Work Header

out for more

Work Text:

Bucky doesn’t even get to have breakfast the next morning before it starts. “So,” Steve says.

“No,” Bucky says, automatic.

“Yes,” Steve says. “We have to talk about it.”

“No we don’t.”

“All the books say so -”

“Books? When did you have time to read books?”

“- and I think it’s important.” Steve gives him an unimpressed look. “We have a Kindle, Buck. And I wake up three hours before you do. I did some reading.” He eats another forkful of eggs. “Domestic discipline, huh?”

Bucky shrugs tightly. He doesn’t know what he expected. Steve got results by pushing it, so of fucking course he’s going to push it more, and on top of that he’s chugging from a ten gallon smug jug because it all worked perfectly the first time around.

And now they’re talking about things. Steve had said whatever you want, you’ll get, but Bucky barely knows what he wants when he’s ordering coffee, let alone anywhere else, and knowing is an entirely different matter from having to fucking articulate. It had taken him months to piece together the nerves, the fragmented thoughts, the dissatisfaction, to add it all up and figure out that the thin, twitchy need inside him was a yearning for Steve to - to be in charge. To hold him down.

Last night Bucky hadn’t even decided whether he’d show Steve the webpage he’d opened, whether he’d bring it up or just make Steve fuck him over the table, or even just - none of it, if Steve came home too tired. It had been a risk that paid off through pure luck, and there’s no guarantee it’ll work a second time.

There’s no physical evidence of last night. Steve hadn’t hit him all that hard, and it’s not like even deep bruising doesn’t melt away overnight. He’d slept well, deeply, for once, but that doesn’t feel like it left a mark.

He doesn’t know how to make it happen again. He’s not sure how he swung it in the first place. Now Steve knows, but - it’s not like the setup will work again, not when it’ll mean Bucky trespassing again, being bad on purpose. Shopping around. He doesn’t want to do that. He didn’t want to in the first place. But what else is there? Hey Steve, wanna smack me around some after dinner?

He doesn’t know if it’ll work. And - what if it’s not as good? Everything had come together so perfectly last night, it had practically been a miracle. What if he catches Steve at an off time? What if he’s not in the mood? What if this time Bucky’s body doesn’t cooperate, or last time was just a fluke, and now his nerves won’t react the same way and instead of giving him golden heat it’ll just make them both sore and unhappy and tired?

In their dark living room, Steve sharp and unfamiliar in the lines of an expensive suit, anything had seemed possible. Here and now in a sunny kitchen morning it all feels very far away. It all feels - silly, really. Pathetic, how’d he’d just gone to pieces like that.

Steve’s watching him with slightly narrowed eyes, like he’s hearing the soup-spill monologue in Bucky’s head and he doesn’t like it one bit. He chews, swallows his mouthful of omelet and opens his mouth to say something just as his phone screams electronic fucking apocalypse from the kitchen counter.

That’s the big damn superhero signal. “We’ll get back to this,” Steve says, pointing, but it loses a little force with the way he has to lurch out of the way of the table to get up out of his chair and make for his super suit.

Steve sweeps back in forty seconds later like he always does, all zipped up and ready to punch, throw, and pin any given supervillain who is out there causing a ruckus. He swings his shield over his back, swings by Bucky to give him a hard, fast kiss on the mouth, and swings out the window onto the fire escape to climb up for his rooftop pickup.

Bucky, for the usual dazed moment after a Steve kiss, seriously thinks about getting back in the black hat game. Nothing serious, more like how comic books used to be. A bank robber with a big bag with a dollar sign on it, or somebody with an overly convoluted plot to destroy the moon. Something that will leave a trail of ridiculous clues until they have a thoroughly operatic showdown that ends in Bucky tied to something with Steve looking down at him, stern.

Steve would have to beat him up a little then. Except Bucky refuses to be attracted to Steve in the super suit, or he’s gonna start getting weird everytime he sees an American flag, and that’s just untenable.

So villainy’s out of the question. Steve never leaves these days without a goodbye kiss, but Bucky has the brief mad wish that he’d turned around at the last second and said something that’d give him an in. Like… “don’t steal all my shirts”. Bucky could roll around in them while Steve was gone, and when he came back Steve would have to beat him then, too. Not much, not hard - Steve’s not a bully, and he’d see right through the ineptness of Bucky’s plan. He’d laugh, probably.

Or Bucky could kidnap Steve, and throw away his phone, and keep him hidden in an undisclosed location to do his terrible bidding.

Bucky snorts, an ugly sound, and scrubs at his face. Yeah, the terrible bidding of sucking dick and beating ass. He wouldn’t even be any good at being a bad guy, not anymore.

He sits hunched and picks silently at his omelet while the sounds of the city filter into the waiting amplifier of the empty apartment. He feels like those spiky brown seedpods that fall out of the trees in the park, dried stiff and sharp and rattling, ignored even by squirrels, kicked against the curb. Steve hasn’t kicked him. He’s kicked himself.

It’s self pity is what it is. Moping. He pushes away from the kitchen table and goes to actually do something about doing something on this goddamn sunny fine surprise-alone day.

It takes him the better part of the week to get out from under that. He gets three texts from Steve, two of them an all-ok signal and the last one an ETA. It’ll be another three days. Bucky alternates between the library and the gym where he helps teach self defense, or at least gets used as a demonstration dummy by Candie and Felice. He mopes enough that Candie actually asks him what’s wrong - “Did your goldfish die or something, Barnes?” - and under interrogation he breaks and gives up a few mangled sentences that they correctly understand to mean his “special friend” is “out of town.”

“So?” Candie says. “He’s coming back, ain’t he?”

“Yeah,” Bucky says, trying to at least sound a little less like the sad wet doormat he is. “Just… we were in the middle of talking about something, and then there was an emergency and he had to go.”

“Ooooh,” says literally everyone present, wincing or shaking their heads.

“That’s what my ex did a week before he dumped me,” one of the trainees says sagely.

“Bad sign, my friend,” Felice says. “If he’s running out on you -”

“He wasn’t running out on me,” Bucky protests. “He’s - look, believe me when I say there’s nothing I could do to make this guy drop me. We’re just,” he pauses, fully realizing that everyone in the room is clustered around him and he is the subject of twenty-three rapt female faces. “Just. Trying... something... new.”

“Well, if he’s solid, then whatever it is, you’re gonna work it out,” Candie says, gesturing like done and dusted. “Now quit fuckin’ mopin’. Alright, everybody, pushups, drop and give me twenty...

That does help, actually. Bucky may only just now be taking the lid off this fresh new pot of bullshit, but Steve has pretty emphatically proven that whatever he finds in there is not gonna put him off. It’s Bucky’s problem, anyway. All this - stuff - had come bubbling up in the past few months, as urges and thoughts and fucked up fantasies. And memories too, most recently, like the cherry on the cake.

There’s not a lot he remembers from before, but one of the things he does know - viscerally, unforgivingly - is wanting Steve to push him around. He can’t have been more than sixteen. Steve had been wrestling a forty pound sack of beans from under the kitchen counter and the tangled slinky of impulse and desire and guilt that had been Bucky’s teenaged self had burned with something like envy. He wanted Steve to haul him around like that, move him however, make him convenient and useful and contained.

Jealous of a sack of beans. And then, the discovery that pain could make his dick hard. There wasn’t really any coming back from that.

The memory had only come back less than six weeks ago. As a kid he hadn't known it was for sex, just knew that it was fucked up and strange and not something to talk about to anyone. He thought it was separate from his queerness, only related by the accidental glancing blows of tangling thoughts - right up until it wasn’t, like two magnets snapping together.

Remembering that little nugget was what put it all into focus for him, at least - the way he gets warm when Steve gets worked up, how he gets restless if he’s around Steve but Steve’s paying close attention to something that’s not him. How Steve’s orders feel like more than orders. The way Steve had held him down - called him crybaby -

At least he doesn't have to worry about whether this is more trauma or some freak thing the squid nazis programmed into him, to get his obedience through sex. Fucked up sex. He was always an invert all on his own.

And Steve - likes it.

Or at least he’d liked it last week. Seemed to like it. He said he wanted to talk about it. That he read about it. That must mean he wants - more. Jesus, maybe it’s for the best Steve got called away. If he were here Bucky would have already broken down on his knees and begged.

Bucky has to go spend some quality time in his tomato garden after that. Do some breathing and pushups and deep cleaning of the apartment. It helps, exactly like it’s supposed to. Bucky can’t even be resentful, not when he’s so wound up, not when Steve isn’t here to unwind him.

There isn’t much Steve won’t do for him. Bucky knows this, not as a boast or a delusion but a terrifying stone cold fact. And Bucky’s demands aren’t small. Drop your life for me. Face down the feds for me. Forgive me. Love me. Now beat me as you love me. Hurt me. Make it feel good to feel bad.

Steve, god help him - Steve delivers.

It’ll be fine. Steve will come back. They’ll talk about it then. They’ll figure it out. Steve knows what he’s like. Steve will handle it.

Steve gets back approximately six hours before he’s due at the Governor’s tuxedo-stuffed fuckaroni fest uptown, one of the few events that Bucky is also due at by way of losing to Steve in poker after putting up his own companionship to any six galas a year. Steve spends five hours and forty-eight minutes of that interval fallen face-first into the couch, dead asleep. At minute forty-nine Bucky grits his teeth and pokes him awake, because while they can arrive late they can’t arrive three fucking hours late and they can’t skip this thing entirely. And Bucky’s already blow-dried his hair.

Steve wakes up zero to sixty, still clocked to combat, and goes from horizontal to vertical in one startled-cat leap when Bucky whaps his ankle. “We gotta go,” Bucky says, from safely across the room. “Hand off cock and on with sock, chop chop.”

Steve chop chops, blundering into the tux Bucky laid out for him and back out of the apartment with minimal casualties. They have a loaner car and driver from Stark: partly a way to make sure they don’t play hooky and partly because riding a motorbike in evening wear is a great way to arrive looking like a mug victim. Bucky doesn’t mind - much - because it’s the same one each time, and George is a good guy and finds it hysterical that Bucky’s Spanish sways from Guatemalan to Mexican to Argentinean and back again and doesn’t care what exactly it is that made that happen. When Steve comes out of the building, fixing his buttons with one cufflink still held between his teeth, Bucky wraps up the chat about George’s kids and holds the door open to the back.

The party is in a private space, some highrise off Lexington. Once past the doorman they get the elevator to themselves. It’s mirrored, all over. Bucky scowls at the six reflections of himself and eyes the security camera in the corner.

Six reflections of Steve look back at him, too. Steve’s tux is tailored where Bucky’s is decidedly not; apart from the whole thing where nobody but Steve is gonna be going anywhere near his inseam, it’s harder to conceal weapons in fitted clothes. He’s got nothing but ankle knives tonight - more than enough, honestly, it’s not like his goddamn adamantium fucking arm ever comes off - and seeing himself look like a performing bear next to Steve’s thoroughbred looks makes him want to cross his arms. He doesn’t. He looks bulky enough already.

Steve turns his head, away from the reflections to look directly at his face. His gaze sweeps over Bucky from head to toe, a laser search with a frankly unfair return rate. Bucky used to hear agents and techs talking about how creepy it was, his dead face, his blank eyes, how there was no way to predict when he’d go off the rails or if there was anything even going on inside at all. After these past few years back with Steve he has to conclude that either HYDRA hired exclusively faceblind morons, or Steve’s real superpower is some kind of mind reading. Buckyreading.

Whatever he sees churning in Bucky this time must be, well, everything, or near enough as to make no difference. “Straighten up,” Steve says, in a voice that grabs hold of Bucky’s spine and unslouches him without ever consulting his brain, reminding him that while Steve certainly might look more model than mincing machine than Bucky these days, it’s not Bucky who’s the bigger threat. “Put your shoulders back. You look like you’re here to get a tooth pulled.”

“Sure, ma,” Bucky hears himself say even as he’s straightening, pushed into parade rest by muscle memory and the sudden strange spark of heat zipping through his gut. Steve narrows his eyes, which shouldn't make Bucky’s head light up like neon but does.

And Steve knows it. He steps in close, slow, deliberate, invading Bucky’s space. “Behave,” he says, “and you’ll get a reward.”

Bucky can’t help the shiver, and he sees Steve see that, too. “And if I don’t?”

Steve grins. “Find out,” he suggests, still in that sugar-threat voice, and strides out as the elevator doors open.

Bucky staggers out with what must be a seriously impaired look on his face. Steve exits much more smoothly, and since he’s the big ticket name on the invite the nearest guest turns around, gasps with delight, and drags him into the throng. Bucky’s left to dissolve among the giant floral pieces, trying to pull himself together.  

Behave. His plan had been to find the booze and make the bartender mix him something aggressively ostentatious and probably pink to carry around and slurp at people, but now he’s - he needs a smoke, needs a minute, needs a goddamn exfil strategy. There is no exfil strategy. Steve will track him to the ends of the earth whether it’s to bring him back from the dead or haul him home and give him a - a spanking.

Steve said behave. Bucky still wants his pink drink - they taste better - but slurping is probably out of the question.

But Steve said find out, too. Jesus fucking christ, what if he misbehaves? What then? In front of all these people - he wouldn’t. He’d never. But if he did - spilled his drink, talked back, hid in the bathroom, if he embarrassed Steve - he’d never. The reality keeps slicing in, the horrified voice of common sense shouting how he’d never fucking do that and what is he even thinking but it’s not enough. The fantasies don’t stop unrolling. They never fucking do.

If Bucky really wanted to, he could clear the entire room in about - well he’s rusty, so probably four minutes, and in any case halfway through minute one Steve would tackle him down and - it’s a fantasy, he can make it happen if he wants to - drag him over to one of those ridiculous fancy couches and make him really regret misbehaving.

But one good wallop out of Steve and the whole little confectionary of that couch would crumple like a tin can and then there’d Bucky be with a dick full of splinters and absolutely none of the following proceedings would be anywhere even in the same universe as fun.

Bucky grits his teeth and turns away from the fucking couches, setting a course for the bar and ignoring how people try to sidle as genteelly as possible out of his way. He’s not going to fucking try anything, for fuck’s sake, no matter what his fucking two-bit imagination says. He’s just thinking about it. He can’t stop thinking about it. He knows what it feels like now, Steve moving him like he’s property, properly, and if he did misbehave who fucking cares how then what if - what if - if he dumped his drink on that one fucking ass who’s always at these things and makes a terrorism joke every time Bucky shows up - well, Steve would probably dump his drink too. And maybe deck the guy. But later - only it’d have to be a lot later, because they’d be running from the cops, and then even if they got home and away there’d be a media shitstorm that wouldn’t die down anytime soon, and even if Steve felt like fucking then Bucky probably wouldn’t.

This is why he needs Steve. He’s a dumbass conductor feeding coal into his own rail engine without anywhere to release the steam, and just ends up rattling and small like an abandoned stovetop kettle instead.


Bucky blinks. The bartender is looking at him with mounting concern. He’s been standing here staring at the Ciroc for five minutes.

“Just - give me a drink,” he says. “A big drink. With the fucking - little onions. Lots of those little onions. And a cherry. Put a stick in it.”

“...Of course, sir,” the bartender says, after a small pause that very eloquently explains that he’s doing it because he can see the only other option is Bucky vaulting the bar and getting it for himself.

The drink is big, full of onions, and entirely nonalcoholic. Bucky tips a fifty and then another ten, because clearly the guy’s got the best judgment in a two mile radius. He goes to find Steve.

Steve, mercifully, is at the canape table, visibly strategizing how to load the most calories onto his plate without seeming a glutton or decimating the local hors d'oeuvre ecosystem. He glances up at Bucky’s approach, his eyebrows smoothing out and then scrunching back up as he focuses on what Bucky’s carrying.

“Is that a beer stein?” Steve says under his breath. “Full of cocktail onions?”

“Yes,” Bucky says grimly. “Want one?”

Steve opens his mouth, reconsiders, and takes the proffered toothpick. His eyebrows go up. “That’s not bad,” he says, crunching.

“I know,” Bucky says. “Should’ve asked for more cherries.”

“What’s the drink?”

“Flavored seltzer.”

“Not your usual.”


Steve gives him a considering look. He’s not dumb enough to ask how’re you doing or any other horseshit, but the flipside of that is often he doesn’t need to. And whatever he sees upgrades the look from considering to incisive; unfair, like Steve’s sliding his hands under Bucky’s layers of jacket and waistcoat and knotting a fist in his shirt, and for a second Bucky wants that so bad he nearly drops his tankard of cocktail onions.

Steve cocks his head, just a bit. “Hold this for me,” he says, putting his plate in Bucky’s free hand. “I’ll be right back.”

Bucky, left by the food table, looks around wildly for a potted plant or alcove or sufficiently large vase to hide behind. Mostly nobody tries to talk to him alone at these things, but the canapes are a prime nexus of congregation and smalltalk becomes rapidly unavoidable when people are queued up all trying to get ahold of some deconstructed quail. He’s not defenseless in those situations but right now his body is trying to decide whether to pop him a stiffy or not and there is absolutely nothing left over for human interaction.

Steve comes back with a tall, curvy glass of something bright orange and sporting an entire kebab of tropical fruit, colorful enough that Bucky’s gonna look at least a little ridiculous holding it. He’s also got a disposable paper cup, which turns out to be full of maraschino cherries.

“You didn’t have to,” Bucky mutters. He balances Steve’s plate on his arm as he takes the drink, unable to help noticing how a lot of the people closest to them stop having the “mass stampede imminent” look about them.

“Whatever you say, onion breath,” Steve says, which makes Bucky give a startled bark of laughter.  

“You ate the onions too!”

“And now we’re eating cherries.” Steve pops one into his mouth, exchanging the cup for his plate of canapes, leaving it teetering on Bucky’s arm so he can’t move away.

And then he moves in closer, his mouth to Bucky’s ear. “Now say thank you.”

Whatever moisture might’ve been in Bucky’s mouth packs up and fucking leaves. “Thank you,” he creaks.

“You’re welcome,” Steve says, and it comes out rich with approval.  

Bucky, unsteady, gropes for a ballast. He can’t just fucking faceplant in Steve’s crotch in the middle of this godforsaken ballroom. The fruit glistens on the drink, sweet and menacing, no fucking help at all. “What’s in this?”

“Vodka,” Steve says, amused. “Drink up.”

Bucky automatically takes a sip, then bugs his eyes as it registers just how much vodka there is. Steve grins and looks at his watch. “Forty more minutes,” he observes. “I gotta thank the host for the invite and that’ll take up… thirty-nine. Then we run.”

“Great,” Bucky manages.

Steve grins again, then leans in and kisses Bucky on the cheek. As he pulls back he nods at the drink. “You’d better finish it all before we go.”

Bucky’s left again, holding his drinks and staring down at the disposable cup of cherries he can’t get into his mouth, feeling as steady, stable and organized as a haystack full of C4. He has, he realizes, been taken entirely out of commission. The best thing he can do for himself, Steve, these guests and the entire city and state of New York is go and gently waterboard himself in the men’s room until some semblance of higher brain function comes back online.

And not drop anything. It’d be one thing to spill a drink on a dame, but another entirely to drop an entire stein of onions and what’s basically lighter fluid on her $7,000 dress.

He goes and does exactly that. Locking himself in the big stall and methodically working through his onions and cherries and tropical booze assortment is, in its own deeply alcoholic way, quite calming. The watermelon and pineapple and orange slice on the cocktail stick are cut into stars, the detail so frivolous and appealing that Bucky can't help but be charmed by it.

It grounds him, a little, or at least takes him somewhere a little further down than the stratosphere. He’s gonna go back out there. Steve will take him home. And they’re gonna - they might -

Bucky’s imagination, so trigger happy before, now appears to be in the late stages of anaphylactic shock. They’ll - Steve will - they’ll do the exact same thing, Bucky tells himself. At the very least. Steve will take him over his knee and smack him until he comes. That had happened, and it was great, and it’ll be great again. Bucky just has to go back out there and then they’ll go home and have sex. Perfectly normal, violent, kinky sex. Oh god.  

Bucky tosses the paper cup and makes it back out of the gents’ more or less stable, downing the last of the Vodka Offensive as he goes. He heads for the bar, meaning to give back his empty glass and stein - resolutely not making eye contact with the bartender - and glances around.

From across the ballroom, Steve sends him a look that’s as good as snapping his fingers and pointing at the floor by his feet. Bucky fumbles his empty drinks down, unseeing, and staggers in that direction. The goddamn blue movie extravaganza unrolls behind his eyes again, what if, what if, if Steve grabbed him and dragged him to his knees by his hair and then made Bucky suck him, right in the middle of this ballroom in front of dozens of people. He’d have to kneel on this polished marble floor and get Steve’s cock out, get him hard, and his hand would shake and he’d cough and choke on hardly a mouthful because he’s nowhere near as good at this as Steve is, still, after years and years. And everyone would see it. Everyone would see his red face and his watering eyes and know what kind of wreck Steve’s got on his hands, what Steve has to deal with, and all of them would whisper and point and laugh.

Steve wouldn’t laugh. He knows Steve wouldn’t. Steve would know he was trying. Steve’d grab him by the hair and help him, pushing him down, showing him how to use his mouth and where and for how long. He never has before, but this time he’ll do it. He knows Bucky can barely manage past some clumsy drooling and licking.

Bucky doesn’t know how much of that comes across on his face, but Steve takes a slow inhale and nods a little to himself. The space between them seems to expand like a funhouse view even as Bucky keeps walking, maneuvering past sparkling dresses and hitching up around oddly placed decorations and leaning against an inconvenient wall for a second while Steve just watches him stutter and stumble his way across a ballroom. Bucky’s made it through actual minefields faster than this. He feels like he’s moving through mud.

When he finally makes it to Steve’s side his arrival is more of a collapse, controlled only by Steve’s shoulder. Steve makes his goodbyes with Bucky on his arm, about as useful as a deflated blow up doll. If everyone is staring at the weird slow-mo ballet of his trashfire sojourn Bucky has no idea, because his stupid eyes won’t leave Steve’s stupid face.

It takes one billion fucking years for them to finally claw their way back to the elevator, which Bucky now holds in the same esteem as the last two water buffalo when staring up the ramp at the predator-filled Ark. It’s gonna be no less than a thirty minute ride home. Bucky is gonna die.

The ride down is silent. They’re not touching. Bucky is very aware of that. Probably for the best. If Steve puts a hand on him right now he’ll give up the goods like a vending machine hit by a bus.

They make it to the car, Steve climbing into the back after verifying it’s the right driver, and Bucky throws himself on Steve the second the door closes. Steve catches him, hands on his ribs as Bucky scrabbles at his shirt - jesus christ, he’s wearing a fucking cummerbund, Bucky’s gonna take it off with his teeth, he’s gonna feed that thing to a shredder. He registers an instant of surprise on Steve’s face before he gets pulled off, Steve dragging him upright and pinning him back to the seat.

“I said behave,” Steve hisses in his ear. “What’re you gonna do, make George listen to your squealing all the way back to the house? That partition’s not soundproof, you know.”

“I,” Bucky gasps, “I just -”

“You can wait until we get home. Get in my lap.”

Bucky, caught up in how Steve’s right, he’s an asshole, he didn’t even think of George, stops short. “What?”

“You want it so bad,” Steve says, “get in my lap.”

“I,” Bucky manages, the words evaporating as he registers that Steve’s serious. He means it. And Bucky’s going to do it. He can’t not do it. His suit feels like it’s made of sandpaper, everything too hot, too tight, his senses all ganging up on him as he licks his lips and shuffles up to do as he was told.

Steve stops him with one hand on his thigh. “Facing out,” he says, casually, like Bucky’s brain isn’t going to cook inside his skull.

Steve made him climb into his lap for the spanking, too. This is - even worse. He has to spread his legs, kneel up sideways in the narrow back seat, no way to make it any kind of graceful. Steve grabs onto his hips, at least, his hands sliding up to grip Bucky’s waist, feeling huge and hot even through six layers of silk and wool.

Then he lets go and takes Bucky’s wrists, then his hands, pressing them flat one over the other to the headrest of the front passenger seat. “Now sit tight,” Steve says. “George is a nice guy. He deserves some peace and quiet.”

Bucky lets out a shaky breath. He fights to get his lungs under control, letting his weight settle a bit at a time. Steve’s hard. Bucky can feel it. “So I’m just supposed to sit here,” he says, trying to get a little balance back. “I don’t know if I. If I’ll stay hard that long.”

“You will,” Steve says confidently, and brings one hand up to draw the hair off the back of Bucky’s neck.

“You goddamn bastard,” Bucky half-whines, as Steve kisses him right above the shirt collar.

“That’s not very nice,” Steve says mildly, right before sinking his teeth in like a fucking piranha.

“You aren’t nice,” Bucky whines, nonsensical, the bite lancing all the way down his spine.

“Just like you wanted,” Steve says, smug, but there’s just a hint of breathlessness there too that Bucky latches onto. Steve wants it bad too. He grinds down hard, trying to show Steve, how bad it is, only to get grabbed hard around the waist again and held still like he’s been jammed against fucking concrete.

“Stay still,” Steve says in his ear, reproving. Bucky makes a noise that’s frankly emasculating. Steve’s grinning back there, Bucky can feel it, he’s nosing around at the back of Bucky’s neck and lipping at his ears, teasing him, revving the engine but nowhere near taking his hand off the brake. Bucky grips and releases the fabric of the headrest, staring desperately at the partition, at the window, at people in their cars who he can see but who can’t see him just - waiting for a goddamn pothole to let him bounce on Steve’s lap a little.

He’s not misbehaving if the road makes him do it. Just one pothole, a speedbump, just to jostle them together, a sharp turn or a rough stop or fucking anything to push his ass right up against Steve’s dick. But George is good and the car is giving them a smoother ride than Bucky would give Steve if they could just - just park the car down some alley, under the bridge, anything, chuck Steve’s wallet at George to give him some dinner money and get this worked out before Bucky dies.

Steve drags the heel of his hand over Bucky’s lap, the other smoothing up his chest, unbuttoning his jacket, but when Bucky arches and tries to grind he tsks and switches to just rubbing his hands up and down Bucky’s sides, making soothing little noises like an asshole. Another kiss to the knob of his spine and Bucky lets out a slow, sharp hiss through his teeth.

“Hush.” Steve says, which is louder than Bucky was. And Bucky would remind him which of them ran into combat and bounced around like a superpowered slinkee while the other was accustomed to stealthily lurking in hedges while rabbits peed on him, but he can hear Steve’s comeback in the back of his head telling him to prove it and they still have twenty three minutes of the ride left.

Getting into the apartment feels like storming Omaha Beach. Bucky hasn’t felt this crazy since before he started mood stabilizers. Steve takes over the second the door closes behind them, thank god, and again Steve lifts him like a toy poodle and hauls him into the bedroom. Bucky doesn’t have time to figure out if he hates that or loves it before Steve tosses him to the bed, the springs protesting and the headboard thudding back. Bucky presses back against the mattress - only Steve doesn’t drop down on top of him, he slouches onto the mattress right beside him, on his back, his elbows, kicking his shoes off.

Bucky physically can not wait another fucking second. He scrambles up and swings his leg over Steve’s lap, dropping down fast and clumsy enough that Steve lets out an oof as most of Bucky’s weight hits his pelvis. He recovers fast, though: he grabs Bucky by the biceps as he tries to go in for a kiss, sitting him back up to straddle Steve’s lap.

Bucky struggles, can’t help otherwise. Steve yanks Bucky’s jacket down and back off his shoulders but that makes the thing so tight all that does is pin his arms to his sides - and Steve knows it, he did in on purpose, he’s exactly where Steve wants him. “Work for it,” Steve scolds, “Come on,” and Bucky whines and shoves forwards desperately with his hips, grinding down on Steve, pinned and stuck upright and caught.

Steve bunches the back of the jacket in one hand and putting the other square on Bucky’s cock. The heat is searing, immediate, the wicked bite of the pants only sharpening the pleasure. Bucky jerks shamelessly against his palm, his breath hissing through his teeth and stuttering into a high, thin sound when Steve abruptly takes his hand away.

“Open your shirt,” Steve orders, but he doesn’t let go of the jacket. Bucky has to pull at the restraint, straining to get to the buttons, the fabric biting into the crooks of his elbows. His flesh arm burns and the metal one groans like a jammed printer but it’s not the bite he wants to feel, not right, not enough, and he finally jerks at his shirt to rip it open.

Buttons go flying everywhere, and Bucky might’ve laughed if all non-essential systems hadn’t already been shut down to reroute power to his goddamn dick. He’s gotta get Steve to touch him. Steve wanted him to work for it. Bucky shoves up and then down again, riding him, as much as he can while still held hard by Steve’s grip.

Much like any frontal assault on Mt. Rogers, it doesn’t work. It’s only when he hears a seam pop that Steve lets up, taking Bucky by the forearms instead. Bucky’s heard the phrase eat with your eyes but only now he knows what it means, it means this, Steve staring up at him like he’s strip-mining pieces of Bucky’s brain out through his face and - nipples and fucking - cock. It’s too much, too raw, and Bucky can only screw his eyes shut under the fucking onslaught, the goddamn pillaging Steve is running here, turning his head away.

“No, look at me,” Steve orders instantly, but Bucky can’t and he’s addled enough that all he can do is shake his head quick and go “uh-uh” like a fucking idiot, like a goddamn child.

“Look at me,” Steve repeats, a voice that won’t ask thrice, but Bucky’s behaved all night and now he can’t so he jerks his face to the side, eyes still screwed shut. “Uh-uh!”

A giant hand grabs Bucky by the jaw and drags him down like that, rolling him off Steve and pressing him to the bed. “You want to tease? Beg me to take you in hand and then not even doing what you’re told? Take your clothes off.”

Steve lets him go, draws back off the bed, and as the cold air hits his face where a second ago there’d been a hand Bucky discovers that it’s the opposite of what he wants. He sucks in a few too hard and too quick breaths, gripping the mattress, knowing if he opens his eyes he’s going to melt. Steve always looks too long and too hard and it’s not like Bucky won’t kill for the attention but if he takes one single look at Steve’s face now it’ll be game over, straight cardiac arrest, every single dumb thought Bucky’s ever had spilling out and staining the sheets.  

He undresses on the bed, hunched over himself like a fifteen year old in a public gym locker, unable to fight the way his elbows and knees tuck in on themselves. It’s got to be the exact opposite of a strip tease. A strip pout. A strip malingering. “You’re gonna look pretty dumb if you keep your socks on,” Steve says, just to remind Bucky he’s there, like Bucky’s somehow going to forget, and Bucky just wants Steve to pick him up and yank the clothes off and let Bucky just ragdoll through it, only he needs Steve to stay right where he is at the foot of the bed because if he gets any closer the molten thing under Bucky’s skin will crack him open entirely.

Bucky gets naked, somehow, his clothes consigned to a heap on the carpet, sliding off the bed. He ends up perched awkwardly on the corner of mattress next to the headboard, their bed seeming even bigger than usual, staring down at the uncrossable expanse of sheets.

“You want me to touch you again you better look at me,” Steve says, like it doesn’t matter to him one way or another. “Come on. You can start at the feet.”

Bucky swallows a few times, but he can look at the carpet, and then at Steve’s socks. They match, for once. They’re blue, argyle. Part of a set Sam gave him for Christmas.

“Good boy,” Steve says and Bucky pillbugs back into himself, hiding his head under his arm. “Come back, look at my feet. Or better, crawl on over to ‘em.”

Bucky is shockingly, viscerally aware of every single ligament in his big dumb body and just as intimately acquainted with how none of them want to move. How he just wants to be a big bed lump and… and Steve would have to pick him up. Drag Bucky’s deadweight where he wanted it. Shove his fingers into Bucky’s mouth until it hung open and Bucky could be a big writhing mass of nerves and thought and not a single one of them mattering.

“I know you can be good,” Steve says, “so that means right now you are choosing to make me wait, which is pretty rich coming from the guy who was ready to drag my dick out in a car that doesn’t even belong to us. Where’s all that now, huh? Get up. No, you know what - kneel.” His eyes glitter. He’s so proud of himself. “On the floor.”

The whine building in Bucky’s chest is starting to feel like a jet turbine powering up. He shuffles onto his knees first, then makes the mistake of glancing up at Steve and misjudges the distance enough to roll off the bed with all the grace of laundry tossed into a hamper. He lands on the rug with a thump and Steve laughs, he’s laughing, but it’s not mean. He sounds happy. Bucky, currently a puddle of plasma trying to burn a hole through the ground with the heat of his humiliation, tries to take refuge in that.

“If you need help, all you need to do is ask,” Steve says, the laugh in his voice at odds with the smug, sticky sweetness, making him sound too warm. A second later Bucky’s grabbed by the shoulders and hauled up and into position, gently, forcibly unbending Bucky out of his armadillo curl. Bucky’s got no choice but to kneel up straight, perfect posture, settled back with his hands on his thighs and exactly like Steve wants him.

Steve’s fingers feel cool against Bucky’s face, which probably means Bucky’s too red and too obvious. “You want me to help you, pal?”

That more than anything makes Bucky open his eyes to stare right at Steve, who’s the kind of ass who gets his best guy riled up to exploding and then goes ahead and calls him pal. Steve looks like he’s having the time of his life and has shoved a thin layer of stern over it for appearances’ sake. Bucky tries to look away but Steve just stands there, hands firm on Bucky’s head, and all he gets is a dizzy reel of carpet and chest and ceiling and eventually Steve’s face again.

“Let’s make this simple,” Steve says, petting back over Bucky’s head. Then he lets go and steps back - but he’s just sitting on the bed, beckoning to Bucky. “Come on. C’mere. Open my fly.”  

Bucky shuffles forward, his hands coming up jerky and slow to hover at Steve’s hips. He’s still all dressed up. Still in the damn cummerbund, for fuck’s sake. Bucky forces his hands to land, reminding them they’ve done this before, a hundred times, a million. Taking Steve’s pants off should be as familiar to him as taking off his own.

“You’re gonna blow me,” Steve decides. Bucky twitches, his metal hand jerking and - ripping the fly, christ, for fuck’s sake.  

“Hey,” Steve says, but Bucky’s already yanked his hands back and he’s too rattled to even think about how he just ruined Steve’s pants. Of all the things - Bucky’s as queer as they come, he’s a goddamn sodomite any way you swing it, but sucking cock - it’s the one thing, the one goddamn thing they hardly ever do because he’s fucking terrible at it and Steve knows that.

Steve’s doing this on purpose. He always says he doesn’t care, doesn’t mind at all, but he sucks Bucky’s dick practically every other day and the only thing keeping Bucky from getting twitchy about the balance is how he knows he keeps Steve damn happy with his ass. But now Steve wants Bucky to suck him.

Steve’s settling back on his hands, his fly forgotten, eyes sharp as cut glass. “Is that what you want?”

“I,” Bucky manages. His hands are shaking. Sucking Steve off, it’s not like getting fucked or - getting spanked. It’s not that he doesn’t want to, it’s just never ever worked and five minutes in Steve always pulls him off and flips them, and Bucky thinks if he has to face actually failing Steve right now he’s going to shatter something. Of actually trying and Steve looking down at him and fun draining out of his face and him realizing that he doesn’t actually like doing this kinky shit and the last time was a fluke -

Steve taps his foot to Bucky’s side. “Focus on me. I’m running this show. All you have to do is what I tell you.”

Bucky swallows, his hands contracting, the metal fingers scratching at the carpet. Steve tilts his head a little, hair starting to melt out of its pomade and sticking to his forehead. “You want to suck my cock?”

Steve will know if he lies. Bucky nods, face flaming.

“Ask me nicely,” Steve says, and leans back like a man with all the time in the world.

Bucky stares up at him, then looks at Steve’s pants, where Steve’s dick is, fully hard still, and - Bucky’s a guy, he was in the goddamn Army, and the fact that he knows, objectively, that Steve’s cock isn’t even all that big is only making everything worse. He looks at Steve’s face again and then back at his dick which might as well be Mount Fucking Everest as far as Bucky’s concerned and his mouth keeps filling with saliva and it’s going to be the sloppiest, slimiest, worst blow job anyone has ever had and -

“Ask me nicely and I’ll walk you through it,” Steve says. “You want to be good, huh? Practice makes perfect. Come on, repeat after me.”

Some other version of Bucky could probably be smooth and glib right now, make a joke about Sunday school, but every word Bucky’s ever learned has packed up and run right out of his head so he stares up mute and shivering at Steve, who’s now smiling like it’s a grand old day at the ball game.

He knocks Bucky in the ribs with his foot again, a little harder. “Say: Steve can I suck your dick.” He kicks Bucky from the other side. Not even really hard enough to hurt, but it could. Steve could grip him between his legs and take the words by force if he wanted.

He should, says some completely degenerate part of Bucky, and the dark pulse of feeling means he doesn’t even flinch when Steve leans forward, putting his thumb to Bucky’s lips and prying them open, pushing against Bucky’s locked teeth. “Don’t be like that. You sure looked at me like you’ve wanted to say it a lot. I’d guess at least once day between the ages of sixteen and now. All I want is to hear it for once.”

Bucky doesn’t know if he wants to bite at Steve’s hand or lick it or if all that’s left to him is to shove himself bodily against Steve’s legs and pray he doesn’t burn up on contact. Steve scoots back a bit so his next little kick lands against Bucky’s stomach, so he can push in with his foot, his toes very close to where Bucky’s dick doesn’t care what Bucky has to say so long as they get a move on.

Bucky does whine, then, curls up and over Steve’s foot, his head to Steve’s knee. “You can either look me in the face,” Steve says conversationally. “And ask to suck my dick like a polite young man. Or you can stare at the floor and add a few pleases in there. Maybe something like: Oh Steve please oh please let me suck your magnificent dick or uhhh, Steve love of my life won’t you just let me suck your dick please or -”

Bucky’s head snaps up and the words shove out his mouth in what may or may not be the right order just to get Steve to stop, and Steve grins his state fair smile all sunny and bright. Having fun still. “There we go,” he says, goddamn delighted. “Here, I’ll help, since you asked nice.”

He gets his cock out - one handed, like he’s fucking showing Bucky, look, some of us manage to undo our pants without it becoming Greek tragedy, and then he leans forward and holds it so that it’d only take one small movement for Bucky to take the head into his mouth.

And - that’s it. He just holds it like it’s his goddamn house keys. He doesn’t give Bucky anything else to go on, and Bucky’s normal tactic of just… shoving as much of it into himself as possible didn’t have a great track record when it comes to the mouth end of things.

The whine is building inside his chest again, a feeling more than a sound. Bucky’s resentful, suddenly, strung up and strung out by this need in him, his total inability to execute, like a toddler that screamed for a toy and then can’t help but have an even bigger meltdown when finally presented with it. He’s stuck, inside and beneath and beside himself, because he wants Steve’s cock in his mouth but it’s not going to work and he can’t only there’s no way out, because to take himself out from under Steve’s thrall is unthinkable and this is the one place where he’s out of exit strategies.

He’s getting exactly what he wanted and he can’t even handle it. He wants to punch through the floor. He wants to cry. He wants Steve to grab him by the hair and just… do this to Bucky.

“Behave,” Steve reminds him, after Bucky just glares at his dick for longer than is polite. Or useful. “And you’ll get a reward.”

Bucky looks up at him, because this has to be the reward. This whole… everything has to be what Steve was getting at. Him tying Bucky up to his scenario and dragging him through it until Bucky’s head got burned clean had to -

But Steve’s still looking down at him like Bucky is his favorite kind of fistfight. Bucky gasps in one breath, two, and bullies himself forward with his mouth open.

He doesn’t miss, at least, which is frankly an achievement worth celebrating. “Stop, stay there,” Steve says immediately, and Bucky freezes with his mouth on the tip of Steve’s cock. Has he fucking fucked this up already.

“Tuck your lips over your teeth.” Steve has a kind of offhand tone to his voice, like he tells people how to suck his dick as part of his weekly coordination briefings. Here’s what the FBI did last week, here’s the NYPD counterterrorism guys, here’s how to suck cock like you’re not a failure.

Lips over his teeth. He knows this part. Bucky breathes hard through his nose and does it, not pulling his mouth away.

Steve runs his thumb over the shell of Bucky’s ear. “Good.”

Bucky’s stomach clenches where he wants to curl up again, but Steve’s foot is still flat against his abs and holding there. “Just work there for a bit,” Steve says, and shifts and settles in like he’d be fine if this took awhile. If Bucky just fumbled his way through a feature length movie of bad oral. “Up and down, you know the drill.”

Bucky bobs his head once and freezes again, glancing up. Steve gives him nothing. Bucky shouldn’t have stopped - the sharp halt let his mouth know there’s really something in there and now the nerves and muscles are trying to get him to swallow and shove his tongue out of the way at the same time. He tries to ride it out, flexing his tongue and praying this doesn’t become another coughing fit like nearly every attempt before.

It doesn’t, but it doesn’t have time to either. Steve sighs and pulls out for a moment, putting two fingers in Bucky’s mouth and pressing his tongue flat. “Cover your teeth and keep this soft.”

Bucky nods, shaky. Steve’s fingers glide against his tongue, shallow. “Take a breath. Swallow,” Steve says. Bucky does it. “Good. Open.”

Bucky’s jaw drops, obedient. Steve fucks in with his fingers for a moment, not hard, just - in there, stroking his tongue, playing with his mouth. Bucky’s jaw hangs open as much out of shock as anything else - Steve’s never done anything like that before, Bucky’s certainly never done anything like it to him, and the look on Steve’s face is so absorbed, so cleanly focused on Bucky’s mouth. A fresh wave of heat prickles over him, his pelvis tightening sharply at the kick of arousal, all the more potent for being so unexpected.

“You like that?” Steve says. His eyes are so dark. “Good. There’s more where that came from.” Bucky shudders out a long, stupid, startled animal sound as Steve hooks his thumb to the side of Bucky’s mouth and tugs him back into place on his cock.

Steve’s other hand comes down on the back of his head, not pushing but not letting him move back, keeping him fitted. It takes Bucky a dizzy second to get back with the program but he manages to get there, working at the tip of Steve’s cock. He forces his mouth soft, making his tongue and lips play ball, and Steve rolls his hips like it feels good. When Bucky risks a glance up he sees that flush up his neck like maybe Bucky’s getting him nice and worked up too. Bucky’s dick throbs up next to Steve’s foot, the heat of Steve’s swollen cock traveling from his mouth through the rest of him, and he wants to be good but he can’t make himself go any lower. Just as far as the soft palate before he yanks back with a start and then shoves himself down again, a rickety seesaw on uncertain springs. He makes himself take it, again, again, and just when he thinks he might get through this unscathed his throat makes another appallingly thick noise, a noise that Steve should rib him for, only Steve doesn’t. Bucky's eyes are wet. If he cries he’s going to flee under the bed like a cockroach and come out never.

Steve rolls his hips once, twice, moving easily with Bucky so his cock doesn’t shove further than Bucky can take it, but the amateur hour performance doesn’t hold his interest long. He finally grabs Bucky’s hair and holds tight, pulling him off and changing the angle - Bucky stares up at him, gasping, as Steve easily puts Bucky’s head where he wants it, his face focused and relaxed and not at all concerned. He spreads his legs wide and leans forward again, hooking Bucky by the waist with his free hand and dragging him up against the block of the mattress. Bucky’s face gets shoved into the rise of Steve’s hips, his hands scrabbling too late at the bed, the carpet, and he feels Steve’s massive thighs press tight and close around him as an answer.

Steve tugs him back a little, just enough that he’s kneeling up straight again, curved up towards Steve. “Is it too much?” he asks sweetly, carding through Bucky’s hair.

“I - I’ll - let me try - ”

“Stop trying to be good at it,” Steve says, loving, cupping the back of Bucky’s neck. “I know you’re a mess. Just open up for me. Relax as much as you can.”

Bucky tries, but it’s not like his body cooperates with him even in the best of times. He can feel his throat closing up in a way that has nothing to do with the cock in his mouth, his sinuses starting to burn. He has to pull off again barely ten seconds later, gasping for breath.

If it were back to their normal routine, he would have called it a day and Steve would have rolled along with it. But this is definitely not their normal and Steve’s not rolling with anything now, and Bucky thinks stupid, half formed thoughts about things like handcuffs and collars and tattoos, about shoving his whole stupid life even further into Steve’s hands like he isn’t camped there already, he just needs - he needs it, he needs it bad. He can’t do this on his own.   

Steve’s hands are mean and gentle, scritching at the back of his neck and carefully gathering Bucky’s hair out of the way, out of his mouth and eyes. “You need a little more help, don’t you.”

Bucky needs to change his name and run away to Burundi. He needs to make Steve feel so good he never thinks twice about shoving Bucky around every night. If Steve puppets him around it’s only going to be for fun, with Steve happy and looking out for him and Bucky getting to relax his grip on the wheel for a bit.

“Alright, how about this.” Steve hauls him up outright, sitting back further on the bed and dragging Bucky into his lap. “Can’t expect results if you can’t even focus. And you’ve got such a big distraction right here.” Steve taps Bucky’s erection on the head with one finger, making him jolt so hard that his face just barely avoids a collision with Steve’s forehead. “Aw,” Steve laughs, adjusting them, one arm hard around Bucky’s waist making sure he doesn’t go anywhere. “You really need help, don’t you.”

“Hh-ah,” Bucky wheezes, losing language entirely as Steve’s massive hand wraps around his dick. Steve doesn’t give him any time to recover, just starts stroking him hard, his hand sliding easy through the sloppy mess left by Bucky’s cock. Bucky folds into him, his hands scrabbling at Steve’s shoulders - Steve hasn’t told him where to put them, what to do, he’s just grinning and jerking him and not even letting him move, keeping Bucky straddled tight on his lap.

Steve’s own cock bumps against Bucky’s balls but it’s like Steve doesn’t even notice, staring up at Bucky with a predator’s joy and working mercilessly at his dick. “Come on, give it up,” Steve says, slowing his hand down and then abruptly speeding up, grinning wider when Bucky claws at his biceps. “What, is this not enough for you? You need more? You need to hear about what I’m gonna do to you?”

Bucky, already feeling like a fork in a light socket, mashes his face to Steve’s shoulder and holds on for dear life. Steve doesn’t let that go on long, bringing his hand up to grab another fistful of Bucky’s hair. He drags Buck back by the head, making him look down at himself, at his blotchy heaving chest and sweat-slick stomach and Steve’s hand around his dick.

“Pay attention,” Steve says. “You asked for this. Don’t think I’ve forgotten,” he adds, his voice going raspier, more aroused.

“You didn’t ask nicely for your spanking, but you got it anyway, because I know it’s hard for you. But I’m not running a charity here. I know we can have you doing better.”

Bucky’s breath is stuttering now, his hips twitching and his legs shaking now that Steve’s grip has shifted to his hair. He watches his own dick leak and twitch in Steve’s fist but the only thing in his head is Steve’s voice, so low, so close, like a forest fire creeping over every synapse one by one.

“There you go,” Steve says. “Keep watching. You behaved at the party, didn't you? You were so good for me,” and a rough sob jerks his whole body in Steve’s lap.

The thermal lance of Steve’s gaze abruptly ramps up a few dozen degrees. “But you were thinking about it the whole time,” he says. “Being bad.”

Bucky can’t deny it. Steve can see into him. “You wanted it,” Steve continues, voice graveled. “You wanted a punishment. I should’ve known. I should have ripped your pants off right there and fucked you in the middle of the floor -”

“- Steve -”

“ - made you scream.”


“I can do that now,” Steve tells him, his grip harsh and his voice completely destroyed, rough as sandpaper. “You know I can.”

Bucky can’t get enough air. His brain sparks with unconnected images, the idea of being on his back on the bed and his head hanging over the side, Steve fucking into his throat like it’s all Bucky’s good for. The thought of greeting Steve at the door with a cocktail Steve absolutely will not appreciate and an outfit that Steve absolutely will. The thought of systematically breaking every dish they own until Steve crushes his way across the kitchen and picks Bucky out of the sea of broken ceramic, far too gentle, like Bucky’s the last remaining teacup.

That knocks him over the edge like that same china chucked off a cliff. It contorts him into Steve’s chest again, one knee slipping in their sheets and throwing his balance off, making Steve catch him, hold him, the only thing holding him up as he comes. Bucky’s open mouth leaves a wet spot against Steve’s shoulder, the cloth going as hot and damp as his face. He feels like he fell out of his body, almost, and like a shook snowglobe it’s a slow settling drift back in.

“Alright,” Steve says. “Now we try again.”

Bucky gets moved. It happens so smoothly he doesn’t know what’s going on until his knees touch the floor, Steve settling him right back between his legs only now instead of a scarecrow with a stick up its ass he’s a pile of noodles with a metal arm in it.

“Here’s what’s gonna happen,” Steve says. Bucky sways into him, automatic, then tries to sit up straight again. His body feels so much heavier than it did just a minute ago. “I’m gonna use your mouth to get off, and you’re gonna let me.”

Bucky thought he couldn’t get embarrassed anymore, not - not like this, not more than a surface level sort of flinch - but this is hot and radiating in his face and his gut and Steve’s eyes wander down to Bucky’s dick, which has to be the color of grape soda at this point. He’s trapped between Steve’s legs and his head is caught between Steve’s hands and he’s a mess, a traffic accident with half a hard on, as sexy as a bag of beans shoved under the sink.

“You ready?” Steve says, face slightly pinker than before but not much else changed. He looks huge like this, even bigger than always. He’s glowing, or maybe that’s just the lights.

He asked a question. Bucky, already at odds with the whole concept of words in general, struggles with it for a second and then just opens his mouth.

“Oh, good boy,” Steve breathes, immediately sitting forwards. “Stick your tongue out. Oh, jesus. Just like that.” He cradles Bucky’s head for a second, eyes rapt, greedy. “Alright. I’m gonna stand up. Tip your head back - that’s good. Good boy. You can hold onto me, it’s alright.”

Buck’s hands come up to grip Steve’s calves, sitting back on his legs to follow the new angle for his head. “That’s good,” Steve says, his chest rising and falling visibly. “Perfect. Now. I’m gonna fuck your face. All you have to do is let me.”

Bucky’s mouth relaxes in response, jaw dropping further. All he has to do is let Steve. He can do that. Steve pets over him more, stroking his scalp and gripping him by the nape, then bending down and kissing his forehead. Bucky closes his eyes.   

“Listen,” Steve murmurs in his ear. “I really do think your cocksucking problem is all in your head, but if it turns out it isn’t, you whack my leg, you hear me? The last thing we want is you to throw up on my dick.”

Bucky’s face screws up involuntarily. “Gross,” he slurs. Then, trying to shape up, “Whaddayou mean all in my head.”

“I mean you work yourself up about it, and then instead of just trying to have a good time you convince yourself it’s gotta be this whole production. So this time you just do what you’re told and I’ll take you through it. Open up now. I’ll go slow.”

Steve straightens up again, taking his cock in hand, and Bucky sways forward with mouth open to take it. He doesn’t know how convinced he is by Steve’s all in your head business but he can be good. He can do as he’s told. Steve feeds him his cock, pushing in until Bucky’s throat does another wet clench without his permission, but Steve just holds him, both hands wrapped around his skull now, shushing until Bucky settles down.

“Swallow,” Steve says, holding Bucky on the edge of another hard, wet shudder. “Swallow around it. I’d tell you to relax but that always winds you up, ah…” Steve rolls his hips a little as Bucky forces himself to try and breathe around the push and it’s all he can do to keep his lips in place and intermittently swallow, gripping hard at Steve’s knees so Steve keeps him there.

“There you go,” Steve says, breathing harder, and pushes further. Bucky closes his eyes. Maybe it’s because he is more relaxed now, calmer, and maybe it’s Steve’s grip or his voice or the orgasm Steve gave him but his throat doesn’t rebel, doesn’t put up a fight. “Good,” Steve says, in a way that Bucky doesn’t know if he’s good or Steve just feels good and then struck warm with how the two are the same, right now. Steve isn’t pussyfooting around and Bucky isn’t tucking himself down for nobody’s benefit. It’s good because Bucky’s mouth feels good. It’s good because it's exactly as Steve wants it, Bucky being exactly as he should.

Steve pulls him off, and it takes Bucky a second to realize it’s so he can get some air in. He breathes hard over Steve’s dick and squeezes at his ankles and swallows on nothing. His throat already feels sore and ragged and he must be red from ear to ear. He’s hard again, a faraway pressure between his legs, unable to compete with the slickness and heat and numb, buzzy feeling in his lips.

Steve doesn’t ask him if he’s ready again, just tucks his thumb into his mouth and opens it for his cock, but Bucky’s mouth is all Steve’s now and can take it regardless. It’s a wet glide in, then out, and it’s not fast but each time it goes a little deeper, a little smoother, until Bucky slits his eyes and realizes Steve’s not pushing any further because his lips are half an inch from the root.

Somewhere above him Steve gives a satisfied huff. Jesus. He really did it. Some muzzy part of Bucky is actually managing to feel impressed but the rest of him is caught up in the feel of it, the squeeze of his throat, the slickness starting to spill down his chin. It hurts more now but mostly it’s just heat, the soreness subsumed to the pressure, like his mouth is glowing, his throat, and it doesn’t feel the same as when Steve tanned his ass but it definitely doesn’t feel worse. It’s a good burn. Steve’s pulling out again, petting back over Bucky’s head. He did good. He’s doing fine.

“Little faster now,” Steve says, some strain starting to show in his voice, and Bucky closes his eyes again. It’s all becoming one big sensation again, just like Steve beating him on the couch, Steve holding him, working him, giving Bucky exactly what he needs. Bucky doesn’t open his eyes again, doesn’t want to, doesn’t need to - Steve’s set a rhythm, he’s got him, and all Bucky has to do is breathe right and be good, stay wet. When Steve sees he’s drooling he praises him to high heaven, more than he ever has for Bucky saving his damn life or anything, and then Steve keeps talking and Bucky would listen only he’s talking louder with his hands, his cock thickening in Bucky’s mouth and his grip going tight, tighter, dragging him down until his lips brush the hair on Steve’s pelvis.

Then Bucky gets pulled off all at once, and between the new taste in his mouth and the sudden rattle of his inhale he realizes that was Steve coming down his throat. He coughs, his chest somehow heaving more now that it’s getting free rein oxygen, gasping against Steve’s softening dick.   

“Jesus,” Steve says hoarsely, but he sounds triumphant, happy. When he catches Bucky’s face in his hands he smooths his cheeks with his thumbs. “Jesus, Buck. That was goddamn good.”

It makes Bucky turn his face into Steve’s hip, but Steve just tips his head back up and Bucky has to open his eyes. The bedside light gives Steve a hazy golden outline, and Bucky’s gaze slides over to one side and then the other when Steve adjusts his grip.

“You know how crazy you make me?” Steve murmurs. “Decorated sergeant. Handsomest boy in Vinegar Hill. Everybody talking about how charming you are, how sweet - and here you are. With me. I love you so bad, Buck. You’re so good for me.”

He knows what Steve’s lying sounds like and this isn’t it. It’s nowhere close. Between the low, slow voice and the gentle touches to his face Bucky feels peeled, suddenly, the hazy heat of the facefucking sinking under his skin and leaving him caught: too raw to deny it, too raw to resist. Steve doesn’t let up. He presses Bucky’s head to his stomach and strokes down his shoulder, one giant hand cupping the back of his head. Bucky grabs a handful of Steve’s pants, reflexive, as much for something to hold onto as to keep Steve close.

Steve lets him marinate in the feeling for a little bit, not asking him to anything other than feel quiet.

“We ain’t finished yet, pal. This is just a breather,” he finally says, voice stupid and gentle like he’s worried he’s gonna spook Bucky away if he talks too loud, or stops petting his hair. And Bucky hates being treated with kid gloves, hates that he has to be, but right now if Steve went even a half a step away Bucky would probably lose what’s left of his few cracked marbles.

Steve doesn’t leave. He wouldn’t. “We gotta get you off again too, huh?” Steve says, a thumb stroking back over Bucky’s eyebrow. “I can’t have you humping the bed in the middle of the night.”

Bucky’s all cleaned out of words. They went in with the laundry and fell out of his pockets like loose change. Just a lint trap full of words somewhere, and Bucky’s got none of them. Steve won’t mind too much. Steve would find words in a worldwide word shortage. “Come on up on the bed with me,” Steve says, though probably just for the noise of them because he lifts Bucky up anyway and guides him to the bed himself.

“There, just like that,” Steve says, tugging Bucky onto his side and then half under him, pulling Bucky’s leg over his hip. He sounds pretty damn happy with himself. Steve likes moving him around, Bucky thinks hazily, not for the first time; he likes that Bucky’s bigger than him again, only this time Steve can tow him around like a teddy bear. Like a sack of beans. Like he likes it like Bucky does, too.  

Then Steve wraps his hand around Bucky’s dick, and Bucky makes a noise like a kicked gerbil. Steve laughs outright, pulling Bucky closer with his arm around his shoulders. “Aw, sweetheart,” Steve says as Bucky wheezes into Steve’s chest and tries not to whimper under the sudden shock of sensation. “You needed that, huh? Come on. God, your face,” Steve says, then ducks in and starts kissing on him, his forehead and his temple and his cheeks. “That good, huh?’

“Steve,” Bucky manages, his fingers digging hard into the back of Steve’s jacket, and Steve grins and kisses the tip of his nose and starts to stroke. Bucky keens.

“I might be starting to get the hang of this,” Steve says, smug again, casual, his hand massive and tight and making Bucky whimper on every stroke. “You were starting to get wound up, like before. Maybe thinking about putting dye in my shampoo or something.” Steve presses his lips just next to the thin skin of Bucky’s throat but doesn’t bite. Just stays there like a promise. “But you were good for me, huh? You didn’t have to do anything to get me to notice you. You were good.” And then Steve bites, right over his pulse, like he knows exactly what Bucky needs, giving it to him, and Bucky curls up like a salted slug and tries not to crack apart completely.


It’s the morning that blows about this whole arrangement. Bucky can go to bed feeling as cleaned out as a bleached shirt and then he wakes up and oh right. It’s still him in here, with all the rest of life just out there being itself and he’s gotta deal with that.

He gets out of bed without letting himself wallow in worrying how he’s gonna get this done next time, or the time after that or anything other than just… taking a piss. Getting his teeth brushed. Normal, stupid activities nobody needs to do for him. Not like expecting Steve to chiropractically adjust his entire brain.

His hair looks, predictably, abhorrent, only when he pulls it back - there’s a bite livid across his throat, a perfect set of teethmarks branded squarely under the corner of his jaw.

He stands there staring for too long, because before he knows it Steve sneaks up behind him and wraps two giant arms around his waist.

“We’re not talking about it,” Bucky blurts, preemptive, but that just makes Steve’s sleepy satisfaction sharpen into full awareness, his eyes narrowing in the mirror. He plants his feet and his arms moves to less of a hug and more a hold; he’s still bent over with his chin on Bucky’s shoulder and Bucky could probably still throw him through the wall, but it’s Steve and that wouldn’t even stop him. Besides, they spent ages on that tiling.

“Tell me,” Steve orders, the goddamn rottweiler, and Bucky must not have reset all the way because his mouth just opens and serves Steve up the whole twisted up truth of it.“I know it’s fucked up. What I want.”

“No it’s not,” Steve says immediately, firmly, squeezing Bucky tighter.

Bucky twists around to give him an incredulous look. “Whaddayou mean, no? Wanting to be hurt isn’t fucked up?”

“That’s not what’s going on and you know it. You’re just, y’know… a pillow that wants fluffing.”


Steve has the nerve to roll his eyes. “A pillow,” Bucky says flatly.

“Sure,” Steve says. “A flat little throw pillow who needs to be rolled around back to shape.”

Bucky just stares back at him. “A pillow.”

“Or, I don’t know. A construction site.” Steve doesn’t look contrite at all. “You just need me to do a little shoveling. Whether it’s with a backhoe or a trowel.”

“A backhoe?”

“Yup. Aerate the ground, or whatever it is they need backhoes for.”

“Can you please take this seriously,” Bucky complains, turning and dislodging Steve’s arms, which backfires immediately when Steve raises his eyebrows, snags Bucky tight again and then backs him into the corner between the door and the wall.

“I’m glad you told me,” Steve murmurs, looking right in Bucky’s eyes, holding him prisoner to merciless affection. “I really liked what we did. I didn’t expect to. But it felt good, real good, and it was fun. I’d like to do more.”

Bucky squeezes his eyes shut. Steve kisses his cheek. “Maybe we need a life safeword.”

Bucky’s eyes snap open. “Do not say pillow.”

“I’m just saying, asking for stuff is terrible, and I’m not always gonna notice. But it you start talking about… I don’t know. Ships in a bottle, backhoes, whatever, then I’ll figure you’re hurting for it and we can have fun for awhile. No big deal.”

It’s not a terrible idea, but committing to it right then seems too much like having to ask and - Steve’s not right about the pillow thing. But. He might be a thorny, shriveled seedpod, but Steve’s a backhoe, a pickaxe, a steamroller, and he can smooth Bucky out into the ground so something green can grow.

Steve did a nice thing for him, and Bucky’s being an ass about it. And Steve, god fucking damn him, is right about - fucking - communicating. It’s not enough to just feel things. He has to let Steve know.

“Thanks for,” Bucky gets out, and has to pause as the stupidity of the words registers. But it’s too late to back out now. “Uh. Teaching me to suck dick. You know. Correctly.”

Bucky gets to watch Steve’s face collapse in real time as his calm, collected and captainly approach collides head on with his congenital need to tease Bucky. “Do not,” Bucky warns, getting a hand free to poke Steve in the chest, “Do not make this a - I am expressing genuine emotion -”

“Welcome to Professor Steve’s Dick-Sucking Academy,” Steve wheezes, collapsing against the bathroom wall, his voice an octave higher than normal.

“I don’t have that fetish,” Bucky complains, kicking at Steve’s legs in protest.

“Yet,” Steve says, pointing a finger at him, then has the goddamn nerve to twist up, grab Bucky up in a fireman’s hold and hoist him back to the bedroom, cackling.