Archive of Our Own ^beta

The brush of contact is almost nothing. Just a light skim of the fingers as Bob hands over the tablet. He was really just trying to be helpful, but the touch hits them both like a trap snapping shut.

Bob has been better at controlling the Void. Keeping it contained, keeping himself from pulling people under. But the control isn’t perfect. Sometimes the edges fray. One lapse, one stray touch on a not-so-good day, and every once in a while, it drags someone else down with him.

For Bucky, the Watchtower vanishes around him. For a moment, he’s back in the Soviet base, where steel restraints dig into his wrists and his arms. The stink of blood and sweat chokes the air in his lungs. White lights blaze overhead, too harsh and too bright. Voices bark in Russian, and he’s so fucking cold. Electricity tears through his skull, rattling his bones and racing through his nerves like ice and fire. 

The worst are the hands on him, teaching him that his mind isn’t his, that his body is no longer his. They haven't broken him yet. But they're trying. The memory presses in from all sides, hard and unrelenting. As he watches, the shame and disgust rise in him like bile.

Then it breaks. The tower snaps back into place—polished walls, luminous lights, and the weight of three pairs of eyes on him.

Bob flinches too. His eyes flicker with guilt, and he draws his hand back fast. He must’ve seen it all. “Are you okay?” he asks, quiet and careful. “I’m—I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to…”

Bucky’s jaw tightens. He forces his mouth to move. “Yeah. I’m fine.”

No one looks convinced. Yelena and Ava trade a glance. John frowns, shifting like he might step forward, but Bucky is already moving, spinning on his feet toward the exit.

The door slides shut behind him, cutting off the silence he leaves in his wake.

Bob exhales, his shoulders tight. He glances at the others. And though he doesn’t speak, when he finally makes eye contact with John, the look says everything: You know he’s not fine.

*

John follows the silence down the corridor, to the elevator, and up to Bucky’s floor. The door to Bucky’s apartment swings open for him. The space inside is dim and orderly, everything neatly in its place.

“Bucky?” John calls out as he steps inside. No answer.

The living area is empty. So are the bedrooms. But light seeps from under the bathroom door, and through it, he hears the sound of the shower running. 

“Bucky?” He calls again, as a warning right before he pushes the door open a crack. Heat spills out, steam curling around him. Clothes lie scattered across the tile, as if discarded in a rush.

Through the fogged glass of the shower, he makes out Bucky’s silhouette, but is unable to see his face. His shoulders are bowed, head tipped down under the spray, both arms braced against the wall. Water beats hot and heavy against the tile, a constant rush that drowns out everything else.

John’s hand tightens briefly on the doorframe. He doesn’t want to overstep, doesn’t want to corner him. So he keeps his voice steady and careful when he speaks. “I’m right here if you need me.”

There’s no response. Just the sound of water and the blurred figure behind the glass. John doesn’t push. He stays just outside the bathroom door, a quiet presence, waiting to see if Bucky needs, or is willing to welcome, his comfort.

They’ve been fucking for a few months now. Moments of weakness here and there when they both need a little human touch. Sometimes a darker touch. 

It becomes easier with Bucky than John ever imagined it could be. He never pictured himself with another man, let alone a guy carrying as much baggage as Barnes. But here they are. It’s not like John has many options anyway. He’s a public figure, so he can’t exactly just bring home someone he picks up from a bar, and online dating is and has always been a shitshow. 

The alternative… is Bucky. Another super soldier who can take everything John gives and more. Add in the proximity, the aftermath of missions when adrenaline runs hot, and it feels inevitable. They were pulled to each other like moths to a flame.

Bucky hasn’t made it explicitly clear that sex is all he wants. It’s not like the only time they spend alone together is spent getting off. They actually get along with each other. John would even go so far as to say he enjoys the other man’s company.  

But there is a line. And John’s not sure he’s ready to cross that line into something more. 

John waits. The minutes drag, steam curling out into the bedroom, dampening the air. He leans against the wall, arms crossed. Every so often, he glances at the door, listening for anything beyond the rush of water. Nothing.

Thirty minutes slip by. His chest feels tight. Finally, he exhales heavily and says, steady but firm, “Bucky, I’m coming in.”

He pushes open the door. The bathroom is a haze of steam, the mirror fogged to white. He slides open the shower door and freezes.

Bucky is on the floor, knees drawn up, head resting back against the tile. The spray pounds over him, hot enough to leave his skin flushed and reddened. He doesn’t move when John enters.

John shuts off the water in one motion. The sudden silence is sharp.

“I’m fine,” Bucky says, his voice low and hollow and rough.

John kneels, meeting his eyes even if Bucky won’t hold the gaze. “No, you’re not.”

He reaches out. The heat radiates off Bucky’s skin, and John swears under his breath. In sharp contrast, the vibranium is cool to the touch beneath his fingers.

Without another word, John hooks an arm under him and lifts. Bucky doesn’t fight it. Just let's John pull him to his feet, wrap a towel around his shoulders, and lead him out of the room. 

He lowers him onto the edge of the bed.

The silence hangs heavy, broken only by John’s steady movements as he dries the water from Bucky’s hair and skin. The redness from the heat is already starting to fade. 

“What did you see?” John asks. 

Bucky doesn’t answer. Doesn’t even move. His gaze is locked somewhere beyond the floor, unblinking, unseeing, as if he’s not really here at all. It’s not the first time John’s seen him like this—but this feels different somehow. Maybe the worst yet.

John waits a beat, then softens. “Do you want to talk about it?”

The silence stretches. The only sound is the faint drip of water from Bucky’s hair onto the towel that now rests across his lap.

“What do you need?” John asks quietly.

Bucky finally tilts his head to the side, a few strands of wet dark hair falling across his face. He blinks slowly, then stares up at John with half-lidded eyes and a red, red mouth. 

What does he need? He needs his mind to stop thinking, to stop remembering. The restraints, the lights, the pain, the cold—he needs to stop feeling it on a loop, over and over. He needs something to anchor him to here and now, to pull him out of the darkness of his own fucked up trauma. 

He needs John to take him and take him out of his own head. He needs John to fuck him and make it hurt, to replace memory with sensation. Because if Bucky asks for it, if he wants it, then he’s not a victim. He isn’t helpless. He isn’t theirs. 

It would be his choice now.

Bucky slowly stands. The words claw at his throat, unable to make their way out. John somehow always knows exactly what Bucky needs. He knows when to be soft and when to be rough. Bucky’s never had to ask for it before. He doesn’t even know if he can—how exactly does he say that what he wants is for John to take what he wants, that when Bucky says no, when he begs and pleads and says it hurts, he shouldn’t stop? He should pin him down, fuck him, and make him beg and cry and take it.

John knows it. Bucky just doesn't know how to say it.

Bucky steps forward. He lets the towel drop to the floor. 

John swallows at the sight of him. He can feel the heat radiate off Bucky’s flesh through his own thin shirt as the other man steps closer. 

“Make me feel better.”

That’s all John wants to do. 

“Bucky,” he whispers. His hands tremble as he forces them to stay down by his sides. He knows he shouldn’t indulge Bucky’s carnal urges so easily. Especially the dark ones. The ones laced with trauma. 

But a part of John wants to, wants so desperately to give in. And he feels a hot flush of shame at how badly he wants to wrestle the other man down and fuck into him until he’s a crying, whimpering mess. 

Bucky just brings out that darkness in him. 

“Make me feel something that’s not this.”

John shudders. He wishes he were a better man. 

He reaches out and pulls him in for a brutal kiss. It’s a messy clash of tongues and teeth. John bites down hard on Bucky’s bottom lip until he gasps from the pain, the sound swallowed by John’s mouth. The little whimpers go straight to his head, and God save him, John wants to wreck this man. 

Bucky’s here, and he wants him. He wants that darkness inside him and John’s not that good of a man.

Bucky’s back hits the wall with a thud, a gasp tearing from his chest as John spins them around and drives him there with brute force. John’s hands are on him already, rough and hard over bare, wet skin, and Bucky keens under his touch. 

John’s mouth drops to Bucky’s throat, not wasting a second as his teeth scrape at sensitive flesh. Under him, Bucky writhes, pinned against the wall by John’s bulk. His cock is hard, rubbing against John’s clothed thigh, begging for him to touch him.  

“Please,” Bucky gasps, as John pulls away.

“What do you need?” John asks again, his eyes burning into him. 

Bucky trembles under his touch. 

“Take me apart,” he says.

The words are barely out before John wraps a large hand around his cock. He squeezes his fist, firm and hot, pressing his thumb harshly against the head and then along the sensitive underside of his cock. The grip is too hard, too dry, not meant to offer any relief. His fingers are cruel as they stroke along his length. 

Bucky drags at the air but can’t seem to get enough. His breath comes out in wordless gasps as John’s teeth find his neck again. They sink deep, hard enough to break skin, to leave marks—proof etched onto his body. He clings to the pain, to the evidence of John’s touch, because it’s better than drowning in his memory.

It says something about how twisted his head is, that when John’s grip tightens and his vision blurs with tears, somehow, he’s still harder than ever before. And all he can think, is that he wants more.

He sighs in relief when John’s hand drops from his cock, only to slide lower to cup his balls. He holds him softly, weighing him tenderly in his palm, before clamping his hand down tight. 

Bucky slams his head back into the wall in a vain attempt to get away from the pain. His vision blurs and he gasps, a broken please strangled from his throat as he shudders for breath. Pain sparks in his gut, mixing with his arousal that still flares hot. He might actually cry. 

It hurts. But the pain brings him blissfully out of his head, and he yearns for more. He presses forward, trying to pull the other man closer, trying to meld himself into John’s body.

“John,” Bucky gasps, the broken little sound swallowed by John’s mouth covering his. “Please—”

This shouldn’t be so hot. It shouldn’t be turning him on. His whole body shudders in relief when John loosens his grip, a momentary reprieve, just to squeeze again as his other hand wraps around his cock. 

Bucky lets his head fall back with a whimper as the pain and pleasure signals cross on the way to his brain.

His eyes roll back in his head as John roughly pumps his cock. His vision whites out, and he finally comes with a silent gasp, his release painting the front of John’s clothes with white streaks as the other man kneads his balls until he’s empty. 

His legs give out from under him. He’d be on the ground if not for John’s body pressing him up against the wall. The pain in his balls is receding fast, leaving behind a throbbing ache. He focuses on that, and catching his breath that still comes in shuddering gasps.

Bucky can feel John’s eyes staring at him, and he’s sure he makes for quite a sight. 

John watches the movement of his face, his glassy eyes and open mouth like an invitation. He brings their lips together to taste him, drags his tongue over Bucky’s bottom teeth, and swallows every delicious sound that spills from his mouth. 

“You still with me?” John asks hoarsely. 

Bucky gives a jerky nod of his head. His legs feel like jelly.

He slowly comes back to himself. His head feels clear for the first time since he was touched by the Void. And that’s when he takes note of the bulge at the front of John’s pants. The dark look in John’s hooded eyes. Restraint that is kept barely at bay.

That look nearly drives Bucky out of his mind. It makes him want to poke at it. To poke and prod at that restraint until it breaks and John does lose control and lets him have every bit of what he holds back. He wants to beg for it, scream that he can take it, he can take all of it—

As if he can read his mind, John grabs him by the arms and practically throws him onto the bed behind them. He strips out of his clothes in an instant, then comes forward to settle on top of him, pinning him down to the mattress.  

John puts his hand on Bucky’s face. Presses his thumb into the delicate skin under his eye. “How badly do you want it?”

“Please,” Bucky whispers. “So bad. I need it—”

“How much?” He brings his mouth down to the curve of Bucky’s neck. Nips at the torn and bruised skin.

Bucky pulls his bottom lip between his teeth to hold back a strangled noise. “I want everything you’ve got. I want it to hurt.”

John brushes his lips against that throat one more time, flicks his tongue out to taste the copper on his skin. Then he slides down, giving Bucky an unreadable expression as he goes, until he settles between the legs that Bucky spreads easily for him. 

Bucky is half-hard again. Unfortunately, John chooses to bypass his cock, going further down, and then he runs the flat of his tongue over his swollen sac. He groans as a wave of nausea rolls in his gut as his tender balls are engulfed in a hot, wet mouth. John sucks at the left one, pulls it into his mouth, and runs his tongue over the sensitive skin. And then he repeats the action with the other, until Bucky is a sobbing, trembling mess. 

He jumps when he feels a lubed finger pressing against his entrance. Fuck, he hadn’t even noticed John grabbing the lube. He slides into him easily, and the burn of the stretch is lacking until another finger joins the first. 

John takes his time to loosen him up, going nice and slow. He tells himself that he’s drawing it out to torture the man—and it’s working if the sweet sounds spilling from Bucky’s lips are any indication—but the truth is, he doesn’t really want to hurt him, even if he knows it’s what Bucky wants. 

Bucky opens up beautifully for him when John adds a third finger. Soon, he’s keening against the sheets, the muscles of his abdomen ripple as he fucks himself down on John’s fingers. His hips rock as he grinds with naked need. John watches, fixated on the sight, his own cock aching and leaking between his legs. 

He’s done waiting. 

John positions himself against his hole, hot and slick as he rubs against the rim. 

And then he buries himself inside in a single hard thrust. This part isn’t gentle, even wet with lube, his cock is too big to slide in easy. He pushes in like he wants to break Bucky in half—and the other man screams, body arching in a vain attempt to escape from the pain. 

John’s hands hold his hips in place until he’s buried to the hilt. And he doesn’t give them a moment to adjust, not a moment to breathe. He pulls back, just enough to savagely fuck back into him, carving himself a place inside the other man. 

Choked screams spill out as John fucks him, until they finally subside into pathetic little whimpers, and it takes everything in him not to beg for mercy. He wants to, God he wants to—

He wraps his metal hand around John’s wrist. Tugs it away from his hip and brings it up to lay around his throat. John shudders above him, taking in his silent request for more. 

John hesitates. He feels the other man’s pulse fluttering under his fingers. Then he wraps his fingers around the column of Bucky’s throat, soft at first before he bears down hard. 

A whimpered gasp of a sound slips past Bucky’s lips. His cock twitches as he continues to get fucked, held in place as John’s grip around his neck grows stronger—it gets harder and harder to draw air into his lungs—

“Fuck, you’re really getting off on this,” John gasps. 

Bucky makes a sound that’s supposed to be a chuckle. Yeah, he’s pretty fucked in the head to be enjoying this. The lack of oxygen is getting to him, making him feel woozy all over— 

In a fit of recklessness, he thinks he could say no. The word hangs at the edge of his lips. 

He could say stop. He could beg please, no, it hurts, and hope that John hears every word and listens to none of it. The words beg to spill out—but Bucky holds them back. They haven't done that in a while. Not since their first time. And he doesn't want to chance it now. John is a good man, and if there was even the slightest doubt that Bucky wanted him to stop, he would. 

That’s the last thing that Bucky wants. 

So he doesn’t say no. He just parts his lips in a soundless whimper as John’s hips keep slamming into him. Dots of black and blue speckle across his vision, and that’s when the hand around his neck disappears, and Bucky draws air into his lungs in ragged gulps, desperate and uneven. 

“Is that all you’ve got?” Bucky whispers, his voice ragged and hoarse when he can finally speak.

John’s eyes are dark as he looks down at the wreck of a man beneath him—the one who drags feeling out of him that he cannot name. Feelings that twist sharp and raw, that he aren’t sure are good or bad. Only that they’re intoxicating. Addictive. And no matter how much he tells himself he should, he can’t stay away from it. 

“Is that all you’ve got?” Bucky’s voice comes harsher this time. He doesn’t break easy, John knows that—

John’s hand moves before he registers it, and the blow snaps Bucky’s head to the side with a sharp crack that echoes through the room. 

Bucky jolts at the strike, his body tensing and squeezing around John’s cock, and fuck—John almost comes right then. His hips stutter to a stop as he holds his orgasm back with nothing but grit and white-knuckled restraint. 

“Jesus,” John breathes. 

Bucky twists his hips like he can fuck himself on John’s cock without him moving. He groans, yearning for more, but he doesn’t know how to ask for it—

It spills out in pained little moans. 

Until John’s hand smacks him across the face again, and he comes all over himself with a shocked little gasp. 

John’s cock shifts inside him, dragging against his prostate as he starts thrusting again, bulldozing over his orgasm in a flood of raw sensation. Bucky lets out breathless little gasps of, “please, please, please,” he doesn't even know what he's asking for—as John continues to fuck inside him, making him shudder at the feeling of too much. 

He whines, helpless under the weight above him, until John finally cums, spilling his seed deep inside him with a ragged gasp. 

It hurts when John pulls out—he’s too sensitive, nerves stinging like fire—but he doesn’t care.

John’s tempted to fuck him again. To dive back into that red rim that’s still twitching and leaking with his cum. Instead, he brushes a finger against the wetness that trickles out, presses it back against the rim to keep his cum inside. 

“Fuck,” Bucky yelps, as he jumps against the sheet. “You filthy bastard.”

“Look who’s talking,” John murmurs. 

John finally collapses on the mattress beside him. The room is quiet except for the sounds of their breathing, heavy and uneven. The sheets are damp with sweat, the air still charged with the edge of what just happened between them. 

Neither of them are good at the aftermath. Usually one will head for the shower first. Then leave with a smile and a promise of another round soon. 

This time, though, John speaks. His voice is rough and uncertain. He's unable to meet the other man’s eyes. “Maybe we should talk about why you get off on getting smacked around.”

Bucky doesn’t flinch. He turns his head, staring at John’s profile as he lets his mouth curl into a crooked smile. “Why do you get off on smacking me around?”

The words hang between them, heavier than they should. John’s jaw tightens. He looks like he might answer, like something’s right there on the tip of his tongue—too much anger, too much need, too much violence hidden just under the surface. His hands flex against the sheets.

Then he swallows it down. His mouth twists, voice clipped, he says, “We don’t need to talk about it.”

Bucky huffs out something close to a laugh, sharp and humorless. “That’s what I thought.”

John sighs, unsatisfied. “We should at least agree on a safe word or something,” he mutters.

“Hmm,” Bucky hums, tilting his head like he’s weighing it over. It would only serve to make John feel better about it. To give him a sense of security and control. A little reassurance in the chaos of what they choose to do together. 

Maybe with that promise hanging over their heads, John could finally let himself go. Let himself do whatever he wants without holding back, without the constant tension coiling in his chest. 

Bucky would never use it. 

The safe word would be a concession, a token for John’s peace of mind, not his own. And that’s exactly how he likes it.

John exhales, relaxing and settling down beside him. Their shoulders brush, their bodies easing into the space they’ve carved out together. The quiet in the room hums with something heavier than comfort—need, obsession, hunger. It’s sharp and intoxicating. Dangerous.

They’re damaged. Broken in ways only they understand, and that fracture pulls them closer. Every touch, each brush of skin, is a reminder that they belong to each other in a way no one else could handle. In that chaos and darkness, there is some comfort. 

Bucky grins wryly at the ceiling. He wouldn’t have it any other way.