20?
(...on a scar)
525.
“They’re good reminders,” Clint says, his hand wound into Bucky’s hair and scratching idly. Bucky makes a softly enquiring noise but doesn’t stop his mouth moving, gently dragging over the puckered skin on Clint’s shoulders, his thumbs brushing against the matching scars on his back.
“They were from my teacher,” Clint says, answering Bucky’s unspoken question, they way he always does. Bucky would like to think it’s ‘cos Clint knows him well enough to infer; he suspects it’s just ‘cos Clint’s a talker and he’s running low on people to talk to. Clint’s voice is low and kinda dreamy, doesn’t match the subject matter at all, and Bucky runs his tongue across discolored skin and takes the soft grunt as his due.
“He was an asshole and a genius and he taught me everything I know,” Clint says. “He taught me to shoot and then he left me to die, which is a pretty good reflection of every significant relationship in my life.”
“Marks?” Bucky says, and Clint tightens his hand a little in his hair. Bucky’s quiet groan ain’t even acting.
“Sure,” he says, and Bucky moves up so he can go for Clint’s neck. Make it somewhere visible.
“Reminders of what, then?” Bucky asks, and Clint starts to answer and then bites back a hiss, arching his back and pressing his hips up against Bucky as he sucks and nibbles and bruises Clint’s neck.
“Trusting people never works out right,” Clint says, and then he hauls Bucky up and sets to distracting him, disordering him, setting him all backwards and breaking all his goddamn rules.
“You saying,” Bucky asks, in the sweat and warmth and darkness of after, “you sayin’ you don’t trust me?”
“Sure I do,” Clint says, grinning gentle and pretty, Bucky’s own reminders standing out on his neck, “‘swhat I pay you for, right?”
