Bucky closes the door behind him, hearing it click shut and echo around him. He’s sure he had a light on, before - a lamp, at least, maybe the overhead in the kitchen. But now there’s nothing but darkness. Not even the sunset through the curtains. Despite his keen senses, he can’t see a thing, eyes straining to adjust, scanning quickly for movement, shadows.
There’s a long hallway back to the living room, maybe twenty feet, and the nearest lightswitch is at the very end of it. Bucky gropes for the wall with his prosthesis, splaying his palm flat and making his way forward, step by step. This prosthetic arm is only a few months old - a newfangled contraption, designed primarily to blend in, and which he is still deciding whether or not he hates. He had contemplated removing it all together before the scene, but instead finally decided it would be, if nothing else, good practice to keep it on.
About halfway to the living room, he hears a scuttle, sees a flicker of movement, and stops short. “Hello?” he hears himself say, in an extraordinary lapse in stealth. There is, of course, no reply.
Bucky takes another step forward. Then another, and another, heart hammering in his chest. His eyes are adjusting, little by little, and he’s almost there, he’s almost there, almost to the lightswitch, he knows he is - but something holds him back, something keeps him rooted to the spot where he stands. He watches for more movement through the darkness, finding nothing.
Steve? He wants to say, Steve, is that you? But that’s not allowed. Not according to his own rules.
There is always a moment, at least once every scene, when Bucky is really, genuinely scared. When he feels his stomach go sour and his head start to spin and his blood run cold. When he forgets why he does this, forgets that this is something he has asked for, begged for, planned and prepared for.
When instead, he remembers only the way it felt before. With their hands all over him, twisting his body into strange shapes, using him until he could not be used anymore, and then some. When he was just a thing, a weapon, a machine, an object, a toy, a doll. When he could not, did not, speak nor scream nor beg nor cry, just took it and took it and took it, hovering outside of himself, unfeeling.
And then, he always remembers: This is different. This is now. This is a game, a game he can play however he wants.
He will be afraid, yes. But fear keeps him present. Fear reminds him of his own body: that it exists, that it is his and his alone. Fear reminds him that he is human, he is alive, he is capable of fighting back, capable of feeling, capable of wanting - and not wanting. Fear is the whole point.
Fear wraps its warm arms around him and says, let go, let go, let go.
The light in the entryway flips on.
There is a figure standing there, at the opposite end of the apartment, tall and silent, unmoving. He is blocking the front door. He is wearing all black, head to toe, including heavy black boots, black leather gloves, and a black tactical mask that covers the lower half of his face. His eyes are sharp and blue and serious, trained right on Bucky.
For a long moment, neither of them move. Then, the man begins to sprint, running right for him.
Bucky realizes he is trapped, smack in the middle of the hallway, and sprints forward too, directly at the man. A split second before they should make contact, right as the man is about to tackle him, Bucky dodges towards the right - towards the living room.
Bucky leaps over the coffee table, landing gracelessly, socked feet sliding dangerously for a moment too long before he catches his balance. He risks looking over his shoulder for a fraction of a second - a mistake - only to see the man clearing the table, leaping towards him, too.
The first blow strikes him hard across the jaw. Bucky reels, stumbling, his back hitting the bookcase behind him. The books tremble briefly in their places but do not fall. He sees the man going in for another hit from the left, but Bucky blocks it just in time, seizing the incoming arm and twisting, hard, trying to pin it behind the man’s back.
But the man breaks free of Bucky’s grip and uses his entire body weight to rush him, slamming them both back into the bookcase. This time, paperback copies of Catch-22 and Snow Crash tumble to the ground, missing them by a few inches. Bucky kicks the books out the way; they skitter to the opposite corner of the room.
The man tries to pin him and Bucky tries to twist away, free himself. They grapple against the shelves, back and forth, each struggling for purchase, and Bucky feels muscle memory kicking in as he settles into this old routine.
Violence, even when it frightens, is what Bucky knows best. Violence is familiar, and easy, and warm. And safe, somehow. He doesn’t like it, not exactly. But he understands it. He is good with it. He feels at home amidst it, giving and receiving and moving in time with the rhythm of combat. He appreciates the intimacy, the intricacy, of the dance.
Gloved hands fist in Bucky's shirt, the smell of leather conjuring up a tumble of sensory memories. A slap. A uniform. A black chaise. A mask. Underneath, there are notes of a strange cologne, a faint shampoo, two smells Bucky does not recognize and cannot place. The unfamiliarity disorients him for a moment, sending a fresh wave of alarm through his body, and when he searches the man's face, the familiar blue eyes are closed off, betraying nothing.
The man is so close now that his breath is warm and heavy on Bucky's face. His blonde hair is tousled, out of place, and Bucky, even in his predicament, is suddenly overcome with the urge to run his hands through it, mess it up even more. Adrenaline courses through his body, fear and instinct intertwining with giddy, reckless desire. Bucky feels his mouth twist sideways into a smile, despite himself.
“What?” He taunts quietly, knowing exactly what the consequences will be. He doesn’t usually play the game this way. But today, he feels like mouthing off a little, being an arrogant little shit. He grins wider. “What are you gonna do?” The man’s eyes narrow, flickering briefly over Bucky's mouth before yanking him by the shirt, slamming his head back once more.
Bucky sees stars. In his haze, he feels the man's entire body weight pressing against him, pinning him there, trapping him with ease, like a butterfly against a corkboard. And then - He feels the man’s knee, insistent, between his thighs, inching them apart.
Fear and desire twist tighter inside him, like two wrestling snakes, glowing red-hot in his stomach. “Is that all?” Bucky rasps, voice already shaking. “Is that your worst?” But for all his brass, he can see in his mind’s eye his own future violation, all the bright and colorful shapes it might take: Being fucked right here, against this bookshelf. Being thrown to the ground, his naked body shivering against the cold wood floor. Being shoved to his knees, forced to choke and gag and cry. The possibilities run through him, full-body memories, flashes of things long since past, one after another after another.
The man backhands him so hard Bucky’s ears ring. Bucky hears himself moan before he can bite it back. The man hits him again, even harder. And it’s only then that Bucky notices, with a wave of horror, the heat of arousal growing between his legs.
No, no, wait, he thinks, but it’s too late; he's getting hard already. So soon, so easily, just from being knocked around a little, just from the smell of leather and a knee between his legs. Just from being caught and pinned and slapped. Their bodies are so close that he knows the man can feel it too; Bucky can see it in his eyes.
All the insolence drains out of Bucky’s body at once, disappearing as quickly as it came, giving way to a hot flood of shame.
“Fuck you,” Bucky whispers, finally finding enough strength to wedge his shoulder in between their bodies, knocking the man backwards. The man falters, just long enough for Bucky to make a break for it.
But the man is too quick - he kicks out and trips Bucky, who falls, artlessly, to the ground.
Bucky throws his arm out to brace himself, elbow stupidly locked, knees simultaneously slamming into wood. He barely has time to register the pain before the man is before him, seizing him by his throat, forcing his face upwards. Fingers dig into his neck, first cutting off his blood flow, then his air, too.
Just like we practiced, Bucky thinks, remembering last weekend, on top of Steve, demonstrating how he likes it, while Steve made breathless little jokes beneath him. But now there is no humor, no hesitation from the man choking him. Everything tilts, blurs. Bucky hears the stupid gagging noises gurgling from his throat. He is being wrenched upwards from his hands and knees, face flushing hot with shame and lack of oxygen. He struggles against the brutal grip, but he’s got no traction and everything is going fuzzier by the second.
Then, just when darkness is beginning to creep into the edges of his vision, the man lets go, and Bucky drops to the ground once more. He stays low, gasping for air, as the apartment spins back into view. It hurts to breathe. He can feel the man standing over him, the icy gaze bearing down at him, and he feels small, so incredibly small.
Get up, go, his brain screams, but his lungs are on fire, and he is increasingly aware of the sharp pain blooming in his kneecaps. The man kicks him twice, once in the ribs and once in the stomach, and Bucky collapses again to the floor with a rough, spluttering sound. He rolls onto his back in desperation, like a beetle ready to be stomped, letting the pain wash over him. His eyes lock with the man’s above and he twists his mouth to say please, but - stops himself just in time. It’s far too soon for begging.
You’re out of practice, soldier, Bucky thinks, as he lies there panting, and it’s true. He’s in shape, sure - running almost every day, yoga a few times a week, rock climbing now and then. Healthy, socially acceptable outlets for all the bullshit pent up inside him. But he does not fight, does not spar, does not train. Not anymore. Not outside of this.
Because sometimes the violence starts to feel a little too familiar. He has tried to unlearn it, again and again, with middling success. He has tried to push it away, make it go quiet. To go against his nature, let it out of him like bad blood. But it always lurks, beneath the surface, murky and hot and singing out like a siren to him.
One leather boot finds Bucky’s cheek, turning it away, pressing down hard, and Bucky lets it happen. This flip side of violence - receiving it - is familiar, too. Warm and safe in its own way. It too calls out to him from deep in his bones: the antithetical, inexplicable desire to be hurt.
Not to surrender, necessarily. And not to be submissive, either. He supposes he could call himself a masochist, but the word sounds so dramatic, so overwrought. He simply wants to be hurt because it feels right. He and Steve have tried playing with all flavors of pain and power, and Bucky has found he doesn’t really care for most of them. He doesn't want to crawl and serve and obey. He doesn't want to say yes sir and no sir and thank you sir. At best, he finds it boring and contrived. At worst, it reminds him too much of his old body, of who he was when he was not himself. He doesn't want to have to be good or bite his tongue or hold himself back, not anymore.
But this - this works for him, because he only has to be himself.
"Get the fuck off of me," Bucky spits. The sole presses heavy against his face, and he imagines what he must look like, cheek squished against the ground, ugly. He remembers, from another lifetime, the bitter taste of leather, when he was made to kiss the boots, lick them clean. He shivers as the boot scrapes down his face, slowly, dragging down his chest and stomach. It finds the hem of his shirt and begins to inch it upwards, slowly, exposing his bare, unprotected stomach. Bucky shivers again at how vulnerable he is like this, on his back, flushed and panting. Pathetic. Do something, his brain screams, anything, anything -
Bucky reaches around and finds the pressure point behind the man’s knee. The man doubles over reflexively, and Bucky has time to roll out from beneath his boot. Bucky dives over the couch without looking back and keeps running; when he reaches the dining area, he throws one chair behind him in his wake, then another, roadblocks. He skids into the kitchen, off-balance, slipping, breathing hard, looking around for something, anything to help him.
But there’s nothing, he knows, as the man comes up and grabs him from behind, arms tight around his middle. Bucky struggles against him, flailing, knowing that this is a dead end. It's just the two of them - And no way out.
where the fire burns hot and bright [ 2 / ? ]
There’s a long hallway back to the living room, maybe twenty feet, and the nearest lightswitch is at the very end of it. Bucky gropes for the wall with his prosthesis, splaying his palm flat and making his way forward, step by step. This prosthetic arm is only a few months old - a newfangled contraption, designed primarily to blend in, and which he is still deciding whether or not he hates. He had contemplated removing it all together before the scene, but instead finally decided it would be, if nothing else, good practice to keep it on.
About halfway to the living room, he hears a scuttle, sees a flicker of movement, and stops short. “Hello?” he hears himself say, in an extraordinary lapse in stealth. There is, of course, no reply.
Bucky takes another step forward. Then another, and another, heart hammering in his chest. His eyes are adjusting, little by little, and he’s almost there, he’s almost there, almost to the lightswitch, he knows he is - but something holds him back, something keeps him rooted to the spot where he stands. He watches for more movement through the darkness, finding nothing.
Steve? He wants to say, Steve, is that you? But that’s not allowed. Not according to his own rules.
There is always a moment, at least once every scene, when Bucky is really, genuinely scared. When he feels his stomach go sour and his head start to spin and his blood run cold. When he forgets why he does this, forgets that this is something he has asked for, begged for, planned and prepared for.
When instead, he remembers only the way it felt before. With their hands all over him, twisting his body into strange shapes, using him until he could not be used anymore, and then some. When he was just a thing, a weapon, a machine, an object, a toy, a doll. When he could not, did not, speak nor scream nor beg nor cry, just took it and took it and took it, hovering outside of himself, unfeeling.
And then, he always remembers: This is different. This is now. This is a game, a game he can play however he wants.
He will be afraid, yes. But fear keeps him present. Fear reminds him of his own body: that it exists, that it is his and his alone. Fear reminds him that he is human, he is alive, he is capable of fighting back, capable of feeling, capable of wanting - and not wanting. Fear is the whole point.
Fear wraps its warm arms around him and says, let go, let go, let go.
The light in the entryway flips on.
There is a figure standing there, at the opposite end of the apartment, tall and silent, unmoving. He is blocking the front door. He is wearing all black, head to toe, including heavy black boots, black leather gloves, and a black tactical mask that covers the lower half of his face. His eyes are sharp and blue and serious, trained right on Bucky.
For a long moment, neither of them move. Then, the man begins to sprint, running right for him.
Bucky realizes he is trapped, smack in the middle of the hallway, and sprints forward too, directly at the man. A split second before they should make contact, right as the man is about to tackle him, Bucky dodges towards the right - towards the living room.
Bucky leaps over the coffee table, landing gracelessly, socked feet sliding dangerously for a moment too long before he catches his balance. He risks looking over his shoulder for a fraction of a second - a mistake - only to see the man clearing the table, leaping towards him, too.
The first blow strikes him hard across the jaw. Bucky reels, stumbling, his back hitting the bookcase behind him. The books tremble briefly in their places but do not fall. He sees the man going in for another hit from the left, but Bucky blocks it just in time, seizing the incoming arm and twisting, hard, trying to pin it behind the man’s back.
But the man breaks free of Bucky’s grip and uses his entire body weight to rush him, slamming them both back into the bookcase. This time, paperback copies of Catch-22 and Snow Crash tumble to the ground, missing them by a few inches. Bucky kicks the books out the way; they skitter to the opposite corner of the room.
The man tries to pin him and Bucky tries to twist away, free himself. They grapple against the shelves, back and forth, each struggling for purchase, and Bucky feels muscle memory kicking in as he settles into this old routine.
Violence, even when it frightens, is what Bucky knows best. Violence is familiar, and easy, and warm. And safe, somehow. He doesn’t like it, not exactly. But he understands it. He is good with it. He feels at home amidst it, giving and receiving and moving in time with the rhythm of combat. He appreciates the intimacy, the intricacy, of the dance.
Gloved hands fist in Bucky's shirt, the smell of leather conjuring up a tumble of sensory memories. A slap. A uniform. A black chaise. A mask. Underneath, there are notes of a strange cologne, a faint shampoo, two smells Bucky does not recognize and cannot place. The unfamiliarity disorients him for a moment, sending a fresh wave of alarm through his body, and when he searches the man's face, the familiar blue eyes are closed off, betraying nothing.
The man is so close now that his breath is warm and heavy on Bucky's face. His blonde hair is tousled, out of place, and Bucky, even in his predicament, is suddenly overcome with the urge to run his hands through it, mess it up even more. Adrenaline courses through his body, fear and instinct intertwining with giddy, reckless desire. Bucky feels his mouth twist sideways into a smile, despite himself.
“What?” He taunts quietly, knowing exactly what the consequences will be. He doesn’t usually play the game this way. But today, he feels like mouthing off a little, being an arrogant little shit. He grins wider. “What are you gonna do?” The man’s eyes narrow, flickering briefly over Bucky's mouth before yanking him by the shirt, slamming his head back once more.
Bucky sees stars. In his haze, he feels the man's entire body weight pressing against him, pinning him there, trapping him with ease, like a butterfly against a corkboard. And then - He feels the man’s knee, insistent, between his thighs, inching them apart.
Fear and desire twist tighter inside him, like two wrestling snakes, glowing red-hot in his stomach. “Is that all?” Bucky rasps, voice already shaking. “Is that your worst?” But for all his brass, he can see in his mind’s eye his own future violation, all the bright and colorful shapes it might take: Being fucked right here, against this bookshelf. Being thrown to the ground, his naked body shivering against the cold wood floor. Being shoved to his knees, forced to choke and gag and cry. The possibilities run through him, full-body memories, flashes of things long since past, one after another after another.
The man backhands him so hard Bucky’s ears ring. Bucky hears himself moan before he can bite it back. The man hits him again, even harder. And it’s only then that Bucky notices, with a wave of horror, the heat of arousal growing between his legs.
No, no, wait, he thinks, but it’s too late; he's getting hard already. So soon, so easily, just from being knocked around a little, just from the smell of leather and a knee between his legs. Just from being caught and pinned and slapped. Their bodies are so close that he knows the man can feel it too; Bucky can see it in his eyes.
All the insolence drains out of Bucky’s body at once, disappearing as quickly as it came, giving way to a hot flood of shame.
“Fuck you,” Bucky whispers, finally finding enough strength to wedge his shoulder in between their bodies, knocking the man backwards. The man falters, just long enough for Bucky to make a break for it.
But the man is too quick - he kicks out and trips Bucky, who falls, artlessly, to the ground.
Bucky throws his arm out to brace himself, elbow stupidly locked, knees simultaneously slamming into wood. He barely has time to register the pain before the man is before him, seizing him by his throat, forcing his face upwards. Fingers dig into his neck, first cutting off his blood flow, then his air, too.
Just like we practiced, Bucky thinks, remembering last weekend, on top of Steve, demonstrating how he likes it, while Steve made breathless little jokes beneath him. But now there is no humor, no hesitation from the man choking him. Everything tilts, blurs. Bucky hears the stupid gagging noises gurgling from his throat. He is being wrenched upwards from his hands and knees, face flushing hot with shame and lack of oxygen. He struggles against the brutal grip, but he’s got no traction and everything is going fuzzier by the second.
Then, just when darkness is beginning to creep into the edges of his vision, the man lets go, and Bucky drops to the ground once more. He stays low, gasping for air, as the apartment spins back into view. It hurts to breathe. He can feel the man standing over him, the icy gaze bearing down at him, and he feels small, so incredibly small.
Get up, go, his brain screams, but his lungs are on fire, and he is increasingly aware of the sharp pain blooming in his kneecaps. The man kicks him twice, once in the ribs and once in the stomach, and Bucky collapses again to the floor with a rough, spluttering sound. He rolls onto his back in desperation, like a beetle ready to be stomped, letting the pain wash over him. His eyes lock with the man’s above and he twists his mouth to say please, but - stops himself just in time. It’s far too soon for begging.
You’re out of practice, soldier, Bucky thinks, as he lies there panting, and it’s true. He’s in shape, sure - running almost every day, yoga a few times a week, rock climbing now and then. Healthy, socially acceptable outlets for all the bullshit pent up inside him. But he does not fight, does not spar, does not train. Not anymore. Not outside of this.
Because sometimes the violence starts to feel a little too familiar. He has tried to unlearn it, again and again, with middling success. He has tried to push it away, make it go quiet. To go against his nature, let it out of him like bad blood. But it always lurks, beneath the surface, murky and hot and singing out like a siren to him.
One leather boot finds Bucky’s cheek, turning it away, pressing down hard, and Bucky lets it happen. This flip side of violence - receiving it - is familiar, too. Warm and safe in its own way. It too calls out to him from deep in his bones: the antithetical, inexplicable desire to be hurt.
Not to surrender, necessarily. And not to be submissive, either. He supposes he could call himself a masochist, but the word sounds so dramatic, so overwrought. He simply wants to be hurt because it feels right. He and Steve have tried playing with all flavors of pain and power, and Bucky has found he doesn’t really care for most of them. He doesn't want to crawl and serve and obey. He doesn't want to say yes sir and no sir and thank you sir. At best, he finds it boring and contrived. At worst, it reminds him too much of his old body, of who he was when he was not himself. He doesn't want to have to be good or bite his tongue or hold himself back, not anymore.
But this - this works for him, because he only has to be himself.
"Get the fuck off of me," Bucky spits. The sole presses heavy against his face, and he imagines what he must look like, cheek squished against the ground, ugly. He remembers, from another lifetime, the bitter taste of leather, when he was made to kiss the boots, lick them clean. He shivers as the boot scrapes down his face, slowly, dragging down his chest and stomach. It finds the hem of his shirt and begins to inch it upwards, slowly, exposing his bare, unprotected stomach. Bucky shivers again at how vulnerable he is like this, on his back, flushed and panting. Pathetic. Do something, his brain screams, anything, anything -
Bucky reaches around and finds the pressure point behind the man’s knee. The man doubles over reflexively, and Bucky has time to roll out from beneath his boot. Bucky dives over the couch without looking back and keeps running; when he reaches the dining area, he throws one chair behind him in his wake, then another, roadblocks. He skids into the kitchen, off-balance, slipping, breathing hard, looking around for something, anything to help him.
But there’s nothing, he knows, as the man comes up and grabs him from behind, arms tight around his middle. Bucky struggles against him, flailing, knowing that this is a dead end. It's just the two of them - And no way out.