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Doll up for me, sweetheart <3
It’s an innocuous note, taped to the top of a black box with no discernible label that’s been left in the middle of Bucky’s bed like a siren call. The note’s cute too, with the sketch of an anatomically correct heart beside the anatomically ridiculous emoticon. A shapeless blob is hugging the heart, and the shading and distinctive heart on one of its arms make it very clear that the little blob is supposed to be Bucky. He meets the tiny circular voids making up its eyes and is given no hint of the trouble that undoubtedly lies under the lid.
It’s always trouble with Steve. Always.
But well, Bucky’s kind of a sucker for that, isn’t he?
He has the sense to sit down before opening the box. He takes his time, lifting the box onto his lap, running his fingers idly over the silken lid. He tells himself its caution, but the electric throb of his heart calls him out on the lie.
Steve likes to call him a masochist. Well, Steve likes to call him a lot of things, and not all of them are true all of the time, but that one’s spot on more often than not.
Still, he teases himself for a few more moments, turning the box over, careful not to let it spill its contents. It’s just a normal apparel box, and he was wrong before; there is a label, but it’s worn and faded. The box is old. Steve’s got a whole bunch of these piled up in a corner of his closet, old boxes from shirts and suits.
As if the confirmation that he can’t get any clue was the last thing Bucky’s twisted little mind needed, he finds himself flipping the box over, pulling off the lid with all the frenzy that was lacking before.
A splash of blue greets him.
Bucky’s picking it up before he quite registers it as a conscious decision, and then it’s too late, the shape of it already unfurling.
Lace. Blue lace, cut elegantly into the unmistakable shape of a thong.
Panties, corrects a gleeful little voice in his head that sounds too much like Steve for comfort. And that’s what they are, and at a glance, they’re just the right size to sit snug around his hips and over his cock—
And if he starts swelling, then—
He can’t imagine it. His mind draws a blank in sheer self-defense.
Bucky looks at the note. The letters peer back innocently, rife with meaning that’s hard to misinterpret. And, really, he doesn’t even need the note. If he’d found this here without any indication who left it or why, he’d still have known exactly what to do.
The gala’s in two hours, at eight o’clock. Steve’s got an appointment running till eight thirty, with a long-time customer he couldn’t reschedule. He said he’d meet Bucky at Stark Tower, and Bucky should have known that there was something behind Steve’s bright smile when he left a while back, but he was distracted, like a fool, by having the brains kissed out of him. A whole year into this relationship, you’d think Bucky would have built better defenses against Steve’s damn blue eyes and wandering hands, but no, he remains a damn fool.
A damn grinning fool, according to the mirror on his wardrobe. Bucky flips off his reflection and stands, still clutching his panties and with vague thoughts of texting his rat bastard of a partner and starting something that’s sure to end with him on his knees, eventually, when the other occupant of the little black box catches his eye.
It’s blue too. At least part of it is.
A glittering heart, the same shade of blue as the panties, gleams from the base of a butt plug.
His left fingers curl tighter around the panties even as the rest of him goes utterly boneless.
-
“Hey, soldier. You look a bit hot under the collar.”
She knows!
No, she fucking doesn’t, he bites back and doesn’t ponder too deeply the implications of talking to himself. All things considered, it doesn’t even register on his epic scale of insanities.
He shoots Natasha a look out of the corner of his eyes. She’s stunning, having swapped out her usual dresses for a blood-red suit that matches the shade of her hair. She looks sharp enough to cut, and judging by the glances she’s garnering, half the room would love to bleed on her.
Some of those looks linger on him too, but Bucky categorically refuses to consider that.
He registers a beat too late that Natasha is talking, and the tail end he catches doesn’t give him enough context to bullshit an answer.
“Um,” he says intelligently.
A faint frown flickers over her expression. She leans in, and it takes every ounce of willpower—and nearly a decade of training—for Bucky to not scramble back.
“You’re kinda red,” she says.
“It’s…hot.”
“The entire tower is temperature controlled.”
“Yeah, well, I run hot.”
Natasha’s eyes narrow. Bucky desperately reminds herself that she only pretends to know everything.
She raises an arm, palm curved as if to take his temperature, and this time, neither instinct nor common sense is enough to keep Bucky from taking a step back.
His body clenches up in response, tightening around the demon device snug in his sore, screaming asshole. It’s not that big, objectively, and Bucky can even walk normally, but usually, Steve sticks something in him and lays him out somewhere, on his knees or back or belly, and plays with him, makes good use of him—not leave him to brave the tender mercies of a crowd of classy Avenger groupies with the damn thing pressed up inside him.
“—ing me. James? James.”
Bucky blinks and finds Natasha frowning again, suspicion having morphed to concern.
“You really don’t look well,” she says softly. “Do you need to go?”
Bucky shakes his head, guilt flaring.
“No, no, s’just—not a fan of crowds. And…Steve’s late.” He’s reluctant to admit the last part, but Natasha’s frown vanishes, replaced by a crooked smile that’s as evil as it’s fond, and that’s better. Probably.
“Should’ve known you’d be fretting over loverboy. He’ll be here soon. Doubt he’d miss the chance to see you all dressed up. Till then, I’ll protect you from the big, bad socialites.”
“My hero,” Bucky says weakly. He means it though. Kind of. His own method of dealing with overfriendly “fans” has been deemed problematic. You break one lady’s arm after she grabs your fucking ass and suddenly, you’re a menace to society. Again. Natasha’s better at threatening to cut off vital body parts without actually jumping into the mutilation stage.
With Natasha appeased and lingering close, Bucky slinks back into his nice, shadowy corner, swallowing a whine as the plug shifts around. Some guy in a slate-grey suit wanders close, eyeing Bucky’s corner with too much interest, but a bare-toothed snarl gets rid of him.
Tony’s—well, Pepper’s, really—PR team says they’re supposed to be friendly and approachable at these events, but fuck that. Tony can charm the pants off the lot, and Natasha can walk the knife-edge between intimidation and temptation. Sam and Peggy are more practical and tend to avoid the spotlight, but they’ve got natural charm in heaps. The rest of them are goddamn human disasters, Bucky chief among them.
He’s sorely tempted to grab a drink, less for any imagined relaxation than for the protective shield of a glass in front of his face. But it would be wasted on him, his amped-up metabolism breaking down the alcohol before he has a chance to feel it. Food is another matter entirely. Munching on hors d'oeuvres in some corner is abjectly mortifying in a way sipping a drink isn’t. Bucky doesn’t want these people seeing him breathe, let alone chew.
A flash of blue at the bar makes up his mind for him. Who knows, maybe if he gets something pink and fruity that clashes offensively with his general murder vibes, these circling hyenas’ brains will short-circuit. Pepper can’t even purse her lips disappointedly at him for it.
Mind made, and tinged with desperation, Bucky starts for the bar, steps measured to not disturb the toy squirming merrily in his ass. Easier said than done, and he’s almost glad when Natasha’s appears out of nowhere in front of him, forcing him to stop.
“Nat?”
She slides an arm through his, neatly turning him around, and Bucky, confused, goes with it.
“Figured I’d fulfill my bodyguard duties and deliver you to right to Steve. He’s here.”
Electricity bolts up Bucky’s spine.
Natasha slants him a sideways glance. Before she can ask or, more likely, tease, a couple in front of them shifts, and Bucky’s brain screeches to a halt.
There’s no dress code for this party, but most are in formal wear, a sea of suits and silk. But Steve—he’s eschewed the jacket, wearing dress pants and a deep blue shirt that clings to his broad shoulders and muscular chest as faithfully as any of his undersized t-shirts. His sleeves are rolled up to his elbow, exposing forearms crawling with ink—swirls of bold black and splashes of color.
He's devastating.
“Oh, you got it bad,” Natasha murmurs from beside him, and Bucky spares a tiny corner of his mind to lament ever letting his friends-cum-coworkers know he’s dating Steve, but then he remembers it wasn’t a deliberate reveal so much as a bad fucking mission ending in a desperate kiss in the med-wing.
The memory of it tugs him back from the verge of swooning, but the respite only lasts a hot second before he meets Steve’s eyes, dark and smoldering even from half the room away.
“You both got it bad,” Natasha amends, amused.
As promised, she leads him to Steve, and despite Bucky’s brain flickering on and off as his eyes flit between Steve’s arms and chest and eyes and his insides clench with every stride, he follows her steadily, right until she presents him to Steve, complete with a theatrical bow.
“Do I want to know?” Steve asks, gamely settling Bucky’s hand in the crook of his elbow. Calloused fingers smooth over Bucky’s knuckles, and he bites back a whimper.
“I was defending his virtue,” Natasha says with a straight face. “Less chance of murder if it’s me. And now my job is done.”
“Not gonna chaperone us?” Steve asks, and someone makes a noise like a dying cat; it takes Bucky a moment, filled with startled looks from the people around them, to realize it came from him.
Natasha’s laughing. Steve’s piercing eyes have taken on a knowing look.
“I don’t like you that much,” Natasha says, and just like that, she’s off, a streak of fire soon swallowed up by a bubble of—admirers, to put it mildly.
“She’s having fun tonight,” Steve comments, and Bucky knows what’s coming before the next question is out. “Are you?”
“Steven.”
“Full name. Am I in trouble, Sergeant Barnes?”
“Fuck you,” Bucky says with feeling.
Steve only smiles. It’s a nice smile, wide and genuine, and Bucky would bet that most people wouldn’t even see the wolfish gleam of his teeth.
“Later,” Steve says softly. “If you’re very, very good. Have you been good, Buck?”
Bucky’s blood burns in his veins. There are people around them, on all sides, and sure, none of them are within earshot and it’s unlikely there are enhanced ears trained on their conversation, but the heat still creeps up his throat, his cheeks, and Bucky doesn’t even know what’s in his eyes as he stares at Steve, wide-eyed and speechless.
His lips still form an answer: “Yes.”
Steve reacts with a kiss—a fleeting touch of lips, chaste and all proper.
Bucky’s knees almost buckle.
He’s saved by Steve’s arm, releasing Bucky’s hand to wrap around his waist, drawing him close to Steve’s side and all but dragging him along as Steve heads for the refreshments. It should feel ridiculous, Steve lugging around Bucky like he’s an oversized teddy bear, but at this point, it’s familiar, and despite the people all around them and the plug insistently sending bolts of heat up his spine, Bucky settles a little, pulling the ragged edges of skin closer together.
Steve orders them both Cosmopolitans with a cheeky grin that billows into a full-bellied laugh when Bucky downs the contents of the dainty glass in one gulp. Steve plucks the empty glass from his hand and hands him the other drink, saying, “You look like you need it.”
Bucky sips at it as Steve turns back to the bartender to get another. Surreptitiously, he drinks in the sight of Steve, eyes lingering on the way Steve’s slacks cup his damn fine ass.
Naturally, Steve catches him at it, turning around and raising an eyebrow, amusement tucked into the corners of his mouth.
Bucky takes another long gulp.
He’s led away from the bar but not to one of his nice, shadowy corners. Instead, Steve makes a beeline for Tony. He’s got long legs and long strides, and Bucky can match him easy, but it costs him, his muscles yielding, clenching, and his cock’s an embarrassment, half swollen in its lace prison. And that’s worse, somehow, as if it’s not enough to be helplessly, hopelessly turned on in a room full of people; the thong bites into his cock, unfamiliar fabric hugging the length of it. He likes it and burns worse with the guilty thrill of it.
He barely hears Steve and Tony’s conversation, though he’s aware of his own mouth moving, words slipping out on autopilot.
The pattern repeats with Peggy and Pepper and Clint and Sam; the latter conversation lasts a while because Sam is Steve’s friend, not just his boyfriend’s friend and coworker, and Bucky makes an effort to focus, to really process all their words, but whatever part of him is present, playing a person, it’s not anything he can touch. His conscious mind is reduced to the silky embrace around his cock and the blood-warmed metal plugging him tight.
To Steve’s wandering hands, sliding along his back, wrapping around his waist, and, now and then, curving lightly over the swell of his ass.
Bucky starts when Steve gropes him a little too hard, fingers clamping down on one cheek, there and gone, a flash of pressure, but he feels it, skin tightening, walls clenching, gut twisting, and Bucky blinks and sees Sam’s expression, arranged into long-suffering exasperation.
“Which god did I piss off,” he asks despairingly, “to get stuck with you two assholes for friends?”
Bucky blinks at him.
“No gods, just your own life choices,” Steve says, as cheerful as Sam’s not. “Now, excuse us for a bit, Sam. Think Buck here needs to sit down a moment.”
“Sure, that’s what he needs.”
Sheer habit prompts Bucky to bite back, needle Sam with some nonsense, but if he opens his mouth now, he’ll moan, and present circumstances aside, Bucky’s not very keen on public humiliation.
Steve’s broad hand settles on his back, the heat of it sinking in through two layers, and Bucky blindly follows where it leads, colors blurring together in his vision as he’s marched through clusters of their fellow partygoers. They pause not even once, no familiar voice calls a greeting, and Bucky wonders if it’s just lucky chance or if his face, which feels red and damp, shows precisely what’s happening inside of him.
He wonders what Steve’s expression looks like.
Steve takes his hand, and Bucky blinks, the world coalescing back into solid shapes, right in time for him to see Steve press Bucky’s right thumb to a square pad set into the wall beside…a familiar door.
The panel flashes green, and Steve grabs the door handle.
“I thought we were going upstairs,” Bucky says.
Steve shoots him a sideways look.
“And leave this very nice party? No, not yet. C’mon.”
Bucky stumbles alongside him, and the door closes behind them, leaving them in a brightly lit landing. There are stairs leading to the floors above and below. Nobody uses these because Stark Tower has different elevators set aside for employees, service personnel, guests, and residents, each opening only to their relevant floors. Bucky’s ducked out into one or two when he entered through the front door instead of the residential elevators in the parking lot. Some days, climbing forty-something flights of stairs sounds better than sharing space with strangers.
But there’s no reason for them to be here now.
No, that’s a lie. There’s one reason, and it’s a terrible one.
He still lets Steve press him back first to the closest wall and pin him there with his body, inked arms braced on either side of Bucky’s head, that golden, grinning face inches from him. Steve looks pleased with himself, and it’s infuriating, how good he looks.
Bucky’s the one who kisses him, logic and good sense fleeing at the sharp scent of Steve’s cologne. Soft lips curve up against his own, and then Steve’s laughing softly into the kiss, hot tufts of air falling on Bucky’s mouth.
Bucky bites at his lip, and Steve’s laugh cuts off with a gasp.
“You bastard,” Bucky hisses, quiet even though the door is thick and they’re unlikely to be heard by the rest anyway.
“Language, kitten,” Steve chides, the hypocrite, but Bucky’s an idiot, a weak idiot, and melts a little at that soft, hushed kitten. “Good to have you back here with me. If I’d known a little toy would get you this good, I’d have…well, I’d have tried this a lot earlier.”
“I—that’s not—there are people.”
“A lot of them,” Steve agrees. “All around you, watching you. Should’ve seen how hungry some of them looked. Can’t even blame them, when you look this good. And they don’t even know, do they, that you’re all wrapped up like a gift?” That’s accompanied by a hand sliding down Bucky’s side, skimming over his hips to cup his ass, squeezing good and tight. “How many of them saw us come here, you think?”
Bucky jolts. He casts a wild glance at the door, which remains tightly shut. Steve’s other hand joins the one on Bucky’s ass, groping him generously through his pants. The plug shifts in him, and Bucky starts squirming.
“We can’t—” He stops, swallows. Steve waits patiently—or not so patiently, his hands still rhythmically squeezing Bucky’s ass, and Bucky doesn’t know if he’s imagining the panties moving, the fabric shifting minutely over his ass, his cock. “I—I have a perfectly nice room here, Steve. A fucking floor.”
“I know,” Steve says, amused. “I’ve fucked you in it. Many times.”
“I’m sorry, I didn’t know we were christening the fucking tower.”
“Where was all this sass when we were out there, hm? You looked a strong breeze away from dropping to your knees in front of me.”
“I—no, I wasn’t—”
“Yes,” Steve cuts in brutally. “You were.”
Bucky whines, and Steve bites it off his mouth, licking in at the answering gasp, wet and good and dirty, and Bucky clings to him shamelessly, spreading his legs and pulling Steve closer, closer, and Steve obliges, pressing his body to Bucky, slotting a thigh between both of his legs. And it’s no accident, how it gives Bucky something warm and hard to rut against.
He doesn’t, tearing his face away from the kiss. He buries his face in Steve’s throat and gulps in air. Steve’s taste clings to his tongue as stubbornly as his scent does to Bucky’s nostrils. Sometimes, it feels like every inch of him is haunted by Steve—scent and touch and sweet, damning memory engraved in his flesh, his bones, his soul.
So you’d know who to come back to, Steve said once, and Bucky doesn’t need the reminder, but god, he loves the ache of it.
His head’s yanked back, Steve’s hand fisted in his hair, and Bucky groans, pries his eyes open, and Steve’s there, bright-eyed and hungry. The hand in his hair slides down to cup his face, too rough to be sweet—thumb pressing hard into chin, nails scraping cheek.
“Look at you,” Steve says, admiring, adoring. “That tiny thing messing you up so much? Ain’t like you.”
“F-fuck you.”
“Hey now, don’t be coy. We both know you like it big. Doubt your slutty hole even feels that little toy.”
Bucky doesn’t—can’t—respond, not with words, his head full of white static. His body’s bolder, needier, rubbing up against Steve, trying to find friction on his hip, his thigh, but Steve sways back, tantalizingly close but still so far.
“Please,” Bucky whines.
“Ssh, hush now. Show me then.”
“What?”
Steve’s eyes flick deliberately to Bucky’s groin.
“Steve. I—door’s right there.”
“So they might see.” Steve shrugs. “I don’t mind showing you off. Pretty thing like you, who wouldn’t? Do you care? Shy, honey?”
Bucky doesn’t mean to, but he imagines it—someone bursting in, and the two of them, half clothed and hiding nothing, and he wants to reject it, turn away and plead for Steve to see sense, and Steve would, of course he’d stop if Bucky asked, maybe even if Bucky doesn’t ask, but—
“Yeah,” Steve says, low and smug, “that’s what I thought.”
Bucky screws his eyes shut and reaches for his fly. His flesh fingers shake, but the metal’s steady, unzipping it in one smooth motion. He doesn’t wait for Steve’s prompting, peeling the flaps to the side as much as he can, exposing the spectacle underneath.
He hears Steve suck in a sharp breath.
Bucky’s cock throbs as if sensing Steve’s gaze.
Warm hands settle over Bucky’s hips, burning him even through the fabric. Steve’s palm press into the bones there, pinning Bucky to the wall, but this doesn’t feel like it’s about him. Steve’s the one trembling, his fingers clamping tight over Bucky’s hips, his breath coming out in staccato bursts.
“Fuck,” Steve rasps. “Knew it’d look good on you, honey, but—god.”
Bucky shivers delicately.
One of Steve’s hands leaves his hips, cupping his face, and Bucky turns to it, pushing his cheek hard against Steve’s palm. A calloused thumb sweeps over Bucky’s jaw, the pressure rasping over skin shaven just a few hours ago, and prods his lips, not seeking entry, just soft pressure.
Steve’s other hand remains clamped on Bucky’s hip, precious inches away from where he’s aching for it.
Bucky opens his eyes, blinking twice so the world will come into focus, and Steve’s there, golden hair and skyshine eyes the whole damn world, and Bucky whines wordlessly, begging without knowing what he’s begging for.
“Buck,” Steve says, half laughing, half sighing, “I haven’t done nearly enough for you to look at me like that.”
“You’re enough,” Bucky tells him.
“Sweet talker.” Steve leans in a little, his breath brushing Bucky’s lips. “You’re a menace, aren’t you?”
Even through his shifting daze, Bucky registers the ridiculousness of that sentence.
“I’m the menace? You—you left the note, the damn gifts—” he sputters, realizing a beat too late that Steve looks a little too pleased.
“And you dolled up,” he says. “Just like I asked you to. Good boy.”
Bucky makes a sound in the back of his throat, and even he doesn’t know whether it’s a pleased purr or frustrated growl. Steve, the bastard, would be happy either way, having learned all too quickly how to play Bucky ten different ways.
“Good boys get rewards,” Steve says, sickly sweet, and Bucky breathes through the twist of his gut and jolt of his spine, fire and ice, anticipation and trepidation, and Steve’s hands are suddenly on his shoulders, pushing him down.
The impact shudders through him, knee to teeth.
His body clenches tight around the plug, white stars swimming in his vision. He drags his eyes from Steve’s crotch to the bright eyes peering down at him. Steve cups his face, his other hand migrating to Bucky’s hair, fisting a generous handful, and Bucky knows, then, how this is going to play out, and it’s another hot pulse through his flesh.
“Go on,” Steve says, jerking his head. “Take it out.”
Bucky swallows thickly and raises his hands, and just like before, one’s shaky, the other steady. He fumbles the fly open, but Steve’s the one who loosens his belt and shoves his pants down, leaving him bare down to his ankles, save for a pair of tight, clinging briefs. There’s a small wet spot on it, right over a mouthwatering bulge.
Bucky shoots a helpless glance at the door.
“I know,” Steve says. “Better make it quick, hm? Wouldn’t want to compromise my virtue.”
Despite everything, Bucky barks out a laugh, and Steve’s grinning too, crooked but real, and Bucky loves him so much, it hurts sometimes.
“Can’t have that,” he says. “That ass is private property.”
“Damn right. Now, open up.”
Bucky’s not given the chance for it, Steve’s thumb slipping past his parted lips and hooking over his teeth, tugging his jaw down. Bucky idly flicks his tongue over the knuckle, tasting the grooves on his skin. Steve takes his finger out, but Bucky keeps his mouth obediently open, watching breathlessly as Steve wraps his hand around his cock, stroking it loosely a couple of times, smearing the wetness over the head.
Bucky tries to lean in, and the hand in his hair tightens, pulling his head back. He blinks and meets Steve’s narrowed eyes.
“Where are your manners, Buck?”
“Sorry,” Bucky rasps. “P-please.”
Steve hums but relaxes his grip, and Bucky opens his mouth again but doesn’t try to lean forward. Fire licks at his skin, eating through it from the inside. But he waits, eyes unwavering on the pink, gleaming head of Steve’s cock.
He gets his reward. Steve feeds it to him, inch by inch, and he’s slow about it, almost gentle. Bucky savors the weight on his tongue, sinking into it, and he does shoot one last glance at the door, but the concern’s even lesser now, swallowed by the taste and scent flooding his senses. It’s Tony’s party anyway; people have likely seen worse. And if there’s a scandal about the Winter Soldier on his knees in a semi-public place, well, at least it will be better than most scandals he’s weathered.
He closes his eyes. His lips meet Steve’s fist, closed around the base of his cock. The fingers fall away, drifting to the side of Bucky’s face, knuckles stroking his cheek and the palm settling over it—cradling him, keeping him in place.
Steve slides down his throat, and Bucky shivers at the tight burn. This time, Steve doesn’t stop until Bucky’s nose is buried in the neatly trimmed thatch of hair at the base. The musk of him is strong there, familiar and intoxicating, and Bucky’s own cock is a constant ache, made worse by the lace wrapped around it and the plug’s heavy presence. But joke’s on Bucky because now, on his knees with a mouth stuffed with dick, the girth that tormented him for a good hour doesn’t feel enough, and the memory flits through his head, Steve’s voice low and dirty: doubt your slutty hole even feels—
He groans around Steve’s cock, and from above, there’s an answering noise, quiet and hoarse. The tightening of Steve’s fingers is the only warning he gets, but he’s been in this position often enough to brace for it, the pain and the pleasure and the pressure, his hair a leash as Steve drags him off his cock and shoves him back on it, barely letting him breathe before stealing his breath.
He still chokes, throat convulsing around the head of Steve’s cock, and expletives ring in the room, hushed but still so loud in the damning quiet.
Bucky blinks away tears. They feel cool on his flushed cheeks.
Steve’s flushed too, bowed over Bucky, looking at him, piercing him through with burning blue, and Bucky meets those eyes helplessly until Steve pushes him forward again, forcing him to swallow the full, aching length of his cock. His throat already feels bruised, and his lips are hot and swollen, and Steve’s not gentle anymore, fucking Bucky’s throat—no, making Bucky wreck his own throat. Steve’s almost stationary, feet planted and body steady, but his hands are merciless, stroking Bucky’s face so sweet with one and ruining him with the other.
Tears blur his vision and spill over with a blink. Salt stings his lips, his tongue, and then it’s washed away in the taste of flesh.
His own hands are on Steve’s hips, clinging tightly enough to bruise, and Bucky doesn’t remember when that happened, but he can’t pry them away, not even to soothe the throb of his own cock. It burns between his legs in a prison of lace and satin, but it’s a perverse thrill, hot and tight in his gut. The ache of his throat feeds it too, until Bucky’s blood feels like fire.
Steve must like the heat because he grows greedy with every thrust, hands almost claws on Bucky, gentle and cruel at the same time.
Suddenly, Steve yanks Bucky’s head back, his cock slipping out with a filthy pop. And it doesn’t slide back inside Bucky’s open, waiting mouth, and he opens his eyes, struggling to focus on Steve’s face.
He’s got his eyes closed. The hair on his temple is plastered to it with sweat, and his chest expands with each heaving breath. He looks as wrecked as Bucky feels, and that thought settles sweet and warm somewhere to the left of his ribs.
Steve’s eyes flash open, more black than blue, cavernous with hunger. Bucky could plummet into those depths and never surface, never want to.
Steve’s thumb nudges his lower lip, and Bucky opens, wide and then wider when Steve’s cock prods his lips and settles heavily over his tongue. Steve’s still got a hand in Bucky’s hair, and he braces for it, the tug and the thrust, but instead, those fingers remain firm but gentle, and it’s Steve’s hips that begin a slow, rocking rhythm.
It's more intense, somehow, that the brutal pace of earlier. The steady slide of Steve’s cock, prying open swollen lips and breaching a bruised throat, is quietly devastating, forcing Bucky to feel every sharp sting and aching throb, drowning him in the perverse pleasure of stolen breath and thrilling pain. He struggles not to choke around the head of Steve’s cock and loses the last of his air to its thick heat in his throat, and there’s another heat in his gut, pulsing and growing, a constant demand.
Tears slide down his cheeks, and Steve wipes them away, making soft, crooning noises that hook into Bucky’s heart, his cock.
Steve pulls out, lets Bucky breathe, and then he’s back, fucking him, filling him, and his hole’s a fiery ache around the plug, clenching needily around the metal because it’s not enough, and his cock throbs an answer, precome staining those pretty blue panties. Bucky tries to imagine it, and that’s a mistake, but Steve stops his squirming with a sharp thrust into his mouth, down his throat, and then another, and another, and Bucky stops thinking, closing his eyes and giving in to the heat and violence.
Steve comes down his throat, but he pulls back, not out, and Bucky gets a bit of it on his tongue, a bitter bite.
He swallows, stomach clenching in tandem, and suckles on Steve’s softening cock, until Steve groans and pushes him away, palm splayed over his forehead. Bucky whines a little when the wet head slips past his lips, but Steve’s hand, cupping the side of his face and thumbing his swollen lips, soothes him.
“Easy, sweetheart,” Steve murmurs, low and husky, a ragged edge to the syllables. “Breathe, slow now, ssh.”
Bucky realizes he’s panting, sucking in great gulps of air. He makes a concentrated attempt to slow down. Above him, Steve’s breathing is also unsteady, and Bucky can hear his heart, pounding away. It helps anyway, grounding him with every erratic beat and breath. He did that to Steve, for Steve, made him feel so good that it took Steve’s silken composure and tore a hole in it, and Bucky doesn’t need air when he can live on Steve’s pleasure.
Steve’s hand curls around the back of his head and gently pulls him forward, pressing Bucky’s forehead to Steve’s thigh.
Bucky closes his eyes and breathes.
It can’t have been long, but it still feels like an eternity when Steve coaxes him back to his feet, kissing him once Bucky’s face is within his mouth’s reach. It’s sweet and syrupy, Steve’s mouth gentle on his, brushing softly along his lips and chin and nose, coaxing out a smile even as the rest of Bucky’s body trembles with a wild blend of sensations.
He lets Steve pin him to the wall with his body—a warm, solid pressure.
And then—
“Steve!”
“Ssh,” Steve says, his palm suddenly covering Bucky’s mouth. His other hand’s between them, curved over Bucky’s cock, a too-light pressure that almost hurts.
Bucky whines, muffled by Steve’s hand, and bucks his hips, chasing a firmer touch, and Steve gives it to him, cupping, squeezing, and Bucky bites into the meat of Steve’s palm to stifle a shout. Steve grunts but doesn’t take either hand away, keeping Bucky quiet and driving him mad because he’s not moving, just touching, hot and solid, Bucky’s cock pulsing in his grip—
The sudden lack makes Bucky’s knees buckle.
Steve catches him, but they both almost topple to the floor. Bucky’s hauled upright, and he remembers how to make legs work, barely. Steve pushes him against the wall again, and he’s laughing, the bastard, eyes all bright and crinkled, and Bucky wants to lick him all over, crawl into him mouth-first.
He's too distracted to note what Steve’s doing until his hand’s on Bucky’s crotch, tucking him away and zipping him back up.
“Wh—Steve?”
“What?” Steve asks innocently. “We’ve got a party to get to, Buck. Would be real rude to stay away too long.”
“What.”
“Oh, you’re a mess though. Here, lemme just—”
Steve pulls out an honest-to-god napkin from his pocket, and Bucky stands there, questioning his reality, as Steve dabs the soft fabric over his mouth and chin, wiping off the mess he made.
But it can’t wipe away Bucky’s reddened lips and flushed cheeks, can it? It can’t heal the bruised ache of his throat and the hot throb between his legs, in his ass.
Knowing Steve, he doesn’t want to.
“As good as it gets,” Steve says, tucking the napkin away and pulling up his own pants, making himself presentable as if this is nothing out of the ordinary. “Maybe they’ll know with one look at you, but well, can’t say I mind.” He pats down his jacket and raises his eyes to Bucky, and his smile’s still wide but his eyes are piercing. “Do you? Walking around with your mouth showing exactly what it can do.”
“Steve,” Bucky breathes. There’s no other word in his head.
Steve draws him closer, both arms wrapping right around Bucky. He’s close enough to breathe Steve’s breath, and it twists inside of him, warmth and heat. His clenches around the plug, and now, it feels too big and not enough at the same damn time.
“It’s mine,” Steve says, pecking Bucky sweetly on the lips. “This pretty mouth. Everything it can do. All mine.”
“Yes,” Bucky agrees helplessly. “Yes, of course, yes.”
Steve smiles, steps back, and starts pulling Bucky toward the door.
-
They know, they know, they—
Bucky tries to drown out the helpful little voice in his head, but the awareness of it pulses like a second heartbeat. His skin feels hot, his right palm clammy. He studiously keeps his eyes on the ground, letting Steve direct him with a hand on the small of his back.
“Aren’t we shy?” Steve murmurs at some point.
Bucky elbows him and earns a laugh for his trouble.
By some stroke of mercy, Steve doesn’t lead them to any of their friends or acquaintances. If Bucky’s forced to interact with any of the Avengers in this state, he’ll perish on the spot. Natasha will know, and she won’t ever let them live it down. Sam already knows, and as much as Bucky likes to mess with him, he’s in no state to banter with Sam. Of course, Sam knowing means Nat and Peggy will also know, and then Bucky’s fucked anyway—
He steers his thoughts away, to safe nothingness. Well, he tries.
“You can look up now,” Steve says suddenly. “It’s just us.”
Bucky looks up. “Oh.”
Steve hums, shifting so he’s behind Bucky rather than beside him. He wraps both arms around Bucky’s middle, pulling him against his chest. Bucky sinks into it, boneless. People can see them, he’s pretty sure, but Steve’s led to them a fairly secluded spot—one of those jutting balcony-style spaces. The city stretches out before them, bright with the night. Bucky reaches out to lay his palm on the glass.
Steve’s chin comes to rest on his shoulder. His translucent reflection has its eyes fixed on Bucky, and the look in them makes his breath catch.
They stand like that for an eternity. Bucky’s head is blissfully quiet. The crowd’s sounds fade to a dull, uniform rumble, drowned out by Steve’s soft, steady breathing.
It’s a long time before Bucky can speak.
“You’re a menace,” he rasps. “And a pervert. God.”
“Just Steve,” the bastard quips.
Bucky elbows him again.
“Easy on the goods,” Steve says, grinning widely, and Bucky again tears his eyes off their reflections before he hurts his heart. “You sayin’ you didn’t enjoy it? That you still ain’t all hot from my…gifts?”
As if on cue, Bucky’s cock gives a warm throb. He’s all too aware of the plug.
“Didn’t say that,” Bucky says, and his tone sounds petulant even to himself. “Said you’re a pervert. And it’s true.”
“Your pervert,” Steve emphasizes gleefully.
Bucky’s in love with an asshole.
“I love you.” It slips out of him. And he stiffens, for no damn reason because Steve knows, everyone knows, and still, it’s terrifying sometimes, the truth of it. Bucky swallows and mans up and says, to the man who tensed up with him, “I really fucking love you.”
Steve’s arms tighten around him, almost suffocating.
“I love you too,” he says, a little choked, and then, “One day, that gift’s gonna be a ring. You know that, right?”
Bucky blinks. His reflection blinks back. Glass-Steve looks vaguely constipated.
“Is that—did you just—”
“Not until I get the damn ring. Yeah, I’m a pervert, but I got class, Barnes! I’m not proposing with a butt plug.”
“Wouldn’t put it past you,” Bucky says dazedly. Half his mind is screaming.
Steve grins into Bucky’s hair, pressing a hard kiss to his temple that he sees in the glass and feels in his bones. His left hand’s still on the glass. He eyes the silver grooves on his fingers, imagining a band of gold across one. He lasered off the red star on his arm, back at the beginning, and the arm’s his now, a weapon, yes, but so’s Bucky, and it matters how it’s used.
The gold would be different. It would be kinder. Half the Avengers have love lives not soaked in red, and Bucky does too, technically, but something about wearing Steve on his finger, bright for the world to see—
“My ledger’s not balanced yet,” Bucky says, and this time, Steve’s the one who stiffens. His face is carefully blank. Bucky swallows thickly. “Maybe it never will be. But…I’m a little tired of waiting around for that. I’m tired.”
“I know,” Steve says softly. “I’m sorry, Buck.”
“I never wanted to be a hero, you know. Didn’t enlist. Got drafted, and I was gonna do my part, of course, take care of my guys, but well—that didn’t turn out so well. It’s just—I never wanted to be the villain either.”
“You’re not.” It’s a vehement hiss, predictable but still so sweet. “Buck, listen to me, you’re not.”
Bucky turns his head and presses a kiss to Steve’s mouth, murmuring, “Thank you. I’m not promising today, or even this year, but…soon. I want it to be over. But I’m not sure what I’ll do without a gun in my hand. Haven’t had to find out in a damn long time.”
“Buck,” Steve chokes out, and he looks heartbroken.
Bucky nudges him with his nose. “Got any ideas for me, big guy?”
Steve lets out a shocked, watery laugh. “Well…I’ve always wanted a kept man.”
“Really.”
Something about Bucky’s tone must cheer him up because he loses that wounded look, smiling bright and nosing at Bucky, saying, “Mmhm. A pretty guy, all sweet and soft, just for me to put to good use. Interested?”
“Pervert,” Bucky complains, but he can’t help the breathy tint to it.
“That a yes, sweetheart?”
“It will be,” Bucky says, “if you convince me.”
“Come home with me, and I will.”
“You’re the one who wanted to stay.”
“Well,” Steve says, running a hand along Bucky’s left arm, interlinking their fingers over the glass, “I’ve changed my mind.”
-
Bucky’s slammed to a wall the moment the front door is kicked shut behind them. The impact doesn’t knock the breath out of him, but Steve’s wandering hands are another matter entirely. They slide down his front, hard and possessive, as if trying to bruise Bucky’s flesh through two layers of fabric. They slide further down, gripping his hips, his thighs, his ass, and the plug, burning inside him from a smooth but torturous car ride, shifts with Steve’s groping touch.
“Christ,” Bucky gasps. He’s clinging to Steve’s shoulders, fingers clenched tight, wrinkling his pretty shirt.
Steve doesn’t seem to give a fuck, pushing up into Bucky’s face, the sheer weight of his presence a more biting heat than his hungry hands. He bites at Bucky’s lip, a searing sting that sluices down his spine, and then Steve’s on his throat, mouth hot and wet, setting lips and teeth to sensitive skin. Bucky groans through the burn of blooming bruises, digging his fingers into the meat of Steve’s biceps. He’s undeterred, the opposite if anything, lowering his mouth to suck on Bucky’s pounding pulse.
“Steve,” he chokes out. “Jesus, you weren’t like this at—”
“Would’ve fucked you in that damn stairwell if I was,” Steve cuts in, a growl deepening his voice. “Think it was easy, keeping my hands off you?”
“You didn’t.”
Steve lifts his head, and he’s grinning, bright and wild. One hand flies up to Bucky’s face, the palm over his throat, fingers clawed over his cheeks, and Bucky’s stomach swoops, a filthy thrill.
Steve kisses his pursed mouth and licks over it, wet and dirty.
“I behaved well enough,” Steve purrs, the damn liar, but Bucky’s protest is bitten off his mouth, and his cock sends him a sharp reminder than it doesn’t give a rat’s ass about being right as long as it gets to spill its damn load.
Alright, maybe he’s projecting.
Steve draws away, leaving Bucky’s mouth throbbing in his wake. He’s spun around and pushed against the wall, and it’s like at the tower, with the glass, Steve’s hands sliding down his arms to entwine their fingers, pressing Bucky’s palms flat to the wall. It was sweet then, but now the air’s pregnant with something darker.
“Keep ‘em there,” Steve murmurs into his hear. “Can you do that, honey?”
It’s cute, how Steve’s acting like Bucky’s got a choice in the matter. He nods anyway and keeps his hands where they are when Steve lets him go to start working on his pants. It’s pulled down within seconds. Goosebumps break out along the exposed skin. He’s acutely aware of the lace hugging the swell of his ass—and the plug a merciless presence inside.
Behind him, Steve drops to his knees; Bucky hears his breath hitch, feels it fall hot on his skin.
Gently, as if the slide of satin will hurt Bucky’s skin, Steve pulls the panties to one side, his other hand tugging at Bucky’s cheek. His hole’s exposed, and Bucky’s mind pelts him with an image of the heart-shaped base nestled snugly between his cheeks.
“Jesus Christ,” Steve breathes. “Look at that.”
Bucky wants so badly to fold his arms and bury his face in them, to breathe and breathe, but he keeps them where Steve put them and hangs his head, gritting his teeth against the noises—pleas—that want to escape.
And then Steve’s fingers slip inside the thong.
For a moment, Bucky’s stunned, even though Steve’s done filthier things to him, things he can still taste in the back of his throat, but the simple brush of Steve’s familiar calluses along the curve of his ass, pushing between the cheeks, burns him up from the inside, and this time, Bucky has to bite down hard on his lip to muffle a cry.
Steve grasps the plug and—
“Steve!”
—pulls it out.
The emptiness makes him reel, muscles clenching down hard on nothing, a shudder twisting through his body, and Bucky locks his weak knees to stay upright. He doesn’t know what Steve does with the plug, but the next moment, both his hands are on Bucky’s ass again, over the satin, burning like a brand, and then his mouth—
Bucky cries out, the shock less at the sensation that the stark awareness of Steve’s mouth pressed to his hole over wafer-thin lace. The heat of it laps at him, piercing his gaping hole. It clenches again, walls fluttering madly over the hollow warmth where the plug used to be.
Steve presses his mouth, hot and open, more firmly to his hole. His tongue settles flat over Bucky’s hole, searing through the satin. Spit soaks through the thong, and Bucky’s flesh sparks electric.
In the front, his cock’s soaking through it too, dripping precome.
Bucky curls his fingers; they push into the plaster, flesh and metal both gouging deep into the walls. It’s not the first time, won’t be the last, and Steve will tease him, taunt him, later, gruff and chiding, like Bucky’s a messy, misbehaving child, and he won’t be mad, will fix it himself and pull Bucky close with paint-stained fingers, but he’ll act mad, and Bucky’s toes curl at the thought, anticipation setting teeth to his spine even as the molten present wrecks him with the damp heat of Steve’s mouth on his hole.
And then it’s gone, and Bucky cries out, thrusting his ass back to chase that mouth, but Steve stops him with a harsh nip to his back, just above the waistband. It hurts, a sudden sting, and Bucky’s cock throbs.
“Please,” he whimpers, curling his hands into fists, crushing plaster in his palms.
Steve finally, finally pulls the panties down.
Bucky’s relief is short lived. He’s not prepared—is never prepared, no matter how often Steve does this—for the slick flick of a tongue at his hole, for the wet pressure. It slips inside as easy as anything, filling in the hollow ache the plug left behind, but it’s different—softer, with the warm give of flesh, but crueler too, every sweet thrust a cloudburst of sharp-edged pleasure.
Steve’s breath warms the sensitive rim as his tongue carves into Bucky.
Someone’s keening, soft and distant.
Nails sink into his ass, their sting a pleasant counterpoint to the pulsing pleasure of Steve’s tongue, and then Steve’s spreading him wider and wider, pressing his face more firmly between Bucky’s cheeks, lips and tongue more frantic, fierce, unraveling Bucky with each dirty thrust and flick.
The pleasure’s agony, sparking up his spine and eating into his gut, dripping out his cock, and it hurts, an open wound between his legs, and he wants so bad to touch it, to beg Steve to touch it, but his tongue won’t form words and his hands are frozen where Steve pinned them, even as they unfurl and curl, fingers slipping back into the gouges they left, digging, clinging, and Steve’s digging into him too, cleaving him open with a wet tongue, and then teeth, scraping the edge with gentle violence, and Bucky howls and arches into it, chasing the pain, the pleasure, and Steve’s there, answering him with lips and teeth, and then—
“N-no, don’t, please, Steve—”
His pleas fall on uncaring ears, and for a moment, he’s choking on the hollow heat, the cool air brushing spit-slick skin, and then Steve’s pulling the panties back into place and standing, his body slotting along Bucky’s back. He’s crooning, soft nonsense, petting alone Bucky’s chest and face, nuzzling into his nape, his throat, his ear, and Bucky—
Bucky’s sobbing, heaving and wet, forehead pressed to the wall, aching and empty. His cock burns like a brand.
“Ssh,” Steve soothes, or tries. His arm is wrapped around Bucky’s waist, holding his trembling body tight, and his other arm—it slides down, past Bucky’s untucked shirttails, and grasps his cock.
Bucky rises up on tiptoes, overwhelmed. His cries break into a whimper.
But Steve doesn’t stroke him. He tucks Bucky’s cock back into the lace, and it’s a fucking joke because the thong’s thin and flimsy, and Bucky’s hard enough to pound nails. Steve tsks, patting Bucky’s dick as if it’s being unruly.
Bucky’s knees damn near buckle.
“Please, please, just—” He turns his head, catches the edge of Steve’s jaw with his lips. “Steve, Stevie, please—”
“Hush. I like you desperate, honey, but control yourself,” Steve says easily, the bastard, because he got off ages ago. “Think you’d rut against that wall if you could.”
Bucky whimpers, and a part of him wants to fight back, snap out something sharp and let Steve bite that off his mouth, but the words get stuck in his throat, right alongside his breath, because Steve’s the one rutting now, a telltale bulge pressing into Bucky’s ass, grinding into it light and lazy, and Bucky presses right back, helpless not to, and within seconds, he’s the one writhing, grinding back against Steve as if he can pull Steve into him, through layers of fabric, if he just pushes back hard enough.
Steve lets him for a while, his breath uneven on Bucky’s throat, and then his hands clamp down on Bucky’s hips, hard enough to bruise. Bucky stills—even though he doesn’t have to, even though he can break away with barely a thought. Doesn’t matter, never did, that he’s the stronger one. Steve’s got him trapped in the flutter of his pulse.
“There we go,” Steve says when Bucky’s still for a good few seconds. He grasps Bucky’s hands and gently pulls his fingers out of the plaster. “Easy there, honey. Made a mess, haven’t you?”
“Sorry,” Bucky chokes out.
“You’re not.” Steve’s amused, but there’s a mean edge to it. “You will be. Not today though. Think I’ll break you if I try. Will I, Buck?”
Bucky doesn’t respond, just lets his head loll back to rest on Steve’s shoulder. He’s still trembling; Steve’s got him all wrapped up in his arms, and his cock’s still hard against Bucky’s ass, but he’s still, just standing there clutching Bucky tight. Steve squeezes tighter, pulling Bucky back into his skin, gathering his unspooled bits and shoving them back together.
Bucky whines when Steve lets him go and stumbles when he steps back. Steve steadies him with a hand on his back. The other tugs roughly at Bucky’s hair.
“Bedroom, c’mon,” Steve says. “My joints are too old for the floor.”
Bucky’s recovered enough to say, “They weren’t ten minutes ago,” and gets slapped on the ass for his trouble. Even without the plug, it shudders up his flesh, making him stumble again, and this time, Steve doesn’t help steady him, just gives him a harsh push, and Bucky can right himself, he should, but he stumbles again—and again and again, until finally, they’re in the bedroom and, with a final push, he’s collapsing on the bed.
Steve flips him over, and Bucky flops like a dead fish. He’s acutely aware of his dick saluting Steve, having again escaped its prison of blue lace. Steve doesn’t seem to mind, taking the…respect as his due. If Bucky had any virtue left, he’d be worried at the look in Steve’s eyes.
But god, after all this time, it still kills him so sweet to be looked at like that.
Steve’s eyes flicker up and catch on Bucky’s face. He’s not sure what his expression is, but whatever it is, it makes Steve smile, the devil’s edge fleeing his face for a moment. He puts one knee on the mattress and leans down, pressing kisses to Bucky’s forehead, his cheeks, his jaw, and leaning back before Bucky can catch his mouth with his own.
“Promised you something if you were good,” Steve says. He reaches down, palm fluttering over Bucky’s straining cock. “I think you’ve been good enough. Ain’t that right, honey?”
It takes Bucky a moment.
Fuck you.
Later. If you’re very, very good.
“Yes,” he gasps. “Yes, please.”
“So polite,” Steve laughs. He settles back, straddling Bucky’s thighs and studiously ignoring his dick in favor of unbuttoning Bucky’s shirt. He takes his time, careful with each button and then peeling the shirt open gently to expose Bucky’s chest. His gaze is hot and hungry, and Bucky can live and die on that look in Steve’s eyes.
He slides his hands over Bucky’s chest, idly thumbing a nipple. It’s a simple, fleeting touch, but with how worked up Bucky is, it’s lightning down his spine. Steve’s mouth quirks as Bucky shudders under him, and for a moment, Bucky thinks he’s going to take advantage, torment Bucky’s nipples until he cries, but Steve restricts himself to a groping massage of Bucky’s pecs and then climbs off him, off the bed entirely.
He strips, quick and perfunctory, but Bucky still props himself up on his elbows for a show, throat drying up as items of clothing are discarded, exposing richly inked skin and hard muscle. Steve shoves his pants down, the underwear along with it. His cock’s hard, and Bucky’s lips ache with the memory of being stretched taut around that girth.
Steve catches his eye and grins, crooked and almost playful. He crawls back into bed, but not to Bucky. Instead, he sprawls out with his back propped against the headboard, legs splayed almost obscenely wide. Steve reaches under the pillow, pulling out lube and a tiny, familiar case. Winking, he pops a mint into his mouth.
Bucky rises to his knees without quite thinking of it, already moving before Steve beckons him close. He straddles Steve’s thighs and is pulled into a kiss, almost sweet. Steve’s hand is less so, pushing the much-abused thong to the side to press his fingers into Bucky’s hole. Two slide in easy, Bucky open from the plug and Steve’s mouth. The friction isn’t quite pleasant; the lube’s long dry, and Steve’s got thick fingers. Bucky gasps into the kiss, clenching around the intrusion, and Steve crooks his fingers, unerringly finding the spot that sends another jolt up Bucky’s spine.
“Good enough,” Steve says, breaking the kiss. “Don’t you think?”
“Huh?”
In answer, Steve takes his hand and curls his fingers around the bottle. Bucky blinks at it. Steve meaningfully eyes his cock, and Bucky’s been with this man long enough to know where this going, but god help him if it ever gets any less devastating.
With shaking fingers, he pops the cap and slicks up his hand. Steve’s eyes sharpen when Bucky’s left hand wraps around his cock. He said something, once, about the contrast being appealing to the artist’s eyes, but Bucky privately calls bullshit. Steve’s just a raging pervert.
His raging pervert now.
“Now what’s that pretty smile for?”
Bucky peers at him from under his lashes, sweetening his smile, and Steve tenses under him, breathing sharply.
“Just thinking of you,” Bucky murmurs.
“Mmhm. And I bet butter wouldn’t melt in that mouth either.”
“It’s true!” Bucky protests. “’Sides, you like my mouth just the way it is.”
“Not the point, but true.” Steve taps Bucky’s lip, gently digging in with a nail. “It shows, hm?”
Bucky nips at it and then lets go of Steve’s cock. He does try to sneak his hand back behind himself, press some slick into his hole, but even distracted, Steve’s too sharp for anyone’s good, catching Bucky by the wrist.
“Hey now, you know better. Behave.”
“It’ll hurt,” Bucky whines, and he doesn’t have to fake the tremble in his voice or the wet sheen in his eyes, his whole body burning hot at the thought.
Steve’s expression darkens in answer, not anger but hunger, and his free hand flies to Bucky’s throat, curling dangerously gently around it. Bucky sucks in a harsh breath, Adam’s apple pressing to Steve’s palm, which tightens a little in response.
“It will,” Steve murmurs. “Wanna see you cry a little. That so bad, honey?”
Sometimes, Bucky fucking plays himself.
“No,” he finds himself gasping. “’Course not, anything, Steve.”
“Aw,” Steve croons, somehow fond and mocking at the same time. “Sweet guy I’ve got. Isn’t that right?”
Bucky chokes on air. Steve squeezes his throat tight once and lets go, and Bucky gasps, more devastated by the loss than the choking.
Steve lets go of his hand too, but only after leading it back to his slick cock. This time, Bucky grasps it to lead it into himself, rising to his knees so he’s perched over it. Steve helpfully pulls the thong to the side, and Bucky half expects him to rip the damn thing off, but he just adjusts it enough to expose Bucky’s hole. Steve’s thick cockhead smears lube and precome over his sore rim.
Clenching his teeth, Bucky bears down on it.
White-hot sensation lashes at him.
Steve’s wet, and Bucky’s been getting fucked on the regular for the whole of a blissful no-mission streak of three weeks, but there’s something about this, perched over Steve and sliding down on his cock that fucks him up, coal-hot hands wrapping around his gut and pulling tight. And Steve knows, he knows how Bucky gets, and it’s there in the gleam of his eyes, their blue gone dark with want.
Bucky tears his eyes away and clenches his hole, forcing himself down.
“Easy,” Steve chides when Bucky cries out, bracing himself on Steve’s chest. “No hurry, Buck. Take your time. I’m nice like that.”
Bucky glares at him but bites his tongue, which is just as well because the glare melts when he slides down another inch, and Bucky doesn’t know what expression takes its place, but whatever it is makes Steve bite the back of his lips and half close his eyes. He swallows thickly, neck muscles pulling taut. Bucky wants to lean in and lap at the sweat there, bite a bit and leave a mark, but it’s all he can do to tremble in place, half impaled on Steve’s cock, gasping just at the thought of taking the rest of it.
And he’s taken more, faster and harder, he’s had Steve pin him to bed, the floor, the wall and stuff him full till he was choking on it, tasting it in his throat, but that’s just it, it was Steve making him, taking him, and now it’s Bucky taking it while Steve’s just sitting back, enjoying the damn show.
He digs his nails into Steve’s chest, over the dark ink crawling over the tight swell of his chest, and Steve hisses between his teeth, hands flying to Bucky’s hips. They grip tight, but Steve doesn’t pull Bucky down to his cock. But the bruising pressure helps anyway, and Bucky slides down the rest of the way, keening low in his throat till he’s seated on Steve’s dick, the whole aching length of it buried in him.
Steve’s not so calm now, the whole of him taut under Bucky. He’s staring at Bucky’s crotch, eyes dark and a little wild, and Bucky follows that gaze, breath hitching when he finds his flushed cock barely covered in a scrap of blue. His body helpfully reminds him of it stretched taut behind him, a thin rope of fabric, making space for Steve’s cock.
As if on cue, Steve slides a hand around his hip, tracing the waistband all the way to where it’s bunched up along Bucky’s ass. He plucks at it, and the snap of rolled-up lace doesn’t hurt, but even that dull sensation sets teeth to Bucky’s spine, and then he’s tightening around Steve, shuddering all over like a mad thing. Steve’s hips buck up, bouncing Bucky on his lap, and it’s just once, a clear lapse of control, but it’s sudden and shocking, and Bucky pitches forward, melting all over Steve’s chest.
That makes Steve’s cock slide out a few inches, a fever-hot drag along sensitive muscles. Tears spring to his eyes, and Bucky sobs into Steve’s throat.
Steve strokes his back, a large, rough palm sliding up his spine, squeezing his nape, the other curved over his ass, and the pressure’s bliss, pulling Bucky into pieces and shoving them into Steve’s grasping hands.
“You’re so easy like this,” Steve says very gently, nuzzling into Bucky’s hair. “Look at me, hm? C’mere, Buck, baby, c’mon.”
He nudges the side of Bucky’s head, pressing little kisses to wherever he can reach, until Bucky untucks his face from Steve’s neck and peers up at him. Steve cups his face, pushing back sweaty strands of hair with a thumb.
Then he leans in and licks the tears off Bucky’s cheek.
“Steve,” he gasps, face flaming, a trail of fire where Steve’s tongue touched, and Steve laughs and pushes Bucky back by the shoulder, and then Bucky’s settling back on Steve’s cock, those few lost inches shoved back into him, and just like that, he’s burning all over.
“You’re a mess,” Steve says fondly.
“Your fault.”
“’Course it is.” He sounds so damn proud—and yeah, okay, Bucky can’t blame him for that. “Now move, Buck. Earn your prize.”
“Ass-asshole,” Bucky rasps, but he’s moving too, pulling himself up Steve’s cock, gasping at the heat hooking into his gut, pulling him back down, and its all bursts of sensation, hot and savage, and he can’t bear to let Steve slide out all the way, can’t bear the girth of it carving him open, and he can’t stand Steve’s eyes on him, can’t imagine him looking away.
It drives him into a frenzy, a madman’s attempt to swallow the whole of Steve and wrench free of him, to preen and hide under the heat of his gaze, and in the end, he’s wild with it, bouncing on Steve’s cock, clawing at his shoulders, turning his face away from biting kisses, and arching his throat for Steve’s teeth to sink into, and inside of him, Steve’s thick and deep and searing, and he’s wound up, been wound up from the moment he opened that box and found himself holding blue lace, been burning since Steve took him by the shoulders and put him on his knees, and now he’s close to eruption, muscles pulling taut with every breath, cock pulsing every time the angle makes Steve press into his prostate.
He tugs Steve from his throat by the hair, groaning when Steve’s mouth detaches from it with a wet, sucking sound. Faced with bright eyes and red lips, he almost forgets what the fuck he was going to say, right until another warning pulse of heat reminds him.
It's still a struggle to choke it out.
“Need to—I need, Steve, let me—let me come.”
“Go on,” Steve says easily. “Any time, Buck. Told you, you’ve earned—” Bucky’s reaching for his cock before Steve’s even finished speaking, but his hand’s slapped away and pinned to his back, and Steve meets his betrayed cry with a smile. “No. Like this. Just like this.”
He bucks his hips once, and Bucky shudders. Point fucking made.
“I can’t,” he whines anyway, and the answer’s Steve’s hand fisting in his hair and pulling his head back, leaving Bucky struggling for air as he bounces on Steve’s cock, breathless but more desperate with it, and Steve growls, scrapes his nails down Bucky’s chest, twists a nipple between his fingers, and Bucky’s dick drips wet.
“You can,” Steve says. “I know you fucking can.”
He’s right, he’s right, and Bucky wants to say it, scream it, but he doesn’t have the air, and Steve keeps him like that, one hand pinning Bucky’s and the other tight in his hair, and Bucky’s a slut for it, the pain and the pressure blurring into sharp, biting pressure. His thighs ache, muscles clenching, pushing, and his rim’s sore, hole a wet ache, and Steve’s so big, pushing every button with every damned thrust, and Bucky’s cock’s slapping his belly, leaving sticky smears, and he pushes himself to move faster, rougher, filling the room with the slick sounds of flesh meeting flesh.
He comes with white in his vision, streaks of bright fire wiping out the ceiling.
Stripes of heat land on his belly, his chest, a bit on his chin, and he can hear Steve, the sounds barely audible through the roaring in his ears. The hand in his hair slides to his face, grasping the side of it and pulling Bucky down, into a warm, suffocating embrace. He lies limply on Steve, his come smeared between their sweat-slick bodies.
It’s quite and sweet for a moment, Steve’s lips on his cheek and hands on his back, but then there are fingers clamping down on his hips, a violent heaving motion, and a shuddering impact—Bucky pries his eyes open, blinking the spots out of his vision, right in time to see Steve’s golden halo block out the ceiling.
He shouts, electrified, when Steve shoves back into him; Bucky’s body gives in easy, wet and raw and aching but so open, the shape of Steve’s cock carved into his flesh, and it hurts, slick, piercing pulses, and Bucky keens with it, clawing at the sheets and writhing in Steve’s grasp, and Steve gasps, slamming into Bucky, over and over and over, and he’s a fallen god, flushed and golden, eating Bucky alive.
Teeth sink into his shoulder, over scars that flare white-hot at Steve’s teeth, and wet heat spills into him, out of him, and Bucky shudders as it slides down his crack.
Steve, bowed over him, is heaving for breath, his considerable bulk trembling like a leaf. Bucky raises his own shaky arms, holding him limply, and Steve groans, gutted, and lets go of his mouthful. The resulting throb of pain makes Bucky shiver.
There are flecks of red on Steve’s lips. Bucky tastes it on his tongue the next moment.
Steve’s still inside Bucky, soft and cradled in heat. He shifts and it slips out. Bucky hisses right along with him.
For a moment, it looks like Steve will collapse on Bucky, and he wouldn’t mind, would welcome the weight over his chest and the struggle to draw breath, but in the last second, Steve tips to the side, crumpling beside Bucky.
Bucky follows him to curl into him, needing his heat, and Steve’s so sweet about it, hauling him close, tangling their limbs together. They’re both hot and damp with sweat, and Bucky wants nothing more than to melt into Steve, sink deep into his bones.
A thumb swipes at his chin, then nudges his mouth. Bucky parts his lips and tastes the bitter bite of come—his own.
He whines.
“Ssh,” Steve says. His voice is hoarse. “Good, you were—you were so good.”
“Could tell,” Bucky croaks, rubbing his cheek on Steve’s chest. “Killed me.”
Steve huffs a laugh. Bucky’s body shifts with it.
There’s a pat on his ass. Steve tugs at the damn thong, which has somehow survived. Bucky registers, with a distant sense of incredulity, Steve straightening the bunched-up fabric until it’s more or less covering Bucky’s ass again. And he knows, without having to look, that Steve will be wearing that smug, shiteating grin of his.
“Pervert,” Bucky rasps. He wants to lean back and frown at Steve, playing at judgment. He wants to poke the asshole on the side, right in that spot where he’s ticklish. But all that’s too much effort, and Bucky’s very comfortable like this, drowning in Steve’s skin and scent.
“It was a good gift, wasn’t it?” Steve pats his ass again, over the panties, and Bucky pushes his head into his chest.
Steve’s heart beats strong and sure, a little faster than usual, and it’s as sweet as a lullaby.