Archive of Our Own

Bass thumping through the walls was the only indication Steve had he was in the right place. Good thing he knew this alley like the back of his hand, although it had been a long time. Too long, really.  

Entering the club, he inhaled the scent of leather and latex, savouring the warmth of the room as he stripped off his outer layers to reveal his latest creation, a stylised catsuit formed of dark navy latex with silver accents. The hours of cursing and glue over everything were worth it to see the appreciative glances and receive several ecstatic hugs from old friends who recognised him. 

“Captain, it really has been too long since I’ve seen you last. But you are always welcome here, please, take a drink.” T’Challa pulled him into a lingering hug, smiling broadly. Okoye, his manager, graced Steve with a brief twitch of the lips - the equivalent of a full embrace from anyone else. He inclined his head to her, before turning to T’Challa again. 

“It's good to see you too T’Challa, and I’m sorry I haven't been around recently. Work pulled me away on account of a Vice President caught embezzling funds and money laundering. As you can imagine, there was a huge PR fire to put out. I haven't even had the energy or time to get to the barbers recently, let alone here, as you can see.”

“Now that is a tale which I would be interested to hear more of… I imagine Stark must have been fit to be tied but ten times brattier than usual.”

Steve grimaced, the memories of countless strategy sessions descending into bitchfests and Tony’s complete invasion of his life over the past three months an unpleasant reminder. “He certainly was, and I can only thank God that Pepper ran interference for me on a few occasions or I’d probably be in a jail cell for punching him, instead of here. I’ll give you all the details later.”

T’Challa threw back his head and laughed, shoulders shaking. “And it would be a lot less than he deserved if you did, Steven. Much as I admire him, he is best encountered in small doses. But please, I must not detain you with unpleasant talk of the kind you came here to escape. Wakanda, as always, is here to take you in and make you whole again. Be very, very welcome.”

“Thank you - I’ve really missed it. Anything special on tonight?”

“Okoye will be able to tell you all the details, but I believe the Black Widow will be running a demonstration later. Myself, Nakia and Sam will be monitoring for tonight.”

“Need a hand with anything?” 

“No, my friend, although I appreciate the offer. We have a few newer monitors and want to let them settle in without too many cooks watching the pot boil.” 

Steve chuckled. “And you know I tend to hover.” He held up a hand when the other began to deny the charge. “No, no, I was told enough times by Peggy I did and you know she was always right.”

“Well, the only person whose opinion I would not dare to oppose in general is her, so I hope you will forgive the defamation of your character!” Steve felt a rueful grin creep up his cheeks. “How is The Agent doing in California?”

Steve shrugged. “She seems to have settled in perfectly, albeit with far too many complaints about the sun. I don't know of anyone else who thinks tanning is a bad thing, but that’s Brits for you.”

“Wonderful. I am glad she is happy, although I grieve it caused you such pain.”

The reminder of how Peggy’s career needs brought the growing incompatibilities in their relationship to a crisis point made Steve wince. “It wasn’t what we hoped for, no.” An understatement, given the months he’d spent wandering round like someone had ripped his heart out. “We’re still friends, and she’s invited me to her New Year beach party.”

“Excellent. Please give her my regards when you see each other.”

“Of course.” Steve’s smile strained although T’Challa’s tone was warm. The other man sent an assessing stare his way, nodded to himself and swept an arm across the room.

“I must leave you now to set up an introduction for our newbies tonight, but I hope to continue our conversation later. Welcome back to Wakanda, and I hope you find what you are looking for tonight.”

“I’ll let you know when I figure out what that is, but thank you.” Steve accepted a loose hug and made straight for the bar. As he walked he scanned the room, quiet still in the early portion of the evening. Given an hour or two and it would be busy with all manner of kinksters, leather and latex and plenty of flesh all on display.

Reaching his favourite seat he frowned, failing to spot Sam as usual behind the bar. Resigned to waiting longer than usual to order, he shifted to survey the room. Plenty of faces he recognised, although some names were fuzzy. Rumlow, Quill, Gamora, Thor… it looked like a great night to reconnect with his wider circle. Maybe even play, perhaps if Natasha brought Clint. It’d been too long since he’d fed a boy his cock, flushed with tears and squirming from a well thrashed ass. 

Finally he caught the bartender’s eye, and after the guy dropped off a beer to another patron, he bustled over.

“Sorry about the wait, what can I get you?”

“A Coke, please.” Steve tilted his head. The guy with the beer was huddled in on himself, picking at the label rather than drinking it, sealing furtive glances round the room as he did so. “That fella there okay?”

The bartender glanced over. “Oh sure, just got a bad case of the jitters, he’s new. Which, I haven’t seen you here before - T’Challa’s doing an introduction in half an hour, if you’d like a tour of the place and a crash course on the rules?”

Steve smothered a laugh. “Thanks, but T’Challa and I are old friends. I don’t think he’d thank me for turning up.”

“Oh.” The bartender flushed. He was cute, floppy brown hair and a lean, but strong build l. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to imply, I mean, I just thought-”

“It’s fine,” Steve said, “you were just doing your job, I appreciate you looking out for new people. It’s how we build a great community.” The kid flushed at the praise, and it was a shame he was just that bit too fresh faced and young for Steve to feel like anything else but a cradle snatcher if he made a move.  

As the young man hurried off to serve the growing queue of revellers, Steve couldn’t help but check on the guy hunched over his beer.

“First timer, huh?”

The guy startled so hard he nearly knocked his beer clean off the bar, instead clutching it to his chest like a maiden aunt her pearls. Steve snorted.

“Yeah yeah, yuk it up there at the new guy.” New Guy scowled, but the twitch of his lips betrayed his inner amusement. “I thought you scene people were supposed to be welcoming to us newbies!” He turned, and Steve’s breath caught in his chest. New Guy was stunning, tendrils of lustrous brown hair swept across skin a beautician would kill for. They were framed by cheekbones sharp enough to have come from a fashion runway, and the strong arch of his nose slid down to the plushest set of lips Steve had ever seen outside porn.

Hell, the plushest set of lips he'd ever seen. It didn't help that New Guy was biting his lip, consternation at Steve’s silence growing on his face, and Steve shook himself. 

“Well there pal, that was such a special entrance it deserved a special welcome.”

“Ha.” The guy rolled his eyes. “Didn't realise the scene was so full of comedians either.”

Steve smirked. “I pride myself on having many talents…” he trailed off, dragging his gaze up and down the guy’s body. He was lean, fit, almost as tall as Steve and at home in himself. The hand not holding his beer played idly with the surface of the bar, swirling patterns into the damp surface, long fingers stroking and curling in ways that made Steve want . He lifted his gaze back to the guy’s face, only to make the delightful discovery that he was blushing. God, he was cute. 

“I-uh” the guy’s voice cracked, and he swallowed, flushing harder, “can't say the same for myself in this sphere yet.” Steve inhaled, teeth grinding at how young he looked all of a sudden. He was tempted, God he was tempted. But Steve had rules against situations like this.

The brunette smirked, continuing in that smoky voice Steve wanted to revel in forever, “but I'm reliably informed that pretty much everything I touch ends up happy with the outcome.” He swigged from the bottle, lips nursing the stem like he wished it was a dick in his mouth, and swiped his tongue across the top of his pretty, pretty mouth. “Practice makes perfect. I'm sure I'll get there… eventually.” He slid a long, slow glance Steve’s way. “Might need a lot of practice, though.”

Well damn. The kid had some brass ones, that was for sure. His easy slouch said all it needed to, inviting in a roving gaze like a moth to a flame. Steve had to remind his cock, valiantly trying to stiffen in his pants, that sweeping in and claiming this gorgeous thing as his for the night was not something he condoned. 

But damn did he make him want to break his rules. 

Flirting wasn’t breaking the rules though.

The kid’s eyes were a gorgeous shade of brown, warm and hot and inviting. Steve sighed. He didn’t look like a freshly turned 21 year old, but he definitely wasn’t anywhere near Steve’s own thirty five. Damn his taste for pouty, fresh faced brunettes. But then, what harm could a little flirting do? 

“You’re a bold one, aren’t you?” Steve said.

“Bold?” The kid’s eyes narrowed, and the bottle, so loose in his grip before, came down on the counter with a clang.

Steve smiled. “Confident. Self-assured. Cheeky. Maybe a little arrogant, a little bit of a smart-ass.” He chuckled as the plush mouth fell open, outraged, before continuing. “But then, I can’t blame you, looking like you do.”

The kid shifted on his stool, pink sweeping across his cheekbones. The tension had drained away once Steve’s compliment became clear. A wicked grin stole across his face. “Well, my mirror does tell me I’m the fairest one of all every single morning.” 

Steve couldn’t stop the laugh that burst out of him, honking and undignified, which only served to make the other’s grin even more Cheshire-like. Eventually he regained control enough to ask, “You didn’t tell me you were a prince, sweet thing. I’d have been on my best behaviour if you had.”

The kid licked his lips and leaned across, voice darkening to a velvet murmur. “I didn’t come here for best behaviour though, and I’m sure you didn’t either.”

“True, true. But princes are a precious commodity in New York. We don’t want to scare you off.”

“It would take a lot more than a hot bearded guy in latex to scare me off, pal.”

Steve couldn’t hide the way his lips twitched. Seeing this, the bad idea sat across from him cocked an eyebrow and spread his legs just a little wider. “In fact, a hot bearded guy in latex is pretty much going to do the opposite of scaring me off!”

Steve placed a palm on his thigh, charmed despite the line. “Is that so, Your Majesty? I don’t suppose slumming it with the commoners is intimidating to your refined sensibilities?”

“Well, I do want to learn about my subjects firsthand,” he said, eyes glinting. “Which means lowering my standards for the night just enough that you may address me by name, rather than Your Majesty.” He winked.

Steve snorted. “So what will I address you as while you explore your domain then?”

“Just James, if you please. I’m perfectly happy to keep calling you hot bearded guy though, it suits you.”

Steve tightened his grip on James’ thigh, caught both by the banter and the slow sweep of blue eyes across his frame. “Well James, your first lesson about us commoners is we also like to be called by our names. Like me, for example. I’m Steve.”

“Are you sure? Hot bearded guy sounds so much more accurate. Steve sounds like a middle aged, balding accountant with an unhappy marriage and a secret drinking problem.”

Steve turned away, fighting the urge to laugh again, regret at losing the warm solidity of James’ thigh under his hand surging through him. “Amazing how you know so much about us Steves already, James.”

The kid smiled more warmly, fingers playing with the edge of his leather harness. “Princes happen to be well educated, I’ll have you know. Even on more… common matters.”

“Oh?” Steve raised a challenging eyebrow. He was so green he practically smelled of grass, and Steve had met plenty of newbies who claimed to know what they were getting into, only to flounder at the first hurdle. 

Well. The first spanking horse, or cross. Dungeon furniture counted as hurdles, surely?

James swivelled in his chair to face Steve more fully, leaning forward in earnest. “It behooves us to know what the plebs are like, their tastes, their opinions, their fantasies.” He winked.

“It behooves you?” Steve said, incredulous. “I don’t think even princes talk that way anymore.” 

“”How would you know, peasant?” The brunette said, eyes filled with mirth at Steve’s expression. “We royals receive the finest education in fusty manners and words no-one else uses.”

Steve couldn’t help but snort at that pronouncement. “You know,” he sipped his drink, rolling the flavour around the back of his tongue, “the only thing royal about you is you’re a right royal pain in the ass, is what you are.” 

“Maybe so. But I’m certain I’d like to have a royal pain in the ass tonight,” the little fucker stated, lounging on the stool like it really was a throne. 

Steve couldn’t keep a neutral expression any longer. He felt a grin stretch across his face, one with far too many teeth, one that had previously had enemy faces drain of colour. “Little Prince, don’t ask for things you don’t want, don’t understand. It might get you into trouble.”

He stood, blood thrumming in his veins with want, cock stiff at the thought of James’ plump ass on display for him to do as he wanted, the way he would hiss, scream and cry. And the way Steve would, in the end, take everything he wanted. The kid’s protest was weak enough he thought he’d made his point. Knocking back the last of his beer, he leaned across to place the bottle on the counter, brushing past James’ shoulder. He paused as he withdrew, face to face with the clearest, sharpest pair of eyes in the room. 

“You’re gorgeous, sweetheart. But I’d just chew you up and spit you out. People come to me for the hard stuff, James. Enjoy yourself and learn about your kinks as you feel ready.” He gave the kid one last, lingering stare, leaning in to brush his lips across his ear in a lover’s murmur. “If you still want more, then come find me.” The unsteady inhale which greeted his words was more gratifying that it should have been. 

Steve reeled himself in with regret, giving the kid a last pat on the shoulder goodbye, before he forced himself to walk away and think about something, anything, else apart from the submissive with the neediest and most enticing expression he’d ever seen, behind him.

Bucky sipped the last of his drink, half listening for the bell which would ring for the start of the Dungeon 101 session Okoye had recommended when he arrived. It made sense, given reading group threads and lurking on Fetlife had sometimes confused Bucky more than anything else. So many technical terms, so many acronyms, so many dickwads claiming they were the Master of the Universe, Bow Down Before Me. He grinned. Not that their attitude ever matched the title - most behaved more like spoiled toddlers. 

Still, he couldn’t help licking his lips and glancing around the room to check some of the other lingering patrons out. None matched the sheer beauty of the specimen he’d flirted with earlier - probably-not-a-boring-accountant-Steve, but Bucky had enough self esteem not to lower himself to chasing after someone who’d turned him down. Eventually his terrible luck with men would have to change, and he’d meet someone who wasn’t immediately put off by his personality.

Surely. 

Because if his personality was the first stumbling block, there were plenty more beyond it, far worse than a few sarcastic comments.

The bell’s clang roused him from the daze he’d fallen into, and he shook his head. Time to get his shit together and do what he’d come here to do. 

“Well, here’s a sight for sore eyes!”

“Widow,” Steve smiled, and accepted the gentle hug Natasha offered, inhaling her scent as if… well, as if he hadn’t seen her in months and had really missed her. “You look utterly divine.”

Natasha bared her teeth, flicking the end of the whip coiled in her hand against his arm. “Don’t insult me like that.”

“I apologise, my lady demon,” Steve said. The red latex clung to every inch of her curves and had brought many a man to his knees. Topped by a cute pair of devil’s horns, the outfit was completed on a much more sinister tone by the vicious leather cat o’nine tails she carried. 

“Better.” She smiled up at him. “We were starting to think we’d have to send out a search party you know.”

“I’m sure Tony would have appreciated that.” Steve said.

Her smile grew even more teeth, if that were possible. “Oh, I’m sure I could have persuaded him.”

“If anyone could, it would be you. Or Pepper.”

“I will admit, in this one area, her skill exceeds mine,” Natasha purred, slipping into the heavy Russian accent she deployed like a mortar sometimes. Then rolled her eyes. “Which is good, since if he were mine I’d tear my hair out and he’d never be able to sit down.” 

Steve struggled to conceal the smile threatening to escape. “They do say opposites attract, but in this case I think it’s best we don’t test that theory.”

Not least because Pepper would murder me.” Natasha said. 

“Well, that too. But aside from search party planning, how were things with you? And Clint and Sam? I haven’t seen either of them yet tonight.”

Natasha leaned over the bar and caught the bartender’s attention effortlessly. “Mm, nothing much to report, except that T’Challa threw somebody out about a month ago. Clint and Sam are here, Sam’s been good and Clint hasn’t, so what’s new there?” 

Steve chuckled. “Your hawk is too curious for his own good.” He’d never met anyone as adept as turning a completely normal situation into some kind of disaster as Barton before. 

“Don’t I know it. Ugh, and he’s had the most hangdog kicked puppy expression every since I punished him. I almost feel guilty.”

“No you don’t.”

“Well of course not! He was so pretty when he cried. But almost.”

Steve exaggerated a shiver, before pressing a kiss to her cheek. “You are terrifying Nat.”

She winked. “It’s all part of my charm.”

“Are you planning to play with them tonight?” Steve said. “I have missed seeing pretty boys cry.”

Natasha’s grin was all teeth. “I do love, Steve, how you ask me for exactly the things I want the most. Very gentlemanly of you.”

Steve affected a pious expression. “It’s a trial, but I’m prepared to make the sacrifice for my friends.”

“How terribly noble of you. As you wouldn’t benefit. At all.”

“Oh no - I’d hate it. Every second.”

“Then of course you must participate. Just to toughen you up. Even though you’ll hate it; adversity builds character.”

“I do feel, my dear Widow, that my character might require quite a lot of building.”

The pause where they stared at one another, faces carefully blank, stretched out to the point where neither of them could keep their expression serious any longer, and broke down into giggles. Sam, headed their way, halted in his tracks, looking incredibly alarmed, before reversing his course and hastily finding Clint to whisper in his ear. Steve sighed, satisfied.

Now where had he left his toy bag?

“Now this is the main dungeon area, where socialising is not forbidden, but should be discreet and kept very quiet. Our etiquette states that those in scenes are not to be disturbed. If you are concerned about someone’s welfare or safety, please find a Dora Milaje, like Okoye here, and tell them. They all have the same uniform so as to be easily identifiable, and will swiftly deal with any concern brought to them. The universal safeword in Wakanda is red. Any scene must stop if any party involved says red. If they do not… violators will be dealt with most severely.”

Bucky nodded along with the rest of the group at the stern, uncompromising warning from an uncharacteristically sober T’Challa. As the club’s owner continued to explain Wakanda’s rules and code of conduct, he considered the space. It was a good thing he’d already read through the club’s rules so many times he could almost recite them with T’challa, because it was next to impossible for him to concentrate on what the man was saying. His voice was rich and sinfully deep, authority radiating from him in the way only a man used to perfect, swift, and uncompromising obedience, could manage. Combined with the fact his body looked like it was sculpted from marble and his cheekbones were sharp enough to cut glass, it had Bucky riding on a heady mixture of arousal and frustration as his cock swelled in the deliberately tight slacks he’d chosen for this evening. 

“Black Panther got you all het up, huh?” A rasping tenor unexpectedly interrupted his fantasies about T’Challa’s muscled forearms holding him down for some very enjoyable explorations of the dungeon’s furniture. 

Bucky turned to address the owner of the voice. “Well, it’s hard to deny, but who wouldn’t be attracted to him?”

The guy shrugged, hulking shoulders rising and falling in a ripple of muscle. Jesus, was everyone at this club built like a brick shithouse? “He’s a good looking bastard, I’ll not deny that, but those of us who desire control don’t find our fellow control freaks happy fodder.”

Bucky snorted, charmed despite himself. “You call yourself a control freak?”

“Control freak, dom, same thing really. I like what I like, and that’s a good looking guy like you doing exactly as I tell him.” He smiled, the movement lightening his craggy features. A dull burn climbed up Bucky’s neck and spread across his cheeks at the blatant flirtation. Not the most sophisticated approach anyone’d ever made, but Bucky couldn’t afford to be picky here given how things had been going. 

So he smiled, and sidled closer to the guy as they moved from the main dungeon to the recovery room. Plush couches were set against the walls with invitingly fluffy cushions and lush rugs underfoot, a sea of fabric making a strange contrast to the dark, shiny surfaces of the previous setting. Looking more closely around the room, he pretended to inspect the side tables filled with snacks and safe sex supplies, but really watched the dark haired man watch him. He was definitely interested, gaze hungry on Bucky’s ass as he bent over to pick up a leaflet about Shibari classes. 

Thank god all that gym time was good for something. 

Movement in the corner of his eye revealed the guy settling onto the opposite end of the sofa to the one he was stood by. He leant back, legs stretched out and and cocked his head to better drag his gaze up and down Bucky’s body. 

“Something the matter?” Bucky said. God, he might be good looking, but something about the set of his jaw, the hooded shadow of his eyes, had nervousness curdle his stomach. It was such an unfamiliar feeling from the usual indifference, exasperation or outright disgust creepy advances from other men had, Bucky’s mouth went dry. He licked his lips, trying to moisten them, and the guy’s stare sharpened on his mouth.

He smiled, long and slow. “You could say that. I still don’t know your name.”

“Oh.” Bucky held out his hand. “James. Good to meet you.” He blessed his mother for giving him a name he could safely use on the scene. Jameses were a dime a dozen everywhere. 

The guy’s lips curled up, exposing a flash of white. “Brock. But I prefer Crossbones here. So James, how did you come to find Wakanda? It’s pretty exclusive.”

Bucky stopped fidgeting with the flyer he’d picked up and took a seat on the couch across from… Crossbones. Odd, but not the oddest pseudonym he’d come across. “The usual, I think. Lots of lurking on FetLife, asking questions and messaging people for a while led to several recommendations. I went to a few munches and introduced myself to Okoye at one of them.”

Brock sat forward, bracing his elbows on his knees as he assessed Bucky more closely. “So are you new here in New York then? Or just new to the scene? Either way, I’ve been here a long time. Been here since Wakanda opened, in fact. Happy to help you settle in, and all that jazz.” He winked, the playful edge to his rough voice sending tingles down Bucky’s spine. 

“That’s very kind, thanks, but I’m actually from New York.” Bucky cleared his throat. “But yes, I’m new to the scene. I’ve done my research but this is the first time I’ve been to an event.” Brock’s gaze on him seemed to burn, and Bucky noticed when the big muscles in his arms bunched, they rucked the fabric of his black shirt even more than usual. Not that he’d been staring at Brock’s arm enough to notice the difference.

He looked up, and saw the smirk curling around the edges of Brock’s mouth. 

Fuck. Fine, maybe he had been staring. Just a little. Good news was, Brock seemed to like being stared at. “Native New Yorker huh? I’m surprised you didn’t go for something like this earlier then. What are you - twenty eight? Nine?” Brock said.

“Thereabouts. Turning twenty nine soon.” That was a big, fat lie, as Bucky could still feel the ghost of the hangover he’d suffered through from the weekend spent celebrating with his former unit on turning thirty a few months ago, but he was hardly about to turn down a compliment. 

“So what kept you?” Crossbones shifted, and Bucky noticed he’d somehow managed to cover half the distance left between them in the course of the conversation without him realising. He didn’t remark on it, mostly because it brought the wide expanse of Brock’s chest, and the thickness of his thighs, into closer view.

“Deployment, mostly. Then college until this summer.” Bucky confessed. 

The other started, reappraising Bucky. “Let me guess - Army?”

Bucky smiled. “Yeah. How’d you know?”

Brock leaned in, a tanned hand creeping forward to caress his knee. Something hot and furious curled in Bucky’s gut at the touch, the first in far too long. 

Unfortunately, this pleasant reverie was interrupted by Brock. 

“-and you just have that look, y’know, someone who likes taking orders, Army’s great for guys who want that. God knows I enjoyed the hell out of the privileges of rank in my own time as well as the military’s, if you get my drift.” He winked again, but Bucky tightened the loose clasp of his fingers in his lap to control the spurt of irritation the comment provoked. 

It was on the tip of his tongue to blurt out that as a sergeant and first class sniper in the 107th, he’d been the one giving orders more often than not, but he wasn’t quite stupid enough to voice it. Enough of the advice on kink sites, as well as basic common sense, warned against giving out personal information which could be used to identify him. 

“Anyway, I suppose I just wanted to say I understand. Not many on the scene have served. Too many pacifists and radicals. You and me - we’re just a different kind of special, even here.”

Bucky took the diversion. Brock seemed like he was trying to make him comfortable by talking about their shared experience.

“Yeah, I guess getting free college was just a side benefit.” He joked.

Brock laughed, grating and harsh. “Yeah, ok, I guess the Army’s not all about booty calls and marching in mud!”

“Crossbones! James!” The sudden call from across the room startled Bucky so badly he nearly bolted up from the couch, and clutched the padded arm of the couch to steady himself. Okoye stood in the now empty room, hands on hips, glaring at Brock. When her gaze turned to Bucky, it softened to mild irritation, but that was still enough to make him wave sheepishly and begin apologising.

“No, no James, it is fine - we all know how difficult it is to keep track of everything going on, and all the new people,” said with a sniff of disdain in Brock’s direction, “when you first arrive. But come, T’Challa has only one more room to show you, it would be a shame for you to miss it, I think.”

“Sure Okoye, thanks for coming to get me.” Bucky got up from the couch, then glanced back at Brock, who hadn’t moved.

Okoye patted his arm. “You are very welcome, James. Please do go on, I have something to discuss with Crossbones here, and he has been on this tour many times.”

Brock trolled his eyes, settling deeper into the couch as he did. “Go on James, I’ll see you in the club later I’m sure. Enjoy the rest of the tour while Okoye tells me off for trespassing on the newbies’ tour.”

“Thanks.” Bucky said. “It was good talking with you.”

As he headed through the door to catch up with the rest of the group, he could just hear Okoye’s voice raised and harsh, waft across the room. “-time and time again, Crossbones, and T’Challa won’t stand for it! If anything happens-”

Huh. Strange that Okoye would be so cross with Brock for simply going on the tour, but maybe it was expected club members weren’t supposed to go more than once.

Once the tour finished, Bucky set off to circulate the club again, paying hardly any attention to the music, but instead fascinated by the variety, enthusiasm and creativity of people’s costumes. Not many had resorted to basic black, something that sent a twinge of anxiety through his chest. Surely newbies weren’t expected to turn up in expensive fetish gear for at least a few more club nights? He’d have to ask T’Challa. A recently graduated student’s budget was simply not going to stretch that far, no matter how much he drooled over latex and leather online. 

Once he felt he’d fixed the layout of the place properly in his memory, no longer distracted by T’Challa’s, well, his everything, or the conversation with Brock, he started back for the bar and was waved over by the man himself. 

“Enjoy the rest of the tour?” Brock pushed a beer Bucky’s way. “Don’t just stare at it, it’s for you.”

“Thanks. And it was good. T’Challa’s very knowledgeable, it’s reassuring that he’s the one running the place. I heard plenty of horror stories online.”

“I wouldn’t put too much stock in those. Most of the time it’s people bitching about someone they don’t like, not an actual problem. Or subs having regrets after a scene and trying to blame it on the dom.” Brock’s face twisted in disgust.

“People do that?” He’d found similar arguments online but never put much stock in them. But humans were petty creatures no matter where they were, and being in a dungeon and a kink community wouldn’t prevent rivalries and grudges and cattiness from establishing themselves like they did everywhere else.

“All the time. Me, I just stay out of scene politics to stay sane. Being Army means you’ve got a pretty low tolerance for bullshit, y’know?”

Bucky nodded fervently. “God, I know. When I went to college some days I just wanted to scream at my coursemates like new recruits to get them to lose the attitude.” Motherfucking Thomas the preachy, ‘GMOs are evil, vaccines cause autism, what do you mean dreadlocks aren’t for white dudes’ moron could still kiss Bucky’s ass, and that was that. 

“Ha! Yeah, wish I could do that here too sometimes. Makes you miss it, a little. Then I remember MRE’s and thank God I got out.”

Bucky chuckled. “So what do you do now?”

“Police. Boring, but it pays the bills. And I could never do just desk work.” Brock shrugged, then shifted closer to Bucky’s side. “But enough of the small talk. What are you here for tonight? No pressure, you’re new, but you’ve got to have something in mind, surely.”

“Um, well, I hadn’t really thought about it much, beyond just getting up the courage to actually come in. Everything else seemed a bit far off compared to that.” Brock smiled, and patted his shoulder, palm lingering against the exposed skin long enough that Bucky shivered. The calluses rasped against his skin, setting nerve endings alight in anticipation. How long had it been since he’d been touched properly? Months at the least. Drunken fumbles and and playful wrestling had petered out the longer he’d been in college with the looming onset of exams and a post military career choice.

Brock tipped his head to the side, raking his eyes up and down Bucky’s body. “Courage?” He shifted closer, angling his body towards Bucky and close enough their knees brushed, ever so slightly, when one of them shifted. “Don’t see how someone who looks as good as you needs courage, but I’m glad you got it together.”

Bucky chewed his lip. “Thanks,” he eventually settled on, “I’m glad I came too.” He swallowed, watching the easy confidence of the dom across from him, skin prickling with sensation where their legs brushed together. Months. Months and months. 

He wasn’t brave enough to be bold, but hopefully Brock was experienced enough to pick up on subtle. “So, what sorts of things do you like? In the scene, I mean.”

Brock paused in raising his beer, then set it down, deliberately, on the counter. “That’s an interesting question. Why’d you ask?” His eyes, nearly black in the dim light of the bar, bored into Bucky’s like he could see every filthy thought Bucky’s ever had about being tied down and made to do whatever his Dom desired. 

“I-” his voice cracked, and he twisted the bottle in his hands to avoid that searching gaze. “Just, I dunno. Trying to make conversation. In a kink club. Not like I can ask what your favourite colour is, can I?”

Brock’s lips slowly peeled back to reveal unusually white teeth, and Bucky swallowed. Blinked. 

“It’s black. But I don’t think that small talk is really what you’re after here. James.” Brock’s voice descended during the sentences until he growled Bucky’s name, and the fierce intensity of it had him starting to harden in his pants. 

Bucky bit his lip. Time to be bold. “And what if I said you were right?”

“Then I’d say that good subs do the asking nice and polite, on their knees. None of this pussyfooting around crap.” Brock’s smile was a little cruel now, but damn if it wasn’t hot like the sun. The club’s music surged around him, reminding him everyone would be watching. Everyone. But that’s what they were all here for, right? Bucky knew the club’s rule about exhibitionism only in play areas, but if he was fully clothed, surely it didn’t count?

He gritted his jaw, and inch by inch, slid to his knees, the hot flush of humiliation dancing along his nerves like wildfire, blood pounding. Patrons crowding in for drinks meant he was pushed closer to Brock than he would have liked, face nearly brushing the front of the other’s crotch. He tilted his head up. 

“Well well. Guess there is a good sub under all that sass. Let’s go find a corner somewhere and see what you can do, huh?”

Bucky hesitated, mind struggling to process the speed with which the situation had progressed. Before he could mumble something about discussion and limits, a hard hand gripping his chin cleared his mind of all thoughts in a sweet rush of adrenalin. 

“What do you say to me, Soldier?” 

The steel and menace in the voice had Bucky rapping out the answer he knew was required without thought, without hesitation. “Sir, yes sir!”

The hand gentled on his chin, fingers travelling down to settle in a loose grip around his throat, not impeding his breathing but perfectly poised to do so. Bucky hated himself a little for the surge of lust the action prompted. 

Brock jerked his head to the entrance to the dungeon. “Follow me, and be smart about it. We’ll talk on the way.”

Relieved he’d not had to push to open negotiations, Bucky swayed to his feet, cock throbbing in his pants, and followed the broad, hulking back away from the bar. 

“Twenty eight Sir!” Bucky hung his head, gasping, trembling, the impact from the most recent hit a stripe of flaming lightning across the roaring crescendo of feeling across his back, ass and thighs. The skin, already tender, felt like each stroke was splitting him open, turning him into a raw, quivering mess.

“Two more.” Brock, no - Crossbones - snapped. The cane came whistling down again, and fresh agony followed it. This was so much more than he’d ever anticipated, arriving earlier. How had he fucked up so badly to earn this much punishment his first time?

“Twenty nine Sir!” He wasn’t sure how he was still standing, knees rubbery, clinging on to the cuffs like a lifeline. It had all been going so well. Brock had been charming, brusque and no-nonsense, exactly the experienced Dom Bucky had imagined taking charge of him in his lonely, late night fantasies.

The cane snapped again, and Bucky sobbed, so overwhelmed he could barely choke out the final count. He gasped for air as the room swam, panicky bands of pressure thwarting his attempts to regain his equilibrium. This was not, at all, what he’d imagined. The pain wasn’t freeing, or good. Just horrendous, grinding, mind numbing intensity. If he could skin himself to escape it, he would. It was worse than his injuries had been, almost, in that at least with his injuries he’d been dosed up with morphine, and soon after slipped into sweet unconsciousness. Now he felt like a live wire, every sensation heightened, not deadened, with even the movement of air enough to set off a new jolt of suffering.

“Good.” Brock strode over, the heat of him somehow increasing the burning intensity of his skin. “Learned your lesson?”

All Bucky could do was nod, and whimper. He’d not meant to be disrespectful, nervous about the flogging and the big X shaped frame Crossbones had secured him to. But it wasn’t the first time his mouth had got him in trouble. “I’m sorry Sir - please.” Fresh tears fell when the Dom’s expression remained fixed in a scowl, so far from the amused smiles he’d favoured Bucky with while Brock told him how the evening would go. He’d failed to mention that was only if Bucky was good. 

“Sorry for what?” The sneer was palpable, and Bucky’s chest tightened; dead and cold from hearing it, so different to the purring endearments and approval as they’d left the bar earlier. He wished he’d never come to Wakanda, and rested his head against his raised arm, exhausted.

“For not calling you Sir. I’m sorry Sir, really sorry. Please, I won’t forget again Sir.” His breath hitched, sending sparks skittering across his back as he struggled to control his breathing. 

“And what else?” 

Bucky froze, mind blank. What else? He couldn’t recall Brock saying anything else he’d done wrong!

“Well?” The icy tone made Bucky cringe, which made him yelp with fresh pain as the movement aggravated his skin.

“Sir - I, please, I’m sorry, okay, I really am-”

“What. Else.” Crossbones’ voiced cracked like the whip he’d scared Bucky shitless with earlier, only putting it away when he saw his submissive for the evening was truly on the verge of a breakdown and about to call red.

Bucky hung his head, heart and mind racing. Try as he might, he couldn’t remember any other infraction of Crossbones’ rules. Truth be told, much of the night was a blur at this point, ever since he’d been strung up to ‘try out’ impact play. 

“I can’t remember,” he admitted, squirming around to face Crossbones despite the awful burning it caused. “I’m sorry, really, I really am.”

Crossbones tutted. “Here I thought you wanted to be good, and you can’t even be bothered to remember what you did to earn punishment.” He seized a handful of Bucky’s hair and wrenched his head back, the violent move causing spots to dance across Bucky’s vision. “Talking back, sweetcheeks.” His rough voice dripped with venom. “Topping from the bottom like you’re the Dom, trying to manipulate me.” His grip tightened until Bucky couldn’t hold back a groan of pain. “I just wanted to give you a nice evening trying out some things, but you just couldn’t shut the fuck up and take it, oh no. Smart ass remarks and sarcasm like I’m some servant to do as you please. A fucking terrible, bratty, sub if I ever saw one.”

He ran a heavy hand down Bucky’s back and it took everything Bucky had not to howl. He didn’t remember it. But that was what he was like. A smart ass. Sarcastic. And Crossbones had been very, very clear on his rules before they’d started. Extremely clear. 

Disappointment lodged in his throat, another failure to add to his list. Accusations on Fetlife were easy enough to brush off, but both guys he’d met in person saying the same thing? He probably was just a sarcastic smart-ass. A bad submissive.

“I’m sorry.” He panted, trying to ease the strain on his neck by standing a little straighter, but his legs weren’t co-operating. “I can do better.”

The heavy dragging pressure on his head vanished abruptly, and he huffed. Now his ass wasn’t being attacked, the burning and stinging had faded slightly, everything slightly muffled. 

Crossbones’ hands settled on his hips, careful to avoid the mess of marks he’d inflicted, and Bucky suppressed a flinch, preoccupied by the weird feeling of his head floating above the rest of him. 

“I’ll believe it when I see it.” The hands ghosted up his ribs, along his shoulders and hovered over the clips attaching the leather cuffs to the wood. “Prove it, James. Prove to me you can be good.” 

His arms fell towards the floor, and the rest of him followed, cushioned by the cloudy, soporific lassitude spreading through his body. He had to please Brock. Crossbones. Make him happy. That was the sub’s job, and he’d made his Dom mad instead by being rude and demanding. Brock had said, earlier, he loved face fucking. He wanted Brock to be pleased with him.

On his knees, Bucky looked up at his Dom and opened his mouth. 

Steve watched from the corner as the new guy from the bar sank to his knees after Brock released him from the St. Andrew’s cross, and frowned. The kid wasn’t steady, and he’d taken an intense beating. Ten with a paddle, ten with a studded flogger and ten with the cane was enough for most hardened masochists, never mind a newbie. Plus whatever he’d received before Steve had wandered in and become captivated by the smooth expanse of skin and muscle on display. Still, there hadn’t been a safeword. 

He shifted, cock making its protests at its confinement known as the most enticing mouth he’d ever seen wrapped around Brock’s dick. The sight didn’t just send a curl of heat and want surging through his cock, but a hit of jealousy too. Ridiculous, given he’d been the one to move on from their conversation earlier, but. Steve knew he was no saint, despite the shit his friends gave him. And would give him, if they could see how worked up he was getting just from watching a pretty boy choke on cock only an hour after having Clint do the same for him, balls lovingly abused by Natasha every time he drew off to breathe. 

He blew out a slow, controlled sigh. There was still plenty of time to play tonight, and maybe he’d talk to James once he and Brock were done with their scene and aftercare. There was no way he was a complete beginner with the way Brock had worked him over, and the way he’d taken it all, stoic and calm until the last few strokes of the cane. At the bar he must have just mentioned how he was new to the club, probably to New York, and Steve misinterpreted. 

Movement in the corner of his eye - James’ corner, his mind supplied, drew him away from contemplating his cock and its demands at last. Brock had finished fucking James’ pretty face, but far from the relaxed, satisfied movements of a man who’d undoubtedly just had a mind blowing orgasm from one of the most gorgeous guys in the club, Brock was throwing his things into his bag and scowling, paying no attention to James. Who was still kneeling on the floor, watching him with the fervour of the well and truly fucked. Steve’s hands fisted. Some hindbrain instinct, watching this, was shrieking, and his feet carried him closer as he watched Brock snap something to James, whose shoulders slumped, the curtain of his hair falling forward as he angled his face towards the floor. 

“-told you at the start there wouldn’t be any lovey dovey shit at the end from me.” Brock zipped up his bag with a jerk, jaw set. “And after that performance you should count yourself lucky I gave you as much as I have.”

“I’m sorry Sir. Thank you for the lesson. I-I’ll try harder next time, I just-” The sub’s voice rasped, although whether from emotion or the rough usage he’d just endured, Steve couldn’t tell. His face was still bent forward, hidden.

“Next time! There isn’t going to be a next time, sunshine. I don’t do sneaky, manipulative brats.” Brock paused in front of James, face twisted. “I told you earlier but I’ll say it again, don’t blame me for the rest of tonight because you made your bed.”

Muscles bunched as the line of those gorgeous shoulders tensed as Brock turned to storm away. Steve blew out a breath when he realised his hands were aching from the tight fists he’d curled them into, and stepped into his path.

“What was that about, Crossbones?” He kept his tone mild, suspicions rising.

Brock glared, pulling up short when Steve blocked his attempt to stride past without answering. “What was what about, Captain?” The title was spat out in a sneer.

Steve refused to rise to the bait, but scanned the crowd for a nearby Dora Milaje. “You seemed pretty hacked off with that sub there. Just curious as to what got you so riled up you didn’t even bother with aftercare. You know T’Challa recommended you start giving it last time you were here.” Steve held the furious stare unflinchingly. Brock might have thought everyone had forgotten the dressing down he’d received from Wakanda’s king for the breakdown he’d caused a sub to have previously, but Steve remembered. It had taken Natasha most of the night to get them stable enough to be put in a taxi home. 

Brock turned puce the longer Steve waited. “I checked in with him before. He said he was fine without,” he ground out, spitting the words at Steve like bullets.

Steve crossed his arms, unperturbed. “Really? And you didn’t think that might have changed after the caning you gave him?”

“If he changed his mind, that’s not my problem. Why do you care so much, anyways?” Brock raised his voice. “Didn’t think you wanted my leftovers that bad, Steve , but you’re welcome to them.”

Behind him, Steve saw the sub, now cross legged on the floor, hunch over and hide his face in his hands, and saw red. “Alright, that’s it,” he snarled, stepping up to bring them chest to chest, “you get out of here, now, because as soon as I find a Dora you’re going to get your ass kicked to the curb.”

Brock sneered, eyes alight with savage glee. “When I’ve done nothing but give the little whore what he wants? Not very fair of you, Captain. If the slut’s so desperate for me they say they don’t need aftercare, how am I supposed to know?”

Before Steve could land what he was sure would be the most satisfying knockout punch of his life, the human equivalent, thankfully, arrived. Natasha smiled the smile a tiger gives to a particularly fat and hapless goat. 

“Brock darling,” she purred, “Okoye has a message for you at the front of house. Be a dear and follow me, would you?” She winked at Steve as the visibly furious Crossbones whirled around to leave. Her lips pursed as she took in the remnants of the scene: James slumped in the background and Steve vibrating with anger. “I’ll send Sam over while I help Okoye deal with Rumlow.” She said. “But you should go to him now Steve, he looks miserable already.”

“I’d planned to, but thanks for stepping in there.” Steve rubbed the back of his neck, slick with sweat and stiff with tension. “It might have got nasty.”

She shot him a wide eyed stare of exaggerated disbelief. “You? Starting a fight? Never.” He smiled ruefully, and waved her off, before turning to deal with whatever the hell Rumlow had done.

“Please Sir…”

Steve bit his lip. The kid’s face was bone white, his blood sugar surely through the floor. But those clear blue eyes were hazy, 100% checked out in cloud cuckoo-my-ass-just-got-beaten-to-shit land. He likely wouldn’t notice a semi running him over at this point, and would stay cocooned in endorphins right up until he collapsed. Steve had seen it all before, and the aftermath was never pretty. Damn so-called Doms like Rumlow.

“You need a hand Steve?” The light touch to his shoulder came from a very welcome source; Sam. Natasha must have felt like playing the Huntress tonight, given the way his bared torso was swaddled in jute. 

“Yeah, you have great timing. Rumlow just abandoned this one after getting his; and the kid’s gonna drop like a stone soon, he was worked over pretty hard.”

“Shit.” Sam grimaced. “I’ll have a word with T’Challa, shall I? Did he safeword?”

“Not that I know of.” Steve said. “I couldn’t hear what was going on all that clearly, but his mouth was otherwise occupied. Hell knows if that dickbag took the time to teach him a non-verbal one.”

Sam frowned, lips tightening. “I’m definitely going to speak to T’Challa about this. Rumlow’s already been warned twice about cruising, and if the bossman finds out there was anything less than explicit consent and a clear way out?” He smiled a smile with none of its usual humour. “I wouldn’t wanna be Rumlow, that’s for sure. In the meantime, what do you need?”

Steve took a moment to haul in a breath and assess the situation. The kid was still alarmingly pale and in only his boxers. His wrist looked chafed, and sweat darkened his hairline, glistening on pale skin. The silver prosthetic arm - well, who knew if that had been damaged? He hoped not, but it was something he’d need to ask. While James was still out of it, ugly red welts and  deeper shades were glowing on his skin, already purpling in a few places where Rumlow had caught bone instead of muscle. The asshole.

“If T’Challa doesn’t mind, can I have one of the back rooms? He’s going to crash hard in a bit, looking at him, and I’d rather it didn’t happen for all and sundry to see. Some food, or juice, and a blanket. Lotion too, if we have it.”

“Sure - give me five.” Sam nodded sharply, his usual efficiency snapping into place.

“Thanks Sam, I owe you one.”

“Man, your bill is already way too damn high, I wouldn’t be saying that if I were you.” The shorter man elbowed him good-naturedly. “What if I decided to take it out on your ass one day?”

Steve flung back his head and laughed. “Die a happy man, probably. If T’Challa or Natasha didn’t kill me first for poaching.”

“You’re just jealous.”

“Maybe a very little bit. But not enough to hang around you any longer than I have to!”

“Shut the hell up, you wish you owned my fine ass. Now get, the corner room should be free. We were going to use it later but this takes priority.”

Steve felt like a fool. “What, Sam - no! You can’t give up the first chance in weeks-”

Sam cocked his head to the side and stared, mulish, into Steve’s eyes. “We can, and we will when it’s an emergency on our scene. What kind of hosts would leave a vulnerable boy like that out for the scavengers to come pick over? Knight in shining latex or no.” He smirked as Steve felt his cheeks flush. “There’ll be other nights, and we’ll have fun somewhere else. Now shut up and roleplay the mother hen you really are Steve. I’ll bring what you need there.”  

Cheeks flaming, Steve acquiesced as gracefully as he could. “Thank you. I’ll move him now though, before the endorphins wear off.” 

“Sure thing, Captain. See you in five.” Sam grinned, flipped Steve a mocking salute and melted into the crowd.

Steve snorted. Trust the Falcon to leave with the last word!

“Wha- Whas goin’ on?” The slurred enquiry from behind had Steve flinch in surprise.

“Hey, James.” Steve crouched down, aware his height looming over subs often made them clam up, afraid they were in trouble. “How are you feeling?”

The boy’s face creased, brows knitting as he struggled to parse the question. “Dunno. Feels weird, like m’on drugs or some shit.” His eyes cleared a little. “Do I know you?”

Steve lowered himself fully to the floor, bringing his face level with the brunette’s, pressed into the couch. “A little. We met earlier tonight but you might not remember, being new. You probably met a lot of people.”

Bucky nodded, then closed his eyes and continued rubbing his face on the soft velvet of the couch. “M’kay.”

Damn the kid was cute. “I know you probably feel like the couch is your new best friend,” Steve began, to a snort of amusement from the other, “but pretty soon I think you might change your mind. You were flying pretty high there a bit ago, and I’d like to make sure you’re ok. There's a side room a friend of mine has which is a bit more private for you to relax, get dressed and such. How about moving the party there?” This netted him one considering eye cracked open. “I promise the couch there is just as comfy as this one.” Steve couldn't help how a smile tugged at his lips as Bucky rolled this information through the haze of post play euphoria.

“But m’on a comfy couch.” The plaintive note to Bucky’s voice should not do the things it was to the front of Steve’s latex. This was a sub in no way, shape, or form, ready to engage with anyone else for a number of days. 

But he was just so goddamn adorable.

“So you are. But my friend Sam is bringing some snacks to the other couch. If you stay here, there's no snacks for you, I'm afraid.” 

There was no other way to describe it; Bucky pouted. “M’not hungry. Don’t wanna move. Tired.” 

“I could carry you.”

What the hell Rogers ? Steve blinked, shocked at how his brain to mouth filter seemed to have evaporated. 

“I, uh, mean only if you want to, I don’t want to pressure you into-”

“M’kay.” Bucky flopped over from the foetal position he’d been curled into, and held his arms up. “Y’look really cuddly. ‘N warm. Blanket guy!” He giggled to himself, and it was a ridiculous sight. That Steve was, unfortunately, utterly charmed by. He sighed, and bent forward to scoop up the happy bundle of boy into his arms. James’ skin was just starting to chill from the sweat of his and Rumlow’s scene, so it was a good thing he agreed to be moved now, before he started to shiver and become too cold.

A cold nose pressed into the hollow under his ear and Steve resisted letting a shiver of arousal travel up his spine. Now was not the time. James continued to squirm as he carried him across the dungeon and into the side room Sam had mentioned. There were already blankets, two water bottles, a granola bar, first aid kit and some grapes stacked neatly on the spanking bench in the middle of the room. Bless Sam for being the most organised soul Steve knew. 

He weaved between the room’s furniture to the back wall, a nearly identical couch to the one James had been curled in set against it, and dipped to lower the sub onto it. A purr of satisfaction escaped the brunette’s chest as he made contact with the plush velvet, writhing onto the material with abandon, and doing a remarkably good impression of a cat on catnip. 

Steve scrambled back to the bench, sweeping everything into his arms without looking, so he could return before James started scratching at the sofa’s arms, or exhibiting some other feral cat behaviour. The bruises on him were coming up deep and dark, stark in contrast to his pale skin, and dotted, Steve noticed for the first time, with flecks of blood. Mostly dried, but still. Broken skin wasn’t a joke, and certainly not something a beginner should experience. Steve tucked a blanket around Bucky’s shoulders, the smaller man fallen headlong into a doze, then rubbed a hand through his beard as he considered his next move. A few minutes’ rest wouldn’t do any harm.

Bucky snuffled into his arm, warm and achy and much too tired to even think of getting out of bed. He grumbled, wriggling his legs further towards his chest to curl tighter into the cocoon of warmth he’d managed to create. A deep chuckle sounded above him.

“C’mon tiger. I think you’ve slept enough.”

Bucky bolted upright, the comforting assumption that he was back in his own room, in his own apartment, with a lazy, pyjama-clad morning stretching ahead of him, shattering with those few words.

“Woah, woah, easy there. Do you know where you are?” The voice came from one of the most beautiful men Bucky’d ever seen, holy shit , Calvin Klein models had nothing on this. Deep blue eyes peered out at him from underneath a soft waterfall of golden fringe, framed by a jawline sharper than most of Bucky’s kitchen knives. 

Shit. He was staring.

“I-” He glanced around. This was… not where his scene had ended. “Am I still in Wakanda?”

Model nodded, and as he did the muscles in his neck flexed and bunched, alerting Bucky to the fact that this dude was ripped . He looked like he could squeeze Bucky’s head like a grape. “You were a little out of it, when you finished playing with Crossbones. I thought you might like to rest up after somewhere a bit quieter.”

“Oh.” Oh. Oh yeah. Bucky’s stomach sank at the reminder of why his ass felt like someone had taken a meat tenderizer to it, and he clutched the blanket tighter, chilled. “Is he - where... I mean, did I?” He could feel a lump forming in his throat, Crossbones very clearly nowhere, and his last, cutting, words floated up from Bucky’s memory, indicating Bucky’d done a shit job at being a sub. “Did I do something wrong?” His voice sounder smaller and shakier than usual, and Bucky was horrified to feel the lump in his throat grow. 

Model frowned. “Something - oh no; no, no, no, sweetheart, you didn’t do anything wrong.”

Bucky sniffed, fighting the dampness collecting on his lashes. “I, uh, thought it went ok? But he wasn’t… pleased. I mean, he said I-” He scrubbed angrily at his face with the edge of the blanket, and hauled in a deep, shuddering breath. The moment sent a fresh wave of pain through his ass and thighs, and unpleasant reminder of how desperate he’d been. Understandable that Crossbones hadn’t wanted to stick around that . “Guess it doesn’t matter now.”

The blonde was frowning at him, shoulders tight and stare intense. “James, I promise you didn’t do anything wrong. I… need to talk to you about your scene, later, though not because of anything you did. But can you tell me how you’re feeling now?” His hands lifted from his lap, hovering, as if he was about to reach for Bucky. And Bucky didn’t like how much he wanted him to close that gap.

How did he feel? Like shit. But angel-faced models very rarely turned out to have angelic personalities, so Bucky was pretty sure this guy would find a reason to shove off as soon as he made it clear he wasn’t up to board the sex train. 

“Pretty bad.” He hunched his shoulders and shivered harder, the blanket doing little to keep him warm in the cold room. “Is there a window open somewhere?”

Angel Face’s lips thinned in disapproval. “Why - are you cold?” His tone had gone from soothing and warm to flat and angry.

Great. Another asshat who thought Bucky should ask permission for everything and call him Master five seconds into a conversation. Bucky huddled further into the sofa, refusing to give him the satisfaction of saying yes, just so he could then berate Bucky for daring to complain, like an ‘ungrateful brat’. That had been Dom #3’s comment of the evening. Typical, they were all the same, and James Buchanan Barnes was not having any more of this nonsense. Fuck ‘the scene’. Everyone online had made it sound so welcoming and friendly, but the reality was like being surrounded by the gossiping, judgemental cliques in high school again. Even Grindr was better than this.

“Are you cold?” Model repeated again, still frowning, and Bucky couldn’t take it anymore.

“Yes! Fine! I’m fucking freezing! And I don’t care if saying that means I’m whinging, and a brat, and, and, topping from the bottom, and-” Bucky felt his chest tightening as he struggled to breathe, the events of the night catching up with him in lurid technicolour. God he’d been such a fool, as the stinging of abused skin reminded him with every shift in position. His vision blurred with tears and he braced himself for Angel Face’s criticism. “And whatever else you say about me, I don’t care, I’ve had enough and I’m gonna go home now.” He tried to stand, but the world spun like a carousel around him and he toppled to the side.

“Hey! Easy, easy, I have you. Calm down buddy,” Model’s hands on him were like braziers, radiating heat, “I’ve got you, there we are.” Bucky shut his eyes to halt the world revolving around him. 

“Sh, it’s okay, you’re fine. Just a bit of a head rush, you got up a bit suddenly there, let’s get you sitting back down...” Bucky winced as his ass met the sofa again when Model lowered him down, a small whimper escaping when the tender flesh of his lower back pressed into the unyielding back of the sofa. It was almost worth it though, for the delicious heat radiating up from the thighs of steel his saviour had settled under him.

“Sorry, sorry, I know you’re sore, but I don’t want you falling and cracking your head open.” The hands on his upper arms rubbed gently up and down as Bucky maneuvered to put the least pressure possible on his injuries. “Wow. He really did a number on you, huh?” 

Bucky snorted, and cracked an eye open to check if the world would stay still this time. Luckily it did, but most of his vision was now filled with the frowning visage of Angel Face. At this rate Bucky was going to start calling him Disapproval Dom. On seeing Bucky’s eyes were open, though, the guy cracked a small smile. 

“Here.” He passed over another blanket, and when Bucky simply sat, staring at it, shook it open and draped it around Bucky’s lap, covering the areas the other blanket couldn’t. 

“James, can you look at me?” 

God, he didn’t want to. But it was best to get it over with.

Bucky raised his gaze to meet the other’s intense blue reluctantly. But Model just smiled again, small, but there. “Great, that’s really good, thank you. I’m sorry I upset you back there.” As he spoke, the hands which felt so, so good, carried on their gentle journeys along his arms. “I absolutely was not trying to suggest you were - well, anything but someone who’s had a bit of a trying evening.”

Bucky snorted again. 

“Ha. Understatement, right? Especially from what it sounds like some people have been saying to you. It’s never a bad thing to let someone know when you’re uncomfortable. I was only asking because you were shivering.” The hands paused, lifting away from his skin, and Bucky felt like crying again. “Still are, in fact.” 

When Angel Face put his palms back, ever so lightly, against Bucky’s upper arms, he had to muffle a whine. Now that he’d mentioned it though, Bucky could feel himself trembling, a fine tremor running the length and breadth of his body. It felt like there was ice in his veins instead of blood. 

“M’cold.” He muttered, looking down into his lap. Angel face didn’t move, but he did sigh.

“Yeah, that’s… not exactly unusual after something like this.”

Surprised, Bucky glanced back up, and the guy’s wry expression greeted his gaze. 

“Really?”

“Yeah. You put your body through the wringer, or someone else does, and it produces a shitload of endorphins to get you through it. That’s what had you so floaty and feeling amazing earlier. But sometimes it’s too much, or something goes wrong, and the downswing hits you in a bad way.” He shrugged. “Everyone’s different, but we call it dropping, sub or dom. Getting the chills, shakes, crying, intense emotional swings, feeling bad generally, they’re all side effects, but it passes. So long as you, or someone you know, takes care of you.”

“Oh.” Bucky sat, poleaxed. It sounded so reasonable, laid out like that. “So-” he cut himself off, hesitating to ask what was surely a stupid question. 

“No, please - go on. What?” Angel Face rubbed his shoulders again, ever so gently, and Bucky felt any remaining resistance crumble.

“So, so I wasn’t - bad? I mean, I didn’t fail, and that’s why this happened? Crossbones warned me about it, said it happened when a sub didn’t please their dom, their subconscious punished them; that I would be fine if I was good.”

The dom - because it was clear now from his explanation and bearing he was most definitely an In Charge Of You type - swore, and pinched the bridge of his nose. Bucky squirmed, feeling the horrible creeping behind his breast again at having prompted such a reaction. The dom caught the movement though, and softened again immediately.

“I’m sorry - I was just, angry, that someone had told you that to mess with you. Because it couldn’t be further from the truth. Sub drop can happen for any reason. But it’s never because a sub is bad. In fact,” his voice turned sardonic, “it’s more commonly caused by a dom not looking after their sub properly.”

“Oh.” Bucky ducked his head, not quite knowing how to deal with the influx of information, but feeling lighter from the reassurance he hadn’t fucked up the scene. 

“How are you feeling now?” The blonde asked.

“Um, better. Not as upset. Still cold, and,” Bucky grimaced, “I don’t think I should get up yet or I’ll fall over again.”

The dom smiled. “Take your time, there’s no rush. We have hours until the club closes and no-one else is booked to use this room. You look a bit pale, would something to eat help? I have some fruit and a granola bar.”

The thought of food made Bucky’s mouth water; dinner seemed like eons ago. “That would be great actually, I’m really hungry.”

“Good. Here - just take it slowly.” The dom handed over the granola bar, which Bucky tried not to stuff in his face all at once, despite how tempted he was to wolf it down in one go. Instead, he broke it up in the packet and ferried pieces into his mouth one at a time. The sugary coating tasted like heaven. 

“Want some water?” Bucky nodded, but fumbled the cap with his still shaky hands, and the bottle fell to the floor. 

“Sorry! I, shit, that was stupid-”

His spiral into panic was interrupted by the dom’s calm tone. “Hey, hey, it’s okay. No harm done, it’s fine. I’ll hold on to it while you finish eating, okay? We’ve all only got two hands, don’t beat yourself up for being human.” Bucky laughed a little once it was clear the guy meant it. 

After finishing the granola bar and water, he felt a lot steadier, and sighed. Shifting sideways, he eased into a more upright position to stretch out his back, protesting at having been held hunched over for so long. He hissed while doing so, and the welts stung and flared with a cold, deep ache that told him he’d been feeling this one for a while.

“Shit, that looks pretty miserable” Angel Face said.

Bucky felt his face heat, but nodded. “Sorry. I, uh, didn’t mean for it to go that far, I just didn’t know how bad it would be after. It didn’t feel like it was doing much damage when he was belting me.”

The dom’s reply was crisp, and icy, but not, Bucky thought, directed at him. “That is exactly why I will be having words with Crossbones after this. He never should have taken you so deep your first time.” He sighed. “I’m sorry your experience in the scene so far hasn’t been a good one. All I can say is not everyone’s like that asshole.”

Bucky felt his expression harden, and ground his jaw, looking at the floor so Angel Face wouldn’t spot his reaction. 

All to no avail. “Hey,” the gentle tone had returned, “were there... other people who said stuff like that to you?”

Bucky’s throat felt like it was lined with gravel when he spoke. “Yeah. A few. Told me I should call them Master, or Sir, if I wanted to speak to them. Or that no-one wants a bossy bottom with no manners. I just didn’t know. I-” his breath hitched, “just, I just was asking, I didn’t deliberately insult them, I was so curious and had” he swiped away tears, again, “a b-b-bunch of d-d-dumb… questions.” He couldn’t hold it back anymore and let the tears spill over, breathing in little shallow gasps to try to hide the fact that he, a grown man of thirty, was crying over a few mean comments.

Distantly he could hear Angel Face’s distress. “Aw, sweetheart, no, I’m so sorry that happened, hey, hey, look up at me for a second, would ya?”

Sniffling, Bucky did, to see a sad smile on the other’s face. “You didn’t do anything wrong Bucky. I’ll explain whatever you want to know later, but just now, know it’s always okay to ask questions, alright?” Bucky nodded. “Anyone who isn’t an asshole will want to play safely, sanely, and consensually, which involves a whole laundry list of questions on both sides, believe you me.” 

Bucky nodded again, but the tears kept coming, all the fear and hurt of the evening working its way out. 

The blonde cocked his head and blew out a breath. “Feel free to say no, sweetheart, but you really look like you could do with a hug. Wanna come here?” He held his strong, sold arms open, and Bucky felt not one iota of shame at practically diving into them and snuggling into the broad, densely muscled chest before him. At that, the dam burst, and the first noisy, undignified sob escaped his chest, and still Bucky didn’t care. He was still cold, and so tired and terrified from earlier in the evening it was taking all the fragile threads of his self control not to simply run off out into the night in his boxers. 

Angel Face seemed to get it though, if the steady sweeps of his hands rubbing Bucky’s back were anything to go by. He simply held Bucky tighter, and carried on a running litany of mundane reassurances in the background until Bucky’d entirely soaked his shoulder in snot and tears, and slumped, limp like a wrung out dishrag, in his grip. 

“Feeling a bit better now?” God, his smile was devastating. He was like every wet dream Bucky had ever had, combined with the saint-like personality of people who fostered disabled orphan puppies on all those animal rescue YouTube channels that Bucky absolutely did not subscribe to.

Bucky nodded, and heaved himself into a sitting position. “Sorry. I… got your latex all wet.”

The blonde chuckled, and Bucky blushed crimson at how he’d made it sound. 

“Oh that’s far from the worst thing it’s seen,” Angel Face continued, cheerful, “and it’ll wipe off without a problem, it was no trouble. I just wanted to make sure you were okay.”

“Yeah. Thanks. I, um, feel a lot better. Crying kinda gets it all out, you know?” Bucky raised himself up to kneel next to the couch, before gingerly straightening to stand.

Angel Face grinned up at him from the floor. “Boy do I ever, as anyone who’s watched Bambi with me can verify. I cry like a baby every time.” He smiled again, eyes crinkled, before rolling to his feet. “I’m glad you feel better. What do you want to do next? I have your clothes, so you can get dressed. There’s some bruise cream and plasters if you wanted? Plus the fruit and some more water. You should probably try and have some, your blood sugar was probably zero earlier and a granola bar won’t last all that long.”

Bucky blinked, taken aback by the options. Angel Face wilted, seeming to deflate. “Ah God, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to tell you what to do. I’m sure you’ve had enough of that.” He shuffled his feet in place, and Bucky wanted to laugh at how much like a naughty puppy he seemed.

“No, it’s fine - just give me a minute to decide? It’s good though, that you told me. I didn’t know about the cream.” The blonde shrugged sheepishly. “But thank you. Really. You’re the first per- dom. Dom, to act like you care.”

Angel Face seemed to droop even more at that, which was not what Bucky intended. “Oh Christ, that was just the decent thing to do, I couldn’t leave you to drop by yourself.” He turned to fold the blankets on the padded bench, a tube of what must be the bruise cream on his left. Bucky stretched a little, winced, and cleared his throat.

“Um, could I have that bruise cream please? I don’t know what my back looks like now but it doesn’t feel great.” Bucky made a face, and the dom sent him a sympathetic glance as he passed the tube over.

“I could take some pictures for you, if you wanted to see? It’s all mostly red still, but turning purple already, so you’re going to bruise pretty deeply I think.”

Bucky shuddered. “Uh, no thanks. Photos are a no-go for me.” He set his jaw, ready to rebuff the endless stream of questions which would invariably follow. Why didn’t he like photos? Was he sure he didn’t like photos? Maybe it was the photos had been badly shot before? He must want to see the fruits of his dom’s handiwork so just turn around and stop fussing . The prosthetic on his left side was far too unique for it to be worth the risk. And the scarring around the site, as much as it was barely noticeable now, for years had been inflamed, swollen, and ugly. 

“Sure, you can just use a mirror when you get home. But cream before you go is definitely a good idea - can you reach?”

Bucky stared, wide-eyed, at the dom’s easy acceptance, before registering the question. “Oh - mostly, yes. My upper back might be a bit difficult though, I’m not that flexible.”

Angel Face shrugged. “Again, no pressure, but I’m happy to help if you can’t reach and want some on that area.”

Bucky thought about it. One the one hand, having Angel Face’s hands on him again would feel good. On the other hand, having Angel Face’s hands on him again when he already knew how good they felt… could be problematic. 

What the hell. 

“Please. Just, go lightly, would you?” He shook his head in exasperation. “It feels like it’s all raw back there, even though I know he didn’t wound me.”

Angel Face swallowed. “I will. There are a few spots where he broke skin though, you should know that.”

“Oh.” Infuriatingly, Bucky could feel tears pricking his eyes again at that. He could handle blood, had handled far worse, but hadn’t wanted to his first time. His first time was supposed to be fun, for exploring something new. Not the mess it had turned out to be.

The blonde bit his lip. “I know it’s probably getting old, but I’m sorry. If it helps, there’s only one or two spots where the skin’s broken and it’s small pinpricks of blood, not cuts. You can barely see them.”

Bucky blew out a breath. Oddly, it did help him get his wobbly emotions back under control to know the damage he’d explicitly warned against was relatively minor. “Yeah, that’s good to know. Can you just put the cream on the areas without breaks in the skin? It’ll sting like a bitch otherwise.”

The dom huffed a laugh. “Sure, sensible idea.” The rough palms smoothing lotion into the hot, abraded sections of Bucky’s back felt sublime, so good Bucky let out a quiet groan. “Yeah, this is the good stuff. T’Challa has a Wakandan specialist make it just for us.”

Bucky’s eyes popped open. “You know T’Challa?”

“Of course.” The blonde’s amusement brightened his velvet baritone. “How do you think I was able to bring you in here, alone, without being stopped and kicked out?”

“Ah. I… wasn’t really thinking when I said that, I guess.”

The dom laughed, entertained. “No, but you had more excuse than most who ask me that question. Go on now, you’re done.” He patted Bucky’s unbruised shoulder lightly. “Take the rest of the tube with you and reapply every day, morning and evening, until the bruising starts to fade.” Bucky opened his mouth to protest - surely the stuff was expensive if it was custom made - but the dom held up a hand to stop him. “We have loads here, so don’t worry about it.”

Bucky fixed him with a gimlet stare. “It’s true! I promise!” The dom laughed. “You can ask T’Challa yourself if you don’t believe me.” He smiled, and Bucky was helpless to stop his face responding in kind. “Can I check your arm is ok? I mean, I don’t know anything about how it should be, but…”

Bucky interrupted, touched by his obvious concern. “It’s fine, thanks. Much tougher than the rest of me, actually.” Shaking his head, he turned to start dressing in his street clothes, which had magically been transported from the cloakroom he’d left them in. Bucky frowned, and turned to Angel Face, opening his mouth before realising he couldn’t ask the question because he didn’t know Angel Face’s real name .

“Um… how did my clothes get here? I left them in the cloakroom.”

“Huh? Oh. I asked my friend to fetch them while you were napping earlier. Hope you don’t mind.”

“No, it’s fine. Just curious.”

“Right.” The Dom sent him a teasing stare. “You said earlier, I remember. Curious as a cat, and lots of questions to ask.” His eyes sparkled, and Bucky had never been captivated by anyone’s eyes before, but he’d never met Angel Face before, so it was a whole new day for learning new things about himself. 

“Yep. That’s me. Buckitty with a thousand questions.” He winked, while the blonde stood there, open-mouthed. 

“Buck...kitty?” Angel Face guffawed, throwing his head back and laughing with his whole body, thick shoulders shaking with hands planted on lean, v-cut hips. The latex really was a good look on him. “That’s got to be the most original pet name I’ve come across in a while.”

Bucky shrugged. “Just made it up now. Don’t know if that kitten stuff is for me or not, but it sounded good.”

His breath seized in his chest at the slow, savouring look the other examined him with, lips lifting into a smirk, and eyes closing to become half lidded as they swept his half clad form. “For what it’s worth,” the baritone had deepened into a pleased rumble, “if you did decide you wanted to try, I think you’d make a very pretty kitty indeed.”

His face flamed, and his heart thundered in his ears. Was this Adonis lookalike… interested? In Bucky? Even after he’d shouted at and cried all over him multiple times?

The smoulder in the blonde’s gaze seemed to confirm that he was. 

“I, uh. I think - I might be interested. In that. If,” Bucky gulped, “if it was someone I trusted.”

The heat faded from the blonde’s gaze, which, dammnit, was not what Bucky had intended. “Of course, I completely understand, tonight has-”

“No! I mean yes - I mean, you’ve been so nice, and Ilikedyouearliertoo!” Bucky shut his eyes and prayed for the ground to swallow him up, mortified by everything about the last two minutes of this conversation.

“Like me, huh?” The man prowled closer, feet soundless, and Bucky felt suddenly as if he’d gotten much further in over his head than he realised. 

“Yeah.” He breathed, tilting his head to glance up at the blonde as he approached, the shine of his latex in the low light making it appear as if he glided through the room.

“Hm.” The low hum emanating from the dom’s chest was rich like honey, and Bucky shivered. “You’ve had a trying night, kitten, so it’s not I don’t believe you.” Bucky sighed, the honesty in the other’s gaze undeniable - he was stretched to his limit and sincerely wanted nothing more than his bed, as wonderful as this flirtation was. “But you need to rest and come to me with a clear head. I’d be honoured to explore with you. Explore you .” He shot Bucky a grin which made his knees weaken. “Thousands of questions included.”

Bucky grinned back. “I look forward to it. Are you coming to the next club night?”

“Well I am now. But just in case-” He pulled out a business card from one of the pockets on his waist belt. A sleek, navy background had a white star embossed on it, white lettering stamped in a circle on the outside spelling out The Captain , a phone number and email address similarly in white underneath. “Here you are. My contact details. Use the cell number and I’ll give you my personal phone once you get in touch.”

“So… what should I save it under? Do I call you Captain?”

The dom’s - The Captain’s eyes darkened. “Sweetheart, you can call me whatever you like.” He chuckled. “But maybe to start, let’s stick with Steve. You probably don’t remember me introducing myself earlier, but I like to save titles for… slightly more dressed down occasions.”

Bucky felt the tips of his ears burn at the implication, and knew his entire face must have turned tomato red. “S-sure,” he stuttered, “Steve it is.”

“Good.” Steve said. “Very good, James.” His smirk widened as Bucky couldn’t help the shiver that rolled through him on hearing the praise. 

“Go on now, James. If you have everything, I think you better get home. Call if your drop gets worse again, or if you need anything. I’d like it if you text me when you get home safe.”

“Sure.”

“Good. Safe journey, kitten.”

It wasn’t until Bucky was sat in a cab on his way home that the weirdness of the situation overwhelmed him again, so that he had to sit with his head between his knees for a mile or two, just breathing; but.

Steve took care of him. Steve didn’t get cross with him, or criticise him, when Bucky was cranky and rude. Steve rubbed his back and let him cry as much as he wanted and gave Bucky his card before sending him on his way because he was too out of it to know better.

Maybe, just maybe, Steve was different.