, firmly holding him in place. “Absolutely not. This isn’t about what you want.”
“I know.” The words are trembling, thready. “I know—fuck, I’m sorry, I know—”
“Easy, “ Bucky murmurs, putting a hand on his back. He presses Clint to the desk, pinning him down. “Do I need to slow down?”
Clint frantically shakes his head. That’s the absolute last thing he wants, no fucking way. “I can take it, I can—”
“I know you can,” Bucky says soothingly, fingers rubbing in a small circle. “Give me a color, sweetheart.”
Clint has to think for a moment, try and remember what words sound like. “Green,” he says. “So green. I’m good.”
“Yeah, you are,” Bucky says, straightening up again. “I was thinking about you today, you know. Sitting in some boring meeting. Supposed to be paying attention, but all I could think about was you on your knees for me, pretty little mouth wrapped around my cock.”
There’s a pause, then, and Clint turns his head enough to see a thoughtful look on Bucky’s face. “In a minute,” he murmurs, then looks down at Clint. “You’re giving me ideas, darling.”
“Ideas?” Clint asks, but that’s all he gets out before Bucky spanks him again, the loud crack of it echoing through the room. “Fuck!”
“Ideas,” Bucky agrees, and raises an eyebrow at Clint.
“Seven,” Clint says quickly. His voice is thick with tears, and he blinks a couple times to clear his vision. “Seven.” Fuck, it hurts. In a good way, in the way he likes, but it still hurts, and he’s definitely going to have trouble sitting down for a few days.
“No,” Bucky says, and hits him again. Then he leans over him, the rough material of his tac pants scraping against the sensitive, reddened skin, and Clint nearly bites through his tongue in an effort not to yell. It’s like his nerves are on fire, and it’s so good but it hurts—
“Eight?” he tries again, forcing himself to think.
“Nope.” Bucky rolls his hips, dragging a high-pitched whine out of Clint. “Try again.”
Clint thunks his head against the desk. “Nine,” he finally says, adding the extra one he just got. “That—nine?”
“There you go,” Bucky says, pressing a kiss to the shell of his ear. Then he leans around to the front of his desk, pulling open a drawer. The angle’s a little awkward, but he manages to find whatever he’s looking for, setting both items on the desk by Clint’s arm. “Give you a little break,” he says, and Clint forces his eyes to focus on them.
“Uh,” he says, and clears his throat. “Why are those in your desk?”
“Because I’m dating a mouthy little brat,” Bucky says with amusement. “That’s why.”
“I’m—”
“Shh,” Bucky says. There’s the snap of lube popping open, and then cool fingers teasing around his hole. Metal ones, of course, because Bucky knows how fucking hot Clint is for his metal hand, and he appreciates that even in this moment.
After a moment, the fingers are replaced with something else—a plug, thick and smooth. It fills him up in one slick glide. Bucky holds it in place for a moment, slowly twisting it, and Clint whines, pushing his hips back into it.
“No,” Bucky says, swatting his ass. It’s not a hit, not like the others, but it makes him jump anyway. “This ain’t about you, doll.”
Clint just groans and drops his head against the desk. “You’re gonna kill me.”
“Mmm.” Bucky wipes his hand off, then spanks him again, this one with force.
Clint’s hands scrabble on the desk. “Ten!”
“One more,” Bucky says.
“But you said—”
“You lost count. That extra was your punishment.” He pauses, and when Clint doesn’t safe word out, he lays down one more. This one’s not as hard, but it’s right across both cheeks, pressing the plug into his prostate.
“Eleven,” Clint sobs, and he really is sobbing now, tears dripping onto the desk. “Eleven, eleven, eleven—”
Bucky hums quietly. “You’re done,” he says, and there’s so much pride in his voice that Clint feels like melting onto the floor. “That’s it.”
Clint slowly pushes himself up, legs wobbling. Bucky’s arms come around him, steady and sure, and Clint leans against him, pushing his face into his shoulder. “I did good?”
“You did amazing,” Bucky says, fingers rubbing through his hair. It feels incredible. “I’m very proud of you.”
Clint hums happily, turning his face into Bucky’s neck. “Thank you.” He can feel the line of Bucky’s cock against his thigh, just as hard as his own. “Do you want—”
Bucky shifts a little. “Do you want?” he asks, sounding surprised. “You don’t have to—”
“I want it,” Clint says, sinking to his knees. “I want—please let me suck you off, I need it—”
“Okay.” Bucky reaches down, tilts his chin up. “Okay. You want it that bad, you can have it.” He moves back around to the other side of his desk, sitting down in the chair. “Come on over here, doll.”
Clint starts to get up, but Bucky shakes his head. “Stay on your knees,” he says, and Clint makes a low noise, arousal thrumming through him. He shuffles forward on his knees, forcing himself to keep his hands away from his cock. God, he wants to come, he’s so fucking hard, and the plug in his ass isn’t helping at all—but he wants to take care of Bucky first, wants to make him feel good—
“Right here,” Bucky says, pointing between his legs, and Clint stops, putting both hands on Bucky’s thighs. “There you go.” He reaches down and opens his pants, pulls himself free. “You look so damn pretty down there,” he murmurs, brushing his thumb over the tear tracks on Clint’s face, pulling down on his lower lip before letting go. “You gonna make me feel good?”
“I can,” Clint breathes, staring up at him with adoration. He feels drunk on it, hazy, endorphins and good feelings swirling around in him. “I can be so good for you, I promise—”
“You’re always good for me,” Bucky says. He leans down to the side, then hands Clint something—the pillow he’d thrown earlier. “There. Kneel on that.”
Clint kneels on the pillow, then slides his hand up Bucky’s thighs. “Can I?”
“Of course,” Bucky murmurs.
“Touch me?”
Bucky’s metal hand curls into his hair, tugging just sharp enough to bring a flash of pain. Clint moans softly, then sucks Bucky into his mouth, feather-light flicks of his tongue drawing sweet noises out of him. Clint digs his fingers into Bucky’s thighs, anchoring himself to reality even as he loses himself in the task. He loves doing this, loves seeing what gets the loudest reactions. He kisses his way down Bucky’s dick, mouths gently at the sensitive skin of his balls, tongue dipping as low as he can get it.
Bucky’s breathing heavily, eyes fixed on Clint with a rapturous expression. “Yeah,” he breathes, tugging Clint’s head up, pulling him further onto his dick. “This is what I wanted. Fury’s up there, talking and talking, and all I could think about was this. Getting you on your knees, fucking that sweet little mouth—” He cuts off with a moan, tilting his head back. “God, you’re fucking perfect, you know that? Take my cock so good, I love watching you—”
There’s a knock on the door, then, and Bucky stops, eyes going to it. Clint stops too, his mouth still around Bucky’s cock.
“Just a minute,” Bucky calls, and then flicks his gaze down to Clint. “You wanna stop?”
Clint shakes his head. “Green,” he says as he pulls off, his voice rough, and Bucky swallows hard, eyes darkening with arousal.
“Under the desk, then,” Bucky says, and Clint rearranges himself under the desk. As soon as he’s good to go, he sucks Bucky back into his mouth, taking him deep. “Sit still and behave yourself,” Bucky warns him, and then raises his voice. “Come in.”
Clint doesn’t know who comes into the office. He doesn’t recognize the voice, doesn’t even register the pitch or tone of it. Distantly, he thinks it wouldn’t matter—there could be a whole mariachi band running through here and he wouldn’t fucking care. His whole world is narrowed to this—his hands on Bucky’s thighs, the weight of him on his tongue, the muffled voices above him.
He’s not trying to be a little shit— he wants to sit still and be good—but he can’t stop himself from slowly moving his tongue, slowly bobbing his head, taking Bucky just a little deeper. He’s not exactly blowing him, but he’s not sitting still either, and there’s a little thrill in his stomach at the thought. He wonders what Bucky looks like right now, what expression’s on his face. The muscles under his hands are tense, like Bucky’s desperately trying to reign in his reactions, and that just makes Clint want to pull them out more—
Bucky leans forward then, pushing himself deeper in Clint’s mouth, and Clint just barely stops himself from choking. “Here you go,” Bucky says, and there’s a chirpy voice that answers him, and then the sound of a door slamming shut.
“You little brat,” Bucky says, fond amusement curling through his voice. He backs his chair up enough to let Clint out, then curls his fingers in his chair, tugging his head back sharply. “You trying to earn yourself another spanking?”
“Guess so,” Clint rasps, grinning at him. “You gonna give it to me?”
“No,” Bucky says, and Clint’s grin fades a little. “I’m gonna fuck you over this desk until I come, you goddamn little tease, and if you beg real pretty, I might let you come. Maybe.” He stares down at Clint, head tilted. Waiting for a safe word, and when Clint whispers green, he smiles and pulls him up.
“Fucking tease,” he mutters again, shoving Clint down over the desk with a roughness that borders on perfection. “I tell you to sit still and behave, and you go trying to shock the poor intern.”
“Is that who it was?”
“Her name is Amanda, she’s very nice, and she had no clue you were sitting under there trying to drive me insane.” Bucky pushes and pulls the plug, fucking him with it, making him see stars. Clint whimpers, fingers curling on the wood. “Lucky for you.”
“I’m sorry—”
“Don’t give me that bullshit, you’re not sorry at all.” Bucky grinds the plug into him just right, and then grabs his hands, pulling them behind his back. “Hold ‘em here. You move, you get another spanking. With the other hand.”
“Yes sir,” Clint grits out, and Bucky lets out a shuddering breath. He pulls the plug all the way out, then replaces it with his cock, finally—
“You don’t come,” Bucky says, a hand gripping the back of his neck, and holy shit Clint likes that so much, he never knew— “You hear me? You don’t come until I say you can.”
“I hear you,” Clint slurs, pushing his hips back. “God, I promise—”
“No god here,” Bucky says with a dark chuckle, pinning him flat with his other hand. “Just me, and I’m not so nice. You’d better pray real fuckin’ sweet, pretty boy.”
Clint makes the most embarrassing noise he’s ever made in his fucking life, and utterly melts into the desk, limbs going limp. He has just enough presence of mind to hold his arms where they are—as hot as it sounds, he’s not sure his ass could take another round.
“Yeah, that’s it,” Bucky mutters, sinking into him. “Fuck, you feel good. So tight around my cock, every goddamn time—” He breaks off, muttering something in another language that Clint doesn’t quite catch. “Good thing we have to go to work, or I’d be keeping you in bed all damn day.”
“Fine with me,” Clint says, or at least tries to say. His hands roll into fists as Bucky fucks him in short motions, every muscle tensing. It feels so fucking good, almost overwhelming, and he can already feel his orgasm prickling along his skin, like sparks, like fire—
“Don’t you fucking dare,” Bucky says, pausing. “You come without permission, you’re not coming again for the next month.”
And Clint knows—he knows—that Bucky will keep his promise. “Not gonna,” he says, having no idea how he’ll manage it. Sheer willpower or something. “I’ll wait for you, I promise, please—”
“Please,” Bucky echoes, and rolls his hips, nudging Clint’s prostate in a way that makes him whine. “Get real sweet when you want something, huh?” He lazily grinds into him.“You know we could’ve been home by now. Could’ve had you in bed, laid out all pretty so I could be good to you.”
“Ah—” Clint says, a short, desperate sound. He cants his hips back. “Please, Bucky—”
“Shh,” Bucky says, and it would be soothing if it wasn’t for the almost-cruel way his hips snap forward, fucking another short sound out of him. “It’s fine. I know how you are. You just want it all the time, can’t even let me get through a day of work without asking for it—”
Clint sobs again. “I’m sorry—”
“That’s the last thing you are,” Bucky says, picking up some speed. “Don’t lie to me, sweetheart, you won’t like the consequences.” His hand tightens on Clint’s neck. “Tell me the truth.”
“I wanted it,” Clint says immediately. “I wanted it, wanted you, wanted you to fuck me—”
And it is the truth. Clint hadn’t known it when he threw the pillow, but this is exactly what he wanted. To be laid bare, at Bucky’s mercy, bent over his desk and fucked within an inch of his life—
“Yeah,” Bucky says, dark amusement curling through his voice. “Always greedy for it, I know you.”
Clint’s going to have bruises tomorrow, from the way his hips are slamming into the edge of the desk, and the way his own fingers are gripping his wrists, and the way Bucky’s hand is firm on the back of his neck. He whimpers again as Bucky’s hips slap against his, rough and firm.
“Ple-ease,” he says, forcing the word out. “Buck, I want it—”
“I’m sure you do,” Bucky says, fucking him deeper, and Clint shouts into the desk, nearly losing his grip. “But I don’t think you’ve earned it.” He leans forward, mouth by Clint’s ear, and growls, “Beg me for it.”
And Clint does, words and pleas and half-formed sentences streaming from him. He doesn’t even know what he’s saying. The words don’t make any sense, punctuated as they are with bitten-off gasps and pleas and Bucky’s name slurred in between them. He can’t think anymore, and then Bucky’s leaning over him again, whispering filthy encouragement to him, chasing his own orgasm.
“Take it so nice,” he’s muttering, fucking him in long, deep strokes. “Always sweet for me, baby, you feel so damn good.” He presses a trail of heated kisses across Clint’s shoulder, biting at the flexing muscle, and Clint shudders hard.
“Please,” he sobs for the millionth time. “I want to come, fuck, please just let—just let me—”
“No,” Bucky says, the word heavy with threat. He pulls back a little, presses one hand between Clint’s shoulder blades to keep him pinned, and slides the other one to wrap around Clint’s dick, thumbing over the dripping head. “This is mine, sweet boy. I get to say when you come, and I told you I’m coming first.”
“Fuck you—” Clint’s crying so hard he can barely breathe, and he rolls his hips, hoping to push Bucky over the edge. “Come, then, please just come, I want it in me, I want it—”
“Needy little thing,” Bucky says, but there’s an edge of desperation in his voice that wasn’t there a moment ago, and Clint know he's hit the mark.
“Come in me,” he says again, flexing his arms. “Please, Buck, I wanna make you feel good, I’m yours, wanna feel it—“
Bucky groans, hand tightening around Clint’s dick before letting go. “Alright baby,” he says, voice low. He curls the hand on Clint’s back, fingernails digging in. “You need it that bad, I’ll give it to you.”
And he does, fucking into Clint like he’s nothing, like he’s only there for Bucky’s pleasure, and it’s incredible. Clint whines and gasps and writhes under him, and then Bucky’s coming, messy and wet, biting at Clint’s shoulder as he grinds into him, murmuring obscenities into his skin.
“Fuck,” he breathes after a moment. “Fuck, babe, you got no damn idea—”
“Please,” Clint interrupts, and maybe he shouldn’t, but he’s so far past his limit that he can’t stop himself. Not safe word levels, but he’s damn close. “Fuck, Bucky, please, I can’t take it anymore, please, please, please let me—”
“Oh baby,” Bucky says, and he dips his hand down again, fingertips ghosting over Clint’s dripping dick. “Such pretty words, how can I say no to that?” He squeezes once, then slowly pumps his hand. “Come on, baby, come for me. Wanna feel you come on my cock, feel how tight you get—”
There’s more, but Clint doesn’t hear it. He fucking loses it, vision whiting out as he howls into the desk, electricity sparking through his bones, coming so hard he can’t breathe with the intensity of it.
“Oh god,” he manages, wheezing as his whole body shakes. “Oh god, oh—”
“That’s it,” Bucky murmurs, stroking him through it. “So wet for me, that’s it, you’re doing so good. Just a little more.”
He pushes it until Clint jerks away from his hand, a broken cry falling from his lips. “Stop, please—”
“Oh, now you want me to stop,” Bucky says, voice rich with amusement, following his movement. “Not what you were saying earlier—”
“Bucky,” Clint whines.
“You know how to make me stop,” Bucky says, and Clint does, but he doesn’t say it. It hurts, but it’s not unbearable, even as he’s sobbing and squirming under Bucky’s hand. “Yeah, that’s what I thought. You fucking love this. Look at you, crying for it.”
“It hurts—”
“Yeah, baby, I know.” Bucky doesn’t slow down, barreling right through the oversensitivity and tipping him back over the edge into need, and it’s as good as it is painful. There’s no thought left in him, he’s nothing but a bundle of nerves, nothing but sensation and pain and pleasure all intertwined—
Coming the second time is a process, something drawn-out, a slow build towards an inevitable end. Bucky’s pinning him to the desk by the end of it, shoving him down and telling him in detail about how next time he’s going to tie Clint in place and blindfold him, then do this over and over until there’s nothing left in him.
Clint’s barely alive at this point. He manages a weak gasp as he comes, Bucky the only thing keeping him upright. “No more—” he gasps as his orgasm rolls through him, his cock twitching as he spills into Bucky’s hand. “Oh god, please, no more.”
Bucky slows his hand, but he doesn’t stop, still holding Clint in place as he struggles and writhes. “Think I can get one more?” he asks, and Clint frantically shakes his head. “No? You done?”
“I’m done,” Clint sobs. “Please, I’m done, I’m done—”
“Yeah? You sorry for being a little brat?”
“Yes!”
“You gonna ask politely next time instead of throwing things at me?”
“Yes!”
“Okay then,” Bucky says, tone unfairly reasonable, and he blessedly, mercifully, stops. “Shhh,” he murmurs, leaning over Clint, pressing a kiss to his sweat-damp hair. “Shh. It’s okay. We’re done.” He brings his hand forward, presents his fingers to Clint, who tiredly sucks them into his mouth, licking them clean. “You did good, honey. So good for me. We’re all done.”
Clint nods, grateful, and closes his eyes.
Time gets a little syrupy after that. He’s aware of Bucky picking him up and carrying him to the couch, cleaning him up with gentle movements as he keeps murmuring praise. A water glass is pushed into his hand, and Clint drinks all of it, clumsily spilling some. Then there’s something settling over him, something warm and soft, and gentle lips press against his forehead. “Rest,” Bucky whispers, and Clint does, eyes sliding shut before the word’s even out of his mouth.
He wakes up sometime later, cracking an eye open into the dim light of the room before turning his head to see the desk. Bucky’s still there, still typing, a small smile on his face.
“Hey,” Clint croaks, and his eyes snap up. The smile gets bigger and Bucky gets up, coming over the couch and kneeling down.
“Hey,” he whispers, putting a hand on Clint’s forehead, brushing the hair off it. “Back with me?”
“No,” Clint mumbles. “I’m dead.”
“Not yet you’re not,” Bucky says, fondness in his voice. “Bet you’ll think twice before throwing pillows at me next time, won’t you?”
Clint groans and nods. “Never again,” he says.
“Good boy.” Bucky leans over and kisses him. “I’m all done with work. You ready to go home?”
“I can’t feel my legs.” Clint curls into him. “You’ll have to carry me.”
“Okay,” Bucky says easily, and he picks Clint up like it’s no damn thing, tucking the blanket around him. “I got you.”
Clint had meant it as more of a joke, but fuck, if Bucky wants to carry him, he’s not going to complain. “Where are my clothes?”
“Doesn’t matter,” Bucky says, shifting him onto one arm briefly before opening the door. “Where we’re going, you won’t need clothes.”
Clint snorts. “Was that a Back to the Future reference?”
“It was. You proud of me?”
“I think I love you,” Clint says, and Bucky pauses for a moment. Clint winces, wants to take the words back—he does love Bucky, but they haven’t said it out loud yet, and he—
“Think I love you too,” Bucky says, and Clint relaxes into his arms, unable to keep the dopey smile from spreading across his face.