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Bucky’s minding his business on a fine Friday night when his asshole of a husband reaches over to flick his nipple and says, “You should get these pierced.”
Maybe it’s a joke, maybe it’s a genuine suggestion, but that doesn’t matter because Bucky’s brain fizzles out at the edges and decides to take it as an order. It’s zero to sixty in a matter of seconds, blood rushing south, his cock stiffening dizzyingly fast. Bucky’s toothbrush falls from his hand as he reaches out to brace himself on the sink counter. He stares mournfully at the smear of blue in the basin’s spotless white. He cleaned that just this morning, not to mention the total waste of a nice blob of perfectly good toothpaste.
He doesn’t think about the ache between his legs. He doesn’t even look down, clinging to the vain hope that if he doesn’t do anything, it’ll just go away, preferably before Steve—
“Huh,” Steve says. “Interesting.”
Too late.
Bucky opens his mouth and shuts it without uttering a word. Steve makes a soft, humming sound that has Bucky clenching everywhere because he knows that sound, knows what follows it.
He still shudders when Steve touches him again, more firmly than before, one huge hand cupping Bucky’s right pectoral, giving it a good, groping squeeze.
Bucky bites back a gasp and puts both hands on the counter. He doesn’t bend over and stick his ass out because he’s not yet been teased to that level of undignified sluttiness, but he does shuffle back a little and hang his head, issuing a quiet invitation.
Steve takes it up. He always does, and he will for as long as he’s got a functional dick. And probably after too—back in the 30s, Steve couldn’t always get it up, but that didn’t stop him from fucking Bucky stupid.
Steve fists a hand in his hair and yanks him to the side, away from the sink. Bucky’s left hand slips on the counter, but he catches himself before he can faceplant into the black marble. He tries to right himself, but Steve’s hand is tight in his hair, exerting steady pressure. Bucky tries to resist, just a little, but a hard swat to his ass makes him give it up with a breathy sigh.
Steve gives an appreciative hum, the hand in Bucky’s hair trailing down his back, nails digging lightly into his spine. Bucky tenses at the touch, trying not to shiver, but when Steve pinches a bit of skin above the swell of his ass, he loses that fight too.
He’s not wearing much, just a pair of worn boxers. Steve shoves it down with little ceremony, baring Bucky’s ass. His hands slide over the exposed flesh, the touch groping and possessive. One oversized paw spreads the cheeks, and Bucky’s hole flutters, still sore from earlier. Steve presses the pad of his finger over it, pressing gently. He’s not gentle a moment later, a finger sliding into Bucky, pushing ruthlessly past the meagre resistance his body offers.
Bucky grits his teeth against a cry, breathing deep as the sting shudders up his spine. Steve crooks his fingers, the tip digging into Bucky’s wall, the knuckle pressing in on his rim. It’s casually cruel, and Bucky’s cock throbs like a second heartbeat.
“Still loose,” Steve comments, tone flat, almost bored, like the sight of Bucky hunched over the bathroom counter and hot around his finger doesn’t even do anything for him. It’s a front, but it’s solid, and Bucky’s left imagining disdain and disgust and a million things in between in that careful lack of inflection, pulse racing faster with each second, cock growing wet.
His reaction isn’t lost on Steve; it never is.
Steve slides that finger deeper, to the last knuckle, and it doesn’t sting as much as the initial penetration, but it’s not pleasant either. Bucky’s loose, but he spent a good ten minutes cleaning lube and come out of himself, so all that’s left is an aching emptiness and strange, gripping friction. It wouldn’t be fun for anyone if Steve fingered him like this, but Bucky will bite his lips and take it anyway. He’d swallow hot coal if Steve asked him to. He’d do—god, he’d do anything, let Steve do anything.
He whines at the thought, cock so hard it hurts. Steve keeps that finger buried deep in Bucky and uses his other hand to grip Bucky’s hips. Long, calloused fingers sink into the flesh there, digging in hard until they find bone. Steve’s got a thing for slotting his fingers along Bucky’s hipbone until it bruises. The pain’s negligible, more a relentless pressure than anything, but it makes Bucky’s insides melt.
Steve slides that hand along his front, making a show of seeking, searching, even when they both know what he wants to find.
“Look at that,” he says when his fingers brush Bucky’s cock. “S’like it ain’t enough, what I do to you.”
It’s not a question, but Bucky knows this bastard all too well.
“It’s always enough,” Bucky says softly. He spreads his legs wider and tries to make his body let of the tension that’s made a permanent home in his muscles. Makes himself nice and good and small for Steve.
It doesn’t really work anymore. Well, it does in that it gets Steve’s dick’s hard enough to pound nails, but Bucky’s not exactly flattering himself when he says it doesn’t make much to get Steve hard after the serum. Bucky spent most of the war with a sore ass and an aching throat, oddly paranoid that he smelled like Steve even though they all smelled of sweat and blood and mud those days.
Point is that getting Steve hard won’t get him to go easy on Bucky because that motherfucker has made an art form out of being the sharpest horny asshole in the world.
“Sure doesn’t feel like it,” Steve says predictably, tapping his thumb against the head of Bucky’s dick; even that simple, teasing touch sparks like lightning. “Was it something I said?”
Bucky doesn’t answer that. He’s not sure he can. Even he doesn’t know—
Steve takes his finger out, as suddenly as he pushed it in. The shock of it almost sends Bucky to his knees. He wavers but stays upright, dazedly watching cracks appear on the dark marble. This is the fourth countertop they’ve ruined. Few materials are made for supersoldier sex, and T’Challa keeps hissing at him when Bucky so much as jokes about a vibranium bed.
Telltale slick sounds wrench Bucky’s attention back to the present. He knows what’s coming, but the wet press of Steve’s cockhead still forces the air out of his lungs.
Both of Steve’s hands are on his ass, then, spreading them wide to expose his hole. It tugs at the sensitive skin there, the sting harsh and familiar, but it’s the heat of Steve’s cock that makes Bucky’s rim clench.
Steve starts to push in. It hurts, of course it hurts; Steve’s cock prods at Bucky’s limits even with half a bottle of lube and four fingers to ease the way. But he opens up anyway, muscles clenching tight around the intrusion but giving in to Steve’s maddening heat. He’s sore inside too from when Steve interrupted their Harry Potter marathon to put Bucky through the couch. He still doesn’t know precisely what about the dragon made Steve want to defile Bucky right there, and frankly, he’s better off not knowing.
“Hurts,” he whimpers, trying to look over his shoulder at Steve and failing spectacularly when Steve slides in another inch, hips angled to push his oversized dick along Bucky’s prostate, and Bucky’s muscles turn to molten goo.
He folds his arms on the counter and buries his head in them, panting raggedly as Steve keeps pushing in. He’s not rough so much as relentless, taking Bucky inch by inch with a steady, slick slide that aches red-hot along his clenching walls. It’s a relief when he bottoms-out, but once the sharp relief of no longer having Steve move in him fades, Bucky’s left to choke on the sheer fullness of it.
He keens into his arms, left fingers wrapping too tight around his own right wrist.
Fingers grip his hair and yank his head back, forcing Bucky’s throat into a sharp arch that makes it hard for him to drag in air. He scrambles to accommodate the new position, scoring deep scratches into the marble. A mangled version of Steve’s name leaves his mouth, and he gets teeth sinking into his throat for his trouble.
Steve bites up his arched throat, and these won’t leave a mark, but Bucky will feel the sting in his blood the whole night.
Steve nips his ear and uses the hand in Bucky’s hair to turn his face to the side. It’s a messy kiss, more tongue than lips. Steve tastes like toothpaste because he wasn’t accosted before he could brush his teeth.
Bucky pouts into the kiss, and he can’t really turn his face away when Steve’s holding him by the hair, but he makes a valiant effort anyway, half just to feel the violence with which Steve drags him back against his mouth.
“Something you wanna tell me?” Steve asks, licking wetly at Bucky’s lip, and it takes him a moment to even register what Steve’s asking.
“N-no.”
Steve hums and breaks the kiss, letting go of Bucky’s hair. The relief is momentary; Steve grips his hips and pulls out—and out and out—and white dances in Bucky’s vision as the head of him tugs at his rim, threatening to slip all the way out without quite committing to it. He knows what’s Steve’s doing, he knows what he’s in for, but the sudden, brutal thrust that fills him to the brim still rips a scream out of him.
Steve sets a savage pace and doesn’t waver, doesn’t ease up, fucking into Bucky hard and deep, breaking him open like he’s got something to prove. It’s all Bucky can do to cling to the counter and scream his throat raw, whimpering when he runs out of air. It hurts, and it’s so much, sheer, damning sensation, but what fucks Bucky up is how good it is, Steve’s size and his heat ramming into him, taking him, owning him.
He doesn’t touch himself, and Steve doesn’t either, but he doesn’t need it, not when the serum’s got him on a hair-trigger too and Steve’s cock is pressing up good against all the right spots.
Bucky doesn’t even realize he’s grinding back into Steve, arching his body and clenching his ass, until a hard slap makes him freeze. Steve digs his fingers into the ache, nails scraping skin, and Bucky tries to buck away from the stinging pain, but there’s nowhere for him to go, braced on the counter and speared on Steve’s cock.
Steve fucks him like that, cock screwing deep as his nails cling to Bucky’s flesh. Pain blends with pleasure into a maelstrom of sensation; piercing warmth shudders through Bucky’s veins, and he’s so fucking close, just from this, and if he can just—
Steve stops.
The sudden lack takes a moment to register. The slick sounds of flesh meeting flesh vanish, and Steve’s hips are flush to his ass but their frantic movements have ceased. Bucky barely breathes, reeling from change. His cock throbs, the head slick with precome, the whole of it pulsing in want. He tries to move back into Steve, to writhe on his cock, and he knows it’s a mistake, but he only stops when Steve’s hand comes down hard on his ass, right on the ache from earlier. His other hand wraps tight around Bucky’s throat.
“Behave,” Steve says, amused, the asshole. “Now, honey, got something you wanna tell me?”
Bucky shakes his head and gets cuffed on the side of his head. It’s a love tap by Steve’s standards, and Bucky can take a lot of damage, but the mere act of it—the casual violence—makes Bucky’s head spin. This is them, Steve and Bucky, sweet and savage and a million things in between. Bucky barely remembers a time when they fucked without violence, not since that first time Steve bit too hard on his lip and drew blood and Bucky, all of fourteen and wound as tight as a spring, came without even a touch.
Steve won’t judge him for anything. Right?
“Bucky,” Steve says evenly, yanking at Bucky’s hair. “Am I boring you, pal?”
“N-no.”
“You sure? ‘Cause I got better things to do than you.”
Bucky’s legs give out. Steve keeps him upright with a hand around his waist, cock still buried in Bucky, keeping the two of them there, just like that, as if Bucky’s weight is nothing to him. That doesn’t help Bucky regain any of his lost strength. He hangs off Steve’s arm like a limp noodle, hard in precisely one place.
“Tell me,” Steve says, all traces of humor gone from his voice.
He doesn’t tack on a threat. He doesn’t move either. He doesn’t need to when his body says enough—he’s so still inside Bucky, moving not even an inch, and there’s a measured quality to Steve’s breathing that says he can and fucking will do this all day.
Or maybe he’ll just leave Bucky like this and go do better things, and that thought, both heady and terrifying, is what finally makes Bucky talk.
“The piercings,” Bucky mumbles.
“What about them? You got a metal kink now?”
It’s condescending, the question, but Bucky knows Steve enough to know that the more disdainful he sounds, the more interested he is. But god, he wishes it were that easy.
He could lie and say it is, but he won’t. They made a promise, he and Steve—the truth or silence. No more lies, not between them.
Bucky shakes his head.
“Oh?” He can practically hear Steve’s focus sharpen when the obvious answer is removed from the equation. “Well, what is it then? Spit it out.”
Bucky’s silent. An open-handed slap lands on the swell of his ass, right under the small of his back. The heel of Steve’s palm thuds against one cheek, and his fingertips catch the other. Bucky arches up with a howl, accidentally driving himself more firmly into Steve’s cock, and his cry breaks into a weak whimper.
Steve silently lets him calm down, but there’s a promise of violence in the fingers tracing idle shapes in the heated skin still smarting from the blow. Bucky drags in greedy gulps of air, trembling down to his bones.
It takes more than this to break him down, usually. But he’s a wreck tonight, and he knows why, and Steve’s going to too, now.
“It felt like an order,” Bucky says, head down, the hair falling into his eyes a strange sort of comfort. “Like—like you were telling me to. Didn’t matter if I wanted it or not.”
Steve doesn’t say anything. It’s probably only a few seconds, but Bucky’s heart is in his throat, pounding in his ears, and the silence seems to last forever.
“What felt like an order?” Steve asks, putting Bucky out of his misery. And then the question actually registers, and Bucky whines.
“You know.”
Another slap, softer than the last, almost playful. But it’s a warning all the same.
“Indulge me,” Steve says, but with his tone, it might as well be “Obey me,” and that’s what does the trick.
“P-piercing my nipples.”
“You thought I was telling you to shove metal through your tits whether you liked it or not.”
And that—that sounds fucked up, worded like that, but it’s the truth, isn’t it? It’s what Bucky thought. More damning is that it’s what he wants.
“Yes,” he whispers.
Steve says nothing, but his body’s another matter entirely. The sudden drag of his cock catches Bucky off guard, and he shudders, gasping, when Steve slips out of him. Pained pleasure mingled with sheer fear, but then Steve fills him in a single stroke, and Bucky’s eyes roll back in his head.
Wet sounds reverberate in the bathroom, bodies talking while their mouths are silent. Bucky forgets to be afraid of Steve’s reaction, all of him narrowed into the red-hot ache of his cock.
When Steve speaks, the words hit Bucky like an electric shock.
“There’s that place Wanda likes in Manhattan. We’ll go there. How does Tuesday sound?”
Bucky comes with a high-pitched wail, untouched and stunned.
-
He knows what it sounds like—what it would sound like, especially to someone who’s not Steve. Steve’s a unicorn.
Said unicorn is currently dead to the world, some two hundred pounds of tired supersoldier passed out on top of Bucky’s sleepless self. He doesn’t mind. Even on nights when insomnia or his loud head keeps him up, it’s a pleasure to have Steve’s weight pin him down.
It feels safe, which anyone would understand. But it would get dicey if Bucky tried to explain that he feels safe because he feels trapped. It’s not just that Steve’s strong, though he is. He’s an easy match for Bucky, and when it comes to sheer physical prowess, a real, all-out fight between them would be fifty-fifty in terms of chances. But Bucky also knows that if it came to a fight and the stakes were to do with Bucky leaving or staying, Steve would win each and every time.
There is no bullet or blade that can cut through Steve’s dogged determination to be beside Bucky. It’s obsessive, borderline unhealthy, but god help him because Bucky thrives on it. He’s in love with the way Steve wants him, so wholly and violently. And nothing can cross his lines—Steve can drag him by the hair and bruise his pale flesh and fuck him till he screams, and Bucky would just get on his knees and beg for more.
And Steve does all of that and more, and sometimes, Bucky feels fucking guilty for wanting more, needing more. It’s a need he’s buried deep in himself because he knows, in the dark crevices of his mind clogged with shame and guilt, that before his capture, before seventy years of curious non-existence, he didn’t want these things. Or at least, he never thought about it, yearned for it the way he does now. He was happy with what Steve gave him, the pain and the harsh words. He chose his own clothes and styled his hair and went dancing with girls, and he was content as long as he could come home to Steve and lay himself bare for keen eyes and a sharp tongue that unraveled him body and mind.
He loved it with his whole fucking heart, and he didn’t need more—didn’t need to be made to crawl and beg, didn’t need poison dripping from Steve’s tongue, didn’t need to be made to strip and present himself for Steve’s inspection, didn’t need to be praised and chastised at Steve’s pleasure.
He didn’t need to be owned.
They’re only fantasies even now. Maybe that happy, content boy he used to be would have babbled everything to Steve the moment the thought arose. He sure remembers doing that, even in the war when he liked to be handled a little rougher and made to bruise a little darker. But he didn’t have seventy years of being owned and treated like a thing haunting his head then.
Bucky’s hyperaware of what it sounds like, and in his head, he knows the difference between what Hydra did to him and what he wants Steve to do to him.
It’s Steve. That’s the difference.
But no one else has a front-row seat to the circus show in his head. Steve, specifically, doesn’t. And Bucky’s terrified to shit of saying any of this out loud. Steve won’t judge, but that man worries, and Bucky would rather drink acid that see those pretty blue eyes trembling with pain. He saw too much of that after he came back to Steve, barely remembering him, his memory full of gaping holes, and then again, after Thanos, after Steve had to watch Bucky shrivel to nothing and spent five years mourning him.
They’ve had so much tragedy. Bucky doesn’t want to make any more.
But god, he wants.
It’s a relief that he slipped up earlier, that his body reacted faster than his mind could stop it. The cat’s out of the bag, sort of. Steve hasn’t asked any questions, but he made a show of writing an email, booking an appointment, while Bucky simultaneously tried to peek at the screen and disappear into Steve’s armpit.
Something is happening. Bucky’s scared to hope, but he’s still damn near choking on it.
-
The parlor Wanda recommended is nice. Bucky’s favorite part is that Sky—a kid who looks way too young to be poking holes in people—takes one look at the two of them, conveys shocked recognition in the twitch of an eyebrow barely visible past rows of metal, and then promptly seems to forget about it.
It's a studied nonchalance, but Bucky appreciates it deeply, and he knows Steve does too.
He appreciates them even more when he’s shirtless on a chair with Steve’s hand on his shoulder and his cock is conveying way too much interest despite Bucky’s best attempt to strangle it with denim. Sky can’t not notice, but they don’t say a word, and Bucky decides then and there that he’d kill for this human being.
The actual piercing barely registers. Bucky’s got the kind of pain tolerance that lets him walk on a broken leg and fight with a knife in his gut. This is a walk in the fucking park.
But fighting with wounds, however severe, doesn’t involve Steve goddamn Rogers watching him with his deceptively guileless eyes narrowed in keen interest. Maybe it passes as harmless curiosity to someone else, but Bucky knows better. That gleam in Steve’s eyes and the unconscious part of his mouth—that’s arousal, pure and simple, tinged with a generous load of possessive pleasure.
His fingers tighten on Bucky’s right shoulder when the needle pierces his second nipple. Bucky bites his mouth bloody, trying not to moan.
-
“Shame about the serum though, don’t you think?”
Bucky shakes off the haze just enough to understand that he’s been asked a question.
“What?” he asks.
Steve tugs harder, sending a sharp bolt of raw, screaming pain piercing into Bucky’s right side. His nipples are half healed though it’s barely been a day, and Steve’s been messing with them the whole time, starting from the car ride back home. The hurt was manageable at first, little harmless jolts, but it’s like Steve was teasing Bucky to lure him into a sense of complacency because Bucky’s post-dinner food coma on the couch was rudely interrupted by a pair of groping hands and an evil fucking smile set on a face that would make an angel weep.
“The serum,” Steve says slowly, raising a brow as if he can’t possibly comprehend why Bucky can’t focus past the hands on his chest.
Bucky swallows a question again, knowing it’ll get him another painful tug and ruin whatever hope he has of listening to Steve. His cock’s already an aching tent in his pants, one Steve’s been pointedly ignoring.
Steve watches him closely for a moment, and Bucky tries his best to look sweet and harmless, something pitiable, and maybe he succeeds, maybe he doesn’t; it’s not like it matters when the same tactic didn’t work on Steve a good ninety years ago, when Bucky was actually sweet and harmless.
“I had earrings for a while,” Steve says with an expression of great patience, even as his thumbs come to rest on top of Bucky’s red, throbbing nipples. “Lost a bet with Nat. I liked them better than I expected.”
Bucky’s brain briefly works at full power to provide him with a vivid image of Steve with studs in both ears. It promptly fizzles out, Bucky echoing its death with a quiet whine.
Steve beams brightly.
“Yeah? You like that? Lost ‘em though. Serum pushes it out eventually. Like bullets.”
He cocks his head, eyes narrowing on the metal on Bucky’s chest. He braces himself for the sensation, but it still hits him like a freight train, back arching up. But Steve’s perched on his thighs, his considerable weight pinning Bucky’s lower half to the couch. He feels exquisitely trapped, and god, his dick hurts.
“It’ll happen to you too,” Steve says casually, a corner of his mouth curled up into a devil’s smile. “That’s fine. We’ll just do it again. And again. Hm?”
Bucky just stares at him.
Steve’s expression softens—not by much, but enough that Bucky knows he’s checking in.
“Would you like that, Buck?” he asks softly.
“Would you?” Bucky asks, and he’s not being smart-mouthed, just painfully honest.
Steve sucks in a sharp breath because he knows.
“Yeah, honey,” he says, voice thick, dripping want. “I’d like that. That all it takes?”
Bucky closes his eyes when he nods. He doesn’t think he can stand to see the reaction on Steve’s face, whether positive or negative. He’s pretty sure, at this point, that it’ll be the former, but fuck, that might kill him too.
Steve doesn’t let him get away with it for long. His thumb presses painfully down on Bucky’s nipple before the pressure-pain-pleasure vanishes entirely, a second before those same fingers dig roughly into his jaw and gives his head a hard shake. A nail scrapes the thin skin under his left eye, and Bucky opens his eyes, meeting Steve’s demanding stare with a gasp.
“Say it,” Steve snaps.
“Y-yes,” Bucky mumbles. “Yes, yes, Steve, yes.”
Steve’s stare remains hard and unyielding, and his hand on Bucky’s face is no kinder, and Bucky melts with each passing second, becoming a loose-limbed pile of trembling want.
Finally, Steve tilts his head, smiling, his hand gentling on Bucky. Fingers lightly stroke the side of his face, and Bucky turns into it like a cat, letting Steve’s huge palm cover his face. Steve obligingly spreads out his fingers. God, they’re big, he’s big, and Bucky pushes into it until he can barely breathe. It’s suffocating. It’s the safest he’s ever felt.
Steve indulges him until Bucky’s heart is pounding from the shallow breaths he’s taking. Then, he pulls his hand away with an amused huff, lightly tapping Bucky’s cheek with his fingers, barely even a slap. It still stings, but Bucky pushes his tongue into his cheek like he can somehow taste the ache. He tilts his face up, turned to the side, pleading with his eyes. It doesn’t always work, but Steve must be feeling generous because he pulls his hand back and hits Bucky good and hard, snapping his face to the side.
Light bursts in his vision, and his ears are ringing, and it’s numb at first, his cheek, but then the pain hits, and Bucky stifles a whimper with teeth digging into his lower lip until it bleeds.
Steve sighs, loud and theatrical, as if all this is a chore for him. The hard heat pressing against Bucky’s leg tells a different tale, but he knows better than to mouth off about it.
Fingers grasp him by the jaw again, Steve’s thumb digging into Bucky’s swollen cheek. It’s a curious pain, a sharp sting, then a duller, deeper ache, and Bucky savors it before his body wipes it all away. Steve helps, pressing his nail into Bucky’s skin, hard and then harder until Bucky tries to squirm away, more out of half-hearted instinct than any real desire. All it gets him is Steve holding tighter, forcing Bucky’s lips into an ugly pout. His gums hurt, points of pain from Steve’s fingers. That hand could break his jaw, shatter his teeth; Steve wouldn’t even have to try, not really.
Bucky shudders with the thought, cock pulsing perversely.
Steve smirks like he knows what Bucky’s thinking. He doesn’t, Bucky’s sure. He probably thinks Bucky just wants to get fucked or his throat wrecked, and yeah, yeah, he fucking does, but one day, he’ll tell Steve that Bucky would let him strip the skin off his flesh and sew him back together.
That he’s the only one Bucky trusts to break him.
-
Bucky stumbles to breakfast, rubbing sleep out of his eyes and yawning wider than he can hide behind his hands. The morning’s sole saving grace is that Steve has put food on the table. It’s just toast and eggs, but the number of dishes Steve can be trusted to make without accidentally killing someone is very limited and this is at the top of the safe list.
“Sleeping beauty returns,” Steve says without turning around. He’s wearing an apron. Bucky plasters himself to that inviting broad back. “Oof. Don’t sleep on me, asshole.”
“Fuck you,” Bucky mumbles into Steve’s shoulder. “Feed me.”
“Ask nicely.”
“I did that last night on my back. This is payment.”
“Nicest way to call yourself a whore.”
Bucky’s face burns, but he hides it between Steve’s shoulders and says nothing. He played himself. Now he’s remembering last night, the couch and then the bed, and the mess they made—that Steve made—and god, the whole of him aches at the memory, and Bucky can’t even tell whether he’s sore or just needy.
His nipples sure are sore. They’re healed entirely, which makes Bucky slightly concerned about the metal’s impending expulsion from his chest. He can’t quite picture it, though god knows his flesh has pushed out enough bullets.
He holds Steve tighter and tries to worm into his skin until Steve huffs and reaches back to poke Bucky’s hip.
“Move.”
“No,” Bucky whines.
“Can’t feed you like this, Buck. C’mon. Off.”
Steve doesn’t give him much of a choice in the matter, bodily prying Bucky away even as he speaks. Bucky kind of flops on him, putting most of his weight on Steve, but of course that doesn’t stop the brute from hauling Bucky around like a sack of flour. The heat in his groin is downright embarrassing; it’s one thing to get hard when Steve’s manhandling him in the bedroom, another when he’s just messing with Bucky like this. It’s not new, not anymore, but until the day before yesterday, when Steve opened his big, fat mouth and ordered Bucky to get his fucking nipples pierced, Bucky had a handle on it.
Now, it’s like the wires in his brain are crossed and knotted and tangled, sparking up at the slightest hint.
Bucky’s trying so hard not to actually get hard while still clinging to Steve like a barnacle that he doesn’t notice what Steve is actually doing with him until his knees hit the floor.
The impact is more jarring than painful, and for a single, stunned moment, Bucky stares at the ground in complete bewilderment.
Then, slowly, his eyes find Steve’s bare feet and travel up—and up, and up, along pale green sweatpants and an apron-clad chest, finally coming to rest on his face. Whatever expression Bucky’s wearing makes Steve laugh. It’s a mean sound, but it’s fond too, a combination only Steve can manage.
“Stay there,” Steve says, patting Bucky once on the head like you would a dog. “I’ll get the food.”
“Okay,” Bucky says, dazed, because he doesn’t know what else to say.
Steve pats him again, playfully ruffling his hair.
“Good boy.”
Bucky tilts to the side, left side knocking into the leg of the dining table. The wood suffers more than his arm, but the put-upon sigh Steve heaves make Bucky feel small and wounded.
Before he can say or do anything, Steve crouches in front of him and roughly straightens Bucky’s torso. This time, Bucky doesn’t stop the whine that escapes him. He can’t even gather himself enough to try.
“Stay,” Steve repeats. “Don’t make me say it again.”
“M’not a dog,” is what comes out of Bucky’s thrice-accursed mouth.
Steve just blinks.
“You’re Bucky,” he says slowly. “That means you’re whatever I want you to be.”
When Bucky sways again, it’s into Steve, collapsing against his warm bulk. Those tree-trunk arms envelop him instantly, burying Bucky in Steve’s embrace. Bucky can hear his heartbeat, how it’s a little too fast—not sex or battle levels, but notable more than is normal.
That helps settle him. The fact that Steve’s breathing is even and his voice sure, showing nothing of what’s inside, helps even more. Bucky’s weird, he’s not denying it. And he’s Steve’s.
“Clumsy thing,” Steve says, chiding gently. “What do I do with you?”
Steve has already answered that question, in a way. Bucky just confirms it for him.
“Whatever you want.”
Steve’s answering hum is distinctly pleased.
“That’s right, sweetheart. Now stay here and be good if you want to get fed.”
It’s so hard not to faceplant on the floor when Steve stands up, gently pushing Bucky away first. It’s the casual threat—of not being fed, of being left here and punished in such a banal, cruel way—that gets to him. The rational part of his mind is aware that Steve would never. This is the man that hounded Bucky into three whole meals a day, back in the beginning when Bucky could barely stand to look at Steve. But he said it, and that—that’s—
“Of course,” Steve says, his voice intruding sharply into Bucky’s swirling thoughts. Before he can quite focus on Steve’s face, something prods at his thigh, sliding clumsily upwards.
Bucky gasps when Steve’s toes poke against his dick. His boxers don’t hide much. The hard line of his cock is distinctly visible, and there’s something unspeakably obscene about the sight of Steve’s foot nudging up against it.
“What exactly are you hungry for, pal?” Steve asks, tone long-suffering as if Bucky’s can’t see the gleeful glint in his eye.
He wisely says nothing and stays stock still. Steve’s remarkably steady on one foot, plates balanced on both hands. It’s an objectively hilarious sight, but Bucky doesn’t feel much like laughing. His pulse thrums in his ears.
Steve huffs when Bucky doesn’t answer. There’s no pleasing him when he’s like this. It’s more arousing than it’s got any right to be.
Bucky lets out a slow, measured breath when Steve takes his foot away and sits down on the chair closest to Bucky. He stares expectantly at Bucky, who stares back wide-eyed and helpless, a little terrified to even move, and then Steve sighs, shaking his head as if he’s disappointed that Bucky can’t just read his mind.
“Come here,” he says in the manner of a man forced to repeat himself beyond all reason. “How am I supposed to feed you like this? What am I, Elastic Man?”
“It’d be Captain Elastic,” Bucky says, somehow forming coherent words while his brain blares Steve! Feeding! Me! on repeat. A hard flick of his nose wrenches him back into earth. He blinks at Steve, who snaps his fingers and points at the ground by his chair. The distance is barely two feet, but it feels like twenty as Bucky shuffles over on his knees, limbs and mind sluggish like he’s wading through molasses.
Steve’s fingers sink into his hair when he’s close enough to satisfy him, which is so close that Bucky’s practically breathing into Steve’s sweats. Steve pulls him back a little and then tugs him around, and Bucky just lets him, uncaring whether Steve’s arranging him better or just having fun.
He barely tastes the toast, but he burns his tongue on the rough pad of Steve’s thumb.
Steve wipes his lower lip after, an unnecessary gesture that makes Bucky’s spine go loose and liquid. It’s all he can do to stay on his knees and not unspool over Steve’s feet. He parts his lips when prodded and chews mechanically, and his eyes never leave Steve’s face, but it becomes hard, suddenly, to see those handsome features, everything a soft blur.
He doesn’t realize he’s crying until he blinks and his vision momentarily clears. Steve rubs his knuckles over Bucky’s wet cheeks, gently wiping off the tears. The same hand cups his face and tilts it up, and Bucky blinks and tries to meet Steve’s eyes.
They’re so blue, boring into Bucky, concern shining through clearly.
“I’m okay,” Bucky says before Steve can ask. He smiles, and it’s wobbly at the edges but wide and true. “I’m…better than okay. Lots better.”
Steve laughs, soft and startled.
“Yeah?”
Bucky rubs his face into Steve’s palm, humming in pleasure when Steve shifts his hold to cover more than half of Bucky’s face. His rough, calloused skin feels good on Bucky’s freshly shaved jaw and cheeks. He pushes harder against it like a cat, trying in some strange way to get Steve to grasp the whole of Bucky in that single hand.
Steve takes his hand away, chuckling, and Bucky whines, blinking up at Steve. His tears have dried up, but he feels strangely tender. Raw, inside and out. It’s a good feeling.
“Open up,” Steve says fondly.
Bucky does, but instead of Steve’s fingers putting bread and egg in his mouth, he gets Steve turning his chair around, one hand already shoving at his waistband. The soft, glowing warmth inside Bucky ripples into searing heat in a millisecond.
“Wider,” Steve says, grasping Bucky’s jaw, thumb pushing at his lower lip. “It’s like you’ve never sucked my cock before.”
Bucky whines because that’s not fair, he didn’t know, but Steve’s smile turns into a crooked smirk and his thumb pushes harder on Bucky’s lip, so he just opens wider, trying at the same time to pout with his eyes. He doesn’t know if it works, and a moment later, he doesn’t care because Steve’s feeding him his cock, and Bucky forgets to care about anything that’s not the solid heat sliding over his tongue.
Steve holds him by the back of his head, fingers splaying wide to cover his nape too. Bucky knows what that means, and he tries to prepare himself, breathing deep and relaxing his throat. He still gags when the head shoves at the back of his throat, and his own cock pulses hot. There’s no mercy in Steve. His hand’s gentle on the back of Bucky’s head, but it’s as unyielding as iron, and his cock’s no kinder. Bucky gives up, gives in; he always does, and he wants nothing else.
Bucky ends up with his face pressed firmly to the thatch of neatly trimmed hair at the base of Steve’s dick. The scent of him floods Bucky’s nostrils. Steve hasn’t showered yet, and the smell of him is thicker, dark and musky. It’s an aphrodisiac and a sedative, loosening the remaining knots of tension in Bucky’s muscles even as his cock gets wet at the tip.
Steve runs his fingers through Bucky’s hair, gentle in contrast to how he’s got him suffocating around his cock. Bucky stays like that until his lungs are burning and even then, he just makes eyes at Steve, blinking away fresh tears. Steve wipes them away and pulls out, rubbing the head wetly against Bucky’s lips as he slips out. Bucky gasps for air, hungrily eyeing the flushed length bobbing in front of his face. Steve’s a pretty sight and just the right kind of monstrous. Bucky wants to die on his cock.
Steve laughs.
“Of course you do. I’ll pass though. I’ve got plans for you that don’t involve fucking you to death.”
Bucky didn’t mean to say that aloud, didn’t even realize he did, but he doesn’t really mind.
“Okay,” he says happily, smiling up at Steve. “Whatever you want, Steve.”
He means it literally. And now, Steve knows it. Blue eyes warm with affection peer down at Bucky, Steve’s smile softening but retaining a little of its edge.
“I know,” Steve murmurs, quiet and reverent.
Bucky shivers lightly.
Steve’s thumb slots along his jaw. This hand is slightly greasy the way it is when tissues aren’t enough to wipe away the residue. Bucky flicks out his tongue and tastes butter. Steve slides it firmly into his mouth, and lets Bucky suck on it for a few seconds before forcing his mouth to open wide. Bucky knows what he has to do this time and is prepared for Steve’s cock to weigh down his tongue. His lips are swollen, the ache of it faint and thrilling.
Steve doesn’t slide as deep as before, pushing down Bucky’s throat a little before withdrawing, eyes fluttering shut when Bucky whines at the sensation.
“Stay like that,” Steve says, voice rough, the kind of deep that hooks into Bucky’s gut. “Can you do that for me, sweetheart?”
Bucky doesn’t have to think. He blinks once, then again, slow and intent. Steve rewards him with a smile and his fingers resuming their lazy movement in Bucky’s hair. It’s nice, soothing, and Bucky’s eyes drift close of their own accord.
He opens them, once, a little dazed, time uncertain, and finds Steve frowning at his phone. His other hand has stilled in Bucky’s hair, and it takes Bucky a moment to realize that’s what started him out of his pleasant trance.
Steve notices his stare and meets Bucky’s eyes.
“Ssh,” he says. “S’alright, honey. You’re doing so good.”
Bucky can’t talk with his mouth full, can’t even smile at Steve. He hopes his eyes show how he loves him. Steve’s smile widens, happy and proud.
“Ssh,” Steve says again, and Bucky hums at the fingers that rub firm circles into his scalp, closing his eyes, drifting, safe.