Steve swallows around the lump in his throat and asks, "Where were you in 1945?"
Wilson squints. "Africa. Why?"
"Bucky and I were in Europe."
"Yeah. I watched the news. I thought it was pretty sweet the way you faked your deaths."
Slowly, Steve shakes his head. "Not faked. We were supposed to perish in that crash, in the fireball of bombs on board. But the bombs didn't explode, and we were frozen in the ice, and only just recently discovered and thawed out."
"What?" Sam's voice and brows raise in horror. The weight of what Steve has said rolls across his features. He takes a few moments to consider all of the things Steve hasn't said. The soft, adoring expression he ends on says he has Steve figured out.
"Why didn't you contact me — send a telegram, or something? Why didn't you go to one of the others for help?"
It's so very Sam-like, always the caretaker, the fixer, the grounded one.
"It was too big. Too many people died, and everyone was off fighting their own causes. And I didn't mean to be famous, I just . . ."
"We all fought the nazis in our own ways, Steve," Sam reminds him, and yes, Steve knew that, which is why he never asked for help. He knew he and Bucky could work successfully with the Americans, and they would have, if Bucky hadn't been captured.
"Where the hell is Bucky?" Sam asks sternly, noticing the way Steve's hands shake and taking charge of the situation. It's the whole reason he was and is Steve's equal, his twin; they've both been through hell with their partners.
"He's — he was taken by the Germans, and they experimented on him before I could rescue him. And the nazi bastards did something to him, Sam, so that he isn't healing as he should. They pulled us out of the ice, and Bucky is still injured, and there's nothing I can do."
Sam sits back in his chair again and steeples his fingers. The wheels are turning in his head so quickly that Steve can practically see them.
"Who are 'they'?"
It sounds just like Steve asking Romanov what they meant by 'others'.
"A spy team based in New York. They got to us first, before the Russians. Apparently, Bucky's secret was intended for them after Hitler fell from power."
Sam looks incredulous. His brows almost meet the curl of his hairline.
"The nazis donated Bucky to the Russians?"
"Yes, if they could find him." Steve is feeling more and more miserable now, not only because of the distance from his heart's match, but because Steve never should have let despair get the better — or worst — of him. Sam's right, he should have asked for help. If he had, they wouldn't be in this mess.
"So now the Americans —"
"Not the Americans," Steve interrupts. "A private company owned by Tony Stark. I served with his father in Europe."
Sam pushes out of his chair and comes around the desk, sitting on the edge, one long leg braced with his foot on the floor, the other swinging free.
"And this Stark is holding Bucky hostage?"
"No! Yes! I mean —"
Steve takes a deep breath to pull himself together. "They're helping him, keeping him safe while he heals."
"And you're sure they're not intending to do the very same thing the Germans and the Russians want him for?"
That's the thing. Steve isn't sure. The only thing he's sure of, in fact, is that it's his fault Bucky is in the state he's in, and now he has a chance to make things better.
"I want to introduce you to the team leader. She can explain it so much better than I can. I promise she's on the level."
Sam doesn't seem the least bit convinced. He always was the voice of reason and a stubborn bastard.
"She's recruiting," he guesses, correct. "And she sent you to talk to me as a token of trust."
Steve frowns and hangs his head. "I don't know what else to do. I made a deal with her that I'd let her tell you her story, and she'd do what she could for Bucky. And if you refuse, if the others do too, then Bucky and I walk, no strings attached."
Sam is looking right through Steve, into his soul, rooting around for the truth, and finding it.
"OK, I believe you. I'll come and listen to what this woman has to say. Both Riley and I will. Then, after she's had her say, I'm going to speak my piece about how she's taking advantage of the best man ever created."
He grins, and Steve can't stop smiling back up at him.
"OK."
So Sam takes Steve home to Riley, where the two husbands catch Steve up to speed on the last one hundred years, including the battle they fought against hunger and racism and the punishing African climate. Riley, like Sam, peers at Steve as if he can see beneath his skin. After dinner, it's he who pulls Steve aside and holds Steve's hands inside his own.
"I can help," he offers, "with Bucky's healing. In the eighties and nineties, Sam and I did a lot of outreach for AIDs patients, including talking to doctors and scientists looking for treatments. I still have a few friends in Medicine, still have a few projects going."
"Why, Riley, you sly devil! Keeping secrets from Sam and working behind his back?"
"He knows," says Sam, appearing from around a corner to join them in the hallway. "And I think it's a great idea. I can go with you to visit the others, and Riley can stay with Bucky. I think we'd both feel a little better about this with a man on the inside."
"Oh, thank you."
Back in New York, the weather at the airport is the complete opposite, except for the wind. Temperatures have dropped below zero, and although Steve is warm in Stark-approved gear, he still feels the bite of winter wind a little sharper than he can ever remember it before. He tried to reason with himself that lying frozen for so long should have made him more resilient. The truth is, it serves as a reminder of the icy tomb he'd doomed himself and his partner to, and he's very glad they made it out.
Right away, Steve can tell Natasha doesn't want to let Sam and Riley anywhere near Bucky. She stands with her arms crossed in the hallway, shoulders rigid and lips pursed. Claiming liability and insurance reasons, she agrees to let Steve in, but not the newcomers, no matter what kind of background they have. It does more harm than good as far as honesty goes.
Funnily enough, it's Clint who advocates for them.
"You know, Tash," he says, sidling beside her and leaning in, smirking, "we are recruiting trust more than anything."
"So you are recruiting!" Sam shouts in an 'a-ha, gotcha' manner, and Romanov glares at Barton.
Clint just shrugs. "You really gonna back Stark up on all the legal mumbo jumbo when you know he's trying to screw us around every corner?"
An awkward moment passes when Natasha continues to glare at Clint, and Clint just smiles calmly back at her. They don't speak, either aloud or signing, and Steve can't see the moment one of them backs down, but it ends when Romanov spins on her heel and marches in the opposite direction.
Barton looks very smug as he glances at Steve and his friends. "She's a great girl, really, just . . ."
He trails off.
"Severe?" Sam offers.
"Scary?" adds Steve.
Riley sighs and shakes his head. "Misunderstood."
Clint's eyebrows lift as he grins wide. "Exactly!"
They follow her down to the infirmary, where she's already entered and allowed the door to close behind her. Barton doesn't have access, which Sam argues is not something partners should keep from each other. Clint complains that he doesn't have clearance,' and Steve asks, "Partners? As in —"
The pride on the man's face is a good enough answer.
"Huh."
The door opens and Natasha's head pokes out. She hands them each a badge, Clint pressing his to his mouth and kissing it, then lets them inside in a tight line.
Bucky is almost exactly as he was when Steve left, and his soul throbs with sorrow and joy in interwoven quantities. He goes to him, presses a hand to his chest over the warming blanket, and seeks out any kind of change in the man's features.
Riley joins him, feeling Bucky's pulse and reading the monitors with professional and passionate scrutiny. Sam files in behind his husband and says, as if it's blatantly obvious, "He's hypothermic, still?"
"That's impossible," Riley says, confirming Steve's beliefs. "How long has he been like this?"
"Let me get the head tech," Natasha declares before disappearing into an adjoining room. She comes back with a tall, thin, beautifully terrifying woman. Steve briefly wonders if it's necessary to be good-looking to work here.
"This is Dr. Shuri. She's in charge of Bucky's recovery."
Dr. Shuri takes them all in and seems to be biting her tongue. She opens her mouth once and then closes it, as if thinking better.
Riley steps up and introduces all of them, then rattles off the list of his degrees and accomplishments, which would seem falsified and braggart-ly if one didn't know he'd lived for centuries. Dr. Shuri very smartly does not argue.
The only thing she says to Riley, as she tips her head toward Sam, is, "This is your husband?"
Her accent is also very beautiful.
Steve is confused, and Sam is too, but Riley simply beams and answers, "Yes. Yes, he is."
Of all the things that could soften the tension, it's this that does it.
Dr. Shuri nods and explains what she's already told Steve. "There is something in Mr. Barnes' physiology that is preventing him from warming to regular body temperature. Mr. Rogers told us that he was subjected to experimentation of an unknown nature before their crash in the Arctic Ocean. We think this is what's interfering with his healing process, and we're trying to pinpoint what exactly it is."
She turns her deep brown eyes on Steve and her expression fades back into her default disdain. "Mr. Rogers will not allow us to take blood samples from himself to compare the difference, fearing that we will use the information to replicate him and create some kind of super soldier army."
Riley surprises everyone by laughing. "What?"
Dr. Shuri turns back to him, shocked. "It is nothing to laugh at, Mr. Wilson! Not only is he preventing his friend's recovery, but he's blocking important research!"
"I'm sorry," Riley continues to chuckle, turning as red as his hair, covering his mouth as if that will stop whatever is amusing him. "Steve can be a stubborn sonofabitch, especially when it comes to his Bucky. But you can use my blood instead, if that will work?"
Both Sam and Steve shout together, "No!"
"Relax!" Riley placates them with both hands. "You really think they can recreate an eternal being? The whole principle behind The Sacred Band of Thebes was that the only way to make more immortals was to birth them; thus, the whole gay partner thing!"
Now Steve feels like an ass, even while he puckers up about revealing that secret to these people.
"And they didn't know about trans people in 400 BC," Clint adds, nodding along like a bobble head dog and thoroughly enjoying the proceedings.
"Shit, you're right," agrees Sam, speaking directly to Barton. "Under no circumstances were any male-female combinations allowed, and I'm talking gender as it was determined back in those days."
"We're not in the business of making more of you," corrects Natasha, looking just as stern as Shuri. "We want to take down the dictators and their money men, people like Elon Musk who use their riches to actively harm other people. Hopefully, we can prevent another genocide before it's too late."
Steve has no idea who this Muskrat guy is, but Sam seems to. "Oh yeah? Wouldn't mind taking a stab at that asshole myself."
"Doesn't everyone?" asks Clint.
All this while, Steve has been running his fingers through Bucky's hair, drinking in his soul's fill, syncing their heartbeats once again. They were only apart for a few days, but Bucky's is beating a little slower than his own. He's pretty sure that's what's causing the ache that never seems to go away. That and not getting to speak to Bucky, to discuss their current situation and make plans on what to do.
Sam is picking up that duty, though.
"All right, here's what we'll do." He pauses for a deep breath, crossing his arms over his chest. "Riley will stay here and help Dr. Shuri figure out what's going on with Bucky. And Steve and I will see what we can do about recruiting others."
Steve meets his friend's gaze, all kinds of concerned. "You're OK with the recruiting?"
This time, Sam laughs. "Now that I know they're not trying to make gods or demi-gods? Somebody has to prevent another Hitler, seeing as the current world governments are hell-bent on the rich getting richer. If we can take down Musk, maybe the other millionaire billionaires will un-pucker their assholes and back the causes we want them to."
Everyone turns to gape at Sam. He looks hastily around the room and stutters to explain his outburst.
Hey! It's 🐍 Anon! Here's my first ask of the season! I've got 4 this year, so hopefully they all go through.
Anyway, onto number one!
I hope we all remember Hypnotized Steve, because I'm bringing him back! This time with consensual somnophila! Steve's given Bucky standing permission to order him hard and get himself off with Steve's dick while he's asleep. Bucky likes taking advantage of this, sometimes even forcing Steve soft and denying him just so he can see how long it'll take Steve to wake up. -🐍
related to (1) Bucky Hypnotizes Steve To Get Hard, Soft, & Cum On Command + (2) How Did Bucky Get Steve Hypnotized? + (3) Freshly Sterumed Steve, Hypnotized Steve, & Commanding Bucky + (4) Hypnotized Steve Returns
Hey!
Okay, so this drabble is not exactly what you outlined in this ask, but a heavily, very related thought that I just can't get out of my head now that I've had the thought™️
Consider: Bucky ordering Steve hard, but only at night. Meanwhile, during the day, he's ordering Steve soft. Just fucking with his sub's body clock and sense of arousal to the point that Steve doesn't know what's up or down, heads or tails 🥴
After dark, night after night, Bucky lies in wait, much more occupied than he ever could have been, clinging to the high branches of a severe war-front, German pine picking off incoming opposing-side soldiers shot by shot. Gazing through the depths of shadows and silence at Steve, who is lit by only thin fingers of blue light, reaching out from beneath their heavy black-out curtains to touch the disheveled bed and caress Steve's sleeping body.
Bucky mirrors the moonlight, reaching out, touching without touching, whispering commands like sweet nothings into Steve's ear. Hardly audible. Yet, he knows, even through sleep, that Steve hears him. He knows because the thin, breathable sheet splayed over Steve's lower half twitches and bulges. His erection swelling.
Easy as anything.
Easy, as he always is.
Bucky lets his lover's body hold it as long as it can, here to command him hard again the moment his cock gives up the valiant fight. Bucky drifts in and out of a haze that isn't exactly sleep, but is peaceful and clear. Simple like sleep. Right now, he is Steve's shield, curled around him, watching over him.
Every twitch.
Every sleepy smile.
And… every quiet moan.
At least half of Bucky's motionless, sleepless rest—lying in wait—is spent musing on what Steve is dreaming of. His body is so aroused—hours of stiffness with thick, hot blood pooling in his big cock and heavy, hanging balls—it is only a matter of time before his mind follows. He has a one-track mind even without his body already being carved into that path. But there are many pit stops on the singular track, each of them their own themed, erotic fantasy.
What is it this time, Stevie? Bucky thinks, staring down at him, a wolfish smirk splitting his mouth.
It would be anything from literal whips and chains to those embarrassingly intimate desires he has that he's shyer about sharing than the heaviest, kinkiest wants—the scenes where it is just sex, not about kink, where Steve clings to him like a baby, skin on skin, face buried in his neck, gasping sweetly with every thrust, slow and intense, hard in a way that makes Steve turn pink. It makes him shy. Somehow it's harder for Steve to look at him after, when it's about worship, than it is for Steve to lock eyes with him when it's about raw, primal lust. Must be that catholic upbringing, god rest Sarah's soul.
And it is worshipful, seeing Steve like this. 'Cause even lit in such blue, hazy light from the moon, his submissive is white and peach and gold. Like an angel. White sheets, tangled around his pale, peach-patched, and freckled body. Golden hair.
God, Bucky can't forget his mouth, either.
His pink mouth.
Lips statically open in the softest pout—slumbering, dreaming, unaware of himself and so erotic, doing nothing.
Bucky supposes he's probably drooling and begging and moaning in his dreams.
It isn't long before he's doing the same when he's waking; though, not for the reasons he obviously wants to be—
Steve, literally, not even figuratively, less than 24 hours later, slides onto his knees and begs.
He needs it.
“Please, Buck! Pleeease! You have no idea what it's like!” He whines like he's dying.
“What's it like, then?” Bucky challenges him, stepping close, towering over him, and holding his chin in his metal hand. He squeezes his square jaw meanly until Steve's plush lips push into a tempting pout.
“It makes my head hurt. It's so weird,” he whimpers, confessing with his lips trembling. His eyes are glassy and red, emphasizing the blue of them that much more. He's such a doll. “My body hurts. It's… it's buzzing. Crackling. Like I've been hooked up to a live wire. I can feel everything. It wasn't even this bad after the serum! God, just my clothes are driving me crazy. Every time my shirt brushes my nipples, I almost fall over, Buck!” He pleads. “I swear I convulsed in the shower this morning, havin’ the water roll down my skin. I kept thinking about your tongue,” he cries, big, fat tears beading in his eyes, “I'm going crazy. I can't get hard, but it doesn't matter. The rest of me is. That doesn't make sense.” He shakes his head hard, as if trying to dislodge the nonsensical thought. “But you know what I mean! Everything is so intense. It hurts. I can't go half a second without thinking about sex. It's so much worse than normal.”
Which is saying something, Bucky thinks, cocky. His Steve is a whore.
“I need to cum. You have to let me cum.”
Bucky leans in closer, pretending to soften, before telling him… “no.” Definitive.
Steve—
Steve is a whiner—when he's not busy being a commanding, steadfast leader, neatly folded away beneath the weight of his title as Captain America, Steve Rogers whines like a little bitch. He's a punk. A little shit.
Bucky knows this.
So, naturally, he's expecting Steve to whine and pout.
He underestimated him, though.
‘Cause Steve goes on blubbering and complaining and whining, and it gets to the point where Bucky blinks, looks down, and realizes Steve is clinging to his legs, hugging them, and actually crying.
Sobbing real tears.
Bucky's cock jerks maliciously in his sweats.
Christ.
Lowering a hand to cup the dizzingly swelling bulge in his pants, Bucky grinds firmly against the heel of his hand. Hissing out, between his teeth, “no.”
He has plans.
He just has to wait for Steve to fall asleep again, head to the pillow. Which takes no time at all; his little, desperate hissy fit takes it out of him, for all his posturing and ‘I can do this all day’-isms… he can't. He tires himself out, sobbing at Bucky's feet, soaking the pant leg of sweats with tears, uselessly humping his commanded-soft cock against Bucky's shin. So, within minutes of his head hitting the pillow, his sub is falling over the waterfall's edge into the wettest of dreams.
Rather than waterfall mist, though, the wetness comes much more satisfyingly from tears.
Tears and more tears.
Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, what did Bucky do to deserve this? There is no way he deserves this gold.
Fuck.
There is nowhere else for all that pressure, frustration, and need to go, though; nowhere other than out from beneath Steve's shut eyelids, seeping out from underneath his long, pretty eyelashes, bleeding across their many- times defiled mattress, making a mess without the need for any sweat, lube, or cum.
Only tears.
It takes all of Bucky's self-restraint not to become a serpent, slithering down onto his belly, crawling closer to Steve to lick the tears off his gorgeous face. He aches to taste the salt and sheer need in his tongue.
Instead, he just keeps going.
Pushing.
Keeping him hard, hard, hard through his sleep. So hard he's crying uncontrollably—involuntarily. Weeping. Possessed with such need his tears meld into garbled choking and sleep-tremors.
The mattress shakes with his cacophony of demanded pleasure-denial.
And, as a result, the sensation inside of Bucky becomes monstrous. It is tangled and sharp and teethed. It wants. It enjoys. It revels in the filthy knowledge of bringing his submissive to this place. There are no inhibitions here. There can't be. There is only Bucky and his submissive's surrendered body. Bucky and Steve's nuclear-powered libido bottled. And any moment, any second, that is going to blow. It will be an entire meltdown. There will be devastation and aftermath, and Bucky can barely wait to see it. Twisted and writhing inside, he lies still and waits. Just waits. Any moment, Steve will wake. Any second, he will cry out, wailing, into consciousness with tears hot on his cheeks, with his body stuffed to the teeth with desire, with his cock harder than steel, and he will have the orgasm of a lifetime.
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