Chapter Text
John floated, weightless. Sisal whispered sensation over his skin. Inside his guts, Bucky’s cock pulsed and pulsed. He felt impossibly stretched. Stretched and full. There was nothing else like it, and his body knew that. Every cell craved it: the way Bucky Barnes pushed him open.
He shifted. There was no pain anymore, just a colorful haze. Bucky’s eyes were luminous above him. They reflected like the moon, shining John’s devotion back across his face. Unconsciously, John’s lips curled up in a smile. They were simultaneously dry and wet, coated with saliva but chafed after the gag. He flicked his tongue over the roof of his mouth, silently indulging in the taste of his own come.
Bucky said something, but the words were a buzz. John flexed his hands. Pleasure was a welcome ache in his groin. He drifted on it. He soared high. His breaths came easy. They passed through his lips with a barely audible sigh. He lifted his hips. It was a plea and a provocation all in one. Maybe Bucky would take more pictures.
Maybe Bucky wanted to remember this for once.
John tilted his head. He studied the lines of Bucky’s jaw and the curves of his lips. Everything was bright around the edges. His skin was glowing. The lines on his arm glittered gold.
Suddenly, John’s forearms came loose. He exhaled, feeling contentment down to his bones. There was something special about the moment when the ropes fell away. He enjoyed the feeling of the knife against his skin, but there was more to it than that. There was something about the sensation that sank deep into his being. If he had to put words to it, it was the feeling of release. Like he’d finally earned the space to breathe.
When John didn’t move, Bucky moved him. He took John’s arm in his hands. The vibranium was deliciously cool on his overheated flesh. John moaned. He was so relaxed. Relaxed and happy in a way that he couldn’t be anywhere else.
Bucky’s cock slipped free. John would’ve lamented the loss, but Bucky’s fingers were busy massaging blood back into his hands. The contact was unusually intimate. It felt soft. It felt like maybe this time, Bucky actually thought he was worth something. John smiled again, or maybe he hadn’t stopped.
“Squeeze.”
He laughed. It was almost a giggle. Of course he could squeeze. His fingers twitched. God, he felt light. He felt so, so light. Bucky was looking at him. Really looking at him. It was like all the color in the room had finally pointed in his direction. The dark parts were gone, because how could they stay when the world was good?
Lemar, he closed his eyes. I think I figured out what peace is supposed to feel like.
For once, his chest didn’t ache. For once, he could just exist.
“John?”
“Yeah,” he slurred.
He was John. At least, he was pretty sure he was. He reached up with a hand. His motions were sluggish, but he cupped Bucky’s cheek on the second try. Slowly, Bucky pulled his wrist away.
“I’m gonna cut your legs loose,” he said. “It might sting.”
John laughed again. It wouldn’t sting. And it didn’t. Heat bloomed over his thighs. It was so warm. Warm and comfortable. He sank into the bed, feeling as ephemeral as a dandelion.
“Damn it, John,” Bucky’s voice was a mere murmur in his ear. The sound of it was muted and gentle. “Don’t crash on me.”
Crash? Huh?
John put his hands on Bucky’s hips. He tugged, finally feeling some strength in his limbs.
“John.”
“Stay,” he said.
Bucky never stayed. But today, he would. He would, because–
John blinked.
Suddenly, the room exploded into focus. The soft glow sublimated into harsh, artificial light. Pain reverberated through his extremities. It pulled razor-sharp. It was like he’d crawled through a mile of barbed wire in two seconds. Whatever cloud he’d been drifting on collapsed into nothing, and now he was crashing back to earth.
“Fuck,” he hissed.
“It’s okay–”
“Don’t fucking touch me,” John snapped.
His skin was on fire. His hole was burning. Pins and needles echoed down the underside of his thighs. Come coated his stomach. It was already drying in his happy trail. His beard, meanwhile, was uncomfortably wet. His ass was uncomfortably wet.
“Sisal, Bucky? Seriously!?” he practically spat the words.
Bucky shoved his chest down. John tried to ignore the warmth that bloomed under the contact. He was sore. He was sore all over, and he felt like a black hole had opened where his lungs were supposed to be. Something hideous reared its head. Something he couldn’t contain or control, so he lashed out instead. His hands balled into fists.
“Hey,” Bucky caught his wrists before he could strike. “Listen up. You're gonna drink some water, and then you’re gonna eat what I give you without complaining about it.”
“The fuck I will,” he gnashed his teeth.
“John,” Bucky’s eyes were piercing.
“Fuck you.”
“You’ll do it, or I’ll do it for you,” Bucky’s mouth was a hard line.
“You can’t eat for me,” John declared.
But Bucky had that look. The look that said he was right and everyone else was wrong, and now the conversation was over. John’s fists didn’t unball, but he slowly leaned back on the pillow. It was damp with sweat. In fact, every part of him was damp with sweat. And Bucky still had his clothes on–the absolute asshole. Nothing to make a guy feel cheap like refusing to get naked with him.
You love it.
That wasn’t the point.
He glowered at the ceiling. His whole body ached. His ass felt like someone had taken a jackhammer to it. Bucky’s come sat heavy in his guts. If he’d been alone, he might’ve felt the bulge of it. But he wasn’t alone, was he? He was in a grimy motel with a guy who’d sooner kill him than have an actual conversation.
“I’m so goddamn stupid,” John muttered under his breath.
The bed creaked. Bucky stood up.
John trembled–fuck. Food? Water? No. Bucky was lying. Bucky was leaving. He’d finally seen what a worthless sack of shit he had in his bed–
Bucky grabbed his wrist. He squeezed. John tried to shutter his expression, but based on Bucky’s firm grip, he could tell it didn’t work. He could tell he’d exposed himself, and that was far more pathetic than anything else.
“Drink,” Bucky ordered.
He pushed a water bottle into John’s hand. It was lukewarm, but John chugged it anyway. He snapped the cap instead of twisting it off, flicking the pieces into some dusty corner. Next to him, Bucky unwrapped a Hershey’s bar. The plastic crinkled.
“No thanks,” John said. He crushed the water bottle between his palms.
“What?” the corner of Bucky’s mouth twitched up. “Not gonna fit your macros?”
“Now that you mention it…” John narrowed his eyes.
Bucky broke off a chunk anyway. He held it up to John’s lips. It smelled artificial, but in that nostalgic way of childhood and better memories.
“Eat.”
John snapped at Bucky’s fingers, but he ate it. It wasn’t his fault that Bucky gave orders with a weight that settled all the loose bits in his useless skull. And the chocolate tasted good. It tasted really good.
“Eat,” Bucky said again.
John was more polite about taking the second piece. His lips brushed over Bucky’s fingers.
“Good.”
The praise was warmer than it had any right to be. Bucky produced a second water bottle from somewhere, so John drank that too. He ate three Hershey’s bars, which combined were just enough sugar to stabilize the Molotov cocktail that was his brain. After a few minutes, he felt a little more solid.
Bucky moved to stand up, and John’s hand snapped out before he could stop himself. He grabbed a fistful of Bucky’s shirt, yanking him to a halt.
Okay, not that solid.
“I’m gonna turn on the shower,” Bucky explained.
“Yeah,” John said. But he didn’t let go.
Bucky paused. He glanced down with sharp, searching eyes. Whatever he saw flickered understanding over his face. John scowled. He didn’t want that understanding. He didn’t want Bucky’s pity or whatever it was that was actually beaming back at him. But suddenly, a firm hand pushed him down onto the mattress. Bucky’s whole body draped over him like a blanket.
The weight of a well-fed super soldier landed heavy on his chest. John would’ve complained, but Bucky slung a bicep over his head and blocked out the rest of the room. John inhaled, smelling the tang of sweat and a little bit of Hoppe’s No. 9. For whatever reason, it settled him. Bucky’s scent always settled him.
“You good?” Bucky said into his hair.
John didn’t answer.
“Okay,” Bucky added.
He stayed there, crushing John with his bulk. It was… nice. The pain faded to a dull buzz. Tension dissipated in the back of his skull. In the darkness under Bucky’s arm, in the quiet, there was nothing he needed to hide. There was no reason to pretend he was fine. For the first time since yesterday morning, John exhaled.
DC had been a nightmare. A fucking nightmare. When Hydra started shooting, there were families on the Mall. Kids as young as his son. It was monumentally fucked up. It defied all logic.
John wrapped his hands around Bucky’s waist. He didn’t pull or push. He just held. He held and he breathed.
He wondered–not for the first time–why he couldn’t calm down the normal way. A hot bath? A long walk? What a joke. He’d always been on edge, but serum made it all so much worse. It felt like an excuse, but he knew it wasn’t. He knew there was a reason he kept ending up at a certain door, in a certain bed, eagerly awaiting orders.
Sex with Bucky was incredible, and he didn’t know what that said about him. He didn’t know what it was supposed to mean. Maybe nothing. Bucky sure acted like it was nothing. They had bad days, yeah, but even on the good ones, Barnes looked at him with barely disguised contempt.
John buried his face in Bucky’s bicep.
Guilt tugged in his chest–guilt that he was in a seedy motel and not at home with his family. But that wasn’t fair to Olivia, and it wasn’t fair to him. They’d been worse than roommates by the end. The divorce wasn’t out of the blue, not by a long shot. It was the culmination of years of miscommunications and contempt. Cold years. Brutally cold years. John twisted his wedding ring. His stomach twisted, too.
He should call her. He should apologize. Something.
Sorry, he rehearsed in his head. I know I wasn’t the man you needed me to be.
He had to let her go. He knew that. But he couldn’t quite do it. Not when he was terrified of what he might grab onto instead.
“Hey,” Bucky’s fingers curled in his hair.
“What?” John mumbled.
“I can hear you overthinking things from here.”
“Yeah, and I can smell how bad your breath stinks. Who cares?”
Bucky pulled back. He ran his tongue over his teeth. John stared at his lips. Bucky’s eyes cottoned onto the motion. For a long second, no one moved. Tension balanced on a knife’s edge. John almost closed the gap. He knew he could smash their mouths together. Then maybe the world would go fuzzy around the edges again. But instead, he hesitated. And Bucky moved away.
“Shower,” Bucky said gruffly.
John shrugged. He tried to sit up, only to flop back onto the pillows like a newborn foal. His skin prickled. His muscles screamed. Exhaustion slammed into him like a weight, and it was crystal clear there was no chance of shaking it off. He grunted anyway. Fuck exhaustion. He tried to move, only to flop again.
Bucky noticed, because he noticed everything.
“I have some aloe,” Bucky jerked his chin toward the duffel bag on the floor. “But we gotta clean you up first.”
“Fine,” John grumbled.
Bucky looked meaningfully toward the bathroom. But John didn’t move.
“Can you walk?” Bucky asked slowly.
John wanted to snap that he could. But no. There was no way. He couldn’t even sit up. Bucky smirked. Fucking asshole. He exited the bed first. To John’s surprise, he stripped off his clothes. They formed a little pile on the floor, almost deliberately disorderly in their arrangement. For a guy with basically no stuff, Bucky always managed to make a mess. John spared a single thought for the kitchen back at the Watchtower. They’d sure done a number on it, and not for the first time.
He worked his jaw absently. See, last month he’d been making a perfectly valid point about field stripping his weapon, then suddenly Bucky was slamming him against the counter and pulling his pants down–
Bucky’s arms slid under his back and thighs. John jolted, surprised. But then he was airborne, and staying still seemed like a smart course of action. The duffel bag smacked against his ass. Bucky had picked it up at some point, and now it was hanging next to John in his arms. As a trio, they made the short trip to the bathroom.
John’s head lolled. He straightened it slowly, dragging it back over his neck. He was tired. He was so, so tired. But it was turning into the good kind of tired–the kind that sank satisfaction into his bones.
Bucky set him down on the bathroom vanity. It was cramped, and doubly so when the duffel bag plopped next to him. John knew he wasn’t small, but somehow Bucky always tricked him into thinking it. And now reality had barreled in with a tiny motel bathroom, and he felt uncomfortably squished.
The shower turned on with a spitting, rattling sound. John almost rolled his eyes. Bucky had terrible taste in accommodations. The wallpaper was peeling off the walls. The furniture was held together with loose screws and duct tape. It was a miracle they hadn’t snapped the bed frame. John’s eyes roved around, cataloging holes in the plaster and a damp patch on the ceiling. Until suddenly, he caught sight of his own reflection.
His body looked beat to hell, and that was saying something. He stared at the mirror, aghast. But between his legs, his traitorous cock pulsed. John squeezed his thighs together and tried to ignore it. Yes, he had rope burns on his forearms and especially his thighs. Yes, Bucky’s come was leaking out of his ass and onto the counter. And yes, he was bruised black in several places. But that didn’t mean he had to get all hot and bothered about it.
He got hot and bothered about it.
“Alright,” Bucky ran his hand under the spray. Some of the excess splashed on John’s arm. It was cold.
“Alright?” John echoed. “You’ve got to be kidding.”
“What?” Bucky moved toward the counter. “Something wrong?”
“I’m not about to take a cold shower,” John huffed.
“Uh-huh,” Bucky slung an arm under his shoulder and eased him to his feet. “Sure.”
John went to the shower, but only to get rid of the problem between his legs. He even refrained from complaining when Bucky washed out the rope burns. Sisal fibers stuck to his skin, and they stung when they came free. Annoyingly though, the cool water felt good on his overheated body. He wasn't about to give Bucky the satisfaction of saying it, but he relaxed into the sensations nevertheless.
At one point, Bucky propped him against the wall like an umbrella. John grumbled under his breath about it. His forehead pressed against the cool tile. But when Bucky’s hands returned sudsy with his body wash, his irritation vanished. The citrus-orchard smell was welcome in his nostrils. And the feeling of cleanliness was welcome on his stomach and especially his hole.
They didn’t linger. The water was too lukewarm for that. Bucky patted him dry with a microfiber towel. John let him, mostly because his arms refused to move more than one inch in any direction.
“Sit,” Bucky flicked the toilet lid shut, then steered him down.
John’s thighs complained on the way, and he dropped the last two inches like a rock. The impact jarred him, but it didn’t really hurt. That was a small mercy, but at least his ass was healed up from earlier. The thing with the fork had been absolutely sinister–amazing, but sinister. Bucky deserved at least a black eye for it. John squinted at him, already planning on throwing an elbow during their next training match.
The shower droned in the background, but Bucky was unbothered. He squeezed a palmful of aloe onto his hands. With unexpected care, he rubbed it on John’s forearms, then knelt between his legs and slathered it on his thighs, too. The gel was blissfully cool, and John felt the last, lingering nettles of pain fade away.
“Stay,” Bucky ordered.
John rolled his eyes. He wasn’t a dog.
He stayed anyway.
Bucky hopped back into the shower. He scrubbed himself down with a businesslike demeanor. It was perfunctory; there were no wasted movements. No lingering. No joy. It was the Winter Soldier’s inclination toward precision. Between his legs, John’s cock twitched. Pointedly, he ignored it.
“You know, I’m sure this shithole has hot water,” John said to distract himself.
“So?”
“So use it?” John let his head rest against the wall.
“You didn’t,” Bucky shrugged.
John didn’t know how to respond to that. He settled for peeking inside the duffel bag instead. There was another bar of chocolate on top. With tremendous effort, he pulled it free. It looked incredibly appealing. He practically inhaled it, relishing in the sudden burst of energy. Feeling a little more focused afterward, he poked around at the rest of the bag’s contents. Their uniforms were in there, as well as his 1911 and a couple of knives.
He took out the gun and set it on the counter. The shower finally shut off. Bucky stepped out. He wrapped the motel’s ratty towel around his waist. His eyebrow cocked when he saw the weapon, but he didn’t comment. John almost wished he would. Maybe it was the chocolate, but he suddenly felt like he could go a few rounds.
Bucky rooted around in the duffel. He pulled out a tube of toothpaste. John snorted. Was their whole bathroom packed away in there?
“What?” Bucky scowled at him.
“Nothing,” John said.
Bucky brushed his teeth with his finger. His brows were set in a rigid line. John, meanwhile, stifled a yawn. He put his hand on his gun. He liked having it close, especially after the brawl with Hydra yesterday. Whoever was responsible for the dirty bomb deserved two in the chest and one in the head. And then probably five more in the head because John was pissed.
With a little too much force, Bucky spat the toothpaste into the sink.
“You should brush twice a day,” John commented.
Bucky’s eyes slid over to him. John shrugged.
Suddenly, Bucky was crowding him against the wall. He loomed tall above the toilet. His vibranium fingers carded through John’s wet hair, yanking his head back and exposing his throat.
“What? Proper hygiene too complicated for you?” John sounded far more confident than he felt.
“Something like that,” Bucky glared.
Then he shoved a toothpaste-covered finger into John’s mouth. John’s eyebrows shot toward his hairline. He sputtered, but Bucky had him pinned. The minty taste didn’t sit right immediately after the chocolate, but there was nothing to do but take it. His jaw unhinged unconsciously, more than used to accepting Bucky’s fingers. John would’ve been embarrassed, but he’d moved past that kind of thing somewhere around his third orgasm.
John let go of his gun. His hands puddled in his lap. He glanced up at Bucky with half-lidded eyes. Sensing his capitulation, Bucky slowed. He ran the pad of his finger slowly over John’s gums, caressing rather than scouring. And eventually, he did clean John’s teeth, but he lingered over John’s tongue when he finished. His finger tasted like mint. John lapped at it, too tired to do much else.
A fresh wave of exhaustion broke over his body. His eyelids drooped closed against his will, and he had to force them back open. Bucky’s hand finally slipped away.
“Spit,” Bucky said, lifting the trash can.
John spat.
Bucky vanished back into the bedroom. John yawned. He hauled his way to his feet before he embarrassed himself and fell asleep on the toilet. The sink made a tempting target, so he slurped some water from the tap. Then he actually used the bathroom, mildly relieved that his dick still worked.
He stumbled out of the bathroom door. The mattress was stripped bare. It looked clean enough, surprisingly. And it wasn’t like he could actually get an infection or anything. John flopped down on his side, pillowing his head on his arm. He closed his eyes.
The mattress dipped behind him. Bucky’s arm wrapped around his waist. Their bodies drew together, skin against skin. John felt warm breath on his neck. Cautiously, he draped his hand on top of Bucky’s. He knew he shouldn’t. He knew he shouldn’t cling. But this… This was the best thing in his life right now.
He bit his tongue.
You want more. You know you do.
But he didn’t dare say it, in case what little he had slipped through his fingers.