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Shit. This is bad.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” Bucky mutters to himself as he yanks at the restraints holding him to the chair. Hydra’s obviously been preparing for catching him, though, because they hold fast even as his wrist and ankles begin to ache. Some kind of material specifically to hold supersoldiers with metal arms, which isn’t good. There’s no attendants or guards in the locked room they’ve put him in, so no one stops him from struggling, but it doesn’t help. God, he hopes they haven’t managed to remake the fucking brainwashing chair again. He can’t deal with that.
He hadn’t expected Hydra to regroup so quickly. It had been too fast for him to react. He’d been out with Steve, buying birthday presents for Clint, when the tranquilizer dart had hit him in the back of the neck. The scarf he’d worn to hide the bruising on his neck had been in his hand, distracted as he was, and his best friend had looked absolutely horrified by the marks Bucky was sporting. It was kind of funny, actually. He hopes Steve managed to get away, although he knows in his heart the idiot wouldn’t have left him behind. They hadn’t even managed to find a present- shit, Clint. He’s getting out of here. He has to, because he’d left Clint dozing in his bed, morning sun painting him gold and ethereal, and when he’d slipped out of the sheets Clint had grabbed for him sleepily and whined, and he’d promised he’d come back.
He can’t die or get wiped here, because he hasn’t even told that idiot that he loves him yet.
Something explodes in the distance and a thread of panic winds down his spine as he begins pulling at the restraints again. Shit, he hopes Steve’s alright. Surely they’re not stupid enough to kill Captain America. The strap on his left arm creaks a little and he pulls his hand into a fist, feeling the plates in the metal re-calibrate. There’s a scream from outside the door and his blood runs cold, but the restraint snaps off with a noise that would alert the guards in any normal circumstance. There’s something going on out there, and he hopes like hell that it’s not someone else who wants to tie him up and torture him, although knowing his luck, it’s probably fucking Zemo’s ghost or something.
With his left hand free, it’s simple enough to grab the other cuff and break it, and then lean down to get his feet free. They’ve left him in his undershirt and pants, at least, but his boots and shirt (and his weapons) are nowhere to be found. There’s a worrying thud that sounds like it’s in the corridor leading outside, and he glances around for anything he can use to defend himself.
There’s nothing but a layer of dust and an old pencil, but technically he is the former Fist of Hydra, so he just flexes the metal arm and approaches the door. When he presses his ear up against it there’s silence. It’s not the good kind of silence though, it’s the kind that makes Bucky feel like there’s something out there, a chill settling in his bones. It can’t be any worse than the chair though, can it? He recognizes the guard’s voice from earlier, pleading in a low, weak voice, please don’t kill me, I’ll do anything, please- I don’t want to die here and then there’s a cold snap and the world settles back into that dangerous, buzzing silence.
It’s tempting to just stay here and wait for whatever’s out there to leave, but chances are it’s come here because it wants to kill him anyway, so there’s no point delaying the inevitable. The hallway’s an easier place to escape from than this boxy, dead-end room, so he pushes the door open silently and slips out into the corridor, bracing himself for what’s out there.
His bare foot lands in something wet and warm and he knows without looking it’s blood. And then his eyes catch up with his other senses and he freezes on the spot because it’s a massacre out here, and it’s not some unknown, powerful enemy that’s done it. His gaze drags up the limp body of one of the guards, neck twisted at an unnatural angle from where she’s been pinned up against the opposing wall. Her sightless eyes are fixed somewhere over Bucky’s shoulder, and there’s blood everywhere, but that’s not what makes Bucky’s breath catch in his throat.
Because that’s his- (boyfriend? They’ve never actually put a word to it, now that he’s thinking of it)- holding the guard’s corpse up against the wall with one red-stained hand like she weighs nothing at all, and if Bucky had thought he’d looked inhuman that first night he’d caught Clint drinking blood this is something else entirely.
The first thing he thinks is this isn’t Hawkeye, because there’s no bow, no endearingly dorky purple costume or cocky smirk. The physical features are there, sure; he recognizes the scruffy mess of blond hair and the graceful curve of Clint’s muscles, but it’s like something else has inhabited the body in front of him because Bucky feels the danger and tension in the room like it’s palpable. He wonders if Clint stopped to get backup because he’s not even dressed properly- underneath the layers of blood coating his arms and splattered along his his spine he’s only wearing a pair of low-slung jeans and what might be purple boxers, but it certainly doesn’t make him look less threatening.
Clint turns his head like he’s just noticed there’s another person in the hallway and Bucky catches a glimpse of sharp fangs and red dripping down his lips and chin before he realises Clint’s growling, barely audible but unspeakably dangerous. The body drops to the floor with a sickening thump and then Clint’s advancing on him, fast enough that Bucky takes a step back and his back hits the concrete of the wall.
“Clint,” he manages, voice rough, and as dangerous as the vampire looks Bucky’s fucked because he can’t even begin to think of defending himself. A hand slams into the hall next to his ear and he doesn’t flinch, but it’s a close thing.
“What happened to ‘oh, I’ll be right back, you won’t even notice I’m gone, you fuckin’ baby?’ Hm, Barnes?”
It should sound petulant, or even a little childish, the imitation of his Brooklyn accent hissed past those fangs, but with the way Clint’s got him pressed up against the wall it’s hard for Bucky to think enough to give an articulate reply. It’s about then, with those threateningly sharp teeth inches away from his face, that he realises Clint’s slaughtered an entire Hydra base to get to him, ripped them to bloody shreds without a second thought, or even enough time to get a fucking shirt. And he really shouldn’t be feeling that hot curl of arousal in his stomach at the thought.
“They didn’t hurt you, did they?”
Bucky realises Clint’s shaking, this fine trembling that’s only noticeable because they’re pressed up together. Fingers brush up his arms, gently pressing to feel for wounds or breaks. There aren’t any, but Clint’s still scanning over him, breathing heavy even though technically he doesn’t need to breathe. Oh. He was scared. Clint's worried about him, and that's a little heartbreaking, but endearing all the same.
“I’m fine, they didn’t- they didn’t do anything,” Bucky says weakly. There’s blood on him from where Clint’s touching, trailing up his shoulders, and his mouth tastes like copper, but he’s not hurt.
Clint seems to consciously register that he’s okay, then, because he sags a little with relief. He settles in closer to Bucky, nose brushing his collarbone and the spot where he normally bites down, presses his lips against Bucky’s skin silently. Bucky lets out a puff of air and allows his hand to rest in Clint’s hair, ruffling the blond spikes. The shaking eases, just barely, and Bucky wonders what would’ve happened if Hydra had done something to him. He kind of likes the idea of Clint ripping them apart, if he’s completely honest with himself. Bucky makes the mistake of looking at the other guard’s body absently while Clint keeps him pressed up against the wall, and Jesus Christ.
“Did you actually tear that guy’s heart out, Barton?”
Clint makes a distracted ‘hrm’ noise but he can see the body lying there, and Bucky’s heart rate speeds up a little. The raw strength needed to do that without a second thought- vampires really are something else. And all the shit Clint's been through- Bucky's seen footage of the Ultron debacle, and none of that managed to convince him to use his supernatural powers.
“They’re not allowed to touch you,” comes the answer after a minute, viciously possessive. “You’re mine.”
He really shouldn’t be turned on by that, but he is. “Fuck,” he manages to comment.
Clint must take that the wrong way, though, because he backs up a step, glancing down at one of the corpses. He’s pale, underneath the blood, the only visible injury a bruise blooming high up on his cheekbone. There must’ve been at least thirty guards in the place that Bucky had seen, and not a single one has shown up, which means- wow. Just a guy with a bow and arrow, his ass. He feels kind of sorry for the poor Hydra goons in charge of watching this base, because no one could've predicted this. Well, maybe Natasha- Bucky hopes Clint brought backup along, even if he didn't really need it.
“Told you I wasn’t safe,” Clint says, barely audible. “Shit. How’re we going to explain this to Steve?”
“You staged a rescue mission,” Bucky offers. The vampire doesn’t look convinced, frowning down at the guard’s dead body. He pokes at it with his toe, fangs indenting his lower lip like he’s thinking about something. Probably self-depreciating in nature, knowing how Clint gets. “Barton.”
“Barnes,” Clint answers, distant. He’s still looking at the corpse. “I could smell you on them, and then I just… lost control.”
“’s it a vampire thing?”
“I think it’s just a me thing,” Clint says, eyes flicking back up to Bucky. They’re painfully blue in the dim light from the lamps. “I’m kind of… possessive.”
“I like it,” Bucky replies, quietly. He does like it, despite the fact he’s been owned by Hydra for seventy years and before that, the Army. This is something he’s chosen, he’s chosen the quirky, violent blond man in front of him and he doesn’t regret it in the slightest. That gets a reaction, that intense staring focused on him, Clint’s head tilted to the side like Bucky’s a puzzle he can’t quite figure out. There’s blood drying on his neck from where Clint’s mouth had been, and with the way Clint’s standing there, fangs out and still looking faintly murderous, he might be a little turned on.
Then he remembers belatedly that Clint can tell, as his back hits the wall again. It’s gentler this time, but just as firm, and he’s fairly sure that even if he did struggle the blond wouldn’t let him go. Clint’s hands are on his hips, holding him close as he leans in to lick the smeared blood off of him. There wasn’t a lot of talk about how much the vampire could and couldn’t do, mostly out of respect, but he could smell coffee from three rooms away and he’d also admitted in bed once that he could also pick up on arousal as well. Which didn’t bode well for Bucky, because between the sensation of Clint’s tongue dragging up his collarbone and the fact he’d already been inconveniently turned on by the sheer destructive violence that had been left behind just to find him, he’s two seconds away from melting in Clint’s hands.
“You dirty fucking boy, Barnes,” he says, and it’s sort of wondering, Bucky’s breath catching in his throat because one of Clint’s hands has moved from his hip to unzip his pants, and there’s no way he can pretend he isn’t hard now.
“You tore them apart for me,” Bucky answers weakly as Clint shoves his pants and underwear down to his knees, teeth grazing his throat, just barely. “You’re not even hurt. You marched in here in jeans and no fuckin’ shoes and you slaughtered them like it was nothing.”
“I’d do it again,” Clint says roughly, and he’s leaving blood on Bucky’s thighs, digging his nails in with that slight edge of pain as he slides down onto his knees. It’s far more graceful than anyone should be in that position, but Clint’s from the circus and there’s this intensely lethal ease to all his movements. Bucky bites down on his lower lip and stifles the urge to whimper when Clint leans in to lick the blood off of him. His mouth is hot against Bucky’s skin- the kind of burning warmth he usually only gets once he’s drunk off of feeding, and Bucky can almost feel his sanity slipping away. His hips twitch into Clint’s grip subconsciously and he has to look up at the ceiling when Clint grins, all white fangs and vicious delight, and pins him harder against the wall.
It’s too much, and he knows Clint’s not even putting his full strength into holding him there but Bucky can’t move, and when he tries to breathe it doesn’t feel like there’s enough oxygen in the room. He’s not looking, he can’t, but he can still feel the possessive smugness coming from Clint when teeth graze up the sensitive skin on his inner thigh and he closes his eyes and makes a noise he’s never going to admit to making in a million years. He feels the vibrations of Clint’s laughter more than hears it, digs his fingertips into the dirty concrete of the wall and sucks in a breath through his nose.
He’s expecting the sharp shock of fangs sinking deep, but instead he gets a light, teasing nip that barely stings and definitely doesn’t draw blood, and Clint’s fingers pressing bruises into his hip. It’s a tease, and he bites back the urge to plead, to beg for it. It’s not like Clint doesn’t know he wants it, but Bucky’s not sure he should be admitting to having a giant kink for those teeth in his skin.
“Wish I’d brought the lube,” Clint says, a little teasing but also kind of awed, like he can’t quite believe this is real. “Didn’t think you’d be into this, but fuck, you’re really into it, aren’t you? You like it.”
“Bite me, Barton,” Bucky grits out.
“Not gonna ask nicely?”
“Fucking- Please,” and then the metal of his left hand scrapes against the concrete of the wall with a violent noise because Clint’s mouth is on the inside of his thigh, biting down hard enough that spots dance in front of his vision. It’s intense, in a completely different way from having the blond’s fangs on his neck, because it feels so frighteningly vulnerable but he trusts Clint, and the white-hot pain is just this side of right. He tips his head back against the wall and gasps, trying to breathe through it, with Clint’s fingers pressing his hips into the concrete and bruises into his skin.
“Christ, babe,” Bucky breathes, barely audible, because he can’t think like this. Some distant part of his mind hopes Steve got out and didn’t worry about him- he’d rather not have his best friend find him like this, flushed and unraveled and desperate. His hips twitch but don’t get anywhere, and Clint’s tongue drags up the crease of his thigh and teeth scrape his hipbone, hot and teasing. Seventy years of brainwashing, but this is what’s going to make him go insane, one violent little archer with a paleolithic weapon and a set of fangs.
“Like getting you all worked up,” Clint mutters.
Bucky can’t even think clearly enough to make a coherent sentence, so, yeah, he’d figured that out. Clint’s mouth on his dick is what makes him louder, though, the hard white shock of pain giving way to the sensation of wet warmth. He feels like he should be more worried about having a vampire sucking him off, but he’s seen Clint pop his fangs in and out to open a juice box on command so he’s fairly sure he’s not going to be bitten. And Clint’s good at this, holding him against the wall and going for it like it’s no effort at all even though Bucky’s knees feel like they’ve liquefied.
Clint pulls off with a breathless, delighted laugh and wraps his hand around Bucky’s cock instead, licking at the blood that’s still on his skin. Bucky looks down at him and his heart twists in his chest even as his hips twitch, because this wild, damaged man is his.
“Fuck- I’m gonna, Clint,” he gasps out as Clint bites him again and he comes so hard he thinks he might’ve had an out-of-body experience just from the sensation. Clint’s hand stays on him, light and teasing, until he manages to get enough brainpower to slap his fingers away and sag against the wall. It feels like his skin’s buzzing, and he closes his eyes and tries to remember how to breathe again. God, how is this his life?
“If you get kidnapped again I’m handcuffing you to the bed,” Clint comments, in a conversational tone like he hasn’t just killed about thirty people and then sucked Bucky off in a blood-stained hallway.
“’s not like I did it on purpose, fuck off,” he answers.
Clint snickers and presses a kiss to one of the bites on his thigh, looking fond and unbearably pleased.
Then he freezes. “Shit.”
“What?”
“I forgot about Steve, he was strapped to a bed and he told me to go and rescue you, but- uh.”
“You left him there,” Bucky states, trying desperately to fight off the urge to laugh. Blond hair brushes his leg as Clint smacks his forehead on it, letting out a resigned noise. There’s the Clint Barton he knows, completely disastrous even as their resident creature of the night. “You left Steve tied to a bed.”
“I got distracted,” Clint says with a hint of despair, rising up off of his knees. “You can’t look at me like that and expect me to be all virtuous and heroic, Barnes, fuck you, don’t laugh at me, we have to go get Steve. And fix your hair, you look like you just got blown in a hallway, dirty fucking heathen.”
Bucky pulls him into a kiss that’s awkward and messy because he can’t stop smiling, and Steve’s going to strangle them if he figures out what they were up to but it’s worth it, to have this with Clint. It’s worth all of it.