Trash Party Dumpster #1

[trashmod]

(Will be continued in a Dumpster #2 post if by some unholy hell-miracle this post hits the 5000-comment limit.)

Filthy anon dumpster for sad hobos to fling moldy pizza crusts, raccoon eye makeup tips, and garbage about their sad trash kinks at each other.

AKA the Hydra Trash Party kinkmeme. One hundred percent Hydra Party Favor Bucky Barnes, Is It Sexy Violence Or Violent Sex?, and Bad Guys Do Bad Things To Your Faves: Winter Soldier Edition. BLANKET NON-CON/DUB-CON WARNING, not safe for work, not safe for life, not safe for anyone, read at your own risk of becoming one of us.

Rules in brief: don't be a jerk except to fictional characters, warnings for particularly fucked-up garbage are nice but not required, thou shalt not judge the trashiness of thy neighbor's kinks unless thy neighbor is trying to pass off their rotting banana peels and half-eaten pizza crusts as a healthy romantic dinner for two, off-topic comments may be chucked out of the dumpster at management's discretion, management's discretion decrees that omegaverse, soulbond AUs, D/s-verse, non-superpowered AUs, etc. are off-topic.

Organization: hydratrashmeme Pinboard archive maintained by greenkirtle. If you fill a prompt, drop a link at the fill post. Discussion threads now have a chatter post.

If you want email notifications for new comments here, sign up for a Dreamwidth account and click the little bell icon at the top of this post. To read new comments chronologically rather than in threads, use flat view.

GO TO TOWN, TRASHBABIES.

Unholy hell-miracle achieved! Round 1 is closed; comments and fills in existing threads are still welcome, but all new prompts go to Round 2.

Comments

[FILL] Permission [1/?]

[(Anonymous)]

oooh god, whyre yall camping. i already got an audience before i even get started. yall givin me performance anxiety.


Almost, almost, almost— and then some more almost— and then it’s ‘almost’ for so long that Bucky’s hand flies away from his throbbing dick and, in absence of pumping, forms a fist that finds itself cracking tile like the metal one might crack concrete. He lets himself do this, because he can’t stand a single moment more of stroking that vicious, anxious wall between ‘almost’ and ‘there’.

His cock aches. The ache compels him to try again, try more, before he backs away from the edge; if he did this, or that— shifted his grip a little this way, or used his left hand for this long before switching, or if he tried touching here, or penetrating himself, or— ...but he knows that he’s tried it all, and so he forcefully keeps his hands planted on the walls of the shower stall and waits for his body to stop straining. In the mean time, his dick is heavy and swollen and insistent, and his chest is heaving, and his throat is trying to let free something undignified, and— worst of all— the ugly part of his brain, that animal part that doesn’t feel like Bucky, is fearful and searching...

Eventually the warmth of the pounding water loosens him up just enough until he can drag his fingers down, knocking free white chips and fine dust, to regretfully grind the lever from hot to cold. It’s not hard, when he’s freezing, to let his mind drift away from his bodily frustrations… But it’s like stepping up to the edge of that cliff in the mountains in his mind. Best not to go too far.

Bucky loses track of time and comes back to himself when he stubs his toe on the vanity. Somehow he’s already exited the shower and dried himself off and combed his hair without realizing it. Now he must walk the tightrope between hottightdemanding and coldhowlingempty.

He dresses only because he has to, really. Goes to get a late breakfast because Steve will be expecting him at some point. He isn’t hungry; his body only manages a dissatisfied yearning, an emptiness he can’t fill with food or friendly banter or sunshine. He can feel his thoughts sloshing around in his abused skull like pooling blood dragged by a tidal system. Wobbling on that tightrope, dizzy. On one side, all the angry questions: Why can’t I get off? Why can’t it just be simple? On the other side, all the dreadful knowledge, the evil memories that give him unsatisfactory answers. And then somewhere behind, a high-pitched, quavering idea of a solution, pushing at him like a light wind. When this breeze picks up, Bucky shuts himself off until it’s safe to go forward again.

It’s agonizing! It’s hateful! What’s the point in making him this way? Whose idea was this? (And are they still alive? because if so, Bucky rather needs to rectify that unfortunate fact.)

The unavoidable fact is that Bucky is no longer capable of orgasm. Completion, relief, what-have-you— though he has tried to defy his programming, this is one stubborn bit of mold in his dark corner. He’s been trying to crack his own code since he had the wherewithal to remember that physical pleasure was something even he was allowed, all to no avail. He’s spent countless fitful nights tracing the lines of a disfigured body to try to find something good there, something he can like about the machine they made him.

It took time to even get to the precipice he cannot crest— at first his own touch, missing so long from his self, was as a stranger’s, and his caress was too like theirs: the ones that shaped him this way. That first night was grueling in the extreme; he felt the ghosts of their hands, their breath, the echo of their words in his ear. (“Not yet. No. Who said you could—”) But James Barnes— well, Hydra had won the smaller battles for 70 years, but James Barnes was the ultimate survivor. In 2015 he came out on the winning side of the war that had started in Zola’s lab in 1943. He wasn’t going to let them win; he had found— been given —the strength to fight once more.

And he got here: jumping through odd hoops and navigating new hang ups, he found his way to pleasure— to watching films in his comfortable bed or to the gentle warmth of the shower —but never to the end. There’s one last hurdle in his way, one more wall to break down, but this one isn’t budging.

It’s like this:

Bucky touches himself sweetly, gently. No pain. No punishment. He keeps the metal hand far away while he runs his flesh fingers down dense planes. Soothing, slow. He lets himself be warm and cocooned, in the stall or under sheets, never exposed. When the ugly faces of nameless men come swimming forth, when he can’t stop remembering the orders they gave or the pain they inflicted when he defied them— he slows his breathing, then, and touches metal to his lips in a lonesome parody of a gentle kiss. He starts over, just as gentle. He often imagines being able to speak to his trainers, being given back his voice. He imagines being smug and mothering, reprimanding them— Now if you keep stopping me, we’ll be here all day! —because they can throw their tantrums to try to have things their way, but he’s an adult and he knows best. And that best is to not believe a word out of their foul, lying mouths. It’s ridiculous, but he’s learned not to put his methods down. No need to ruin something that works.

And Bucky gets down to stroking himself at an almost reverential pace. To let himself feel as he wants, when he wants. It’s easy, then, when his cock is finally swollen and his brain has finally drowned out all other thoughts but ‘now now now’, to pick up speed and firmness. Easy to let the metal arm, hopefully warmed by body heat or water spray, to touch as well, to pluck with remarkable restraint at his chest, until he’s almost, almost, almost…

Until he opens his eyes, and the cocoon turns into confinement, and suddenly he doesn’t trust himself that this is the right thing to do. Sick spikes of nausea and anxiety won’t be forced down; there’s no visualization to combat feelings as he combated his memories. And the metal isn’t okay anymore; it is suddenly too like the impersonal tools his trainers used to violate him: like the clamps over his nipples, or the restraints that had encircled his cock and balls, or the unyielding rods that had penetrated him.

Almost, almost, almost, and then wrong, wrong, wrong—

He realizes that his brain is the most untrustworthy thing there is. How can he be sure that these memories are true? How can he be sure that he is in the right? Bucky becomes possessed with the possibility that his brain is trying to warn him; he’s so used to operating on muscle memory— what if the anxiety kicks in just when he’s about to come in order to warn him?

Orgasm is pleasurable // Orgasm is painful.

Both of these seem true. Both have memories backing them up: once he came and cried from the relief; once he came and vomited from the electric arc of pain. Then Bucky’s shoulders seize up, his breath stutters. In a deep, buried, humiliating piece of his mind, he knows the solution:

Ask. Just ask.

Ask for permission to come.

—...and at last Bucky cannot stand the stimulation both elating and frightening, and gives up on achieving orgasm, and locks up that ugly idea that he needs anyone’s permission to be himself. That idea is the death of Bucky Barnes.

[FILL] Permission [2/?]

[(Anonymous)]

That’s the way it goes now. And he can see no change in the foreseeable future.

This occurs to him now, in the present— the possibility that he’ll never have full control over his body again. It inspires rage in all his limbs, a stormcloud stuffing his headspace, thundering with the leftover ache of this morning’s dissatisfaction and the aches of months and months without real release. Bucky lets it out here as he let it out on shower tiles earlier, as if the destruction will help relieve the torment.

“Bucky!”

He got lost in his own head again, he realizes with a gasp. Bucky comes back to himself in the kitchen at the sound of Steve’s startled, reproving voice. Steve is staring, eyes wide in disbelief, brows furrowed into a fierce angle, and fists on his hips in a perfect assimilation of Mrs. Rogers’ pose before she ever let loose on little Steve’s ears.

“Sorry,” Bucky says immediately, before he knows quite what he’s done.

“Bucky,” Steve says again, the name melting with concern.

Bucky flounders for a moment before looking down. His fist is inside the toaster.

“Sorry,” he says again. Then, more intelligently as he wrenches metal out of hot dented grates and blackened bits of bread, he says, “I can replace that… I think.”

Steve’s eyes turn cutting, shining blue into that sharp intelligence. Bucky braces himself for a fight, because Steve’s his best pal but he’s also a righteous jackass sometimes and Bucky is just not having it, not today, not after his most recent failure. But see again: best pal; Steve must see something in Bucky’s scowl, for he forcibly relaxes and drops his arms to his sides.

“You alright?”

Bucky turns away. He can’t face Steve— Steve sees too much. “Fine,” he mutters. “It was the left.” He demonstrates by shaking it out of debris and holding it up in the air.

Steve sighs and slides the trashcan across the tile floor with a calculated little kick. “But are you alright, Buck?”

“...yeah.” Bucky licks his lips, squares his shoulders. (Ask. Just ask.) “Having a bit of a hard time today. Sorry about the toaster. You don’t even like toast. I mean, sorry anyway.”

Steve waits until the scraps are all done clanging into the bottom of the plastic bin. “You wanna—”

“Not talk about it? Sure do.”

Don’t talk about it, don’t think about it, don’t ask— don’t you dare ask that ugly question—

Steve wants to argue, Steve always wants to argue. Bucky’s thankful for muscle memory right now: even mind as scattered as his, he knows how to deal with Steve damn Rogers. He says lightly but pointedly, “Ain’t there a ballgame on?” And he tilts his chin and gives a hard smile.

Steve chews his cheek. “Later tonight.”

“But you got that channel on the TV, plays baseball all the time. They’ll be talking about it already, right?” Bucky reaches out and gives Steve a hearty shove on the shoulder, pushing him towards the living room. Steve hesitates, trying to dig in his heels at the manhandling, but as always he just needs a little extra push, because he can never deny Bucky too long. “Or there’s that channel what plays the movies, there’s plenty of those. Let’s go watch something.”

Steve allows the promise of them spending time together to mollify him. Bucky won’t let him think he’s pushing him away; Steve means more to him than anything and deserves everything Bucky can give. So Bucky makes himself instant oatmeal with three packets and then he and Steve fall on the couch together.

Just don’t think about it. Just focus on something else for now. He can figure out new tactics when he’s alone. Right now the shadows of his trainers are looming over his shoulder, mocking him— ‘not yet’ —and he needs something else in his head.

Steve puts on the channels with the movies from the new millenium. ‘To catch us up’, he says. Just to be an ass— and maybe inspire a kiddie fight that’ll go back and forth and ground Buck in the now —he refuses to watch the animated movies and snatches the remote from Steve to click to a different channel. He’s expecting his pal to swipe back for it, but Steve, maddeningly, shrugs and says he hasn’t seen this one either.

So Bucky sighs and throws down the remote and settles in to watch. His head does more of that sloshing, though its further away now. An itch he’s strong enough not to scratch. The shadows creep in like a white noise on the radio, but Bucky’s constantly retuning, not willing to give in or give up, not when Steve’s sitting right next to him.

He comes back from the static some two hours into this hideously long movie to a sequence where the fella ‘wins’ the dame. He’s not expecting it to turn as graphic as it does— and neither is Steve, judging by his climbing eyebrows.

“Kids could be watching this,” Steve mumbles under his breath. Then he turns to Bucky with a mischievous smirk. “Lucky bastards.”

Bucky purses his lips. He can’t take his eyes off the screen. How do they get away with this on TV in the middle of the day? The camera peers over the man’s back and he is faceless, just some Joe with dark hair, and the woman’s red mouth is an ‘o’ and her bare breasts are bouncing and Bucky’s overworked yet needy cock is swelling in his pants…

“Buck? I was kidding.” Steve elbows his arm. Bucky twitches away.

“Turn this trash!” he bites harshly.

“What?”

“Just turn it!”

“Bucky—”

Bucky swipes up the remote. “It’s the end, we know what happens, it’s not even good.”

God just really loves fucking with Bucky. That! when he’s been trying all day… That! on the day he needs to see it least.

Re: [FILL] Permission [2/?]

[(Anonymous)]

I need more of this please

Re: [FILL] Permission [2/?]

[(Anonymous)]

I love your writing! Bucky's need is like a tangible itch I can feel while reading this.

[FILL] Permission [3/?]

[(Anonymous)]

Now he’s gone too far. Steve’s definitely going to fight him over this. Bucky flicks several channels down before thrusting the remote back. He pointedly stares at the damn animated orange mammoth and the hideous little sloth arguing on the screen. (Steve honestly wanted to watch this shit?)

He’s waiting, but the hammer isn’t falling.

After a moment of tense silence, Bucky whips his head to glare at Steve. Steve, in turn, is giving him a deeply unimpressed look, arms crossed over his chest.

“What,” Bucky snaps.

Steve waits another moment. Bucky knows that look. It’s the look when he’s being mature for once and chewing back the first caustic comment that came to his quick-tempered tongue. Steve stops working his jaw and asks, “You alright?”

Bucky turns away. “Stop asking me that. You know I’m not.”

“Just saying,” Steve continues slowly, as if he went faster he’d have time for being nasty, “maybe if you gave me a hint, some innocent bystanders could be saved. The toaster, for instance. Or these little buttons that I’m gonna have to pick out with a safety pin.”

Bucky eyes the dented remote with a small twinge of guilt. “Having a hard time today,” he repeats churlishly.

He can see Steve reel in his temper like it’s a corporeal thing. In the end it’s a damn TV remote, and it’s fixable, and if anyone respects keeping their emotions under lock and key, it’s Steve. Steve heaves the weariest of sighs and puts the remote on the table gingerly, probably believing that if his actions are gentle then his thoughts will follow. They say no more for a long time, just pretend to watch an animated pack of prehistoric animals take care of a baby.

Well, Steve might legitimately be watching. Bucky can’t see anything but a pornographic slideshow in his head. His thoughts are so pervasive that he can’t accept any more input; he honestly can’t say what the movie is about and he isn’t aware when it ends and Steve leaves to go find that safety pin. Later on he will note vaguely that the remote has been fixed, but at the moment—

The image of the woman on TV stays for a while, then melts into something real, something tangible and his, several somethings, all memories that have been living on the edge of his recovery. Real, actual girls, his girls. Once upon a time, Bucky Barnes touched women that way. Enjoyed them that way. And now his mouth goes dry, remembering them at last as more than hazy ghosts, bland facts. He yearns for them again: girls with dark eyes, girls with bright lipstick, girls soft and sweet smelling. Dancing, touching, kissing.

Deeper, heavier: sliding down straps, hitching up skirts. High-pitched gasping. The heavy globes of her breasts in his hands. Small red tongue darting. So much thigh to hold on to. Yielding wetness. Snug inside of her body, in the circle of her smooth arms. He can’t remember exactly how it feels, he only knows it was good. And the knowledge is enough to want and want fiercely.

Bucky excuses himself to the bathroom in a dream. Maybe this will be enough; maybe that this is real and not fantasy will be what he needs. He fishes himself from his fly and leans over the toilet, metal hand bracing himself on the wall. He closes his eyes and lets the memories consume him.

Dark fringes turn to red curls. Highwaisted skirts into nothing at all— she was wearing nothing at all— and it was dark and they hid under the covers…

Natasha had never taken her eyes off him, not for a second. The Black Widow, all too ready to eat him alive. Nails just long enough to score heat into his back. Her smile was tight and menacing even then, even as her jaw was rocked loose and her mouth opened wide— that red ‘o’, that movie had reminded him —and she was deathly quiet, the both of them afraid of getting caught. He buried his mouth into her neck, scraped her with his teeth. Her breath escaped her in a hot rush, the smallest edge of her voice tinting it beautiful.

Bucky fists himself desperately to the memory of his and Natasha’s affair, to the image of her on top, red hair swinging, eyes blazing. And it’s so powerful that he’s almost— almost— almost—

he’s distantly aware that his pants are loud and echoing in the enclosed space, and his hips are rolling into his hand, and his pulse is thrumming, and he’s so lightheaded

—almost—

kissing her and feeling he could drown, holding onto her hourglass waist for dear life, the strong trunks of her sturdy legs as they raised and lowered her onto him, pussy sliding slickly

—almost, but time is dragging out. He replays the quick-flash memories over and over, trying to fill the space. He’s so close his limbs are shaking with it. How many minutes has he been gone? Steve can’t hear, can he?

The fear comes.

They got caught eventually, and they were punished… But he can’t remember— and he wishes he didn’t have to think about it, wishes he could just think of Natasha and her beautiful pale skin and flexibility —but he can’t remember how it ended… Was it good? Was it painful? But he’s sure of what came after. He doesn’t know if the lesson was reinforcement of previous conditioning in the face of his disobedience, or if it started then as a response to his wayward sex. The point is that he didn’t have permission to love her freely.

(And so: they drove into him, somewhere cold and exposed, and he never saw her again, forgot about her even, but they asked him if he thought this is what it felt like for her. They were gentle up until the point he came; then they were vicious. They left his genitals a red and purple mush, his asshole a spasming, screaming wound.)

(“Who said you could?”)

Bucky comes back to himself with his dick limp in his hand. He shivers feverishly. There’s a dab of fluid on the toilet seat too small to have been anything worthwhile. It sends a curl of horrified revulsion through his system and he wipes it hastily with tissue paper.

Re: [FILL] Permission [3/?]

[(Anonymous)]

yassssssssssss this is excellent

Re: [FILL] Permission [3/?]

[(Anonymous)]

This is absolutely FANTASTIC. I can't wait for more.

Poor Bucky; the frustration is so believable, and I love that it stemmed from his affair with Nat.

Re: [FILL] Permission [3/?]

[(Anonymous)]

o h

Re: [FILL] Permission [3/?]

[(Anonymous)]

OP here. I am loving every word of this and so eager for more. Bucky is just perfect, fighting his body and his mind.

[FILL] Permission [4/?]

[(Anonymous)]

This can’t be the end, he begs of himself, and yet he knows it is. Still he tries to calm himself as he tugs fruitlessly. He has failed. Every little jolt of sensation that could be pleasurable is echoed by a hop of fear in his gut, and every second that passes allows the darker memories to eat away at the good ones like parasitic bugs. At last he begins to doubt that his time with Natasha— Natalia —was ever real. What is this sickness? He stops being able to imagine ever being able to connect with her that way. He knows one thing for sure: he shot her… twice. What kind of friend— no. That’s a word too strong for the fledgling relationship they’ve formed since Bucky came back to himself. What kind of man uses a woman like that? After everything he's done to her...

With a grimace, he delicately tucks himself back in. The tingle of his hand lingers on his dick, calling attention, demanding more like an itch demands scratching. Bucky pets the front of his pants with a heavy hand, wishing to soothe the insistence away, and holds back a growl of frustration. If he touches it anymore, surely he’ll try again— but he can’t otherwise occupy his hands; there’s been enough destruction today.

Suddenly there comes a rapping on the door and Bucky, usually too aware of his surroundings, is startled into jerking his hands into the air— a move of surrender that in the past he only ever showed to stay the mightiest of his trainers’ wrath.

“Bucky?” Steve calls through the door. “Is everything okay in there? Sorry— it’s just been an awful long time…”

Bucky takes a moment to work up enough gumption to answer. Can Steve hear his heart pounding wildly in his chest? —because to Bucky it seems like war drums. What else might he have heard?: the aggrieved hissing through his clenched teeth as Bucky tried to soothe away his want?; the desperate panting while he had twisted his fingers over the head of his cock?; sharp gasps of terror when everything went wrong?

“Bucky?”

“Fine,” Bucky manages. “I’ll be right out. Gimme a sec. I’m done.”

He waits until Steve’s heavy footsteps fade, and then he tracks them to the kitchen, and then still he makes sure that his breathing is normal before washing his hands. He keeps his head ducked; he doesn’t want to see the pathetic creature in the mirror. He adjusts himself one last time— the familiar painful heaviness in his balls isn’t sitting right in his pants —and slowly shuffles out of the bathroom.

Bucky finds Steve in the kitchen, sitting in front of an empty plate dotted with crumbs and yellow streaks. Steve looks up from his cellphone and, without much expression, nods towards the plate on the counter. The sandwich is loaded with more ham than cheese and is positively dripping mayonnaise.

“Like you like it,” Steve says idly, already turning his attention away, perhaps as an excuse not to look at Bucky. Bucky takes his attitude as confirmation: Steve knows and is disgusted. (And there goes any chance he might help, whispers that horrible little part that Bucky shuts down immediately.)

Like he likes it. Bucky takes the sandwich to the table and sits down awkwardly. Like he likes it? He can’t remember how he likes it.

“Thanks,” he mumbles anyway.

Steve waits until he’s bitten into his lunch and found it, indeed, to his liking before he locks away his phone with a little click and focuses all of his attention on Bucky. Bucky looks up from his food to find himself on the receiving end of that typical hard gaze and nearly chokes. Steve doesn’t say a word. Neither does he leave Bucky be, though, or go wash his plate or put up the bread.

Steve’s waiting for him to finish, Bucky realizes, so he begins to chew very slowly while avoiding that strong gaze. Then he becomes frustrated with himself and the stupid little anxieties constantly eating him alive. It’s Steve, for God’s sake. Bucky can handle punky shitmouthed whelp Steve Rogers; he doesn’t need to be afraid! So he stuffs the rest of the sandwich down, forgetting to enjoy it, and meets Steve head on.

Steve nods like he’s proud of the fire in Bucky instead of disapproving of that open challenge. Bucky feels himself bolstered, but then Steve has to go and say: “Let me help.”

(Yes.) “No.”

Bucky immediately flinches, then immediately hates himself. He’s so angry with himself for constantly seeking to please, appease, to shrink back. Despite the 70 years of painful lies Hydra fed him about his own worth, Bucky knows he’s capable of standing tall.

But it was Steve that helped remind him of that… And Steve doesn’t seem to be looking for Bucky’s pride right now.

“Whatever it is, Buck, I’ve seen worse.”

Sure has. He’s seen a shot to the gut and a metal fist to the face. Bucky doesn’t say anything, but he lets his eyes slide away in shame. Steve deserves better than stony rebuffs.

“Come on,” Steve cajoles, frustration subtlely stitching his sentences. “You’ve been wound up lately, and today more than ever. If you’re suffering, Bucky, you know you don’t have to do it alone. I’m with you—”

“Till the end of the line,” Bucky says right alongside him, feeling the first real smile of the day curling the edges of his mouth. He looks up at Steve through his lashes. “Not fair.”

Steve smiles with him. He doesn’t even seem to realize that while he was talking, he extended his hands face up: unconsciously reaching out to his friend in need in a very physical way. Steve tilts his head back and continues more lightly, “Doesn’t matter. You shot me, remember, and I still came after you. Afraid you’re stuck with my meddling, pal. I’m gonna help you no matter what. After everything we’ve been through, there’s nothing that could drive me away.

Bucky fights a sudden prickling in his face by giving a hearty sniff. He roughly clasps one of Steve’s outstretched hands with his own flesh. He knows Steve will take that physical connection as the gratitude Bucky intends it to be; he knows Steve will just read his mind like that, because Steve knows exactly how Bucky thinks, even now that Bucky’s head’s been scrambled like an egg by Hydra. Steve has always understood Bucky. And Bucky used to understand Steve— used to know how to give this sort of comfort when it was his turn, show this sort of patience, kindness, knew how to navigate the stupid minefield of Steve’s emotions as expertly as Steve just navigated him. Bucky wants their friendship to be that strong again. He supposes he can start to repair it by trusting Steve.

And so he opens his mouth… but then thinks better. His fear hides itself by pretending to be reasonable: best not to throw Steve in the deep end all at once. He doesn’t know how cold the water is yet. Bucky chews on his approach for a moment, and then begins:

“You know… well… Maybe we could help each other out. You know— we used to go on them double dates? I don’t know. You know I’m a lot better now, but sometimes it’s still hard to, uh, to talk to people. So maybe we could, could meet people together again? Meet gals…”

He looks up at Steve shyly, trying not to read too much into the strange quirk of Steve’s lips.

“You, uh… You lonely, Buck?” Steve asks, voice thick with a fond sort of amusement.

“That’s not quite it,” Bucky responds darkly.

Re: [FILL] Permission [4/?]

[(Anonymous)]

Oh, this is just perfect.

Re: [FILL] Permission [4/?]

[(Anonymous)]

God, this is so awkward. In a GOOD way. Usually fics have a hard time getting embarrassment across for me, but, god, I'm really able to see where Bucky's coming from here.

Half-cringing in anticipation. This is SO well-written.

Re: [FILL] Permission [4/?]

[(Anonymous)]

Ugh, I feel you on a spiritual level, Buck. His frustration speaks to me in waaays.

[FILL] Permission [5/?]

[(Anonymous)]

sorry, the next two parts weren't really edited, it's pretty late and i just wanna get them put up. hopefully no glaring mistakes.



Steve falters, stupid little smile falling. Good, because Bucky doesn’t think he could have handled some dumb joke about blue balls. It’s easy to laugh at it from the outside; the truth is fairly excruciating. But more than that, it’s the fear and the self-hatred and the shame that truly eat Bucky alive.

“What is it, then?”

Bucky licks his lips nervously. He realizes he isn’t making eye contact anymore, but he can’t bring himself to rectify that. He’s too busy battling the foolish idea that confession will lead to punishment. Time drags on in silence while Bucky’s head is a screaming mess, and Steve just keeps a furrowed brow and a tilted head as he waits.

“You know, Stevie…” Bucky starts and stops again. Constantly reevaluating the words on the tip of his tongue. Calculating all the myriad of problems that could arise between the two of them after this. Finally he settles on a warning: “You know, they really fucked with me.” (They really fucked me.) “I’m still all— I just don’t really…”

“What?” Steve prompts gently.

“Function,” Bucky finishes,and he jerks his clenched jaw downwards.

Steve’s eyebrows climb his forehead and his gaze drops down to the bit of table right in front of Bucky. Bucky shifts uncomfortably and, subtly he hopes, covers his crotch with the metal hand. Steve tears his eyes back to Bucky’s face, all apologies shining in his eyes.

“Uh… at all, you mean?”

Bucky fidgets. Didn’t expect to have to go into detail. “I can get it up fine,” he grunts. To deal with the matter crudely is to deal with it directly, but he’s sure his cheeks are red because he can feel them burning. “Can’t get it off.”

Steve winces in sympathy and not a small amount of awkwardness. Then he does it in confusion. “You tried, though?”

“Been trying. That’s what’s got me so spittin’ mad, because it ain’t working.”

“And you think a lady friend would help?”

Bucky shrugs defensively. He knows one would, if he could convince her to coddle him when it came time. ... and also if she could look past the scars once they were in bed. And if she didn’t mind him being quiet and dark before that point, as he usually is nowadays. And if he himself could— could quell this— this DAMNABLE! DAMNABLE FEAR! —his hand slams on the table and he doesn’t even register— Because the more he thinks about it, the more he plans for it, the more light he shines on the possibility, well, then the more flaws that become apparent:

He isn’t ready for a woman! It wouldn’t be fair to her, to have to baby some shivering wreck of a bloodsoaked monster. How could he enjoy himself or pleasure her when he can barely stand his own hands on himself? Maybe a softer touch would do him good, but all he can imagine feeling is the hands of his old masters. He isn’t the handsome, charming Bucky Barnes from 70 years ago— he barely even remembers that kid— no, he only calls himself Bucky now because Steve insists that’s who he is. But he’s something new and ugly and damaged, far from beautiful or desirable. And he just isn’t ready…

…but he doesn’t know how much longer he can endure, either…

Drained and light-headed for its suddenness, Bucky cradles his head in his hand. Steve’s eyes are upon him, studying the lines of his misery where they pull taught stitches into his back and trap his neck bent. He feels the strings shrinking tighter, determined to wrap him into a ball, anything to make himself smaller.

Steve snatches up Bucky’s plate, then, and clacks it on top of his own, and he carries them to the sink where he throws them down with an awful clatter. The noise is a scissor’s snip to Bucky’s entrapment. He looks around the kitchen for distractions. Deep breath. And he forces the dank unhappiness to slither out of his skull, out from his ear, and in the other lets in the background hum of sports talk on the TV— a desperate grounding to stay calm.

Steve sighs when he sits back down. “It’s really tearing you up, huh?”

“It’s complicated,” Bucky whispers. His voice has no more strength than that. Steve doesn’t know, can’t know, the depths of the ugliness. Steve is the one who reminds Bucky of the importance of fighting; he doesn’t want to paint Steve in the dark colors of his private despair. He has to be brave when he sits before Steve— weakness now would dirty them.

“Can I ask—“ A stutter. Then he barrels past his hesitation in true Steve fashion. “What’s the problem? I mean… what’s stopping you?”

Well. Bucky doesn’t know all the pieces of the puzzle himself, honestly. But he could begin to tell Steve about the bits of mystery he’s unraveled in these past months— the memories and sensations he’s pieced together, agonized over, beat into bloody sense at the cost of his what little peace of mind he’d had left— and how deplorable! when he could barely sleep, barely function in the first place, constantly going over in his head the guilt of all the evils he had committed in the world… how deplorable, to then, whilst trying to carve out a friendly space in his body with his hands, he would remember what evils had been committed against him:

He doesn’t remember when it started, or how or why. But he knew things intrinsically and, in the light of modern day, figured why he must know them. The soldier knew which of the people in the saferoom to show his damages to, and he knew which of them would go over the next mission with him, and he knew which ones gave orders… and he knew which of them took care of his maintenance. How he knew these things was unclear; all memories of these people were taken from him. Bucky now supposes that it was like muscle memory but in the brain: enough interactions with these people had installed them into permanent files. The soldier knew them like he knew how to walk without recalling how he had learned.

He knew his maintainers, though. They would flip up his gums and cheek his teeth, or throw him in the shower when he was filthy, and they would remind him to always be obedient. He knew that he must wait for their permission or suffer dire consequences. And when the soldier was the most perfect he could possibly be, they took him to euphoria.

In 2015, Bucky Barnes had decided to give himself that pleasure. In the middle of a dark night, full of ire and resentment towards his captors and a rare shining moment of self-worth and rebellion, he’d thought, I can do this for myself now! I don’t rely on them for wiping my damn ass anymore, and I don’t have them feeding me anymore, and I sure as hell don’t need them to fuck me for me to come!

And he touched himself. And he remembered.

[FILL] Permission [6/?]

[(Anonymous)]

The memories swarmed like pricking insects, the buzz of their wings oppressive. Memories of his trainers who came before the maintenance. How they taught him to rely on their command. He could feel their hands on him even now.

They took him to a room, from the ceiling of which hung heavy chains. They bound him there so he couldn’t use his hands and bound his ankles to the backs of his thighs. They said, If you’re good there will be a reward. And one stepped forth and took his penis in gloved hand so gently. Thin plastic glove, warm humanity lurking just beneath. Pulling back his foreskin, palming the sensitive head with care. The soldier hadn’t been so hard in years. He was embarrassed that the experience drew more sound from his throat than a bullet wound might have.

The first two times, they let him come in their hand. He melted for them. And so even when they wiped him, the soldier saw his trainers coming and went with them gladly, aware of his heart beating faster. And when he saw the chains, he instinctively raised his arms.

On the third time, they said, Tell me when you feel like coming. The soldier didn’t understand, didn’t remember— knew, of course, objectively, what orgasm was, but didn’t remember how it felt in his body. So they let him come again so that he’d know what to look for next. They had him hard and panting again within the half-hour, and this time he knew how to be good. Now! he said, I’m going to come now. —at which point they removed their hands and the soldier was suddenly left bereft and gasping and swinging in midair, unable to do anything about it.

I don’t want you to, the one had said. Not yet.

But I want to! he insisted, utterly confused. Wasn’t this his reward? He had the feeling this was a good place— why was this happening?

The one said, That doesn’t matter, and slapped the soldier’s dick. The soldier shouted in shock and pain, but he was bound just right to make him helpless to defend himself.

The trainers said, Orgasm is for being good. But we decide if you are good. You can’t judge yourself. Only we can.

That was the turn the sessions took from then on. The soldier did not remember then, but Bucky does. Bucky remembers the times they fucked his ass and figures maybe that wasn’t their original plan. It smacked of a sort of unprofessionalism that might have been decided when their subject capitulated quicker than they anticipated. Bucky would have thought they would want to be in complete control— but moaning raggedly into his ear while they drove into him from behind didn’t seem in control to him. They said, Are you a good boy? And the soldier said nothing. They said, Are you going to come just from my dick inside you? The soldier said No. They snapped their hips, pumped into him hard and fast, and saved their grace by saying, Good! Because you’re not allowed.

Sometimes they left him there with his asshole gaping and his dick half-swollen. Sometimes they left him with a raging erection after sucking him down. Any time he did orgasm, they made him tell them, until eventually the soldier automatically blurted it out when he felt it coming. When he got to that point in his education— that’s when he began having to ask permission.

Do you think you’ve been a good boy? Do you deserve this?

He would answer. It was the wrong thing to do. They took stun batons to his testicles and told him they didn’t give a shit what he thought about himself.

Ask us. Ask us if you are a good boy.

Am I a good boy?

Yes, you’re being good today. And they rewarded him with a vibrating bullet against his prostate, milking him sweetly until he began to lose his grip on the reality of the room.

Can I come? Please, sir, can I come?

They let him. The next time played out the same, but they didn’t.

He was never allowed to touch himself. Never allowed to touch them back. Never allowed to ask for anything more specific than permission to orgasm. Only twice, he got it into his mushy brain to not report when he came. Those were the worst sessions; they took him down from the ceiling, chained him to the floor with his ass in the air and knees spread, and kicked his genitals until the tip of his penis leaked blood.

At last they got where they wanted him: so that no matter what, even when the soldier said, I’m going to come!, all they had to say was No and he did not. They continued to stimulate him, stimulate him until it stopped being pleasurable and became painfully sensitive, but throughout the entire session, all they said was No. After that their work was done and they left him to maintenance.

And all of that came in one big blurry parcel, rushing at Bucky Barnes in 2015 as crushing as a biblical plague. That rough first night.

Bucky could tell Steve about this here in Steve’s kitchen at lunch. Steve did ask, after all. What’s stopping him? Absolutely nothing! There’s no one here to cave in his nuts if he disobeys. What’s stopping him… is his own weakness. And Steve can’t know.

“Conditioning,” Bucky says simply.

“What for?” Steve asks, angry on his behalf without even knowing the whole story. “Why would they—“

“Same reason as always.” Bucky sighs. “To make me dependent.”

But that’s too much to let loose in front of someone as sharp as Steve. He narrows his eyes and pointedly asks, “Dependent? You were dependent on them— for sex?”

Bucky’s eyes are prickling again. He scratches tiny gouges in the kitchen table with his metal fingers. Yet more destruction today. He says to Steve, each word feeling like glass in his throat and his face positively melting off with the heat of his shame, “Yeah. I wasn’t allowed to come until they said so. Now when I’m alone, I can’t— I keep looking for someone to tell me it’s okay…”

There follows a long, uncomfortable silence. Steve bows his head, seemingly pondering on the matter, and then, barely looking at his friend, carefully measures out these words: “Please let me know if this is crossing the line, but… Is there anything I can do to help?”

Re: [FILL] Permission [6/?]

[(Anonymous)]

Yes yes yes ouch perfect!

Re: [FILL] Permission [6/?]

[(Anonymous)]

This is excellent!!

Re: [FILL] Permission [6/?]

[(Anonymous)]

Oh wow. Poor Steve, poor Soldier, poor Bucky.

Re: [FILL] Permission [6/?]

[(Anonymous)]

Everything about this is terrible and wonderful. When I say that this has crossed the line into so awful I can't even find it hot, I want you to understand that I mean that the best possible way. I want you to understand that I'm so wrapped up in the feelings you've made me feel with this brilliant piece of writing that I am absolutely emotionally compromised.

Thank you. This is amazing in ways it would take me all night to list.

author note -- Permission

[(Anonymous)]

sorry for the slight delay. a deadline came up for another fandom. next time i post, though, should be... three? mayyybe four parts at once and boom, the end. just thought id give yall a headsup

[FILL] Permission [7/12??]

[(Anonymous)]

boy was i wrong. i said id be done in three parts. nope! so uh. this is not the end after all.


A harsh laugh rips out of Bucky’s throat; Steve at once looks contrite, and he puts his hands up in deference. Bucky can’t believe—

“I didn’t mean anything untoward,” Steve says.

“No,” Bucky says.

“I get it, sorry—“

“No,” Bucky says again, then shakes his head like his head’s full of water. “No, that’s wasn’t me laughing at you, that was—“

Laughing at himself, but he hardly wants to admit that. He doesn’t want Steve to know how Bucky took that sentence: like the answer to his sick, shameful little prayers. ‘Just ask, just ask’, he’d been chanting in the back of his mind for ages. But that is just the grossly childish weakness Hydra had beat into him. The slimy pit of instinct and non-thought. Their little program that twisted the ugly into what seemed right.

Steve had said, Let me help, and Bucky’s immediate idea was… filthy and inappropriate.

Bucky clears his throat. “Thanks, Steve. But I’m, uh, working on it. It’s uh… a work-in-progress.” He looks up at his friend, lips twisting into a self-deprecating smirk. “I couldn’t think of what you could do, anyway,” he lies. “I’ve already talked about it with the therapist. Didn’t like to. Did. And it’s not really something we can talk about over a beer during the commercials of the ballgame. There’s not really anything I haven’t tried…”

Steve nods along but there’s a certain quirk to his eyebrows and a stressed dip to his lips. “Tried everything… ‘cept another person?”

Bucky flushes. “Well. That just isn’t really an option right now, is it?”

Steves stares at him for a moment, then says quietly, “Yes it is. I just offered.”

They stare at each other over the table. At length, Bucky feels hot enough to burst into flames. There’s a blotchy blush all over Steve as well, but he also has his stubborn-little-shit look firmly in place.

“S-steve, we aren’t— aren’t— I’m not like, uh—“

Steve shifts in his seat and visibly forces himself to meet Bucky’s eyes. “I know that. I’m not looking for that with you, Buck. You’re my best friend. You’re like my brother. But you said you can do it by yourself. You just need help at the end.”

“Steve!” Bucky can’t help but exclaim in shock. He buries his face in the cooling, soothing metal of his left hand.

“If it’s wrong, then say so!” Steve continues in a hurry. “If you don’t want it, that’s fine! If you don’t think I can help, or if it would be wrong of me to help that way…“

“No,” Bucky whispers. “No, no, no… Steve, why d’you have to be so—“

“Because, Buck—“ and here Steve is beginning to get a little loud, so Bucky holds up one hand to shush him, and Steve continues with barely restrained passion, “I can see it’s messing with you.”

“I’m a big boy,” Bucky grits out. “I can handle it.”

“You can’t.”

“Excuse me?”

“I wouldn’t consider smashing toasters to be ‘handling it’.”

Bucky writhes in shame, but also in annoyance— he’s trying, goddamn it, why does Steve have to hold that over his head? “I said I was sorry about that. I’ll clean up my messes. It’s not like I’m hurting people!”

“That’s not what I mean. You’re hurting, Buck. Listen, if it was just any man’s frustration, then yeah, I would leave you to it! But it’s more than that, isn’t it, Bucky?”

Steve has unconsciously leaned forward; Bucky purposely leans back. He feels an awful fondness for that stupid earnestness in Steve’s face, but he can’t take advantage of Steve’s willingness to do any unsavory task or face any unsightly fact.

“Would it hurt you?” Steve asks, voice dipping lower. “Would it be bad for you, if I helped at the end?”

Bucky considers that, and it doesn’t take long. He’s already thought about it, after all, if only in fleeting fantasies. Would it hurt to get permission? —well it certainly isn’t perfect. But in his head he imagines what it was then, what it would be now. Then, his pleasure and pain were doled out by strangers’ hands, their whims. If Steve were to… it would be Bucky’s hands, this time. Bucky’s schedule. And, though nauseous anxiety would always try to tell him lies, he knows Steve would never hurt him, and the only outcome would be pleasure. Bucky could ask for pleasure, and Steve would never do anything but acquiesce— no. Steve would gladly provide, would be absolutely obliged to serve. Steve wouldn’t judge him unworthy— that wouldn’t be his role in this…

“The ideal is to just… just do it on my own…”

“But can you get to that point before you punch any more holes in the house?” Steve gently ribs.

Bucky licks his teeth. He’s so close—

“You’re suffering, Buck. And there’s nothing I won’t do to help you. So would it help?”

Bucky takes a deep breath and then nods. “Yeah. Yeah, Steve, you could help.”

A proud grin pulls at Steve’s lips. “Okay. What do I need to do?”

“Now?” Bucky yelps.

“Sure, now.”

“But—“

“You want to wait until later? I just thought— that’s what you were doing in the bathroom, right?”

Bucky rubs at his neck and groans to hide the flipping going on in his stomach. “Uh, just. Okay. First rule—“ His voice suddenly becomes harsh before he can help himself: “Don’t touch me.”

Steve nods grimly. “‘Course not, pal.” Then, a quick smile. “Good that you’re so vehemently opposed. Because I really didn’t want to in the first place. No offense.”

[FILL] Permission [8/12??]

[(Anonymous)]

Bucky grunts in acknowledgement. “All you gotta do— just…” He sighs and rubs his eyes with his flesh palm. “I’ll just… do my thing, I guess, and you’ll just… at the, uh, end, I’ll… I’ll probably ask. I’ll ask you if I can, and… —Can I? I can, right, Steve?”

Bucky clamps his teeth shut in a snarl, hating the waver in his voice, the sudden weakness that forced such a damnable question from his lips. Steve seems a little startled but controls his his reaction hastily.

“Yeah, you can, Bucky.”

Even just that little sentence, outside of the context of coursing pleasure, manages to relax Bucky, if only a little. He lets his shoulders drop a little out of their defensive posturing.

“Okay,” he says a little breathlessly. “Okay. Uhm. Well.”

“Like that?” Steve asks.

“Well. Maybe a bit more explicitly when I’m about to…”

“Orgasm,” Steve confirms. Bucky can’t help his own bemused grin. He’s never heard such a thing out of Steve’s mouth. It isn’t like they’ve never talked about sex, obviously— how can two friends for twenty years not have brought it up? —Let alone the years they lived together in and out of the army; they’d caught each other at various activities more than a handful of times by now. But they’d always been more… roundabout when it came to talking.

“Yeah,” Bucky says. He bites his lips. He’s been doing that too much lately; he’s sure they’re bright red. His gut is churning in a dizzying mixture of excitement, anticipation, guilt, shame, and fear. He asks quietly, voice high-pitched, “Are you gonna let me come, Steve?”

And Steve, strong, unflappable, brave Steve, who tends to look at jumping out of airplanes as the day’s bit of fun, looks at the prospect of witnessing his friend’s dark neediness and says, “Yes, I am. You can, Bucky. You can come. You’re gonna come.”

They let that sink in for a minute, each processing the gravity of this. Then Bucky, extremities already set shaking, says, “Alright. Let’s do this, then.” And he gives his best friend a tremulous smile.

Steve stands first. Bucky follows at Steve’s gesture.

“However you want, Buck. Wherever.”

Bucky makes some sort of vague agreement. He’s about to— any moment now he’ll be able to—

His feet automatically carry him out of the kitchen and into the hallway past the living room. It seems like the most logical option, so he opens the door to his bedroom… Bucky hesitates in his doorway, though, feeling Steve’s presence at his back like a predator. He has a sudden, irrational urge to shove Steve away. But Steve notices his hesitation, looks back and forth between the room and Bucky’s profile, and then wisely leans back.

He says lightly, “We don’t have to do it in your room, Bucky. That’s your space. You don’t have to let me in where you don’t want me.” Bucky sighs in relief and closes the door on their noses. Steve nods and gestures. “Living room?”

“No,” Bucky replies quickly. “It’s too open.”

Steve thinks for only a second and then says, “My room. Come on.”

Bucky automatically starts following and then stumbles halfway down the hall. “Steve— no— that’s. That’s your space. You don’t want—“

“I don’t mind, Buck.”

Bucky licks his lips, so close to giving in. What he’s been aching for these past few months is so close at hand. But— “You don’t mind me coming into your room to whack off?”

Steve huffs out a laugh. “Beats cramming into the bathroom, I think.” He pats Bucky’s shoulder. “Come on, Buck, really. Let’s get you sorted.”

Bucky capitulates, and soon enough finds himself standing at the edge of Steve’s bed with a pounding heart and anticipation in his groin. Steve automatically reaches for the light switch but thinks better of it halfway through. The room is bright enough and dark enough, afternoon sun streaming in through a gap in the curtains on either side of the bed. Steve seems to hesitate, finally, maybe at a loss for once— or enough of a loss that his pride can’t hold up the confident facade he’s been projecting so far —but then he casually saunters forward to kick at Bucky’s boots in a silent suggestion that they be taken off.

Bucky swallows and complies while Steve fetches his desk chair. Steve settles in the chair beside the bed. Feeling a little presumptuous, Bucky crawls forward to the middle of the bed. It’s just big enough for Steve’s own bulk— did he never anticipate sharing? Because neither gal nor fella could fit beside him on this thing; maybe two regular sized people, but… —and it dips, damn, it dips. Bucky’s a little startled, thinking for one split second that maybe he’s broken it, but in the end it holds him, cradles him, soft as can be.

“What the hell is this thing made of?” Bucky can’t help but ask. “Clouds or something?”

Steve shakes his head. “Damn thing’s too soft, isn’t it? The one you’re on, I bought that one after I moved in but before you did. But this one came with the place. Always thought about switching them out, but then you came, so…”

“Switch them out anyway.” The words come tumbling out of Bucky’s mouth without thought, but Steve smiles indulgently.

“You like the marshmallow?”

“Yeah, pal. It’s weird, but good. What, you actually like sleeping somewhere hard?”

“Harder than that, at least…”

[FILL] Permission [9/12??]

[(Anonymous)]

They naturally go quiet while Bucky settles in, feeling guilty about shifting Steve’s pillows. Bucky goes hot and feels the need to reassure, “I won’t mess up your sheets…”

Steve shrugs. “It’s still early. I’d have time to wash them anyway.” Then he makes the tiniest grunt and turns to open his bedside table’s drawer. “Here.”

A tube of slick lands in Bucky’s lap. It’s half-empty already. Bucky can’t help it— he laughs— and Steve joins with him. (And if they laugh a little too much, well. It isn’t the most comfortable situation.)

“The dateless duo,” Bucky forces out through helpless giggles. Steve wheezes a little harder and hides his bashful grin behind his big fist.

“No big deal,” Steve affirms as they wind down. Not to himself, really, but aimed at Bucky. Bucky nods minutely, a tight thanks.

Steve places a box of kleenex on the bedside table, too, and then his hands flitter nervously. He clears his throat as if he’s about to say something, then snaps his mouth shut and reaches for the paperback that he always keeps close to his bed. He opens up to a page number he simply remembers (he always remembers what page he’s on without ever marking it, like magic) and settles well in his seat. At last he looks up, unsurprised to see Bucky’s anxious gaze peaking over the edge of the pillow.

“You go ahead, Buck,” Steve says, voice low and gravelly. “You take care of yourself like you want, like you need. You don’t gotta feel like this is wrong. I swear to you this is good. You just… just help yourself, and when you need me, you let me know.”

Bucky nods. Steve nods. And then Steve gives him some smidgen of privacy by turning his attention to read under the strip of warm light streaming in through the gap in the curtains.

The thing is, Bucky’s brain has temporarily short-circuited. Something as simple as this, and, startlingly, he’s forgotten how. It’s not like the rules have changed just because someone is sitting close by… He sinks a bit further into the bed, hands at his sides, and contemplates the ceiling until his stupid brain recovers. There’s nervous sweat on his palms, and so he wipes them off on his jeans— and he supposes he might as well start there.

He takes a few deep breaths to steady himself, then begins moving his hands over his thighs again.

Pause. “Uh, Steve… this might take a while.”

Steve barely glances up from his book. “Take as long as you need.”

“But the ballgame—“

“We can rewind it to the beginning.”

“...it’s live, though.”

“Yup.”

“Huh.”

Bucky lets the conversation fade for a few seconds before he resumes his tentative stroking. It’s difficult to really focus— Steve isn't even looking at him, but he still feels on the edge of being exposed. He waffles about it, but makes a decision: the comforter gets shoved down into a U shape, piling up into something of a cradle that makes him feel that much safer. Now if only he just didn’t care about the quiet stillness and how he was about to break it…

“Steve.”

“Yeah, Buck?”

“Uh. Do you have headphones?”

Steve blinks in confusion. Bucky slips his cellphone out of his jeans and waggles it as an explanation. Steve still doesn’t seem to get it, but pulls a set from his drawer anyway. They look well-loved; Bucky’s the opposite in that he doesn’t like to block out his environment. He inserts a single bud, still wanting to be able to hear, just— just not as much, and painted over with something… more appealing.

It isn’t until Bucky is halfway through typing in the address on the web browser that Steve exclaims, “Oh!”

Bucky chuckles a little. “What, you mean you don’t…?”

Steve scratches his neck and averts his eyes. “No. No, I usually— uhm. Nevermind. But… aren’t they… rude?”

Rude, he says. That’s cute. True, though. Even the most fucked up videos Bucky’s had the misfortune of accidently viewing are simply ‘rude’ compared to what he’s gone through nonconsensually. But Steve probably didn’t mean it along those lines.

“Most of it,” Bucky agrees. “Not all of it.”

Steve accepts this without any more comment. It’s obvious to Bucky that he’s fighting a wicked blush. Bucky aborts a chuckle— no more dilly-dallying; it’s time to get on with it before he loses what little nerve he has mustered.

Bucky calls up a video he’s used in the past. He watches it for a few minutes: the man and woman know each other, are passionate without crossing the line into hurtful— more like, desperate to be together —and the room is bright but cozy. The woman grins cheekily when the man mouths her breasts.

He eventually props the phone against the bedside table, freeing his hands to roam. He traces himself like the woman, having taken control, traces her man: with sure, slow strokes up the thighs, the sides, the shoulders as she leans forward over him, breasts hanging free and brushing against him, and then as she pulls back to straddle his lap, her hands run over the front of him, his pecs and abs and the front of his jeans. Bucky follows this path as best he’s able, one hand warm but his own, the other cold but properly foreign.

He breathes as slowly as the faint, pulsing music. Relaxed yet focused, the rest of the room becomes dim and distant. He’s still aware of Steve— how could he not be? —but the more he breathes, the more he moves— the more time passes without Steve objecting or changing his mind —the less ludicrous the whole ordeal becomes. Indeed, even when he pulls the edge of his shirt up to his armpits, baring scarred flesh, Steve doesn’t even bother to look up from his novel, and this emboldens Bucky greatly.

Re: [FILL] Permission [9/12??]

[(Anonymous)]

Please accept this pile of coffee grounds, an overripe plum covered in fruit flies, and half a take away container of noodles left out overnight in exchange for this lovely piece of trash. I am loving this story. Give me more Steve awkwardly reading a novel and not thinking about telling his best friend to orgasm because his dick has been broken by trauma. *slithers back into the shadows

Re: [FILL] Permission [9/12??]

[(Anonymous)]

This is so awkward (in a good way) and sad but sweet and strangely perfect.