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Clint is going to lose his damn mind.
“Was that it?” he asks bluntly, as he yanks an arrow from the body of an armored alien — they’re like four-armed knights on horseback, except their mounts look more like neon yellow seahorses.
“Seems that way,” Cap says, over comms. The rest of the team sounds off with the all-clear; they’re all scattered around the park, talking to law enforcement and checking on civilians.
“Injuries, anybody?”
There’s a chorus of negatives.
“Wait, Barton’s not injured?” Tony asks. “Everybody, mark your calendars, this one’ll go down in the history books.”
“Hilarious,” Clint says, more bitterly than he intended.
“Wow, somebody’s grouchy. If this is what happens to you after a week without Terminator —”
“Fuck off, Stark.” In the shocked half-second of silence that follows, Clint’s stomach sinks.
“Jesus, Barton, go home and get laid before you bite somebody’s head off.”
“Okay, that’s enough,” Cap says sternly.
“Sorry,” Clint mutters, and grinds his teeth until his head aches.
He’s jittery with pent-up adrenaline as he stomps around, collecting the rest of his arrows. These fuckers were barely a challenge.
And yeah, okay, he knows he shouldn’t be happy he gets beaten to a pulp on a semi-regular basis, but he doesn’t mind a little brain damage. Better that than taking it out on his friends. He knows a psychologist would have a field day with him, if he ever admitted it — well, if he ever went to a psychologist — but when he starts to get like this, when he feels like his skin is too small, stretched too tight over restless bones and a knotted mess of emotions, a really good fight is the only thing that calms him down.
Maybe getting laid would help, but he's not sure he can face Bucky like this. Bad enough that he snapped at Tony.
It’s been a while since he felt this wound up; the last couple months have been one brutal fight after another, and when he’s not fighting, there’s Bucky. He’d almost started to wonder if he was done with this — as if he could just outgrow the nasty poisonous temper he’s been trying to suppress his entire life.
Shoulda known better.
Bucky’ll be back by now. He’s been in DC for a week, meeting with lawyers and security committees, trying to sort through the details of his pardon. It’s the first time they’ve been separated since they got together. Clint’s been all fucked-up and tense without him, and he doesn’t really know what to do with that; he’s had this tight, achy sensation in his ribcage all week.
He was relieved when the alert came through. He was so ready for one of those fights that drag on until he can barely stand up.
Some fucking fight. It was a tease more than anything else; Clint feels worse.
Jesus, he’s so fucked up.
He takes a deep breath and shoves that thought down, down, down into a little box with all the other massive terrifying things that make him feel like he’s drowning.
“We’re holding a press conference first,” Cap says, when they all find each other again. “PR insisted. Something about taking advantage of a photo op while we’re not, um…”
“Beat to shit?” Clint supplies, with a manic little giggle.
“Covered in alien guts?” Nat offers.
“Surrounded by property damage and injured civilians?” Tony says.
“Something like that, yeah,” Cap sighs. “They’re waiting for us. Let’s get this over with.”
They all straggle over to meet one of several interchangeable PR blondes (Clint gave up trying to tell them apart a while ago) who inspects them with a critical eye and gives them a brisk little nod before leading them toward the cluster of reporters.
“Now, Captain Rogers, I probably don’t have to tell you this, but please stay on message?” she says, with a strained smile. “Anything political is a no comment. Try not to get sidetracked, hmm?”
Cap gives her a winning smile. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”
“Barton—” She hesitates. Clint raises an eyebrow at her. “Just… let’s not have a repeat of the Baltimore incident?”
Clint grits his teeth but turns it into a grin. “Hey, as long as nobody asks me any questions — which they won’t—”
“Yes, point taken, we won’t be encouraging that again,” PR Blonde says, rubbing the bridge of her nose.
He feels like he’s about to vibrate out of his fucking skin, but maybe this is good; a press conference will get his mind off everything. He can plaster on a smile, and if he pretends long enough, maybe he’ll actually start to feel better.
Cap is in rare form, delivering sound byte after sound byte about the “brave men and women of the NYPD” and the “inspiring civilian response,” and the rest of them just stand there and smile.
Clint keeps catching himself fidgeting; PR keeps glaring daggers at him.
Usually, when Clint gets back from a mission (and he’s not confined to medical) he goes straight to Bucky’s. He texts to give a heads-up, so Bucky is waiting, and he smiles when Clint walks in, and —
No, okay, he’s not thinking about the way that makes him feel. Not relevant.
Bucky washes his hair for him, all tender and sweet in a way that usually makes Clint melt, because he doesn’t usually like being taken care of — doesn’t feel like he deserves it — but when he’s aching and exhausted, there’s nothing quite like the soft, gentle way Bucky massages his scalp.
Afterward, they get food delivered, and they curl up on the sofa in sweatpants, watching a movie while they work their way through a pizza or two. If he’s still awake at that point, Bucky takes him to bed, fucks him slow and sweet, until Clint’s so sleepy and satisfied he feels like he’s melting, and they fall asleep together.
Fight, food, fuck. Clint’s a simple guy; that’s really all it takes. Something about the comfort of it, the satisfaction of having done the job and worked himself sore and coming home to someone who —
Point is: they have a routine.
Today, though, the idea of Bucky’s hands in his hair, the idea of being touched so gently, makes Clint want to scream.
What the fuck is wrong with him?
Just thinking about Bucky in general makes him feel all panicky, like he’s struggling to keep the lid on that little box where he holds his feelings. The idea of going home to that sickeningly domestic scene — he can’t. He can’t. Not like this.
Maybe he should go to the gym and hit a punching bag until he can’t stand up any more. Maybe if he did that and then jerked off — maybe he’d feel a little more stable. Then he could go see Bucky.
He tries to calm down. He really does. He takes deep breaths, in through his nose and out through his mouth.
God, he wants to hit something.
Even Nat gets impatient with the way he’s twitching and glares at him sharply at one point. By the time the press conference is winding down, Clint’s jaw hurts from clenching his teeth. He hates feeling like this. He hates the urge to snap every time somebody so much as breathes in his vicinity.
He’s lived with enough angry men in his life; he never, ever wanted to be one.
He doesn’t text Bucky when they’re heading home. He almost does it, just because it’s habit at this point; he opens up the text thread, sees the message he typed out yesterday and didn’t send: “Miss you too. Can’t wait to see you. ”
He swallows hard, deletes the words, types out, “Home in 30,” and then lets his finger hover over the send button for a few seconds before he sighs and deletes that too.
Clint kicks off his boots and heads for his bedroom. Then he stops short and just about swallows his tongue.
“Took you long enough,” Bucky says, husky and smug.
He’s sprawled out in Clint’s bed, legs splayed, completely naked as he strokes himself slowly — and he’s smirking up at Clint, one eyebrow raised like it’s a challenge as he swipes his tongue over his lower lip. He squeezes the base of his cock, spine arching as he sighs with pleasure. He’s slick and shiny with lube, and Clint can hear the filthy wet sound of him fucking up into his fist.
“‘M gonna shower real quick,” Clint says, tugging off his shirt, but he can’t stop staring, riveted.
Clint’s been missing his dick all goddamn week. It’s fat and perfectly curved, and the head is even fatter, with a sharply articulated ridge that feels goddamn incredible dragging inside him. Now that Clint can see the wet swollen head, flushed purple-red and glistening in the circle of Bucky’s fingers, he wants it inside him five fucking minutes ago.
He tears his eyes away, looks back up at Bucky’s face, and finds him studying Clint with an uncomfortably perceptive glint in his eyes. He doesn’t say anything, though, just gives himself another squeeze and then gets up, sliding off the bed to prowl slowly toward Clint.
“Couldn’t fuckin’ wait for me, huh?”
“Saw the press conference,” Bucky says. “You’re in a goddamn mood.”
Clint flushes, biting back an automatic denial. “Yeah, and?”
His lips curl into a sly smile. “Figured I’d take the edge off, cause you clearly need to get fucked stupid.”
“Don’t do me any goddamn favors.” Clint goes to unbutton his pants and finds that his fingers are shaking.
Bucky sidles into his space and slides his hand around the nape of Clint’s neck to kiss him. It deepens immediately into something wet and filthy, and Clint’s mouth tingles as Bucky sucks and nips, teeth and tongue doing devastating things. He sucks Clint’s lip roughly, and Clint can’t help the low sound that catches in the back of his throat, or the way his hips rock forward — Bucky lets out a growl of appreciation, sliding both hands down to squeeze his ass and drag him closer.
“All you gotta do is ask,” Bucky whispers. “You need to get fucked, sugar?”
He slots a thigh up between Clint’s, rubbing very deliberately against Clint’s cock, and twists his fingers sharply in Clint’s hair; he must feel the way Clint’s dick twitches, because Bucky laughs at him, low and teasing.
Clint shoves at Bucky roughly, pushing him away with a grunt, but Bucky is like a solid, immovable wall of bare muscled skin.
“Don’t need shit from you, not if you’re gonna be a jackass about it,” Clint says.
Bucky kisses him again, rough and intense now, attacking Clint’s raw, used mouth. His fingers dig into Clint’s hips, pinning him against the dresser, and the bright spark of pain makes Clint’s vision flash white.
Bucky gives him an infuriating little half-smile. “You’re adorable when you pretend you don’t want it.”
“Why are you such an asshole,” Clint snarls.
Bucky leans in to bite down hard on the sensitive spot under Clint’s jaw, working the skin between his teeth as his flesh fingers find one of Clint’s nipples and pinch viciously. Clint’s hips jerk forward as he lets out a choked, desperate sound. His whole body is wound tight with tension, coiled tight like a spring.
Bucky pops the button of his pants one-handed. He shoves his hand down the front of Clint’s pants as soon as they’re open, cupping him and squeezing just a little too roughly.
“Jesus, you really did miss me, didn’t you?” Bucky mutters.
Clint missed him so damn much, but his throat closes up when he thinks about admitting it out loud. He swallows down the spike of anger and grits his teeth, burying his face in the curve of Bucky’s neck and breathing for a moment, harsh and uneven.
He tries to slide away, but Bucky’s metal arm hooks around his waist and holds him in place. The solidness of it has Clint shivering. He wants to struggle, wants to fight back just to know he can’t get away.
“Pants off,” Bucky says, steely and low.
Clint tilts his chin up defiantly. “Don’t tell me what to do.”
Bucky shoves Clint’s pants and boxer-briefs roughly down his thighs, careless enough that Clint almost loses his balance. Irritation flares sharp and sudden in his chest.
“Fine,” he mumbles, and kicks them off.
Bucky folds to his knees, pinning Clint back against the dresser and dragging his open mouth up the length of his cock. Clint shudders and hisses in a breath. Bucky chuckles.
“Gonna fuckin’ do something down there, or do you just like the view?” Clint snaps.
Instead of answering, Bucky swirls his tongue over the head, sloppy and wet, and then swallows him down, bobbing his head shallowly and hollowing his cheeks. Clint makes a punched-out sound, knees going weak for a second. If Bucky’s hands weren’t steady on his hips, pinning him in place, he would probably lose his balance.
Bucky pulls away, looking up at Clint through his lashes. “Go on, then.”
“I — what?” Clint says dizzily, gripping the edge of the dresser to stop himself from grabbing Bucky’s hair.
Bucky smirks, tongue darting out to flicker teasingly over the head. “I know you, sweetheart. I know you just want to shove your dick down my throat and fuck my face until I’m gagging. Admit it. You wanna make me choke and —”
“Shut up,” Clint hisses, but the visual sends a bolt of heat lancing through him.
Bucky takes a deep breath and goes down again. Clint can hear the wet sound as he hits the back of Bucky’s throat, and then he keeps fucking going, all the way down, until his nose is pressed to Clint’s pubes and his throat is constricting around him. Clint groans, doubling over, hands fluttering helplessly.
Then Bucky eases off, letting the head of Clint’s dick fall from his swollen lips with an obscene slurping sound. “You want it so bad, fucking do it. You know I can take it. You really think you can hurt me?”
Clint squeezes his eyes shut and gives in to the urge, sliding both hands into his hair and twisting mercilessly. He tugs Bucky back onto his cock, rocking his hips until he’s completely buried in wet heat; he thrusts in and curses. Bucky moans around him, and it reverberates all the way through Clint’s body.
“Fine,” Clint gasps, hips working in sharp, jerky thrusts. “Fuckin’ take it, then.”
He just goes for it, letting his hips snap forward, pulling Bucky’s hair to hold him in place. It’s ruthless and fast and mean, and he can hear the filthy slurping sounds of Bucky struggling, gagging every so often, his throat like a goddamn vise grip.
All simmering tension is boiling up, finally; Clint can feel it under his skin, driving him on, pulsing between his legs and making him reckless. He pulls Bucky’s head against him, fucking into his mouth like it’s nothing more than a waiting hole, and he can feel his orgasm starting to coil in his gut, and —
Bucky grabs him by the hips and slams him back against the dresser, pulling off just as Clint’s thighs start to shake, and Clint lets out a rough, wordless cry of frustration. He stares down at Bucky, whose mouth is swollen and sinfully red, all shiny and sloppy with spit.
“What the fuck,” Clint snarls, and his voice cracks embarrassingly on the last word. He’s so close he doesn’t know what to do with himself.
“Tell me what you want, honey,” Bucky whispers, licking his lips. “C’mon, sweetheart, all you gotta do is ask.”
There’s a spike of anger in Clint’s chest, pure and wild and hot, and he snaps, “Go fuck yourself.”
Bucky just laughs. Clint’s heart is pounding. He tries to shove Bucky away again, but Bucky surges to his feet, grabbing Clint and throwing him over his shoulder like he doesn’t weigh any more than a child.
“The fuck do you think you’re doing?” Clint demands. Bucky doesn’t answer, just smacks him on the bare ass, and Clint flushes hot, squirming, as Bucky carries him to the bed.
Bucky heaves him onto the mattress, manhandling him until Clint’s on his back, his ass is on the very edge of the bed, and Bucky’s standing between his legs. Bucky leans down and grabs his wrists, pinning them on either side of his head, squeezing too tight.
Clint groans, arching up helplessly, straining against Bucky’s grip. “Back the fuck off.”
Bucky just smirks. He ducks his head to suck a bruise into Clint’s collarbone, then moves lower, getting a nipple between his teeth and working it until it’s a stiff, pebbled peak. Clint tries to hold back a pathetic whimper, but Bucky moves to the other nipple and ignores him. It’s too much, it hurts , and Clint’s overstimulated and helpless and so fucking into it. When Bucky pulls away, he almost cries.
“You sure you want me to back off?” Bucky asks, looking down at him with a smug grin. “Kinda seems like you really need to get fucked.”
Clint sputters incoherently and tries to sit up, but Bucky squeezes tighter and Clint grits his teeth against a broken, pathetic sound.
“Stop,” he manages.
“Really? You want me to stop?” Bucky raises an eyebrow.
Clint turns his head, refusing to meet his eyes, as if that could hide the naked lust on his face.
“You want me to leave you alone, sugar? I can always jerk off, I guess, but that’d drive you crazy, I bet… if I was just ignoring you, when you have a perfectly good hole I could fuck instead.
Clint lets out a wordless grunt of frustration, thrashing back and forth, trying to throw him off, but Bucky puts the metal hand around his neck, holding him down by the throat. Clint can’t help it — he moans, and his cock twitches against his stomach, painfully hard.
Bucky laughs again — the low, taunting laugh that makes Clint feel like he’s on fire — and murmurs, “Yeah, that’s what I thought.”
Clint closes his eyes and tries to breathe. He feels panicky, feverish, frantic, everything he’s been feeling for the last week magnified by the way Bucky has him trapped and overpowered.
Bucky releases his throat for a moment, leaning to grab the lube from the nightstand, and Clint’s squirming away instinctively, flipping onto his stomach as if to crawl away. Bucky just grabs him by the ankles and yanks him forcefully back, manhandling him until Clint’s feet are on the floor and his face is in the mattress.
“Nice try,” he says, quietly amused, and he holds Clint by the hips, grinding against his ass. “Stay right there.”
Clint immediately tries to stand up straight.
Bucky shoves him, digging his bent knees into the back of Clint’s, and Clint curses when he loses his balance, pitching forward onto the bed. Before he can fight his way up again, Bucky plants the metal arm in the middle of his back, holding him down, and kicks his legs further apart.
“Is this what you want?” Bucky says, dangerous and silky. “You want me to hold you down and make you take it?”
Clint presses his face into the duvet, trying to bite down on it to muffle a shout. His cheeks are burning, and he’s so goddamn ashamed of how much he loves this.
“Want you to quit bein’ such a fuckin’ tease,” he grunts, with more bravado than he feels.
Bucky grabs his wrists, pins them behind his back and holds them in place with the metal hand. Clint twists uselessly in his grasp, face down in the duvet. It’s not fucking comfortable; he can already feel the strain in his shoulders, the ache in his arched back, the stretch in his hamstrings… not to mention the burn of shame in his guts, imagining the way he must look.
Bucky shifts, positioning himself at Clint’s side so he can palm Clint’s ass, caressing and squeezing before smacking him lightly. Clint tenses at the barely-there impact, bracing himself for more.
“All you gotta do is ask,” Bucky says mildly. Clint stays stubborn and silent, and after a moment, he hears Bucky sigh. “Suit yourself.”
There’s a click as Bucky opens the lube bottle one-handed, and then Clint feels slick fingers teasing at his entrance, rubbing the pucker of muscle. Bucky sinks two fingers in to the second knuckle, no teasing or warning before he curls them against Clint’s prostate with all the deadly accuracy of a sniper. The stretch feels like more than usual — Christ, he missed this, missed the shivery intrusive feeling and the drag of friction.
It’s almost unbearably good. Clint’s easy for this (Bucky knows it all too well) but he’s still riding the maddening pleasure-pain of almost coming, all that momentum fizzling and frustrated.
“God, look at that, so fuckin’ desperate,” Bucky murmurs. “Think I can make you come just like this, without touching your cock? Bet you’d hump the mattress if I’d let you. Wouldn’t take much, not when you’re this wound up.”
Clint squeezes his eyes shut at the realization that he’s right; the mattress is just low enough that he doesn’t have anything to rub against, not with his ass up in the air like this, but his hips work anyway, trying to find some sort of relief for his aching cock.
“You wanna ask?” Bucky says silkily. “Go on. Beg for it.”
“Fuck that,” Clint gasps. “Fuck you.”
Bucky stops moving his hand, suddenly, and Clint lets out a strangled shout, shoving himself back, trying to fuck himself on Bucky’s fingers — he lets out a garbled string of curses. But Bucky’s holding him in place, forcing him down against the bed, keeping him helpless, and he can’t get any leverage; all he can do is clench around the stretch of Bucky’s knuckles.
“Think you could take my whole fist? Shit, should try that,” Bucky says speculatively, just holding his fingers there, watching as Clint writhes. “How about the metal one? I should just slick it up and let you work yourself down on it, just like this… fuck, you look pretty right now. Look at you all stretched open.”
Clint groans with relief when he curls his fingers again, but this time he speeds up, pulsing them rapidly against his prostate instead of just thrusting against it.
“Admit it, you need this,” Bucky murmurs, and pumps his fingers in harder.
Clint’s moan is wrenched out of him. “Let me go, don’t need shit from you.”
Bucky makes a dismissive noise. “Don’t lie to me, baby.”
“Let me go,” Clint snaps. He squirms, but he can’t get far; his arms and shoulders ache where Bucky has them pulled behind his back.
Bucky curls his fingers relentlessly, over and over again. Clint can feel the raw-nerve too-muchness of it everywhere, filling his body with an unbearable tension that has nowhere to go.
Bucky adds a third finger, and it burns, and it’s so good, and Clint’s about to burst at the seams.
“Ready,” he grunts. “Fuckin’ ready, c’mon, I can take it.”
“Aw, sweetheart, you think I don’t know that?” Bucky croons. “I know you can take just about anything when you’re desperate like this. You’d take it dry and thank me for it, wouldn’t you? But I just wanna play with you. Missed you, baby.” It does something strange inside Clint’s chest, and he can feel the hot prickle of tears in his closed eyes. “You ready to beg, sugar?”
“Not fuckin’ begging for shit,” Clint stutters, but he can hear how ragged and strained his voice is.
“Do you think if you put up a fight, I won’t notice that you’re gagging for it?”
Clint snarls, struggling like a feral animal throwing itself at the bars of a cage.
“Gonna behave if I let go of your arms?” Bucky asks.
He must take Clint’s shout as assent, because he releases his wrists. Clint’s shoulders ache sharply as he tries to get up on his forearms.
“Jesus, love watching you fall apart,” Bucky murmurs. He presses against the side of Clint’s hip, grinding against him — he’s so fucking hard , but his voice sounds composed and unaffected, and it’s infuriating.
Bucky twists the metal fingers into Clint’s damp hair, and the sting of it is white-hot, eclipsing everything else. Clint realizes he’s making these whimpery, wretched sounds: “Ah — ah — ah.”
Clint’s delirious with need. He lets out a shout of frustration, cheeks burning with humiliation, squeezing his eyes shut against the tears that are threatening to spill out.
Bucky releases his hair, pulls his fingers away, and Clint half-collapses forward, legs trembling, hips working restlessly.
“Up on your hands and knees,” Bucky snaps, and Clint rushes to obey, scrambling up onto the bed and arching his back. Bucky laughs and rasps, “Shit, you really do want it, don’t you?”
Clint feels the mattress dip with Bucky’s weight, hears the wet sound of his hand on his cock, slicking himself up — he lines up, and Clint moans, pressing back — but Bucky teases for a moment, sliding the tip up and down, pressing and rubbing bluntly against Clint’s hole.
Then Bucky jabs his hips sharply, until just the swollen head of pops in, stretching Clint open with a sudden burn that makes him keen, broken and high-pitched and absolutely pathetic. Clint squirms frantically, skin on fire, delirious with the urge to get all of that incredible cock inside him. Bucky slaps him, right on the upper side of his thigh — nowhere near as hard as he’s capable of, but it stings, and he cries out helplessly.
“You can wait,” Bucky tells him firmly. “Wanna enjoy this. You have any idea what you look like right now? Jesus, greedy little hole trying to pull me in — gonna fill you up inch by inch, and if you ask real nice, I might give you the whole thing.”
“Fuck you,” Clint pants.
Bucky grabs his hair again, yanks hard, and Clint bows up with a cry. He’s trapped, held too tight to even fight back, and Bucky takes his time, just like he promised he would, rocking in with maddeningly shallow thrusts while Clint lets out one pathetic moan after another.
He could make this easy. He almost says it, has the word on the tip of his tongue — the word that would end all the games, end the torture — but when has he ever made things easy for himself when he could make them violent and painful?
God, he’s fucked up, and he knows it, and he really doesn’t care right now.
By the time Bucky’s hips are pressed up against Clint’s ass, by the time he’s stuffed full of that thick steely cock, Clint’s shaking all over. Bucky lets go of his hair, only to drag short fingernails down his back and then curl both hands around Clint’s hips. He doesn’t thrust, doesn’t give him any friction, just holds him there, keeping him where he is.
“That’s what you needed, isn’t it?” Bucky croons.
“Oh, god, fuck you, you fucking dick, I — fuck me already.” When Clint clenches around him, Bucky hisses, twitching minutely, and Clint feels victorious for all of two racing heartbeats.
Then Bucky rolls his hips, and Clint’s crippled by the wave of heat that cramps through him.
He feels so fucking big, too fucking big, and Clint’s shivering, overheated, vision hazy like he has a fever. All he can feel is the stretch, the intrusion, the gut-wrenching fullness.
Bucky pulls almost all the way out, then snaps back in, sharp and sudden, and Clint almost blacks out at the force behind it. He shouts, grabbing at the duvet, every muscle tense like a rubber band about to snap.
“Ohfuckyes,” he gasps, rushed and garbled.
Bucky moves, grinding in deep, setting off fireworks behind Clint’s eyelids, and he sets a brutal pace, one powerful thrust and another.
It’s intense to the point of total obliteration, punishingly rough, and Clint can’t think, can’t see straight, can’t handle rational thought. All he can do is feel, his body lighting up with shockwaves as Bucky hammers into him like a goddamn machine, and he can feel the pleasure building, fast and inescapable. He reaches down to touch himself, but —
Bucky stops . He just fucking freezes, buried to the hilt, and Clint almost loses his balance as he rocks back to meet a thrust that doesn’t come. He lets out a cry that feels like it’s shredding his throat on the way out; his chest feels raw, and he can barely hold back tears.
“Beg for it,” Bucky growls, throaty and wicked. He sounds breathless, but he’s not sucking in air the same way Clint is, not losing his mind the way Clint is, and it’s infuriating — Clint’s too far gone to feel guilty for wanting to wreck him, scratch and bruise and tear into him.
“Go fuck yourself,” Clint rasps, with a convulsive sob, caught between rage and the all-consuming desire to let Bucky fuck him into the mattress.
Bucky pitches forward, draping himself over Clint’s back and biting down on the curve of his neck. “C’mon, you got two ways out of this. Fight back, or beg.”
Clint snarls, snapping his head back like he could headbutt Bucky — but this is the Winter fucking Soldier, after all, and Bucky has a hand in Clint’s hair before he can try it again, yanking sharply. His metal arm curls around Clint’s ribs, and then he’s hauling him upright.
Bucky sits back on his heels, pulling Clint down on his lap so that his cock grinds in even deeper — it’s going to split Clint open, he can’t fucking take it — and Bucky wraps around him like a human straitjacket as Clint tries to thrash free. He’s right on the edge of orgasm, right fucking there , muscles spasming with it, and he claws at Bucky’s flesh arm, lashing out even as he clenches around his cock.
“Admit it, sugar, you act all tough, but the second you get hard, you’re goddamn useless,” Bucky taunts.
Clint shudders violently, fighting the jolt that goes through his belly at the words. Bucky’s metal arm is an unbreakable restraint around his chest, and he’s holding Clint’s upper arms down too, keeping him helpless.
Bucky nips savagely as his neck, working a sensitive bit of skin between his teeth and soothing with a warm, soft swipe of his tongue. “Is that the best you’ve got?”
“Stop,” Clint chokes out, sobbing with frustration, clenching down so hard he feels like he’s going to break.
“You know I’m not gonna do that.”
Clint lets out an utterly depraved sound. He’s glad Bucky can’t see his face right now, because tears are running freely down his cheeks; he lets his head hang down, trying to hide, trying to pretend that this isn’t affecting him the way it is. He wants this, wants to be held down and fucked senseless, wants Bucky to take him apart and utterly destroy him.
“So fuckin’ stubborn,” Bucky says, and it sounds almost fond before his voice goes steely again: “You’re gonna beg me for it, baby.”
“I won’t .”
Bucky releases him, pushes him down onto his hands and knees again. Clint’s elbows don’t want to work; he collapses forward and gasps for air as Bucky grabs him by the hips and slides back in slowly, rolling his hips and grinding against Clint’s ass. He pulls almost all the way out before he thrusts in deep, and Clint shouts, eyes rolling back in his head at the shattering burst of pleasure.
“Jesus, there,” he gasps, arching his back and bracing himself to meet the next thrust. “ Harder .”
Bucky doesn’t speed up; he just keeps going, steady and endless, these long scorching thrusts that light him up inside, steady strokes of friction with all that super-soldier strength in every press and twist.
It doesn’t take long before Clint’s sobbing again, quaking violently under him.
“Aw, baby, don’t cry,” Bucky croons, low and taunting. “All you gotta do is ask.”
Clint bites down on his own forearm, screaming between gritted teeth as he rocks back, fucking himself on Bucky’s cock.
“There you go,” Bucky whispers, twisting his fingers into Clint’s hair again. “That’s it. C’mon, show me how bad you need it.”
“I don’t,” Clint snarls. “Don’t fucking need it, don’t fucking need you , you asshole.”
Bucky laughs. “Uh-huh.”
Bucky pulls out, and Clint writhes at the feeling of emptiness. He hates this, he hates himself for needing this, but he does. He drops his forehead to the bed, hiding under his arms as he sobs. Then Bucky’s hands are on his ass, thumbs spreading him open, and Clint whines, flushing hot.
“Aw, sweetheart, I can see how bad you need it,” Bucky teases. “You done fighting yet?”
“Fuck you,” Clint groans.
“Yeah, that’s the idea,” Bucky says smugly. “C’mere, come sit on my cock and ride me, I wanna be able to see your face when you break.”
He flips Clint over onto his back, and Clint shoves at him weakly, but Bucky barely seems to notice; he gathers Clint up and wriggles backward, until Bucky’s sitting propped up against the headboard with Clint in his lap.
He’s pink-cheeked and heavy-lidded, pupils huge in his icy blue eyes, and for a split-second he looks concerned, that tiny slanted line between his eyebrows as he studies Clint carefully.
Jesus, he’s too pretty.
Clint wants to unravel him, pull him apart, wrench him open and burrow inside so Bucky can’t ever leave him again. Instead he gulps in a breath and tries to pull away; his limbs are all shaky, uncoordinated like a staggering baby giraffe, and he almost tips sideways as he tries to scramble back.
Bucky lets out an exasperated huff of a sigh, hauling him back into place. He grips a handful of hair, then grabs Clint’s balls with the metal hand. Clint’s vision goes blurry and he freezes, gasping.
Bucky squeezes, a silent threat, as he reaches for the lube with his other hand, flicking it open with his thumb. His knuckles graze Clint’s cock when he slicks himself up again, and Clint moans outright, so sensitive that the barely-there friction hits like an electric shock.
“Yeah, that’s what I thought,” Bucky says, low and mean.
Clint’s entire body is on fire, but he glares, baring his teeth like a goddamn animal. He feels panicky and frantic, dizzy and strung-out, barely conscious of anything but his dick throbbing heavily between his legs and the raw, achy emptiness where he’s all stretched out and used.
When he feels the head of Bucky’s cock notching up against him, he sinks down without any sort of teasing or pretense, shivering, letting his head loll back as he swivels his hips. He can barely move, his muscles are trembling so badly, but he works himself down until he’s eye-poppingly full, clenching and gasping and chasing oblivion.
“That’s better,” Bucky soothes.
Clint slides both hands into Bucky’s hair and pulls hard, tilting forward to kiss him, biting down on his lip until he tastes copper under the salt of his own tears.
Bucky hooks his arms under Clint’s armpits to grab his shoulders from behind, pulling him down onto his cock, impossibly deep, grinding in until Clint’s certain he’ll split open. He plants his feet flat on the bed and jerks his hips up hard.
Clint shouts, then lets out a long, broken moan as Bucky keeps punching up into him. He braces himself, grabbing the headboard, hiding his face in Bucky’s shoulder as he gulps in air. It’s too much, too goddamn deep —
“You gonna ask for what you need? Or are you gonna keep fighting?”
“Fuck,” Clint gasps. “Oh, fuck you, I can’t —”
Bucky freezes again, and he curls his metal fingers around Clint’s throat, pressing with his thumb and index finger on the exact right spots to cut off oxygen to his brain without crushing his windpipe. Clint scrabbles uselessly at the vibranium arm as Bucky holds him in place.
He’s completely fucking powerless, and god, he hates himself for what it does to him.
“Aw, baby,” Bucky whispers. “Can’t do shit right now, can you? Struggle if you want, you’re not going anywhere.”
Clint’s seeing sparkles. Bucky’s dick is so fucking deep inside him he wants to die, and his fingers are cool, and no matter how wide Clint opens his mouth, he can’t get enough oxygen. His throat burns and his heart thuds wildly in his chest.
“All mine,” Bucky whispers. He’s breathing hard, but he’s maddeningly unruffled, unbothered. “One way or another, I’m gonna fuck you until I’m done with you — but if you ask real nice, I’ll get you off too. Otherwise… shit, sweetheart, you might as well be a toy for all I care.”
Clint slaps him across the face with a crack that makes them both jerk.
“Jesus fucking Christ,” Bucky slurs, cock twitching so hard that Clint can feel it. His hips snap up, grinding that perfect cock against the spot that sends a bolt of lightning up Clint’s spine.
Clint is panicking, shaking all over with the dark, sick sensation of absolute white-hot rage .
Without warning Bucky’s moving, getting up on his knees and then tipping forward without pulling out; Clint lands on his back with an oomph that knocks the last of the oxygen out of his lungs. He wheezes as Bucky grinds in deep, and Clint arches his back convulsively, every muscle seizing up until he feels like he’s going to fall apart.
Bucky fucks into him slowly, evenly, long syrupy gliding thrusts that have Clint trembling.
He slaps Bucky again, palm connecting with an impact that sends a shockwave through him; Bucky’s puffy red lips go slack with pleasure, and his eyes are glassy, but he doesn’t speed up, and Clint sobs with frustration. He wants to shout, wants to hit him again — he clings and claws, making the most broken, wrecked sounds that have ever come out of his mouth.
And then, suddenly, the anger is gone as quickly as it came, draining away and leaving him quivering. All the fight’s gone out of him and he doesn’t fucking care, he’s gone, he’s done, there’s nothing left but sensory overload and the unshakable certainty that Bucky is going to drive him out of his goddamn mind.
“Please,” he breathes out. He turns his head to the side, eyes squeezed shut tight, cheeks burning.
“Hey,” Bucky whispers. “Look at me.” Clint manages to crack his eyes open and, with a Herculean effort, focus on Bucky’s face through the blur of the tears that are leaking through his lashes and rolling freely down his temples. “What was that, sweetheart?”
“Please,” Clint gasps, like a dam bursting, and he thrashes back and forth. “Please. Fuck me. Fuckin’ wreck me, Jesus, just —” His muscles are useless; he’s shivering violently, hands scrabbling at Bucky’s shoulders, curling around the nape of his neck to drag him closer.
Bucky laces their fingers together and presses Clint’s hands into the mattress over his head, folding him in half and leaning in to kiss him. It’s the strangest thing, filthy and devastatingly tender all at once, a deep thorough passionate kiss finished with a suck on his lower lip and a pornographic moan.
“Feel so good,” Bucky groans, dropping his head so that his ragged, hot breaths puff against Clint’s neck. “God, so good for me. So fuckin’ gorgeous, baby.”
Clint wanted to get fucked , wanted to get railed until he couldn’t walk straight, but Bucky’s barely moving, twisting his hips in little figure-eights — and somehow each one sparks a ripple of sensation that Clint might drown in. He holds on like Bucky’s a life raft.
“Please.” He takes a wet gasping breath and says it again: “Bucky, please, please .”
Bucky gets a hand between them, curls his fingers around Clint’s cock just on the right side of too rough, calluses scraping over-sensitive skin. His eyes are blazing with something fierce and soft, too bright to look into directly.
Clint’s so close he can feel his orgasm coiling up with every tiny drag of friction… in spite of the sweetness in Bucky’s expression, or maybe because of it.
“So fuckin’ pretty. Let me see you lose it.” Bucky’s voice is all velvet, soothing. “Missed you so much.”
“Missed you,” Clint echoes. “Oh, fuck, I missed you, I —”
Clint’s strung so tight that he opens his mouth and nothing comes out — just a silent scream as he comes, spine bowing up, eyes rolling back, whiting out with the first pulse like he’s plugged into the electric grid. It paralyzes him, and it’s not until it subsides slightly, loosens its grip just enough, that he can get enough air in his lungs to groan, long and drawn-out, ripped from somewhere deep in his chest.
Bucky shudders, thrusts going uneven — each one slides in like a knife, searing, gutting him, pleasure and pain radiating out from the flayed-raw nerves.
Clint can feel it deep inside when Bucky starts to come, the way his cock pulses, spills, hot and slick and intimate. He slides his arms around Bucky and pulls him closer, craning up to press his open mouth against whatever bit of sweaty salty skin he can reach, muffling everything he wants to say. He feels scraped-out and so fucking lost.
“Okay, baby,” Bucky whispers. “You’re okay, sweetheart, I’ve got you.”
Clint tries to insist that he’s fine, but it comes out as a mangled sob. He heaves in another ragged breath and chokes on the exhale.
“I’ve got you,” Bucky repeats, soft but fierce. He pulls back enough to press his lips to Clint’s temple, brushing his mouth along a streak of saltwater.
Bucky’s going soft, and Clint can feel the butterfly-wing tickle of it, then the filthy trickle of him pulling out, spilling out, an absurd contrast with the sweet, chaste way Bucky uses a gentle pinky to wipe tears off his cheekbones. He’s not putting his full weight on Clint any more, but Clint still feels like he’s suffocating, or maybe drowning, chest tight with panic.
“Aw, baby, I’ve got you. You did so good. It’s okay, sweetheart, breathe for me. In and out, okay? Nice and easy…”
Clint focuses on his voice, the concerned cadence of it, and shakes with the effort of making his lungs expand and contract.
“Sorry,” Clint whispers, but his voice wobbles. “Fuck, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.”
“Nothing to be sorry for,” Bucky says, but he sounds worried, like maybe he broke Clint. Clint lets out a cracked giggle at the thought. He maneuvers them carefully, wrapping Clint up in his arms and rolling them so Clint’s on top. “You wanna tell me what’s got you all tangled up?”
Clint closes his eyes, throat tight.
He’s been holding everything in for the last week, but now he’s cracked open, like he drained a secret wound that had been festering and poisoning him slowly. Now, he’s all clean and wrung-out, exposed, and that’s terrifying.
“I missed you,” he admits quietly.
“I know, baby. I missed you too.”
“Yeah, just — I missed you more than I thought I would,” Clint says miserably, and his inhale catches, hitches, threatens to turn into a sob again. “I — I just —”
“Okay, honey, I know,” Bucky sighs. He strokes Clint’s damp hair back from his forehead and kisses it. “I know. I love you too.”
“Oh,” Clint says, startled.
Oh.
There's a beat before Bucky lets out an undignified snort. “Did you seriously just —”
“Shut up,” Clint grumbles. But he starts laughing too, throat hoarse and eyes swollen with tears, giggling hysterically until he’s afraid he’s actually losing it this time. He buries his face in the curve of Bucky’s neck and takes a deep, shuddery breath. “Yeah. That. Aw, Jesus, I’m an idiot.”
“Don’t talk about my best guy that way,” Bucky huffs. “Is that it? That’s what you were all twitchy about?”
“What do you —”
“Watched the press conference, remember? I could tell something had you scared,” Bucky tells him gently. “I know what it looks like when you need a fight, whatever the reason.”
“That’s not —” Clint starts. “I wasn’t scared, I was angry. At — oh.” Then he stops, and frowns, wrinkling his nose.
Bucky just played him like a goddamn violin.
Clint used to be afraid of physical pain, before he learned to fight back. How many punches did he take before he learned to get pissed off and put up his fists instead of running away? When was the last time he copped to being scared of something that wasn't about to kill him?
Shit, he is way too tired for this sort of self-discovery right now.
“I’ll learn, I promise,” Clint whispers, exhausted and wrung-out. “Just… be patient with me?”
“Of course.”
He rests his cheek on Bucky’s chest and listens to his heartbeat. “I love you.”
“Love you too.” Clint can hear the smile in it.
Bucky’s chest rises and falls, and he wraps his arms more securely around Clint. They’re both quiet for a moment.
“Oh,” Bucky mocks. He digs his fingers into Clint’s side until Clint shrieks with laughter and almost elbows him in the balls.