Nothing but respect for MY Clint Barton aka Hawkeye
Bucky is glowering in the direction of the dance floor when Clint emerges, sweaty and practically vibrating and grinning fit to bust. He keeps dancing his way to the bar, shimmying in between two guys and bellying up close so he can shout his order into the bartender’s ear.
(Of course it doesn’t register that he gets served faster than anyone else waiting. With Clint, it never does.)
He beams when the bartender tells him his drinks are on the house, doesn’t wait around long enough to see which guy he has to thank for them, just makes his way through the crowd to Bucky’s side, completely oblivious to the eyes on his ass, his arms, his mouth.
“You tryin’ to make me jealous?” Bucky asks, pulling Clint in to his side and resting a hand possessively on Clint’s hip, taking a pull of his beer and smirking around the bottle at all the jealous assholes who panted after Clint on the dance floor.
“Of what?” Clint asks, confused, and Bucky leans over to suck kisses up the line of his neck until Clint is melting into his side, barely able to focus enough to listen when Bucky tells him he’s the most beautiful goddamn thing in here. It’s okay. He’s willing to put the time in until it sinks in.





