Bucky has a thick stack of twenties in his pocket. He's on the fucking subway in New York and he has a good chunk of his pathetic life's savings in cash in his fucking pocket because he has lost his god damned mind.
Then again, no one on the subway has met his eyes since he got home, so fuckin' whatever.
His destination is a brick apartment building in a quiet neighborhood that almost makes the weight of his sidearm feel like overkill even to him. His name gets him buzzed in, and he climbs four stories, and the door is answered by a man--6'2", 240 pounds of solid muscle, blond hair. He's wearing a snug black button-down and black slacks, nothing special, but a shiver runs down Bucky's back regardless.
"Mr. Barnes?" Bucky twitches and he bites his lip, only letting himself nod. The man smiles. "I'm Steve. Come on in."
The apartment is a loft that's been converted into...well, Bucky's always heard the word dungeon, but the room has oversized clerestory windows letting in enough light that somehow the bondage furniture and racks of implements don't look as ominous as usual.
Steve clears his throat, distracting Bucky from eyeing the doors on the opposite wall. "First things first."
"Right, yeah," Bucky says, but he's surprised when Steve shakes his head at Bucky reaching for the cash in his pocket.
"No. I was talking about your gun, actually." Steve depresses a panel in the entryway table and it slides open to reveal the keypad of a safe.
A knot loosens in Bucky's shoulders. The relief must show on his face, because Steve smiles again. "You're not my first client to carry. The code today is 531765."
Jack'd mentioned Steve had the right kind of experience to take care of him, but damn.
Gun safely stowed, Steve takes the cash, then gestures for Bucky to have a seat on the couch.
"You remember the rules?" Steve asks. He unbuttons his cuffs and begins neatly rolling them up his forearm; Bucky's mouth goes so dry that he grabs a bottle of water from a side table and drinks half in one go.
"Yeah," Bucky says. He takes a deep breath and continues: "Red for stop, mercy for ease up, shaking my head three times and saying 'uh uh uh' if I'm gagged. No blindfolds, broken skin, piss, or shit."
Steve nods, and even that small sign of approval starts Bucky's brain buzzing. Then Steve's hand darts out, grabbing Bucky's hair roughly, and Bucky gasps. Steve's bearing has changed, face gone hard. "That's the last time you get away with addressing me that way. You will call me Captain, Captain Rogers, or sir."
"Sir, yes sir." Bucky snaps it out instantly. The lack of uniforms doesn't matter one whit to the effect of the fantasy; Steve carries himself like an officer, sneering faintly as he pushes Bucky's head away and steps back.
"Stand up and strip," he says. His fingers work at his belt, pulling it out of the loops with the familiar hiss of leather over fabric.
"Yessir." Bucky hops up. He's not wearing much--his tac boots take longer to get off than his jeans and henley--and it's only a moment before he's standing at parade rest in the nude. With the sun through the upper windows and the radiant heat from the heavy black drapes on the lower windows, it isn't the lack of clothes that has him covered in goosebumps as Steve paces around him.
"You don't have any scars," Steve says.
"Sir?" Bucky turns to look at him, confused. Of-fucking-course he has scars, from bullets and shrapnel and--Steve's doubled up belt lashes out, hitting his ass with a smack. Bucky grunts and jerks his eyes forward. "No, sir, no scars."
Steve sighs and says, "Figures you'd be a pansy ass boot."
Bucky whirls to snarl at him. "Fuck you!" Steve's lips curl up into a sadistic smirk that sends all the blood rushing to Bucky's dick. Fuck. He weakly adds, "…sir," and Steve laughs.
"No, Barnes, it's way too fucking late for that now." Steve grabs his wrists and binds them tight behind his back with a zip cuff, then pushes hard between his shoulder blades. Bucky stumbles, struggling to remember his fight training and catch his balance. He hits the wooden horse hard, right against his pelvis and hardening cock; he goes flying over the top with a yelp and only Steve's hand digging into his thigh saves him from cracking his skull.
Steve's other hand rests on his neck to hold him down as he begins hitting Bucky with his hand, hard and fast smacks on the meat of his ass and thighs that mash his cock into the slats of wood and leave his skin stinging. Bucky moans; it took three emails to convince Steve not to waste time on a warm up, and it was worth every fucking word. His legs spread of their own accord and Steve laughs, hits him harder.
"Pansy ass boot slut, apparently. My apologies," Steve says, and Bucky struggles against his restraints with a grunt.
"'M not, sir. Not a fuckin' boot," he says.
Steve laughs again. "And the other two you're okay with?"
There's such a thread of happiness, between the laughing and the sunlight, that Bucky can't help grinning. "Was trained not to bother arguing the obvious, sir."
"Mm, good boy." There's a purr to Steve's voice that makes Bucky moan and arch his back, raise his ass, just in time for Steve's hand to land on his balls, and Bucky screams. Over it, he can hear Steve's groan, and Steve's hand stays there, crushing his cock and balls against unyielding wood. "I am going to have fun with you, little slut."
Bucky's on his tiptoes, trying to squirm away, mostly succeeding in humping the furniture and adding to his agony. "Thank you, sir."
Steve's hand releases his balls, suddenly, and Bucky cries out as blood rushes back into the abused flesh in a wash of excruciating pain. Steve chuckles and says, "Hurts more than the nips, huh? Next time I'll chain your cock to them through the gaps, put a weight in the middle and watch you cry."
"God, sir," Bucky says, and the thought of it has him rubbing his chest against the horse, trying to pinch himself with his body weight, but the cushion thwarts him.
"Little slut," Steve says. His weight spreads over Bucky's back, warm and firm in that way only a muscled body is, and his lips brush over the nape of Bucky's neck. They curve into a smile, and Bucky melts against the horse. "But that's not what we decided on for tonight, is it?"
"No, sir," Bucky sighs.
"No," Steve agrees. Bucky barely has enough time to inhale before the belt is back, flashing bright like water in hot oil over the awakened flesh of his ass and thighs. It takes his breath away--literally, he's wheezing--and he's dizzy with the sting overlaying the ache just starting to settle into his body. He gets his breath back as Steve lays into him in a steady, methodical pattern, left center right center left, until everything from ass to knees is throbbing and red in Bucky's mind.
Steve stops mid-pattern, so suddenly Bucky gasps and arches into where the pain should be. There's a quiet laugh from Steve as he obliges by dragging all ten nails down every fiery inch of skin.
"Fucking hell, sir!" Bucky thrashes, he can't fucking help it, there's too much and the scratches are brilliant white-hot, lingering like the afterimage of the sun. Steve's hands hold his hips, keeping him upright but letting him throw his body around until he realizes Steve's standing closer, then leaning into him, thick thighs and hard cock pressing against him. Even the fine cotton of Steve's slacks burns, rasps against his abraded skin like sandpaper, but Bucky grinds back into it until the weight of Steve's body has him still, calming.
"Easy, boy," Steve says. His hips stay firmly against Bucky's while he puts a thumb in each of Bucky's palms; Bucky automatically squeezes twice, then takes a deep breath, rests his cheek against the cool leather pad atop the horse. Steve puts one big hand in the middle of his back and presses with a, "Stay there," before his weight leaves, pulling away slowly enough that Bucky doesn't panic.
There's a soft sound behind him, a susurration of cloth being moved, and Steve's hands come back to his shoulders.
"Turn and kneel," Steve says, guiding him down to kneel up on the carpet. He's holding a folded white towel, and it looks like a shitty cheap hotel one, and when Bucky frowns in confusion Steve smirks.
"You'll see," Steve tells him, then bends over and past Bucky to tuck the towel into the back of his knees, and he pushes hard at Bucky's shoulder and oh shit that towel wakes up every nerve until Bucky wants to shriek with it. Every wicked fiber digs into his skin and Bucky's torn between squirming against it and squirming away, but he can't, because Steve's holding him there. It drives him crazy and he snarls, opening his eyes to glare at Steve--
When he learns that Steve's been busy while Bucky was rubbing against a $0.99 towel, because Steve's other hand is slowly stroking his cock, thick and starkly erotic against the black of his clothes. Bucky sucks in air and it already smells of cock, salt and sweat and sex, and Bucky sways with how suddenly aware of his own cock he is, hard and leaking against his thigh.
"Please, sir. Cap. Please." Bucky moans and swallows spit, hissing every time he shifts his weight on his knees and the damn towel scrapes him, leaning forward hard until Steve's thumb digs into his collarbone in a dull counterpoint ache.
"Such an eager cocksucker," Steve murmurs, and the thrill of humiliation is still zinging through him when Steve's cockhead brushes his lips. Bucky groans and quickly licks his lips, letting his tongue slide across Steve's cock. He tastes perfect, deliciously male and clean; there's no sand in Bucky's teeth when Steve pushes forward. Steve's hand moves from his shoulder to Bucky's hair, holding him hard while he directs his cock into Bucky's mouth. He gives no quarter, just thrusts in until his cockhead is rubbing Bucky's palate and Bucky's lips meet the ring of Steve's fingers.
Dimly, Bucky thinks he should struggle. He's done it even earlier today. But Steve's got him surrounded, a hand firmly in his hair and a thumb rubbing his stretched-wide lips and knees bumping against Bucky's chest, and Bucky just melts. It's like he's watching himself in a movie, a training video from a CCTV camera going in his head, showing every line of his body relaxing into Steve's stolid strength.
Bucky's eyes even flutter shut and he can hear Steve, distantly, his voice laying a cocoon of cotton batting around Bucky's mind. He focuses on the important things: the taste of Steve's skin, the rough burn of the towel, the ache in his thighs as he holds his position. Nothing else matters, because Steve's got it all, and Steve's got him, held securely between his palms and his cock.
Bucky's making noises, he knows, and probably making a mess. He's too busy swallowing and sucking to worry about looking pretty, but Steve seems into it, enough anyway that he holds Bucky's head tighter and moves. His cock thrusts and Bucky's relaxed enough that it slides in deep, Steve's pelvis grinding against his lips for just a moment before he pulls away. Bucky gasps and Steve's cock is back, a brief shocking taste of bitter-salt before the head of his cock is in Bucky's throat and then retreating again.
Bucky, quite frankly, has no say in the matter.
Steve takes his pleasure efficiently, picking his own rhythm and expecting Bucky to keep up. What thoughts Bucky could gather shatter and fall away as his focus narrows down entirely to breathing. Steve's fast in fucking his face, brutal in a matter-of-fact way, and at first the only sign that he's affected is how his hand trembles where it cups Bucky's jaw.
But Steve's breathing grows heavier, harsher. When he pauses to take a breath, he does it with Bucky's nose shoved hard against his pubes, Steve's cock so deep in his throat that Bucky chokes on it. He opens watery eyes and Steve's smirking at him like every asshole officer Bucky's ever had.
"Can you do it?" Steve says, grinning and shifting back just enough for Bucky to suck in a quick shallow breath. "You're doing good so far, can you go a step further? You think you can get me off?"
Bucky groans a garbled "mmhmm" and pushes forward, sucking hard enough to make Steve hiss and jerk his hips deeper in Bucky's mouth.
"Fuck, just like that," Steve says. He's thrusting again and his pace is less tempo-perfect, more the ragged motions of a man close to orgasm. It's impossible to keep up with and Bucky loves it, loves that he's gotten this man so on edge.
Steve's hand in his hair shakes, then yanks hard, and his cock disappears. Bucky's still moaning and gasping when the first stripe of come hits his cheek. Steve grunts above him and more come pours onto Bucky's face, filling his mouth and streaking across his cheeks, even splattering up to stick his eyelashes together.
"Fucking hell, you're pretty like that," Steve growls at him. Two gentle fingers peel Bucky's eyes open and he watches Steve's beautiful, chiseled, sweaty face as the fingers move to gather come off his cheek. Steve's still breathing hard, cheeks pink, and he licks his lips as his fingers push into Bucky's mouth, feeding Bucky his come.
Bucky lets his eyes drift shut. He wants to just feel this, the rough pads of Steve's fingers rasping over his chapped lips to fill his mouth with jizz. Everything below his ass burns and hurts, and his cock is so hard it aches, but he pushes all of that away. There's just Steve's fingers, and his thumb petting the corner of his mouth, and Steve murmuring praise that makes Bucky's chest so full he thinks he could burst.
The A/C kicks on in the room warmed with sex and sun, and Bucky whimpers when the cold air hits his spit-wet face and sweaty body. Steve shushes him and pulls back to tuck his cock away, then kneels easily in front of him. His broad body blocks the cold and Bucky can't resist leaning into his warmth and bulk.
"That's right. We're all done now," Steve says. Bucky's got his face tucked against Steve's neck, but he must have had snips in his back pocket, because the pressure on Bucky's wrists releases. He gasps, but Steve's thrown the tool away in favor of holding his wrists, massaging and rubbing and slowly pulling his arms back to his front.
"Easy does it," Steve says. He's being so careful that it's like almost he's a different person. His hands move to guide Bucky's hips: pulling him up close to release the towel, helping him stretch cramping leg muscles so Bucky can sit across his lap, pulling a throw down off the sofa to tuck around the both of them.
It's gentle, and kind, and such a shock after the beating that Bucky finds himself wiping tears off his cheeks.
"Shit, I--sorry, sir," Bucky says, but Steve's smiling and shaking his head, using a honest to god handkerchief that's soft as anything to wipe Bucky's face clean.
"You're fine, boy," Steve says. "Just fine. Lay your head."
Bucky sighs. He rests his cheek against Steve's shoulder, and the last thing he sees before shutting his eyes is dust motes in the shifting sunbeams.