Dubcon

[cuemusic]

THE DUBCON MEME

WARNING - MEME MAY CONTAIN TRIGGERS



Whether it gets awkward and painful or if it goes perfectly smooth, generally speaking the basic fundamentals of sex are the same: there are two (or more) attracted parties who both decide to act on that attraction. If there's not attraction involved, there's still a mutual consent involved. If it's not mutual, there's a problem in the line somewhere...but what about when there's strong grounds for that mutual consent to be disputed on one or both sides?

Sometimes, things get a little bit (or quite a lot) dubious.


Step One: Post your character with Name/fandom/preferences, and be sure to consider just how closely to what side of dubious consent you're willing to walk (slightly dubious, or very obviously invalid)

Step Two: Others respond, rolling up or choosing a scenario.

Step Three: One or both parties get consent all muddled up.

Step Four: Deal with the fall out afterward, if you choose.


1. Outside coercion - On display, or some perverted laws, or maybe there's a breeding facility of some sort.

2. Aphrodisiacs - Accidental or on purpose, one or both have been doused heavily in some sort of irresistible aphrodisiacs.

3. Biological imperative - Baby-making (or many attempts) must happen NOW. For the sake of children, or just to survive something.

4. Intoxication - Beer goggles and impaired judgement.

5. Illicit substances - Lack of any judgment whatsoever, nor probable recollection.

6. Sleeping - Sleeping may not be 'yes' but it's also not 'no'.

7. Control - Through actual control or some sort of blackmail, the 'yes' probably isn't sincere.

8. Trickery - Deceit and misrepresentation of one party to convince the other.

9. Manipulation - Bedazzle and confuse them somehow into saying yes when they normally wouldn't.

10. Wildcard - Some form of dubious consent circumstances not listed.

Comments

[1943]

[ There’s his nickname again, and Steve can’t stop the reflexive whimper that climbs out of his throat. He’s lucky Bucky doesn’t know what it does to him, especially when he’s like this. The hand at the back of his neck has Steve’s mouth dropping open on another low, helpless little sound, reminding him of all the ways he’d imagined Bucky grabbing him there — to pull him closer, to keep him in place, to hold him down. None of it compares to the real thing, each press of Bucky’s fingers eliciting a small shiver. ]

Yeah, Bucky. [ Urgently, his fist pumping faster at every single curse that falls from Bucky’s lips, eager to hear more. Hear Bucky fall apart. God, it’s perfect. ] Just like that —

[ Sweetheart, Steve wants to whisper, and it almost slips out until he reels it in at the last second, just enough lucidity in his head to remember that’s not what’s happening here. To realize it might throw Bucky off, even through the whiskey. Might make him wanna stop. No. He wets his lips, fumbling at the buttons of Bucky’s shirt, opening them one after the other until it’s open to the navel. ]

C’mon, you feel so good. You, you want it? [ His cheeks burning at his own daring, Steve swallows, sliding his hand inside Bucky’s shirt to palm across the warm expanse of skin. ] Like this? Or — you want somethin’ else?

[ He leans in as much as he can to press tiny wet kisses to the hinge of Bucky’s jaw, slowing down his stroking fist to thumb teasingly at the head of his dick, back and forth. ]

[freightcars]

[ Steve says his name again, and this time - this time there's no shyness, there's no thought behind it. He says it as natural as breathing that way he always does, and it tears Bucky's world backward at the sound. Yes, that's exactly what he'd been asking for earlier, like that. It almost does more to him than the hand diligently stroking him, almost.

His breath shakes loose in rhythmic sounds, a near-hyperventilation, in- out- in- out- because he can feel himself toeing the line, an ebb and a slightly smaller flow pushing him close but not quite tipping him over. He doesn't want it to end, he's not ready yet, he wants to ride this edge until next fucking year and watch Steve's face the whole time as he palms Bucky's cock.

Teeth press hard into his bottom lip, brow knits in intense concentration, and he peels back from Steve's searching hands to fall backward onto his elbows so he can stare down the length of his body and see. Take in the whole picture, with Steve there curled up around him, with his working fingers and the flush on his face asking him what it is he wants- god, drunk or not he's never gonna forget that. It's seared into his memory for the next hundred years, nothing in the world will tear it from him, not a magic or a medicine could drive it out.

It's god damn beautiful. ]

I want- [ He starts, chest heaving, looking agonized for a second before he has to tear his eyes way and tip his head up. ]

God- I want everything- your fucking mouth- I see that in my dreams, Stevie, Jesus, I'm close- I'm-

[1943]

[ Steve murmurs in protest as the smooth, gorgeous skin of Bucky’s chest is drawn away from his touch, but it swiftly turns into a hum of appreciation at the sight in front of him. Bucky, laid out —as much as he can be, on Steve’s cramped little couch — lit up by moonshine and the heat of desire. It’s in his dark eyes as he takes Steve in, in the flush of his face and the sweat beading down his neck. His chest. Steve’s mouth waters and it’s like Bucky’s reading his goddamn mind.

Your mouth. Fuck. Steve makes a strange, keening noise, his dick pulsing hard in the confines of his slacks. He’s nodding before he’s even able to speak, scooting forward and bracing one hand on the sofa as he leans down. Pauses, as the rest of Bucky’s words catch up to his muddled brain. ]

… You dream about me. [ It’s a slur more than anything Steve’s said all night, a dazed reaffirmation more than a question. He feels more drunk than he has all night, this close to the heat between Bucky’s legs, the feel of him, the scent of him. He leans down the rest of the way, holding Bucky’s cock by the base gently. ]

Doin’ this?

[ He licks a long, sticky stripe up the shaft of his dick, barely able to taste it, he’s so goddamn excited, half-lidded eyes locked on Bucky’s face so he doesn’t miss the way he reacts. The way Steve is making him react. God, he can't believe what he just heard. Another swipe of his tongue, closer to the head, tasting the slick coming out of him and feeling embarrassed and hot at the same time as he thinks about what he’s gonna do next.

Bucky said he was close. Steve swallows the bitter-salt on his tongue and drops his gaze, face growing impossibly hotter as he takes the tip of Bucky’s cock into his mouth and sucks on it, stroking the rest with a firm hand. ]

[freightcars]

[ Steve shifts to accomodate, and honestly Barnes had only been babbling words with no real thought on their consequences. No real expectation of Steve to follow through, especially when he was one or two firm strokes from going over the edge already. Expected to mumble his way into an orgasm beneath Steve's gentle fingers, did not expect him to pause enough to lean down and hover his lips like ghostly precognition over Bucky's tip.

Did not expect it, almost can't handle the sight, eyes go wide and a hand grips- scrambles- at the couch cushions. ]

N- if you do that, Steve, I'm not gonna be able to- I'm-

[ He stammers it out urgently, desperately, but he doesn't even manage to finish the warning. A tongue on the underside of his dick drives the words right out of him, replaces them with a long and languid groan. He pulses hot, heady, a warning, an electric shot that curls his toes and shoves him with abruptness to the precipice.

Watches, dreamlike, parted lips, as Steve ducks in and wraps his lips around the head- warm and wet and fucking perfect- strokes-]

Ahh-

[ And that's it, it's all over folks, it sends him careening with a choked sob over the edge. He comes violently, hips stuttering up toward Steve's lips gently, spilling hot and thick, cock twitching out a pleasing rhythm under Steve's fingers.

It's fireworks, it's the fourth of god damn July. It's spreading heat and warmth that fills his heart and his spine in equal measure, and the lack of inhibition keeps him from holding back a second of it. ]

[1943]

[ It’s music to Steve’s ears. Bucky, almost incoherent with the pleasure Steve’s giving him — the sound of his nails scratching at the fabric of the couch, the way his breath hitches, the fucking groan that comes out of him and sets Steve’s entire body alight with sparks. Makes him grind down onto Bucky’s leg, where it's pressed up against him.

Steve feels Bucky’s dick pulse in his mouth, in his slick, pumping hand, and ain’t that a kick in the head? He knows what’s about to follow, feels the blush on his face spread down to his throat and his chest at what it’s making him feel, doing this. He knows anyone would think he should feel ashamed of doing this. Hell, he knows he should be terrified at what Bucky might think of him after this, when things cool down.

But all Steve feels is embarrassed pleasure and a drunken high so steep that his pulse is hammering in his veins. All he can think about is every sweet word Bucky’s said to him tonight, all he can hear is Bucky calling him Stevie, looking up at him with desire written all over his face; all he can remember is that he’s wanted this for so damn long and he’s allowed to have it, for once in his fucking life — have something he wants.

The first hot, salty spurt to hit his tongue has him moaning, a little shocked and a lot pleased, and he tries to take in as much of it as he can, his other hand steadying Bucky’s hips. It’s too much, though, and Steve draws back, watching the rest of it dribble down his length with satisfaction. (He did that. He made Bucky do that.) Uses it to keep his hand wet as he keeps stroking, slower now, bringing Bucky down. ]

You’re … you’re goddamn perfect, Bucky.

[ Breathless, hoarse. Steve raises glassy eyes to Bucky’s face, seeking out his expression in the dark. He can feel how wet his mouth is and sticks his tongue out to try and clean it absently. It’s not much use, he can feel some of the wet on his chin, and the sensation makes him grind down again, trying to bring some relief to his straining cock. ]

[freightcars]

[ His hips sway a sort of languid, sinuous rhythm as Steve pulls it out of him, every second of it, guiding him through it like a fucking sherpa or something. The muscles in his thighs go tense and lax, tense and lax, until finally- years later, decades later, it feels like- it eases off. Slows and calms and settles to just aftershocks and heartbeats, to steadying breathing as he stares up at the ceiling, boneless and in awe.

When he looks, Steve's there licking his lips, wet and wanton, and his dick gives one last valiant twitch at the sight. ]

God-

[ He murmurs breathlessly. Steve's a fucking Monet, he's a Van Gogh right now, he's Starry Night. The Mona Lisa. The swiss alps. Bucky shudders on an inhale, holds his breath.

Feels creeping sobriety, and can only again say: ]

God, Steve...

[ And then he shifts forth, slowly peels himself from the couch to reach a hand out, to palm the sharp angle of Steve's cheekbone and to press their lips together again with aching slowness. To taste himself at the seams. ]

[1943]

[ Bucky's sitting up and looking at him, and Steve can't look away, enraptured. Not that he wants to, despite the flush he can feel all over his face and neck; there’s something in Bucky’s eyes he wishes he could decipher, an expression that Steve might recognize with a clearer head but right now just leaves him confused and aching.

As it is he just shifts up, following Bucky’s lead dumbly, wondering what he’s going to — oh. Steve jolts minutely at the slow touch of Bucky’s lips to his own, feeling surprise and then a sudden, sharp longing that has both everything and nothing to do with the thrum of desire still coursing heavily through his body.

God. He kisses back, tentative at first and then melting into it, into the hand caressing his face, a shiver curling down his spine. He wants — he wants, and the hand that had been at Bucky’s hip moves down between Steve’s legs, palming at his own aching dick, rubbing it through his open fly. That Bucky would be willing to taste himself, on Steve’s lips no less ...

He moans softly against Bucky’s mouth, his clean hand carding through Bucky’s hair. ]

Bucky. [ A pleading whisper between their lips. ]

[freightcars]

[ He can feel Steve shifting beneath him, palming himself through his fly, and that? He can't abide. He pulls back after a lingering moment and drops a hand to catch Steve's wrist, to stop him from touching himself the way Barnes ought to be doing. The other comes up, palm flat against Steve's chest, to guide him gently back onto the cushions.

God bless Steve's tiny, shitty loveseat.

The second he's back, Bucky's hands go searching. They slide under Steve's shirt for a second, then down his hips. They curl at the edges of his trousers, and they inch them down so he can flatly palm at jutting hip bones. ]

Jesus, Stevie, you're so god damn beautiful.

[ He murmurs it low and slow, like he's talking to himself more than he's talking to Steve. Murmurs it over the curve of Steve's erection once it's free of his clothes. Breathes it through the bend of his spine as he dips forward to press lips onto the hollow of Steve's hips.

After a painful eternity, he wraps his hand around Steve. Feels the weight of him, the softness, thumbs at a place beneath the head. ]

[1943]

[ The second he feels the fingertips at his wrist, Steve stops his desperate touching; his cock is so hard it hurts, but he stops all the same with a soft whine, his disoriented brain waiting for permission to continue.

What he gets instead is Bucky’s other hand, gently but insistently pushing him backward. Steve obeys wordlessly, staring up at Bucky with glazed, trusting eyes, his hand falling away from his soft, ruffled hair to his shoulder. He’ll do whatever the hell Bucky wants right now, whatever he asks of him.

Even so, the first graze under his shirt makes him tense up, and the touch to his hipbones — skinny, protruding, weak, what’s Bucky doing? why’s he — makes him shudder. But it’s what Bucky says that pulls another moan out of him, stunned and disbelieving and needy. His hand on Bucky’s shoulder tightens when he feels the light little kiss to his hipbones, fingers trying not dig in as he wonders wildly if he misheard, somehow. ]

Holy —

[ Beautiful. It hits him somewhere between the ribs, making his heart beat double-time, ache again with that same sharp yearning. And god, Bucky's hand around him is big, warm, and so fucking perfect — Steve’s hips jerk up at the brush just beneath where he’s most sensitive, and he whimpers Bucky’s name loudly, closing his eyes against the gorgeous picture in front of him. His dick twitches hard, clear fluid beading at the tip. ]

[freightcars]

[ He made a promise he intends to keep, and Steve's needy twitch sets him into motion. Fingers curl to find a grip, easy and careful around Steve's length. He goes slow, agonizingly achingly slow, a steady and unfaltering rhythm. Thorough from base to tip and back again as he sucks soft kisses into Steve's hips and thighs.

He drags it out to watch Steve shudder, to keen. He eases when he thinks Steve's close, slows to a barely-moving stillness, intent on finding that exact line to ride. To trace across the razor's edge of it a while, so he can paint a lingering mental picture of Steve's face as he does it. Commits to memory exactly what Steve looks like when he's close. ]

You're doin' so good, Stevie.

[ He murmurs, soft and caring words of encouragement when his hand stills again to feel the aching throbs beneath his fingertips. ]

God, you're doing such a good job.

[ And when it ebbs, Bucky coaxes the fire. Prods it with his fingertips and jerks Steve back to the cusp, only to mercilessly idle. ]

Jesus- I wanna see you like this forever, y'know that?

[1943]

[ Steve isn’t expecting the kisses, isn’t expecting Bucky to be so — so sweet to him. After all, he’s been lucky enough to get to kiss Bucky even with his taste in his mouth, so he figured he’d maybe get to rut up against his hand or his thigh while he was at it, and that would’ve been enough. More than enough, with Steve already on the edge. A sweet, tantalizing edge that Bucky keeps bringing him to, then taking him away from, before dragging him toward it again and oh fuck. It’s gonna kill him.

Bucky seems determined to do just that. Keeps using his nickname, in that voice, and that on its own would have Steve whimpering at this point, but god. Every soft, encouraging word out of him is more intoxicating than a whole goddamn bottle of whiskey. Steve listens, trembling with every kiss placed on his hips, on his thighs. Like small, fiery brands. He can’t understand why Bucky’s saying this, treating him like this — only knows that it’s gently driving him insane.

By the time Bucky eases him away from the edge for the third (fourth? fifth?) time, he’s whining with every other breath, lips swollen and sticky from how hard he’s been biting and licking at them. He wants to look away, hide his face again from Bucky's intent gaze, but he can’t; there’s something about the way Bucky’s looking at him that has Steve pinned more truly than even his hands around Steve’s wrists had done. Steve can’t even shut his eyes, half-closed and besotted as he watches himself be taken apart.

When Bucky says forever, his dick jerks at the thought of being kept like this, wetter than he’s ever been, and Steve can’t help the keening sob that comes out of him, followed by a desperate, slurred string of words: ]

Please, Bucky, I need it, I — w-want — [ and he breaks off, panting, torn between what he needs so badly and what he wants just as much. He’s doing good; Bucky said, Bucky said. Jesus, isn’t that what he’s wanted this entire time? He chokes out, ]

... Wanna be good. Please. [ It’s as close as he can get to saying, whatever you want and let me come at the same time. ]

[freightcars]

[ Christ, if he weren't already so thoroughly spent... if he were five years younger on top of that, maybe, this sight sure as hell would be enough to get him ready to go again. Steve's a picture, with bitten and swollen lips and wild eyes shining as he stares down his own chest at himself in Bucky's hands. Sobbing and behaving, begging and obedient all at the same time. He's never gonna be able to look at another woman again, is he? Nothing's ever gonna quite compare to this, and if he could have it every night for a thousand nights he's not so sure it'd be enough.

He wants to do god damn filthy things, lord have mercy. ]

I'm gonna let you this time, and it's gonna feel so good-

[ He murmurs over his still hand, just to feel Steve throb in anticipation for it. Presses a single mouthy kiss onto Steve's thigh again before settling in a little better, an elbow sliding under Steve's left thigh to brace himself, to anchor himself as his right begins to slowly work. ]

But you're gonna look at me while you do it, and if you stop, I stop.

[ He gives a purposeful squeeze to drive the point home, and then sets off at a familiar sweet, slow rhythm. He could pick up speed and drive Steve over the edge quick, but he won't. He wants it to be a long, deliberate burn. Wants to watch the second Steve falls over careening headfirst forth, and so his hand slides steady through every twitch, stoking the fire with dark and heady mutters of encouragement. ]

Come on, sweetheart, m'gonna let you come for me, okay? Go ahead, Stevie, lemme give it to you... you ready?

[1943]

[ I’m gonna let you, Bucky says, and Steve’s next breath is a wet little gasp, relief coursing through him so hard he almost doesn’t hear what Bucky says next. Almost.

But he does hear it, and Steve — a trickle of actual fear pools into his stomach at that. Fear, mixed with another strange, hot stab of arousal, and Steve doesn’t know what the hell that says about him. He can’t speak for a moment, mouth half-open and eyes widening a little, shaking his head slightly. But Bucky isn’t kidding; his eyes are serious and Steve feels his insides twist. He wants to protest. What if he can’t? What if he blinks? What if Bucky stops, right as Steve’s going over the edge and, and — fuck.

The squeeze he gets is enough of an emphasis, leaves no room for interpretation, and the ragged sound Steve lets out at that would send him into red-hot embarrassment if he had even half a thought to spare. His hips buck weakly. God, the pace Bucky’s going at is going to drive him out of his goddamn mind. And if it ain’t the pace, it’s how Bucky’s talking to him. Already breathless as it is, Steve outright moans at the endearment, soft and dazed.

Any other time, he’d remind himself that it’s just Bucky under the influence — that he doesn’t mean it like that, that he’s just saying what he would to anybody. He’d say it to a girl, so he’s saying it to Steve. But hell, he’s so far gone at this point that all that registers is the tone of Bucky’s voice, dark and sweet like syrup. The tight, slick grip around his cock, the promise of pleasure just out of reach.

His lips quivering with every plea he’s not saying out loud, Steve butts his head against the sofa a couple of times, squirming under Bucky’s hand and his gaze before finally settling down with a quiet whimper. ]

Bucky, please. [ Voice trembling and frustrated and so, so needy, one hand gripping the fabric at his side, the other still holding onto Bucky's shoulder desperately. ] I'll be good for — g-gimme it, c'mon, I need it so bad. Don't stop, I’ll be good.

[ Overwhelmed as he is, he can still feel another wave of heat wash over him at what he’s about to ask for, and it’s barely a whisper, hitching in the middle: ] Make me come.

[freightcars]

[ He can feel hot, needy sympathy curling in his stomach. He can see the sweat lacing Steve's forehead, the tightness of his muscles, the flexing of his stomach and of his thighs. Rigid lines of desperate urgency, and if Bucky were the artist of the two of them he'd paint this every day. Sketch it, sculpt it, mold it into clay - but probably never get it quite right.

It's that empathy that drives his speed up a little, that ability to put himself in Steve's shoes and imagine what it feels like to be so close after so long. For a second he's right there with Steve fighting the good fight, and he's happy to help by picking up the pace and, on top of that, dipping in to swipe a gentle, deliberate little lick around the tip of Steve's cock whenever his hand exposes it. Catlike little swipes of his tongue whenever he can work them in, just to send that message clear - yes, he means it this time. ]

Let go, Steve.

[ He murmurs encouragingly, his left hand gripping tight on Steve's hip as he works.

Eager, excited. ]

Come for me, sweetheart. Let me see it.

[1943]

[ He’s been on the edge for so goddamn long that it won’t take him much longer to go over, and when Bucky leans down and — and uses his tongue, oh Christ — Steve cries out, unable to control either his voice or the bucking of his hips into Bucky’s wet fist. The pleasure is building, hot and heady and quick, and if he thought he was going crazy before, Steve doesn’t know what to call this now, at the mercy of those sweet little licks. ]

Don’t stop, Bucky, please. D-don’t — it’s too — [ Steve breaks off, biting into his swollen lip as he moans, his cock twitching violently. He’s on the edge of tears with the overload of sensation, trembling with the effort it takes to keep his gaze obediently on Bucky. Fuck, it’s almost unbearable to have his desire laid open in front of Bucky like this, and Steve curls in on himself, whimpering as it all becomes too much to take. ]

I’m — oh God, Bucky, ‘m gonna —

[ The pleasure goes white-hot and Steve’s entire body spasms as he comes, hard and helpless, sobbing out Bucky’s name like it’s the only thing he remembers. It spills out of him in long, thick pulses, lighting up his spine, better than anything he’s ever felt before. It’s so good that Steve loses himself for a while, coming down slow and panting, his mind happily blank, his eyes dazed and half-closed.

Any other night, this would be the moment reality washes back over him; the realization of what he’s done and who he’s done it with. The reminder that this is something he can’t have — was never meant to have. But not tonight. The only thing Steve knows tonight is the blissful warmth spreading through him, the satisfaction low in his stomach, the steady thrum of love in his chest as he gazes at Bucky’s beautiful face.

He’s not kidding himself any longer about what his feelings are, even if he’ll never be able to say them out loud. If tonight is all he’ll ever get, Steve’ll take it gladly. ]

[freightcars]

[ Bucky watches through dark lashes, eyes shining at the sight as it unfolds. Feels his way through every twitch and throb with a matching ache in his chest, a skipped heartbeat for every single one. And Steve - god, Steve - does exactly as he's told and he keeps his eyes on Bucky's so he gets to watch, he listens so sweetly and so beautifully that despite it all, Bucky's dick is aching trying to get hard again even though it can't yet.

If it weren't for the whiskey, this night might last a hell of a lot longer than either of them intended or expected. He's never fucked a man before, but they're on a path to madness and the thought burrows into his brain with sudden intense desire. Maybe later. Maybe if Steve will let them do this again - maybe if he can covertly start sneaking Steve drinks so he'll be open to the idea again.

This has to have just been the booze for him, right? Has to have been, so if he- God, they'll worry about it later.

Steve comes, streaking a line across Bucky's mouth before he can pull back. Spills over his hand and soils his clothes with it, soils both their shirts and he can't find it in himself to care for a single second about that. He lets it sit for a moment, filthy and sticky, too busy watching Steve go boneless before him.

God damn beautiful.

And then he lifts off, letting loose Steve's cock to finish unbuttoning his own shirt, which he uses to clean off his face. Afterward, he's careful and conscientious, cleaning spilled seed from every part of Steve he can find it on. Doting, almost, in his carefulness. ]

[1943]

[ The sated, happy fog in Steve’s head almost dissipates for a split second as Bucky sits up, the words please don’t go on the tip of his tongue. But Bucky ain’t going anywhere, he’s just — taking off his shirt. Ah. Steve takes in the sight with a hazy appreciation, feeling heat and shame spark briefly in his stomach again at the sight of the mess he's made on Bucky's — on Bucky. He opens his mouth to maybe murmur an apology, but it turns into a surprised, pleased little purr instead, as Bucky uses the clothing to clean Steve up as well.

His heartbeat skips at the soft touches, and Steve follows Bucky's movements with a gaze brimming with trust and affection. It matches the ebb and flow of warmth inside him, like the afterglow of a cup of cider. There’s a tenderness in the way Bucky wipes him down that Steve doesn’t dare examine too closely, even loose-limbed and disoriented as he is. He knows now that he loves Bucky; there’s no reason to expect his feelings to be returned. Swallowing, he turns his attention to Bucky’s face again, trailing down the smooth line of his throat, his bare chest and the wide slope of his shoulders, the hard curves of his arms.

He lifts his gaze, meets Bucky’s without shying away this time. ]

You're so fuckin' beautiful.

[ Slurred and soft, as if he’s drunk on that alone instead of half a bottle of moonshine. Drunk on Bucky. He reaches out to skim shaking fingers across the back of Bucky's hand in a hesitant caress before loosely curling them around his wrist. A careful tug, a silent request for him to come down and cover Steve's body with his own. Steve isn’t even sure what he’ll do when he has Bucky close, what he wants — can’t think past simply needing him nearer, driven by something like instinct. ]

[freightcars]

[ Steve meets his eye and murmurs something he's only ever said to women after sex, but to hear it directed at himself now with an expression like that? He understands, now, what it can do to someone. It could be wielded like a weapon, filling someone with a feeling like that. It's like some kind of passcode to bypass the wall of ribs that separate your heart from the outside world, and he abruptly feels guilty for ever saying that to anyone he didn't see the next day and every day after.

Steve does the same to him, but it isn't his fault. Neither of them could know that his orders would come tomorrow. For now there's only heady warmth and foolish, optimistic hope. A little scoff makes it out of his throat, a soft psh coupled with a lopsided smirk and eyes rolling to the ceiling. ]

You're nuts.

[ He accuses mildly, but now it's Bucky who's obedient. He follows the tug of a shaking hand and a thin arm like it's got all the strength in the world, and he settles atop Steve again in an imperfect cover. Just a little too far to the left, a little too low to be lined up properly, with his side pressed into the back of the couch and his temple settled on a bony shoulder. It's alright though, all the odd angles in the world couldn't drive him off.

A bare arm settles around Steve's middle, curls up his side, dips under his shoulder blade.

The world is heavy. Every bit of him feels spent and satisfied, tired and comfortable. He'd love to settle the pair of them onto a bed, find real comfort in a place they can sprawl, but asking Steve to leave the couch with him feels like popping a bubble. Leaving this place and entering the real world where actions have consequences.

So he stays, and he keeps his damn trap shut about it. ]

[1943]

[ It takes a moment for him to realize what Bucky means, his brain still working slowly as he blinks up at him, like it’s underwater or something. A moment to understand that Bucky’s passing it off as a — a thing. Not a joke, exactly, but something close.

Steve shivers a little, cold for reasons other than the night air coming in through the window — but he’s got Bucky on top of him soon enough, so he settles right back down again, content and warm. Allows himself a tiny smile, now that Bucky’s head is on his shoulder and those dark eyes aren’t on him anymore, seeing right through him. ]

Sure. [ Agreeably, because yeah, he is nuts. Nuts for Bucky, that is, but that’s not something he can just go around saying, even after … even after everything. So Steve only adds, low but firm, ] Ain't lying, though.

[ He runs a fond hand through Bucky’s hair, idly playing with the fine strands. It's important to him that Bucky knows he’s being honest about this, even if he doesn't know the reason why; important that Bucky knows he’s gorgeous. ... Well, Bucky's probably well-aware of it already, but Steve wants Bucky to hear it coming from him, anyway; that Steve sees him like that, too. It’s the closest he can get to saying what’s actually in his heart.

Steve knows he’s being silly, knows that whatever this is, it's not going anywhere past the loveseat. That in the end, it’s just a dream. That when they wake up tomorrow, they’re probably just gonna go on like this never happened. That this was something he was permitted to have for one night — just one night.

The clock still hasn’t struck twelve, though, has it? Pumpkin’s still a carriage. Steve tilts his head so that he can press his lips gently against the nearby ball of Bucky’s shoulder. Just a graze at first, back and forth, and then a kiss, and then Steve’s moving his mouth against that patch of skin — lips, tongue, teeth. Softly, but with intent. ]

[freightcars]

[ It's too easy, isn't it? Sliding from friends to something more than that over the span of an hour or so, sliding from sex into lazy comfort. A change lubricated by whiskey, but all the booze in the world wouldn't foster something that wasn't already there - Barnes may be riding out a buzz, but even he knows there are deeper implications at play here. There are whole avenues of thought to explore: how long Steve's been open to the idea, just how deep it runs in him, if it's just Bucky or of it's men, what they're gonna do about this whole thing when the sun comes up and the neighbors can see in through the window if they leave the blinds open.

What they'll tell Bucky's parents in a couple years when his ma keeps trying to settle him down with this girl and that girl, how he'll have to go on dates to keep people from thinking him and Steve are fairies. He can handle it himself, but Steve gets beaten half to death just for being the stubborn prick he is, add anything else on top of it and he'll be dead in an alley before they turn thirty.

But no, it isn't midnight. Clock hasn't struck twelve, nobody's losing any glass slippers on the stairs just yet. Easy to turn it all into background noise, static that hides behind the voice on the radio. Nothing. Just now, with an arm that fits around Steve's entire middle and could probably wrap around twice if he had the flexibility for it, and the feeling of teeth softly pressing into his muscles that makes him huff and bite back. Not hard, not bruising, just a cheeky warning not to start something he can't finish. ]

Can't tell if you're hungry or you're trying for round two, but I got bad news for you either way.

[1943]

[ The playful bite he gets tickles something inside him; Steve hums in the back of his throat, pleased and not a bit daunted, wanting to smile. He knows a warning when he feels one, and it just makes him nip a little sharper in response, kiss a little harder.

… Goddamn it, Bucky. Steve has to pause to muffle a bubble of laughter before it escapes him, ends up pressing what’s unmistakably a grin against Bucky’s shoulder even as the idea of a round two has him blushing. He resumes what he’s doing tongue-first this time, mouth sealing over the sweat-salt taste under his lips and sucking softly. It’s slow, thorough work, and he closes it off with his teeth worrying that patch of skin, suction going hard suddenly before he pulls off to look at it. A red mark; Steve licks his lips and hopes it stays. He hasn’t done it hard enough to bruise for long, but still.

Steve Rogers was here. Another satisfied, low sound in the back of his throat, and Steve lets his head rest back comfortably, turning it so that he can just about feel the brush of Bucky’s forehead against his mouth. His hand in Bucky’s hair doesn’t stop moving, fingers gentle against his scalp, the other one coming up to rest on Bucky’s back. ]

Nah. [ It comes out as something of a drawl, aiming to sound light but only managing to sound thick. ] Got everything I want right here.

[ Like this, with Bucky in his arms, holding him close under the light of the moon. Steve stares at the backrest of the sofa, rising up next to them like a small hill, allowing the first swell of sadness to mix into his high. It doesn’t bring him down, just makes the joy in him ache. After all, what good's sweet without a little bitter? ]

[freightcars]

Oh, so it's hickies you're after.

[ He muses lazily, an amused sounding drawl more than an accusation. He doesn't mind; kinda likes it in fact, it's not like anyone can prove who it came from. Not like it's incriminating in and of itself, like someone can match the bite pattern to Steve's dental records or something. It's just a mark, innocuous as it is damning and for wholly different reasons. Sometime the day after tomorrow before he ships out a guy will see it in a changing room or on an exam table and give him a knowing smirk. Some dame, they'll say like they know a secret about him. Yeah, sure was, he'll agree, and say not another word on the subject.

In the meantime, he hmms a thoughtful sound low in his throat. Shifts to pick his own spot on Steve's scrawny body, but the wrists look too open and Steve already tagged his shoulder. He's no copycat, he's a creative thinker, and so he dips to find a place just to the right of Steve's nipple to sink his own teeth into. Suction follows, and it's remarkably easy to tug a purpling bruise out of Steve's skin. ]

What'd I tell you about getting more iron?

[ Age old argument, the never-ending fussing trying to keep Rogers alive. His mother's not around to do it anymore, someone had to pick up where she left off, and no amount of funneling red meat into Steve ever seemed to really do the trick. Even as he chastizes he sighs, a battle already lost.

He slumps down again, a little more weight on the smaller man beneath him, eyes slipping shut. Maybe they could sleep here. Maybe they could, and they'll both wake up with the most god-awful cricks in their necks and back pain for three days, but maybe it'd be worth it. ]

[1943]

[ Busted. Steve smiles, despite the sadness rising inside him like a mist, and tries not to look too smug as he watches Bucky shift upward, clearly looking to return the favour. ]

Haven’t exactly had a lotta practice, but — ah. [ He cuts himself off with a soft gasp, the smugness giving way to a flare of arousal that disappears as soon as it arrives, and has to bite his lip to keep from asking Bucky, half-joking and half-serious, to kiss it better. Preferably a little closer to the left. God, if only a round two was actually on the table. Oh, well. He closes his eyes as Bucky’s weight resettles on top of him, quietly enjoying what he's got while he’s got it. ]

All the iron in the world ain't gonna fix what’s wrong with me. [ Soon as he says it, Steve wonders if he maybe shouldn’t have. This’ll only open up a whole new conversation, if not out loud then at least in both their thoughts. For Bucky this might've been — just a thing, but there’s something wrong with Steve for sure. He’s known it for a long time, wronger than everything else in his broken down body. He doesn’t know what it means that he stopped caring a while back.

… They should probably get up, move over to a bed or something, but Steve doesn’t want to move. He doesn’t know what’s telling him this, but he has a feeling that the second they move, the spell’s gonna break. The moment will be gone. So he just moves around as much as he can, trying to make the both of them a little more comfortable — pulls Bucky just a bit closer, cradling his head so that it’s not at such an awkward angle.

He doesn’t say anything for some time after that, just savouring the moment as his limbs grow heavier and his eyes get sandier with sleep. Steve’s brow furrows and he opens his eyes blearily; he doesn’t want to sleep. He wishes he could stay awake the whole night, not miss a minute of having Bucky in his arms like this. ]

Bucky. [ Low, almost inaudible. ]

[freightcars]

[ He takes it in the multiple ways Steve intends, probably. It's obvious enough that there's plenty wrong with Steve, there has been since the day they met. Something wrong with him that made him want to seek out fights with people twice his size, something wrong with his lungs that left him wheezing at the top of stairs. Something wrong with his immune system, judging by the week Bucky spent cleaning up vomit so Sarah could take a few shifts to bring in some money.

Something wrong with both of them for this, but at least this is one illness they have in common.

It opens up a line of thought, a tangent, that doesn't bother him perhaps as much as it ought to. Thanks to the whiskey, maybe, or the fact that Steve can pretty much get by with anything in Bucky's book. Whatever it is, he says nothing of it, only breathes slowly and thinks.

And those thoughts soon spiral anyway, between the drink, the afterglow, and the contentedness they ebb and flow. They swing from subject to subject on vines, and soon half his thoughts are dreams and the rest are still thoughts when Steve says his name. Awake enough to hear it, awake enough to murmur: ]

Steve.

[ Into the space beside his neck, but not awake enough to bother opening his eyes. ]

[1943]

[ For a second, Steve thinks muzzily that Bucky’s already asleep, maybe. If that’s the case, maybe he can just whisper what he wants to tell him anyway. It’s not something he expects an answer to, even if Bucky was wide awake — just something he has to say. Speak it out loud so that it becomes a tangible part of everything that's happened. Something he’s been thinking about since Bucky said it earlier, wanting to say it back but knowing that Bucky saying it in the heat of passion is one thing, and Steve saying it in the afterglow is another.

Steve feels his name against his neck, then, and if Bucky’s awake he sounds barely so, on the cusp of slumber. His hand in Bucky’s hair stills, finally; slides down a ways to rest on his back along with his other one, fingers splayed out. The alcohol, the exhaustion, the events of the night — all of them are catching up to Steve all at once, and try as he might to stay awake, the siren song of sleep is pulling him under. ]

… I dream about you, too.

[ Drowsy and soft, unable to keep the yearning out of it. His last lucid thought is the echo of Bucky’s voice calling him sweetheart. Then his eyes slide shut, his breathing slows out, and Steve allows himself to be lost to dreams. ]