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sarahowritesostucky · 4 months

Text

Rated: Explicit

Pairing: Steve x Bucky

Tags: ptsd, trauma recovery, kink negotiations, fetishes, fantasies, body modification, 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), sex toys, handjobs, bondage, cbt, smacking

Summary: Steve shows Bucky that he likes his body exactly the way it is.

🖤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 yet!

Part 2 - That Morning a Few Months Ago, When Steve Found Out About The Castration Issue

Steve immediately freaks out when he comes home to the apartment and catches Bucky Googling a string of majorly alarming keywords:

effects of castration_

can you cum without balls_

prostate orgasm_

modern castration_

modern surgical human castration_

voluntary castration_

erotic castration_

erotic surgical castration real_

body mod_

tattoo shops Brooklyn_

extreme body mod Brooklyn_

underground orchiectomy_

DIY surgery_

eunuch advice quora___

There are entire message boards and threads devoted to it online, reddit communities of men who call themselves modern day eunuchs; chatting details, swapping tips and tricks, making loose plans to fly down to Mexico or else perform amateur surgery in their basements. All so that they can chop each other's nuts off.

Steve breaks the whole fucking StarkPad as he’s holding it, furious (but only because he’s so terrified). “Get in the playroom!” he barks, and Bucky—wide-eyed—scrambles to obey.

Steve rigs him from the ceiling, held up by a crotch harness of elaborate shibari knots. He looks like someone about to rappel down a rock wall, only naked. As Steve fumes (panics), he hoists Bucky up for easy access, arranging the ropes so that he hangs in a seated position, ass about three feet off the floor, thighs forced wide. He buckles thigh restraints onto him and clips his wrist cuffs to those, rendering both hands useless. He goes and grabs the folding chair and drags it over. He sits between Bucky’s legs, up close, and he knows it must look near-comical—like some mid-air, Ringling Bros. version of a gynecological exam.

Bucky’s breathing picks up at the sight of Steve’s face so close to all his junk. “No oral!” he gasps. “You promised!”

Steve sees red and slaps him so hard, it swings Bucky out of control. He has to grab the ropes to settle him back into place. “I promised no blow jobs, you absolute and utter moron. I didn't say anything about anything further back.” He grabs him by the nuts and squeezes, pulls—mean enough and hard enough that it elicits a yelp. He makes a ring around the base with one hand, pulling, forcing both testicles taught against the skin, and promptly slaps them. Bucky screams.

Steve looks up to see him with his lips parted and his eyes squeezed shut, his breath coming in fast, laboured little pants. Bucky recovers from the pain, and when he opens his eyes again, they’re bright with excitement.

Steve sneers and lets him go, sitting back in the chair. “We have to have a talk, pal,” he says sarcastically, feeling a good majority of his anger (panic) subsiding now that he has all the control, now that he’s got Bucky hanging from the ceiling, tied up and safe and completely unable to seek out amateur surgery in some guy’s basement.

Lord, give me patience, he thinks.

They have a stare off, which terminates in Steve scoffing and reaching forward to swat his balls again. Bucky’s abs tense and he grunts, fighting hard to stay still in the harness. With the way Steve has him rigged, his own bodyweight will mostly keep him from swinging, as long as he doesn’t jerk around too much and Steve doesn’t smack him too hard.

Steve sits in the chair like he has all day to do this (he does), ignoring Bucky’s junk in favor of staring up at his face. He waits, forearms crossed, letting the tension build as he says absolutely nothing and Bucky starts looking increasingly sheepish. His dick—about twenty inches in front of Steve’s face right now—lays thickened against the crease of his thigh. Steve arches a long-suffering eyebrow. “Explain. yourself.”

Bucky shifts nervously in his bonds. “Well … I wasn’t really gonna do it.”

Oh, but Steve would love to believe that. “Mm hm,” he drawls. “Just like you ‘weren’t really’ going to get your tits pierced, right?”

Bucky looks down at his chest. He’s got the little black barbells in today. “Um,”

“Just like you ‘weren’t really’ going to go get that star branded into the back of your neck?”

Bucky bites his lip. “... Okay but hear me out!”

“Jesus Christ!” Steve shoots up from the chair and stalks angrily to the other side of the room. He stays there, pacing, agitated, hands on his hips and shaking his head at his idiot boyfriend. “You can’t chop your balls off, Bucky. Okay?! You just cannot.”

Bucky, at least, looks sorry that he’s upset Steve. “I’m sorry,” he says. “Please don’t be mad.”

“I’m not mad, you jerk. I’m fucking terrified.” He walks back over to him. Standing there, his face is a little higher than it normally would be in relation to Bucky’s. He locks gazes with him and lets his eyes do the pleading. “Do I have to worry about coming home one day to find you bleeding out in the bathtub or somethin’?”

Bucky licks his lips, hesitant, but then, “It wouldn’t be like that, though! I could—”

Steve smacks him across the face so hard, he goes swinging again. This time he doesn’t do anything to steady him back into place, just lets him twist back and forth in ridiculous, pendulous motions, until he eventually comes to a stop on his own. “Shut. up,” he tells him. “And repeat after me: ‘Steve’,” He waits.

Bucky sighs. “Steve.”

“‘I promise I am not going to cut off my balls’.”

Bucky’s mouth works in frustration for a few seconds. “M’not gonna cut off my balls,” he eventually mumbles, doing a piss poor job of following directions, but at least following them. Steve narrows his eyes.

“‘Or let anyone else cut off my balls’.”

“Steve,” he whines. “You haven’t even let me explain!”

For a few seconds, Steve really just thinks about hitting him again. But something holds him back. Grinding his teeth together at the pleading, insulted look on Bucky’s face, he reconsiders his options. He’s got Bucky: helpless and hanging, naked, wanting something. That’s called leverage. He inhales deep and lets it out slowly, raising his chin up while he looks down his nose at him. “Fine,” he decides, magnanimous. “You can explain it while we work.”

Bucky’s irises flare, but he does a fairly good job of containing any other outward signs of his displeasure. He’s been trained to withstand torture, after all. Never let ‘em see you sweat.

“Working” is by far Bucky’s least favorite version of what they get up to in this room. Steve doesn’t wait to see any more of his reaction to this announcement, just turns and crosses the room. He knows Bucky’s watching him like a hawk. He ambles over to the supply wall and pokes around, taking his time deciding what he wants, rooting through the cabinets, taking things off the wall’s hooks and putting them back after consideration. He dumps everything he wants on the rolling cart and brings it back over with him. Bucky’s chewing his lip hard when Steve sits down in the chair. Steve pinches his inner thigh and twists the skin cruelly. “Stop biting, or I’ll gag you.”

Bucky stops right away.

Sighing, Steve oils up his hands and the inside of the cock ring that he’s brought over. It’s made from thick, heavy rubber—a ball stretcher and cockring all in one. It’ll help keep Bucky hard and keep his testicles pulled uncomfortably away from his body. Steve grabs his dick without preamble and gives a few, rough pulls, coating him in the oil and getting him to fatten up enough to maneuver. There is no gentling of the head, no soft pressing, no playing with the little wrinkle of foreskin that Bucky has when he’s soft enough. It’s completely mechanical and without technique.

Bucky inhales harshly through his nose and his muscles go rigid underneath the leather straps of the thigh restraints. “Shh,” Steve soothes, but in a perfunctory way, like he’s calming a big, dumb animal so that he can get a task done. “Hush. You don’t have any room to whine at me right now. You can, but I’m still gonna do what I want to your body.”

It’s obvious that Bucky’s trying, because he focuses on taking deep, calming breaths as Steve jerks him off in his hand. He doesn’t make a peep. Steve works the ring over his dick, snugging it to the base and forcing his balls through the stretcher part. He lets it hang there, pulled down by its own weight, and re-drenches his hand with the oil. A few more, sloppy strokes, and then he looks up at Bucky’s face. “When’s the last time you jerked off?” he asks.

He sees the rise and fall of Bucky’s Adam’s apple as he swallows. After a moment of thought, he just shakes his head minutely, and Steve knows what that means: It’s been so long, Bucky can’t even remember the last time he touched himself.

“How ‘bout me?” Steve asks.

“Yesterday,” Bucky whispers, breath hitching when Steve gives him another firm stroke. “S-steve …”

“Is it really all that bad?” Steve wonders, hurt even though he knows he should be used to it by now. He looks back down and watches the tension in the muscles of Bucky’s lower abs, the lewd shine of the lube on his cockhead as it slides through the tight channel of Steve’s fist. The sight makes his own cock throb beneath his clothes, but he ignores it. “Tell me,” he murmurs, sad. “Tell me how it makes you feel.”

“Steve … You already know—”

“I don’t care,” Steve snaps. “Tell me anyway.” He takes his hand off Bucky’s cock and grabs the buttplug from the cart, starts lubing it up in full view of Bucky. He coats the entire thing slowly, almost leisurely, then shoots a warning glance upwards. “I’m waiting.”

“Scared,” Bucky rasps, voice coming up dry, like he wasn’t expecting to have to speak. He squirms in his bonds, but stops when it makes the ropes move. “Worried.”

“This a fear boner, then?” Steve glides a single fingertip up and down the top of his shaft. “Doesn’t look very afraid to me.”

“It’s a reflex,” Bucky defends. “Like flinching. It does feel good when you touch me, but my brain starts to squirm, too. Starts to feel like … I dunno … like somethin’ really bad’s gonna happen.”

“Panic,” Steve murmurs, removing his finger from Bucky’s dick, upset. “It makes you panic.”

Bucky whines. “I’m sorry, Steve.”

“Shh. I know you can’t help it, honey. As long as you’re honest with me like that, as long as you tell me how you really feel, this is gonna go fine.” He pets over top of Bucky’s thigh and out to the side, to his hip, to the side of his butt. The gluteus muscle keeps tensing and releasing as Bucky fights to remain still. Steve taps the rubber of the buttplug against his bound balls and murmurs, “If you’re worried I’m not going to hurt you enough, don’t be. You’ve got me feeling mighty generous.”

Bucky gulps. His head dips in a tiny nod, mouth sealed shut. Steve can’t read if he’s nervous, or just excited.

Steve’s not a sadist, and Bucky’s not a brat—he absolutely hates letting Steve down, and he never gets off on disobeying, not even for the sake of a punishment. But Bucky is a masochist. He gets off on pain to a degree that most people would say isn’t possible. But it’s all true. He’s more than proved it to Steve time and again.

So Steve feels zero pity as he swats Bucky’s bound balls around carelessly with the plug and hears him grunt, then gasp when he loses control of holding in the noise. Steve drags the plug back, smearing oil across the bare skin of his taint. He works it inside of him quickly, efficiently, pats the base of it once it's in. Steve’s chosen this particular plug because he wants Bucky to feel as helpless as possible right now.

Bucky saw it when Steve walked back from the other side of the room with it, so he’ll already know that it’s one of the vibrating ones. He’ll be on edge because he knows that, afraid that Steve’s planning on turning it on and forcing an orgasm out of him. (Oh, the horror.) Inflatable, because Steve doesn’t want him to be able to push it out. As helpless as possible. “You can still red out,” he tells him softly. “But if you don’t, begging’s not going to do you any fucking good. All it’ll do is hurt my ears.”

He pumps the plug up, a few squeezes at a time, just slow enough to know that he’s not damaging Bucky’s body. Hurting him, maybe, but that’s not exactly something Bucky will complain about.

“How can it feel that good?!” Steve’s cried more than once, upset after watching him ejaculate out of a soft penis, from nothing more than a beating, a whipping, or having his ass caned until blood pricked past the edges of the welts. “Please! Why can’t I touch you?! Let me love you!”

Steve’s therapist likes to remind him that you can train the brain to do pretty much anything. Sometimes on purpose, but often just by happenstance. “You have to remember, this is what helped him get through decades of torture. He might not feel like he needs to ‘get better’.”

“... I need him to.”

Bucky’s trauma made him this way, and Steve isn’t supposed to shame him for it. He likes to think that he doesn’t. Bucky’s struggled to try and accept sexual touch for his benefit. Maybe Steve needs to try harder, too.

He gets up from the chair and stands in the wide open vee of Bucky’s legs, staring him straight in the eye as he reaches down to flutter oily fingertips over his balls. He cups them, circles the pad of his thumb slowly and firmly on the shape of one testicle, then the other. They’re pushed down by the stretcher, taut against the skin, slick from the oil. He lets go, then flicks him with his finger. It’s only as hard as finger flick can be, but he gets him with the nail, and Bucky jerks in his bonds and breathes hard through his nose again. Steve goes back to caressing. He takes Bucky’s chin in his other hand and uses it to hold him still as he leans in and kisses him. It’s an achingly gentle kiss, deep and thoughtful and slow. He pulls back, still gripping his chin. He flicks his balls again, and this time Bucky’s gasp is so close to his own face, he feels it. He flicks him again, kisses him again. Flicks him again and speaks right against his lips,

“I love you, so much.”

“Steve …”

“Shut up. Listen to me, Buck.” He caresses and feathers and slips and strokes his fingers all over Bucky’s balls. “It would make me very, very sad; very disappointed, very mournful, hurt, angry … and very frightened,” he says quietly, “if you ever decided to take these away from me.” Bucky goes stock still, hardly breathing. Steve regards him tenderly, flicking his balls again a few more times, then patting them around in a way that probably feels like a lot, but not explicitly painful to someone like Bucky. “Would you really want to do that?” he murmurs, frowning and tilting his head. “Would you take that away from me? Something I enjoy so much?”

Bucky’s eyes are going half-lidded, and Steve knows that he’s made a wise choice by going the objectification route, here; making Bucky’s body about Steve and his wants, his needs, what it can do for him. That’ll talk Bucky down from this insane castration cliff faster than anything else will. Nodding, Steve takes a step back. He sits in the chair. Bucky’s legs are very, very wide apart, so there’s plenty of room to move in, to reach for things he’s brought over on the cart, lean forward and torment Bucky, or lean back and ignore him. All Bucky can do is hang there, exactly as Steve has put him.

Over the course of the last year, Steve has learned a lot of things about himself, one of those things being that he’s a bit of a rigger. That’s what people call it. Rigger: one who likes to rig. As in people, from various places, into various positions. Like how Bucky’s hanging from the ceiling right now in his very own fucked up little chair harness. When Steve has Bucky tied up, nobody can hurt Bucky but him. And Bucky can’t make any poor choices for himself out in the world when he’s tied up here for Steve. It’s a very satisfying feeling.

Sitting in the chair with his back straight puts the apex of Bucky’s crotch about fifteen inches in front of Steve’s face. He looks up to find Bucky watching him closely. “So tell me what your thought process was,” he says, quietly, knowing that he needs to give Bucky that outlet, needs to let him explain. Despite how much it infuriates him (terrifies him), Steve has to acknowledge that this is something Bucky came up with in his mind, and that there is therefore a need being fulfilled when he thinks of it. He didn’t dig this all up just to reach a new level of outrageousness. There’s a reason behind it.

“People don’t do things for no reason. He has his reasons, in all the crevices and corners of his mind. And you have to understand that he may not be able to let you into all of them. There may be crevices he doesn’t know how to navigate with someone else, or simply doesn’t have the words for. There may be places he can’t bear to ever let you see.”

“Can’t, or won’t?”

“Both, probably. But does that really matter?”

Steve sighs, but it’s much less put-upon this time. This particular crevice may sound worse on paper, but they’ve been here before. After all, Steve had let Bucky explain back when he’d told him about needing pain. He’d let him explain about how scary accepting pleasure can be. He’d let him explain the restraint and the objectification and how they help make him feel safe; about why the promise of a ruined orgasm makes it easier for him to come, and why letting Steve draw a blade along his skin makes him cry tears of relief. And even though it may now be a long while before Steve leaves Bucky unsupervised for any considerable period of time, he’s not going to dismiss this particular crevice at face value. Bucky deserves better than that.

So, leaning over to grab a box of itty bitty plastic clothespins, Steve sucks his teeth good naturedly and raises his eyebrows at Bucky’s dick. “Okay pal. Start talkin’.” Bucky’s face goes red and he squirms, clearly embarrassed. Steve decides to help him out. “Hey, I’m not doing this to humiliate you,” he promises, rubbing at his inner thigh soothingly. “Just … start with what made you think of it, and we’ll go from there.”

Bucky nods, and Steve has a brief moment of pride and love for him so strong, he just wants to take him down from the ropes and kiss him silly. Bucky’s trying, and that’s what matters. He’s always trying so hard for Steve. “Where’d you first hear about it?” Steve guides, waiting until Bucky swallows and says ‘the internet’, before clipping the first clip to the skin at the very base of his dick.

Masterlist

Part 3

If you liked what you read and feel so inclined, please consider dropping a tip in the Kofi🍵 cup!

#stucky #steve x bucky steve rogers #bucky barnes #steve rogers x bucky barnes #mcu #marvel #fanfiction #fanfic #stucky fanfic #dark fic #hurt/comfort #complex ptsd #bdsmkink #winter soldier #captain america #gay fanfiction #stucky smut

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six-demon-bag · 1 year

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#john walker #totally innocent ok #its for lemar!!#poor unhinged ptsd baby #wyatt russell #tfatws #the falcon and the winter soldier #captain america #us agent #mcu #mcu textpost #sixdemon textpost

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mustang-sal · 6 months

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I need Sean Finnerty and Bucky Barnes to meet.

I don't care how.

#Sad Soldiers #They just wanna protecc #Sean Finnerty #Bucky Barnes #Candela Obscura #Circle of Needle and Thread #Critical Role #Captain America #MCU #PTSD #Veterans #Maybe they can commiserate over a drink #Maybe they can toss a baseball around #idk #Working Class Manufactured Monsters #The Winter Soldier

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real-bucky-barnes · 6 months

Note

how do you and steve avoid ptsd triggers?

It’s kind of a tricky thing, to be honest, but we both do our best to make our home safe and as non-triggering as possible, and both of us know how to calm each other down if need be. Thanks for the ask!

#bucky barnes #marvel #bucky barnes rp #mcu #captain america #steve rogers #stucky #winter soldier #triggers #ptsd #ask

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steevbuckk · 2 years

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FAVORITE STUCKY FICS | 1/100

series Two Harleys and a Pickup by Kryptaria, zooeyscigar

[Modern AU, 39 533 words, Teen And Up Audiences]

Summary:

Adjusting to civilian life is hard for any military veteran — especially for one ex-sniper with a cybernetic arm, a classic Harley, and friends who keep trying to ‘help.’ When Sam Wilson at the VA sends Sergeant Barnes to rent a room from the hottest guy in the DC area, Bucky thinks maybe civilian life is worth it after all. And then he finds out Captain Rogers is everything Bucky’s not: a real hero, a Medal of Honor recipient, and an all-around nice guy. Bucky doesn’t have a chance in hell with him.

Sam was a huge help to Steve Rogers when he left the military. In the spirit of ‘pay it forward,’ Steve decides to rent out his basement room to a vet in need. But when Sergeant Barnes shows up on his doorstep, he knows he’s in for a world of trouble. Barnes is exactly what Steve never knew he wanted, from his bedroom eyes to his wicked innuendos. And he’s Steve’s tenant.

A love story in twelve chapters, including two Harley-Davidsons, a guardian angel, multiple snipers, the only woman who can scare them into behaving themselves, spontaneous kittens, and one attacking sheep.

more fics

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munstysmind · 1 year

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One moment changed her life forever...

MAIN STORY ON HIATUS

WARNING/S: Language, physical assault, domestic violence and abuse, injuries, medical terminology and procedures, anxiety, panic attacks, nightmares, PTSD, mental health, police and legal procedures, smut and explicit sex. I think that's everything.

DISCLAIMER: I DO NOT GIVE PERMISSION FOR MY WORK TO BE USED IN ANY CAPACITY

Divider by @firefly-graphics

Header by @sweetbunnyliddle

MAIN MASTERLIST

please let me know if you would like to be added to a tag list

★ Original Character Face Claims

★ Series Chapters

★ Shorts & Extras

★ Stand Alones

★ Prompts & Asks

★ Playlist

TAGLIST : @aussieez, @rookiemartin, @babeyyemor, @secretaryunpaid, @pixie88, @chickensarentcheap, @dhoruwolfie, @themaradaniels, @cali-nyc5, @darsynia, @muchadoaboutcj

#munstysmind #maddison original series #original series #original character #sebastian stan #sebastian stan fanfiction #chris evans #chris evans fanfiction #jensen ackles #jared paladecki #misha collins #supernatural #marvel #captain america #assault #panic attack #ptsd

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dragonslayer303 · 1 year

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#the avengers #captain america #ptsd #strong #tumblrquotes

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griseldabanks · 5 months

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How about 38 for Sam and Bucky?

Let Me Count the Ways ask game

Prompt: "Stay with me for a while."

Note: I already filled this prompt for Kara and Alice, so I decided this would just be another scene tacked onto the last thing I wrote involving Sam and Bucky.

BOOM.

Rat-a-tat-tat.

Boom. BOOM.

Whizz, bang, rat-a-tat-tat-tat.

“Riley! Riley, no, look out—“

Riley turning his head. Their eyes meeting in a flash of brilliant white light. An arc of lightning, stabbing downward.

Not Riley. Steve. Steve, suspended in the air for a moment, arms outstretched, then tumbling down, down, down....

“No!”

Sam jerked upright, his own scream still echoing in his ears. Where. Where was he, which way was up, where was Steve, he was falling, Sam had to catch him, but where were his wings, he was falling—

With a thump, he crashed to the ground. But it wasn't sand or dirt or stone, it was...soft. Carpet.

He threw a hand out, and it smacked painfully against something wooden. He groped in the darkness. A bed. Blankets spilling over the side, tangled around his legs.

Oh. A dream.

A white flash lit up the whole room in an instant, followed immediately by a deafening crash that made him jump out of his skin. Heart pounding, adrenaline screaming through his veins, he raised trembling hands to press against his eyes.

It didn't help. All he saw, projected against the inside of his eyelids like a movie, was Steve. One moment walking towards him, drenched from the rain, a goat cradled in his strong arms. A blinding flash, and he was flat on the ground. Not moving. Not breathing.

With a curse, Sam surged to his feet and marched out of his room, letting the door bang against the wall. He headed into the living room, trying to ground himself in the present. He wasn't in Afghanistan. He wasn't out there in the fields with a storm howling around them. He was in an apartment in Birnin Zana, provided to them while they waited for Steve to get a clean bill of health.

Right. Because Steve wasn't dead. Sam had saved him. He was alive, he was fine. They'd taken him to the hospital as soon as the lightning died down, and the doctors thought he was out of danger, but wanted to keep him under observation that night. And so he and Bucky had reluctantly come to this apartment, with every assurance that they'd be the first to know if anything happened.

Another flash of lightning broke Sam's train of thought, and he flinched again as thunder rumbled so loudly he could hear the glasses in the kitchen cupboard rattling against each other. Sam paced up and down a bare stretch of floor between the living room and kitchen, trying to breathe but failing abysmally.

Because what if something had happened? What if something was happening right now, what if Steve was flatlining and the doctors were rushing to him and no one had called them yet because they were too busy and it wasn't like Sam would be able to do anything just like always and yet again his brother would die and he would be helpless and alone and—

“Sam?”

The lights turned on in a sudden blaze that made Sam jump...but they remained on, a steady amber glow so different from the lightning. In the doorway to the other bedroom, hand still touching the light switch, stood Bucky. He'd changed out of his Wakandan robes and into sweatpants and a T-shirt. His missing arm looked weirder that way.

Another crash of thunder. Sam's nerves were too frazzled to even attempt to hide the flinch.

Bucky just looked at him, expression not changing. Then he walked over to the coffee table, pulled off his bracelet of kimoyo beads, and tapped one of them. A holographic image appeared in the air over the table, of what looked like a cardiograph. A red line moved smoothly through the center of the image, spiking up at regular intervals every second or so. A heartbeat at rest.

“Is that...?”

“Real time,” Bucky said, understanding Sam's breathless question. He sat down on the couch, gazing at the heart monitor. “He's asleep.”

Sam found himself sinking down onto the other end of the couch, swiping a hand down his sweaty face. He focused on trying to draw a deep breath without gasping. It was easier now he could watch Steve's heartbeat.

They sat in silence for a few minutes, watching those steady spikes. Sam timed his breaths in and out to those beats, until three beats passed before each inhale and exhale. His own heart rate was still faster than Steve's, but it wasn't galloping along like it had before.

Glancing over, Sam noticed that Bucky seemed to be doing the same thing. Focused on the same rhythm, they were breathing in tandem. Looked like Steve was still keeping them all in sync, even asleep and out of sight.

Then he looked at Bucky a little closer and noticed the exhausted furrows in Bucky's brow, the way his eyelids drooped. “You slept at all?” he muttered.

Bucky shook his head, not taking his eyes from the heart monitor.

“You should,” Sam said automatically. Old habits died hard.

“Tried,” Bucky said. “Just ended up watching this instead. Kind of like it used to be...back when he'd get sick all the time. I'd sit by his bed and just watch him breathe. It was like...if I closed my eyes, he might slip away. So I stayed awake.”

Sam nodded. It was usually hard to imagine Steve had ever been skinny and weak like in the old pictures...but on a night like this, when he couldn't stop thinking about Steve lying spread-eagled on the ground, not breathing....

Another crack of thunder. Sam flinched, but made himself take a deep breath and keep watching Steve's heartbeat.

“Is that because of what happened today?”

Sam looked over and found Bucky watching him. There was no judgment in his expression, only understanding. Of all people, Bucky knew exactly what it was like to deal with panic attacks and bad nightmares.

Then Sam realized he'd never told Bucky about Riley. He'd told Steve early on, but they didn't talk about it much; the subject was too painful. And even after Bucky had become a part of Sam's life, there were few occasions where the two of them were alone and in need of filling the silence. Once he'd discovered the difficulty Sam had with thunderstorms, Steve usually made an effort to distract Sam on nights like this.

But now Steve was in the hospital, asleep and out of reach. And the only one here was Bucky.

With a heavy sigh, Sam slumped back against the couch cushions. “I wasn't the only one chosen for the Falcon Program,” he finally said. If Bucky was confused at this apparent change of subject, he didn't say anything. “Riley was with me from the beginning, and he was the only other one who didn't drop out for one reason or another during training. We just...clicked, you know? Did everything together, even when we were off duty. He was like...like....” He tried to say it, but the words jumbled together in his throat, and he couldn't even swallow. Usually, it wasn't this hard. It had been years. But tonight...it was like he'd had to say goodbye only yesterday.

“Like a brother?” Bucky's voice filled the silence ringing in Sam's ears, and somehow he could breathe again.

Nodding, Sam closed his eyes to shut out the flashes of light behind the curtains at the window. He tried to remember Riley's smile, his laugh. It was probably just because of the late hour and his lack of sleep, but all he could see in his mind's eye was Bucky beaming as he ran over to greet them. All he could hear was Steve's belly laugh as they played with the kids in the village.

“What happened?” Bucky asked quietly.

Clearing his throat, Sam opened his eyes and stared fixedly at the heart monitor. “They sent us to Afghanistan. We did some good work there. Made a great team. Just Riley and me, saving lives. Saving each other. All we'd ever wanted to do. And then it was over.” The pain in his chest wasn't as insistent as it had been in the early days, but it still dug down just as deep. He thought he'd rather have one of the Dora Milaje stab him with one of their spears.

“It was a night mission. Nothing special. Just...he went left when he shoulda gone right. And then he was gone. And I couldn't....” His throat closed again, and he had to bite his lip to keep it from trembling.

“I'm sorry,” Bucky whispered.

He didn't say anything else. There was nothing else to say, really. But Sam appreciated it more than he could express.

The silence between them was easy as they sat there, not looking at each other. The thunder moved on. The lightning died down. The catch in Sam's chest steadily eased, until he could breathe deeply again, and his heart rate was almost as slow as Steve's.

Sam yawned so wide he could feel his jaw crack. After all the excitement of the day before, and then the sickening rush of adrenaline from the panic attack, he felt completely spent. Everything ached, crying out for the bed in the next room...but would he sleep? Or would he just lie there, staring into the darkness and trying not to think about the dream?

“Guess we should go back to bed,” Bucky mumbled, pushing himself to his feet. “Steve will bite our heads off if we pull an all-nighter.”

“Wait!” The word fell from Sam's lips before he realized he'd opened his mouth, and his cheeks grew warm as Bucky turned around in surprise. Sam looked away and mumbled, “Stay with me for a while.”

For a moment, he thought Bucky was going to laugh at him. But all he did was sit back down—not where he'd been sitting before, but right next to Sam, so close their legs jostled against each other.

Bucky's right shoulder pressed against his left—solid, warm, real. Not like the nightmares. Not like the memories. He wouldn't fade away as soon as Sam reached for him.

Right now, that was all he cared about.

#ask and you shall receive #authortobenamedlater #let me count the ways #ask games #captain america #sam wilson #bucky barnes #steve rogers #foxholebros #riley #ptsd #panic attack #it was so hard to pull my brain out of the very involved au i usually write lol #because that one has sam and bucky growing very close much sooner than in canon #but this is meant to be fully canon-compliant

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builder051 · 1 year

Text

Honey, you broke my alarm clock

Hero verse

Warnings for nightmare/night terror with all the bells and whistles, emeto, and mentions of violence/gore (think Winter Soldier missions.), and maybe a little romance as a prelude to the big, messy, exciting part. :)

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They go to bed early. The pillows squash against each other, and Bucky uses his good arm to pull Steve close. He dips his chin to trail soft kisses along Steve’s jawline and down his neck. They both have stubble, and the sensation of brushing his face against Steve’s reminds him of crushed velvet. It makes his body warm.

Steve shaves every other day. Bucky shaves when he gets around to it. He usually finds the time to do so after somebody, namely Natasha, gently teases him about having the look of a homeless nomad. Bucky takes it in stride,chuckling and putting his fingers to his bushy sideburns. Once evening comes, though, he stays in the bathroom long after he finishes showering, fumbling with the electric clippers.

Things like that have settled, now that time has passed. Steve knows how to keep his overbearing desire to be helpful in check. Ready, but just in case. And Bucky has started standing ground and knowing to what he is entitled—Audubon binoculars, purposely burnt coffee, bad shaves, and whatever other whims may show up, bringing him back to his old self while also fostering a new outlook on the world.

Bucky’s signs are easier to read now. His body language is less rigid, and he seems to letting the blockades in his mind fall away. Sometimes the feelings and memories are small, and whether heartwarming or haunting, he’s more comfortable talking. Relaxing. Resting his head on Steve’s shoulder for a hug, or, just as easily, a place to cry.

Bucky sighs into Steve’s collarbone and nudges his knee between Steve’s legs. They’re chest to chest as if plastered together, and the kissing stops. Bucky breathes deeply into Steve’s shirt instead.

“Yeah.” Steve strokes Bucky’s freshly combed hair. This is as far as they’re going tonight, and they both know it, but this is still a state of bliss.

Steve’s out and floating into sleep within minutes. He doesn’t get the chance to see Bucky’s last smile before he nods off as well.

Steve sleeps through the night now, most of the time. A car’s screeching tires or the cracking of an ice-coated tree branch still wake him, actively and abruptly, causing the occasional 2AM date with the muted television and a bowl of cereal.

He’s placid in his dreamland tonight, subconsciously moving through the breathing and grounding exercises he’s been practicing since he came off the ice. The dream itself seems plotless and easily forgettable. Steve has to remind himself that it’s a good thing. Even if it’s probably the placebo effect of the tabs of melatonin Sam had pressed on him after the support group meeting a few weeks ago.

Tonight, though. Or perhaps tomorrow. The timing hardly matters. It’s the elbow to the side of the head that jerks Steve back into consciousness. His ear takes the brunt of the blow, and the outer sears while everything behind the eardrum feels sloshy and completely out of alignment. Though he feels woozy and a little lightheaded, Steve scrambles to find his reflexes.

Something flails across Steve’s face, and even with his hands up to deflect the hit, he’s forced flat against the mattress while a second wild swing takes out the alarm clock on the bedside table and sends it crashing to the floor.

Oh well. O’dark thirty it is. Great time for combat.

Bucky’s arm extends to slap Steve again, but this time, he’s ready. He snatches Bucky’s wrist in one hand and his elbow in the other. “Buck?” Steve asks. “Hey. It’s me. It’s ok.”

Bucky’s back arches, and he scrabbles at the bedding with his feet. His heels dig into the mattress as he bicycles his knees, giving him little resistance or headway.

He’s yelling, too. Bucky makes a barking shriek at first, expressing desperation and pain, like someone with their sleeves on fire. It grows in intensity, though, and the screams grow louder and harsher. His whole body writhes, then Bucky’s jaw stretches open, larger than seems humanly possible. Steve’s afraid he’ll split his lips, but he knows the demons have to come out before he can pull Bucky back down into the here and now.

Bucky’s ragged breathing cuts through the noise until the scream becomes a hack, and his tongue protrudes as if it’s trying to part company with his throat. His chin tucks, and the gurgle preceding the heave bellows out.

“Buck—“ Steve tries, maneuvering up to touch his shoulder.

Steve’s voice is probably impossible to hear above Bucky’s aspiration and retching. There’s an intense gurgle, and Bucky cranks his head backward.

Projectile vomit arches over the foot of the bed. By the spattering sound it make, Steve guesses the bathroom door caught the brunt. No time to care, though. Steve gets his arm around Bucky’s shoulders, trying to provide enough pressure without making Bucky feel pinned.

Bucky continues to cough and spit out strings of bile coated in sick. He doesn’t seem to mind much when steve pushes him up onto his side. The violent twitching and areas of unbreakable tone slowly release to full-body quiver. Steve spoons him from behind, steadying with his chest and his knees. He keeps his head up, though. He watches a drop of clammy sweat run from Bucky’s hairline to his chin.

Bucky struggles to wipe the tear with his shoulder.

“Alright,” Steve tells him.

Bucky swallows, then heaves again. “I’m —fine,” he chokes. “‘s alright.” The tension in his back muscles soften, and the bedsprings groan as the mattress swallows him up again.

“You need to talk about it?” Steve offers. “Get it all out? Well, the rest of it?”

Bucky leans back into Steve’s arms, but ducks his head and lifts his stump arm as if blocking a sizzling stage light. “Eh,” he sighs.

Steve waits.

“A —thing. Gavotte?” Bucky’s eyes are hazy, and he looks as if he’s digging hard into the drawer to find his least favorite socks. Looking for a memory he doesn’t want to remember. “Is that a word? Is that a thing?”

“Yeah.” Steve keeps his voice measured. At the moment, he’s a dictionary. Once the words become clear, Bucky will tip into the proper pool of emotion for processing. Dealing. Healing? Maybe that’s too much to ask. Steve resumes his soft monotone. “Like a rope? A string? Like, with handles, so you can…you know.” They’re both fluent in the language of mutual acknowledgement, sans the details.

“Nnmph.” Bucky shakes his head a fraction of an inch. “Razor wire.” He pauses. “Pop goes the, well… You can guess how it ends.”

Bucky seems to collapse into himself. A croak escapes from his throat, and Steve wonders if he’s going to be sick again. There’s only a shrug, though. And a sigh.

“Yeah…” Steve runs his hand down Bucky’s back, feeling each vertebrae as he goes from the cervical at the nape of Bucky’s neck down to the lumbar and the waistband of his underwear.

They rest in silence. Bucky’s ragged breathing slows. Then it falls into the same rhythm as Steve’s.

“How we doing?” Steve asks. “I’ll grab a fresh pillow and you can go back to sleep.”

“Nah.” Bucky pushes himself up into a sitting position and slides his feet toward the floor. “I feel… gross.” He makes a face. “Shower?”

“Sure, yeah,” Steve gets out of bed as well.

The door to the bathroom sits lazily ajar, unabashedly showing the results of it’s previous baptism in bile and mucous and un digested dinner. Steve gives it a smirk, then dampens a towel under the faucet.

“Go on ahead,” Steve encourages Bucky. “I’ll get this and fix up the bed.”

Bucky doesn’t reply right away. When he’s free of his sweaty t shirt, he says, “I’ll wait.”

“Huh?” Steve wipes away most of the mess, then squats to catch the dribbles that hit the floor.

“For you to come with.” Bucky tilts his head, and Steve can’t quite tell if Bucky’s attempting to state the obvious or if he feels embarrassed for asking.

“Oh.” Steve smiles, even though it still doesn’t click. Not that it matters now. “Yeah, I’ll get in with you. Just a sec.”

Exactly how much time it takes for Steve to stuff the dirty towel into the laundry, he doesn’t know. The clock’s still somewhere on the floor between the bedskirt and table legs. He adds it to the list of things to address later.

A quick glance to the window shows striated shades of royal and navy, faded into grey and the faintest tinge of pink. O’dawn thirty, then?

Steve shakes his head to dispel the compulsion to keep track of ticking hands and fractional mathematics. He has better things to do. More important.

The bathroom’s already steamy and scented with shampoo. Once he slides open the glass door and breathes in the inviting humid air, Steve automatically relaxes. There’s still worry. Still concern.

But it eases out of the way.

Now is the moment for caring. Supporting. Finding pleasure in the small things. Because, after all, they’re in endless, timeless, and ever-expanding love.

#fanfic #fanfiction #mcu #marvel #captain america #heroverse #Steve rogers #Bucky barnes #winter soldier #hurt/comfort #sickfic #nightmares #night terrors #PTSD #gore/violence #emeto #emetophilia #Illness and injury

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