Okay all– here we go. Thanks to Jules Who Loves Books and Mary-my-Mary, today’s choice is STUCKY!
For those who don’t know, this is Captain America (Steve Rogers) and Bucky Buchanan (The Winter Soldier.)
I don’t know any more of the canon than we’ve seen in the Marvel Cinematic Universe, so that’s what I stuck with here.
Did I say it was angsty?
Yeah– bring tissues:
* * *
Bucky knew three things were true:
He was a soldier of the United States Government.
He loved his country, his mother, and Brooklyn.
He’d gone down on Steve Rogers before the guy had become a freakshow of muscles, and as the slender, fragile body had arched in his arms, spattering semen down Bucky’s throat in Steve’s virgin cum, he had fallen so deeply in love with another human being that to yank that out was to destroy the best part of who he was.
The hydra officer looked into his eyes and clamped the final binding into place before checking all of the sinister red lights on his control panel.
“So,” the officer said, mask in place and only eyes made bulbous and frog like by spectacles giving him any semblance of humanity, “You seem to have a strong sense of self.”
Bucky laughed. Yeah, they’d managed the vibranium horror show of an arm–he’d taken out the first three doctors to try to make him test it, though, hadn’t he?
“I can fuck up anything you throw at me,” he dared.
But a part of him was afraid. God, what if he lost what he knew to be true? He was proud to be a soldier, proud of his country, proud of his mother and Brooklyn–
Proud of those stolen moments, Steve’s limpid eyes looking at him like he’d hung the sun and the moon and the stars. Proud of the moments in a flophouse in France, where Steve had put down the shield and Bucky had touched every new muscle in wonder.
I bet you think you should top now, doncha big guy?
No, Bucky. I want you inside me, always.
Steve’s chest had felt hard and certain under Bucky’s hands, his nipples pointed and oh-so-sensitive. Bucky had kneaded the thick muscles of his flank and ass before going down and tasting his asshole. He’d thrown Steve around and back against the bed, hungering for his cock again, longer this time, thicker, but still Steve’s. Bucky was a visceral guy, he needed to touch, needed to taste, needed to have Steve’s hands on his skin, making the whole thing real.
But in the end, Bucky thrusting inside that perfect body, it had been Steve’s blue eyes, gazing at him wide and full love wonder, because he, James Buchanan, had taken that body and made it sing, made it buck and heave and cum.
Bucky’s orgasm threw him forward, and when Steve spurted between them, Bucky had wanted to roll in it. He wanted Steve on his skin for always.
He wasn’t giving that shit up, no way, no how– he was from Brooklyn, dammit!
The Hydra Officer gave him a bored look and hit the big red button. The six stainless steel hypodermic needles all thrust into his skin at once and the plungers depressed.
Bucky began to scream.
* * *
Bucky knew three things…
Wait… he was from Brooklyn. He was in the army. Who’s? The United States of Hydra. Who’s? The United Hydras. Who’s Army, Soldier, Who’s army are you in?
Hydra’s Army, sir!
Bucky knew three things…
He was in Hydra’s army.
Hydra was his mother.
Hydra was his home.
He didn’t love to need anyone because–
Because those eyes, blue and limpid, looked at him like the sun and the moon and the stars.
“Who’s army are you in, Soldier?”
“Who’s army do you love, Soldier?”
“Where is your home, Soldier?”
Don’t ask me about my soul, because my soul is in the taste of cum in a flophouse in France. My soul is in my best friend’s body as I climax and shatter into a million pieces, made whole again in his eyes. Don’t ask me about my soul. You don’t know me.
“Is he completely ours, Doctor?”
“There is something in his eyes…”
“But you have taken all the measures, have you not?”
“Jawol! But there is something we don’t know how to ask.”
“If we don’t know how to ask it, it must not exist. Now send him out…”
The taste of cum… a flophouse in France… my best friend’s body, tender, fragile, a human tank… climax, light shattering in my head, made whole again in his eyes.
“Treat him again!”
cum… France… body, tender, fragile, human… climax… light… made whole again in his eyes.
cum… tender… fragile… human… climax…dark… made whole again in his eyes…
Oh please… let me just remember… I can remember Steve’s eyes.
Steve’s eyes, his cock in my throat… his body arching–
“Bucky? Is that you?”
Fight. Fight. Muscles bunching, vibranium arm flexing, eyes intent only on target. Kill target, Captain America, blond, beautiful, the symbol of all Hydra wanted to destroy, lines of fatigue and sadness in the corners of his eyes, bitterness around his full mouth.
This man knew the taste of betrayal, of trampled dreams, of despair.
“I won’t fight you!”
And the battle rages. Don’t look at me with those eyes. YOu don’t know me. I am three things. I am a member of Hydra’s army. I love my captors. Hydra is my home.
“Then kill me.”
And Soldier watches him hurtle out of the disintegrating ship, eyes limpid and betrayed, beggared of all faith.
STeve’s eyes in a flophouse in France, the taste of his cum, that knowledge that Bucky Buchanan had owned his body, held his heart in soul in the palm of his hand.
* * *
His body was tender, fragile, made of muscles and bone. Bucky was the monster, more machine than man. Bucky needed to rescue, needed to see him breathe.
You looked at me and owned my soul with your eyes.
I need to see what you see.
I need to find my soul.
* * *
Steve Rogers coughed up water and turned over, vomiting more.
I saw him. I saw him. I know three things.
My name is Steve Rogers. I love my country, Brooklyn, and the Avengers.
My best friend took my virginity when we were away at war. I gave him my soul in my eyes, in my body, in my cum. He holds it in the palm of his hand.
I need him to come back, because he holds my soul.