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]

[ 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. ]