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urdepressedslut · 1 year ago

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The Girl and Her Golden Boys

⇨ Chapter Two: Don’t Leave

♡ Pairing: 40’s!Bucky Barnes x Fem!Reader, 40’s!Platonic!Pre-Serum!Steve Rogers x Fem!Reader

♡ Chapter Summary: You three hangout, eating candy. Going to the diner. The day going well, until Steve insists he should join the war.

♡ Chapter Warnings: fluff, mentions of parent issues, angst, self hate, hints to passive suicidal thoughts

It had been a couple days since the funeral, you Steve and Bucky had been inseparable. You stayed with each other all day, and spent the nights together. It was starting to feel like old times, and the three of you welcomed the nostalgic feeling.

“I wonder what the future is gonna be like.” You asked out loud, popping some jellybeans in your mouth.

You were sitting on the apartment stairs, Bucky next to you stealing your jellybeans, while Steve was busy sketching a woman sitting down below.

“Flying cars.” Bucky thought, reaching over and grabbing a handful of candy.

“Flying people probably.” You wondered.

“I bet we will be mind controlled.” Steve mumbled to himself, although you and Bucky could hear.

“Mind controlled? That sounds a little ridiculous punk.” Bucky told Steve, laughing at the goofiness of the thought.

“I bet there will be movi—” You stopped and slapped Bucky’s hand away.

“Hey! What was that for?” Bucky whined, trying to reach for the candy.

“You’re eating all my jellybeans.” You told him, trying not to fall for his puppy eyes.

“Whatever you little brat.” He joked, nudging you in the side, making you giggle.

“Stevieeeee, are you done yet?” You whined dramatically, earning an eye roll from Steve.

“No. Now quiet. Let me focus.” He muttered, smudging some harsh lines with his finger.

“Yeah (Y/n) shush, and gimme some jellybeans.” Bucky teased, reaching for the bag only to grab air when you moved it away from him.

It was little moments like this, the three of you stuck in your own little world. It felt like nothing could ruin this moment.

Bucky’s face grew slightly serious, but still keeping a lighthearted tone to his voice.

“How are you and your dad? I meant to ask earlier but, didn’t seem like the right time.” He told you, his head motioning to Steve behind him.

Your face dropped the slightest bit, and of course Bucky had noticed. It didn’t always used to be a sensitive topic, but since the funeral. Grieving Sarah Rogers, it brought up feelings you had suppressed since your own Mother’s passing.

“It’s complicated.” You muttered, digging around the jellybeans for a cherry red one.

Bucky nudged your side playfully.

“Come on, give me more than that.” He pried.

“Fine. We don’t talk much. When we do talk, it’s a couple words here and there, but I don’t remember the last time I had a conversation with him longer than two minutes.” You told him, huffing in frustration.

“I’m sure it has nothing to do with you, just dealing in his own way.” Bucky hesitated, not thinking it was appropriate for him to assume.

“I don’t know, he acts like he hates me. Maybe he does.” You said sadly, and this comment got Steve’s attention.

“Okay you’re annoying most of the time, but I don’t think he hates you. Like Buck said, just give him time.” Steve explained, glancing up from his sketch to glance below the ledge.

You rolled your eyes, hating when the boys would gang up on you.

“Thanks Steve.” You replied sarcastically, earning a chuckle from Bucky, feeling him wrap an arm around your shoulders pulling you into his side.

“Stevie doesn’t mean it Doll, he’s just jealous that you’re more fun to hang out with.” Bucky whispered, but Steve could easily hear it. Gently kicking Bucky in the back.

“You little punk, what was that for?” Bucky whined, glaring back at Steve.

Steve rolled his eyes, focusing back on his sketch.

“Anyway,” He faced you again, “He doesn’t hate you, it may feel like that but… There’s no way he could hate you.”

You smiled at him, appreciating his comforting words. Bucky was so good at calming you down.

“You’re only saying that to make me feel better.” You told him, popping another few jellybeans.

“Is it working?” Bucky leaned into you playfully.

“Maybe.” You mumbled, earning a chuckle from Bucky.

He looped his arm back around your shoulders pulling you into his side. The warmth from his body melting into yours, you felt so safe in his hold.

Suddenly someone shouting about joining the army had gotten everyone’s attention. Especially Steve, he wasn’t even done with his drawing, but had shut his sketchpad immediately.

You and Bucky jumped from the intense clap from the sketchpad closing. both turning to catch Steve’s interested expression.

Bucky seemed uncomfortable with how drawn Steve was by all the shouts, and quickly changed the subject.

“How about we head to Lori’s Diner. As great as your jellybeans are— I need some real food.” Bucky came up with, resting his head against the side of yours.

Butterflies instinctively fluttered around your stomach, causing a deep crimson to appear on your cheeks.

“I’m offended, my jellybeans are superior.” You announced dramatically, hugging the bag protectively.

“More superior than Lori’s chocolate chip pancakes?” Bucky teased, watching your eyes dilate, your tongue poking out to lick your lips.

He didn’t mean to, but he let his eyes stay on your lips for a little longer than he should’ve.

“That does sound really good.” Steve announced from behind, squeezing his way in between you and Bucky.

Steve sat down, sandwiching himself in between the two of you, all three of you chuckling at the close proximity.

“Lori’s diner it is then.” Bucky spoke, playfully slapping Steve’s back.

It had truly felt like old times, the three of you younger— having food fights in this very diner. It was a rush of nostalgia that everyone seemed to need.

You used to ramble on and on about working for Lori one day, wanting to be a waitress.

Lori was a well respected woman, she knew how to run a diner that’s for sure. Everyone within the area knew of her. She greeted and treated every guest like they were an old friend. It was a family environment, a place you go if you started to feel disconnected from your roots.

Although she wasn’t around anymore, her legacy lived on. Her family continuing to care for the diner, honoring her life’s work.

A chocolate chip was pelted at your face, making you flinch in surprise.

“What ya thinking about that’s got you so spacey.” Steve pointed out.

You rolled your eyes, digging your fork into your own pancakes.

“I’m not spacey.”

“Yeah you are.” Steve argued.

You glanced up, glaring at Steve’s know-it-all expression.

“Are you always this annoying?” You sassed.

“Are you always this spacey?” He shot back, smirking when he saw your jaw twitch.

“Alright,” Bucky announced to the two of you, “Next person that says spacey is getting slapped.”

You and Steve immediately backed away from each others throats. It wasn’t uncommon for these petty fights to occur, it was more of a sibling fight then anything. You and Steve never took anything personally, instead just jabbing at each other.

Bucky took another bite of his pancake in triumph, always being the middle guy— stopping the bickering between the two of you.

Steve’s sudden interest out the window had both of yours attention. He was peering out, focusing on another shouting male, going on about joining the war.

You furrowed your brows, watching Steve get so enticed by the man outside. You knew what he was going on about, having passed multiple other shouting men in the streets. You couldn’t stomach the idea of Steve joining the war— being in danger.

“Will you stop.” You spoke out to Steve, gaining his attention with how gentle you spoke the words. Your tone desperate.

He furrowed his brows, shaking his head dismissively— attempting to focus back on his food.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” He muttered, avoiding eye contact.

Bucky huffed heavily, rubbing your back soothingly. Knowing exactly what you were inferring.

“Steve just don’t.” You pleaded.

“Why? I wanna fight for our country. I wanna do good.” He argued, keeping his voice at a respectable level.

“You could die, it’s dangerous.” You stated bluntly.

Steve glanced up at those words, looking back and fourth from you to Bucky. He shrugged his shoulders.

“So?” Steve whispered.

His words broke your heart. The way he cared so little about himself and his safety. You hated that he felt like that, but he wasn’t allowed to leave you too. Bucky seemed just as shocked, but kept his reaction hidden.

“I care— we care if you died. Just quit thinking about joining so badly. I know it’s what you want to do but… You can’t leave us. You can’t leave me.” You begged, but you knew it was unfair for you to ask him such a thing.

“Let’s just talk about this later, okay?” Bucky asked both of you. He would rather not ever talk about it again, but he just wanted to enjoy his food with his friends.

“Yeah sure.” Steve agreed monotonously.

Meanwhile you stared down at your plate, wishing you could disappear from Bucky and Steve’s stares. You were selfish in the way you didn’t want to let Steve go— same with Bucky. But you just couldn’t lose somebody else. You didn’t have anymore room for the pain.

A/N: a lot of this series will be domestic stuff 💗

TAGLIST: @i-l-y-3000

#bucky barnes #marvel cinematic universe #reader insert #fluff #buckybarnes #sebastian stan #marvel imagines #light angst #oneshot #40s steve rogers #40’s bucky barnes #pre serum steve #steve rogers #bucky barnes x y/n #steve rogers x y/n #the winter soldier #captain america

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illuminated-in-darkness · 11 months ago

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Eleanor Dies Black Sails Musical Parallels | XXXIV.

I spent a year rewatching Black Sails and tracking all the bits of music that repeated at any point during the show, and my findings are reinforcing that Bear McCreary is a genius and this show should have been called 'parallels that will kill you over and over again'* (tag | chronological)

#black sails musical parallels #XXXIV. s #black sails #sabsmade #XXXIV #eleanor guthrie #james flint #captain flint #woodes rogers #4.6 #mine #bear mccreary #blacksailsedit

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thereadingfangirl · 3 months ago

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𝟏𝟗𝟑𝟎'𝐬/𝟏𝟗𝟒𝟎'𝐬 𝐒𝐭𝐞𝐯𝐞 𝐑𝐨𝐠𝐞𝐫𝐬 𝐀𝐔 𝐌𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

𝐎𝐧𝐞-𝐒𝐡𝐨𝐭𝐬:

Memorable Day by @daydreaming-away-reality

#Steve Rogers #Captain America #Marvel Cinematic Universe #Marvel Fanfiction #Steve Rogers Imagine #1940's Steve Rogers #Steve Rogers AU #Marvel

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pleasantpandemonium · 2 years ago

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Sometimes the bedtime-stories tire out the wrong people.

#peggy carter #steggy #steve rogers #steve x peggy #1950’s #midjourney #agent carter #ai #captain carter #1950’s family #super soldier #is tired #parents #bedtimestorybook #bedtime stories #stegglings #captain america

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darsynia · 1 year ago

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Nearer, My God, To Thee | Stony | Ch. 1

STORY MASTERLIST | TONY MASTERLIST | STEVE MASTERLIST NEXT

Written for ZaraMelMercury as a part of @tonysbirthdaygala

Summary: Steve Rogers appreciated his unexpected promotion to Fourth Officer-- until it became clear that it was more about being a novelty American-born officer of the White Star Line than it was about his skill at the job. After another frustrating shift attending to First Class, he was rescued by the devilishly handsome Tony Stark, a notoriously brilliant troublemaker annoyed by his own role as the most tempting eligible bachelor on the ship.

Stark suggested a mutually beneficial agreement-- Steve would stand as a duty-borne chaperone to Tony's worst tendencies, thus saving Steve from endless hours of small talk in First Class. As soon as they shook on it, however, both realized their partnership carried much more potential. Length/Warnings: 3,603 words // light D/s themes For @the-slumberparty prompt: "I'm the reason you're still alive"

Note: After years of being captivated by the wreck itself and the stories therein, I couldn't resist choosing a Titanic AU after seeing my giftee's request involving hurt/comfort, angst with a happy ending, and historical AU! Please note that this is not based on Jack & Rose from the film-- a Stony retelling of that already exists.

This is a fast burn, passionate romance between two people who happen to have met at one of the worst possible times. It's been pure joy to write, and I am so delighted to share it with you now!

Tags: @chickensarentcheap @linnadhiell @sobeautifullyobsessed

Excerpt:

“You look like you could bend metal, with a grip like that,” an amused voice said from behind him.

Steve released the rail, noting the stiffness in his hands. “I beg your pardon, sir,” he said as he turned toward the speaker. The man was impeccably dressed, with facial hair that brought to mind a mythological satyr, but the most compelling thing about him was his eyes. Where every other inch of him spoke of elegance, class, and condescension, this gentleman’s eyes were warm and kind.

The man’s eyebrows lifted, and Steve realized he was staring. He stammered an apology using the only thing he could think of. In the handsome stranger’s breast pocket sat an elaborately embroidered handkerchief, the perfectly-even blue stitches standing out proudly in swirls and knots on the white cloth.

“Forgive me, your handkerchief has caught my--”

“Oh, this old thing?” The man’s accent was American, but he affected a British one for his interruption, patting at the distinctive object. “It’s my signature. I’m never without it. Tony Stark, prince of industry, at your visual service,” he said, dipping his head in a small bow. His lips were twisted in a clearly amused smile that suited his devilish look perfectly.

Chapter One: There let the way appear, steps unto heaven

Being a Fourth Officer on the Titanic was a point of pride for Steve Rogers, even though in practice he spent more time in First Class keeping the rich passengers happy than fulfilling his maritime duties. Lightoller had already pulled him aside to ‘freshen’ his serious expressions into friendlier ones. He’d been reminded that there were no other American-born officers at his level, and that he was doing the White Star Line a service by offering their wealthy American guests ‘the sound of home.’

Steve knew better than to object that his accent had nothing to do with his skill at his job, and neither did the small talk with the Rothschilds or Astors. He kept his uneasiness at bay by stepping out onto the First Class deck space, hoping the brisk air would help calm his mood.

As always, his excitement to see his childhood friend once he arrived in New York kept Steve going; saying goodbye to Bucky Barnes was one of the hardest things about moving to London from America. Their letters to each other came few and far between, particularly now, with Buck in the Army, and Steve at sea.

For a man of limited means, working his way up at White Star was one of the only ways he could get to see his friend again. The promotion to Fourth Officer had been a last-minute surprise, but as much as he hated being cynical, it seemed that it was driven more by a hope to placate passengers than anything useful.

Once a half hour had passed, he was still frustrated. As they had the day before, the passengers outdoors had been delighted to call him over to stand quietly in his uniform as they chatted to each other. It seemed that his duty time on the bridge every day was to be his only respite from the upper classes.

“You look like you could bend metal, with a grip like that,” an amused voice said from behind him.

“Forgive me, your handkerchief has caught my--”

“Sub-Lieutenant Steve Rogers, sir. Pleasure to make your acquaintance.” Too late, Steve realized he used the convention of a regular introduction, not the more deferential one for men who were not equals. Before he could apologize, Stark waved him off.

“They’ve got you parading through here at every opportunity, it’s only natural you slip into a more familiar greeting. I won’t reveal your mistake if you don’t reveal mine.”

Steve was out of his element; Stark embodied a certain First Class playfulness without somehow grating on Steve’s nerves. Most of the others just gave Steve barely a glance, maybe a nod of recognition of his rank and then moved on, but not Stark.

The man in question lifted his head and sniffed in a full breath of the crisp sea air. He seemed disappointed. “You aren’t going to ask me what the mistake is, are you?”

“With respect, no sir. I am not.”

Stark’s sudden grin hit Steve in the gut in a way he hadn’t felt in years. “Good. I haven’t done it yet. I’ll let you know.”

A young woman walked over to Stark to engage him in conversation. She fully ignored Steve, which was more familiar ground. He stood politely with one hand on the railing, but to his shock, Stark reached back as though bracing himself-- except, he not quite. His hand, undoubtedly precisely placed, was now pinning Steve’s uniform cuff to the railing.

The move was so unhurried, so casually dismissive, that Steve would have been convinced it was exactly as it appeared, if it hadn’t been for Stark’s behavior in the following conversation.

The young woman was dreadfully dull, and his witting captor seemed to offload his annoyance in being stuck listening to her by feigning fascination. Every few minutes, the clever man’s hand slid further in Steve’s direction, taking Steve’s with it by necessity-- and every few minutes, the expression on Stark’s face grew more like a caricature of interest than it had before.

Tony Stark was practically embracing him by the time the young lady said something cutting and flounced off.

“That,” Stark sighed, “--was almost worth it.”

Without explaining what he meant, he stepped back and looked at Steve with a narrow-eyed speculation that made something tighten in Steve’s chest. The ache in his arm was gone in an instant.

“Am I right in assuming you’re tired of playing the toy soldier?”

The right thing to do would be to school his face to impassivity and espouse his duty, but the words died in Steve’s throat. He didn’t want to lie to Stark. Still, his loyalty was to his superiors, and--

Stark clapped him on the shoulder. “Don’t choke on the platitudes, man! I understand you perfectly.”

“My apologies,” Steve tried, but the other man shushed him.

“You’re here for my amusement second, and the pride of the Line first, I know. Speaking of the former-- did you know my father is an inveterate womanizer?”

All Steve could do was work to prevent his face from showing shock. This seemed enough for Stark, however.

“I am, of course, following in his esteemed footsteps, but for some reason, my dear papa finds that irritating. He deals with it by lobbing marriageable young women in my direction at every opportunity.” Stark turned to rest his forearms on the railing. “Perhaps we can be of assistance to each other.”

Steve thought about being asked to step into a conversation with any of the young, unmarried women of First Class. The resulting nausea prompted him to turn and face the sea as well, once again gripping the metal tightly.

“Precisely!” Stark said, nudging his elbow with his own. “That was unkind of me. My intention is to ask my father to intercede, state that I’m volatile--” He stopped, pulling out a pipe to absently shift between his fingers. “I am, of course --and ask for an escort, a goodwill gesture to protect the reputations of both passengers and ship. A respectable Sub-Lieutenant such as yourself would be a fine choice, even if you weren’t begging for death with every successive minute you spend in First Class.”

A whistle sounded before Steve could formulate his response. Stark slapped his empty hand on the railing decisively, tucking away the pipe.

“The womenfolk will spruce themselves up before luncheon, meaning I am free to speak with Major Butt about getting the President’s ear for our business. I have no intention of drawing you into my scheme if you’re unwilling, so what do you say?”

Steve took a moment to contemplate, and Stark’s patience during those seconds did a lot to recommend him. The man was certainly engaging, and the respite he was offering was too enticing to give up. “If by ‘scheme,’ you mean your intention to request myself as a personal escort, sir, I am willing.”

“Good man! I’ll speak with my father, then. Do us both a favor and appear exceedingly boring and unruffled by anything I say and do, eh? In public, I mean. In private, I’d expect you to treat me as an equal.”

Stark’s warm eyes and smile of approval sparked something in Steve’s chest, something not entirely made of pride. The ‘out of his element’ feeling returned, for a different reason, now-- but this he could do. Protect this fascinating man from the very things Steve himself was intimidated by? Absolutely. Spend more time together? Please. The chance to escape the strictures of toy soldierdom was a side benefit.

“I can, sir.”

Stark almost ruined things for both of them by reaching out and grasping Steve’s hand for a second. The facade of politeness on Stark’s face faded as quickly as the veneer of cold duty did on Steve’s. There was coalfire in that grip, enough to warm his entire body.

It was sheer luck that most of the passengers had already sought to move inside, and didn’t see them.

Steve was summoned by his superiors an hour before dinner.

“You’re to have priority for laundry, Rogers, as I’m certain you have but one dress uniform, yes?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Howard Stark has requested to speak with you, something about his son and wanting a companion among the officers to keep him in line,” Murdock said. “Tell me now if you have any objections to get out of the way before I send you down to accept?”

That was loud and clear. “No objections, sir.”

“Good. Run and change into your best, then.” The First Officer made a face as he looked him head to toe. “I’ll do my best to find you some pieces to supplement with. If you’re to spend every waking moment with that upstart son of his, you’ll need them.”

The words ‘every waking moment’ fumbled Steve’s fingers on his buttons as he changed clothing in his cramped compartment. Thanks to his efforts in keeping quiet, his sleeping crewmates barely stirred, which was the most kindness he could offer given the lamplight he’d flooded the room with. He wondered if he’d be similarly able to filter out Tony Stark’s light in the days to come. The other man had been perceptive, and his provocative questions had sent Steve’s mind reeling even before he’d realized he was physically attracted.

He’d thought those feelings were behind him, in truth. Years working his way up in maritime commerce meant years surrounded by other men, and nothing had stirred. In a few brief moments, Tony Stark had brushed away the cobwebs, shining his bright smile into the darkest corners of Steve’s mind.

Steve looked down at himself, realizing he’d paused for contemplation at the very worst of times. Well, Stark had implied he would be a bad influence.

Once finished, Steve was painfully conscious of both his need to hurry and the desire to appear calm and unruffled. After all, a hurrying seaman on a ship such as this was liable to concern the passengers, and that was not at all appropriate.

He got to the designated suite of cabins and checked his pocket watch. He was right on time, which was a relief. Steve thumbed the empty place where the picture of his mother used to reside. It fell out in Southampton, and he wouldn’t be able to replace it until he was safely back in England.

Howard Stark turned out to be the back-slapping, gregarious sort. His son was nowhere to be seen, and Steve soon understood why-- Stark Sr. wanted to give him the third degree, asking about his childhood (he dearly missed Brooklyn), his hobbies (Steve kept his sketchbook double bagged at sea), even his love life (nonexistent and not looking). As the time passed, Steve’s legs hurt from holding himself so stiffly, and the thought occurred that Stark couldn’t possibly ask such invasive questions of the young women he sent after his son.

Then again, perhaps the younger Stark was right about his father’s view of women, and he wasn’t sending them over to share Tony’s mind, just his--

An internal door burst open, revealing Tony himself, a long metal tool of some sort in his hand. “Damned thing was locked! Imagine if I had to evacuate! You might have needed to look sideways at my mother to perpetuate the dynasty.”

Howard Stark’s demeanor closed off immediately, and his eyes rolled skyward at Tony’s impudence. “The dynasty is just fine, I’m planning to entrust it to this young man’s capable hands.”

The words may have been spoken with a clear intent to chastise, but with Howard’s back turned to his son, Steve was treated to the full glory of Tony’s reaction. His eyes widened in obvious delight, and one side of his mouth turned up, emphasizing his unique goatee in a way that felt decidedly naughty.

“I hope that means I’ve met with your approval, sir?” Steve said, his heart racing in his chest at the possible double meaning.

“Did you ask him about his hopes and dreams when he was a lad?” Tony asked, coming over to look Steve over as if he were a piece of merchandise. He was carrying the handkerchief that had caught Steve’s eye, and made sure to flick it in his direction a few times, much to his father’s annoyance.

“It’s for your own good, not that you know anything about such things,” Howard griped. “Well, young man, I see that you’re in your dress uniform. Since a different officer shared our table at dinner yesterday, it will be no unusual thing for you to appear there tonight.”

“Am I appropriately dressed? I haven’t shined my shoes since we disembarked, and I--”

Tony’s hand came down on his shoulder from behind as a brusque embrace. “Oh, you shouldn’t have! He’s worried about decorum. This will be fun.” The words were dismissive, but the reassuring squeeze at his shoulder before Tony moved away hinted that it was an act.

Dinner was simultaneously boring and exciting, depending on where Steve allowed his gaze. The scattered nature of seating at the table meant that Steve was across from Tony, who was only a seat away from his father. That left Tony able to make subtle faces behind his fork which Steve was obligated to remain composed in the face of. There was something so captivating about his impropriety, the kind of freedom that Steve could only dream of having.

He ignored the number of nightmares he'd had over the years that involved breaking protocol and reaping the consequences.

Howard’s interrogation made more sense now. An impressionable, fashionable young woman with the need to make a wealthy match would find it near-impossible to resist Tony Stark’s specific charms. The question was, did Howard have other concerns? Was Steve one of a long line of ‘reputation minders?’

“Sub-Lieutenant?”

Steve started in surprise, looking up to see the entire table’s faces arrayed toward him. He’d been staring down at his bowl for so long the shape was burned in for a few seconds. Tony’s expression was smug, as though he knew he was the cause of the woolgathering.

“My apologies,” Steve said, covering his discomfort by touching his lips with his napkin.

“Not at all!” one of the women at the table said kindly. “I confess I forget the question. Someone called out your name in concern you were fatigued, I believe?”

Thinking quickly, Steve decided to go for a kind of flattery. “I’m embarrassed to say I am not. I was caught up in memories of other lively conversations, which made me think of friends I haven’t seen for a long while.”

“I hadn’t considered that!” Mrs. Astor exclaimed. “It’s much harder to see them as often, when you’re away aboard ship, isn’t it?”

The unspoken sentiment that finances were the real impediment hung uncomfortably in the air for a few seconds, and Steve didn’t dare look over at Tony as he nodded.

“The prestige of this voyage should set you up nicely for years, I imagine,” Howard remarked, and the conversation passed to other things. Steve didn’t dare look over at Tony for the rest of the meal, but after a good ten minutes of this, he did notice more noises coming from the table across from him.

The impish man seemed to be baiting him. Steve’s instincts told him he’d be most rewarded by remaining stoic, just as Tony had instructed on the deck earlier that day. It was the first time he’d chosen to be cool and professional because it was exciting, rather than out of duty.

He only slipped up once, but the image of Tony Stark slouching petulantly in his chair, a golden fork in his fingers mid-strike against his plate for the fifth time in a row was well worth the split-second glance.

Unfortunately for the man in question, he was busy speaking to his father and missed it.

When the ladies and gentlemen broke to spend time in their respective after-dinner areas, Steve made his way over to the Stark men for instructions. Tony was already agitated when he got there.

“--tedious, and you know it. It’ll be better for business if I’m not there.”

“I don’t know how you could come to that conclusion,” Howard said drily.

“Just--” Tony broke off, dropping his gesturing hand to jitter at his side. Then he caught sight of Steve. “Just send me onto the deck to ‘think about’ my behavior at dinner and let Sub-Lieutenant Rogers explain all the maritime terms until my eyelids fall off. He’ll do it, look at him! He’s a statue carved by duty.”

The sharp look Tony shot his way certainly sliced through him, but it wasn’t duty that held the knife.

“Go on, then,” Howard said, lighting his pipe. “Keep him distracted from the ladies, would you, Rogers?” he added before turning to follow the group of esteemed men heading for the smoking room.

“I’m still not looking over at you,” Steve whispered to Tony. The act of even saying that sent his heart racing, and the two of them hadn’t even defined what it was that he was avoiding.

“You’re more nervous than a skittish thoroughbred!” Tony whispered at his back, as Steve led him out onto the promenade deck. There were few others out there, but he kept walking until they were standing at a railing the farthest from the door.

He turned around and anchored himself with one hand on the metal, just as before. His heart sank to see the way his companion couldn’t stand still, his eyes darting about. Was he drunk?

“Forgive me, Mr. Stark, but were you serious about the equals thing?”

Stark clenched his jaw. “It’s Tony, and yes.”

Using his first name seemed like acknowledging that there was something unspoken, and Steve was ashamed to admit he wasn’t brave enough. He sidestepped the issue by not using any form of address at all. What he wanted to do was confront Tony about his behavior, which seemed the height of reckless disobedience, exactly the thing Howard wanted Steve to curtail. Was this some sort of game?

It wasn’t like him to risk his employer’s reputation with that kind of confrontation. “You didn’t have to do that.” Tony’s furrowed brow and possible inebriation led him to elaborate. “Compli-- Speak of me on such high terms.”

“Oh, it wasn’t just for you. I was starting to worry about whether your smile joints work. Angering my father was gravy.”

“I noticed,” Steve allowed, somewhat mollified. He looked down at his shoes. “You told me to remain impassive.”

He could hear Tony’s grin in his response. “So I did! You were magnificent.”

Did the railing just give under his hand? Because he felt he could only say something this outrageous after a clear moment of goodwill between them, Steve said, “Was that all to get a rise out of me, or your father? With respect, I don’t think I’m a good target for such things.”

Tony stepped closer, his expression sobering. After a few seconds of scrutiny, he nodded thoughtfully. “I appreciate your candor. Both, I’ll admit. I see now why you might have found it uncomfortable, rather than the game it could have been.” He set his hand next to Steve’s on the railing, without touching. “Can I guess at something?”

Steve nodded.

“The situation made you feel responsible for me, yes?”

“Yes.”

“Maybe that I was misusing my power over you? In creating culpability?”

The reluctance in Steve’s tone turned it gravelly. “Yes.”

“What if I told you I preferred it the other way? That I find it exhausting to always hold the power?”

Steve’s heart stuttered in his chest on hearing that. In fear, yes, but also some other motivator, one that hid in the shadows of his mind, sometimes warring with his sense of what was right, what was just.

“Rogers?”

His instincts told him what to say, but did he have the strength?

“I don’t mean to talk past you, do not trouble yourself. Just a gripe on the imbalance of--”

“My name is Steve,” he interrupted Tony. “Please use it.”

He shouldn’t, couldn’t demand, even though there was every indication that Tony wanted him to. The way Tony's whole body froze still for a second made Steve question himself, but then he turned around. The look of joy and relief on his face hit Steve as hard as their first physical touch had.

Next chapter...

Note: I couldn't resist having Tony reference Major Archibald Butt, a first-class passenger and confidante of President Taft. It was the loss of his friend that had Taft so infuriated at the conflicting reports and machinations by the Marconi company regarding the messages of rescued survivors directly after the sinking. I mention it here because not everyone might know of his existence, and that's quite a last name!

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sarahowritesostucky · 11 months ago

Text

Rated: Explicit

Pairing: Steve x Bucky

Tags: ptsd, trauma recovery, kink negotiations, fetishes, fantasies, body modification, objectification, degradation, self-harm, destructive sexual urges, heavy bdsm, bondage, 24/7 D/s, dom Steve, sub Bucky, sadism, masochism, castration fantasy, dark comedy, oddly sweet relationship dynamics (idiots in love)

Summary: Bucky explains his darkest fantasies to Steve

🖤Disclaimer: Nobody gets castrated or otherwise body-modified in this fic, okay? It's Steve and Bucky, kink negotiating and sceneing w/ regards to Bucky's very strange fantasies.

Wait! I haven't read Part 1 Part 2 yet!

Part 3 - That Morning a Few Months Ago, When Steve Found Out About The Castration Issue, cont'd

By the time all the clothespins are on, Bucky is a sweaty, twitching mess. “Shhh,” Steve soothes—somewhat hypocritically, since he’s the one doing all the pinching. “You’re okay.”

“Mmhm,” Bucky nods, trembling. “Oh, god, Steve.”

“Shh, I know. I know.” Steve very much does not know. He’s never had a clothespin anywhere near his junk, and he never intends to.

These ones are teeny tiny and pastel-colored, maybe an inch long - like clothespins made for dolls. If that's true, then they’re certainly being put to off-brand use. Steve would laugh about it, but he’s tested the things on the skin between his thumb and forefinger, and they pinch like a motherfucker.

Bucky’s got them all around his groin and thighs, his taint and foreskin, all the way down the shaft to where the cock ring/stretcher hugs his cock at the base. The sensitive skin of his balls would have them too, only they’re still being pushed and weighed down by the stretcher, too taught to hold onto anything. Everywhere else is covered in the sweet looking clips, each one applied with tender, sadistic care.

Steve would argue that it’s not really sadism, if you’re only enjoying it because you know your masochistic partner is. That’s just love. But he can’t deny that he’s enjoyed watching Bucky react to the intimate hurts, because Bucky’s beautiful in anything he does. Even suffering.

Every time his breath has hitched, every time his muscles have tensed and his body jerked, has been in response to Steve applying a new clip. His skin is flushed purply-pink from it, getting darker by the minute from all the blood flow between his legs; his breath coming in desperate, shaky inhales. His eyes are wet with tears but he’s not crying. Steve would assume that he hates this, if not for the fact that his hips keep jumping into it, if not for the fact that Steve hasn’t stroked him off once since he first slid the ring on and started hurting him, and Bucky’s still hard as a fucking rock.

Steve gets a bunch more oil on his hands and touches him delicately, careful not to knock the clips around too much. He gently, gently holds the head of Bucky’s dick and rubs in wet little circles, pressing against the softness of the glans, digging the tip of his thumb into the slit, gathering the precum that beads out and swirling it around.

Bucky grunts softly when Steve reaches back with his other hand and starts pressing against the base of the plug that's in his ass. At the same time, he keeps working the pad of his finger back and forth under the head of Bucky's dick, and glances up. Bucky’s brow is pinched, his expression one of distress.

Steve keeps pulsing the plug, keeps rubbing that sensitive spot under the head of his dick. “This feel good?” he asks quietly, not surprised when Bucky nods and whines unhappily.

“Steve … p-please …”

“Shhh. It sounds real pretty, honey, but you shouldn’t beg. I’m not gonna listen.”

Bucky shivers and nods. “Yes Sir.”

“Steve,” he corrects.

“S-steve.”

Steve had thought he’d like it, being called ‘Sir’, but he’s come to find that it’s not his favorite. It usually feels so inauthentic, stripping what they do together of its real intimacy and making it into a production instead.

Only when he’s doing the most outlandish, demeaning, perverted things to Bucky, does ‘Sir’ ever feel right. Only then, or else when Bucky’s in subspace (Bucky still denies that’s what it is, but Steve can tell when it happens, and if that helpless, non-verbal, pink-flushed and muzzy-eyed condition isn’t subspace, then Steve doesn’t know what the hell is). Bucky doesn’t seem to be very able to call him anything but ‘Sir’, when he’s in that state.

“Are you gonna?” Bucky asks in a nervous whisper. Steve is still rubbing under the head of his dick with one hand, still pulsing the plug with the other. “Are you going to turn it on?”

He’s not, but he doesn’t need Bucky to know that. “I might,” he says instead. “If I decide I want to.” He tilts his head and surveys Bucky’s expression. “What’s the word you say if you can’t do it?” he prompts, and Bucky breathes out a laboured,

“Yellow.”

“Good.” Steve acts like he never even asked the question, still gliding his finger around that one, sensitive spot. Bucky doesn’t say yellow, and Steve moves on, makes a ring with his thumb and forefinger and jerks him below the head in gentle motions that tug his foreskin and just barely jostle all the clips along his shaft.

Bucky hisses at the combined pain and pleasure. “Hunh-ah! Ohn … sh-hit.”

Steve trails fingers down the center of his sac, smearing oil, tracing the seam from front to back, delighting in how he can see the twitching as Bucky’s balls keep trying and failing to pull up close to his body. “S’it a lot?” he murmurs, glancing up and catching the end of Bucky’s throat bobbing in a heavy swallow.

“Uh huh,” he gasps. “Ss-steve … I’m so—oh … I’m s-sso …”

“Close?” Steve whispers, but Bucky shakes his head and whines a pathetic little ‘no’. Steve tuts. “Oh, Sweetheart, I think you’re lying to me. I think you’re real close.” A stifled whimper cuts off in a gasp as Steve curls his fingers against his balls, over and over, stroking and then patting in an almost-but-not-quite rough enough way to be what Bucky wants. Everything is filthily, luxuriously slick. “I mean, you can cum just from me wailing on your ass a little, and I’ve got fucking clothespins all over your junk, pal. So I think you must be feelin’ real wound up.” He closes his oiled fist over his cock for a single, loose stroke and slaps his balls at the very end of it.

“Ohn ... fuck,” Bucky says, and it’s Steve’s favorite kind of ‘fuck’: the kind that’s whimpered, high and tight and hushed, half in the throat and half behind the nose; the kind that works its way through clenched teeth, turns guttural at the end, and barely makes it past the vocal cords. And Steve is a bad man, because he would pay a lot of money to hear nothing but those sorts of desperate, not-quite-sure-I-want-it, ‘fuck’s from Bucky’s lips for all time.

He takes a break when he sees Bucky’s cock throb dangerously hard. Even with the ring and stretcher on, Steve’s been teasing him for a while now, relentless, slipping and sliding and pinching and clipping the little clips in places that hurt Bucky just the way he craves. And despite his enduring aversion to it, Bucky is still a healthy, grown adult male who’ll come if you touch his cock enough—and Steve has been touching. Not to mention the plug up his ass, currently inflated to press unerringly against his prostate. So Steve pulls his hands away and stands up from the chair.

Bucky’s eyes follow him, heated, a little pinch of unhappiness between his eyebrows the longer he looks. “Steve,” he says softly, asking and complaining all in one. Steve smiles, fond, because Bucky’s always had a talent for packing a lot of shit into the single syllable of his name. Bucky’s complaining because he doesn’t like that Steve’s still fully dressed.

This started out as Steve panicking and needing to get his bizarrely traumatized boyfriend under control as fast as possible. Now that he has, his field of vision almost seems to expand. He becomes more aware of himself, of how his pants have become too tight, how his pulse is ticking in his veins and his cock is trapped and pressing against the zip of his jeans uncomfortably.

He gives himself some relief by flicking the button and pulling down the fly. It feels good, makes him realize how long he’d been ignoring himself in the first place. Steve shivers pleasantly and bites back the groan that wants to come, stepping back into the vee of Bucky’s legs.

He licks his lips and lets his eyes roam greedily over all of Bucky’s tanned skin. Fuck, he’s gorgeous like this: body held taught and trembling, skin flushed and just barely starting to sweat as he hangs there, suspended, wanting, helpless to Steve’s whims.

Steve’s dick gives a hearty pulse now that he’s made room for it, and he allows himself one good squeeze from over the the crotch of his jeans before ignoring it again. In his bonds, Bucky looses a tiny sound of frustration, holding back whatever it is he wants to say.

Steve smirks. “Oh yeah?” He rubs his hands all over Bucky’s shoulders and down his pecs, over the ladder of his ribs and the tight lines of his abdomen, fingers following the belt of muscle that slips from his waist down to his shuddering pelvis. He flicks at the clips closest to the cockring’s base and waits for Bucky to hiss in pain before closing his fist around the head of his dick. He squeezes in little, repetitive pulses. Over and over until he gets another overwhelmed cry out of Bucky,

“Ah! Ss-s-steve, please … I-I can’t …”

“Sure you can,” he murmurs. He steps close enough that their chests touch, and then leans in just another inch or two, pushing Bucky’s body with his, forcing him back in the ropes. Bucky’s bonds are all rigged from a single pivot point in the ceiling, so Steve knows that this is tightening the harness, making the ropes dig in cruelly at Bucky’s thighs and ass. He knows he doesn’t have to worry though—Bucky’s always griping that Steve might as well not even bother with shibari if he isn’t going to make it harsh enough to leave real marks.

He smooths his hands over the tops of Bucky’s thighs, groping the muscle, then sliding outwards to his butt. Bucky’s hands are both clenched into fists where they’re tied at his sides and Steve brushes over them with his fingers in a quiet little hello, before veering away to grab at his hips again. He uses that hold to rock them together, slow and dirty. It’s not really the right angle for Steve, but that’s not why he’s doing it. He wants to watch Bucky’s pupils dilate as he responds to Steve’s touch, wants to see him helplessly react to the pressure and the friction.

There’s no way the grinding doesn’t make every single one of the clothespins move and twinge painfully. Bucky keeps making little hurt sounds the more he’s pinched and stimulated, and Steve leans in and kisses him. It’s a sloppy, shallow kiss, stopping and restarting multiple times, Steve doing most of the work while he hums in mock sympathy and licks at Bucky’s slack mouth. “Yeah,” he breathes. “You are close, huh?”

Bucky shivers and nods, more tears leaking from his eyes. And these ones, Steve thinks, these ones might be real tears of distress. Steve’s heart pangs for him, even as his neglected dick throbs in his underwear from watching it all. He’s been hurting Bucky real nice, but he’s also been touching everything he wants to touch, in ways that aren’t always easy for Bucky. Feeling so much has Bucky’s breath hitching in barely-there sobs each time Steve pushes on the plug or dares to glance fingertips against the head of his cock.

“Buck,” he coos, looking down between their bodies. “It’s alright to feel good, baby. You know that. You’re allowed. It’s not a bad thing to let it feel good.” He glides his fingers into the crease of Bucky’s hip, down between his legs and back up to the base of his cock, over his pubic bone where, as far as Steve knows, hair hasn’t grown since 1945. Steve likes to watch the shine and trickle of the oil against all that bare, ruddy skin. He likes watching everything darken, likes the access it gives him. “I want to put my mouth on you so bad,” he confesses, not surprised when Bucky shudders against him.

“Please,” he breathes, begging for Steve to not do that. “Steve …”

Steve’s balls throb and his dick pulses in a strange but familiar counterpoint to the ache that always lodges in his chest whenever he hears Bucky fearing something that should only feel good. “Hang on, pal,” he soothes, stepping away to the rolling cart so that he can get the crop he’d set aside. “You’ve still got a lot of explaining left to do.” He curls his fingers over the crop’s handle. It’s a very small implement, less than two feet long, with a short and sturdy fold of leather at the tip—made just for the sort of precise, delicate swatting that Steve has in mind. Bucky’s throat clicks audibly in another nervous swallow as he watches Steve take hold of it. Steve uses the tip to touch Bucky’s chest. He pats the leather flange against his pec, nudging at the black metal barbell that beads out to either side of his nipple. “Are you ready to get talking?”

Bucky nods shakily. “What do you wanna know?”

“Well …” Steve keeps his tone conversational as he pats around at Bucky’s belly and groin with light, testing ‘thwaks’. He sits in the chair. “Knowing you, you’ve probably already researched it to hell and back, am I right?”

“... Yeah,” Bucky says distractedly, and Steve knows without looking up that he’s staring at the crop and where Steve might be taking it next. “I’m sorry.”

Steve swats him on the inner thigh. “I don’t want you to be sorry,” he corrects. “I want you to explain.”

“Steve …”

“Explain it to me,” he repeats, stern, fluttering the tip of the crop along the taut line of a hip flexor. “What is it about it that appeals, hm?” He lets his eyes drag back up to Bucky’s face. “Why do you like the idea of … of castrating yourself?” He hesitates for only a fraction of a second, but he knows that Bucky doesn’t miss it, doesn’t miss how it is hard for him to even say the word. Steve swallows and steels himself. He already has a pretty good guess of what Bucky’s answer is going to be, but he needs to hear it from him. He lets the crop trail lazily up and down Bucky’s inner thigh, stopping to nudge one of the clips along his taint. “Come on, pal. Explain it to me. I’m not gonna knock these off until you do.”

Bucky’s face is red, embarrassed, and it takes him a moment before he can manage to open his mouth and admit, “I like … that it makes you soft. I probably wouldn’t be able to get hard anymore. My body wouldn’t react the same.”

Steve frowns and touches the bouncing line of Bucky’s erection with the crop. Just the visual threat of it there is enough to make Bucky jerk with excitement. Steve tuts at the reaction, but it was an honest answer, so he swats him lightly on the head of his cock in reward.

Bucky makes a horrible, stifled sound; like he’s taken a gut punch but is trying to keep quiet. “So it’s about being impotent, then,” Steve says, heart sinking and trying not to show it. He’s always tried hard to make sure that what they do together is something good, something Bucky either wants, is ambivalent about, or can learn to want. Steve hates the idea that maybe he’s been pushing sex on Bucky when he doesn’t want it. He’s got his mouth open to say something to that effect, but Bucky’s already answering him,

“No. Not impotent. Just …” he flounders. “Just different.” Steve raises an eyebrow and makes a hand gesture to indicate that Bucky should keep on talking, because Steve sure as shit doesn’t understand yet. Bucky sighs. “I like the idea of just being there for you. Of my body not reacting. Not being able to use my cock to feel good.” His face colors even worse and he averts his eyes. “I’d never have to see it get hard.”

Steve presses his lips tightly together, hurt by that. He knows that it makes Bucky nervous to see his own body react that way. Steve’s never been brave enough to ask for the specifics of why. The generalities are plenty, and Steve’s not so stupid that he can’t infer. Bucky was tortured, horrifically, raped and traumatized until all the wires in his brain got crossed. They still are, these days, but Steve’s been trying his damned hardest to untangle at least a few of them. “So you never want to cum?” he asks in disbelief. “Ever again?” The thought makes him want to cry.

“No! I do. I mean, I still could,” Bucky says. “When you want me to. When I need it. But it would never happen by accident, only if you wanted it to, if you put real work into it. Otherwise, I—” He chokes on a breathy ‘ah!’ as Steve swats the head of his cock again, “I–I wouldn’t have to—ooh!—w-worry about it.”

“Mm. ‘Worry’,” Steve repeats unhappily. “What about the humiliation aspect of it? The emasculation?” Steve’s pretty sure that’s what it’s about for most of the freaky fetish internet people (but leave it to Bucky to find the fringe group of a fringe group). “Is that part of the fantasy?”

Bucky pauses guiltily. “I mean … yeah. It’d be a bonus, I guess.”

Steve scoffs. He really feels like he needs a lot more time to try and wrap his mind around the way that Bucky sees this, because God knows it’s not how Steve sees it. Just the concept of being voluntary neutered has him wanting to shield his own nuts with both hands. Still, he tries to do what he always does in situations like this. He flexes his mental strength and imagines how Bucky must feel about this new, fucked up thing he’s expressing. “So ... you like that your body would be under control?” he eventually guesses, taking his cues from Bucky’s expressions. He taps the shaft of the crop against where the plug is lodged in Bucky’s ass, watching him wince minutely. “Your body’s reactions, your sex drive?”

Bucky nods and croaks out, “Yeah. Yeah, under your control. Exactly. This would just control it a little bit. I like feeling under control.”

"I know you do.” Steve is in no way actually considering this, but he plays along, mapping out the shape of it in his mind. He winds up drawing an unpleasant comparison between Bucky getting his balls chopped off to control his sexuality, and female circumcision. “... Men who’ve had this done,” he asks slowly, “they don’t get erections?”

“Well … No. Not easily. Not strong ones.”

“Do they ejaculate?”

“Not as much.”

“Huh.” He trails the crop down Bucky’s cock, nudging at the clips along the way. He leans forward in the chair and watches intently as he rubs the leather flange over Bucky’s balls. They’re taut and shiny and dark, swollen from being bound so cruelly. He taps them once and Bucky flinches and gasps. “But they can still have orgasms?” Steve checks.

“Y-yeah. Dry. They can cum dry.”

Steve looks up. “Personally, I really like these,” he says, tapping. “I like seeing ‘em, touching ‘em, putting ‘em in my mouth. I don’t know what I’d do, if you—” he cuts off, swallowing down a slight wave of nausea at the image of Bucky, bleeding out on some guy’s basement’s tennis table. “You can’t get your balls chopped off, Buck,” he says, forcing levity into his voice. “It’d be such a waste.” He lifts Bucky’s balls up on the shaft of the crop and hefts their weight a few times. “Look at these gorgeous nuts, huh? Just think: what would I get to torture so nicely if you didn’t have these beauties?”

Bucky’s face is still flushed deep in embarrassment, but he isn’t looking away from Steve anymore. He starts chewing his lip, and Steve gives him a real swat behind his balls, getting a bare spot between the clips on his taint. Bucky moans and jerks, making the harness sway midair. Steve steadies him.

“You’d really take that away from me? Hm? Change your body like that?”

Bucky shakes his head, fast and desperate, and the obvious honesty in it is a huge relief. “No,” he gasps. “No not if you didn’t let me. I wouldn’t, I swear!”

“But if I let you?” Steve asks, waspish, striking out to knock one of the clips off from behind his balls. Bucky yelps. “You’d gladly do it then?”

“Oghn.” Bucky nods, recovering from the pain—cock dripping from the pain. He looks pleadingly down at him. “It’d be so simple,” he whispers. “I’d be so simple and compact and so … so useful for you.”

Steve averts his gaze back down so that Bucky can’t see the revulsion pass through his eyes. He doesn’t even know what the hell Bucky means by all that. It’s like they’re speaking in two different dialects of the same language: close, but no cigar. “You really think I want to have sex with someone who doesn’t enjoy it?” he asks, trying not to let his voice waver with the sorrow he feels.

“No,” Bucky insists. “I would enjoy it.”

“That makes no sense, you jerk. You wouldn’t have a sex drive!” Steve says angrily. “Your body wouldn’t have testosterone, and you wouldn’t have a sex drive.”

“I’d still be able to feel pleasure,” Bucky insists. “When you touch me. And I’d still want to be intimate with you. You could still make me cum. All of that, but it would just all be you.” He says it like he’s pleading with Steve to understand. “Don’t you see? I wouldn’t need it, but I could enjoy it when I got it anyway. Please! I just want to work right. I want to be under control.”

Steve nods, upset and trying to calm himself down. He doesn’t think they’re going to come to any kind of an understanding on this one. “Sometimes the wires won’t make sense,” he can just hear his therapist saying. “And they don’t need to. You can still be a supportive partner. Do your best to understand, tell him when you can’t, and don’t invalidate what he feels.”

“I’d be sexual with you,” Bucky’s still arguing, frustrating Steve by plowing ahead and just spitting more words out at him. “I wouldn’t be doing you a favor. I’d want it. You’ll make me want it. But when I’m by myself, it’d just be gone. Like turning off a vibrator when you’re not using it.”

“Christ.”

“… Is that really so bad to want?” he asks, looking hurt.

It’s messed up on seven fucking-levels to want, Steve thinks but doesn’t say. He knows he should try harder to talk this out—Bucky’s clearly not trying to hurt himself just for the sake of hurting himself—but right now Steve is still terrified of what might happen. He feels tired, brain overly taxed from trying to navigate the traumatized, fucked-up nooks and crannies of the brain of the man he loves and just wants to make love to, goddamnit. He sniffs and looks back up at him, features stern. “Well sorry to break it to you, pal, but no matter why you think you want to do it, I’m not letting you chop your balls off. You’re just gonna have to catalogue that one in the spank bank.”

“Steeve,”

Like a brittled rubber band, Steve’s tolerance snaps. In a flash, he starts hitting the clothespins with the crop, knocking them off suddenly and precisely, one by one by one. He’s aware of Bucky gasping and yelping and jerking from the sudden pain, but he doesn’t stop until he’s knocked every single one of the clips off. “I’m gonna cum,” Bucky gasps breathlessly, right on the edge. “I’m–I’m—”

Steve leans forward in the chair, hauls Bucky’s crotch to his face, and sucks his tortured balls straight into his mouth. Bucky keens and jerks, but Steve doesn’t let go. He brings a hand up to knuckle brutally into Bucky’s taint, and then—meanly but so goddamn carefully—he closes his teeth, biting down on Bucky’s balls hard enough to make it really hurt.

Bucky’s sharp cries don’t disappear so much as they go subvocal, cut off into a choking, strangled sound that tells Steve as good as any scream could, that he’s climaxing. The flesh in Steve’s mouth throbs and twitches, Bucky’s balls trying desperately to pull up tight to his body as he comes. Steve thinks that the pain of having them forced away like this must be dragging the orgasm out, making it more intense; and despite how fucked up it all is, Steve feels glad that he can give that to him.

He stops biting after a second or two and just sucks on them instead, feeling the shape against his tongue and the twitches of Bucky’s hips against his face. Distantly, he’s aware of the spurts of cum that’ve landed against his neck and shoulder, probably getting on his tee shirt in the back, too. He waits until Bucky is shivering with oversensitivity before he pulls his mouth away. Bucky’s erection has flagged, though his cock remains thickened because of the ring. Steve works it off him as gently as he can, grinding his teeth every time he hears Bucky hiss and whimper from the overstimulation. “Sorry, sorry.”

“I’m okay.”

He stands up again and pulls Bucky into a tight hug, not wanting him to see the wetness that’s in his eyes. Bucky’s arms both flex where they’re bound at his sides, telling Steve that if he had them free, he’d be hugging back right now. “I love you,” Steve whispers, thinking that he’s got to think of a way to satisfy this urge of Bucky’s. Preferably before the idiot goes and gets his nuts chopped off.

Steve’s therapist is no fucking help whatsoever. She doesn’t immediately freak out when he tells her about Bucky joining nutjob (literally) chat groups online. Steve doesn’t know why he’s surprised. She never says what he wants her to. He’s her client, goddammit. He’s the one paying her. She’s never even met Bucky and yet she still somehow always seems to take his side. So they talk a lot about Bucky and what sorts of things might help him to feel satisfied without amateur surgery in Mexico/Some Guy’s Basement.

“No. How can that possibly help? It can’t!”

“We don’t get to tell people how they should feel, or how they should heal, Steve. Reenacting in a safe space, with a safe person, that can be very cathartic.”

Steve manically researches cock cages and chastity play on the internet for a day and a half. He sits Bucky down for a Serious Conversation on possibilities other than literal castration.

So, ‘consensual non-consent’ is a thing— “CNC,” because everything has to have a goddamn acronym these days.

Steve’s pretty sure that what they’ve been doing can’t technically count as that, because Bucky never non-consents to begin with—he’s a 24/7 whore for being forced, used, and objectified. But yeah, it’s basically rape play. Because of course it would be.

Turns out, Steve’s sexual orientation really is double dog dare, because Bucky likes CNC a lot, and so they get into that, because Steve would never deny him anything that facilitates intimacy between them. Turns out that when he’s held and forced and used and put and made to, many of Bucky’s sexual problems don’t rear their ugly heads. And Steve can get used to an-ny-thing, if it’s something that helps Bucky accept pleasure.

So they make some changes in their daily life and habits. Because at this point, what’s a few more? Bucky starts wearing cock cages all the time, and only Steve is allowed to remove them, and sometimes Bucky just wants to bend over and take it and be a good object for Steve, which is what they do.

They order a bunch of stuff on Amazon. Silicon, plastic, metal, tiny, medium, solid, slotted, big, locking—all sorts get ordered and show up at their door not twenty four hours later, and Bucky tries them all and picks his favorites. Steve is tasked with disposing of the reject pile. As a child of the depression, it hurts a piece of his soul to throw anything away unused, even a handful of cock cages. Bucky tells him to stop being an idiot and chuck ‘em. Steve does.

Bucky wants one absolutely locked on himself that he cannot get hard in and he cannot remove. For safety reasons, Steve is wary of this. “What if you’re in a car accident or something, huh? Your dick’ll get crushed and the doctors won’t be able to get to it in time!”

Bucky’s blithe response of “All the better,” does not inspire confidence in Steve.

They come to the compromise of a heavy-duty metal cage, but with single-use plastic padlocks—they come in packs of a hundred and have serial numbers on each one, so that Steve will absolutely know if Bucky ever cuts one off without telling him. Bucky clearly has no intention of jerking one out on the sly, so he readily agrees to this. Effectively, they incapacitate Bucky’s dick in a sick sort of mockery of Bucky’s castration fantasy.

Steve learns all about castration fantasies, of course. He researches the hell out of it so that he can know all the right things to do and say to get Bucky off when they play. He learns all about the prostate and where it is and how to make Bucky come from that and only that. For the first time ever, with the help of a few handy bedroom accessories and a little practice (and Bucky spending a lot of quality time with his own therapist), Steve is actually able to initiate sexual touch without triggering him. Turns out, all you have to do is lock Bucky’s dick up and he’s just fine and dandy with being fucked, fingered, or toyed with to orgasm—only minimal dehumanization or knifeplay needed.

Steve absolutely cries some very manly tears when he’s finally able to hold the fucking love of his life in a soft bed and make love to him—with Bucky actually enjoying it.

Masterlist

Part 4

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