A/N: Hey OP! I'm actually the writer of the very-similar prompt posted just after this one. I know we both posted our prompts a while ago, but I kept thinking of the coincidence of us both posting such similar concepts on the same day, and wanting to make both our trash dreams come true. So here's the result (the first part, anyway)!
I've combined both our prompts together (since I'm all about easy access ;), my prompt is here: https://hydratrashmeme.dreamwidth.org/2807.html?thread=6330359#cmt6330359)
*************************** It’s easy enough when Bucky’s alone.
He jerks off before bed, usually, or sometimes in the shower. Liminal spaces, edge case temporalities; afterwards his guilt can simply slide down the drain or seep into the fabric of his sleep. He does his best not give himself time to think about it, otherwise, and so it is simply a few perfunctory motions, a few quick-passing minutes, and then he packs it away again, the pit of want and terror, and goes about his day.
It goes like this: he begins with light, exploratory touches, as though he is choosing a book from a shelf, running his fingers along the spines, and in a way, he is. He closes his eyes, and though some part of him is aware, always, of the windows and the locks and the heating vents, their measurements and thicknesses, he drifts, nonetheless, by his standards. He considers: the kidnapping, tonight, with the ropes he cannot get out of, and the hot, dark trunk and the isolated destination? The collar tight around his neck, the people discussing him like a specimen, a frank assessment peppered with bawdy jokes? Or maybe the coiled brutality of a beating, one against many, and the slick inevitably coating his throat as he begins to know he has lost, the blood and snot and tears and sweat running down his face only the first fluids that will coat him before it is over, yes, yes, that one, yes.
His speed picks up, and with it his pressure, and his other hand digs nails into the flesh of his leg or his chest, and yes, he would gag on the first cock shoved into his mouth, and no, its owner would not pause. He slicks his palm with his own pre-cum, and it’s barely enough to ease his hand, and yes, that’s what they would do to him, touch him like this as they fucked his throat one after another, yes, cum shooting into his mouth in hot spurts, yes, the thick slide of it down his cheeks, yes, a hand in his hair, grip tight, pressing his face to the floor to lick cold drops of cum out of the dirty tiles, yesyesyes.
He lies in bed afterwards, curled up but still not small, and he licks the evidence off his fingers of this thing he will not name. There are churning things inside him, sweet angers and bitter hurts, because he knows exactly who broke him, and how, and this hunger seems to be one stubbornly-enduring result. But if he thinks instead of the afterglow suffusing his limbs then he can usually pull sleep around himself before too long.
***
So the problem is not really when he is alone. The problem is when he’s with Steve.
Steve stares into his eyes when he’s inside Bucky. His look is one of eager reverence. Sometimes, Bucky can almost pretend Steve is not gentle, but even the firmest of Steve’s touches remain stubbornly free of ulteriority. Warm hands against his chest. Warm lips pressed against Bucky’s own, and it’s nice, it is, but it’s so straightforward. There is nothing Bucky can catch himself against on the smooth mass of Steve’s affections.
So Bucky smiles at Steve as Steve’s hand finds Bucky’s cock, and he tries for as long as he can to hold Steve’s steady gaze. He lets it build, the need, the frustration, and only when he is close, only when he hovers on the knife edge and needs to know that it will cut him if he asks—only then does he close his eyes, and only enough to see (yes, yes) the bright white of a medical exam room, and the press of restraints against his flesh, and the cold slick-stretch of a gloved and lubricated finger, and (yes) his orgasm crests, and he opens his eyes as he feels the joy of it, so that he locks eyes with Steve once again as he spills over Steve’s hand.
“It’s so good to have you back, Buck,” says Steve sometimes—often—afterwards, and Bucky thinks of his momentary absence only moments before, and he does not know whether to snuggle in closer or make himself get up.
***
When Bucky told Steve--a pre-emptive flaying, early on; he is no one’s blackmail material--he flung all the harshest words out of him all at once. Rape, he said, and he liked the way it cleaved the air, so he said it again: They raped me. I was raped. After he said it seven times in different ways (all of them at once, they thought I didn’t get it so soon after a wipe, made me beg for it, downtime on missions), he sat down, lightheaded as though he’d just run a mile.
Steve was trying so hard not to cry that his hands were twin white-knuckled statues, gripping the arms of his chair. “I’m sorry,” he said, when the tears pushed their way through anyway, “I want to do whatever you need, Buck, I don’t want to make this about me, I just—I’m so, so angry that happened to you. I want to make sure it will never happen again.”
Steve’s touches have become even more gentle since then. Bucky’s fantasies, much to his dismay, have not changed one bit.
FILL: Secrets [1/3?] - Steve/Bucky - Bucky's rape fantasies during consensual, vanilla sex
I've combined both our prompts together (since I'm all about easy access ;), my prompt is here: https://hydratrashmeme.dreamwidth.org/2807.html?thread=6330359#cmt6330359)
***************************
It’s easy enough when Bucky’s alone.
He jerks off before bed, usually, or sometimes in the shower. Liminal spaces, edge case temporalities; afterwards his guilt can simply slide down the drain or seep into the fabric of his sleep. He does his best not give himself time to think about it, otherwise, and so it is simply a few perfunctory motions, a few quick-passing minutes, and then he packs it away again, the pit of want and terror, and goes about his day.
It goes like this: he begins with light, exploratory touches, as though he is choosing a book from a shelf, running his fingers along the spines, and in a way, he is. He closes his eyes, and though some part of him is aware, always, of the windows and the locks and the heating vents, their measurements and thicknesses, he drifts, nonetheless, by his standards. He considers: the kidnapping, tonight, with the ropes he cannot get out of, and the hot, dark trunk and the isolated destination? The collar tight around his neck, the people discussing him like a specimen, a frank assessment peppered with bawdy jokes? Or maybe the coiled brutality of a beating, one against many, and the slick inevitably coating his throat as he begins to know he has lost, the blood and snot and tears and sweat running down his face only the first fluids that will coat him before it is over, yes, yes, that one, yes.
His speed picks up, and with it his pressure, and his other hand digs nails into the flesh of his leg or his chest, and yes, he would gag on the first cock shoved into his mouth, and no, its owner would not pause. He slicks his palm with his own pre-cum, and it’s barely enough to ease his hand, and yes, that’s what they would do to him, touch him like this as they fucked his throat one after another, yes, cum shooting into his mouth in hot spurts, yes, the thick slide of it down his cheeks, yes, a hand in his hair, grip tight, pressing his face to the floor to lick cold drops of cum out of the dirty tiles, yesyesyes.
He lies in bed afterwards, curled up but still not small, and he licks the evidence off his fingers of this thing he will not name. There are churning things inside him, sweet angers and bitter hurts, because he knows exactly who broke him, and how, and this hunger seems to be one stubbornly-enduring result. But if he thinks instead of the afterglow suffusing his limbs then he can usually pull sleep around himself before too long.
***
So the problem is not really when he is alone. The problem is when he’s with Steve.
Steve stares into his eyes when he’s inside Bucky. His look is one of eager reverence. Sometimes, Bucky can almost pretend Steve is not gentle, but even the firmest of Steve’s touches remain stubbornly free of ulteriority. Warm hands against his chest. Warm lips pressed against Bucky’s own, and it’s nice, it is, but it’s so straightforward. There is nothing Bucky can catch himself against on the smooth mass of Steve’s affections.
So Bucky smiles at Steve as Steve’s hand finds Bucky’s cock, and he tries for as long as he can to hold Steve’s steady gaze. He lets it build, the need, the frustration, and only when he is close, only when he hovers on the knife edge and needs to know that it will cut him if he asks—only then does he close his eyes, and only enough to see (yes, yes) the bright white of a medical exam room, and the press of restraints against his flesh, and the cold slick-stretch of a gloved and lubricated finger, and (yes) his orgasm crests, and he opens his eyes as he feels the joy of it, so that he locks eyes with Steve once again as he spills over Steve’s hand.
“It’s so good to have you back, Buck,” says Steve sometimes—often—afterwards, and Bucky thinks of his momentary absence only moments before, and he does not know whether to snuggle in closer or make himself get up.
***
When Bucky told Steve--a pre-emptive flaying, early on; he is no one’s blackmail material--he flung all the harshest words out of him all at once. Rape, he said, and he liked the way it cleaved the air, so he said it again: They raped me. I was raped. After he said it seven times in different ways (all of them at once, they thought I didn’t get it so soon after a wipe, made me beg for it, downtime on missions), he sat down, lightheaded as though he’d just run a mile.
Steve was trying so hard not to cry that his hands were twin white-knuckled statues, gripping the arms of his chair. “I’m sorry,” he said, when the tears pushed their way through anyway, “I want to do whatever you need, Buck, I don’t want to make this about me, I just—I’m so, so angry that happened to you. I want to make sure it will never happen again.”
Steve’s touches have become even more gentle since then. Bucky’s fantasies, much to his dismay, have not changed one bit.