#hi have i talked about how gen can fuck with electricity / energy lately?

[veilcore]

╰┈➤ MISC EDITS PT. ??? / ∞ mutuals may like / reblog

[narrators-journal]

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An Ao3 ask that was juuuust close enough to me finishing my last batch of asks that I decided to count it. They wanted Senku recreating the ballgag for Gen, so Bondage, naturally, and I did my best at 3 am for it lol.

CW: Bondage, ballgags specifically

Gen shouldn't have assumed Senku wasn't the type to recreate everything from modern times. He was already nutty enough to try and revive the entirety of the human population, so sex toys and bondage equipment obviously weren't off the table. However, that thought came a little too late. The dual-toned magician had already talked his way into a ball gag, so it was pretty useless to realize now. Though, if he were honest with himself, going into tonight knowing how willing his fuck buddy was to use science to shut him up wouldn't have dissuaded his sarcasm. Not with how Senku currently had him bent over one of his unused lab tables, methodically slamming into him. And while Senku wasn't as experienced with sexual intimacy as he was with chemicals, he was a scarily quick learner, and once he knew how to make the biggest splash, he abused it. So, Gen had no complaints with his position. Letting the scientist fan the flames in his belly with each calculated thrust, shuddering and moaning at how the heat of his skin was met with the chill of the metal table. His noises earned a chuckle from the leek-looking scientist,            "I'm so glad I can gag you now, it makes these meet-ups so much easier." He about purred, Gen only able to moan through the solid ball of rubber. Earning a small, affectionate tug of his hair from the man while he continued to swat at the nest of restless bees that was Gen's hormones. After that, Senku went back to quietly driving Gen insane. Seeming to enjoy the needy noises that were muffled by the ball gag in the celebrity's mouth. God I hope this mean streak doesn't go away. With that thought, Gen whined and clawed the cold metal of the lab table and let the juxtaposing heat of his orgasm wash him away. Followed not too long after by the leek-haired prodigy. Stuffed with extra moan-inducing warmth to help soothe the restless energy and popping bolts of electricity that had yet to ebb in the magician's blood.

[enkelimagnus]

Pork

Bucky Barnes Gen, 1777 words, rated T for Hydra shit

Jewish Bucky Barnes, pre TFATWS, post Endgame

Coming out of that disastrous therapy session, Bucky comes home and tries to deal with some of his feelings.

TW: mention of torture and death, of family member deaths.

Read on AO3

Part 6 of Making a Home - the Jewish Bucky series

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The door slams behind him as Bucky storms into his house.

He has lunch plans but Raynor’s words and eyes and behavior stick to the corners of his mind, sickening like too-sweet candy he shouldn’t have eaten. Except he didn’t even want to eat it. It was shoved into his forced-open mouth. He tried to spit it out but he couldn’t. It was too late. It was already clinging to his teeth.

He rips the gloves off of his hands, then the jacket off of his back. There is light in the room, the light from the outside streaming in through the one window he keeps unshaded. There is the tv, playing an endless loop of soccer. The green and the gold bounce against the glass protecting the Smithsonian postcard he put up on the wall.

Steve Rogers and Bucky Barnes, laughing at some stupid joke he can’t remember. He’s looking at Steve like he hung the moon, and in that moment, he knows that’s exactly how he felt about this sun-kissed Brooklyn kid.

It hurts to think about this picture. To see himself smiling like this. To know he was already Hydra’s, even if he thought himself free. To know he’d probably already lost Steve.

He forces himself to take a deep breath. The expanding of his lungs is uncomfortable.

Why is this upsetting to you?

Because I don’t get to have secrets. I don’t get to be a person. My mind is yours to tear apart and put back together and you’re just Hydra wrapped in star-spangled banner paper.

This isn’t the first time he’s come back from seeing Raynor feeling like there’s a vice-like grip on his heart.

She doesn’t care enough to do her job properly. She doesn’t care enough to do the paperwork to get him someone who will be good for him. So he’s stuck, because she can’t be fucked to make life less terrible for him.

No one fucking cares enough. Not Raynor, not the people at the VA, not his superiors in the taskforce. And not Steve.

The Smithsonian postcard is an insult. 4 dollars and change for a snapshot of a memory. 4 dollars and change and you can bring home Captain America and Bucky Barnes, and look at the card and think you know what it was like to be either of them in 1944. Best friends since childhood. Inseparable. Bullshit.

Bucky wants to tear that card from the wall and throw it away with all of his strength. But he doesn’t. He knows he’ll regret it. He knows he’ll hate himself for it. He’s supposed to keep loving Steve even if he’s gone. He’s supposed to think of him as this… beautiful, glorious, perfect man. He’s supposed to be okay with this.

He told him he’d be. He told him he would be fine, that he could go, that he’d manage.

And now it’s been a little over 2 months and he’s not fine. He’s not managing. And he wants to slap himself. He should have told Steve to stay. He should have told him he needed him. But he hadn’t. Because Steve wanted to leave, and Bucky’s always been the one to tell Steve to pursue what he wanted. Because he made sure he could afford those art classes by taking that second job on the docks, because he kissed his cheek and told him he was going to be famous one day. That he was going to be respected, too.

Bucky’s never been an obstacle in Steve’s way. And he wasn’t going to stop now. So he told him to go.

And now he wants to scream for him to come home to him. To come get him. To come rescue him from this horrible fucking life he’s made for himself.

He knows Steve won’t come though. He didn’t come in ‘45, when the Soviets got their hands on him. He didn’t come in ‘50, when Zola bought him from the Soviets, in the same breath he bought a bomb. He didn’t come in the following years, and eventually, Bucky forgot the name Steve.

Some nights, he hears his own begging. Steve, Ma, HaShem. No one came. No one saved him. And no one is going to save him now, in 2024. He’s going to drown in the sorrow of too many lifetimes.

What else can he do? Once his brain stops coming up with names to add to the list, what will he do?

He has no idea. And he doesn’t want to think of it. Once he’s not useful anymore, what will he be? The list is his expiration date. Sometimes, he hopes the names keep coming.

There is pent-up energy in his bones, but he doesn’t know how to get it out. It’s broad daylight, and he can’t go on a proper run right now. People will see. He has no desire to go into the military base’s gyms right now. He can probably go into the guest room and pull out the punching bag and rip it to shreds.

He doesn’t have a lot of time. Lunch is coming up. It’s Wednesday. One of the names on his list is waiting. He needs to do that. To fulfill the promises he made. It’s his purpose now.

He feels like an open wound, standing in his living room, bleeding out everywhere, burning and stinging with every miniscule spasm of muscle, every brush of air.

When he shows up at Izzy’s, Yori will ask what’s wrong with him, and he’ll lie. He can’t tell him. Yori thinks he’s just a sweet, if a little lost, guy. Moved away for a while, only recently came back to Brooklyn. Ex-military. All things that aren’t exactly lies. They aren’t exactly truths either.

Izzy’s a Japanese restaurant. The building it’s in is old, the kind of old that Bucky actually remembers. In his day, it was a butcher shop, a non-kosher one. Before his mother died, Steve would sometimes be sent to get some leftover pork trimmings from there, to thicken the soup. It smelled bad at the end of the day.

Now it’s a clean and chic place, all painted in dark colors. It’s busy at lunch time, every day. It’s also busy at dinner time, when he walks by on his way back to work. Sometimes, he grabs something to go.

He’s starting to know his way around a sushi restaurant’s menu. He’s not an enormous fan of the rice, so he usually orders those thin slices of fish, the sashimi. Izzy’s has this plate, red tuna and salmon with a side of seaweed salad. The red tuna has a meaty quality that surprised him at first, but he really enjoys it. It tastes thick and fat on his tongue. He surprises himself with the diverse arrays of foods his palate accommodates.

Thinking about the food, about Yori, and Leah, the lady that serves them at Izzy’s somewhat feels good. They’re relatively untouched by the horrors of his mind. At least for now. One day, he’ll have to tell Yori he killed his son.

For now, he wants to be a little selfish. Yori’s old. The kind of old that makes Bucky feel comfortable.

He still has to watch himself, make sure he doesn’t talk too much like an old man, that he doesn’t tell stories he shouldn’t know about. When he says things about the old Brooklyn he grew up in, he says they’re his grandfather’s stories. If no one looks too close at the details, it works.

It doesn’t help the weird distant feeling he has sometimes when it comes to his life. It pulls him away from it. As if it wasn’t really his life.

He guesses he has little in common with the James Barnes of the 1930s. A name. Some memories. Nothing else. His family’s gone, his neighborhood’s gone, his friend is gone, his shul is gone.

He eats sashimi now, with that spicy green paste - wasabi. He watches soccer on a tv in color that he can afford. He has a computer - that he doesn’t use - and a mobile phone. He’s a soldier. He never went to college.

He was smart, back when he was James Barnes. He could have gotten into university despite the quotas. That was what his father used to say. And then he died.

He departed years before Bucky lost his mind to Hydra. He was 16 the first time he led the family in Shabbos prayers. He remembers the quivering of his voice as he stood at the head of the table, in his father’s place, and recited kiddush. He remembers the tears in his ma’s eyes.

He remembers his father teaching him how to shave with steady hands. He asked him to shave him when Bucky was barely a man, before even his bar mitzvah. His hands still remember how to use both the safety razors and the straight-edged ones. Even with decades of Hydra, he remembers it. He’s thankful for that, because the clippers and electric razors people use now are out of the question for him.

The clock ticks and tocks, minutes melting away as he stands there lost in feelings and memories.

Suddenly, he’s late to meet with Yori and he almost runs to the restaurant where the old man sits at the counter like he always does, saving a seat for him.

“You’re late,” Yori points out and Bucky finds himself sheepish.

“Didn’t see the time.”

He takes his seat by Yori’s side. They talk about sports and the papers, and the obituaries. Bucky finds himself looking through the names and wondering if he knew any of them, if they were the loud kids from down the streets when he was a teenager.

Leah comes over with a smile. Today’s special is subuta.

“What’s that?” Bucky asks in a hushed voice to Yori as Leah walks away with a smile and lets them think through their options.

Yori leans back towards him. “Sweet and sour pork. Very tasty. Izzy’s the best in town. You should try it.”

“Ah,” Bucky sighs softly. “I don’t eat pork.”

It’s a lie. He’s eaten a lot of pork in his life. Pierce loved his bacon. But it’s also true. He hasn’t touched pork since he’s left Hydra. The smell of it cooking makes him think of Pierce. And there’s something inside of him that avoids it, even if he doesn’t keep kosher in any other way. He hasn’t ever announced it that way.

Yori nods quietly, not realizing what those four words mean.

There’s no way he can know. It’s Bucky’s secret.