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Bucky steps away from the mirror so he can admire the full effect of his regalia for the first time. He designed it himself—began sketching ideas last Midwinter as soon as he was named tribute-elect—and today he finally gets to see his vision come to life. He's wearing thick, wool pants—form over function. But his upper body is draped with thin gunmetal chains, some threaded through the hoops of Bucky’s newly-healed nipple piercings, others crossing his chest and shoulders and draping down his back. They all spool out from an anchor at his left shoulder, the chains there wrapping around his arm like a metal sleeve. His chest and abdomen are still visible through the strands, and when he moves it’s just as he’d hoped; as the metal shifts, it moves like water across Bucky’s body. When the light catches just right it looks like the silvery scales of a fish belly. Bucky isn’t sure it constitutes an adequate sacrifice to an ocean deity, but he likes the way he looks anyhow.
He can’t seem to get his hair quite right though. Most tributes wear their hair down for the ritual, as is tradition, but it’s just the symbolism of it; and isn’t this all symbolism, really? Even the elders, who insist that Midwinters of yore were a much grimmer affair, agree it’s been more than half a century since the old gods have taken a tribute from Red Hook. Spring comes; the traps are full or they aren’t. Winter comes; the sea holds or it doesn’t. And whether or not a young man in Red Hook offers his life for his village doesn’t seem to make any difference.
The other villages along this stretch of coast have long since abandoned the old ways, and Red Hook itself had once tried to do the same. For two winters, long before Bucky was born, Red Hook had no Midwinter festival at all. The winters seemed to drag on longer and harder than usual without it, and it didn’t take. Red Hook’s insistence on keeping with tradition is now seen as “antiquated” at best, and “barbaric and delusional” at worst, but it’s always been Bucky’s favorite day of the year.
He pins his hair back and takes another look. He looks exactly as he’s meant to—a young man primped and prepped until he’s a fisherman’s approximation of a sea god’s favorite meal. He looks good. And he feels good. This is still an important event in Red Hook and he’s honored to be chosen, even if it is a little esoteric. The fate of Bucky’s village doesn’t hinge on whether he makes a pretty enough sacrifice, but it does matter to him to stand in front of his family and promise that he’s willing to provide and protect them.
He’s taken his preparations seriously. He’d been given a ratty old tome to study: a history of Midwinter in Red Hook, a detailed accounting of the tributes who came before him, and vague guidelines from the council on Preparing Oneself as Offering. He’s changed his diet, oiled his hair and skin with seal salve, decorated his body, and spent hours practicing his words. But he still can’t get his fucking hair right.
“Hey, you,” Becca says from the doorway behind him. “Almost ready? I can hear them at the end of the street. The Grand Marshal will be here soon.”
She sounds graver than Bucky expected given her frequent and open mocking of the whole affair, but Bucky isn’t bothered. He’s feeling heavier than he expected to himself.
“Yeah, I’m ready,” he says. “Do you mind pinning my hair back again? I can’t get it right.”
Becca takes a charm from her bracelet and ties it to the length of ribbon Bucky’s using to tie up his hair. “To remember me,” she says with a wink, then twists his hair and pins it at the crown of his head. She wraps the ribbon so the small charm is just visible on one side. “You look beautiful,” she says, squeezing Bucky’s shoulder. “Let’s go.”
###
The parade route begins at the front steps of the Barnes house, moving through the residential area, then along the boundaries of Red Hook. The procession grows with each home they pass, familiar faces joining in behind Bucky, his family, and the Grand Marshal of the parade. Some haul baskets of food for the dinner tonight, some have wreaths or other small tokens of their own offerings to the sea. Each newcomer greets Bucky first before falling into line. It’s handshakes and cheek kisses, oohs and aahs over his outfit, and even a flamboyant bow from Clint Barton.
As they loop around the town’s borders, Bucky looks at Red Hook like it’s the last time. The weathered houses, the weathered faces, the salty, fishy air. It’s the same as it’s always been, Bucky knows, but it seems a little lovelier today. They end their route in the town square. Bucky follows the Grand Marshal to the small stage, and then climbs onto the dais as the Grand Marshal greets the gathered crowd. It’s been a clear, sunny day and even with no overcoat Bucky had felt warm as he marched through town. But the sun’s dropping lower and now that he’s stopped moving, the cooling sweat is making him shiver. Not much longer.
The Grand Marshal must have finished his welcome speech, because he turns to Bucky and says, “James Buchanan Barnes, you have been chosen by the council as Midwinter tribute, a son of Red Hook given back to the sea. Do you come here willingly, and of sound mind and body?”
“I do.”
“Then let us begin,” he says, a genuine smile for Bucky.
The Grand Marshal faces the crowd again and begins the invocation. Bucky tries to focus, but the wind is picking up and cutting at his skin, goosebumps blooming under the cold metal. He only catches the last words—his cue—when he hears his name.
“James Barnes, your sacrifice will not be forgotten as day closes on Midwinter and you return to the sea whence you came."
Bucky steps off the dais and gives the gathered crowd a last look. He winks at Becca, smiles at his parents, and makes his way to the little boat tied off on the shore. He’s glad he asked Becca for help with his hair, because even in the protected cove the wind is whipping it into his face. The boat is loaded down with the rest of Red Hook’s offerings—dried gourds, wine, geoducks, ceramic pots filled with shiny baubles—meant to appease the sea. He sets off toward the setting sun in the middle of the cove. Bucky pulls the oars against the water, the chains across his shoulders jangling. Mr. Fury told him that tributes used to be bound to the boat before being shoved out to sea—willingness was apparently not a prerequisite at that time—so Bucky supposes it could be worse.
By the time he reaches the center of the cove he’s shivering and shaking, his hands cold and cramping around the oars. He’s practiced this a dozen times with Becca, but the cold and added weight slowed him down. The sun is almost at the horizon, so Bucky quickly racks the oars and steadies himself on his feet in the middle of the boat. He faces the shore as the blue-black water churns around him, softly rocking the boat, and looks out at the shoreline of Red Hook, of his home.
“I, um,” he starts, but the words he’s practiced a hundred times feel awkward with only the wind and waves as audience. “I come before you humbled, ruler of the cold salt sea, that you may hear my prayer. Keep our nets full with your bounty, keep our seas still with your mercy, keep our enemies at bay with your wrath. I come before you humbled, master of the deep, as your servant and a servant of my people. Should you deem me worthy, accept as offering my body, and let your servant return to your life-giving waters.”
He’s a little breathless as he finishes his benediction. His lips and jaw are tight from the cold, but he manages a smile as he looks back toward the shore. Between the distance and the dark he can’t see much, but he knows there’s a celebration waiting for him. Not much longer and he’ll be wrapped in furs, drinking cider, and having his pick of dance partners.
Then he hears the crack.
###
Becca squeezes her mother’s hand as they watch Bucky stand in the skiff, silhouetted against the setting sun. She can imagine the words he’s saying so easily; he’s been practicing them with her for months. The invocation, the supplication, the offering. However asinine she may find this whole endeavor, she feels unaccountably proud watching Bucky on the horizon.
She sees it before she hears it. Just a ripple at first, some motion in the water. She can’t see what causes it, none of them can, but she hears the crack of the hull as the boat splits in two, and she watches as her brother, her best friend, disappears into the water.
She’s quiet as she stares into the cove. There’s no breath in her lungs for speech. Beside her, her mother is screaming. The town watches as the two halves of the little skiff bob in the water. Becca is quiet as her mother collapses and her father rushes to hold her up. She’s quiet while the men of Red Hook, many former tributes themselves, rush into johnboats and crash into the sea toward Bucky. She’s quiet as the split pieces of the boat disappear beneath the waves.
Midwinter is here. Bucky is not.
###
The sea rushes up to meet him, or he’s pulled down into it, Bucky can’t really tell. He opens his eyes against the burning saltwater, but there’s only darkness. The sun has fully set, so there’s not even light from above to guide him to the surface. He tries to kick his legs, but his pants are heavy and his feet are tangled in something—a kelp forest, or the boat wreckage, maybe. His head is swimming, his brain already desperate for oxygen. There’s nothing but darkness and the fiery protest of his lungs as the sea presses in around him. He’s waiting to black out—surely he won’t have to be conscious while the ocean turns him inside out—but that relief won't come. He’s pulled down and down and down. His own scream fills his head as briny water fills his mouth. Bubbles stream over his face as he screams until all the air is emptied from his lungs. He knows another breath isn’t coming, so he tries to hold it there, keep his lungs empty, and kick off from whatever is dragging him under, but Bucky is out of time. He can’t overcome his body's drive to inhale.
His chest heaves outward as he takes an enormous, gulping breath. But the pain of his lungs flooding with water doesn’t come. He gasps around each subsequent breath, his head spinning from the imbalance of gases, taking in huge lungfuls of air. His ears pop as the pressure shifts, and he falls onto something firm before he finally, blessedly loses consciousness.
###
Awareness comes back to Bucky in waves as he squints into the darkness around him, his eyes and sinuses stinging from the saltwater. A boat, a crack, a relentless plummet downward. And now just dizzying, impenetrable darkness. It’s disorienting to have both eyes open and still sit in darkness, so he shuts his eyes and tries to make sense of his surroundings.
He coughs, trying to clear his throat of salty phlegm, and the raw, broken noise echoes around him. Bucky can hear water running softly nearby, and weaker streams dripping on all sides of him. A cave then. He spreads his fingers out and presses into the surface beneath him. It’s firm, but has more give than Bucky expected, damp and polished smooth. Too slippery, Bucky thinks, as he slides his bare heels across the surface, his shoes lost somewhere in the sea. As he finger-walks over the ground beneath him looking for a handhold, the darkness behind his eyelids starts to lighten. He opens his eyes to a cool glow to find his instinct was right. This is a cave. The glowing light grows, emanating from the edges of the water that surrounds him on three sides. It laps against the outcropping of rock Bucky’s sat upon, and as it gets brighter Bucky realizes that “cave” may have been too conservative. Cavern is more apt; the ceiling stretches higher than Bucky can see. It’s marginally better to be able to see again, but it doesn’t really put Bucky at ease. The growing light casts shadows across the cavern walls making the rock formations look like a horrible, jagged throne.
The rest of Bucky’s awareness crashes into him all at once as his eyes dart around the cavern. Not just his awareness of his environment, but of how he got here. His words, his offering, Midwinter.
In a year of preparations for this exact occasion, Bucky had never, not once, considered what to do if he actually ended up in a sea-king's lair. He’d eaten oysters and scallops ‘til he could burst. He’d abstained from wine, from lamb, from venison. He’d pierced his nipples for fuck’s sake, turned his body into a lure. He’d meditated, studied, and rehearsed. He’d taken it seriously for what it was to him, what it was to his entire village. A symbol of Red Hook’s roots and its reliance on the sea. And a symbol of Bucky’s place, too—his devotion to his village and his family. He digs his fingertips into the surface beneath him, trying to ground himself in this new reality, and the earth begins to shake.
The ground shifting underneath him isn’t symbolic. It isn’t symbolism that has him hoarded into an undersea palace. The sound of another voice is certainly more than a symbol.
“Careful, little one.”
The voice comes from behind him, but the acoustics of the cave make it feel like it’s surrounding him on all sides. Deep, rough, unused. He tries to scramble up, get his feet underneath him, but the earth is still shifting and he can’t figure out where to put his energy. By the time he gets enough purchase to push off of something solid, he’s being pulled in a different direction. His entire body is maneuvered without his input until he hears a splash and he’s spun around, placed more gently than he expects, with his back against the cavern wall. Bucky takes in his captor for the first time.
It’s…something like a man from the waist up. Strong, muscled arms, a broad chest. His skin looks almost translucent in the eerie glow. But from the waist down—from the waist down it’s all monster. Enormous, writhing tentacles squirm and move under the water and anchor the creature to the craggy rock. It’s hard to tell how big it is. Even with much of its lower body covered by the water, it’s several feet taller than Bucky, and the tentacles spread out at least thirty feet on either side of him. Bucky can see the undersides in some places, great silvery circles, suctioning and sucking as they move the creature’s limbs. The extremities never stop moving, but the man—the creature—is still.
“Are you…” Bucky chokes out, his voice whisper soft.
“You know who I am. You called for me.”
Bucky’s heart sinks leaving an icy crater in his chest instead.
“You can’t be,” he says stupidly.
But he must be. He is. Bucky can see that right in front of him.
“What are you gonna do to me?”
“Nothing you haven’t freely offered,” the creature says. There’s something behind his voice, some inhuman sound, low and thrumming and threatening. “What’s your name, little fish?”
“Bucky.” Bucky doesn’t take his eyes off the creature, but he can see its tentacles moving in his periphery. Long, snaking ropes of beautiful winter's night blue move closer and closer. “What’s, um. Should I call you something?”
The creature makes a noise, too high to be a laugh, but something close. “I am not sure you will have much need for my name, but—” he stops, ponders, and moves in closer “you may call me Steve.”
Steve. Such a plain name for such a magnificent creature.
Several of Steve’s thinner tendrils move faster, flicking up their fish belly undersides to show the sparkling silver as he inches in. Bucky looks up at him, closer than before but still several feet away in the water and he’s—he’s beautiful, first, above anything else. Pale skin, blue eyes, delicate, scaly patterns along his hips and flank that disappear into the undercarriage of his limbs. Steve’s eyes don’t leave Bucky as two slick tentacles reach his bare feet and wrap around his ankles.
The tentacles, independent but in sync, work their way up his thighs. He watches, mesmerized, as one of them moves toward his fly, deftly wraps around his button, and slips it from the hole. Bucky’s heavy woolen pants fall to the ground, his hips too slim to hold them up unbuttoned. He’s so taken by the dexterity of Steve’s tentacles that he doesn’t notice the two tentacles that have wrapped themselves around his wrists until he tries to cover his immodesty. Instead, he’s hoisted into the air by his wrists and ankles, strung up like a Vitruvian catch-of-the-day with his dick out.
“I’ve waited a long time for you, Bucky,” says Steve. More probing tentacles crawl up Bucky’s stomach, slowed down by the little suckers. They leave wet trails behind them as they inch their way over Bucky’s skin.
He gulps, flattered and flattened. “Have you?”
“Mmm, yes. I’ve been…hungry for some time.”
Bucky startles when one thin tendril reaches out to tug at the chains still threaded through his nipple rings, all that remains of his beautiful chainwork.
“Is this all for me?”
“Yes,” he says quietly. “They are. For you, I mean.”
One of the long tentacles from the middle of Steve’s ruff reaches up and pushes Bucky’s hair away from his forehead. He shivers from both the soft touch and the heated gaze.
“I’m going to make a meal of you, little fish.”
The tentacles suspending him by his ankles and wrists start to twist up his arms and legs, and at the same time he’s being pushed and pulled ever-forward toward Steve. Bucky knows Steve was telling the truth; there’s nothing in his eyes but hunger.
There’s not much left for Bucky, and he needs to know—
“Will it hurt?”
The tapered end of one tentacle trails down Bucky’s face, from his temple to his chin, and tips Bucky’s face up so he meets Steve’s eyes. “No, little one,” he says. “Not if I do it right.”
Bucky closes his eyes, clenches his jaw, and nods.
At least it won’t hurt. This is the ocean’s mercy.
A tear escapes from one corner of his eye, wiped softly away by Steve’s tentacles. Bucky can hear the way Steve’s limbs writhe in response, and he has to look just one last time. Now Steve’s eyes are closed, a peaceful, pleased look on his face. He looks somehow more beautiful than before, and what a strange thought that is as Bucky looks upon his executioner.
He takes a deep breath and closes his eyes again. The tentacles holding him in place are now wrapped around him fully, encasing him from shoulder to wrist and hip to ankle. He can feel the way the larger cups suction to him as they work over his skin. Steve’s tentacles themselves are cool to the touch, but they begin to warm as soon as they touch Bucky until the parts of him not covered by Steve are cold in comparison.
He wants to tell Steve to get on with it. Maybe a quick and painful death would be better than whatever this slow descent to hell is. There’s a gnawing burn inside of him. It’s making his heart race, and every time he breathes he feels the strain against Steve's limbs. But he can’t seem to speak. He thinks, hysterically, of watching La Sirenita with Becca as a child. He’s a little princess with a lost voice. His stomach hurts.
There’s a sharp jerk, and Bucky looks down to see a tentacle coiled around the chain on his chest, pulling it taut and tugging at Bucky’s nipples. He finally recognizes that gnawing, nauseous feeling. It's not dread, it's arousal. Or maybe arousal and dread; it’s a very confusing execution either way.
Steve’s staring down at Bucky’s chest, too.
“Beautiful,” he says. “You look beautiful, Bucky. And all this for me,” says Steve, a bit of wonder in his voice. More tentacles circle around Bucky’s nipples, the pointed ends flick at the hard nubs, then the softer, velvety underside sucks and pulls at them. Another tentacle works its way between Bucky’s legs and he gasps at the cool touch as it circles around his cock and rolls against his balls. “Pretty here, too.”
Steve reaches out with two small appendages to either side of Bucky’s face, tucking his hair behind his ears where it’s come undone from Becca’s careful updo. Bucky marvels again at the deftness of Steve’s tentacles. Another limb—one Bucky can’t see—gathers his hair at the nape of his neck, pulling just enough to keep his head up and his shoulders back. The suckers track along the curve of his neck like a lover’s kiss. It doesn’t help quell the growing tension between his legs.
Steve's tentacles trace wet paths over his torso, up his neck and across his cheeks, until two of them curl into the corners of his mouth, probing and exploring along his lips and teeth. When one presses inside, his face pinches at the brackish taste, but it doesn’t stop him from trying to close his lips over it and take it further into his mouth. The tentacle in his hair tightens and the one in his mouth pulls at his bottom teeth in opposition.
“No biting,” Steve says, his deep laugh reverberating against the cave walls and turning Bucky’s insides into something molten.
Bucky groans when Steve’s tentacles press against the soft give of his cheeks; he can feel the way the suckers pull and cling to him. Steve presses a thicker, smoother tendril into Bucky’s mouth. It slides over his tongue until it nudges against the back of his throat. Bucky heaves around the intrusion, but his shoulders barely move as they jerk against Steve's hold. He's completely at Steve's mercy. He groans again, unable to help himself. If this is his death, may it be eternal.
“Should you deem me worthy,” Steve says, a mimicry of Bucky’s Midwinter prayer. “Do you know how many times I have heard those words?” The tentacle in Bucky’s hair pulls tightly without warning, baring Bucky’s neck. “And there was no one, little fish. No one until you.”
Then there’s nothing left in the whole world but sensation. The tentacles wrapped around his limbs start to slide and squeeze, others reach up to drape around Bucky’s neck, still others move to caress his shoulders. Bucky’s cock is jutting out in front of him, the only part of his body Steve hasn’t touched, and it aches. He wishes Steve would move closer, maybe wrap one of those human-looking hands around it and stroke him, but it doesn’t seem polite to beg for an orgasm when you’re meant to be offering your life. Steve had found him worthy; surely worthy offerings don’t ask their deities to grant them one final orgasm.
It doesn’t matter anyway. He's lost to the touch. Bucky’s head is foggy and his body feels painlessly cleft in two, each half of his body sliding against the other. His whole being is stretched out, pulled pleasantly tight as Steve’s tentacles rove over him. There's something important happening here, he's certain, but things are happening too fast. He’s drawn effortlessly along as his body climbs and falls, is rent and hewn again. It’s exquisite. He can’t hold on to any one sensation for more than a moment, he just floats along the slipstream of sensation until he hears—
“Made for this, Bucky.”
Yes. That’s right. That's what's important. He was made for this. For Steve.
The tentacles in his mouth force his jaw wider; the thicker, suckerless one thrusts in and out of his open mouth, salty drool dripping down his chin. The others press, cling, suck, and pop as they inch their way down Bucky’s throat. He relaxes his jaw and stares wide-eyed at Steve as another tear falls. A small tentacle drinks the tear from Bucky's skin before swiping up the mess on his chin, too.
He can’t take much more of this. His entire body is being milked, and he’s too hard, leaking and shaking. Steve moves closer and swipes one thumb through the beaded precome. It’s the first time Bucky’s seen him use his hands. He wants them on him so badly, but his mouth is too full to ask. Steve licks the fluid from his thumb, sharp teeth gleaming, and shudders. His tentacles flutter against Bucky, and his blue eyes glow, phosphorescent like the water.
“So sweet, little fish. Can I have another taste?” asks Steve. He reaches out with one hand, and Bucky thinks—hopes—he’s reaching for his cock, but Steve grabs the chain still linking Bucky’s nipples and pulls him forward. Another enormous tentacle encircles Bucky’s waist, covering his entire abdomen and dipping low around his stomach like he's being held.
The tentacles in his mouth have worked his already salt-sore throat raw, and every noise Bucky makes sounds cracked and hollow. His body is slack as the tentacles around his limbs knead at him, like they’re working all the blood in his body to the center. Tenderizing, he thinks. His nipples ache against the pull of Steve’s leash. There’s an increasing pressure from the tentacle around his belly, tighter tighter tighter, then Steve lets go of the chain without warning and Bucky is coming, hiccuping and choking around the tentacles still fucking his throat. This is the ocean’s bounty. His come floods across Steve’s stomach and down into the writhing mass of his tentacles. It seems to absorb into the dark blue of his tentacles, but where it’s splashed across his stomach, Steve’s tentacles move to lap it up.
Steve gently pulls out from Bucky’s throat. The suckers tickle on their way out, and Bucky chokes and coughs, and when he finally looks up at Steve again he thinks he's seeing double. Steve is still there, but he’s overlaid with something else now, the same way his voice is. Rising up behind Steve, a shadow made of light, is what Bucky imagines Steve’s true form looks like. The ephemeral cast is stories high, an enormous mantle rising up behind him, gauzy tentacles spreading out like a shiny, silver star around a sharp, vicious-looking beak. This is the ocean’s wrath.
“Are you a god?” Bucky asks, awestruck.
Steve smiles, all teeth.
“No, little one. Not quite.”
“You’re…stunning.”
“If that is true, it is only because you have made me so,” Steve says, his smile softening for Bucky. He sets Bucky softly onto his feet as the tentacles surrounding him loosen their hold. He’s fuck-drunk and weak and his head is spinning, but Steve's arms don’t let him go, just hold him upright as his blood rushes into his limbs.
Steve’s tentacles slowly withdraw from Bucky’s arms and wrap around his back, pulling him flush against Steve’s chest, closer than Bucky's been yet. The ghost of Steve's true form still hovers behind him. This must be it. Steve smells briny and green and so much like home it’s jarring; he wishes he’d had more time like this. It doesn’t help that his bare cock is now pressed into the soft mass of Steve’s ever-moving tentacles. Despite having come harder than he ever had in his life, his body is still thrumming. Bucky’s dick hasn’t been touched once since he was trussed up like a flounder, and he’s getting hard again just from the subtle motion of Steve’s body. If he could just thrust up into that soft, wet—
“Could you touch me, please? Before?” Bucky says wildly, the words coming out in a rush before he can lose his nerve. He doesn’t have anything else to lose.
Two tendrils push Bucky’s shoulders back so he has to look Steve fully in the face.
“Before what?”
Bucky’s eyebrows pinch together, looking up at shadow-Steve, then back down at corporeal-Steve. “Um, before you eat me?”
Steve’s laugh is sudden and booming
“Is that what you thought?” he asks, a pointed tendril petting over Bucky’s chained chest. “And this is how you greet death, little one? Dressed up like bait and your cock hanging out.”
Bucky scowls at Steve. He’d felt very important earlier—worthy, like Steve said—and he doesn’t appreciate being made to feel silly.
“Excuse me! I came here with pants on. And what was I supposed to think, huh? You’re the one who said you were going to make a meal of me!”
Steve’s laugh is even louder this time, his shoulders shaking with it, and his pseudomorph shadow shakes right along with him. Bucky buries his head in Steve's neck to cover his own laughter for a moment before he tries to twist out of Steve's grasp.
"Uh-uh, little fish. Where do you think you're going?" Steve wraps his arms around Bucky's waist and pulls him in tighter. "I'm not finished with you yet. You've fed me. Shall I feed you now?"
###