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He has no idea why he keeps doing this. Every time he gets a little too close to something like a stable routine he throws some sweatpants into his bag and takes his bike down to Barton’s place with the intention of doing whatever the asshole wants from him.
But there’s something about falling apart under Barton that soothes the thing rattling its cage in his chest.
Especially when he’s mean about it.
“Aw, is it too much for you?” A hand on his skull, pressing him down into the sheets keeps him still. It is too much. He’s being absolutely split apart by the monster of cock that Barton has been walking around with.
“Fuck you.” It’s more of a gasp than a spit.
Clint’s voice gets mean, his laugh dangerous in a way that’s new. It’s all the warning he gets before he presses forward. Barton does this every time, working Bucky up until he’s a shivery mess of nerve endings and pleasure-pain before deciding he’s done being nice. Just slams the rest of the way in and ignores how Bucky kicks at the sheets and yells. Makes him wonder if he can get any more fucked up than dribbling cum into the sheets while his guts get bruised and he’s choking on his own breath.
Probably.
“I don’t know why you act like you can’t do it. We both know you come hardest when you’re crying on my dick.” How he could sound so disaffected. Bored. Fucking- uninterested - Bucky would never know. Like Clint wasn’t also drooling at the prospect of someone taking every inch of his cock. They both knew it excited him, he’d babbled on and on about how good it was to see someone take it all and how good Bucky felt when he got shaky and overstimulated.
No. Bucky wasn’t the only one fucked up here.
“C’mon- Clint- fuck. Fuck me, come on. I need-“
“I know what you need,” Clint snarls “so just be a good bitch for me and take it.” Breathing gets harder as bruises get pressed into his hips and every thrust feels like it’s up in his throat. They started this by accident, Clint taking one of their occasional fucks post mission and just… well. He hadn’t known what hit him when Clint grabbed his shoulder and slammed every inch of himself into Bucky like he didn’t care if it hurt. But he did notice how Bucky came so hard he saw stars, whispered in awe ‘you actually like how that hurts, don’t you?’
And here they were. Right back in bed.
“Wait- I can’t - give me a minute” he just needs to get a knee under himself, needs a break because his leg keeps twitching and it’s almost the wrong kind of stimulated but he can’t.
“Don’t lie to me Bucky.” Clint pulls out and then presses back in until their skin is flush, it's not hard but it's not nice either. “You can take whatever I give you.”
The noise that rips from his throat is pathetic.
“There you go, don’t fight me.” A dirty grind, a hand on his stomach. “Next time I want to see your face, pretty boy. Want to see how deep I am in you.” His palm presses hard and Bucky finally finds the strength to curl one leg up, the hand in his hair easing to let him find breath.
“Fuck - love how you get like this, better than a cunt when you’re not pretending you hate it.” The hand on his stomach moves to thumb at his half limp dick. He isn’t sure he can get hard again but if he does he’s going to wish he didn’t. “Just like that.”
He jerks forward and moans like he's getting paid for it. Or maybe like he's dying.
“Ah, now don’t do that. If you want me to come inside of you… you have to stop running away.”
“Mm-“ he’s going to hate himself later “make me.”
Another dark laugh makes him take what air he can still get.
“Whatever you say.” There no hesitation, no talking or teasing, it’s just brutal snaps of his hips and a relentless pace. For his part he's crying, bucking up and shifting in a bid for relief he doesn’t really want. Sometime between starting to cry and going limp he realizes he’s starting to crave this. It’s helping him sleep, turning his brain from machine to momentary calm - it’s dangerous. He needs to stop.
“Oh, that’s nice.” Clint always comes inside of him. Likes to make him messy on top of being ruined even when Bucky has shit to do later. Always takes a moment to really look at what he’s turned Bucky into while he goes soft.
“Good boy,” the hand in his hair tips his face sideways, turns his shame to the late afternoon sun filtering through the crack in the curtains. “Lay there a while, sweetheart. Let me look at ya.” The fingers soothe the stinging of his scalp, brush from root to end with just the barest hint of a tug. “Messy little thing…”
He’s alone after that.
He should go but his body won’t move. A burst of shame splits his chest and his face crumples into another sob.
Something clatters in the bathroom and then Clint is back at his side. Still naked. Still messy himself as he bullies his way back into the bed.
“Shh, it’s okay. You’re okay,” hands help him uncurl and sharp eyes look for injuries that aren’t there. He’s back to being the Clint everyone knows so fast it’s jarring, like the beast that wants to see Bucky bloody and begging not only slept but never existed in the first place. “You’re okay… you’re allowed to enjoy it.”
This hasn’t happened before. Usually the gnawing in his gut didn’t hit for a while, he just gets to bask and float and enjoy the hurt -
“Come here, pretty boy. I did number on ya, huh?” Being dragged around outside of sex is new but he can’t stop it. They didn’t cuddle. That isn’t what this is. “Your needy body just needed to dump some endorphins, it’s normal. You’ll be right back to begging for it.” The pressure around his chest dissolves as he’s held, his body starts to regulate temperature instead of freezing him from the inside out.
With his face tucked against Clint’s neck he’s warm and while he still can’t catch his breath he feels less like he’s in freefall.
“There you go.” Clint squeezes him and the shame compresses down into sheer embarrassment. “Now, listen here. Option one is I let you run off and we don’t do this again for a while. Not cause I don’t want to but because you’re gonna stay all in your head about it. Option two is you stay right here for a few more minutes and then when I’m hard you can ride me like it’s the rodeo.”
Clint’s got a filthy mouth and a filthier mind but Bucky doesn’t care. He’s worse and was shameless back when shame was a much bigger deal than the 21st century. It’s easy to turn and straddle Clint’s waist, dig metal fingertips into his broad chest and wrestle back some control.
“Two sounds nice.” It’s not going to be his best show but… it’s better. It’s walking the tightrope between the desire to be used or directed and the need to prove he’s not just the jagged edges of what he was made into. Somewhere in the in between is him. But that’s a lot of complicated thoughts when he could be losing himself in the pleasure-pain of whatever this thing they have going on is.
When Clint looks so nice with a handprint on his cheek and tears in his eyes while those lips are grinning like a cheshire cat.
He goes home after the second round.
Clint even walks him to the door.
Bucky doesn’t cry again. Except for when Clint has two fingers terrorizing his prostate and running that wicked tongue over his balls. The good kind of crying. The kind that comes with begging and demanding and unabashed pleasure and nothing to do with emotions.
Then comes a bad day. One of those days that starts with a dark cloud over the fog of the morning, the nightmares that dogged him, and then it just keeps getting worse. Worse and worse and worse.
His grand niece- because he had those now. His family had a family of her own and when he came back they never knew what to do with him despite their best efforts. His little sister still looked at him like he made the sun rise even though she was older now than their oma was when she passed and her memory wasn’t what it once was. Her voice was soft when she told him about the accident.
No parent should outlive their children, he’d heard that often. He hated funerals. Life would have been easier if he was just asleep for a few more decades. One more decade.
So he goes to the funeral and carries the casket of his niece and lets his grandnieces and nephews pull him into a game of four square when the food is being served. It’s fine. There’s more little smiles than tragic tears. Becca forgets who they’re there for once.
No one reminds her.
And then, he drives to Bed-stuy and ignores Steve’s calls.
It’s so stupidly easy to get into Clint’s building. Some of the neighbors recognize him on their way out, they hold the door and gesture for him to go inside. Apparently smoking on his bike wasn’t a good look.
Clint’s front door isn’t even locked.
Like a lazy cat he’s sprawled out, feet up in the coffee table and arms wide on the back of the couch. Sweatpants, old t-shirt - he clearly wasn’t planning on going anywhere today.
Bucky doesn't get a word out.
“No.”
“Clint.” He’s pissed off and upset but he needs this. Never before has Clint said no to sex. It must be part of his game.
His head lolls to the side, blue eyes sweeping down and up. Whatever he sees must be enough. “Ugh. Fine. You can ride me, but don’t expect any help.”
Stripping is quick. He throws his jacket onto the counter, tears his boots off his feet, and drops his shirt and pants into a pile on the floor.
The lube is upstairs. Probably Clint wouldn’t stop him from getting it if he just did it. But he’s not been in Clint’s bedroom alone, has never walked up those stairs without the blond’s tongue halfway down his throat or hands on his ass. It just feels wrong; like being in the school after dark.
“Mind if I get the lube?”
“You can make do without it.” Clint has turned his attention back to the tv. “Or you can go home.”
Going home isn’t an option. As he approaches room is made for him. Clint’s not even half hard when Bucky hits his knees but that will change, he mouths at him through the sweatpants. They’ve been fucking for months now, he knows the little places to nuzzle and threaten a bite just to make Clint sigh and hum. It’s a bit of a game, he knows the silence is an effort on Clint’s part. If he wasn’t interested he wouldn’t be making an effort to play.
Pants get tugged off and then he’s letting saliva pool in his mouth to slick that monster dick he can’t take nearly as well as he wants.
Hindsight says he should have stopped at a gas station and prepped himself in the bathroom before coming over here. Anything to get himself wet before clambering up to straddle Barton’s waist and press the leaking head of that spit-slick cock against his hole. Smearing precum with a little roll of his hips helps.
Oh god. It slips in and the world narrows down to nothing but this apartment and the burn. It’s too much but he needs it and he’s taken it before, Clint has held him down and forced him to take it all and he can do this. He could also stop it; but that’s not his he’s built.
Breathing like a racehorse he takes it but when he slides his hand down the shaft of the cock he’s impaled on he’s not even half way there. Positioned like this it’s a lot.
“I’m not stopping,” desperation forces the words out in a rush, “I’m not. I’m not, I promise- I can do it.” If he adjusts the angle, if he can get his hyperventilating fucking lungs under control…
Clint laughs at him and Bucky thinks he might die when hands grab his ass and lift him off like his progress was for nothing.
“Go get the lube, pretty thing. You’re chafing me.”
If you had just let me from the start - he bites the thought off. This is the game and Clint looks good when he’s being lazy and he’s got the mean little glint in his eyes.
The lube makes it easier. Better. He braces against Clint’s chest and it stops being a task and starts being pleasure as he works himself down in little rolls of his hips. It’s good. So damn good until he gets about halfway again and he just… can’t. A full minute passes and he can’t get further, but he is hard, cock brushing Clint’s shirt and staining it dark with every bob. If he can just ride him like this, keep rolling his body just right to brush his prostate, he could get off.
He can- but Clint said to take it all and if he didn’t… his chest is getting tight again. Lip wobbling. It’s strangling him and he fists his hands tighter. It’s panic and he doesn’t know why he’s panicking when it’s just sex. It’s just this thing they do in the down time. The thing they don’t talk about but he dreams of and Clint keeps on the down low because Bucky asked him too. Progress isn't getting any easier and his body keeps flinching from the task he's set it. The bubble pops;
“I need this! I need it- don’t throw me out. I’ll take it.”
“Hey,” Clint’s attention snaps from the tv. The chest under his hands heaves with a heavy sigh. “You’re pathetic, here, let me help.”
Strong fingers wrap around his neck tenderly, a fingertip traces the hinge of his jaw. It’s almost sweet and he isn’t sure if he should be insulted or part his lips to provide a distraction from his needy rocking. Pressure forces him back, holds him at an angle that makes his abs burn.
But he sinks down little by little, erection waxing and waning.
When he’s almost sitting pretty Clint has the audacity to let go.
“There.” Palms smooth over his ribs “You can figure out the last bit.” And then he just goes right back to watching tv like Bucky isn’t sobbing in his lap. It’s so much and he’s pretty sure he’s not making a pretty picture with one hand bruising Clint’s thigh and the other grabbing his own stomach where Clint is carving him open. There’s nothing left for him to give but he has to.
Noises drip from his mouth like a leaky faucet.
“Can you keep it down, I’m watching something.”
His tensor fasciae jumps, a quick ping from hip to mid thigh. His heel slides on the carpet, slams his toes under the couch and his hands jerk and he slips. He fucking slips.
Doubling over is impossible, straightening up feels Sisyphean. But he’s done the hard part, he’s not in any danger of getting tossed out. If he can breathe through a bullet wound he can manage sitting on a cock. But… they’ve never done this, he’s never had to do the work by himself unless he was face down. It’s a lot. The best he can do is a dirty grind, eyes unfocused and trained down.
“I thought you wanted to fuck.” Clint says after the credits on his show roll and the next intro plays. A stinging slap to his thigh is followed with, “Hurry up, I have things to do.”
He doesn’t. Bucky knows he doesn’t. It doesn’t stop him from trying to raise up and ride him right. Frustration and stimulation swirl into this thing that builds and builds until he’s trying desperately to draw breath. He isn’t hard anymore, hasn’t been for ten minutes despite the fact he’s still leaking pre all over Clint’s ratty cartoon tshirt.
Eventually he slumps, sobbing he wonders if that’ll be good enough for Clint to keep him here. If he keep on like this will it be enough?
Fingers work into his hair and it’s almost gentle, soft pressure guiding him to lean into a shoulder before massaging lightly. The ball of emotions winds itself tighter before it bursts and he knows he’s getting snot and tears on the fabric but he can’t stop. It’s fucked. It’s more fucked when a quiet “easy, just warm my cock for a while. You know how to do that.’ actually settles him.
Sex isn’t complicated, Clint doesn’t snap in and out of his moods like Bucky does. Bucky came here to get fucked until he cried and screamed and didn’t have room for the pain and the conflict in his head anymore. He was proving that he didn’t have to brat his way into the beating every time - proving it to who he doesn't know. He just needed to sit there and be good. Take it and not worry about whether his dick was making a mess or he needed to make dinner tonight.
Clint asks something. Says they’ll need to move but he can stay. He can stay and that’s all that matters so he doesn’t answer; doesn’t really process the rest of the words.
It’s a while before he’s moved. The crying wasn’t sustainable and stopped pretty quick and he’s half asleep when the world tilts. Clint’s holding his head steady as they roll to lay on the couch, hips twisting as his entire nervous system remembers he’s technically been getting fucked for the last however long. Hour? Two? Some sort of noise escapes him because Clint presses close, folds him in half on the couch and says
“Shh, shh you did all that work. Be a shame to waste it.”
He’s an open nerve and all he can do is clutch at the man above him as Clint takes him almost sweetly. It’s not what they do. But he tucks his face against the oh-so-warm skin of his neck and takes every slow rock into his body like it’s supplication.
Usually he’d get up once it’s over. He’d complain if there was a mess and he’d ride the high for a while, limping out of the building and ready to take on whatever mission next came his way. Right now he can’t even muster the energy to tilt his hips so the spend doesn’t drip and ruin the couch cushions.
“There,” Clint twirls a strand of his hair around a finger, tucks it behind his ear “feel better, don’t you?”
It’s not a real question. Real questions don’t get asked when he’s falling asleep and puffy eyed and messy.
The blanket he’s wrapped in is oversized and soft… this is not something they do either. The whole care thing.
“Hush, Bucky. Get some sleep.”The world shifts again.
Clint’s bed is big. Not too soft. He’s never gotten to sleep in it before.
Sleeping here is probably a bad idea but he can’t remember why anymore.
And Clint doesn’t seem to mind.