despite having long since lost their innocence, Bucky still likes telling Steve that the fireworks on the 4. of July are for him
YOU’RE RIGHT AND YOU SHOULD SAY IT
Just imagine Bucky, still in the beginning stages of recovery, who can barely talk or stand loud and sudden noises. Just imagine him gently grabbing Steve’s hands and leading him to the fire escape when the sky is beginning to get dark. And maybe Steve had initially been planning on hunkering down with Bucky in his closet—his designated safe place when things are particularly difficult for him—so he’s a bit resistant. He knows what’s gonna happen soon and he doesn’t want Bucky to get upset. But Bucky is even more insistent and before Steve even realizes it, they’re both out on the fire escape, huddling together under a big, heavy blanket despite the heat. And then, when the fireworks begin, Bucky does indeed tense up and flinch and bury himself in the place where Steve’s shoulder and neck meet, but he also whispers something to Steve that instantly throws him right back to the 40s.
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Can you imagine Steve waking up to a little Bucky Bear cuddled up to him in his hospital bed?
'Cause I can see him, still weak and groggy from the cocktail of drugs they pumped into him, eyes squinting painfully against the light, and he's so out of it he barely remembers his own name - but he'd know that splash of red and blue anywhere. The very first comic panel he saw the stuffed bear in, back in '44, is probably etched in Steve's memory as clearly as if he were looking at it right now; the miniature domino mask, the cute red buttons, the blue mimicking Bucky's suit - at least the one they gave him in the comic strips. Bucky Bear. A new gadget to sell; a little something to appeal to young children, so that they too might feel like brave heroes fighting in the mightiest war of all time. A soft, fluffy friend to hold on to at night and scare the bad dreams away.
He can still hear Bucky's defeated groan, watching his comic counterpart climb into his little cot and turn out the light, night cap on and Bucky Bear hugged close to his chest, wishing the Bear an adorable G'night before a string of Zzzz's emerged from his mouth.
The boys never let him live it down. Falsworth never let him take the first watch because "Good little boys need their sleep", and he insisted on tucking a sputtering Bucky in his bedroll every night while Morita made cooing sounds over him, asking Steve if he knew Bucky's favorite lullaby and if he wouldn't mind sharing it, seeing as they had a youngin' to send to bed and all. Dum Dum couldn't look at Bucky without bursting into full-bellied guffaws for a whole week.
It's not just a spark of recognition: it's a beacon the size of a bonfire cutting through the haze in Steve's brain.
He picks Bucky Bear up with a trembling hand, still hooked up to the IV, and for a second he can't breathe.
The wave of emotion hitting him right in the middle of his chest, the lump crawling up his throat and expanding there, the familiar pressure building up behind his eyes.
He's pretty sure he scares all the nurses, the way his heart rate spikes up so suddenly. He didn't mean to.
(He doesn't mean to cry in front of them, either, but even with his eyes screwed shut the tears just keep falling. Pity. He always hated being pitied.)
He doesn't even know who brought Bucky Bear to him, not for certain; but he suspects.
He knows it wasn't Nat or Sam. He asks the nurses, but they didn't see anyone else walk into his room, with or without a stuffed bear in tow. The hallway cameras didn't catch anyone slipping in, either. It's like the bear was placed there by a ghost - a very discreet, purposeful ghost, bringing him something soft to hold onto; something to scare the bad dreams away. A kind ghost, giving him what Steve's been missing ever since he woke up in this strange place people call the 21st century, even when no one else seemed to notice the empty space next to him. Giving him his Bucky. Or, well - the next best thing. A Bucky.
That's when suspicion becomes warm, careful hope; and Steve cradles that bundle of hope close to his heart, and lets it keep him warm until the day he'll find the answer to this small, tender mystery.
(He only knows for sure many months later, though; when Bucky, the real Bucky, flesh and bone and 6 feet tall, steps into Steve's bedroom and sees his bear namesake on Steve's bed, sitting primly between two pillows.
Steve can see his throat work; the long, quiet moment it takes Bucky to swallow.
"You kept it."
He sounds pleased; a sprinkle of surprise, of awe, in the warm roughness of his voice.
"You... You kept it."
Steve smiles - something soft, soft, soft.
As if he could have ever tossed anything that bore Bucky's name. As if he could have willingly parted with something Bucky might have touched. (Steve would have made a living shrine out of his own body if he could've. A naked, shivering temple built from the lingering ghost of Bucky's caresses, a place of worship with the memory of Bucky's kisses for pillars and the curve of Bucky's spine for a roof, his soft body the foundation of all things holy, his breath the wisp of burning incense. Steve would have stopped Time itself, seventy frost-coated years ago, and preserved each of his own nerve endings to keep them exactly as they were the last time they let him feel Bucky's skin against his.)
"Well, I had to," Steve shrugs, the corners of his lips quirked up, teasing. "In case you came back for it someday."
He feels Bucky's hand seek his, questing fingers slotting into place against Steve's palm. He doesn't need to look down to know this, but he does it anyways, just for the pleasure of seeing their fingers laced together.
There are words here, somewhere in the gentle weave of their intertwined fingers, words sweet-tasting and deep and achingly true.
You came back for me.
Relief. Fondness. Hope.
I came back for you.
Assurance. Comfort. Warmth.
Certainty.
They have left many words unspoken over the ebb and flow of their years together; they can leave this unspoken now.
Bucky picks up the stuffed bear, holding it up in his steel-made hand.
"I think he needs a friend."
Steve finds himself agreeing wholeheartedly.)
(Captain Ameribear takes only two days to find his way home. He sits right next to Bucky Bear during the day, and at night, they curl up together on the chest at the foot of the bed, to keep watch until sunrise.)
Hi dear moot. hit me with your favourite Stucky headcanons
hello!! i'm capping it at five and ignoring the obvious "steve's trans" and "bucky is lovingly annoyed at how much of a morning person steve is" or i'll keep rambling forever about them ok thanks
Steve doesn't actually know how to live on his own. sure, it's something he can do, given his apartment we see in TWS, but it's not something he's in any way used to. between his ma, Bucky, and the army, he never really had to learn any of that. there was always someone with him. which leads into probably the most common through-line in my fics: Steve not bothering to turning anyplace he lives into a home unless Bucky's there with him
they are absolutely shameless about PDA. they're the couple who's always all over each other and play it up to annoy their friends and teammates. none of them have heard Steve call Bucky by his name in months; it's always 'doll' and 'sweetheart' and 'handsome'.
while Steve loves to draw Bucky, Bucky is the worst model. he's always been fidgety, too full of energy, and once he's used to not being on the run and being in the field, it comes back full force when they aren't working.
Bucky is much better at talking, but that translates into him being better at talking around the problem instead of about them. consequentially, that means Steve had to learn how to actually talk through things without letting Bucky steer them off track. it's very uncomfortable for everyone in a five mile radius when they're fighting.
Just this Steve with that Bucky. Their respective first reactions to seeing each other's hot bearded look
if you haven't read this request fill yet, you'll enjoy it 😘
Y-E-S
It never, never, never gets old to Bucky—seeing Steve like that.
Fucking hell, his brain always stutters a little (or a lot) when Steve comes home to him dressed in confidence, beaten kevlar, and thick body hair.
The mental stalling is either due to the brain damage of it all or, just, growing up with a pipsqueak punk for a best friend and lover leaving him unable to ever truly adjust to Steve's body post-serum—some childhood-formed part of his brain will always expect a five-foot-four featherweight to strut in. But, no matter the reason, Bucky is never, ever ready to see Steve's beard in all its glory.
For years, Steve's been teasing Bucky, coming home between undercover missions, flying under the radar after handing over the official title to Sam, but being unable to resist helping those who need it most, so it's more than satisfying when, after a damn near whole year of Steve penetrating deep into the murky void of the next big baddies gang, Bucky gets to see the very same stuttering moment of shock on Steve's face.
It is impossible for Bucky not to be smug. Like, c'mon. He's known for weeks, after getting the signal that Steve was coming home, that this reunion was gonna be good. He should have popped some popcorn for this shit. Too bad he didn't. The thing is—
His hair is long again.
His beard has grown out.
And Steve is clearly woefully unprepared judging by the sound his body makes the moment he rounds the corner, coming face-to-face with Bucky. It isn't a gasp in surprise, he doesn't growl like the feral beard carpeting his square jaw might suggest such a man might, and he doesn't burst into tears like a wife seeing her soldier husband in one piece after months of no responding letters.
Nah, it's the sound of his feet.
Steve's a soldier, he's quick and light on his feet; he barely makes a sound when he walks, even after marching for miles, body battered and exhausted. Normally, his feet don't slam onto the ground. Immediately planting his towering, vast body in place like a great, old growth pine tree.
CRASH!
The heavy soles of his boots slam down, sounding like he could've stomped a hole in the floor.
Tiiiimber, Bucky wants to yell, all rowdy and excited. His heart races in his chest, fast enough that its fluttering rhythm could lift his feet off the floor like a fuckin' fairy (the magical kind, not the dick-liking kind, ha).
Standing there, his body continues to talk for him. For all Steve's brash, take-no-shit nature, especially these days when he's bound to no brand or government particularly, nothing but his own impenetrable, unbreakable morals, he has no words. But, feet planted, hands uncurling from fists to trembling, open palms, his cheeks turn bright red. Sooo much more embarrassing than a growl of arousal or caveman sweeping Bucky off his feet like he sort of expected.
He's so fucking cute.
Standing there, blushing like that, just looking at Bucky fully clothed, in full uniform. Nothing not even vaguely suggestive. It's all just in Steve's mind—staring at one pretty face and suddenly he's back to being a shy, blushing schoolboy.
Bucky wants to eat him alive.
"Hey soldier," he greets, tone all syrupy and sweet despite his wolfish smirk.
Cracking from his statue-still, jaw-dropped posture, Steve actually fucking stutters. Verbally stutters. Not just mentally. He was frozen and is now cracking, lips flapping, jaw mostly hanging open as his hands grasp at nothing tangible.
It's too cute.
Feeling too much, too perversely like the big bad wolf sneaking up to cute, plucky little red riding hood, Bucky prowls forward in a few big, lunging steps. As he approaches the big, buff idiot, Bucky can't help but flick his head to the side to brush the sweeping, shorter chunks of hair at the front of his face away from his skin, exposing his pretty face to all of Steve. Devour me, he wants to say. He doesn't that's too obvious. Too crass. He likes a little chase.
So, casually draping his metal arm over Steve's shoulders he purrs, "miss me, tiger?"
Steve doesn't get a damn thing out of his mouth. He can't.
Cute and edible. Irrestible fucker.
So, as easy as Bucky might pat him on the cheek, patronizing, telling him he's a good boy, Bucky reaches down and pats Steve's surely dizzyingly erect cock through his bulging uniform pants, all black, sexy as hell.
For a cherry on top, Bucky smiles, smarmy, "aw, it's okay, buddy, you don't have to say anything. Don't get all teary on me now, I know you did."
Steve squeaks.
Oh yeah, Bucky is gonna have fucking fun with him like this.
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hey dude congrats on graduating!! thats so fucking cool
missed your writing. so hell yeah on you opening your requests. here's mine: expand on this? unfairly hot that one
Thank you!
You're so sweet <3
And I will get into the filth, just like you asked 👀 No one can stop me from writing fucked-out, cumdump, cockslut Steve 😮💨😮💨
Wet.
Messy.
Wet.
It isn't thoughts coming to Steve, it's sensations vibrating through him. He is a harp string, just barely not tight enough to snap—just enough to sing. To tremble. To feel.
Those fucking sensations create a molten, jagged blade of desire that carves through Steve, pulling a gutted moan from deep inside his chest up and out of his used throat.
That moan tastes like cum.
The last dregs of the blonde's melted mind cling to the sides of his skull like bubble gum stuck between fingertips, so stringy and sticky, pulled apart in vain. The residue won't leave. As mindless and logicless as he's ever fucking been—oh, god—the only explanation that appears in Steve's muddled, empty head is cum.
What dismal brain-power is left is playing tricks on him, urging him that the wetness dripping from his spider-gagged, pried-open mouth is cum, not saliva. It's cum. It has to be cum. Steve's fucking obsessed. He's consumed by the thought—no, it's not even a thought, it's an impulse.
An animalistic demand: cum.
Time has lost all fucking meaning; it isn't hours, minutes, seconds—it's load after load after load.
And after load after load after load, Steve's eyes have naturally rolled back into his skull. Gone. He can't possibly undo what's been done. Even if he could reset his eyes, through the pleasure, he wouldn't be able to focus his vision enough to stare thoughtlessly and confirm one way or another. Is it a pool of spit collecting beneath his gaped lips or, even filthier, is it Bucky's cum, puddling over the expensive, gorgeously lacquered wood table he's been displayed on. Bound and shown off as if he's just another exorbitantly expensive feast charged to a tab that Tony will never see. A luau pig on a spit, hot from the flames. It doesn't matter. It's just money.
Steve's—
Steve's just a toy.
A dripping, moaning toy that can't convince itself, suspended in this timeless, raw moment that it isn't leaking cum.
Bucky's cum.
Cum that came cause, fuuuuck, Bucky has been pumping buckets of cum into him. Plugging him between countless, mindless, hungry rounds to keep him full. ‘Cause countless orgasms ago—load after load after load ago—Bucky tied him up and redefined him as a cum dump. A slutty, empty toy made to be filled. Immobilizing him. Objectifying him. He's just a thing when he can't move. He can't think when he's made a pretty statue.
Steve transformed into a sculpture to be devoured with greedy eyes when Bucky decided to keep his thighs smeared so wide apart. They're shaking, trembling, but held in place by an unsurrendering metal bar just above his knees. He can't fucking shut his legs. Not even close. And between his wide-spread legs, his cock and balls hang. Heavy and low, tortured by a cockring, strangling his sensitive, hot-blooded body for the past week. He hasn't been allowed release in a week. Tears overflow his rolled-back eyes, remembering and experiencing the ache all over again. It's a drawn-out agony, concluding in the desperately hot, swollen sensation radiating from his cock and balls right fucking now. Forget blue balls—he's fucking purple. Dark and bruised. Relishing the erotic pain. Engorged with lust. Swollen. He'd do anything to cum.
He would.
He is doing anything.
Bound and kept.
Earning it.
Made to experience—through his lover, not himself, never himself—high after high, just to know so intimately what he cannot have.
A high, thin whimper slips from his struggling throat, giving voice to all his bodily desperation.
With both arms behind his body, bound together by thick, biting rope, tight enough to force his spine into a dramatic arch, his tits push forward obscenely. Fuck. At some point, the wood beneath him was cold, keeping his nipples hard—now his nipples are just hard. They're so hard. The wooden dining table in this private off-shoot room, one of the gazillion in Stark's maze-like mega-tower, is just as boiling as his skin. Hot enough to sizzle, slick with his drool and sweat and tears. The muscles of his pecs are prrrressed tight against the solid fucking table he's been served up on. He isn't bound on his hands and knees. It's worse—he's collapsed onto his knees and shoulders, the side of his face flattened on wood.
He has no choice but to drool.
The liquid in his mouth can't stay in his mouth. At least, though, it has the luxury of seeping out, going the path of least resistance; meanwhile, the cum in his ass doesn't have that. It can't. It's kept. His gaping ass plugged. Kept full.
Full everywhere.
So full of urgent lust and desire, so goddamn backed up with his denied orgasms, could-be loads sitting heavy in his balls, so fucking stuffed with cum, so, so full that it's no fucking wonder that his scrambled, fucked-up brain is convinced there's cum dripping out of his open mouth, fucked into him through his ass, invading his guts, and rising up his throat until it's heavy on his tongue, spilling onto the table.
He's leaking cum.
He can't stop. He's plugged up, but, guh, isn't he just sloshing with it as he tries to squirm? Aborted little wriggles of his hips, syrupy, weighted twitches of his cock, desperate contractions of his throat as he tries to swallow with an open mouth. Isn't he drooling cum? Isn't he gurgling on it? Isn't he crying it? Isn't it so deep inside his serum-honed body that it's coming out of his pores? Isn't his hole stretched enough with every satisfying, valiant thrust Bucky gives, round after round, that he's dripping around the fat plug trying to stop him up? Isn't, isn't—
Isn't he just fat and bred with cum?
Isn't this his existence? Cumdump? Did he ever do anything but this? Did he ever want to be anything but full? (That, he knows the answer to: no.)
Full.
Cum.
So full of cum.
“Hnnnng-gahh-godd, oh g'd, GOD!” Steve gurgles, chokes, moaning desperately to the empty room around him, barely hanging onto sanity, waiting for Bucky to come back and have his way with him again. Please. One more. Just one more load. He needs it.
