#bucky barnes in recovery | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

sarahowritesostucky · 4 months

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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: Steve and Bucky reach a compromise, but Bucky's got "some work to do" to prove to Steve that he deserves his treat.

🖤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 Part 3 yet!

Part 4 - Back to that Morning, Months and Months Later, When Steve Finds Out What Bucky Wants to do to His Dick:

Bucky sits on the floor and chews his lip with big eyes, staring down at Steve’s phone. The options he’s currently salivating over are all piercings. Specifically, genital piercings—something he’s gone googly eyed over for a long time, now. Steve’s finally worked up the nerve to consider it, and he’s giving Bucky options because:

1. He really does adore him and just wants to make him happy in every possible way. 2. He needs to positively reinforce Bucky’s streak of expressing his wants and asking permission for things. 3. He knows that Bucky getting in a car crash and losing his dick isn’t a realistic fear. 4. He’ll be forever–ever–ever grateful that Bucky did not sneak off and get his nuts removed, way back when.

Bucky grips Steve’s phone and swipes back and forth between all the pictures, looking like Christmas is about to come early.

“Jesus,” he mutters, and Bucky’s eyes flick up to him, amused, before returning to the phone. Steve fights not to fidget. “So … Which one do you like?” he asks, anxious about it. In the seventy or so years since he went into the ice, humanity has devoted—in Steve’s opinion—far too many of its collective brain cells to inventing a myriad of ways in which to stick needles in dicks. Human beings are remarkably creative, remarkably fucked up creatures. Steve’s in love with exhibit A.

He sits there and watches Bucky’s reactions, wary of the fact that he’s probably going to choose the most extreme option. Suddenly, Steve wishes he hadn’t given him all the choices. “Um,” he clears his throat nervously. “I like the fourth one. In terms of, ah, aesthetics.” Bucky looks up at him, and Steve nods. “Yeah. That one’s … that one’s my favorite” (‘favorite’ is a loose term here — it doesn’t involve sticking a needle through the head of one’s dick, so: ‘favorite’).

Bucky surprises him by agreeing right away, but then he gets a devious look on his face and amends, “Oh, but maybe I could do a couple of ‘em.”

“What.”

“Yeah! Like number one and number four,” that’d be fun. Bucky grins and snickers about it. “Shit. I’ve never been so glad my ma kicked the mohel out.”

Steve cringes as he’s hit with an odd combination of mental images—freshly circumcised babies and Bucky’s grown-ass dick, pierced to smithereens. “We can talk about it,” he says, voice coming out a little weak.

You look like you’re gonna throw up,” Bucky observes dryly.

“Yeah well. What can I say? I don’t feel the urge to go poking holes in myself.” Steve shakes his head as Bucky just continues to smile placidly. What has he gotten himself into? he wonders, amused. Oh well, at least he’s gotten Bucky off the idea of stuffing freaking pearls into his dick. He holds his hand out for Bucky to give him the phone back, then slides it into his pocket with a sigh when he does. “Get up,” he orders, loving and long-suffering. “Go pick out a pighole and lie face down on the bed. You’ve got a lot of work to do if you want me to take you out this weekend for any one of those god awful—”

“This weekend!?!” Bucky all but shrieks. He jumps to his feet and shouts, “Steve! I love you!” then scampers away to go get his pighole.

About an hour later:

Steve pulls back with a gasp, too close to the edge to risk staying inside, and wanting to stave it off. He kneels back in the sheets and looks down to where he just had his cock buried. The obscene gape that greets him makes him groan and curse lowly. “Fuuck. Look at that.” He can actually see his previous two loads, pooled deep up in Bucky’s ass, because Bucky’s got the pighole in and it’s holding him open and making him into the easiest, most useful fuck-object Steve could ever want to put his dick in. “Such a good cocksleeve, honey,” he praises, because he knows Bucky loves to hear shit like that (and, okay, maybe Steve doesn’t exactly hate saying it either).

True to form, Bucky groans and squirms, not moving from where Steve’s got him ass up and face down on the bed.

Steve grips himself hard, staring into that filthy abyss. “God.” He taps the length of his dick against the rubber rim of the plug, where it’s all but turning Bucky into a fleshlight for his enjoyment. “Wish you could see this, Baby. Fuck. Mmm.” He squeezes his dick, presses the head hard against the lip of the plug and watches as precum oozes out over black rubber. The sight takes his breath away. “Jesus,” he curses quietly, licking his dry lips. “I don’t think I’m even gonna put it back inside, you know that? M’ just gonna jerk off right here, like this.” He works his hand in a tight ring underneath the head of his cock. “Put it in you that way. Won’t even have to aim much, will I? Mm mn. You’re so fuckin’ open.”

He jerks off a little more while staring at Bucky’s wide open asshole, only pausing when his balls give another dangerous spasm, threatening to end his fun. He gathers saliva in his mouth while he waits it out, aims and lets it drip down to join the white of his cum. “Holy shit,” he whispers, watching it hit the pighole and slide in. “Oof, buddy, you’re killin’ me.”

“M’not even doin’ anything,” Bucky rasps, in something that might’ve been sass, if he wasn’t so far gone already.

Steve scoffs and grips an asscheek while he jerks himself, fingers digging into the fat and muscle, then lets go and watches his fingermarks fade from white, to pink, to nothing. He can’t stop himself from smacking it, then, swatting his entire handprint onto one cheek and watching it jiggle. “Best ass in the western hemisphere,” he murmurs. “Should smack it cherry red.” Not that it would last, but he knows Bucky would appreciate it.

He says as much, making a dumb, happy noise into the bed where he’s bent over in front of him. Steve smiles. He grabs the bulge of Bucky’s balls and his caged cock, drawing the handful back between his thick thighs. “And how’re we doin’?” he asks cheerfully, giving Bucky’s collective junk a shake. With his dick kept soft (or mostly soft, anyways) inside the cage, Steve can’t gauge it as well as he otherwise could. All he has to go on are Bucky’s moans and shivers and how fucked out he’s acting. With the plug in, Steve doesn’t even have the feedback of his asshole clenching and fluttering around him—sex toys don’t squeeze back, after all.

A glance down shows that his balls are pulled up tight, but Bucky’s always super responsive like that. Steve swats them harshly a few times while he gives himself another slow, tight stroke. “Fuck,” he whispers, eyes sliding covetously over the gorgeous slope of Bucky’s back. He wants to run his hands all over that smooth, tanned skin; wants to savour it and drag his lips everywhere he goes. He wants to dig his fingers into those fat hips and fuck in and in and in, until the backs of his eyelids go technicolored and he’s emptied of everything he has to give.

But he’s already done that twice in the past hour, so he’s trying to stave it off.

“Sir,” Bucky croaks, voice muffled from where his head is turned on the mattress, metal fist clenched and pulling the bedsheets into his face. Unlike Steve, he hasn’t come yet. Because he’s “earning” it. He squirms restlessly, back muscles shifting under the skin. “Please, please, c’mon.”

Steve slaps his ass again, though it isn’t harsh by any means. For Bucky it’s practically a love tap. “Please what?” he goads. He spits into his asshole again, just so that Bucky can hear him doing it, and in counterpoint he speaks gently, “‘Please’ what, baby? Hm?” He waits, but Bucky doesn’t seem capable of much more than little sniveling, fucked-out sounds; ‘Sir’s, and the occasional grunt or gasp when Steve hits him. Steve smiles at the dark mop of his hair that’s covering his face, in love. “‘Please’ … what?” He sticks one finger into his hole, not touching. There’s actually enough room that he can hold it there, inside, and still not have it be touching anything. And that in itself is obscene, like he’s touching a wound, like he’s reaching into someplace that isn’t meant to ever be exposed. He can feel the heat of Bucky’s body all around. “Come on,” he coaxes, mock–sweetly. “You can tell me.”

“Nnnh.”

“What’s this nasty hole need?” he purrs. “Mm?

Bucky seems to realize that Steve’s actually waiting for an answer, and responds with a slurred string of begging: “Please … Ss-sir. You, you. I need you. I do, oh, please, I … I need—”

“I?” Steve mocks, letting go of his cock to grab both asscheeks and pull them apart. He lets another fat wad of spit drip from his mouth down to its target. “What’s ‘I’? I’m not fucking an ‘I’.”

“Oh. I … ” Bucky’s breath stutters out of him in a broken moan. “Oh, Ss-teve,”

“Aw, Sweetheart, you’re confused,” Steve coos, chuckling, voice like velvet over top of razor wire. He leans over Bucky fully—hips to ass, chest to back, forearms braced to either side of those broad and mismatched shoulders—so that he can be intimately close when he purrs, “You think I’m fucking ‘you’, Baby?”

“Mmn, ooh … nno,” he moans.

>Steve kisses the shell of his ear, then whispers, “Tell me what I’m fuckin’.”

Bucky is hazy by this point—strung out on whatever it is that fills up those nooks and crannies in his mind, those fucked-up spaces that can only be intoxicated when he’s in pain or when Steve treats him like this—so it takes him a minute. Steve can’t see his face, but he can hear him licking his lips and swallowing a couple of times, can hear him struggling as he wades through the thick soup of his own thoughts before he manages to rasp, “This hole.” He sounds high, like he’s in love, like he’s about to wither and die, or come.

Steve hums in approval and kisses the spot just in front of his ear, where he can feel the emerging dampness of sweat. Even though he��s doing most of the work, it has been a while of this: teasing and taunting, slipping in and holding still, fucking Bucky just enough to make him really start to want it, then pulling out. Steve’s balls feel like they’ve been beat up in a back alley, and he just wants to come again. He pushes back to kneeling and reaches for the lube. “Exactly right,” he praises, flicking the cap open. He proceeds to squirt a disgusting amount directly into Bucky’s ass, squeezing the bottle hard on purpose to make sure it squelches loudly. “So,” he coos, mockingly sweet and patient, “What do you think this hole needs?” He guides his cock back home, pushing in slow, the seal of the pighole creating luxurious suction and filthy noises as he buries himself in Bucky again. “Oh baby,” he groans. “Fuck. You hear that? You hear the sounds it’s making?”

“fuck”—Another one of those tiny, tight little ‘fucks’ that Steve relishes so much. Bucky’s the most gorgeous thing he’s ever seen, face down and ass up on the bed, dark hair all over the pillow, floating in snot and subspace, whining and crying every time Steve isn’t actively inside his body (and even sometimes when he is). “S’it good?” he slurs, the words mashed into the bedding. Other than Steve’s name and nonsensical gobbledygook, it’s the only real unprompted thing he’s been capable of saying for the past ten minutes at least; asking Steve if he’s good, begging and pleading to be good. “Please, Steve … I’m good, m’good, ff-feels so good—”

“Shhhh.” Steve fucks in all the way and grinds his hips against the meat of Bucky’s ass. “Yes, Honey. It’s so fucking good. S’the fucking best. Best thing I’ve ever had.” He pets a soothing hand down the center of Bucky’s back as he rolls his hips in deep, hard strokes, fucking him steady again. “You’re so good at this, such a good hole for me. Doin’ exactly what you’re s’posed to do. Lettin’ me feel your insides, takin’ it all.”

Bucky sobs. “I am, I am,”

Steve hushes him. “You are, baby. Doing so well. Just gotta hold still. Just gotta be a hole n’ let me jerk it right in there. A nice, sloppy place ta’ put my cum.”

Steve changes his angle minutely and Bucky sobs and jerks in place, then he starts pushing his hips back frantically. “Oh, ohn shit … oh shit, Steve, yes, pleasepleaseplease, oh—oh! I’m gonna cum I’m gonna cum, ohmygod I’m gonna cum! Fuck, fuckfuckfuck!

Steve reaches around and cups his caged genitals, jostling them. “Yeah?” he goads, snapping his hips harder. “This gonna make you cum, honey? Just this? You sure? Just bein’ my good little thing? Getting used like a little cum dump?” Steve can feel his orgasm coalescing, gathering like a stormcloud—deep in his gut, in the base of his dick, the root of his balls. His hips slam harder as the pleasure spikes and goes molten inside him. “Ugghn!”

A high, inelegant noise sounds from Bucky’s throat, and then he’s crying and writhing, sobbing out strings of “I’m good, I’m good, I’m good!” as he falls apart.

Steve can only feel the fluttering of his orgasm deeper in, past the rubber grip of the pighole. He shoves all the way in so he can feel it ripple on half his dick, grinding furiously in–in–in and reaching his peak. He clenches his teeth and roars, hips pumping nonstop as he unloads inside Bucky for the third time in ninety minutes.

Just like always, it feels like it lasts forever and not at all. “Holy … fuck,” he eventually pants, when he’s ridden it out and is left slumped over Bucky’s back. He’s still got one hand between Bucky’s legs, holding his caged cock and balls. Bucky came while soft in the cage; Steve can feel the ejaculate wetting up his hand. He gives him another jostle, eliciting an overstimulated whine from the other man. It makes Steve smile breathlessly, and he releases him. He pats his hip. “Stay down for a minute.” Bucky makes a weak noise of no-contest as Steve pulls back and starts to clean them up.

Steve removes the pighole. He feels his dick make a valiant attempt at a fourth salute, at the sight of Bucky’s asshole winking itself closed. “Jesus. Next time I really am jerking it into you.” Next time, he wants to yank the plug out and shoot his load on Bucky’s wrecked asshole when it’s still trying to close back up like it’s doing right now. He reaches down and swipes his thumb over the stretched-out pucker, whispering “Shit.” Bucky grunts softly and then Steve’s cum is being pushed out, bubbling white and hot out around his thumb. Steve groans. He smacks him on the butt. “Stop that. You’re filthy.”

“Sure am,” Bucky purrs, smiling with his eyes closed and stretching out to lay prone on the bed.

Steve lies up against his side and lazily fingers between his cheeks, at the still-lax hole as it continues to twitch and push out cum. He lets his eyes slip closed. “You realize you just came just from being fucked, right?”

There’s a smile in Bucky's voice when he hums, “Mmhm. Sure did.”

Steve wishes he had the energy to demand anything of Bucky right now. He’d tell him to roll over so that he could inspect the cage. Instead, he just asks. “Did it feel like you got hard?”

“No,” Bucky says dreamily. “No. It kept trying and failing, and then I just stopped thinking about it and focused on you.”

Steve plays with Bucky’s hair. “Did that help you feel less …”

“Yes.” Bucky peeks over at him. “I just came from freaking sex, Steve. I didn’t think I—” his voice breaks with emotion, and he takes a steadying breath. “I didn’t think I’d ever be able to do that again in my life.” He sniffles, tearfully happy. “I worked right.”

Steve’s old junker of a heart gets another ding in it. He pulls Bucky in close to be the little spoon, and lies there kissing at the back of his neck for a long, long time. “You always work right, Buck. You’re always perfect. I love you.” He traces the edges of the star that’s carved into the nape of his neck, and eventually he whispers, “We’ll go to the piercing shop tomorrow.”

Masterlist

For those curious about the cock sheathes and pigholes that Steve and Bucky play with in this fic: Oxballs products

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anonymityisfunwriter · 2 years

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Alone Together

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader Summary: It was always been you and Bucky, alone together, you'd say. But suddenly, you're just alone. All you have is yourself. A you that you hate. When those people died because of you, you throw yourself back in. When you find out about Sharon and Bucky, you have the game. It's a good game, you tell yourself. You're always winning. You're perfect at it. It's all a game to you - you've convinced yourself that you'll be happy once you win. That is, until you lose.

Trigger/Content Warnings: Eating Disorder Relapse, Eating Disorder Recovery, Vomiting (non-graphic), Suicide Ideation (not acted upon)

"Where is she?" Bucky demands, eyes frantically searching the MedBay were Steve told him you were.

Steve sighs, arms crossed, upset that they let you go when you were very clearly unwell. They said you were just dehydrated, a little malnourished.

You lied and said you were sick last week, when you and Steve both knew that you were perfectly fine last week. "They cleared her. She took off the second they told her she was good to go."

Bucky sighs in relief. "So she's okay?"

"Okay?" Steve scoffs. "No, she's not okay. She's so far from okay. She collapsed in the middle of a mission. That's not okay!"

"So what happened then, Steve?" Bucky urges.

Steve exhales in frustration. The two of you were friends, good friends even, but he never really knew how to get through to you. Not when you were like this. Heck, he'd never even seen you like this. "I don't know- I-I think she's doing it again."

"She isn't. I would have noticed."

"Would you notice? You've been a little...preoccupied lately."

"Don't start, Steve."

He shrugs in innocence, "I'm not. I'm really not, but she's pulled away. When she's here, she's training - harder than any of the rest of us. She's not even developing her powers, she's physically training. You can see it, Bucky. Her uniform doesn't even fit her anymore, she was an hour late for the mission, she locked us all out of her room. She's doing it again."

"No, she's not! I would know!"

Now, Steve's getting mad, he sees your self-destructive behavior and the way you're tearing yourself apart. It hurts him to see his friend like that. "And I'm telling you that you wouldn't have! You know firsthand how good she is at hiding what she needs to hide. You're never even here! You can't see anything past you and Sharon!"

"Is that what this is about? Another lecture about me and Sharon? I don't need this."

Steve takes a deep, semi-calming breath, desperately trying to deescalate the situation. If only because the two of them fighting isn't going to help you. "I'm not lecturing you about Sharon, I'm telling you that you're being a bad friend right now. And right now, our friend needs you." Bucky huffs in frustration but waits for Steve to continue. "Since that mission - she took it hard those people dying. If you hadn't noticed, she's been really struggling lately. I haven't seen her outside her room in months."

"That was months ago, Steve, I talked to her, she was fine," Bucky says, simultaneously trying to convince himself and Steve. He knows that you two hadn't spoken, really spoken, in months. And he knew he was mostly to blame for that.

"Are you sure about that?"

Bucky scoffs, "Piss off, Steve, I'm sure."

"Well, Tony's pissed, he's benching her until further notice."

"Tony can go to hell," Bucky mutters, turning on his heels to go and find you.

Steve grabs his arm to stop him before he can leave. "She needs your help, Buck. You know she'll listen to you."

"I know. I'll talk to her."

He finds you at an empty, dreary Coney Island.

You talked about this place a lot when you were at HYDRA.

How you'd always wanted to come here, but your parents never allowed you anywhere near the general population.

They kept you locked away until HYDRA took you. He'd tell you stories about how much fun he and Steve had here as kids and you hung on to every word he said.

He promised you he'd take you when you both escaped. You two did a lot when you escaped, somehow this wasn't one of them.

The park is empty, desolate.

It's eerie with no one here, but for some reason he knows you're here.

When he finds you, he immediately knows that he was wrong.

You're doing it again, you're playing your game and from the looks of it, you've been doing it for a while.

He watches you for a minute, you're doing that thing again. You take your hand with your middle finger and thumb pulled together to form circle, then you wrap that circle around your wrist.

He hasn't seen you do it since your shared HYDRA days.

You're in a cell. It's dark and cold. You're terrified, unsure of why they brought you here. And then you see the shadowy figure in the cell across from you.

"Hey, are you okay?" he asks in a hushed, whispered tone.

"Where are we?" you ask, still groggy from whatever sedative they jabbed into your neck.

"I don't know."

"Well, who are you?"

"I don't know."

A few days pass, Bucky doesn't go back in the ice thing anymore. They're keeping him in the cell in front of you. You know the only reason the man talks to you is because you're the only other person here.

"Why'd they bring you here?" he quietly questions.

"I, uh, had abilities as a kid. My parent said I was a monster. They handed me over to the first person that offered to help me control my abilities. I've been here a while, they just moved me here, something about nicer accommodations," you joke, though it lacks any real humor. "What about you?"

"I-I don't know."

"You say that a lot," you try joking again, but then it's all silent. "You know, since we're the only ones here. I think I need to give you a name. What about Buddy?"

"Buddy?"

"Well, you're my friend, aren't you?"

"Sure," he tiredly chuckles.

"Buddy, it is."

You're not sure how much time passed, how many experiments you've gone through, all with varying degrees of success.

But it's been a very long time.

And 'Buddy' is the only thing keeping you sane. You talk to each other a lot, he's apparently been alive for a few decades, but he doesn't look it.

You've been with HYDRA since you were 16, and you spent five years in a different base before they moved you here. You find that you've got a lot in common, other than the fact that you're both held captive here.

You two keep each other alive.

You always offer Bucky your food, they give him just enough so he doesn't starve but never anything more.

You don't tell him this, but you're used to not eating, it doesn't bother you.

He rarely takes the food except when you use your telepathy to float the food over to him. He hates when you do that, but you know he needs it more than you do.

And he... well he talks to you.

They don't let you outside the cell, you haven't seen the sun since you arrived. When they let 'Buddy' out he tells you everything. He reminds you about the outside, about the weather, about anything. Anything to remind you to hold on.

Experiment after grueling experiment, he's there.

When you were crying in the middle of the night about the suffocating loneliness, about being alone and abandoned, he corrects you, 'alone together'.

And you lived by that now

It kept it all bearable.

The day they brought him back from the mission where he encountered Steve - he's hurt. More hurt than normal.

His face is a bloody mess, he's practically dragged back into his cell. You're not sure if it's because of the actual mission or punishment for the mission and you don't ask.

You've been practicing on the locks, turning the gears until you can get them open. Sometimes it works, on those nights you and 'Buddy' make plans to leave.

They're pretty good plans. Your abilities are getting stronger, you feel sure that the two of you can do this. You're both strong, capable of escaping.

You focus on the lock all your energy and capabilities on the lock, feeling the desperate urge to get to him, to be there even if you really can't help him.

It's a risk you two normally don't take during daylight, but he needs you right now. You manage to get both locks opened and then you're hovering over his crumpled body, trying to figure out how to help your friend.

"What are you doing? Get out of here before they see you."

"You're hurt. Just let me help you, I can help you."

"No, they'll see you. Get out," he weakly argues.

"No, it's going to be okay-"

"Well, what do we have here?" A menacing voice appears from behind you. You freeze, blood running cold. "I think it's time to try that serum again. It might inspire you to behave."

You're fighting against strong arms that are pulling you away from your friend. "No! Please - he needs help."

Bucky's up now, sluggishly fighting to stand. "You can't. You almost killed her last time."

"Well, you know the saying: if at first you don't succeed, try, try again."

You're dragged out of the cell and that's really the last thing you remember. The only thing that's clear after that is pain. The most excruciating pain known to man. You will your heart to stop. For it all to stop, but it never does. It's an immeasurable amount of time in complete agony.

All Bucky hears for days is your screams, you sob, beg, plead.

When you return, you're not conscious.

In fact, at first Bucky's pretty sure you're dead and they're leaving your body there as a message.

But then he hears your ragged breathing, it's slow, labored. But you're alive.

In that moment, Bucky swears to you that he'll get you out.

He swears he'll never let another bad thing happen to you.

He has a friend on the outside he tells you - Bucky doesn't remember him well, but Steve seemed so sure. The two of you can find him, even if Bucky is arrested, you'll be free from this hellhole.

It's days before you're able to do anything except lie there and breathe. They haven't even brought you any food - just dirty buckets of water.

Bucky pleads with you to wake up, but you're so far gone that you barely hear him.

Before you're even able to sit up, you unlock the doors again. It's never been that easy before, which frightens Bucky. They've done something to you and this time it worked.

But he doesn't hesitate to scramble to your crumpled figure.

When you finally recover, Bucky tells you it's time to go. You feel your powers thrumming in your veins - it's a new feeling. It doesn't feel like the old passive energy that flowed through you- this is chaotic, destructive.

With a flick of your hand, you wipe out dozens of soldiers blocking your escape. It scares you, but you don't hesitate to leave with Bucky in tow.

After that it's all a blur, you and Bucky alone together, finally escaped the place that almost killed the two of you.

Two troubled souls on the run from a lot of people. You're both weak from your respective beatings, but you take turns keeping each other motivated. You trek for a long time. On the way, you hear flickers of voices in your head that don't belong to you. You shake them off each time.

And when you finally make it to a city you two can hide out in, something happens.

Voices, so many voices in your head.

They're all screaming at you, saying different things.

It's too much, you double over in pain, clutching your head. You beg your friend to make it stop.

Bucky's frantically searching you up and down, trying to figure out what's wrong, preferably before you attract too much attention. He drags into an abandoned building where he can figure out how to fix you.

"I need you to focus, Doll. Focus on my voice." You try, but it's all so loud. "Just relax. Deep breaths, just focus on my voice. I forgot to tell you, I know my name now, it's Bucky. You weren't too far off, Doll."

You're not sure how long it takes, how long you writhe in agony, but the voices soften and eventually fall silent as you focus on Bucky. You're resting your head on his lap, while he gently strokes your head. "What do we do now?"

"I don't know," you whisper, finally calmed down enough to speak.

"You don't know what?"

"You just asked me what we're going to do now?"

"No, I didn't," he says, out loud. Then, he pointedly thinks, "Are you in my head?"

"I think I am," you reply, sitting up and staring at Bucky in abject horror. "I think that's what all those voice are."

It takes months and it's incredibly difficult to control, particularly being that you're both on the run, but with Bucky's help you're able to get ahold of your enhanced abilities.

Most of the time, you can shut out the voices, which is an incredible relief to you both.

It's in between all the chaos and tumult that comes with being two fugitives, that Bucky notices that you hardly eat and when you do, it's not enough.

It wasn't until one night when he burst into your room and caught you sneaking rancid food out.

And you catch him screaming in the middle of the night or wandering the halls when he's supposed to be sleeping.

Alone together, you remind each other.

You help him with his nightmares, sometimes even sleeping in the same bed.

Bucky makes you eat every single meal with him. He even checks your room every once in a while, but you think eating with you is what helps the most.

Every meal, every day, no matter what.

He doesn't just watch you like you're a strange case study, he brings back a happiness you'd long disassociated with food. You joke together, talk, you lived in the moment together.

It takes your mind off of your rocky relationship with food.

You feel comfortable enough to explain how some foods just don't feel safe, how eating sometimes repulses you.

How you've dealt with this since you were a kid.

Your parents hated you, they were disgusted by you, so you strived for unattainable levels of perfection in every part of your life. You even explain the inexplicable game. You explain to him and he understands without a trace of judgement.

Even when you two lived in Wakanda, at the Compound, every meal was together. Until it wasn't.

Then one day when you're both living at the compound as Avengers, Bucky doesn't show up.

He's normally very strict with your routine, every day like clockwork. 7 AM, 1 PM, 7 PM, those are your meal times.

By 2 PM, you're frantic, worried that something happened to Bucky, but then Steve casually walks in and apologizes for being late.

'Late for what?' you ask, feeling a sick, twisting sensation build in your stomach.

He explains how Bucky told him to make sure you ate, to eat with you in fact.

You liked Steve just fine, you could even consider him a friend, but he wasn't Bucky. It was embarrassing that he told Steve without asking you if it was okay. Like you were a chore to be passed around.

And suddenly, you were always eating with Steve. You have trouble explaining it to Steve, you water it down enough so he understands, but it's different. Steve interjects with advice, with anecdotes, with talks about discipline. You don't take it to heart, knowing that Steve has good intentions.

Then, other people started stepping in when Steve couldn't be there, you find yourself dismissing them, saying it wasn't important, that they could go on about their day.

Tony's the one who sets you up with FRIDAY monitoring and reminders, as though the real problem is that you forget to eat every now and then. You don't blame him for the misunderstanding, but you don't correct him either.

You're embarrassed that people don't think you're perfect. You eat alone all the time after that.

And then you're just alone.

All you have is yourself - a you that you hate.

When those people died because of you- you throw yourself back in.

When you find out about Sharon and Bucky, you have the game.

It's a good game, you tell yourself.

You're always winning. You're perfect at it. It makes you beautiful - maybe one day you'll be beautiful enough for someone else.

Maybe one day you'll be perfect.

It's all a game to you - you've convinced yourself that you'll be happy once the circle closes.

That's not what makes him so sure, it's the look on your face. It's sunken in, your skin tone has a sickly gray undertone.

It's the look of absolute despair when your tiny hand doesn't wrap around your wrist.

The park is completely empty. He knows you're the one moving the carousel and Ferris Wheel. He also knows with how little energy you have, you shouldn't be using your abilities.

"I thought I'd find you here."

You instantly drop your hand like a kid with their hand caught in the cookie jar. "Hey, Bucky."

"Hey, yourself."

He comes and sits next to you. He looks down and see his old, faded sweater in your lap. You've held onto it for so long.

"Here," you hand the hoodie that you've been clutching like a lifeline back to him. It breaks your heart but neither him nor that hoodie are yours to keep. "I should give this back to you- I finally got all the sand out."

You think back to the night on the beach, when everything was still perfect.

You were both pretty sure you were not allowed to be here, but neither of you care.

You're both free, you're not on the run.

It's a good life as far as you're concerned.

You could stay in this moment forever.

You're in the midst of fits of giggle and jokes that no one else would ever laugh at.

In between kicking sand at each other and building castles, there's not a care in between the two of you- a rare feat.

Then you're doing impressions of your fellow teammates. Bucky's really good at his Tony impression, while you've mastered Thor.

You're laying down on the sand, you're wearing Bucky's hoodie after he saw that you were getting cold. You two drove far enough away that you can actually make out the stars, Bucky's pointing out the stars and you're hanging onto his every word.

Then he turns to you. And stares at you for a minute too long.

"What?" you giggle, feeling pricks of self-consciousness brewing in your head. "Do I have something on my face?"

"No, I just think you're the most beautiful girl I've ever seen."

"Shut up," you laugh, pushing his shoulder away.

"It's true. I'll even let you look in my head. Go ahead."

The way he closes his eyes and scrunches his nose, makes you laugh.

"Okay, one, you don't 'let me'. I keep everyone out, including you. If I wanted to I don't think there's really anything anyone could do, except maybe Wanda. And two, I know I'm not. I've seen the girls you hang around, I'm definitely not..." you trail off, because the way he looked at you, the awe-filled, tender look in his eye, it made you feel beautiful.

"You are," he whispers. "And you don't even know it."

And your phones ruin the moment you thought you were having.

Just a few days later, you see something that makes your heart break.

You turn the corner into the training room and you see Bucky and Sharon, kissing.

And it makes you hate yourself.

For so many reasons.

For one, you instantly start comparing yourself to her. She's taller than you, thinner, more statuesque. You fight the urge to continue down that path - it never leads to anything good.

Another reason, you start to hate Sharon.

You become a person that you loathe. You used to like Sharon, she's kind, smart, she seemed like an overall nice person. She made Bucky happy. And now you're silently cutting her down every chance you get. Like doing that will make him want you instead. You were never that person and now you are.

And when they become an official item, she's around all the time.

You can't seem to escape her, and it's not for a lack of trying.

It like Bucky's throwing it in your face that you're not good enough for him, he's showing off the new most beautiful girl he's ever seen.

Then that mission happens, those people die because you didn't do more.

Because you weren't perfect.

And you're stuck retreating. You're always in your room, only ever leaving to train now.

FRIDAY is the one that reminds you to eat your 3 meals a day, but you get creative, finding ways around that. You learned that as long as you took a bite, FRIDAY wouldn't alert anyone, and sometimes, on your really bad days, you wouldn't even swallow that one bite.

You restrict access to everyone and anyone to your room. You're disgusted with yourself and you don't want anyone to see yourself like this. But even worse, something that you won't even admit to yourself, you don't even care if they think you're disgusting, you're worried they'll catch you and they'll force you to stop.

But now you can't stop, you desperately want to but you just can't.

It makes you hate yourself even more.

Those people are dead because of you and here you are killing yourself.

And then one day, it all turns into a game again.

This game - it's a twisted one.

It's not for the faint of heart.

Every day, you push yourself. You're training so hard that people are starting to notice, and they don't even know about the sit-ups you do in your room.

You train harder and harder.

You see just how many days you can go without your bite of food.

It's not a fun game, but it's your game. You're good at it. You thrive on it.

Until you don't.

When you woke up this morning, you know you've pushed it too far. And still, you can't bring yourself to swallow that bite of food.

It's repulsive, it's practically shameful - almost as shameful as letting those people die.

It's shameful that you've made one person in your life so important, that you don't know how to be without them.

Besides, you're winning, you're the best at this game.

You're laid out on your bed, checking your wrist again. You're getting really close.

You're only jolted up by a light knocking on your door, and before you open it, you're frantically hiding all the food you haven't been eating.

"Give me a second," you call to whoever's waiting outside your door. When you've finally hidden all the food, you creak open the door.

"Since when did you remove access to your room?" Steve questions, his voice laced with cautious, almost suspicious, curiosity.

You shrug nonchalantly, "It's always been like that."

"I could've sworn-"

But you cut him off, "What's up, Steve?"

He nods suspiciously. He knows you're hiding something, he can very clearly see that you're not yourself. "Right, just wanted to let you know that we'll be leaving soon. You ready to go?"

You nod, playing off the fact that you completely forgot you're on a mission today. "Yeah, I'm ready to go."

"Alright, suit up. We leave in 10."

"Okay."

You start to close the door, but Steve stops you. "Is everything okay?" he asks. "You know you can talk to me about anything, right?"

"Yeah, of course," you shakily nod. "Thanks."

You're dressed and ready to go fairly quickly. You're ecstatic, the happiest you've been in months, when you pull on your uniform to find that it's too big for you now. The fabric hangs off of you and you're can almost feel your heart swell with pride.

And then you panic because it's so very noticeable.

With shaky hands, an uncomfortable cold sweat, and weakness radiating throughout your entire body, you walk up the Quinjet ramp. You hear people talking to you, but their voices sound distant. You shake your head, trying to straighten yourself out before you land.

Even though you swore it's only been a few seconds, Steve's suddenly crouched in front of you. "Are you sure you're okay?

"Yeah, yeah. I told you I'm fine. Just a little tired."

He chuckles, though the humor doesn't quite reach the laugh. "I bet, you've been training really hard lately."

You nervously chuckle and nod along to the rest of the conversation.

You're barely off the Quinjet with the order to help evacuate, and the first time you use your ability, you're down. Out cold.

You didn't know this yet, but while you were in the infirmary, Steve and Tony overrode the security access to your room.

They searched and searched until Steve got close to your dresser, he immediately smelled something rancid. He opened your bottom dresser drawer to find your hidden stash. He found the molding food that you hadn't managed to sneak out yet.

He knew this was how you were bringing clean plates to the kitchen every single day when he could almost guarantee that you hadn't eaten.

Bucky takes the hoodie from your hands - he doesn't miss the frailty this time.

You just happen to notice him noticing you. You stuff your hands in your pocket and sigh.

You know why he's here, and it hurts even more. Steve told him what happened.

He probably pried him away from Sharon and told Bucky to come talk to you.

Your mind is all dark these days, all positivity and optimism are drained, your brain is devoid of anything remotely resembling happiness right now.

You weren't sure when that happened, it wasn't even this dark when you were a HYDRA guinea pig, but now it all seems so bleak.

All you can think is that Bucky doesn't care about you.

That you're an obligation and have been since the days that you two escaped HYDRA.

"You know, I'll never know why you like coming here. It's creepy," he hesitantly jokes.

"It's nice being alone."

He nudges your shoulder, internally cringing as he feels the new frailty. "I thought that was our thing. Alone together, right?"

"Right," you laugh weakly.

Then it's all quiet except for the slight creaking of the Ferris Wheel.

"Well, if you're not going to talk then you can just listen."

"Bucky," you sigh.

"No, you're listening now. What the hell are you doing?" he demands, staring you down for an answer.

"I thought I was just listening," you dryly remark.

"Do you really think this is funny? We don't do this anymore. We don't tear ourselves apart like this. You were doing so much better, why - why would you do this to yourself?"

You don't look at him. You're too afraid he'll see you cry again. "I don't know, Bucky. I didn't think there was a 'we' anymore."

"Even if there wasn't a 'we' anymore, that doesn't mean that you go off the rails," he continues, not knowing how much that hurts. How he didn't even deny that the one-time unbreakable bond, the ironclad unit was now gone.

You're alone, your mind chants.

"I'm not off the rails," you snap. "I've got it under control."

"Under control?" he scoffs. "Passing out - in the middle of a mission, might I add - is under control?"

You don't look at him as you clench your jaw tightly.

"It won't happen again," you spit.

Even as the words leave your mouth, you know you're lying. You know it because you're already plotting on ways to improve.

How to hide food better.

How you can make the game last longer.

Right now all you want to do is be alone. You're sick of yourself, sick of trying, sick of being so... you don't even have words for what you feel right now.

"You're damn right it won't happen again. This stops - today. God, what were you thinking? Why didn't you come to me, to anybody?" he asks, his words bordering on accusations.

You don't tell him that you tried, you tried telling him the last time you spoke.

It's another reason that you know he doesn't give a damn about you. It's been months since the two of you really talked. You refuse to bring up Sharon, flinching at the memory of the last time you did that.

"Nothing, Bucky," you sigh, trying to gather the courage needed to ask for help, but for the first time, he's not listening to you.

"It's obviously something. Can you please just tell me?"

"It's just you and Sharon," you mumble, not being able to look him in the eye.

You want to tell him that you need him right now - it's pretty hard to admit.

You can handle torture from HYDRA, but food will always have an inexplicable power over you.

You want to tell him that you feel alone, really alone, and you need him, but the words aren't coming out right.

You're trying to be happy for him, but you miss him so much.

You're pathetic, being co-dependent on Bucky, but you don't have any strength to take this loneliness anymore.

Ever since that damned mission, it's getting so dark in your head, and he isn't hearing your cry for help.

You feel so selfish that you're unable to let him go, but you can't.

You just can't.

You can't lose him too.

"Jesus, you too!" Bucky shouts. "Why does everyone else get to be happy, but when I finally find someone, everyone's suddenly got a problem with it? I don't say anything about you and Steve, do I?"

"Me and Steve?" you ask, tears burning at your eyes.

Another first, you find yourself recoiling from your person. And you can feel the splintered remnants of your heart breaking into a million little pieces.

"Please. Don't lie to me, I've seen it with my own two eyes, how you two flirt with each other, how you're always touching each other - And that's just what you do in public, God knows what you do behind closed doors!"

As if on cue, Steve walks in, probably having heard what Bucky said.

"Speak of the devil," Bucky mumbles.

"Bucky, there's nothing going on between us," Steve cautiously affirms.

"I don't care. You guys can sleep with each other all you want, just don't lie to me about it! And don't tell me how to live my life!"

"We're not," you insist, the tears still welling in your eyes.

You've never seen Bucky like this, not even as the Winter Soldier did Bucky ever scream at you like this.

And all you can think is, 'Wow, he must really love her'.

The tears are spilling now and out of fear for anyone, especially Bucky, seeing you like this, you stand up and walk out of the room.

The two men remain glaring at each other.

Steve's the one that speaks first, Bucky too choked up by the guilt at making you cry.

He's never been the one to make you cry, never.

He's the one you come to when you're falling apart, he's not the one that tears you apart.

"If I go after her, are you going to accuse me of sleeping with her?" Steve angrily retorts before leaving and going after you.

For the first time in a long time, you cry yourself to sleep.

And it pummels you over and over that you're really, truly, undeniably alone this time.

It's been months since that night and other than an apology for yelling and fleeting niceties, you have barely seen Bucky, let alone spoken to him.

The whole thing kills you.

You're falling apart and Bucky's never looked better.

Every day you have to talk yourself off the ledge, both physical and metaphorical, and lately you don't even know why you're bothering. "I just don't know how you could be so okay without me."

"What?"

"Nothing," you shake your head.

You're so pathetic like this.

Another first, Bucky's not even remotely getting through to you this time.

"What are your safe foods right now? Let's go get a bite."

"What?"

"What are you eating?" he reiterates. "I know there's something."

You can't look at him as you shake your head. How do you look at him and tell him that you're weak? That you're not choking anything down these days?

"There's nothing? You haven't been eating anything?" he asks, his voice shaking as he fights to maintain a small semblance of composure.

He's angry. At you. Even more at himself.

He's hurt that you didn't come to him. Even more hurt that he's only got himself to blame for that.

"I'm sorry," you whisper, still refusing to meet his eyes.

He takes you to a small diner. Without minimal words exchanged, he buys you a burger and fries.

You swear you can see the hatred burning in his eyes. The ire. The contempt.

He forces that entire meal into your mouth.

All want is for it to be the same - you just wanted it to be the same.

You wanted to laugh with him, to make eating the slightest bit more bearable.

But the entire time he watches you silently, offering passing remarks and comments. It's all painfully silent. It makes it so much worse.

With the occasional forceful look, you finish the plate in front of you.

He never did that before. He didn't force you - he only offered encouragement.

And now you've made him hate you too.

After months of not eating, eating a full meal leaves you feeling sicker than you'd ever felt.

You swear that it wasn't even on purpose. You're in your room, choking down bile until you can't anymore.

You run to the bathroom feeling all the food burning at your esophagus.

When you're done, you're slumping down on the cool tile. You're cold and hot all at the same time, you're slipping into a comfortable darkness.

And this time you don't have enough energy to fight it.

When finally become aware, your eyelids feel too heavy to open or maybe you're too tired to carry the weight anymore. You're in some strange state of semi-awareness.

"You know, even before HYDRA, she was abused. She won't call it that, but I know she was. Her parents gave her up to HYDRA, freaking HYDRA. That's how much they hated her. I'm all she's ever had, and I wasn't here. She needed me and I turned my back on her," Bucky quietly laments, his warm hand resting on your cold hand.

"It's not your fault, Buck. No one knew how bad it was. I see her everyday and I didn't know. You can't blame yourself." Another voice says, Steve, you're pretty sure.

"I just don't get why she didn't say anything. To me, at least. I would've been here. She just looked - She looked fine. That's what I don't get she doesn't do this - she's never done this before," Bucky swears, his voice thick with distress.

You hate you're the one that's making him miserable.

"You think it was an accident?"

"Maybe. I think I pushed her too hard. I didn't even really talk to her, I just yelled at her."

"You yelled at her?" Steve remorsefully exhales. "Wait - What do you mean you pushed her too hard?"

"What else? I forced her to eat."

"Jesus, Bucky, you're the only person she trusts with this. I found what was probably months worth of food in her drawer. God knows how much she snuck out before that, she doesn't eat. At all. And you forced an entire meal into her?"

"I'm really messing this up, aren't I?"

"I think you two need to stop acting like it's your job to help her, she needs professional help." Another voice, a female voice says, you're pretty sure it's Sharon. "She's not a child and yet you two keep holding her hand and letting her get away with acting like one."

"She's not acting like a child, she needs help," Bucky defends, his tone gradually becoming sharper. "Why are you even here? I know how you feel about her."

"I'm here to support you. In spite of everything, I'm here for you. And I don't think you should be letting her get away with this desperate cry for attention. Just let them tube her and get it over with."

"I'm not letting them tube her if she doesn't need it. It won't help."

"You don't know that. Maybe this is the wake up call she needs," Sharon repeats, you can tell she's not trying to be mean, not trying to ruin your life. She doesn't get it. You've encountered those people before. The ones that believe in tough love and will-power. "Actions have consequences."

"You should leave," Bucky whispers, his forehead coming to rest on the hand he still holds. "I don't want your support."

"Look, no matter how you two spin it, she did this on purpose. People don't throw up like that by themselves. I'm telling you what you need to hear. She needs some tough love."

"She's had tough love all her life - that's the last thing she needs right now. She needed a friend and I turned my back on her," Bucky grits. It's too silent for a minute, when he finally speaks, it's sharp and to the point, "Just go, Sharon."

You hear her quietly scoff, "Fine. Do what you want."

When you actually wake, Bucky's quietly snoring in the chair next to you.

You're relieved there isn't a tube in your nose. You've heard it's painful.

But Bucky's right, it won't help.

You'd probably rip it out yourself then continue on. The two of you always said that recovery was a process. Bucky's nightmares didn't stop in one night, and it took you time to get back to healthy eating habits.

Your heart is beating out of your chest and it feels like you can't breath right now.

The lights are all off and Bucky's out cold, so you take this opportunity to get some fresh air.

The roof is a place that you'd become accustomed to.

You came up here all the time.

It was a place where your newfound loneliness became bearable.

You take a seat at the ledge, your legs are criss-crossed and you just sit there and imagine a time where you didn't completely hate yourself. Where you didn't make everyone around you miserable. Where people didn't die because of you.

In the infirmary, Bucky jolts awake.

It's not completely unnatural for him, but it's like he can tell that you're not there.

That a vital piece of him is missing.

He looks over to your bed and immediately notices your absence, he's up and searching for you immediately.

He asks FRIDAY about your last known location - the stairwell to the roof.

And he's running.

He doesn't know where your mind is right now and he's not taking a chance.

He runs and runs like hell until he makes it to the roof.

He slams the door open. Only freezing when he sees you sitting on the ledge.

You're startled by the slam of the door.

You turn around to find Bucky breathing heavily, looking panicked.

You quickly put two and two together: he thinks you're going to jump.

"Relax, I'm not going to jump," you huff, rolling your eyes. "It's just nice up here. You can ask FRIDAY, if you don't believe me, I come up here all the time."

"I believe you," he says, but he remains in a cautious stance.

He's inching closer to you like any sudden movement will set you off. You really hate that.

"Do you? Do you believe me when I tell you I didn't mean to throw up like that? That I didn't mean for any of this to happen?" You know your tone is much too curt for Bucky, but everything hurts so much right now.

"I do - that was my fault. I pushed too hard."

Bucky's slow approach doesn't stop, and now it's starting to really bug you. You'd never thought about actually jumping before.

You roll your eyes and nudge your head over for him to join you, "I told you I'm not going to jump. You can stop that."

"Promise?"

"Promise. It's not like I couldn't save myself if I fell or something." You remain quiet as Bucky takes a seat next to you, dangling his legs off of the ledge. "What would happen? If I did do it?"

"I'd probably bust my ass jumping to save you," he chuckles.

You're just thinking out loud right now, not bothering to censor your ideation in front of Bucky, "No, I mean, really - what would happen if I jumped? Who would miss me? People wouldn't die because I mess up."

"Don't talk like that. I'd miss you. I'd miss you forever. And those people, it was an accident. You're a human, a human with limits just like the rest of us."

You nod, but you don't say anything for another moment. "Why didn't you let them tube me?"

"Because I know you - I know you wouldn't want that," he says simply.

Then it's quiet. You're both staring at vast emptiness that surrounds the Compound.

"Do you miss me like I miss you?" you whisper, thinking about all the moments that you've shared with Bucky. It's always been so easy, until now. Why can't it be like that anymore, you wonder.

"Every day, doll."

Bucky is naturally a retreater, you - you're not like that.

Your response is to dive in, to poke and prod at the area until you figure out why it hurts.

And when you retreated, Bucky would be lying if he said that he didn't notice.

He thought that it was his fault, so he backed off. He retreated.

It just never occurred to him to do the poking and prodding himself - he figured when you were ready to confront whatever was bothering you, you just would. He hates that he didn't see all the signs.

"Don't lie to me," you grit out, the rooftop lights flicker with the surge of your power. "Just stop lying to me. This - It's not healthy. I should be able to let you go. I shouldn't need you like this. Not when you don't need me."

"Who said I don't need you? Of course I need you," he insists, resting his hand on yours.

"No, you don't," you vehemently refute, pulling your hand away from his. "You're perfectly fine without me. And me? The second you try to have an ounce of happiness, I fall apart. Sharon was right, it's not your job to put me back together. It's not fair to you."

"Since when do you listen to Sharon?"

"Since she's the one that makes you happy. And I'm the one that makes you miserable. I am sorry about that. About Sharon." It's selfish that you can't let him go. That you want to be the one that makes him happy even though you know you can't. "I guess it's true: misery loves company."

"You don't make me miserable. You could never make me miserable."

"Yes, I do."

"It's a dark place you're in right now," he acknowledges.

He knows his words right now are just that - words. There's probably nothing that he's going to say right now that will sink in - that it will take time and work before you believe anything that he's saying.

He knows what its like to be in this place, he knows and yet he says the words anyway. "Why didn't you come to me earlier? We've never kept things from each other before, why now?" You don't say anything, you don't want to make Bucky feel worse when you're the reason that he's down already. So you don't say anything. Your silence is his answer. "You tried to tell me that day - the day I yelled at you. Didn't you?"

"It just gets so loud sometimes," you whisper.

"I thought you were still shutting all the thoughts out."

"I can't shut out my own thoughts," you quietly admit.

"What are you thinking?"

"That I'm all alone. For real this time."

"You're-"

"Don't say I'm not," you cut him off, tears stinging your eyes again. "Because I am, every second of everyday I'm alone. Every good thing I've ever had, I ruin. I'm a ruiner. It's why my parent gave me up. It's why you left me. It's why those people died. That mission today. It's my fault."

"I'm sorry I left you, Doll."

"Please don't do that. You should be able to be happy without me interfering."

"What do I have to do to get it through your thick skull? You're stuck with me." He cups your head between both his hands, forcing you to look at him. He presses his forehead to yours. "I'm not happy unless you're right there with me. I've been in hell the last 6 months trying to give you your space. All I want to do right now is kiss you and make it better."

"What?"

He drops his hands and suddenly he's the one not looking at you. "I should not have said that."

"Why not?" you timidly ask, worried that he's going to say that he doesn't mean it. "It's because of Sharon, isn't it?"

"No," he scoffs. "I broke up with her months ago. It's because when I do kiss you - it's going to be when you're back on your feet. Not like this, not when we've both been tearing ourselves apart for months." He takes your hand when he sees the thinly veiled disappointment on your face. "And when you're better, I'm going to take you to Coney Island for real this time. And it's going to be perfect, just you and me."

"Promise?"

"Promise."

AnonymityIsFun Masterlist Bucky Barnes Masterlist

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miss-morgans-lover · 11 months

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Marvel Headcannon 1:

Natasha Romanoff Past:

She never told the Avengers everything that happened to her in the Red Room, nor everything she did despite them trying to get her. Despite how she was taught (to have no emotion) she was afraid of what they'd say if they found out how bad the things she really did were.

She didn't even tell them her real name, and the newer ones (after AOU) didn't even know she was Russian.

Those that knew the most were: Bucky, Maria, Fury and Clint, the only ones to know her real name and the only ones to ever hear her intentionally speak with her natural voice and accent. She hides it in an attempt to stay hidden and keep her cover as Natasha Romanoff.

She also suffers from PTSD, but struggles to do much about it until Bucky got there. Once he did the both of them told eachother about their experiences and have gotten better. Some of these experiences they shared as they had worked together in the past, back when they both were with the KGB. She has nightmares and flashbacks, and hates going to Russia because it reminds her of what happened to her, and because she doesn't feel and knows she isn't safe there.

She feels safest with Bucky. Maria helps how she can, so does Clint. Fury tries but he doesn't know how to, but does only send her to Russia if she is the only one who can do it.

She and Bucky used to date back when they knew eachother and they begun to date again after they met again, both feeling safest and calmest with the other.

#bucky x natasha #natalia romanova #natasha romanoff #natasha romanova #bucky barnes #buckynat #winterwidow #winter soldier #the red room #kgb marvel #clint barton #maria hill #ptsd flashbacks #ptsd recovery #nightmares #marvel #mcu fandom

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geeklife314 · 1 year

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Does anyone else hate the portrayal of therapy in The Falcon and The Winter Soldier? Bucky’s therapist is very passive aggressive and has a strict tone with him the whole time. No sympathy and barely any helpful insights. She even calls him pathetic for not having more friends. The MCU wasted an opportunity to advocate for mental health treatments like DBT and others. If they were going to show such a shit representation of therapy, they should have made it clear that the government only sent him to therapy to keep tabs on his whereabouts. Otherwise- this is just shit representation.

Bucky deserved better his whole life. He definitely deserved better in his healing process.

I have PTSD and I know that therapy is one of the things that has allowed me to keep living. Yes, it’s extremely hard. Yes, you have to find the right therapist for you. Hell, I’ve had to bounce from 3 already and that’s not including introduction sessions with others.

I just- I really wish there was better representation of people’s healing journeys.

#james bucky buchanan barnes #buckybarnes #bucky #tfaws #the falcon and the winter solider spoilers #therapy #tw ptsd #ptsd thoughts #ptsdawareness #ptsd flashbacks #ptsd #ptsd recovery #ptsd therapy #ptsdlife #james bucky barnes #sebastian stan #marvel #marvel mcu #mentalheathawareness

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winterspiderpurrs · 1 year

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I came up with this a while back now I can't remember if I created a Moodboard or if I commented on one. But like... this is such a drama filled prompt/plot bunny that I hope will inspire someone to write!

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Bucky wounded vet got addicted to pain meds before moving on to other drugs once he was back stateside. Enabler boyfriend Steve cause he couldn't just abandon Bucky. Maybe convinced him at some point to get counciling .

Enter recovered drug addict Peter Parker councilor.

I picture Steve end up getting a crush on Peter. This cute guy helping him get his boyfriend back ya know? He can't help it.

Peters background: In his late teens, he got an older boyfriend [Tony Stark], and he was the one who introduced the world of drugs to him. He doesn't remember much of that time, at some point they break up but Peter was still heavy into drugs by then and living in the streets cause Uncle Ben got shot when he went out looking for his nephew to bring him home, Aunt May blamed him and or refused to house an addict.

Maybe Peter ends up ODing but survived, and Tony being Tony has Peter's name to flag, and Jarvis informs him of the hospital stay. Guilty Tony, who has since gotten clean, sent Peter off to rehab. Once he recovered and wanted to help others in this situation, Tony created the new facility. They remain friends, though both still harbor feelings. No one knows their shared history.

And then one day while Bucky and Steve are at the couple session or visit. They see Peter and Tony talking. And Bucky gets a flash back of a while party his dealer got him in on. He has fragments of memory of doing lines of coke off Peter with one Tony Stark and possibly had a threesome with them. Basicly passing Peter around between them.

Tony would look at Bucky and panic cause Tony remembered, but it's clear that Peter doesn't. Hence his extra guilt cause he KNOWS he put Peter through shit.

How is Bucky going to explain cheating on Steve? And how it was with someone who Steve is looking up to?

Maybe at some point Tony corners Bucky.

Steve gets extra protective of Bucky. And later Peter.

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steevbuckk · 6 months

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FAVORITE STUCKY FICS | 53/100

Effects of Obliteration by @geneticallydead

[Post CA:TWS, 25 553 words, Explicit]

Summary:

“I watched a documentary on the bombs dropped on Nagasaki and Hiroshima a while ago. In the blast radius, sometimes a… a person blocked the bleaching effect of the radiation. So the person was vaporized, but a shadow was left behind, on a bridge or a wall – their shape, their outline, when they were completely gone," Steve said. "It’s called a nuclear shadow.”

“If you’re implying the Soldier is like a nuclear shadow, then that is seriously fucking dark, man,” Sam said dryly.

Before the fall of the Soviet Union, the Winter Soldier was sent to the American arm of Hydra - only there was a malfunction in the cryo-unit that meant it couldn't be opened, and it was left, powered but abandoned, in an underground base.

25 years later, the Avengers find it.

more fics

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amarriageoftrueminds · 1 year

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Do you think Bucky would have been okay in an extremely high security psych facility? Like, say he had access to genuinely good therapists and around the clock care in Wakanda, would he have gotten antsy and withdrawn, or would he have done well in that kind of environment?

Hmm... little from column A, little from column B? ¯_( :/ )_/¯

IMO Bucky has a sweet enough nature and sufficient mental fortitude to flourish in any circumstances.

But I do think he'd become restless, even if he made friends and got better in that kind of controlled environment.

A) Having been under the control of others, and survived on his own for so long, it would probably rankle him to have his life once again dictated for him; where he can be and what he can do -- especially after having a taste of freedom just prior -- even if the people doing it were well intentioned, this time.

B) I can't imagine he has a good opinion of doctors of any variety, which wouldn't help.

C) As a supersoldier he has a higher energy level than ordinary patients, so a pace which would seem merely restful to them would feel doubly suffocating and slow-moving, to him.

The real problem of course is how to treat Bucky in the first place.

As far as we know of this universe, all extant psychiatric treatment methods have been designed with non-enhanced patients in mind; to help people cope with traumas it is physically possible to survive (because if they weren't survivable then the patient would be dead).

...But Bucky has survived things it isn't physically possible for a normal person to survive.

So unless there has been some recent innovation in psychiatry specifically geared towards helping enhanced people, in this 'verse, there's no medical guidebook as to how to treat that.

And when you add up all the problems Bucky has simultaneously...

Losing a limb, losing all his family, all his friends, his home world, (arguably, the war), losing his memory, his partner, coping with long term brain-damage, having C-PTSD from the war, and from being tortured beyond the point of human survivability for 70+ years, the stress of being a fugitive for 2+ years, and the moral injury of what he was forced to do to both strangers and his sole surviving loved one?

Even suspending disbelief to suppose it is possible for someone in-universe to treat Bucky successfully, any one of those ^ things would be enough for a psychiatrist to treat on its own.

But all of them at the same time?!

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sarahowritesostucky · 4 months

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Rated: Explicit

Pairing: Steve x Bucky

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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