Work Text
Bucky
Bucky is torn between obsessively consuming the sight of Steve or taking in the sight of their surroundings. He can’t have both. He desperately wishes he could, though. He wishes he had two sets of eyes so he could use one to take in each and every detail of Steve—head to toe—while having the other set free to scan the room—ceiling to floor, corner to corner.
Yet, as is, with his single, inadequate pair of eyes, Bucky continually finds himself magnetized back to Steve’s, well,
back.
Although, at the same time, over and over again, his eyes stray, cataloging the black, soundproofed walls, the warm but not too dim lights, and every shape taking up some of the dark, undertone-heavy room. The shapes vary, some of them are of heavy-duty sex furniture, pieces large and small, dark wood, shiny metal, and thick leather; some are pegboards overflowing with gear and accessories, organized and incredible to look at; some are anchor points everyplace that could possibly be desired, chains hanging, ready to string up any very lucky (or very unlucky) submissive; and others are thick, heavy framed pornographic photographs of submissives tied up in every which way, some are suspended, while others are not tied in knots, but anyway all of them are just… absolutely debauched.
The first-floor apartment that Steve uses as his professional domming space has the exact same layout as his second-floor apartment (minus the balcony, instead, it opens into the courtyard), and it carries a lot of the same aesthetic, but it’s just been turned up to eleven. The furniture here is even heavier than the BDSM furniture he has upstairs. The walls are darker and more crowded with gear. The photographs are still undeniable art, but there is also no denying that they are
porn.
It’s not prints of hand-drawn art, it’s photographs of real-life submissives—most with their faces covered or at least partially obscured. It’s the same. But the air feels different. It feels
special.
Steve feels different, existing in this space, but it might just be because he’s dressed differently than normal. Normal to Bucky. His everyday wear is (blessedly) tight t-shirts with dark denim jeans and pops of leather here and there, like a leather jacket if it’s chilly enough, and, more often than not, a pair of well-loved leather work boots. He is not in his everyday wear while he is in his element down here. Here, Steve’s tall, thick frame is
dripping
in black leather. Head to toe.
It’s, it’s…
Bucky has seen men dressed like that before, maybe once or twice while delving into Google or exploring certain parts of social media but he’s never—
In person it’s
different.
Steve’s grey hair is mostly hidden by the leather peaked cap sitting on his head, shading his blue eyes, obscuring where his line of sight actually lies. It’s a little offputting; it’s a little intriguing. Bucky wants to get closer and closer—to step into his personal space until he knows exactly where those sharp, pretty eyes are looking. Steve’s broad shoulders and impressive chest have been squeezed into a leather shirt with snap buttons. The buttons aren’t done all the way up. Instead, some of his groomed, silver-grey chest hair and pale, freckled skin is allowed to breathe. Yet, when he abruptly puts his arms together, moving because he’s actually being productive, cleaning up and straightening out his playspace after having a client—productive unlike Bucky, who is simply
gawking—
Steve’s exposed chest creases. Bucky’s mouth
waters.
He has actual fucking
cleavage.
It would be a fucking crime if his tight, tight leather shirt were fully closed, Bucky understands now. And somehow, the fact that his shirt has
snap buttons
makes this all worse for Bucky. He’s staring. He’s imagining Steve bursting out of that shirt. His chest is already making a break for it. And his gorgeous, gorgeous stomach is on the way, too. He looks
huge
in the most delicious fucking way.
Not to mention, he has some kind of harness over his unbuttoned, obscene leather shirt. But, it doesn’t go across his chest, it just frames his body from under his strong arms to over his trapezius muscles, connecting in the middle of his upper back. Is it horrible that Bucky’s first thought about the straps that make up his harness is that they’d make it easy for Bucky to grab him and haul him around? It’d be so easy to grip that harness and fuck him
hard.
Bucky shudders in place, tearing himself away from that path of thoughts to forge a new one.
The new thoughts still are all about Steve, though. It’s no use. He’s
magnetic.
Steve’s belt, also leather, is
thick.
It sits low on his hips. Tight to his hips and emphasizing his long legs but also the slope of his little belly. Bucky’s hands tighten into fists. Again, he feels the overwhelming urge to
grab.
He wants to slip his fingers through his belt loops and haul Steve against himself until they’re pressed together, as close as they can possibly get. He wants to feel every inch of him. Lips on lips. His round chest and stomach. Thick muscles. The line of his fattening cock, legs slotted together. He wants to get his fingers on those snap buttons and undo them
one… by… one.
He wants to
unwrap
Steve.
Jesus.
He wants him
so bad.
Steve’s pants are also, unsurprisingly, leather. They cling tightly to him and leave nothing to the imagination. His dick looks
stuffed
into them with how it’s bulging. But the bulge of his dick is nothing compared to his ass. Truly, Bucky does not understand how he fucking got himself into those pants.
God.
His
ass.
Bucky might be drooling.
And it’s not like Steve is helping Bucky’s sanity—if anything he’s making it harder for Bucky to hold himself together. He’s not doing anything. But, still, everything he’s doing is so goddamn
incredible.
He already thoroughly wiped down the St. Andrew’s Cross that he used for the scene he just did along with the two different floggers that he used on the submissive while they were strung up on the giant X; now he’s coiling the rope he must’ve used to tie the submissive down, securing the end between his thumb and the side of his palm before wrapping the length of it from his palm to his elbow, over and over and over again. Steve tells him, passively, that he’s going to wash it later, but it’s a hell of a lot easier to get it to the washer when it’s coiled rather than dragging around a loose length of rope.
Bucky is hardly listening. In one ear and out the other. This lesson will have to be repeated undoubtedly.
Steve’s forearms are obscene enough on their own. They don’t need to be elevated with accessories. But they are. Rope and… Steve is wearing leather gloves, too. Gloves that almost seemed goofy to Bucky at first, appearing to be too small on Steve’s massive mitts but, the longer he has
drooled
gazed, the more he likes them. The gloves aren’t like work gloves that are designed to protect the wearer's wrists as well as their hands,
no,
the gloves just perfectly fit his hands. The moment they reach the heel of his hand, they stop.
The stark, black, smooth leather highlights just how
large
Steve’s hands really are.
Oof.
“Y’know,” Steve’s voice filters back into Bucky’s ears as he steps to the side, heavy leather boots thunking satisfyingly on the wooden floors as he places the now coiled rope aside and picks up the next used length to untangle it, “I’ve had two subs tell me I gave them the best scene of their lives this week.”
“R-really?” Bucky manages to get out. Now he can’t stop looking at Steve’s hands.
Great.
“And,”
Steve emphasizes, pointing a finger at him, “the week before, a sub I’ve been working with for years told me that the scene we had was the best we’ve done.”
“Oh?” Bucky doesn’t know if Steve is doing his professor-esque thing, where he just announces a new topic and then eventually gets around to the point at some point, or if he already made the point but Bucky wasn’t listening to catch it. As is, he’s stuck in the middle of conversational whiplash.
“I wasn’t offended, if that’s what you’re thinking,” Steve chuckles to himself, neatly working the rope around his hand and elbow, hypnotic and graceful in motion, “he was right. We have great scenes, but it was a fucking
great
scene. Better than ever. Y’know?”
“I guess?” Bucky says, still confused.
“It was. I’m telling you.” Steve shoots him an amused glance, peering out from under the brim of his cap, “and I’m also telling you that I’m pretty sure it’s because of you.” He pauses. Bucky feels stricken—his posture has never been better—in a good way. “Because of
this.”
He gestures between them with the hand that isn’t all caught up in his rope, “cutting loose and subbing in my personal life.”
Bucky half swallows down a surprised,
“oh,”
leaving it barely audible in the calm, easy space between them.
“I feel like it’s,” he clicks his tongue, “I hesitate to say it’s making my work
work
again, because it didn’t stop feeling good, but it’s… I don’t know.” He leans his head to the side, his cap shifting slightly, “it’s made it new again.”
Bucky… Bucky doesn’t know how to respond to that. It’s, it’s fucking great to hear. It is! It hits him in the chest, that feeling of
you’re doing good, you’re having a good time and it’s the right thing, this is what you’re supposed to be doing. This is what you’re meant to be doing.
But he doesn’t know what to say about it to Steve.
You’re welcome? Thanks? Let's do that again? Now?
In the end, though, Bucky doesn’t say a fucking thing because Steve, as if he’s not just made Bucky’s mind uncoil and fall into tangles in the exact reverse of the ropes he’s working, just turns around, setting the rope he was bundling aside, and—
Sliding to his knees.
The squeak on squeak of leather flexing emphasizes the smooth movement.
What.
Any of the spit that was in Bucky’s mouth, any drool that was spilling over Bucky’s open lips dries at the sight. He is
parched.
Every tiny detail about Steve in this space
screams
dominant. He is in charge. Perfectly controlled from the way he’s dressed, all immaculate, shiny, tight, black leather, to the way he’s speaking, his low, gently rasping voice, to what he’s speaking
about,
conversing casually about the submissives he’s driving fucking crazy, taking the control they’re so desperate to give up and twisting it into the most perverted scenarios until their mind’s melt out of their skulls, so good at taking control, in fact, that they
pay
him for it. And, yet, somehow he—that completely fucking in control, dominant, big,
super
experienced, gorgeous man is getting on his knees for
Bucky.
A rusty, hoarse sound is punched directly out from Bucky’s chest, something of a groan, rattling his teeth, giving up all his air.
Jesus Christ.
This—
this is his life?
How
the fuck
did he get here and how the fuck does he stay here for the rest of time? He doesn’t think he can stand to leave now. Nothing feels as good as this.
“Can I?” Steve glances up through his fanned eyelashes and past the brim of his cap, one gloved hand resting on his thigh, petting his skin through one of the many rips in his jeans.
God.
Bucky’s next breath is ragged and short. Sparks of light shoot through the nerves under his skin, hot and electric. The sensation of Steve’s gloved hand on him is
good.
The body-warmed, smooth leather.
Can he?
If Bucky’s brain is still functioning correctly and he’s not in a coma living out his filthiest dreams before he dies once and for all, then he’s pretty sure he’s asking to blow him.
Christ,
Bucky clenches his jaw against a rush of want, if that’s what Steve is asking for then he’s so,
so
fucking on board with it.
Y-E-S.
Bucky nods because his throat is still too dry to speak.
But. As it turns out, Steve
isn’t
asking to blow him.
Steve isn’t asking to blow him because he doesn’t start to lean it and open his plush, pink mouth as his eyes flutter shut to savor it, he doesn’t use those clever, gloved fingers to unbutton and unzip his tightening jeans, he doesn’t—
He just—
He—
“Ohgod,”
Bucky can’t help but moan.
He does something
dirtier
than Bucky could have managed to imagine before it happens. He folds those gloved hands elegantly behind his back and dives forward with too much grace for the obscenity of what he’s doing, folding at the waist, chest to thighs, and dropping his bearded jaw to expose his wet, pink tongue and draaaag it perfectly slowly up the toe of Bucky’s leather combat boots.
Bucky
groans
and words that aren’t worth repeating, garbled and surely blasphemous, spill out of his mouth as he stares down. Pure shock and arousal.
Still, Steve doesn’t bother to peer up from where he’s painting another slick, shiny line of spit over his boots. However, Bucky does spot where color blooms on his cheek as he turns his head to the side to trace a wet line along the seam of his boot, leather meeting the rubber soles. He is so, so into it. Flushing hot. Tilting his head so he can get closer. Using his entire tongue; flattening it,
flicking it.
Shit.
Bucky’s—
Bucky has never been rimmed but,
oh, fuck,
watching him lick his boot, toes to heel, and finding that tongue to be so sharp and pretty and
skilled…
what is Bucky supposed to imagine but that hot tongue working over his cock, he knows he’s fantastic at that and that he can make his eyes roll back without hardly any effort, but then imagining that he would go back… nosing his way deeper.
Deeper.
All the way to Bucky’s very
core
where he can lick and suck and fuck his wet, wet tongue into him until Bucky is helpless to not moan and tug viciously at his hair, grinding down onto his face, threatening him to keep fucking going because if he doesn’t,
Christ,
if he doesn’t he—he doesn’t even know
what
he’ll do, but he’ll fucking punish him because,
God,
it’s too good to give up.
He can’t stop now!
“Jesus,”
Bucky grits out through his teeth. How is it possible that just the
sight
of Steve doing this—without really being able to feel anything at all because of his boots—feels just as good as he imagines rimming to feel? How does it compare to having his cock sucked?
Fucking how?
His mind is a slurry, liquified and spinning too fast. He can’t think. It’s all just waves of pleasure and power and awe.
This is
incredible.
Steve is on his knees—better than that, Steve is
on. the. floor.
Steve is on the floor and he’s worshipping his boots. His feet. He doesn’t give a shit that he doesn’t know where exactly Bucky has been walking or when the last time was that he cleaned these shoes, he just wants to service him. He wants to service him more intimately than he even can with his hands. He has to use his mouth.
His
tongue.
Bucky desperately wants to get ahold of his submissive, he wants to rake his fingers through his hair and fuck it up, he wants to grab onto his shoulders and direct him, he wants to have him in his hands. Bucky feels so, so wound up. Like he could grab and squeeze and crush Steve between his palms. He doesn’t want to crush Steve. He just wants to have him. But the strength of the rush of everything he’s feeling, the headspace that this is putting him in… he has the power. Steve would let him, too. He could crush him. He doesn’t want to crush him. He wants to have him. He wants to ruin him. It’s different. He wants to fucking tear him apart and put him back together and assure him that he’s safe and he’s everything Bucky wants and more. Steve. Steve. Steve. He’s the only thing on Bucky’s mind. He’s the reason Bucky feels so fucking crazy.
As is, though, Steve’s crumbled too close to the floor for Bucky to do anything but curl his fingers into fists. His hands hang in the tension-thick air around him, forced to listen but not touch. Listen because Steve is making these wet sounds. Licking. Laving his tongue against the leather. Swallowing these little
“mmmhn”
sounds that make it seem like he’s getting off on the taste. One of the small sounds grows into an actual fucking
moan
and Bucky shivers with it, he shakes at how Steve’s mouth falls open and he loses control of himself for a long enough moment that his teeth scrape over the leather of his shoes.
“Fuckin’—”
Bucky hisses, unaware of wherever he is about to go and saved from fumbling because Steve shuffles closer and chases deeper. He’s finished licking the entire toe of his left boot and is now going at the side.
Bucky continues to spin in place, reveling in the show of gorgeous, illicit-feeling yet incredibly willing submission.
Steve manages to get so close that he knocks the brim of his peaked leather cap against his lower leg. It shifts on his head, laying askew. But he doesn’t seem to notice. He’s so caught up in the act. In fact, he’s so, so into worshipping him, that he keeps going and it can’t even be more than a minute later when his cap falls off his head, knocked out of place.
He doesn’t reach to grab it.
He does nothing except continue.
Licking. Lapping. Laving.
Moaning
softly in the back of his throat. His tongue.
Jesus.
It’s a
sin
all on its own.
Bucky doesn’t want him to fix his cap. There’s something about the ruffled, mused mess of his hair that Bucky likes better than the cap. Maybe he’s just sensitive to seeing his hair because it reminds him so obviously of their age difference. The taboo. That shock of beautiful silver. Steve,
Steve,
older and much more experienced and maybe even more dominant than Bucky,
that Steve
is has pressed himself to the floor and is treating his boots with the same skill and obscenity that he uses to suck cock. The same skill that he might use on his hole… if Bucky told him to. If Bucky wanted it. Because Bucky is in charge. Bucky can tell him to do anything with that tongue—no matter how filthy.
Steve finishes his left boot while Bucky boils alive.
Then, he tilts his chin up and his eyes are dreamy, unfocused, pupils huge when they find Bucky’s.
Fuck, he really likes this,
Bucky thinks, completely astonished.
Steve blinks slowly, owlishly, at him.
“Good boyy,”
Bucky coos at him, his voice low and gravel-rough with the ball of flames twisting and writhing and tightening in his gut, just as dangerous as a tangle of venomous snakes.
Steve wriggles in place, his eyes getting a touch hazier. Just like that.
Just. like. that.
Bucky has an idea. A sharp spark of perverted inspiration.
Ah.
That could be good.
He grins.
“You’re gonna do the other one, aren’t’cha, baby? Finish what you started?”
Steve whimpers, immediately flicking his heated gaze back down, leaning in like he’s been entrapped by a gravitational pull. Natural. He has to follow it. There is no other option.
But—
“Ah-ah,”
even if Bucky wanted to, he wouldn’t be able to stop his mouth from twisting into the gleeful, perhaps
mean
shape it’s bending into, this feels
so fucking good,
“I didn’t say you could move, Steve.”
A sad little whimper flies out of Steve’s already parted lips. He’s stuck, halfway up, halfway down. Breathing harder now—panting through his open mouth. He really has to work to stare up at Bucky without lifting his chin. Staying as still as possible. A debauched statue.
Good.
Bucky doesn’t really even move back far enough for it to be considered a step, it’s more of a shuffle, he just needs enough room to—
Steve whines, apologetic, afraid that he’s not going to let him now that he’s accidentally disobeyed. He’s just too eager. Too easy. Where does that smart brain go when Bucky gets all mean about giving orders? Because it’s not here.
“Shh,”
Bucky shoots him one narrow-eyed look in gentle reprimand before carrying out his plan, using the space he’s made between their bodies, gathering all the saliva in his mouth, wet and hot and excessive, puckering his lips, and…
Spitting on the toe of his right boot.
He’s taking somewhat of a leap—maybe just a short jump—but he also knows how Steve filled out his kink checklist like he knows the back of his own hand. He knows what he wrote down when it came to bodily fluids. He knows how he feels about spit on paper, now, here’s the real test.
Steve passes with flying colors, he gives a full-body shiver and a guttural moan that sounds more like,
“please”
than not.
“Do it,”
Bucky orders, steel in his voice and dripping down his throat, settling in his belly and pooling at the base of his cock.
God.
It’s
throbbing.
He’s so fucking hard, eating up the way Steve melts into submission.
Steve moans all the way to his boot, breathless and eager, immediately licking up his spit and
swallowing it.
He doesn’t spread it around Bucky’s boot like he expected him to, getting it extra messy and shiny and gross.
Fuck.
Instead,
God—instead
he decides he needs it in his mouth, down his throat, and inside him. He swallows his spit. Parting his lips with a hungry groan when he’s done, or actually, he ends up swallowing again, just to be sure, and then he’s ready, then he starts going at it—lapping long, broad strokes of his tongue over his boot, never actually closing his mouth.
So
into it. Sloppy and gross.
“Jesus, you’re fucking—God, you’re so good, baby. So fucking dirty. I love it.” Bucky rambles, needing to say something, anything, otherwise his chest is going to explode. His heart is beating so hard. So fast. His arousal is building dangerously. So much pressure. He has to do something. He has to say something.
Meanwhile, Steve whimpers against his boot, the sound is slurred and barely a word at all, but Bucky can pick it out. He knows he’s crying,
“Daddy,”
with his tongue pressed to the toe of his boot and his mouth open.
And the knowledge cuts
deep.
With a groan, Bucky’s eyes slide shut. Still, that’s not enough, the heat from the fucking obscenity that this is, is assaulting him. He has to squeeze his eyes shut and lean his head back, facing the ceiling. He has no restraint. He can’t. His hands can’t reach Steve, bowed at his feet, so they reach for his own body instead. He palms himself, groaning low enough that it hurts his throat.
Fuck.
Opening his eyes again is a goddamn glorious mistake, staring down the line of his own body, seeing his hands cupping the bulge in his jeans, then seeing Steve still working on his boot, lapping, licking, moaning,
living for it,
is too much.
Under his own fingertips, he feels himself twitch. Hard.
“Fuck,”
he swears, “you look so good down there, baby,” he can’t help but purr. Good is the only word he can think of for it, but it’s not enough. He’s so much more than good.
So, so much better than good.
He’s perfect.
“D-daddy,”
he gasps.
So perfect that he knows when he finishes cleaning his boots, he’s not done. Bucky doesn’t even have to say anything. Both of his boots are smeared with drool. Glinting in the light. Steve is glinting—glistening, he’s red in the face and sweating. Melting. His eyes are glistening just like his skin; incredibly alive blue eyes that’re hazy and tear-filled. Melted but eager to further liquefy. Even if it’s not possible. He’s already so gone, how can there be more? But it’s not over. Of course, not.
Steve trembles visibly as he uses his core strength to pull himself up higher without the use of his hands, all the while dragging his filthy tongue not along the leather of his shoes, but along the denim of his jeans.
“That’s it,”
Bucky mumbles,
“yeahhh, good fucking boy,”
under the weight of his breath.
Fuck,
he can feel him better through the denim. He can feel the heat, the wetness, his tongue, his heavy, rapid breaths, the occasional scrape of his teeth, tingling and dangerous, and the plush pillows of his lips. Bucky curses his own bad decision to not undo the button of his jeans when he had the chance—there’s no way in hell he’s stopping for anything now. He can’t.
Steve is dragging himself into a hurried, improper kneeling position. His hot mouth skimming his ankle, his calf, his knee, his thigh, and—
“Daddy,”
he
moans.
Bucky doesn’t give a fucking shit about his posture.
All that matters is that Steve is mouthing hungrily,
wetly
at the back of his hand, sucking on his knuckles, tracing the pulsing line of his veins, and nuzzling his face into it. Needy. Strung out. Begging for something,
anything.
“Oh, baby,”
the words leave Bucky in a rush with his exhale. He inhales urgently. He needs air. He’s burning up and he needs more oxygen to fuel the inferno. His hands move in a rush as well. Chaotic. Steve’s mouth is a fucking wet dream. An impossible fantasy. It’s what porn is
made
about. So, it’s easy to see why he can’t fucking take the time to rip open his pants and shove them down the few inches it would take to expose his throbbing, painfully hard cock. It will take too long. And his mouth is
right there. Right now.
He needs—he has to—
Bucky’s shaking hands caress his open jaw, the sharp, bearded line of it, before rapidly traveling up to tangle themselves in his silver hair so he can hold him in place. Bucky isn’t even aware of what his body is chasing—where this desperate hunger is leading him, he just does it. He grabs Steve, holding him in place, and he
does.
His hips
move.
And suddenly, he’s fucking humping his face,
defiling
it, as Steve moans with all the breath he has left, reveling in the depravity—
feeding
on it. Being used. Being a fuck toy. Just something pretty to grip and fuck. Getting off on it
hard
judging by the pitch of his sounds and the way he tilts his face into it, chasing the friction like a sunflower chases the sun through the sky. His pornographic noises are all desperation and need and the best kind of shock.
Holy shit.
Bucky needs absolutely no time for the forest fire inside him to burn through every tree that’s left, every bit of fuel consumed, coming to the ground with an Earth-shaking impact. Falling. Crumbling. Ashened and devastated. Heat like nothing else, embarrassment and total arousal, curling around him like a boa constrictor. Deadly. Staring directly down at Steve, disbelieving that anything could ever be so erotic. He can’t breathe—
He can’t—
This
noise
leaves his lips as he orgasms, cumming in his pants, rutting against Steve’s hanging open mouth, drool adding to the wet spot on his pants, making it worse.
Making it
better.
Bucky shakes all over, his fists squeezing extra tight in Steve’s hair. He can’t keep moving his hips. The aftershocks of his orgasm are so good. He’s too oversensitive. It’s too much. Too much of a good thing. All this fucking pleasure.
God.
It feels
so good.
He chokes. He
can’t!
But he discovers quickly that Steve has other plans as he cries out, wanting, and pressing himself harder against the bulge in his jeans so he can start licking. Trying to lap up his cum urgently despite the fact that he’s still fucking wearing his jeans and his underwear.
Taste it.
He wants to taste it. He wants to swallow it down, take it deep inside him just like he did with his spit.
Fuck,
Bucky has already ruined his mouth, but he could ruin it more right now. Steve would let him. Steve
wants
him to. He could spit in Steve’s mouth and he knows Steve would
love
it. He’d moan and shake and beg for more with huge, hazy, watery eyes.
Please, Daddy. Want it. I want it.
Christ.
Bucky grits his teeth while a whole new wave of oversensitive shivers takes possession of his muscles.
Christ.
Using his depleted strength, Bucky has to rip Steve off of him, chest heaving. He can’t take it. As fucking obscene and pleasurable as it is to know that Steve can’t fucking get enough of him, he can’t. Oversensitivity is seeping in.
Without his face smashed into Bucky’s cock, hiding it, Bucky can see, plain as day, that Steve looks
blissed the fuck out.
Bucky is unsure, looking at him—eyes heavily lidded, almost shut, mouth swollen, wet, and lazily hanging open, cheeks flushed and misted with sweat, his posture drooping as if he can’t manage to hold himself up any longer, boneless—if he’ll be able to make words anytime soon. But, he surprises Bucky. When he pulls his hair enough to force his head back so he can get a better look at that stupid, gorgeous, fuck-out expression, Steve slurs,
“I forrgot how mush I miss’d bootlicking,”
the way he says the last word,
bootlicking,
he
moans
it, like just saying it out loud might be enough to get him off. The idea of it. His eyelashes flutter, eyes rolling to the back of his head.
Oh, yeah,
he’s fucked out.
And,
God,
Bucky is in love with it. He’s in love with Steve, but, but—
Shit.
He’s in love with Steve
when he gets like this.
He loves how his submissive gives it all up.
He lo—
To get out of his spiraling, messy thoughts that don’t make sense with how his brain has just melted out of his ears after his orgasm, Bucky hauls Steve up by the hair; he has to wrap his arms around his waist to keep him from tumbling over. And into his mouth, kissing him sloppily, Bucky tells him, “I think I have some more ideas for it, but…” he loses his breath for a moment, overwhelmed by the taste of Steve’s hot, wet mouth, “we’ll have to go upstairs for it.”
“Why?”
Steve asks, gasping, letting Bucky take all of his weight.
“‘Cause that’s where your collar is, baby,” he husks, staring at him.
“Oh.”
Steve moans, lips dropping open, “o-kay,” he scrambles up straighter, trying cutely to hold himself together, as if he wasn’t just melting in Bucky’s arms, “right, yeah,
yeah,
lets—”
He stumbles a step forward, so fucking eager that Bucky can’t take it and his heart stumbles in his chest, missing a few beats, just watching him. He’s so gorgeous. So perfect. Flushed. His leather all askew. That perfect, hard dominant exterior is completely ruined, revealing the switch he is—revealing the most submissive, soft, gooey part that only Bucky gets to see. Bucky just orgasmed
hard
but suddenly he can’t wait either. He feels as if he’s on the cusp of another release. Something even more pleasurable and heady. So, he grabs Steve, digging his blunt nails into him to hear him keen, and urges him upstairs, barely remembering to lock the door to Steve’s professional domming space behind them—too wrapped up in each other.
-
Steve
Steve can’t fucking breathe. Bucky looks nothing like the daddies he’s used to worshipping. He’s not in leather, head-to-toe, the way
Steve is.
Instead, he’s dressed in clinging, black ripped jeans that reveal mouth-watering glimpses of bare skin—Steve wants to mouth at every tear and taste him
everywhere—
and a t-shirt skims the shape of his body beautifully. Shoulders and waist. The neckline is stretched, and Steve can see his angular collarbones and some of his dark chest hair. The fabric clothing him is soft. He doesn’t look like the leather daddies Steve’s had. Not obviously. But the demand of his lust to
worship,
to
lick,
to
serve
has never been more ravenous. He’s so fucking attractive. So goddamn handsome and demanding and Steve is pretty sure this is throwing his whole goddamn brain out the window. Melting it but zapping it with shocks of electricity, too.
His knees ache. His back aches. His jaw aches. Worst of all, his cock aches. It
hurts.
It’s in need of attention desperately. That’s unfathomably familiar. As is the expression on Bucky’s fucking face. The dark, pleased dominance that makes Steve want to
weep.
To whimper. To plead. And actually…
He thinks he
does.
The urge, at least, is so strong to plead and whine that he’s sure something must come out of his buzzing, burning mouth but he can’t hear it. He can hear nothing but the pulse of his hammering heart in his chest, pushing thick, hot blood through his body, leaving him feverish as Bucky towers over him, arms crossed, staring down, and—
Oh.
The words out of his filthy, charming mouth finally get through Steve’s pulsing desire to the processing part of his brain that is still intact. For now.
Strip.
Steve moans, he nods jerkily, trying to show that he understands and he can and he will! He’ll be good! He can strip! He can get naked like Bucky wants him to, he’s just—
fuck,
he
hurts.
He aches. He feels all squirmy and throbby. He can’t focus on anything else. His fucking fine motor skills are shot to shit, so as he gets to work, stripping himself as he kneels on the floor, he has to work around shaking, fumbling hands that tug and pull and peel clumsily—he has to work against the tight, tight leather that’s squeezing him deliciously. He squirms and wiggles. At least he’s so feverish and hot that he’s sweating, it makes it a little easier. Gloves. Harness.
Snap. Snap. Snap.
He undoes each button of his leather shirt, feeling hotter and hotter as he does it. Why? Getting out of the leather should be a relief-? But…
Steve gets his answer when his eyes find his dominant’s face.
Oh.
His whole body quivers.
Bucky is
staring
at him.
Steve weakly undoes another snap button. Bucky stays silent and stays locked onto his newly exposed flesh, but he sinks his teeth into his lower lip. More arousal fills Steve’s veins. Burning. Enough to melt through bone and muscle.
Wanted, wanted, wanted
pulses through him, more intoxicating than anything. Of course, he knows he’s wanted, he knows he’s wanted by
Bucky
specifically, and he knows he’s wanted when he’s embodying his dominant side, dressed exactly the way he is right now, but when he’s domming it’s a different feeling. No less powerful but different. Definitely different. It’s wanted as in
look at how needy my sub is, look at how much he needs me, look at how bad he wants me to control him, to use him, to play with him.
This is wanted in a way that
he wants me so bad he’s going to tear me apart and make me serve him. He’s going to make me do whatever he’s craving. He’s going to make me
his.
He’s going to own me, he loves me so much—he
wants
me so much.
Steve whimpers.
Bucky snarls and dives forward.
He lunges like a
predator,
claws outstretched and cutting into him, first planning to play with him, and then planning to make a meal of him.
“D-daddy,”
Steve gasps, overwhelmed and dizzy with Bucky’s sudden lack of patience, his sure, steady hands undoing the last snaps on his shirt and stripping it off him. Bucky mauls his belt next, getting it off him faster than Steve could dream when he feels so melted, soft, and gooey like a marshmallow held over an open flame.
Fuck.
His boots are undone, pulled off, and dropped to the side with a heavy thunk each. Last, are his pants. Bucky peels them down.
Peels.
It’s such a fucking
sensation.
The tight, tight, tight leather. The chilled air of the room against his skin. Goosebumps. Bucky’s hot, heavy hands. His equally heavy and hot—humid—breath.
He’s naked.
Suddenly.
Bucky has taken all of his clothes from him, he’s sprawled out on the wooden floor on his back in the middle of his fucking apartment while Bucky is fully clothed and looking wild above him,
looming
over him, his hands on either side of Steve’s head, eyes feral, chest heaving, his hair coming undone from its tie in captivating, face-framing strands, peering down at him. Steve is ready to be eaten alive. A whimper slides out of him. The thought of Bucky ducking his head and sinking his teeth into his neck, using his weight to press him flat to the floor rather than staying up on his elbows, and claiming his throat is too much. His hips
jerk.
The friction between their bodies makes him moan. Louder and rougher than he means to. Bucky is hard again. A bright, white-hot line of steel against his own throbbing, aching erection.
Bucky
grins.
Sharp and maybe even crazed.
Fuck.
Wanted, wanted, wanted—
the feeling surges through Steve, rising to the point of drowning him when Bucky connects their mouths bruisingly. He can hardly kiss back, not because he doesn’t want to but because he’s so fucking
weak.
He’s disappearing into this scene like cotton candy in water. Fully saturated. Hazy. All he can do is cry out when Bucky bites his lip. Then, he can’t hold in his chest-rattling groan when Bucky licks into his mouth and sucks on his tongue like he really does want to
eat
him. Consume him. Tear him apart and taste every part of him.
JesusfuckingChrist.
Steve is flooded with overwhelming arousal.
There is nothing but lust and fire inside him.
And it only gets worse with Bucky’s weight in his lap—pressing unforgivingly on his unbearable hardness, hurting and so, so good—and his hands on his jaw, encompassing his whole fucking being, taking it right in his hands and molding it—commanding it. He is Bucky’s. Whatever Bucky wants, Steve will do. Anything.
Anything.
“You’re gonna fuckin’ stay right here,” Bucky growls into his hanging-open mouth. “I’m gonna go get your collar and some other things,” Steve
whimpers,
fucking thrilled by the simple threat of his collar, “and you’re not gonna move.”
Steve moans,
“uh-huh,”
stupidly. Like he has any choice.
Anything.
All he can do is what his dominant wants from him. There is no other option. He is his dominant’s to control and have.
“Perfect,” Bucky strokes his cheek with his full palm, almost like he’d pet an animal, and—
He gets up.
Oh, God.
Wait!
Instantaneously, Steve’s strings are cut. He doesn’t want him to go. He wants his collar and anything else that Bucky’s filthy imagination can come up with. But he can’t leave! Steve flops back onto the floor with a soft, pathetic whine, flat against the now body-hot wood. He’s lying still but it feels like he’s spinning. Panting. Chest heaving. Without a conscious decision, his eyes flutter shut. Spinning. Spinning.
Throbbing.
Jesus.
He’s
so
hard that he knows all his dom would have to do is give him permission and he could orgasm. Untouched with the taste of leather and dirt and grit on his tongue. He’s right there. On the edge. Hovering. But also, he’s so fucking hazy and melted that it doesn’t matter. He’s not in his body and also the most in his body he’s ever fucking been. Hazy. Stupid. Floaty. He doesn’t want to cum because
he
wants to cum, he wants to cum whenever
Bucky
wants him to. He wants to lie here on the floor, dizzy and achy and become a part of the wooden boards, for the rest of time, if that’s what his dominant intends for him. He would be a floormat if that’s what Bucky says he wants. He would give everything up to lie on Bucky’s floor and be stepped on. Bootprints in his flesh. His tongue offered up for whatever purpose Bucky needed—cock sucking, mouthing at his fingers, cleaning his boots.
Anything.
Fuuuck.
In syrupy slow motion, the image of Bucky’s boots floats through his empty head. Also in slow motion, Bucky presses those boots into him, and the imaginary sensation of the tread across his muscles… it’s too much. He chokes on a pathetic moan, shivering, and the words
step on me,
desperate and garbled, almost spilling out of his mouth. They would, if he weren’t so fucking scrambled that his lips and teeth and tongue don’t work anymore.
Helpless.
Steve is so lost to the world, out of his fucking mind, that he doesn’t hear it when Bucky comes back into the room. All he knows is one moment, he’s lying alone, fantasizing about a pair of fucking boots, and the next, he’s being touched.
“Ohhhh,”
he gasps.
Bucky’s chuckle is all that answers him, his hands exploring his sweaty, overheated skin, lifting his shoulders off the floor to slip the familiar cool, butter-soft leather of his collar around his throat.
Steve swallows too fast and coughs, choking, against the flood of saliva in his mouth.
Yes!
Bucky coos at him and Steve can’t make sense of it. His chest burns. He needs oxygen. His face burns. He’s embarrassed in a far-away, hazy sort of way like some part of his brain knows he should be embarrassed that he’s so affected by a strip of leather that he can’t breathe despite the fact that it’s not tight. Not at all. It could be tighter on his neck. It could. But it isn’t. Bucky didn’t tighten it all that much. Bucky doesn’t want it that way. So it won’t be tighter. It’s that simple.
The words of his dom slip back into his smeared, opaque atmosphere. Steve blinks. Once. Twice. The words make sense?
Wait, yes.
Oh. Okay, color.
What color is he?
“Gr-green,”
Steve just barely manages. He feels so fucking green all the way down to his toes, a brilliant, eager shade that urges Bucky to keep going like a traffic light, but it’s just hard to get out of his clumsy mouth.
“Perfect,” Bucky ruffles his hair, “you’re being such a good boy for me, baby.” His words drip like honey over Steve’s skin. Like hot, smoldering honey. Honey that was made in the middle of a forest fire. Just barely, incredibly spared by the flames. “You wanna do something else for me while you’re at it, hm?”
Steve nods, dimly, somewhere outside of himself, he’s sure he looks spacy and fucked-out but he doesn’t give a fuck.
Anything, anything, anything,
the promise beats in time with his frantic heart.
“Kneel for me.”
Steve scrambles to obey, he wants not just to answer that he can, but he craves to prove that he can. He can be good. He wants to be good. So bad. He
aches.
And just as his knees hit the floorboards with a hard, heavy sound that he can’t feel reverberating through his body because he doesn’t fucking care about that right now, he hears Bucky praise him more—
“Good boy,” Bucky grins, “look at
you.”
Bucky.
Sir.
Daddy.
Steve moans.
The sound only gets more shattered and fucked when Bucky’s hands move and suddenly Steve’s eyes catch sight of the
leash
he’s holding.
Shit.
Just at the sight of it, more sweat pools in the divots at the base of Steve’s spine. His cock jerks painfully, drooling onto his overheated skin. He’s so goddamn
hard.
His chest tingles, his nipples begging to be touched.
“You want it?” Bucky teases.
Want
is an understatement. Steve
needs.
Steve wants to fucking howl at the sight of the heavy, thick chain leash that Bucky selected for him. He wants to shiver violently. He wants to whimper and cry—literally
sob
until Bucky attaches the leash to his collar. White-hot electricity fires through him, shorting him out so all he can do is let his jaw fall to the floor, smoking surely billowing from his ringing ears.
Click.
The younger man attaches it.
A ragged, loud moan that’s supposed to be
Daddy
but really that sounds like nothing more than pure, audible lust careens out of Steve. His eyes snap tightly shut.
“What a cute dog you are for Daddy,” Bucky roughly coos.
Fuck.
Fuck.
“All leashed up, ready to go for a walk outside, aren’t you?”
Steve can only whine. Like a damn overexcited dog. He whines so intensely that he feels something in his throat tweak, but it doesn’t fucking matter. He’d scream himself raw for this. More of this.
“Tsk tsk,”
Bucky clicks his tongue, “it’ssa shame we can’t go out yet, though. Show you off. You’re so well trained and so well behaved. Aren’t you, puppy? Everyone would be so impressed!”
Steve can’t whine again—physically, he can’t. All that comes out is a pathetically small, cracked sound of desire. If he could, he’d be howling. If it were possible, he’d be wagging his tail. Pretty soon, as is, he’s gonna be slobbering all over the place, panting and drooling. Just as much of a dog as Bucky is telling him he is.
“Know why we can’t go out yet, pup?” He teases.
Steve can’t process the words. He can’t speak. He, he’s so fucking struck with arousal, taken out by a lightning strike. He’s useless. Daddy knows all that, though. He doesn’t really expect him to speak. Daddy is smart anyway. Dogs can’t speak. Daddy knows that. Steve doesn’t have to know anything. He just has to obey. Be good. And being good feels so good, so it’s not fucking hard. (Except it is, too. He’s
so fucking hard.)
“We can’t go out because
you
might be all ready, got all a dog could want, don’t’cha? A nice, pretty collar and leash. But Daddy’s not ready.” Steve is
drooling.
Hearing Bucky continually call himself Daddy is fucking
unraveling
him. This is unfair. This is
murder.
“You gonna be a good boy and help him get ready?” He’s doing the dumb, cheery, cute animal voice and it is tearing. Steve. apart.
He garbles out a useless, stupid sound. Hardly even a whimper.
“That’s what I thought!” Bucky happily messes up his hair, like he’s ruffling a dog's ears, “such a sweet dog,” he coos.
Then—
Then,
like a god-forsaken light switch, his voice snaps from cheery and sweet and higher than normal to a growled, low, passionate order,
“a dog that’s gonna lay down and clean my boots with his fucking tongue.”
Steve hits the floor like a ton of bricks. He doesn’t think; he
drops.
And his tongue is lolling out of his mouth like it’s too big to fit between his jaws. There’s thick, wet saliva already glistening on the pink muscle. He can’t help it. And instantly the next however many seconds, minutes, hours,
days
blur into a hot fucking mess of eager strokes of his tongue against leather. All he knows is the taste of leather, the smell of Bucky, and the glorious, sparkling pleasure of obedience. He could live like this. Worshipping Daddy. Flat on the floor where he belongs with his dominant towering over him.
Worshipping him.
This is his religion. He is devout. His higher purpose is known, it paints the back of his eyelids in hot-white radiance.
“Mngh!”
Steve
moans.
The sound isn’t intentional, it simply spills out of his well-used mouth.
Heaven’s bells ring in his ears, his eyes rolling back into his head, when Bucky eliminates all of the slack in the leash and then some. Wrenching the leash up. Cutting his oxygen supply in half.
Fuck!
It feels like, like—Steve can’t even describe it. The edges of oxygen deprivation swirl at the corners of his vision despite his eyes being squeezed shut. It overwhelms him before Bucky gives it up and gives him breath again. Merciful.
Oh, oh, ohhh,
Steve wants to moan, he feels the excess pleasure and
pressure
build up in his chest—tight, tight pressure—but he can’t relieve it. He hasn’t gotten enough air back to make a sound yet.
This is bliss.
Steve risks a glance up, ready to be blinded by the brilliance that is his God at this moment.
Bucky.
Steve gapes at him, drool slick and hot on his chin, and tears and stars in his eyes. Bucky has never looked more handsome. Wild strands of chocolate hair hang around his face, curling across his jaw, emphasizing his marble-statue-like bone structure. The stubble on his jaw is
gorgeous.
His lips are swollen and candy red. His eyes are dark.
Dark.
Pupils spilling out, overtaking winter-grey irises. Pink stains his cheeks and the bridge of his nose. He is staring back at Steve, caught in the same deep, profane desire.
Steve can’t breathe again. This time it has nothing to do with the length of chain attached to his collar and wrapped possessively around one of Bucky’s fists. It has everything to do with
Bucky.
In every part of his body, Steve can feel the throb, the
ache
of his frantic pulse and needy arousal; in every part of his body, he can feel the way his heart skitters, skipping a beat.
“Good,”
Bucky gazes down at him, eyes so intense and so hungry that Steve suddenly feels not like a dog but like a butterfly pinned to a board for display. Beautiful and trapped. Forever. “Other boot now,” Daddy commands, tugging on the chain, forcing him to go as if it’s not the only thing Steve craves.
Time slips away again. Pouring over him like rain. He is lost in the display of submission.
Obedience.
Surrender.
Submission.
Submission—
it crawls into his bones and melts every part of him from the inside out. Not just his brain is gone now. All of him is. He’s gone. Lost.
He’s just Daddy’s now. Floating. Relying on him for everything. Trusting that he will give Steve exactly what he needs.
He needs this.
Lick. Lap. Taste. Kiss. Mouth. Mouth. Kiss. Taste. Lap. Lick. Lick
—
The next tug at his leash is effortless at commanding his neck to crane up. Steve’s eyes slowly, slowly manage to open but remain heavily lidded. Bucky’s fist is so close to his face and the line of chain between Steve’s throat, his most vulnerable body part, and his hand is taut and short. Connecting them. The look in Bucky’s eyes is downright predatory.
In slow motion, like that of sticky, sweet taffy being pulled apart, Bucky bends at the waist. Elegant. Generous. Bringing their mouths together. His fingertips of his other hand hold Steve’s chin high. It’s so erotic that it
hurts.
Steve cries weakly into his mouth.
“I know, puppy,” his lips brush over his bearded jaw, “I know, you can’t help yourself. You’re all drippy and hard, aren’t you?”
Steve quakes.
“I should’ve known that you’d need some relief before we go on our walk,” he’s standing back up now, after just one more devastating, smoldering kiss. A string of saliva connects them, mirroring Steve’s leash. It breaks wetly. Bucky shakes his head at himself. “That’s my fault,” he purrs, “lemme fix it, pup—”
Steve does not have the capacity to question him. He simply jolts the moment Bucky kicks his trembling thighs apart and shoves his slick—slick with Steve’s own spit—boot against Steve’s desperate cock.
“AH!”
Steve screams. It’s not a real kick. Steve’s been kicked there before by dominants and it aches and it hurts and it makes him dizzy and it feels
incredible.
So intense that nothing fucking compares and that’s why he loves it so much. But… but even though nothing compares and even though Bucky doesn’t use half the force of a real kick, it feels better when Bucky does it. Everything feels best when Bucky is the one doing it to him.
Bucky. Sir. Daddy.
And it only feels better than the best when Bucky growls at him, commanding him to hump him.
Take what feels good, pup, you fuckin’ earned it. Rub yourself off against my boots that you just licked clean. Filthy animal.
Steve
splinters
apart.
He chokes, he cries, he
sobs,
moving his hips against the sweet pressure, the friction, feeling it move through his body in a way that makes him convulse. Each pathetic, jerky thrust of his hips feels like a wave of an orgasm. Shattering. Convulsing. Sobbing. Making a goddamn mess. He is a mess. There is no way he’s not a mixed, smeared puddle of oil paint after this, one color running into the next. No end. No beginning. He is.
He is.
He’s cumming and
cumming
and it doesn’t end.
It doesn’t end.
His body just gives into itself. Collapsing. Weak. Still, as ruined as he is, when Daddy tells him to lick his own cum off his boots, swallowing it all like a good boy, he does it because Daddy says so. And that’s enough to keep him floating—keep him cumming. A drawn-out, gutting experience that feels too good to be real.
-
Steve barely, barely lifts the smallest fraction of his own mass, skin and muscle and nerves and bone, when… eventually… Bucky decides to try and scrape him off of the floor. Steve stumbles and nearly falls. Useless. If he were in his body rather than hovering above the ground—wrapped in clouds of cotton that are home to flakes of gold like moss is home to impossibly tiny living organisms—he would be weak at the knees. He isn’t in his body, though. He floats. He
flies.
He breathes air that’s at the edge of the atmosphere, untouched and clear. Both inconceivable and more real than anything else. Filling his lungs.
Bucky guides him down the hall, an arm around his waist and a hand holding onto his shoulder.
Steve drifts and drags his feet.
Then, just before allowing him to recline on the bed, boneless, Bucky feeds him sips of water just cool enough to be refreshing, not cool enough to hurt his sensitive teeth. It travels down his throat, into his stomach. Steve has no idea where the water materialized from. It doesn’t matter. His hands don’t move. Bucky lets him drink until he’s quenched. The water and glass its sloshing inside of dematerialize. Bucky folds him onto the bed. And Steve uses the only strength he has left to curl around Bucky. Beside him. Content to stay so long as Bucky stays.
Stay.
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
Steve
“Mmm,”
a pleased hum gently pours from Steve’s lips. He’s staring at the ceiling of his playroom, but that’s not what is making him feel the way he does—the sensation of being balanced yet slightly tipping to one side as if he’s awake but almost not. Eyelids heavy, warm all over, and curled up comfortably. Perched on the cusp of drifting off to sleep. Except. He’s not going to be falling asleep anytime soon. The cusp is, instead, between normal consciousness and the hazy, fuzzy headspace he enters when submerged in the deep waters of submission, a feeling analogous to where he goes when he dominates someone but… not quite, too. Comparable, yes, but also no. Separate parts of him that are still both a part of
him.
“Is that too tight?” Bucky brings him back out of the water, breaking the surface tension for him, fingertips flirting with one of the loops he’s made from rope, entrapping his leg.
“Um,” Steve lifts his head from the floor, glancing down at the same time that he flexes his thighs. He won’t be able to
see
if the ropes Bucky is working at tying around his thrumming body are too tight but the physical act keeps him floating, belly-up, on the body of water he’s swimming in. “Nah,” he decides, then swallows, “just,” he wiggles his toes, his feet, back, and head are flat against the floor while his legs have been folded up, “release the tension a little?”
Bucky eases the pressure off, the rope releasing its unforgiving but smooth hold on his legs for a moment.
“Yeah, just like that and, yeah, scoot the knot to—”
Bucky’s deft fingers pull the knot that he just constructed to the crease between the lower part of his leg and the upper part of his leg without Steve having to fully explain himself.
Fuckin’ natural.
Steve would shake his head in affectionate awe if he weren’t busy holding his own head up off the ground.
“Yeah, right there.” Steve summons more words. Staying afloat. Not sinking into the ease of being restrained. Tied up. Held.
Nope.
He’s perfect. All good. This isn’t already eating at him in the most delicious way.
Nooo.
“That’s good,” he nods, setting his head back down on the floor, his neck beginning to complain, “it’s not gonna dig into me if it sits there.”
“Ohh,” Bucky concedes, also nodding, “okay. Okay, that makes sense. Sorry,” he offers, rubbing his knee in apology.
“No, you’re all good, it didn’t feel bad, but it would’ve if the knot was against my thigh for the next half hour,” he jokes, or, tries to. He’s not entirely sure how obvious his tone is when it’s mixed with so much eager breathiness.
Whether his joke lands or not, Bucky gets too sucked into the next few knots to keep conversing. And Steve’s fine with that. Of course, he is. He’s
basking
in the glow of being tied so intricately. There isn’t one complaint in his whole body right now (and if this goes the way he wants it to, soon there will be plenty of complaints, straining and ideally leaving behind sore muscles and bruises). If his brain were less slurried, he’d laugh at himself—to think that he loves this so much now, they’ve just begun and he’s already sinking into subspace, but he didn’t understand Shibari at first. Not at all. The first time he saw a rigger working a rope bunny up with such slow, complex loops and knots in the Black House (which is a story in of itself, an old Satanist church turned into a sex-club-slash-porn-shooting-studio) he was fascinated, naturally, but nonunderstanding. What was the point of taking half an hour or
more
to tie someone up
just so
when you could otherwise just…
tie them up
using any ol’ knot you could get undone after tying?
Steve saw it a few more times after that first encounter in the Black House, growing rapidly in popularity in the early nineties. Apparently, with the internet becoming broader—and probably also with Japanese immigrants blending into the American kink scene and graciously sharing their skill and knowledge with some—the Japanese style of rope bondage was making its way into the States. Always artful. Always slow. Even highly skilled Shibari riggers took a much longer time than anything Steve had done using American rope bondage. If you can even call it “American” it really is just… knots. It never felt as distinct as Shibari.
Steve appreciated the beauty, he is an artist at heart after all, but he never understood truly until one of those early riggers explained to him that the tying
is
the scene. Steve faintly remembers his smooth voice, even now,
“I’m not just tying my submissive up in order to have a scene with bondage in it, the scene
begins
when I start trying my submissive up. There’s no rush. Tying isn’t boring. It’s actually quite the sensory experience for my submissive as well as me.”
So, it took Steve a while to understand. Then, it took him even longer to learn how to do Japanese rope bondage. He felt like he
had
to learn, though, not because of the sudden explosion of popularity but because after the first time he was tied in Shibari, he was
hooked.
There really is nothing like it. Quick and dirty rope bondage techniques that Steve first learned have their place in high-intensity,
now, now, now,
impatient, lust-driven scenes, and drawn-out, complex rope bondage techniques have their place in worshipful, mesmerizing, time-loosing scenes. Or vice versa. It depends on how you use it.
Bucky is using it
well.
In the time that Steve has been reveling in his appreciation for both types of rope bondage, Bucky has marched ahead. Following the beginner-friendly steps to a spiral futomomo on both of Steve’s legs. The spiral futomomo tie binds his lower leg to his upper leg, tight enough that the heel of his foot touches the back of his thigh where his thigh melts into the curve of his ass. The rope spirals around the topside of his thigh and front of his shin from the very top of his thigh, almost his hip, to just before his knee begins with knots along each loop of rope. The knots sit right in the crease between his upper and lower leg. He absolutely cannot go anywhere like this. There’s no way to straighten his leg. His legs might not be tied together, but there’s no way he’d be able to walk on his knees or anything, tied like this! It’s perfectly immobilizing and with every wiggle he gives, the rope strains deliciously. Tight. Tense. Dragging against his skin.
“Steve?” Bucky’s voice hits his ears.
“Y-yeah?” Steve shivers.
“You good?” Suddenly he sounds less worried and more playful.
“Uh-uh,”
he clears his throat, “yeah. You, you did a good job.”
“Thanks,” he rasps, the delicious edge of a grin bleeding into his voice.
Steve shivers, “what’re you planning next?” When Bucky finally said that he felt ready to try some restraining and bondage beyond handcuffs and spreader bars and chains, Steve had sent him home to his own apartment with a stack of books. Some history, but mostly (since he had already rambled on and on about the history of Shibari as he knows it) differing ties. Steve told him to pick out whatever he wanted to try for whatever kind of scene he wanted
but
to probably stick to at least intermediate ties at the hardest. Beginner or intermediate. For now. So…
Steve has no idea what’s coming.
He
likes
it.
He likes that Bucky is doing whatever he pleases with him.
Bucky somehow fucking read his mind with the spiral futomomo—Steve loves that fucking tie. It’s the best. When he cums and is tied up like that, he always strains and fights them and ends up with bruises bit into his muscles because the rope won’t ever let him move like that. The feeling of wanting to squirm, wanting to stretch his legs out at the same time that he curls his toes, and being unable to
guts
him.
“Isn’t that for me to know and you to find out?”
Steve shuts his eyes with a groan.
Bucky laughs, “the only clue you get is that I’m gonna need you to work with me so I can sit you up so I have room for the next tie.”
Steve can’t help the curious noise he makes, but he does
intentionally
help Bucky to shift him upright. If he tried, Steve wouldn’t doubt that Bucky could take his weight, but there’s no point in test that now when he could just be good and do as his dom says. And Steve shivers violently when his knees hit the floor. Not because it hurts.
(Okay,
maybe a little bit because it hurts and it reminds him of dropping
hard
onto his knees for an over-eager, sloppy blow job.) But because he is entirely, completely reliant on Bucky like this. His heels are tight to the crease between his ass and thighs. Kneeling. No option to get up with the rope entrapping him.
Stuck.
He bites his lip, staring unabashedly hungrily at his dominant, eye-to-eye with him. Although, only one of them can’t move. Steve hears his own breathing grow heavier.
“Aren’t you pretty,” Bucky hums rhetorically, stroking his hand up Steve’s bound thigh—fingers running between stark black rope and pale, bare flesh.
Heat curls deep in Steve’s gut.
Fuck.
Casually, almost without thinking, Bucky’s hand flits from his leg to the collar around his throat as he stands up with ease.
Possessive.
Steve
throbs,
his dick twitching against his lower stomach. Bucky doesn’t comment but his wicked mouth ticks into a sharper, more dangerous grin as he stares imposingly down at him.
Shit.
The younger man makes a few slow, lazy circles around where he’s kneeling on the floor. The anticipation inside Steve builds and
builds.
What is he going to do to me?
What is he planning?
His heart thumps. Thumps.
Thumps.
Bucky stops behind him and places his hands on his shoulders, Steve melts. There’s a weak,
weak
part of him that wants to let his head lull back and stare up at his dom.
His Bucky.
He aches to stare straight up and look pleadingly at him until he reaches down and collars Steve’s collar with his hand, squeezing until Steve chokes and his face tingles and he can’t moan, no matter how much he wants to scream ‘cause it feels like
heaven.
Steve doesn’t go with his impulse, though. He doesn’t listen to himself.
He listens to Bucky.
He follows Bucky’s easy breaths and playful, exaggerated sounds of
“ah”
and
“mmm-hmm”
as if he’s only now just decided how he’s going to arrange his favorite action figure. His skin flushes hot when Bucky pulls his arms behind his back.
“Oh,”
Steve exclaims.
He—
He thought that Bucky would maybe, that he might—
He was expecting Bucky to do his legs and then maybe tie his wrists together in front of his chest like he’s praying or tie his wrists together behind his back. Something simple. He wasn’t expecting—
“Mm!”
An exhale is ripped from his chest when Bucky tugs his arms back
again.
His elbows touch.
“Damn,”
Bucky mutters under his breath, impressed by his flexibility, but it washes over Steve in favor of a hot stab of arousal as he feels the first coil of rope draaaaag over his skin.
Suddenly, he knows exactly what tie Bucky has picked and he
loves
him for it.
Bucky is tying him in an armbinder. Steve can feel it. He can
feel it.
It's a relatively basic tie just like a spiral futomomo is, but it isn't as easy on the rope bunny as it is on the rigger. Steve loves him for it. The tie demands his elbows to nearly touch or to actually touch behind his back depending on how tight the rigger pulls the ropes. Bucky pulls them
tight.
“Ooh!” Steve gasps, jolting with every tug Bucky gives as if he’s being dressed up in a corset and being told to hold onto the banister.
God.
As he works through it, Bucky has him clasp his hands together, his right hand a fist, left hand curled around his fist. The first loop of rope is mid-way down his bicep, the next just above his elbow, then under his elbow, halfway down his forearm, and finally there's another loop around his wrists. Between each loop, the rope is secured into a knot and flows in a straight line down to the next before knotting again.
Steve can't get
anywhere
in the armbinder. He can barely still straighten up into perfect posture with the angle of his shoulders and he certainly can't move his arms. He can feel himself starting to sweat, the small of his back hot and feverish and damp. At the edges, his vision blurs majorly, leaving him to blink rapidly a few times, fighting tooth and nail to stay conscious and not float away.
Guh.
“Good?” Bucky asks, gruff.
Steve can’t—
Steve can’t see straight. The sensation of having his arms
and
his legs trapped, no fucking chance at squirming or getting away, hits him like a ton of bricks. Suddenly he has sunk to the bottom of the ocean of subspace. Everything is blurry and hazy around him. He can’t breathe. He’s submerged. He weighs nothing.
Finally, after a moment, Steve jostles out a sloppy nod. Tight. It feels tight. Maybe too tight? But—
Shit.
It’ll be fine.
With an electric shiver, Steve is sidetracked into thinking how the marks are going to be
fantastic.
It’s been so, so, so fucking long since he’s been tied up that surely his skin and muscle aren’t used to it anymore? And surely that means he’ll get clear, beautiful marks? Marks like he used to when he was first being tied up? Won’t he? He
wants
those marks.
So badly!
Steve squirms badly; he pulls at the armbinder; he strains against the ropes spiraling up his legs; he tries to thrust his hips forward, hurting for friction; he fights the heaviness of his eyelids to
try
and catch a glimpse of his dom; he—
“Yess,”
he sighs, overwhelmed as Bucky starts touching him. Fingers sliding smoothly over his shoulders, down his chest, tweaking his nipples hard enough for him to cry out and attempt to thrash until he stops mercifully. Torturously. Steve doesn’t know which. Is it his saving grace that his nipples aren’t being toyed with any longer or is it damning him?
Jesus. Fuck.
He pants
hard.
Chest expanding and contracting hugely. Bucky’s fingers leave his overheated skin. Steve whimpers. His whimper turns into a betrayed
moan
when he gathers the strength to open his eyes and focus and find Bucky jerking off in front of him. Fisting his cock tightly. Hot and swollen. Reveling in pleasure. Running his mouth as he works himself over, wondering out loud—torturously out loud—about spider ring gags and forcing his mouth to be just as restrained so he can
really
use him however he wants. Unable to do anything but take it.
Take it.
Steve is distracted from his words, filthy and delicious and continuing to slide out of Bucky’s gorgeous mouth, distracted by—
Nooo,
he whimpers to himself, fading from their one-sided but ever-eager conversation. He
wants,
he wants to—
He wants to stay in this moment forever, losing himself and watching Bucky go equally feral, trapped, and without anything to help himself. Drooling. Shivering. Aching not to be allowed to move but aching to be used. Not just a decoration! He wants to be
used!
He’s a toy!
Use me. Use me use me usemeusemeuseme.
He wants—
There’s a tingle in his arm.
It’s not
that
tight! Steve takes a shuddering inhale, his blurred vision doubling as tears pool in his eyes.
It’s not that tight! It can’t be! He didn’t think it was, like, two seconds ago!
The awful little tingle keeps Steve from listening to Bucky’s ragged voice. Gravel and honey. Sweet with a secret kick.
Fuuck, yes.
He could drown in that voice and die fully satisfied. But—
The tingle spreads up his arm, bringing with it a kind of cold that Steve wishes away, whining softly, he shuts his eyes and shakes his head. He doesn’t want it.
He doesn’t want it!
He can’t ignore it.
“B-Buck,”
Steve manages, gathering his scattered brain from all of the corners of his mind, his perverse pleasure, his desperate want to continue, his thought of his arm not feeling so good, and his experience telling him he has to. He has to.
Especially
because he doesn’t want to, he needs to.
Bucky’s eyes are like a brand on his skin, sizzling hot and intense. The wet sound of his cock fucking his fist echoes through his ears like a siren song. His mouth
waters.
“Buck,” Steve heaves, almost a whine, trying,
trying
for clearly enunciated words so as to not string this out, “yellow.”
Whether his words are audibly understandable or not, Bucky understands them. He understands them. And the moment he says
yellow,
Bucky is taking his hand off his cock like he’s been burned. He lunges forward, immediately into his space, close enough to touch but not touching. Instead, he’s hovering. His hands vibrate where they hang in the space around him. Reaching for him, then second-guessing themselves and hanging back. Reaching, then pulling away. Shaking.
Steve thinks for a moment
he’s
the one who’s having the problem, that he can’t hear right, but—
As Bucky trembles, his mouth isn’t actually shaping words. Words aren’t coming out. His mouth is open and he’s trying for words but he can’t quite force them forward.
Urgently but evenly, Steve makes words for the both of them, “it’s okay,” he doesn’t want Bucky to think he’s really, really hurt—he’s not and he already seems so panicked, “it’s just my arm. ‘M yellow,
not red.
You’re gonna have to untie me for a second, Buck.”
Bucky nods, he repeats, almost to himself,
“yellow, not red,”
and steps in closer. Close enough that his hip knocks Steve’s shoulder as he scurries around him, getting to his arms and fumbling with the knots with shaking hands.
Steve’s hand (and now his wrist) still feels cold and tingly and… sharp in a way that is hard to describe but is distinct to situations like this, having his circulation cut off and his nerves pressed on in the wrong ways, but he’s relieved to know that he’ll be out soon enough and so he isn’t worried about it. In fact,
this is good. This will be good for Bucky,
he tells himself.
It will give him practice for what it looks like when a scene goes awry. Not every scene can be perfect. That’s okay.
He’s okay.
“Buck?” he hears himself mumble. He can’t see Bucky where he’s kneeling behind him. He hopes he’s not having a panic attack or something back there.
Shit.
That—
That wouldn’t be just an imperfect scene, that’d be a
disastrous
scene.
Bucky makes a sound. It’s hard to describe, it’s overwhelmed and apologetic and also frustrated and he’s
still
fumbling. His hands trying their damnedest to get him out; he’s picking at the very last knot he tied but he can’t seem to get it undone, his hands must be shaking too badly to get a proper grip.
“Bucky,” Steve tries again, and the younger man inhales sharply, it sounds much more apologetic than his other noise, “it’s okay. I’m okay. I just need out. That’s it. You can pull harder to untie them. You’re not gonna hurt me.”
-
Bucky
Fuckfuckfuckfuck—
Fuck!
Bucky is staring down at his stupid hands that can’t fucking just untie the rope fast enough and the more he stares at them, willing them to do what he wants them to, the more they shake and the worse his fingers move. It’s like he’s been outside for too long during a Brooklyn winter and his fingers are too frozen to work, hardly able to grip a pen or type on a keyboard. And now, to make matters worse, as Steve breathes and speaks to him evenly, all he can do is apologize and fumble
more.
Stuck in a shitty loop.
He already fucked up once and now he can’t fix his fuck-up!
The rising stone of panic lodged in his throat is getting higher and higher, it’s hard to breathe. It’s hard to speak. His eyes sting. How much longer can he keep his (relative) cool?
Through the rising tide and shakes, Steve tells him that it’s not that bad, he’s not dying—
dying,
Bucky’s brain gets stuck on the word for a minute too long, hearing it echo through his head like a shout into an empty cavern. A single tear rolls down his cheek, overflowing no matter how many times he blinks, trying to bat it away. Yet, he can’t bare to move his hands away from where he’s
trying,
trying his fucking hardest, to untie Steve to wipe the tear away. So it just slides gross and wet all the way down his face before dripping off of his jaw.
Ugh!
“It’s not that bad,” Steve soothes, “I’m, like, dying, or anything, but you can use the safety shears. That’s what they’re for, Buck.” He takes a breath, wiggling his fingers a little, it would be cute if he weren’t trapped and being bitten into by the ropes Bucky’s tied and now can’t untie, “whatever you think will be faster to get me out.” The muscles in his shoulders ripple like he wants to shrug but can’t. He
can’t.
“With bondage, you can’t wait out a problem when it comes up.”
Steve is being
so
responsible and logical and explaining shit to him and being fucking nice and—
And Bucky is ruining his rope!
Bucky is
going
to ruin his rope because he’s going to
have to
use the shears. Ruining his rope like Bucky ruined the scene! He tied him too tight! Now he can’t make his hands work like they’re supposed to. So, so—
It’s all his fault.
He sniffles, blinking back more prickling tears. The shears are heavy and cold in his hands but thankfully he’s not
that
sorry of a case that he can’t cut through the silky, black rope tangled around Steve. He places the rounded, blunt-edged blade of the scissors against his skin and avoids touching his sub with the sharper side at all.
His sub.
The ropes fall away, suddenly harmless. Bits of black, shiny rope against dark, polished wood. Too short now to be useful.
Bucky
isn’t being very useful. Bucky was supposed to be in control—he was supposed to be
worthy
of his submissive placing his trust and mind and body in his control.
He feels like shit.
His lower lip wobbles pathetically. It’s all he can do to clench his jaw against the misery creeping into him, weighing down his bones and breath. It’s difficult to move. At least, Steve has no such troubles now that he’s undone. Immediately, he bursts into movement, shaking his arms out.
The urge to touch him is such a strong impulse that Bucky chokes. He wants to touch him desperately. He wants to soothe his fingers over each red line that’s painting his pale, freckled skin. He wants to kiss them. Smooth them away. He doesn’t want to see them when Steve is wincing. He wants to see them when Steve’s face is lax with easy, syrupy pleasure or when his face is tight from too much pleasure, overwhelming him, leaving him fighting in that rich, delicious way.
Moaning. Groaning. Squirming.
He doesn’t—
Bucky doesn’t know what to do. So, he just—
While Steve shakes his arms, favoring one over the other—the one that was more in danger, Bucky assumes—Bucky uses the shears on the ties trapping his legs, too. Even if Steve wasn’t complaining about them. (Maybe he was? Maybe Bucky didn’t hear it? Who knows what else he missed if he missed how tight he did the armbinder?) He just has to. Get him out. Get him out.
Get him out.
He’s laser-focused on freeing him. He hates that look of discomfort painting his face. He wants it gone. He wants the paint to not have the chance to dry, he wants it to drip off and never be seen again.
The other two lengths of rope around his legs fall to pieces, too. Parts of a snake, and no longer whole and constricting.
More air reaches Bucky’s lungs. And faintly, above the storm brewing in his mind, Bucky hears Steve thank him although he doesn’t uncurl from his kneeling position, he’s caught up in alternately rolling his wrists and flexing his fingers, fists to flat hands.
Bucky just…
Just watches. Staring. Kneeling. Hands trembling in his lap. Unhelpful. That misery that had started creeping in pools in his gut now. The water levels rising. Deeper and deeper.
He’s sitting in front of his submissive, and his submissive is helping himself. Bucky’s not helping. He upset. He messed up. It’s more complex than just frustration but he’s frustrated that he failed and now he’s becoming frustrated that he’s actively too upset to help. And somewhere in the middle of it, he’s frustrated that he’s so wrapped up in what
he
feels that he’s stopped paying attention to Steve. Drowning in the storm in his head. Where he shouldn’t be! He needs to get out there! Bucky’s hands still shake when he lifts them up. He puts them back down. His legs feel too weak to stand.
But… he has to get himself together! He’s a dom! He has to be there for his sub! If he doesn’t, he could cause his sub to go into a drop. Steve’s told him about subdrop and—
He doesn’t want Steve to drop!
He doesn’t want Steve to be in pain. He, sure, he likes it when it’s fun, consensual pain (and pleasure) but he doesn’t—
He doesn’t want it to be real pain! He doesn’t want it to be real emotional distress!
Fuck.
Bucky swallows a tangled knot of upset, barely managing to fit the entire thing down his throat with how it completely fills his mouth, leaving him on the edge of choking. His struggle must be audible because Steve’s eyes rise from his own hands to see him.
He sees him.
“Aw, Buck,”
Steve murmurs and scoots forward, using his hands(!) to pull himself forward, sliding his knees against the wooden floorboards. As he shuffles, his dick bobs against his stomach. He’s not fully, fully hard but he’s—he’s more hard than not. “I’m okay,” he reaches out, fingertips grazing his cheek.
Bucky cracks with a sound like a sob. He’s not crying. He’s not crying. He’s just—
“Baby,”
Steve hums, “I’m fine,
I promise.”
Bucky shuts his eyes, he aches to see Steve and know that he’s here and he’s fine and everything is alright but he’s—he’ll truly sob if he leaves his eyes open. Instead, he presses his face into Steve’s hand to feel that he’s okay. He’s alright. He’s here. Baby cracks his ribs apart, exposing his beating, panicked heart. Affection grips him tightly, as does the familiar feeling of inadequacy. He calls Steve baby—Steve is baby when they’re in a scene. Bucky only dreams of h—no. No. Not right now. He pushes his more domestic, innocent daydreams aside. The ones he wouldn’t dare to confess to Steve as he does with his other daydreams or passing fantasies. Bucky doesn’t know how to feel about Steve calling him baby when they’re still in a scene(?)—when he needs to be taking care of Steve. He should be—
“It feels completely normal now, I swear.”
Steve’s second hand joins the first, cupping both sides of his face now. His thumbs stroking Bucky’s stubble, smoothing it down with the grain and prickling it back up, against the grain.
“Hey,”
he whispers,
“look at me for a minute?”
Bucky’s eyes open reluctantly, he doesn’t think the tears will have dissipated yet. They haven’t. Steve’s face is a little blurry and too bright. Distorted. Still familiar, but… distorted.
“Feel this?” He squishes Bucky’s lips together with his hands, making him purse his lips, pressure at either side of his face. Steve smiles at the silly face he’s put on Bucky’s face. “I got two hands still and they’re in working order. They feel as good as new. There’s nothing to be upset about.”
Bucky still sniffles. He doesn’t nod. He doesn’t want to interrupt the pressure Steve is putting on his face, as odd as it feels to be having such a conversation while pulling this sort of face—even when the face is not his doing.
Steve understands because Steve understands more about Bucky than he should. More than makes sense. “I get that you are upset,” Steve wiggles his face side-to-side, just a little, shaking him, “you think you messed up. You didn’t.”
Bucky opens his mouth to argue. Steve relaxes his grip on his face, not smushing his lips together, so he can instead curl his ring and pinkie fingers under the sides of his jaw and shut his mouth for him.
“It’s not your fault. It’s not my fault. It happens. Sometimes it happens. Even to really, really good riggers, you hear me?”
Bucky nods. He’s listening.
“There’s always risk with bondage,” he pauses a moment, eyes steady and calm, the middle of an ocean, undisturbed, “we do what we can to mitigate the risks, right? Safewords, safe actions,
learning,
having shears close by, and the lot. It’s not gonna be perfect every time because of the risks. Besides,” Bucky tries to soak in every drop of his voice, each syllable, word, and sentence. He wants to believe the open, honest tone of his voice. “Everyone’s body is different and what feels good fluctuates. The tightness I might be able to deal with today in rope, I might not be able to handle tomorrow. Some ties you can have really tight and it’s good, some ties you have to leave a little looser. Some ties sneak up on you and they can’t be held for very long. It’s okay. We’re learning.”
A small part of Bucky wants to argue that
Steve
isn’t learning, Bucky’s the one learning and so he’s the one fucking up. But… he swallows. He’s trying to believe Steve. He trusts Steve. He does. He can trust him with this. So, he nods.
His agreement has Steve’s lips quirking up into a smile that he plants against Bucky’s mouth. Soft. Reassuring. Bucky lets himself be swallowed by it, eyes drifting shut, and tilting his head into it. Pure instinct lets his hands, with only occasional aftershock tremors now, rise and skim Steve’s bare hips. Steve sighs into his mouth. Bucky runs his fingers up his sides until he reaches his shoulders where he can dig in and pull Steve against him. Tighter. Clinging. Their lips slot together even closer. More fiercely, open and raw.
It’s okay.
Steve’s okay.
They’re okay.
They part from the kiss. Bucky’s lips hum and his chest expands. Contracts. Finding breath. Only inches away, Steve has begun to blush once more, warmth appearing and spreading over his face like a wash of red pigment over a wet page of cotton paper. Diluted yet uncontrolled. Despite the color coming over him, Steve pulls himself up from the floor of the playroom and tugs Bucky with him, fingers encircling his wrist. Bucky follows, tumbling along, feeling something like leaves in the wind.
When the breeze ceases, they end up in Steve's bedroom at the end of the hall, comfortingly crowded by art prints in big, proud frames and hues of warm browns and grays and hints of gold throughout the quiet space. Familiar and lived in. Bucky takes a deep breath, air filling his lungs completely as if he were in the middle of a forest, secluded and the first to breathe the freshly concocted oxygen. As usual, Steve was right. Bucky isn’t—wasn’t afraid in the dungeon after…
that…
but it does feel lighter in here.
Easier.
Less stiff as he drifts onto the bed and lets Steve wrap himself around him, curling into him.
Steve’s facing him, so close that if it were chilly enough, the clouds of his exhale would crowd Bucky’s atmosphere. But it’s not cold. The ambient temperature of the room and the heat radiating from Steve’s body have Bucky more than warm enough, even with lacking clothes. And without the haze of fog from breath, Bucky could count every freckle, every pore, every wrinkle and fine line, and—
He can catch sight of every color that’s alive inside Steve’s eyes. Blue and green intermixing like a wash of ocean tide. His lashes, curled and long, frame the currents intermixing, flirting and mingling, inside his eyes.
Bat. Bat. Bat.
Bucky could watch him blink for hours, taking in every detail like how his left eye shuts ever so slightly before his right. Uneven and perfect.
Steve shuts his eyes and leans in, shamelessly asking for a kiss—shamelessly
drawing
Bucky into a kiss. He’s impossible to resist.
They kiss and kiss and
kiss.
Meeting and greeting and then slipping into a familiar rhythm. Someone gasps—it might be Bucky or it might be Steve. It’s truly impossible to tell whose lungs give up the sound and who adopts it, swallowing it down.
Steve has either shimmied his way underneath Bucky’s arms or Bucky’s arms have captured Steve. Enwrapping him. Cradling him. Does it matter, either way, though? Because however it came about, it feels good. Steve is warm and solid and
real.
His ears start to burn hot with his spreading blush as they continue to kiss, lips-on-lips. Bucky’s right hand explores the hinge of Steve’s jaw up to his ear, rubbing the shell tenderly until he shudders and makes a noise dripping in want; Bucky’s left hand spreads itself as wide as it can over Steve’s back, pressing him firmly forward. He wants them chest to chest where he can feel Steve’s heart beat. Incidentally, as he’s curling Steve into his body even more, melting them together, Steve’s dick drags against his thigh.
“Ah-!”
Steve gasps hot against Bucky’s mouth.
A spark of heat
zaps
through Bucky.
He knows with sudden clarity that he has to take care of Steve. It’s not just the hot, hard line of his dick against his hip now, cradling each other the way they are—it’s the digging of Steve’s nails into his shoulders, holding on, it’s the blush that was brought back the moment the pins and needles disappeared from his arm, heating his face and ears and neck and chest, creeping down toward his resilient cock, it’s the collar still claiming his throat, it’s the yielding, slow, melted-gooey way he lets Bucky kiss him and kiss him and
kiss him.
It’s the way when he blicks his eyes open for a moment, they stay heavily lidded, consumed by expanded pupils and a submissive haze that lets him only focus on Bucky.
Oh, Steve.
Bucky kisses him hard enough to take his breath away, leaving Steve’s lips gaped without a sound coming out. It’s like candy. It’s like eating candy. He’s sweet. He’s sticky. He’s hot and melted like candy left in his pocket for too long, meant as a treat for later.
Bucky kisses him until Steve groans, his hips uncontrollably jerking forward, searching desperately for friction. The taste of Bucky is not enough for him anymore. He needs more.
Bucky can give him this.
He can give him more.
Sinking his teeth into his lush, fat bottom lip, Bucky drags his blunt nails down Steve’s back, feeling the sweat beginning to collect there, and pushes his thumb and forefinger into the dimples at the base of his spine, forcing his pelvis tighter against Bucky’s hip, grinding into the hard line of his body.
“Oh,”
Steve moans, his mouth hot and wet against Bucky’s jaw,
“oh! Oh!”
He cries out with every thrust Bucky forces him to make.
His mouth is wet and hot and smearing spit that he can’t manage to swallow over Bucky’s jaw and chin and mouth and Steve’s dick is doing the same—hot, wet, and smearing, sticky, against his hip and belly. Fucking against his body according to Bucky’s guidance. It’s as if he’s still tied up. Like he has no agency over this. He is obeying Bucky. Doing what Bucky wants from him. Nothing else.
More heat collects in Bucky. He’s enjoying this, he is, but his cock isn’t swelling. He’s soft. He’s been soft since after Steve called his safeword earlier, but it’s alright. This is about Steve.
Steve. Steve. Steve Steve SteveSteveSteveSteve
—
The only thing occupying his mind.
The only thing that matters.
“Guh! Ngh! Unnh! Oh,
oh—”
Steve is moaning, huffing, puffing, making all these delicate, gorgeous, little sounds that keep getting breathier and more and more strained, almost like he’s frustrated by something, but then when Bucky makes him grind harder against him, both hands on his hips now, grabbing him,
pulling
him forward, the noises just get louder. They don’t change. They’re hot as shit and Bucky is absolutely going to replay this in his mind later when he can get it up, but what—
Oh.
The realization washes over Bucky as he
feels
another spurt of pre-cum wet their skin, Steve’s dick so hard and so wet with Steve rutting against him again and again and again. He’s waiting for permission. It all snaps into place. He’s collared. He’s acting like he’s still tied up and helpless—he’s getting off, still, on the sensation of being tied up again after he was starved of it for years on years. He’s still under.
He’s waiting for permission.
Taking the golden opportunity Steve presents him with, throwing his head back with a particularly erotic, strangled-by-frustration moan, Bucky leans forward and bites. He bites. He sucks. He marks. He claims Steve’s throat above his collar, taking a chunk out of him, making sure it hurts because he knows Steve will just feel more lightning strikes of pleasure, and growls, “cum. Right now. I want you to cum.”
With all the sounds he’s been making, whines and whimpers and gasps and moans, Bucky is prepared for the sucker-punch of arousal that will come from hearing Steve
scream
—
But he doesn’t.
The scream or wail or all too obvious and loud, ragged moaning doesn’t come as he comes.
Instead, Steve goes silent. Totally silent. With his head thrown back as if he can’t hold himself up at all, his flushed face goes blissfully slack and his body goes limp. Strings cut.
Aching
with pleasure. Throbbing. Shaking. Silent. Stuck in rapture. Red, hot mouth. Sweat glistening in the hollow of his throat. Eyelashes fluttering. It’s all Bucky can do to wrap a fist around Steve’s twitching, jerking cock and stroke him through his orgasm, cum pumping out of his cock and making a hot, wet mess between them. Bucky jerks him off until Steve does make a sound. He
sobs.
Whining and desperate, a noise of
too-much, too-much, too-much!
Quickly, Bucky listens and stops, wiping his hand off on his thigh and urgently kissing that slack, open mouth instead. Candy red and shiny. Steve can’t even kiss back. He’s too busy gasping for air.
God.
It’s unbearably erotic. It’s
beautiful
—he’s beautiful.
And it’s satisfying enough to have pleased Steve that Bucky doesn’t need to cum; it’s more than enough to have his submissive cling to him, trusting him, despite his painfully recent failure. Although… Bucky
does
need to have him. In every way. He
needs
him. He wants to touch him and taste him and see him and smell him and hear him. He
wants
him. Steve is panting. Boneless in his arms. He just—he easily lets Bucky have him. It
stuns
Bucky. And the day it doesn’t is the day he’ll be dead. He needs Steve, Steve is obvious about needing him when he gets like this but Bucky needs Steve now and all the time. He needs him. He wants him.
He wants him, he wants him, he wants him—
The feelings rise so fast and get so high, pooling in his stomach then his lungs, filling his throat, up toward his mouth, that Bucky is suddenly drowning in them. The only thing he can do to keep his head high enough to keep breathing is move—treading water. Steve’s arms are heavy but unmoving as Bucky extracts himself from them. There’s a shy, tiny noise exhaled from Steve through his nose, his eyes try their best to open but don’t make it far.
“Shh,” Bucky hesitates before cupping his cheek, his hand is dirty from jerking him off. He doesn’t want to ruin that perfect face. He couldn’t. “I’ll be right back,” he murmurs, settling Steve.
As fast yet quietly as possible, Bucky dashes to the bathroom, dampening a towel with hot water, bringing it back to Steve, and wiping him down. Steve hardly reacts, he just mumbles something that doesn’t actually turn into words. Sleepy sounds signifying just how under he still is. The flush of his skin is cooling off, fading back to his usual pale, freckled, and age-spotted complexion that’s worth all the adoration in the world as far as Bucky is concerned. Bucky tries to emulate that—not the adoration, the cooling. He tries to breathe, to calm himself, less frantic blush and glistening, hot sweat, more sleepy, slow, easy. Using the same towel, he briefly cleans himself off, too. And then, he makes himself
walk
(it’s a fast walk, but still), to put the towel back in the bathroom, hanging it over the shower curtain rod for now. Let it dry. Slow heartbeat. That’s what he wants.
He wants—
Bucky gets back into bed with Steve, appreciating that he hasn’t moved too much, so they still fit together easily. Arms and legs entangled. Chest-to-chest and face-to-face. Once he stops wiggling into place, Steve’s hand drags slowly up from his waist, his ribs, his shoulder, toward his neck and ear; he moves at such a glacial pace, at first, Bucky thinks he’s imagining him moving. But, by the time his hand has found itself in his hair, Bucky is smiling. He wants to whisper,
what’re you doing, you punk?
But the words won’t come out. The quiet is too fitting. He couldn’t bear to break it.
Steve, unbothered by his internal monologue, and maybe even unaware of what he himself is doing, combs his fingers through Bucky’s hair until he hits the elastic keeping it out of his face. He keeps going after he hits it. The drag of his hand forces the elastic from his hair, leaving it to be wild and free, falling against the pillows.
A huff leaves Bucky’s lips.
What a little shit.
Steve’s strong fingers move back to his scalp, now. Caught up in his hair, half-cupping his skull. The weight of his hand is reassuring. But it’s not until after Bucky is sure that that’s all he wanted—to take his hair out of its ponytail—that Steve finally manages to make words, or
sort-of
words,
“uuu’re a gud daddy,”
he slurs.
Bucky inhales sharply, deeply. Those soft, half-conscious words hit him where he lives—he doesn’t fucking
feel
like it.
“Good dom,”
Steve whispers as he drifts off, knocked from pleasure so good that it exhausted him right into a light sleep.
Bucky stays up for a while after Steve, not dozing. Instead, he’s thinking. Or, he’s watching Steve and telling himself that he
isn’t
thinking—just enjoying the view. He’s heard that people look younger in their sleep before, but, he’s never
seen
it before Steve. The muscles of his face slack and smooth. He still has grey hair and handsome, softened crow's feet, faint smile lines, and freckles but there is… there’s something different. The weight, maybe? The weight of the waking, stressful world is gone. Bucky would like to think he sees the same in their scenes when Steve is consumed by the
here
and
now,
and he doesn’t think of anything at all. But, in their scenes, he is still animated. His muscles have some kind of tension. Tension that melts entirely and completely in his sleep. So, maybe not younger but more weightless. He’s weightless in sleep. And, still, impossibly handsome.
Head full of those thoughts, Bucky sighs heavily, bringing his own hand up to hover over his cheekbone. He won’t touch. He doesn’t want to wake him.
He… he wants to trust Steve as much as Steve trusts him.
And, he does, in some ways. He trusts Steve completely in scenes. Today especially, proves that his trust stands on steady ground. Steve will tell him if he’s uncomfortable or if there’s something wrong. He will use his safewords. He trusts Steve outside of scenes. Steve will tell him what he’s thinking and he will patiently explain to him why he thinks the way he does. Then, he will give Bucky time to process and respond, as much as he needs, even though Bucky’s been told time and time again that he’s a slow thinker; it takes him time to pull together his thoughts and express himself, he knows, still, Steve lets him. He trusts Steve. He really does. But. He doesn’t know if—
He doesn’t know if he feels… if he trusts that Steve is right with this. He wants to believe that he’s a good dom but, he doesn’t know if he
can.
At least, he doesn’t know if he can trust it right now. He doesn’t have instincts to fall back on. He’s trying to build them up, but… it’s so
slow.
It’s more fun than he’s ever had, it’s more satisfying and fulfilling than anything else has ever been—practicing and experimenting with Steve, having a submissive of his own—but it’s slow, too. He’s caught between it now. Exhilaration and slow, slow dragging on. How odd.
-
Post dinner a few hours later, they fall back into bed again—Steve is yawning and seemingly not ready to say goodbye, so Bucky lets him “sneakily” nudge him into finding an extra toothbrush in one of the bathroom cabinet drawers and shucking down to nothing yet again. Nothing eventful this time, just sleep.
Sleep.
Bucky has always found that easier with someone else in his bed with him. Sleep. It’s warmer, there’s the constant white noise of someone else’s breath, the soft, rocking rhythm of their chest expanding and contracting, and the reassurance of having someone in his arms, their head against his chest. But, there’s no surprise there, is there? He grew up with Becca, his closest, in age, sibling. There was always someone to share his room with. And then the moment he could, he had partners. Someone to share with. As childish as it may sound, Bucky likes to share. And, well, all that is to say, it’s easy to crawl back into Steve’s plush bed and curl up under the sheets. He slips into an easy slumber almost the moment Steve is done with his nighttime routine and comes to join him.
Bucky stays asleep for… hours, at least. Unconscious. No dreams to drain him when he is supposed to be resting. Pure ease. He is so wrapped up in his rest that he doesn’t twitch, he doesn’t roll or kick in his sleep. He’s not swimming through a dark, viscous dreamscape. Instead, he stays in place, floating on his back, weightless as if he were in the dead sea with salty, warm water cradling him, leaving him without knowledge of where he ends and the water begins. No barriers. Lying in place. Hardly breathing, hardly beating. He is…
Sleeping.
Unconscious.
There’s no tangle of hair in his mouth or pins and needles in an awkwardly bent limb. Just sleep. Resting and unknowing.
Until—
At some point, Bucky gradually recognizes that he is awake. Not, eyes-open-and-ready-to-start-the-day awake, just… awake. Groggy with thick saliva in his mouth, his eyelids heavy.
“Hmm?”
A sound rumbles from his throat, trying to figure out why he has come to consciousness. He doesn’t even know that he wants to know, his body simply does it for him. Perhaps it wants to know why it had to be bothered from such a peaceful state.
“Bathr’m,”
Steve answers his middle-of-the-night inquiry from somewhere in the dark. His hand pats his calf. He must be walking around the bed, toward the bathroom.
Bucky grumbles another sleep-rough sound of understanding. He shuts his only half-open eyes, trying to find the place he just drifted off to, the oblivion where nothing can touch him. Recharging. But. He can hear Steve relieving himself. The sound of water running as he washes his hands. The
crack, pop
of a few of his joints as he walks back to bed. The
shhck
of the sheets lifting off of the bed, then his body sliding against the sheets as he brings a swell of cold air with him. Lying back down. And suddenly, Bucky’s mind is awake, the lights blinking on like a city before a late, winter sunrise—people not afforded the luxury to follow the sun any longer. No, there’s work to be done in a world that never sleeps.
Bucky’s mind has decided there’s work to be done.
“Steve?”
His name falls from Bucky’s lips without him consciously realizing it until after it’s out of his mouth.
Snuggling into him, chest to chest, lips to his shoulder, kissing the bare skin and then pulling back so they’re approximately face to face, he murmurs,
“mm?”
It’s so dark in Steve’s room that he can’t see him, even though they can’t be even an inch apart. Bucky blinks regardless. Trying to focus on him.
“I—”
One of Steve’s hands cups his head again, the base of his skull. Just holding.
“Do you…” he starts,
“no,”
he murmurs to himself. He can’t ask that. That doesn’t apply to Steve. He’s a switch. He
can
do that. Of course.
“Do I-?” Steve’s voice is rough from sleep yet soft, barely whisper. He doesn’t need anything more when they’re so close.
“Is it, do, do you think it’s unfair?”
Steve shifts, pressing their legs together too, his foot rubbing Bucky’s, more comforting than playful, “what is?”
“I,” Bucky swallows, why can he just
say it?
C’mon, he’s not
that
sleepy!
Brain work!
“Is it unfair that I… I can’t, I can’t give y—” he swallows back
you
and replaces it with,
“submissives
what they give me?”
Steve is silent for a moment, and Bucky’s brain kicks into overdrive, if he were his desktop, his fan would be audibly spinning,
vrrrr,
trying not to overheat. “I don’t think I know what you mean,” Steve says eventually.
“I,” Bucky swallows, he’s got morning breath, he’s sure, but there’s more on his mind, “I don’t think it’s fair that I, I expect y—submissives to give me all their trust and, and…
submission,”
he finishes lamely when he can’t find the word he wants, “when I can’t.”
Steve makes a gentle
“ohh,”
sound, barely audible, what Bucky is getting at clicking in his head all of the sudden.
Something about his understanding has words tumbling over the cliff of Bucky’s lips and into the space between him like a river becoming a waterfall, “how is, how is that fair?” Bucky asks Steve through the darkness. “I don’t know what it’s like to be submissive and I don’t—I do
want
to know, I think it would make me a better dom and a better fucking… partner? But, I don’t think I could—but I don’t, it doesn’t, it definitely doesn’t appeal to me. I don’t—I wouldn’t enjoy it. I don’t think so. I don’t… I don’t like giving up control. I never have. I don’t think I would like it. But I don’t
know.
I haven’t tried.” Bucky barely takes a breath, “I just feel hypocritical demanding something from someone else when I can’t do it in return. I can’t give them something in return. Besides, I’m not experienced and I, I feel so undeserving of you, your—” Bucky clears his throat. “In,” he switches gears, his throat tightening, “in what world would I ever be able to submit to anyone to give them what they give me if I can’t even imagine doing it with
you?”
Before Steve can say anything to Bucky’s admittedly, outlandish question, Bucky motors on, “I mean, you’re so experienced and the fuckin’ best dom, people literally
pay
you to dom them because you’re so good at it, and—” he trails off,
“I don’t know,”
he murmurs finally, shy, his reeling head catching up to his mouth and unfiltered spill of conscious. He’s saying things he didn’t even realize he was thinking.
Steve leaves a moment of breathing room between them, just to be sure he’s done. He did go off on a whole rant just now. It makes sense. Then,
“Buck.”
Bucky feels his bottom lip twitch. He swallows.
“Bucky,” Steve presses them even closer together. If that’s even possible. The gentle rhythm of Steve’s heartbeat echoes through his chest and into Bucky’s.
“I—” Bucky starts, trying to find something to say in return but quickly finding it useless.
“You
do
give something to submissives in return for their submission,” he sounds
so
sure of it. Entirely firm. Not exactly the dom voice Bucky has heard from him on occasion, switching slowly back to his regular self after coming from a professional scene, but… also not a tone of voice Bucky can dream of arguing against.
“You do.
Domination is what you give back to a sub. Submission is glorified as this incredible gift that is untouchable and perfect and pure and, I mean, I think rightfully so, it
should
be glorified to some degree, it takes a fuck ton of trust. There’s lots of risk in it. But. Submission isn’t anything without someone to give the reins to.”
The trembling of Bucky’s lower lip gets worse. Now, prickling behind his eyes joins the party, too.
Great.
At least Steve won’t be able to see him if he starts crying.
Meanwhile, his gentle yet unarguable voice continues to cut through the darkness, the warmth of his breath washing over Bucky’s cheek, “no matter what Old Guard says, or what anyone
now
says, if you don’t want to sub, you don’t have to.” He allows the works to exist, untouched, for a moment. “Some people don’t like it in the same way that there are some people who are just genuinely not kinky, they don’t get anything out of the whips and chains and power dynamics.
That’s okay.
No self-respecting, understanding kinkster is going to tell a vanilla person that they’re not enough. Kinksters get it, you like what you like. And that’s okay.” Steve’s fingers on his bicep tighten as if he’s trying to
press
the words, the understanding of them, into him. “No one—I mean, someone might try to tell you you’re not a good enough dom because you’ve never subbed before but they’re fuckin’
wrong.
Anyone who would try to tell you that isn’t a person who would have played with you, I can tell you that right now. If they’d have played with you first, they would know you’re fuckin’ great. You’re more than enough. And if they don’t know you, their opinion doesn’t matter.”
Bucky blinks a few times, the pressure behind his eyes is worse now. He doesn’t—he doesn’t know if it’s his own emotions bubbling away, ready to spill over, or if it’s Steve’s emotion, Steve’s clarity about him. He’s so fucking
sincere.
“You’re a good dom. You’re a fucking
natural
dom. I’ve never played with anyone like you.”
Bucky accidentally lets a sound out. Just a little noise.
As a result, whatever Steve interprets that noise to be, Steve crushes him into a bear hug, both arms around him, pulling him in tight. Against his ear, he murmurs, “it doesn’t matter if you don’t want to submit to someone. It doesn’t matter if you can’t. If you don’t want to, you don’t have to. You give enough by domming. You give enough by listening to and respecting your submissive. Your
partner.”
Bucky exhales shakily.
“I mean,” Steve lowers his voice slightly, softening it, too, “if it bothers you enough to work on it, I’m sure you could learn to be more comfortable giving up control. A sex therapist, or a regular therapist, too, certainly could be an option. If you want.” Steve’s started rubbing his back. Big, slow circles that undo Bucky. Any strength he thought he had built back up after being so vulnerable comes tumbling down. Steve’s arms hold together the pieces. “You could work your way up to opening up that kind of surrender and giving up control. But. If you don’t want it, who gives a fuck?”
Bucky shuts his eyes, hearing Steve’s voice in his head still. Echoing. He wants to remember all those words. He wants the meaning, the understanding, to stick. He, he—
He realizes he hasn’t said anything back yet.
Shit.
Steve, as always, is just waiting for him to find his feet.
“I don’t…” Bucky keeps his eyes closed, trying to locate the words, “I don’t really
want to.”
He sighs. Steve is still rubbing his back. The heat of the friction is soothing. Good. Just what he needs. “I,” his breathing hitches, “I think I like the idea of knowing exactly what it is to submit, but… I don’t, there’s no, like, actual
desire
to be in that position for me.” He shrugs. He doesn’t know. Like, he
does
know. But. Also not. It’s difficult to untangle and even more so to admit.
Calmly, Steve responds, knowing, “doing it in real life is different.”
“Yeah,” Bucky offers despite the fact that it’s not a question. Tears silently escape his eyes and flood onto the pillow his face is pressed into.
When Bucky is almost certain that Steve has fallen asleep once more, his breathing even and heart rate slow, Steve whispers,
“try not to worry about how you can ask others for their submission but not return that exact thing,”
Bucky feels himself lurch into the words, if it were possible, his ears would perk up and swivel toward him, straining to hear better. He’s speaking so softly.
“It’s okay to ask,”
he murmurs, fingers barely twitching against his back.
“There’s give and take in D/s relationships.”
Bucky exhales, not quite a sigh. Spilling out.
The older man continues, steadfast as ever,
“I give you something, you take it. You give me something, I take it. You know it, I
know
you feel it.”
Bucky’s mouth has fallen open at some point. He shuts it now, nodding instead of attempting to speak. He does know. He
feels
it in a scene. It’s
magic.
But—
How does Steve know he knows?
Does he feel it, too?
Does Steve feel the same way about him that he feels about Steve?
Does Steve lo
—?
To avoid the raw questions in his own head, Bucky sniffles and jokingly murmurs,
“well,
if you want to go down the therapist route and psychoanalyze me, saying that kinks come from trauma, I
am
a big brother. I’m used to taking care of people. Making decisions. All of that.” He barks out one note of a laugh,
ha.
Steve snorts, his hands starting up again, more awake again, rubbing his back. Then, “you have siblings?”
“Yeah,” Bucky tells the darkness. It feels… confessional. Sitting in the dark. Alone with Steve in the dead of night.
“How many?” Steve asks, speaking through the darkness between them.
“Three,” he answers. “All baby sisters.”
“Cute,” Steve ducks his head down as he speaks, shifting, nuzzling into his throat, getting comfortable, his beard tickling Bucky’s collarbone. “I don’t have any siblings. It was just Ma and me.”
“Oh.” There’s something so… poignant about hearing Steve call his mother
Ma,
not Mom but
Ma.
It’s so Brooklyn. So homey.
“I always thought about how fun it must be to have siblings, I figured it’d be a lot less lonely,” somehow Steve still has that joky, easy tone to his voice.
“Oh,”
Bucky’s heart cracks, he
hears
it splinter over the lull of their slow, steady breathing, matched in time, and the occasional swell of city street traffic outside, beyond the walls of the bedroom,
“Steve.”
“It’s okay,” Steve pats his chest, one of his hands sandwiched between their bodies, “it was a long time ago. I don’t feel like that anymore anyway. I’ve got more friends than I could’ve dreamed of then,” he cracks another easy joke, “I’ve got too many friends to keep up with now.”
Bucky doesn’t… he doesn’t know what to say to that. He
hates
the idea of Steve being lonely as a child. It’s such a visceral feeling. He could keep silently weeping, tears down his cheeks, at the thought. A much smaller, doe-eyed, and lonelier Steve, dreaming of siblings that way he would have someone,
anyone
to be his friend.
Ow.
Suddenly, the only thing Bucky can think to say is another naked, vulnerable spill of thoughts that he hadn’t realized was at the forefront of his mind, “I took care of my sisters and my mom growing up. I, I wasn’t lonely but I… I always felt like I was at the mercy of my dad. He drank all the fucking time and—I know
now
that addiction is… you can’t always control it, it’s a disease and all,” he says flippantly, “but, I just, I didn’t understand how he couldn’t. Back then. I didn’t get how he couldn’t see how it hurt the girls. Mom and them. Mom was always so tired of cleaning up after every mess he made, physical, actual messes, and emotional wreckage, too. She spent a lot of time in bed. Sleeping.
I think she has depression. She was never evaluated or anything, though, so…”
he adds that last part in a whisper. Too raw, perhaps. “And, my sisters,” he trudges forward, aching to tell Steve suddenly, “I always felt like they were too young to understand that Dad wasn’t yelling at them. He was drunk and fucking—” Bucky sighs,
“whatever.
I always ended up consoling them. Taking care of them. Mom told me once, too, that I’d have to be the
good
male influence in their lives. She didn’t mean to say it, I don’t think. It just came out, y’know? She wasn’t, like, pressuring me. But I felt it, y’know?” He shrugs,
feeling
in the warm air between them that Steve has words shaping his lips, ready to be said. Murmured against his collarbone, into his skin.
It doesn’t happen, though.
Bucky beats him to the punch, “I’m not, not… naive—?”
Is that the word he wants? Whatever, it’s all he’s got
“—enough to think that, oh, my family wasn’t perfect when I was little, so I grew up to have kinks—turning my trauma into kinks or whatever—but I do think, sometimes, that it makes sense. It tracks that I feel like I need control and I like taking care of people. It makes me feel comfortable.”
Steve shrugs, supporting and understanding his words.
“I could also see the opposite, though,” Bucky pushes, driving ahead, “I desperately grasped at any control in life for so long that I might now look for a way to let loose…” he frowns, “but it’s just not the way my brain works, I guess.”
“There isn’t a single way someone might deal with trauma, Buck,” Steve gentles, breath warm on his neck, “there isn’t a wrong way, short of hurting other people. Of course, though, yeah.” He nods, sage-like, “not everyone who’s kinky has trauma or is fucked up. We’re just people. There’s nothing wrong with us.”
Bucky nods, staring forward, unseeing, but needing something to do with his hands. He subconsciously decides the best thing to do is to pet Steve—hands carding through his sleep, messy hair.
Steve exhales, all the air rushing out of him, deflating, “there’s nothing wrong with you. There’s nothing wrong with needing control so long as you’re not drowning, always grasping for it.”
“I’m not drowning,” Bucky speaks before he thinks. It’s true, either way. Contemplated or not.
“Good,” Steve’s eyelashes leave butterfly kisses on his neck.
“I’m enjoying the control you give up,”
Bucky adds impulsively, voice low, the hint of a blush creeping up the back of his neck.
“I know,”
Steve responds, teasingly.
Bucky huffs, not a full laugh, but he is amused; either way, he hits Steve’s shoulder softly and yawns at the same time, exhaustion suddenly hitting him.
-
Steve
This time, Bucky falls asleep before Steve can. And simply for the tactile sensation of it, he lets his hand press one more lazy, slow circle into his back, the contact of their skin settling the parts of him that were ruffled by Bucky’s questions. He didn’t know Bucky felt like that. And, truthfully, maybe he doesn’t. Maybe this is the way Bucky expresses dropping after hitting domspace. Maybe accidentally tying Steve too tight got more to him than either of them realized and it just took a few hours for it to hit him. Waiting until the dead of night. Creeping in. Steve doesn’t know because he doesn’t live inside Bucky’s head. Sometimes… sometimes he wishes he did, though. Bucky is so bright. Smart
and
luminous. Creative. Passionate. Curious. He would
love
to know how thoughts circulate in that pretty head of his.
Right now, as Steve finds himself slowing, slowing, slowing, and dipping into sleep, in and out, drowsy and woozy, he wonders if Bucky still talks to his parents. He would love to climb inside his mind to find out. He doesn’t want to wake him up and ask. If he could just know, though…
Maybe it’s just something he seeks out of morbid curiosity. But, either way, he wants to know. Does Bucky still talk to his sisters? Did coming out spoil the relationship on his parents’ behalf? What about his sisters? He knows it heartachingly worked out like that for many of the men of his generation, families cutting their sons, brothers, and all out, but… maybe not for Bucky.
Hopefully
not for Bucky. Hopefully, if they don’t speak, it’s just because of his father and not because Bucky’s sexual orientation has anything to do with it.
Fingers crossed.
Overcome with the desire to climb inside the younger man, not only to delve into his mind but into his body, his
soul,
Steve holds him close. Staying where he is, curled down to fit as Bucky’s little spoon, he presses his nose against the line of his throat and feels every inhale that stretches Bucky’s ribs between his arms. Steve’s emotions swell, expanding every time he breathes in. He desperately, desperately wants to know what happens in that beautiful, creative brain. Even if, and maybe especially
when,
it isn’t “pretty.” Steve wants to know. He wants to memorize it. He wants to press the thoughts, the words, and the images, into his bones and carry them everywhere with him.
Kissing the base of Bucky’s neck, the dip between his collarbones, Steve finally lets himself drift out to sea with that sentiment. He wants Bucky with him.
Always.
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
Steve
“Good morning, Buck,” Steve sets down the plate of potato-hashbrown-scramble thing he made this morning with some leftover, bare essentials he had lying around. Potatoes, obviously, some peppers, a sprinkle of cheese, torn-up chicken breast, and a few spices thrown in. This and that. Nothing impressive. He steps away quickly to grab a fork, and he sets that down on the table in front of Bucky, too, with a
clink.
“G’mornin’,”
Bucky rumbles out, gruff and barely sounding awake.
“Morning,” Steve repeats himself just so he can have an excuse to stare at Bucky for a little longer. He’s adorably rumpled. Still naked with lines from sleep over his face and painting one whole side of his body. He looks like he slept
hard.
His hair is extra wavy and frizzier than Steve’s ever seen it—even after some of their sessions where Steve had no control over how hard or how much his hands were pulling at that gorgeous, thick hair. His skin is flushed with heat from sleep. Lips extra pouty as if he’s upset that he’s had to wake up at all.
Before it’s too awkward and he stares for too long, Steve spins on his heels and dishes himself up a plate from the skillet. “Do you want some coffee or anything?” Steve steals another look at the delightful little creature almost dozing off
again
at his kitchen table, propping himself up with one hand on his jaw, elbow planted on the table, and the hand other covering his mouth as he yawns
hugely.
His jaw cracks. He rubs the sleep from his eyes and says something that is truly unintelligible. “What was that?” Steve’s heart squeezes painfully in his chest.
Bucky shakes his head as if he’s trying to dislodge the extra sleep still sticking to him like puffs of cotton. Steve imagines that the little clouds go flying off his messy hair that swishes around his face.
“Whatever you have made?” He mumbles.
“So, hot water?”
Bucky blinks owlishly at him,
“uh.”
“You need coffee,” Steve laughs pleasantly to himself.
One of the corners of Bucky’s mouth lifts into a tiny, sleepy smile,
“m’kay,”
he lazily hums in agreement.
-
Eventually, fed and coffeed up, Bucky comes back online. Something more close to a functioning, thinking human. Also, at some point, he puts on a pair of shorts, matching Steve’s choice of staying shirtless, although, Steve has opted for a worn, thin pair of sweatpants and that’s all.
C’mon,
they’re at home. Who’s actually going to look
presentable
when they’re just lounging around? Not Steve. And not Bucky, either, if Steve has anything to say about it.
They pass a few hours like that, the TV on as background noise while they scroll on their phones, looking at memes (Bucky), and catching up on the news (Steve). It’s not like they have anywhere to be. It’s a fucking Saturday. They have all the time in the world. It’s just them.
Eventually, though, once they’ve both gotten tired of their phones, setting them aside to watch the TV and mock some of the goofier scenes in the current film, Steve decides to nock his shoulder with Bucky’s and begin, “it’s totally okay if you don’t want to, but, I was thinking—” Bucky turns to look at him as soon as he registers that Steve isn’t just making another quick comment “—would you be interested in trying some bondage tape instead of rope?” The idea of using bondage tape came to Steve in his sleep, then woke up with him. He does wish he thought of it before having Bucky try
actual
rope, but he’s not going to let himself kick himself for it. It’s alright. He’s alright. He’s taking all of what he said to Bucky yesterday to heart as well, it would be easy to blame himself, thinking that he should have known better. But,
no, it’s okay.
He wants to show Bucky that he is not only not afraid of scene-ing with Bucky again, but he’s not afraid of jumping back into bondage. If that’s what he wants. Steve is certainly down.
“It doesn’t have to be today, and we don’t have to do it at all, but I figured I’d ask,” Steve shrugs, purposefully glancing casually between the TV and Bucky. He does feel casual about this, well, as casual as he can feel about having a scene with Bucky, but it’s more important than usual to
show
Bucky that feeling. Yesterday wasn’t a fuck up. It was good for them.
“Bondage tape?” Bucky parrots, “I can guess what that is, but…”
Steve tips his head to the side, “oh, yeah,” he smirks, “I guess it would be important that you know what that is before agreeing to use it.”
“Maybe,”
Bucky snarks back.
“Shut up,” Steve says reflexively, poking him in the side until he yelps. “Anyway,” he interrupts himself, laughing,
“a-anyway.
Bondage tape is what it sounds like. Mostly, it’s just thin, plastic tape that’s really strong and can stretch a lot,” he makes a vague hand gesture to indicate stretching. “The thing that makes it best for bondage, though, is that because it’s plastic, usually PVC, or, polyvinyl, and so there’s no adhesive—no glue. Meaning, it doesn’t stick to skin or pull out hair. Think of, like, a window decal.” Bucky looks contemplative, conjuring up all the different window decals he’s seen or put up for holidays or whatnot. “Basically, the tape binds just to itself, and it’s fairly reusable as long as you don’t ball it up or cut it into pieces something. Also, ‘cause it’s tape it’s a hell of a lot faster than rope or cuffs or anything else.”
“Huh,”
Bucky murmurs. “I can’t believe I’ve never heard of it.”
Steve just shrugs one shoulder, “that’s fair, it’s not the most common thing. People tend to focus more on bondage with rope or cuffs. Probably because they take longer, you have to learn them really well to use them properly, so they’re kind of precious in that way, y’know?” Bucky nods, “and the fact that tape doesn’t always look like you’re gonna have a tough time getting out while rope does.”
“I guess,” Bucky replies.
“Trust me, though, you use it right… your sub is not going fuckin’ anywhere.” The grin that Bucky gives him, devious and predatory, has Steve’s next sentence coming out a little less confident. “I have a, a ton of colors of it downstairs.” He swallows, fighting to keep his mind from wondering what Bucky is thinking about to look at him like
that,
“I had a sub for a long time that was really into it.”
“Into bondage tape?” Bucky snaps back into his typical curiosity, “like, specifically?”
“Not the tape itself, but the scenario that I made go with it.” To clarify, he adds, “roleplay.”
Bucky looks so intrigued that it’s kind of hilarious, biting his lower lip and cocking his head to the side.
“He likes superheroes.”
Bucky’s eyes narrow, not understanding yet.
“In the old-fashioned
paper and ink
comic books that we got back in the day,” Steve explains and Bucky huffs, amused, “there were a lot of superheroes capturing supervillains, and vice versa, that had them taping their mouths shut or taping their wrists together,” Steve holds his arms up as an example, unexpectedly losing his words, glancing down, thinking about how it feels to be in such a vulnerable position. Arms useless as a result of bondage of any kind—tape, rope, cuffs, anything. Steve will take
anything
he can get. He swallows, throat dry.
“And-?” Bucky prompts him, a mischievous glint in his eyes.
What a little shit.
“And we’d do that,” Steve scrambles to gather himself, “I, I’d wrap the tape around him, stick him to a chair or something, and do the whole interrogation thing, rip the tape off his mouth, that kind of thing.”
“Hm,”
Bucky smiles, “creative. I like it.”
“What?”
Steve jolts, blinking harshly to free himself half from the memories and half from the fantasy, projecting himself into the shoes of that submissive, but rather than a pure superhero theme, a rougher, dingier theme. Tape ripped stingingly off his mouth. His lips raw. Bucky’s hand slapping him across the face, demanding things from him. Demanding he confesses the filthiest things he’s done. The things that’ve turned him on the most and embarrassed him the most. Dim, shaky lighting. Bucky backhanding him when he can’t answer fast enough. Steve is stuck on the phantom feelings of bruises. Bruises across his wrists and ankles where he’s tied to the metal chair. Bruises in the shape of Bucky’s gorgeous hands. Returning to begging for
Sir
rather than
Daddy.
“I mean,” Bucky confidently drawls, “I wasn’t planning on doing
that
to you, unless…” for a long, heated moment their eyes bore into each other, Bucky just waiting for a dare before he would. Steve knows he would. “I just think it’s a unique idea.”
“Uh-huh,” Steve echoes, not even aware of what he’s saying.
“I think,”
suddenly Bucky is so close to him, voice smooth and sure, his legs curled up on the couch, sitting sideways and leaning into his space with one hand caressing his jaw,
God,
he’s like a fucking siren, Steve swears,
“you’re gonna go grab some of that tape and I’ll meet you in the playroom after.”
There’s a dense, thick stone of arousal sitting on his tongue. Steve can taste it.
“Is that okay?”
Nodding, Steve tries for words, fumbling, “y-yeah, yeah, I’m good with that.” He licks his dry lips. He swallows, feeling that stone tumble down his throat and land deep in his belly where it feels heavier and larger, heating him from the core.
“Good,” Bucky sits back, leaving his personal space. But when Steve spends too long recentering himself, on the cusp of movement but not yet springing into action, Bucky reminds him, “c’mon then, pup, I know you know how to fetch.”
“Uunh,” a stupid, reckless moan leaps out of Steve’s mouth. Fetch, Steve’s internal monologue repeats, devastated. Jesus.
-
Steve stumbles eagerly into the upstairs playroom, bondage tape in hand, he didn’t bring all of it, just a few rolls, blue and red and black. In any case, it’s more than enough for Bucky to do whatever he pleases with him.
Whatever
Bucky wants to do to him. Steve has already surrendered to any idea he could have.
Anything.
He needs to satisfy the urge to be immobilized. His appetite was only wet yesterday, and so today his stomach is growling.
Immediately, Steve’s eyes sweep the room to find his younger dominant, looking to him for direction. Should he kneel? Stand? What? Where?
His dominant is leaning casually back against the spanking bench, a lazy, cocky smirk playing at his lips. Alluring as ever, taking Steve’s breath from his lungs. The hairband that was around his wrist this morning at breakfast is now being used to hold his tumbling, wavy hair back into a messy bun. All his thick hair scraped back and collected to perfectly display his strong jaw and sharp cheeks. Days-old stubble looks
delicious
on him, as do the shorts that have fallen
low
on his trim hips—the V of his Adonis belt all too obscene.
“Good boy,”
Bucky coos, “what a good dog, doing just what Daddy told you,” shifting his weight to stand up straight.
Steve stands in place, taking him in as he prowls forward. Closer and closer and
closer.
Everything he does is so goddamn intoxicating. He has to know exactly what he looks like—exactly how fucking
good
he looks. A one-man show.
Bucky uncurls Steve’s fingers from around the tape gently when Steve still can’t move, stunned by his level of sudden arousal. He takes the tape from him and then makes sure to wrap his own fingers around Steve’s wrist and lift his hand to his mouth, brushing a kiss across his knuckles, before letting him go.
Head to toe, Steve has goosebumps. Instantly. Shivering, swaying, in place. The effect Bucky has on him is unparalleled. He’s never felt anything like it. Bucky commands him in a way no one else has.
“Kneel,”
he commands now. Out loud.
Steve crumbles. Head purely empty.
The warm, pleased noise that Bucky makes in response to his thoughtless compliance lights Steve up like the fourth of July. Skittering sparks of heat and light.
God,
he wants to live here. Knees embedded in the cool, soft Earth like he’s grown from it, shrouded in moss and clouds, light and easy as the wind.
Humming, Bucky takes his time examining him, touching him, holding the power to melt Steve’s eternal clock into the ideal of Salvador Dali.
Moments… minutes… hours.
His fingertips glide over Steve’s skin. Awakening each nerve, one by one. Through his hair, around the shell of his ear, the hinge of his jaw, rubbing over his lips, pressing into his mouth, giving Steve something to suck on. Weighty and perfect on his tongue. It tastes like
Bucky
and like submission. He sucks
harder.
Steve sees white under his shut eyelids. Heat. Dazzling pleasure.
Daddy hasn’t even
done
anything to him yet! And yet… it’s fucking magic.
He’s
magic.
“You’re so good, baby,” Bucky’s voice washes over him, smoothing him even more, river stones, cool and soft to the touch, except—
“So pretty, too,” Bucky pulls his hair, forcing him to present his neck, straining, staring straight up.
There is nothing Steve can do but moan.
“Handsomest pup I’ve ever seen. The most talented, too, hm? Such an obedient thing. Always do what Daddy tells you.”
Again, he
moans.
“Yeah, I know, puppy,” Bucky smiles at him through the haze clouding Steve’s vision, blurry like how it gets mid-cry—if he’s crying out of pure ecstasy. It feels
incredible.
And it’s only going to get better. “Good boys deserve rewards, don’t they?” He wonders out loud, hands slipping off of his body in favor of unlocking and wrapping his collar around his exposed throat.
Yes.
Steve’s breath hitches in his throat.
Yes!
He wants it.
He wants it so bad that when he blinks, he can feel tears flood his eyes. Prickling. Hot.
The next time Bucky steps back, his collar stays in place. Any little bit of weight that was left inside Steve flies away. He is
mush.
Easily bending, unresisting, as Bucky repositions his wrists where they’re crossed behind his back—positioning him better for being tied and,
Christ,
tying him up. Wrapping him tightly with the vinyl tape that starts as a cooling balm to his rising fever only to warm with him the longer it sits. Agreeing with his excitement.
Steve’s wrists are tied together, “there you go, baby,” Bucky purrs, lowering his voice to murmur,
“silly dogs don’t have hands.”
Another punch of arousal straight to Steve’s gut.
Oof.
“And they can’t walk on two feet either, can they?”
Steve couldn’t answer if he tried, his tongue is tangled,
“no,”
Bucky answers, his voice affectionate and warm as a hand petting through his hair. In reality, he’s stripping him out of his sweatpants like it’s nothing.
“Daddy has to fix that, doesn’t he?”
“Uh-huh,”
Steve moans, balling his hands into fists;
squeezing
with all the tight, hot arousal that’s flooding his veins, setting him on fire.
While he’s still kneeling, Bucky uses the bondage tape on his ankles, carefully wrapping them together. Then, Bucky uses all his weight to tip Steve forward onto his belly.
“Mmmgh!”
Steve gasps, the wooden flooring cold compared to his dominant. Said dominant huffs quietly behind him. Not laughing, but almost. Shame licks up Steve’s spine, leaving him to wriggle where he lies on the floor. Laughing at him like he’s a silly, unintelligent dog that just can’t help itself.
Fuck.
His temperature rises another few degrees, his face
burning.
Without explaining the reasoning this time—why would he need to explain himself anyway? It’s not like a dog would understand what he’s saying—Bucky uses more tape. Folding his legs up tighter and bringing his arms down more, forcing Steve to hold his shoulders off of the floor, his thick chest and sensitive nipples pressing into the wood extra hard, Bucky attaches his wrists to his ankles, leaving Steve in a fucking hogtie.
A hogtie.
Against the very unforgiving floor, Steve’s fucking cock twitches. A long, drawn-out sigh floats out of his gaped lips.
“How’s that, baby?” Bucky checks in, teasing and truthful, as he double-checks the tape. It’s secure. Steve can feel it. He can feel it in the way it’s making him stretch. The restraint.
He’s panting suddenly. This went from zero, nothing fucking happening (yet reacting as if A LOT was going on), to a hundred. Fucking bondage tape, making quick-as-shit restraint possible and leaving Steve with his head spinning like a top. Tugging and wiggling just to feel how stuck he is, finding the limits and groaning about them.
“Hmm?” Bucky asks again, audibly grinning like the fucker he is.
He’s panting so hard that when he opens his eyes to weakly glare at his perfect fucking dom all he ends up seeing is the fog of his breath on the wooden floorboards.
“You good down there, baby?” He’s enjoying this too much.
Steve barely gets out a ruined groan.
Yes.
Yes,
he’s good. He’s so good.
He could stay like this forever. The hard, unforgiving solid ground against his aching dick. The stretch in his muscles, the positioning just enough to leave him scrambling without exhausting him immediately. The tape that feels like it wouldn’t be so hard to escape from until he pulls and he tries and he can’t fucking come close. He feels so weak. He feels so helpless. He feels so fucking exposed.
“Good,” Daddy answers his thoughts, “that means you can sit like that for a while, right?”
“Wha-?”
Steve hardly can get the fragmented word out of his mouth before Bucky tells him—
“Stay.”
And what could a good dog do other than listen?
Nothing.
Heat continues to throb through Steve, pooling in his belly and around his hard,
hard
cock as Bucky rifles through all the toys at his disposal. Steve’s collection. Anticipating is
killing
him. All Steve wants to do is whimper and struggle and beg to know what he’s going to do to him. He wants to know how he’s going to wind him up more. How he’s going to make him ache even more. Throb harder. Pulse and twitch and
cum.
How will Daddy make him slobber all over the floor and act silly and dumb like the dirty dog he is?
“Uh,
Steve?”
Bucky breaks the scene, mercifully extracting him from the filthy ocean of his imagination. His voice is only barely not dancing with laughter, “what the fuck is this?”
It takes a minute, but Steve grunts, struggling to lift his head and look over his shoulder where Bucky is—
Oh.
That.
A dirty thrill shivers through Steve, thickening his blood.
Bucky is holding up a large, black, silicone sex toy. But, the thing is, it doesn’t look like a traditional sex toy. It’s
not
a traditional sex toy. Not a traditional dildo or buttplug or anything. And it’s not a tentacle or knotted or any sort of Bad-Dragon-type toy, either. Rather, it’s almost stingray shaped, or, like a strange, flattened bicycle seat. The thing that makes it feel especially dirty isn’t how unique it is but the fact that it wasn’t designed with people with dicks in mind. Not the first thing Steve has owned that wasn’t meant for cis men. He’s worn and put his fair share of subs in panties and bras and corsets and stockings and the like. But he’s never… he’s never owned an actual sex toy, not a pervertable, that wasn’t designed for his type of genitals. But that doesn’t mean it doesn’t work for him. That doesn’t mean it isn’t
good.
He bought the toy on a whim, a recommendation from a dominatrix friend, Maria, and experimented with it once, using it on himself. He intended to have it for future paying submissives, in case. But. He got selfish. He had to keep it for himself.
So, all that to say, Steve can’t blame Bucky for needing to ask. Besides, Bucky’s a curious cat, of course, something that was unknown drew his attention.
“It, um,” he swallows,
“vibrates,”
Steve says breathlessly, feeling his eyelids suddenly become heavier.
“Huh. Alright, well,” Bucky frowns, eyeing the toy as he holds it in his hands, “it’s a fucking weird shape.”
“Yeah, it’s,” Steve clears his throat, “for external use.”
Bucky snorts,
“oh, really?”
He raises his eyebrows, all brat, “I was planning to shove it up your ass.”
Steve laughs, only faintly, he’s not thinking about humor now. Bucky could shove a lot of things up his ass.
Huge
things. Steve’s done it before. Steve’s done
big
things before. Multiple toys at the same time. Fists. A lot of fists, not at the same time but... there was a minute when after he got his first fist he couldn't stop. Unbelievably large dicks.
Two
dicks, too. He’s done… he’s done a lot. When he was bottoming more. He still could, though. He could take a lot. Bucky would just have to stretch him.
Fuck.
Steve drops his head for just a moment, forehead to the floor. He misses that stretch!
God.
He lifts his head back up but... s
uddenly, he can’t bear to look at that thing in Bucky’s hands for a moment longer. So he surrenders, totally letting his head drop back down, it’s too hard to hold it up like that. It’s too hard to think. But now that he can’t see, the only clue he gets is that—
He doesn’t hear Bucky put it back where he found it. Instead, he walks to a different toolbox of toys. Steve shivers, knowing, at least, partly, what’s coming.
Guh.
It barely takes Bucky any more time to gather his supplies, thank
fuck,
he’s dying with anticipation over here, now that he partly knows what’s coming. And the first thing he does when he returns, standing over him, is
pop
open a bottle of lube and
squirt
some onto his hand. The wet, filthy noise has a helpless, breathy sound fall from Steve’s mouth. The second thing he does is kneel over Steve, pry him apart, and smear thick, wet lube over his entrance.
“Ah!”
Steve gasps, jolting against the floor, pulling and getting nowhere in his binds. There is nothing he can do to get away. He doesn’t want to get away.
The way his dom pries open his body on his fingers is intoxicating. Pleasure sinks its teeth in him. One fingertip turns into the whole thing and all Steve can do is
shake,
clenching down on the intrusion, savoring the stretch and that little bit of fullness. Bucky offers another, a second fingertip circling his rim, wanting to be let in, and Steve, Steve lets him do it. He’s a slut. He needs it. One finger isn’t enough. Two fingers aren’t enough. Thrusting, curling, pressing. They’re not enough. He’s not full enough. He’s not being fucked enough. More. More. More. His moan is
begging.
He aches for it.
Just another! At least! Please!
“Yesss,”
he exhales when Bucky finally, finally lets him have it.
Three fingers.
God.
The wet sounds. Squelches. The thrusts.
“Unnh, uh, uh!”
Steve gasps every time Bucky presses all the way inside him.
Full.
He’s so hot. So full and so hot. He’s going to melt. This feels
so good!
Lust is rising inside him, filling up his gut and spilling into his limbs, climbing up his throat, lurching closer and closer to drowning him, especially when Bucky coos—
“Aw, is that the spot, puppy?” And viciously
presses
and
rubs
his prostate.
“AH!”
Steve cries out, blacking out for full fucking minute. He struggles so hard against the bondage tape. His arms and legs. His muscles scream at him. He’s stuck, he’s stuck,
he’s stuck!
He can’t get away from the overwhelming pleasure. He can’t make another sound because Bucky keeps at it and there’s no way for him to get air. Tears prickle his eyes, forced out when Bucky fakes pulling his fingers out, only retracting them the tiniest amount before hitting his prostate
again.
GOD!
Steve chokes on the lust inside him. He’s going to break apart at the seams, unraveling fully. Only—
“Hhhuh!”
Steve inhales sharply as Bucky takes his fingers away, leaving him
gaping, dripping wet,
and
aching
for filling.
He doesn’t want for long. It seems Daddy is trying his hardest to keep him guessing, his head spinning, spinning, spinning, unsure of which way is up and which way is down. Not that it matters when both directions are hot, honey-thick pleasure. The thick, fat tip of a solid, heavy plug kisses his clenching, pleading rim, and then Bucky forces his hole to
swallow
it.
The sound that comes out of Steve this time is so obscene and so fucking stupid that it makes his dominant
laugh
behind him. Gleefully joyous and
mean.
He loves this. He loves torturing Steve. He loves turning him into a fucking mess—a puddle on the floor—sweat and pre-cum
(JesusChristhe’ssohard)
and tears and drool. Steve clenches around the plug, vibrating. Barely getting used to the weight of it and the rubbing of it against his sweet spot before Bucky is lifting his hips, telling him, “up, puppy,” and, and—
And sliding that fucking strangely shaped toy underneath him, turning it on the second he stops holding Steve up, forcing all of his weight against it.
“Daddy!”
Steve cries, high and fragile.
The vibrations
cut
into him.
Gutting
him.
“Oh,”
Steve can’t help but moan, the muscles in his legs flexing, trying to squirm into the vibrations. Wanting to hump forward with as much slavering desperation as a rutting puppy.
“Ohh!”
There is nothing he can do to stop the noises spilling out of him. Not even a gag would shut him up, all it would do would be scramble the porn-worthy sounds that’re coming from him. The vibrations are so
intense!
And the vibrations are right against his dick and balls and also vibrating the thin, sensitive skin of his inner thighs and he knows if he presses hard enough his own balls will put the lightest amount of pressure against his perineum, sending exquisite shocks of pleasure to his prostate. His prostate is trapped between his swollen, tight balls and the heavy, heavy toy that is splitting him open.
Oh, fuck.
He’s on
fire.
His tongue feels too big for his mouth. He can’t stop drooling. Every time he tries to open his eyes and orient himself, ‘cause what the fuck is happening to him anyway, they just roll back into his head.
Oh, oh, OH.
Pleasure blinds him, reinforced by the voice of his dominant. “That’s it, grind against it,” he rasps darkly as Steve gives back any semblance of restraint, rocking, struggling, squirming, doing anything he possibly fucking can think of with his stupid, melted brain to press harder and harder against the toy.
“Jesus,”
Steve moans again, shocked with pleasure that has nothing to do with his own movements. It’s all to do with the dark, rough timbre of Bucky’s voice, crawling inside him and setting the muscles that haven’t already been consumed ablaze. He feels wild. He feels pathetic. He feels like a dog, humping the fucking floor.
Defiling
the floor. He is filthy. He is impure.
It feels so good.
It feels so good!
“Exactly,” Bucky encourages him, “I wanna see you hump the floor, baby, c’mon, squirm for it,” Bucky sets one of his feet on his lower back, pushing him down.
Down.
Lower.
Lower.
Steve is where he belongs, on his belly on the floor, moaning and experiencing dizzying pleasure because it’s what his dom wants from him. He could cry. He is crying? He doesn’t know. He doesn’t know anything. The only thing he can be sure of is that he’s burning hotter and hotter, into ash, consumed by desire too hot, too intense. He’s going to cum. He’s going to cum!
He’s—
Steve’s mouth is hanging open and he can’t even begin to form words, he can’t even think in words right now, the closest he can get is a pathetic
wail.
“What a desperate little bitch,” Bucky says, his voice the most seductive purr that Steve’s ever fucking heard. While he talks, as if unbothered, he digs his heel into him, Steve
hurts;
he
aches;
he’s going to
explode! God!
“Humping the floor, such a dirty fuckin’ puppy. Can’t do anything without your little prick being out. I know.
I know.
Get it out, baby. Fuckin’ horndog.”
The sweetness. The meanness. Both war inside Steve, fraying his nerves until they’re unrolled and laid out, sparking with pleasure. Unforgiving and indulgent.
Jesus Christ.
Steve can’t take it.
With a silent scream, mouth stretched wide open in hopes of getting some release out, any kind, even if it’s just a moan, Steve surrenders to the tight, hot,
hot
pleasure, barely twitching in his bonds as he cums his brain out. A puppet with cut strings. Pumping wet and messy against the toy as it buzzes away, pushing him higher and higher into the atmosphere. He can’t get down. It feels like
heaven.
Fuck.
The pleasure is too much for Steve to live through, he could and will have a fucking heart attack
right now,
he’s not fucking joking, but the fact that apparently, Bucky doesn’t have a merciful bone in his body brings him back from the dead; he
haunts
Bucky with how he jerks and writhes as much as he possibly can on the floor, crying.
Sobbing.
He can’t move! He can’t get away! The toy is still on! Bucky hasn’t even turned the fucking thing down!
But Steve just came!
His cock is so
goddamn
sensitive.
He can feel the vibrations in his
teeth.
A strangled scream is ripped from him. His tears pool on the floor under his face. He’s pouring sweat, his muscles rippling, trying to find a way out of this sweet, hot hell. It’s excruciating. It’s exhilarating.
After what feels like years of sobbing, panting, heaving, struggling, his fucking joyfully sadistic ass dom turns the fucking toy up. Not down?! If Steve could feel it in his teeth before, his teeth are now chattering. The pleasure is so overwhelming and raw that he can’t clench his jaw, the muscles are too weak and spasming chaotically. But, wait, oh, oh, wait—
Bucky is now on the floor with him, opting instead of fucking stepping on him to force him to ride the toy that way, to use both of his hands and move Steve. There’s no strength left in Steve’s muscles. There’s no leverage like this. There’s nothing Steve can do to fight it. He swallows the hurt, the sharp, hot ache of overstimulation, and coughs up gritty moan after gritty
moan.
His throat feels destroyed with all the noise he’s making. Still. Bucky is making him ride the toy so hard. He’s humping it so hard. It’s so wet. So wet with his own cum. Messy and splattered. It’s so hard. It doesn’t just kind of hurt, it hurts.
It’s hurts!
It feels so good!
There’s all this tension building inside of Steve. His muscles knotting themselves up. Tight and tighter and
tighter.
Something has to give! He’s going to break! Bucky is using him, Bucky is going to use him up—chew him up and spit him out.
“Ah! AH!
AH!”
Steve sounds pathetic, voice raw, echoing back into his own ears, used and raw.
If his Daddy is telling him anything all the while, to just take it, how good he looks, or how fucking filthy he is for getting off on this, Steve can’t hear it. His ears are ringing. He’s, he’s cracking—
He’s
breaking.
He’s,
oh, God,
he’s cumming again. Shattering through the atmosphere he hit the edge of with his recent, recent,
recent
orgasm. A rocket launched into fucking space by the force of sheer pleasure assaulting him. So. much. pleasure.
-
Bucky
OhfuckingChrist.
Watching Steve thrash and cry and beg with incoherent, useless little sounds that don’t approach being words is better than any goddamn porn that Bucky’s seen; it’s better than any fucking porn ever could be. There’s no way. Nothing will hit all of his buttons the way this does, winding him so tight that just the barest amount of pressure will crack him apart. Steve is
obscene.
Vulgar. Filthy. The most debauched fantasy anyone could dig up from the sediment of the deepest pool of lust inside them.
Steve orgasms all over himself again, flushed a gorgeous bright red with his fever-hot appetite overtaking his entire body, sweating profusely, glistening, whining like he’s dying, and so consumed, surrendering so much that he lies limp against the tape still secure around his wrists and ankles. Face down on the floor, taking it, trapped in an endless cycle of pleasure that only Bucky can put a stop to.
Shit.
It ignites—it
consumes
Bucky.
Steve lets Bucky do this to him. Steve lets Bucky torture him. And Steve gets off on it. That’s the best fucking part.
Steve gets off on it. Hard.
This is fucked up in the most delicious way and Steve is right there with him, savoring it. Greedy for it. Wanting to be pushed and pushed and pushed until he can’t scream anymore and he can’t move and he can’t rub together even half a thought.
With an audible splintering in the form of a bone-deep groan, Bucky springs into action. Fingertips digging into flesh, he lifts Steve’s hips off the toy, hardly getting a grip on him with how he’s melting. Sweating so badly. Bucky spares one hand to shakily bat the toy out from under Steve. It clatters against the floor, vibrating
hard.
It’s no mystery why Steve was making all those fucking sounds nor why he orgasmed so fast, so hard both times. Bucky is salivating thinking about it again. Thinking about how Steve whimpered and shook and took it—loved it. Loved being degraded and praised and dominated and—
Bucky needs it.
That fucking toy.
He wants to try.
He wants to try while it’s still wet, dripping with Steve’s release. Obscene and too much. It’s too much. Bucky hardly has gotten a steady enough grip on it to lift the strangely shaped toy against his pulsing, hurting erection, trapped in the stupid fucking clothes he’s still wearing, but he already knows this is going to kill him. And it’s gonna murder him
fast.
With gravel in his throat, Bucky urgently bites,
“Christ,
you make it look so fucking hot, Jesus Christ, ‘m so curious,
I just—”
With one hand, he rips down his shorts, where he’s kneeling just off to the side of Steve, and using the other, he presses it against himself, still so, so messy with Steve’s cum, hot from his body, and
oh, God.
Oh, God!
Oh, God!
It feels—
It feels.
Bucky can’t even process how
good
it feels. Bucky entirely understands how Steve was unable to resist orgasming again even if he was so oversensitive. He had no choice. This is—
This is
inside him.
It’s. so. fucking. intense.
The vibrations are static in his bones. Powerful. Such friction inside him, vibrating, rattling, that it leaves Bucky smoldering. Igniting. Sparks flying and immediately finding tinder to explode into lapping tongues of full-blown flames. A forest fire.
Immediately.
The lead-up to his orgasm was all Steve, watching him struggle and cry and melt, succumbing to the pleasure wearing him down. This is cutting right to the kill. There is no lead-up. It’s
happening.
Suddenly, he can’t breathe around the pleasure violently boiling inside him. Consuming him. There is nothing he can do to stop it from happening. He’s cumming. He’s
spilling.
He’s gutted, stumbling forward, barely catching himself with one hand before he goes face-first into the hardwood floor. The impact reverberates through him, either way. The toy clatters to the floor. He can’t take it for a moment longer, twitching through his orgasm. Panting. His whole body heaving with the effort of getting air. Working through it. It feels like he’s been temporarily blinded and deafened. Pleasure blotting everything else out.
Holy fuck.
Bucky barely has enough brain power to crash forward onto the ground on his belly and then flap a hand out to the side, batting at the toy, and turning it off. Just getting onto the floor is hard enough. He’s spinning in place. Wobbly and shaking. Still recovering. Trying and failing to steady his breathing. Between gasping breaths, Bucky licks his lips, he blinks.
Jesus.
If he’d had something like
that
for his first sex toy, he would’ve exploded. Too much. It would’ve just—
Killed him.
In fact, he’s not sure he’s not dead right now. He easily could be. Steve could be an angel.
Steve!
Shit!
Scrambling to take inventory of Steve, weakly pushing himself up to sit, Bucky finds that he has nothing to worry about. Steve is, well, he’s still dazed. If he had exposed wiring, it would still be shorting out, sparking, and smoking. His eyes are open but glassy and empty. His mouth is open, appearing as if he’s still suspended in orgasm, breathing shallowly. There’s even still a blush painting his cheeks and dripping down his neck. He’s
beautiful.
Ruined and obscene, but beautiful, too.
In a minute, after he takes in more of this perfect state of Steve, he’s going to have to decide if he wants to cut the tape still binding Steve, or if he can unravel it and save it for use later. They are definitely going to do more bondage. Absolutely. Either way, he needs to be unbound—save for his collar—and wrapped up in some blankets instead, then ushered into the bedroom or the couch in the living room for some proper cuddling. Just thinking about getting to clean and wrap Steve up, then feeding him sips of water and snacks has Bucky smiling. It’s impossibly difficult to compete with the pleasure of a scene itself but aftercare comes so, so deathly close. Nothing fills Bucky with more love than taking care of an exhausted, floating Steve. He’s all adorable and unbearably sweet. Bucky loves it so much.
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
Bucky
“Nice shirt!” Steve opens his front door with a smile that near-instantaneously melts into a snickering fit of laughter. “Wha—hey!” Bucky glances down at his shirt, crossing his arms over his chest before— oh, hey, that is pretty funny —he redirects his offense into pleasant laughter as well, the second he recognizes that he’s not being made fun of, he couldn’t be being made fun of considering that Steve has practically the same shirt on. They’re both in black t-shirts, although, Steve’s has just the rainbow flag on his, stretching colorfully, proudly across his thick chest practically screaming to get off of his body. It’s so tight on him. Meanwhile, Bucky has the intersectional rainbow flag resting vertically from his collarbones to over his stomach on his shirt. It is different. But not very different.When Bucky is done examining their similar fashion choices, he steals another eyeful of Steve and Steve… he steals his breath away. There’s a goofy smile on his face. An absolutely gorgeous, silly expression that makes his heart pound in his chest. God, it’s only been three days since the last time you saw him, get it together Barnes. You couldn’t’ve missed him that badly, Bucky mentally shouts at himself. Steve, never the wiser, teases him with his eyes alight, “well, one of us has to change, right?” Bucky sticks his tongue out at him because his brain isn’t firing on all cylinders, he barely can snip back, “well, smartass, you’re the one with extra clothes nearby. So I vote you have to change.” Steve groans out loud, complaining, “I don’t want to.” “You suggested it!” Bucky laughs.“I did, I did,” he tips his head to the side, leaning against the doorframe, “but it’s so much workkk—” Bucky is helpless against the dirty smirk that spreads across his face, “I’d say take it off and don’t bother putting anything else on, but we’re going out.”Steve matches his grin, raising an eyebrow, “oh, we are?” “You said so!” Bucky cries, feeling his own suggestive expression melt into playful exasperation instead. “I guess I did…” Steve laughs. Dork. Bucky’s heart squeezes again. Feigning ignorance to what’s going on in his chest, he murmurs, “and I would like to know where we’re going.” “Mm, yeah, you would, wouldn’t you,” Steve narrows his eyes.Bucky puts on his biggest eyes and softest mouth—his irresistible kicked-puppy look that he’s been told ‘isn’t fucking fair’ by some people. Namely, by Steve. Steve groans again, “you’re impossible,” he leans to the side, fishing around to grab his wallet and keys rather than welcoming Bucky inside as per usual, “we,” he emphasizes, snatching up a light jacket, too, even though it’s fucking San Fransico, he won’t need it, “are going to Mr. S—” “Who?” Bucky asks, stepping back to give him space. Steve chuckles, locking his door and shutting it behind himself, ready to leave, “not who, Buck, where.” “Where?” He corrects himself before Steve can continue. The curiosity is literally killing him. It already was the whole way over here, too! He just wants to knoooow. Where are they going? What are they doing? Is there going to be other people there? Is this a lowkey, unspoken date? Is this an educational outing? He lets his other questions go unspoken, for now. Instead, he just trails behind Steve until… “Where!?” Bucky complains loudly when the older man doesn’t even attempt to answer as he follows him down the stairs and toward the street where Steve parks his car. Steve flips through his keyring, finding the right one as they approach, over his jingling, he says, “Mr. S Leather is a BDSM gear shop that’s been around the Bay since the 70s,” he smiles lopsidedly at Bucky, not even lowering his voice despite the fact that they’re on the fucking street. None of the few people walking past turn their heads. The gaybourhood. Jesus. It’s still so incredible to Bucky. “It’s awesome. You’ll love it, I promise.” “Oh,” Bucky lets the information sink in, trying, actively, not to stop in the middle of the sidewalk now that he knows they aren’t disrupting the peace, “are we,” he rushes a few steps, staying close to Steve, “y’know, getting anything?”“Well, I’ll take any excuse to go,” Steve grins over his shoulder back at Bucky, “and I thought it would be good for you to come and get some exposure to the brand, they sell good shit, but, yeah. We’re gonna get a few things. We need more rope, for one.” Before Bucky’s face can crumble like his chest threatens, Steve tacks on, ever-cheery, “not that you have to use it with me and you’re not allowed to feel bad about cutting my old rope.”“I’m not allowed to feel bad?” Bucky says letting all his confusion bleed into his voice. “Nope.” Steve unlocks the passenger door for him, then walks around the front of the car and slides in behind the wheel. “Alright?” Bucky murmurs, clicking his seatbelt in, “I guess?” Steve doesn’t miss a beat, “yup. Also, if you see anything you want to try, we can get that, too, rope or otherwise. My treat.” After a moment of nothing, busy starting the ignition and flicking the lights and AC on, he adds, “oh, also, it’ll be fun because they sell a bunch of different types of bondage rope, nylon, hemp, jute, linen, and…” he clicks his tongue, “I don’t think they sell any cotton but I could be wrong.”“Wouldn’t be the first time,” Bucky snarks, still tossing and turning inside, despite Steve’s telling him he’s not allowed to feel guilty. He’s all nerves; jumping excitement and apologetic sparks. -
Steve
“Wouldn’t be the first time.”
Steve does not give a single fuck about the shade Bucky throws him passively, he’s just happy that Bucky isn’t too sore to joke with him after “ruining” some of his rope and having a “bad” scene. It wasn’t ruined. It wasn’t bad. But, he knows that Bucky probably feels like that a little bit. Steve absolutely knows that he did the first time he made a relatively big, or big feeling, mistake in a scene as a dom. He can’t… he can’t really remember what the hell the mistake was now, but he remembers that hole-in-my-chest feeling of letting someone down when they’re so vulnerable and have laid so much trust in you. It’s not fun. Either way, they’re okay. They’re gonna have fun. Bucky is going to love this place. Guaranteed. - All in all, they spend three whole hours inside Mr. S Leather. Bucky happily scours every inch of the store, each shelf and rack and display, always asking either Steve what something is when he doesn’t know or isn’t totally sure or befriending whichever shop attendant is nearest to him. He’s packed full of questions, of appreciation, of awe, of want; he’s full of life. Despite the amount of time they spend, there isn’t any fucking way Steve could be bored or dragging his feet, following Bucky around when he’s like that. It’s magic. He’s magic, he brings new life to the place. Everything is literally shiny and new—they’re in a storefront after all—but it’s also shiny and new metaphorically. Steve hasn’t gotten bored of kinky shit, not even close, but he also isn’t always elated in the way being side-by-side with Bucky makes him.
Magic.
Truly, the three hours pass by so fucking quickly that it feels like they step inside, look at one or two things, and suddenly Steve has to actually run out of the store to get to his car so he can re-pay for the meter, narrowly avoiding a parking ticket. It’s well worth it, though. It’d even be worth it if he had gotten a parking ticket. He converses with Bucky about the different types of rope until his throat starts to feel raw—what the pros and cons of each available type are—and Bucky gets to marvel at all the familiar and unfamiliar gears, toys, clothing, and such they have. Plus, Bucky befriends one of Steve’s favorite employees at Mr. S, a clumsy, funny, and bisexual guy named Clint Barton. He’s a well-versed submissive, much younger than Steve but older than Bucky. His domme, Natasha, is the best worst sadist Steve has ever had the pleasure of meeting. He’s never played with her, but he has witnessed a handful of her scenes and it’s always a treat. He doesn’t swing that way but anyone, everyone, regardless of their sexuality, can appreciate how divine she looks dressed in her traditional, high-protocol fetish gear tearing apart her very, very willing victims. They all, no matter their pain tolerance, end up screaming like hell. Steve, however, doesn’t know if he’s enough of a masochist to dive into playing with her—not that she wouldn’t respect his limits, of course, she would, but it’s just that the idea feels dumb. Just as they’re leaving, after they’ve checked out with their haul at the register, Clint points at their shirts all of a sudden. “Hey!” He smiles wide, nose scrunched. “Yeah, yeah, laugh it up,” Bucky huffs, waving his hand to dismiss Clint’s proclamations of how cute they are together and instead explaining that they didn’t try to match. Clint shrugs, then nearly trips over the corner of a display case as they take a few more steps toward the door, recovering to razz them more, “ehh, I get it, there’s only so much pride merch out there that isn’t god awful ugly.” Bucky chuckles, “ain’t that the truth!”Meanwhile, Steve is struggling to add to the conversation. He adores Clint. He’s easy to talk to. Funloving and as endearing as a golden retriever. It’s just so difficult to speak when Bucky is here. Not like that! But. Kind of? Bucky is… Bucky is laughing, positively radiant as he throws his head back with something hilarious that Clint says, his silky, chocolate hair swishes, his eyes scrunch shut, and his lips stay stretched in an arresting, teeth-bearing smile. God. He’s a movie, too beautiful to be real. Steve is processing their exchange in slow motion. Steve feels like he’s fallen out of his body, hovering above, and watching himself. Watching Bucky. Bucky is standing in one of his fuckin’ favorite stores, matching him, they’re talking and enjoying themselves and it’s easy. So easy that Clint blatantly—to Steve at least, maybe Bucky isn’t aware (or maybe he is? He brushed off the idea that they purposely were matching really fast)—assumes they’re an item. Because. Bucky belongs. Bucky fits so well into his life. Bucky is over in his home all the time. He slots in like the last missing puzzle piece.
Fuck.
Steve’s knees feel weaker than tissue paper on a regular fucking Tuesday afternoon and all that’s happening is he’s standing in the middle of a shop, watching two parts of his life collide and—Two parts of his life.
Bucky is part of his life.
Bucky makes him happy. Bucky makes him feel things he hasn’t in too fucking long. Bucky makes him feel things that… he isn’t sure he’s ever felt before. How’s that possible? How, how— How does Steve possibly continue? How can he act normal, waving Clint goodbye, walking out, and loading back up into the car with a full, full bag of new goodies? How can he not swallow his fucking tongue when Bucky does his adorable head-tilt-curious thing from the passenger seat and asks, “do you have any merch with the intersectional pride flag on it?” he plucks at the fabric covering his chest. And, god— Steve is even hopelessly in love with those hands.“Uhhh,” his throat is dry, “maybe?” Steve croaks, starting the car, the auto-locks click loudly, barely not making him jump, “I can’t think of anything specific,” I can’t think of anything right now, “but, probably, somewhere. Why?” He scrapes out. Be conversational, dammnit. “Just curious.” Bucky’s eyebrows draw together. Steve can see the thoughts brewing in his head. “It is… it’s, I guess, it’s kinda new. Right?”Steve nods. He inhales deeply through his nose and pushes an exhale through his mouth. It is new. It is new. Focus. Focus, Steve tells himself. He’s also told himself that he hasn’t avoided using the new pride flag intentionally, and he hasn’t gone out of his way to avoid buying anything with the progress pride flag on it. But, with Bucky sitting across from him, so earnest and curious and thoughtful, yeah, maybe… maybe there’s something there. He should explore that. Shouldn’t he?“What do you think of it?” Bucky asks as they roll to a stop at a red light. Trust Bucky to know when his brain is hard at work thinking. Hopefully, Bucky can’t read all of his thoughts, though, he doesn’t want to scare the younger man away. He said, when they started this crazy fuckin’ thing, that he wanted a friend and mentor. Steve will give him that. Nothing more. Nothing he doesn’t want. It’s just like having limits. Steve has to respect that. Steve will respect that.Regardless of his bustling brain, words come out as a result of Bucky’s prompting. Steve didn’t even know he had those feelings until they’re coming up his throat and spilling from his lips! “I, I don’t dislike the new flag. I understand it. The colors, I mean, and, of course, the community is for all of those people. It always has been. And it’s good to say so with our whole chest. But, the colors weren’t—the original flag—” he pauses, putting the pieces together, somewhere in his mind, he thought he’d made peace with this already… maybe not. “The original flag wasn’t the rainbow flag because the rainbow flag is just for gay men, not even just for gay men and gay women, the colors—they meant stuff.” “Really?” Bucky mumurms, “I heard that but… I thought it was a myth.” Bucky lowers his voice further as if he’s ashamed to admit it out loud. If Steve looked over to the passenger seat, would he be blushing? Would Steve have a heart attack if he were, his feelings suddenly boiling over? “No, no,” Steve shakes himself out of his stupor, “that’s true. The colors stood for something other than a specific sexual orientation. Gilbert, Gilbert, um, uh, ah!” He pulls the name from the back of his mind, “Gilbert Baker was the one who came up with the original flag in the, the 70s. I, I would say 1978? If I had to pin it to an exact year. I think it was 78, at least. Maybe I’m wrong. Anyway,” he clears his throat, “the eight-color—”“Eight? I thought it was six?” Bucky interrupts.Steve doesn’t mind, “well, it was eight originally, it was compressed to six to make it easier to recreate. It was the eight-color pride flag that had a meaning for every color in it.”“Oh.”“Hot pink for sex, red for life, orange for healing, yellow for sunlight, green for nature, turquoise for magic and art, indigo for serenity, and violet for spirit.” Steve is honestly surprised he remembers the meaning of each. Then, again, he remembers how fucking genius and important it felt at the time. He remembers the way the world bloomed into brilliance when he learned about the colors, about their meaning. It solidified things inside him he hadn’t ever had the chance to express before he found sanctuary in his community. Sex. Life. Healing. Sunlight. Nature. Magic. Art. Serenity. Spirit. He didn’t—he didn’t get those outside of the underground, precious Old Guard community. Even the regular gay community stifled him, to some extent, at the time, without the loud and proud embrace of kink (which… is making a return, Steve winces, thinking abstractly of all the No Kink At Pride bullshit he’s seen on social media in the last few years). Kink and sex are one in the same for Steve. Kink is his expression of sex. Hand-in-hand. So… of course, he remembers they were—they are precious to him. He shouldn’t be surprised. Steve barely manages to climb back out of his head and return to Bucky and the real world, murmuring, “each color is for something that made us—that makes us. Uniting factors for everyone in the community, no matter their sexuality.” “Huh,” Bucky replies faintly. “I, I remember when I first saw the new flag and… I’ll admit, the, the, uh,” Steve coughs, a little embarrassed to say it out loud, “the commandos and I had a discussion about it.”Bucky makes a noise as if to say really? “Okay, fine,” he concedes easily, “we complained about it.” Bucky snorts.“We’re a parody of old queens, I get it, but, c’mon, it, it…” he struggles for a moment to find the words, “it feels like not only have people forgotten the meaning of the original pride flag, what each of those colors meant, but that the community itself has forgotten that we have things in common, too. It feels so fractured now. Everyone has their own, hyper-specific pride flag. Which is… I understand the compulsion. I really do. We as people need close-knit community and the complete, overarching LGBT community has gotten so big. Which is great! But,” he sighs, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel, “I don’t know. I thought, I think, maybe, I don’t know, that the new intersectional flag—if you’re just looking at the sexuality and gender identity and such assigned to each flag—actually leaves more people out than the original flag, with the original meanings for each color included.” Bucky makes another noise, this one considering and thoughtful, not teasing. But now Steve is a boulder rolling down a hill, the words are coming and coming, “like, okay, great, it includes gay people, intersex people, trans people, and people of color, but… you can’t include everyone that way. There’s no disability inclusion, there’s no old queens, there’s not,” he pauses, finally stopping himself, at the bottom of the hill, “do you get what I’m getting at?” “I… yes.” Bucky stops for a moment, biting his lip. “I understand. I don’t… I’ve never thought of it that way, I’ll admit. But I also don’t know if I agree.” “You don’t have to,” Steve says quickly, meaning it. “I honestly wouldn’t expect you to. And I don’t know that I want the progress flag to disappear or anything. I just…” he swallows the excess saliva in his mouth, “sometimes I think about what will happen. I know what’s already happened from when I was a kid and I think maybe… sometimes I think that maybe the flag will evolve and evolve until, maybe there isn’t one. Like. No one will be happy until everyone has a color on the flag. But. Everyone already did. There were attributes of everyone in that eight-color flag.” In his peripheral vision, Bucky tips his head from side to side, considering, “hmh.” Steve doesn’t know what to make of that, but he’s not going to try to make anything of it, not until Bucky tells him heads or tails of it. So, they sit in silence until Steve parks the car, static in front of his apartment building, watching people wander down the street.Bucky turns to him, after a few minutes, “that…” he clicks his tongue, “I can see that. But, yeah, it’s definitely not disappearing now.” “I don’t think I want it to,” Steve protests gently, whispering.“I know,” Bucky reassures him. “I think I get that feeling, I mean, the worry you have that no one will be satisfied until it’s too individual for it to represent a community. Now that you said it, I can recognize it.” Something in Steve’s chest swells, that’s all he wants. He wants to help Bucky—to give him the tools to unlock parts of himself so he can flourish in the most brilliant way possible. “And part of me agrees with it. But,” he signs, “this sounds like an odd comeback, so bare with me,” he smiles crookedly, “but did you know that the intersectional flag is copyrighted? It’s under Creative Commons. The original flag isn’t.”“Huh?” Now it’s Steve’s turn to be confused. Is that a good thing? When was the fuckin’ last time he heard about copyright rules? Did they even teach that when he was in school? Yikes. “Creative commons,” Bucky points at him, dorky, “means corporations can’t use it. Everyone else can. Which meansss,” Bucky drags the word out like a drum roll, “less rainbow capitalism.” Steve recalls the conversation they had about that easily, “oh. That’s. That’s good.” “Yeah!” Bucky says, brightening, “I don’t know if it’s fracturing the community more, pushing us further apart, but I would like to think that the new flag is, at least, making us aware of new challenges. Like, like,” he stutters, recovering quickly, “we’re aware that the queer community isn’t immune to oppressing minorities that fall into the queer minority, black and brown people, intersex people, trans people, et cetera. We may be accepting, but we have problems, too. And then, the fact that it’s under Creative Commons license, too, I think makes us aware of the threat of only being cared about by society when they can get money out of us.” Steve finds himself smiling back at his younger counterpart, processing the seriousness of the words but also, unable to resist interjecting with, “you’re a real smart cookie, you know that?” Bucky’s cheeks tinge pink.
Cute.
And just at that… Steve has to breathlessly laugh to cover his wanting sigh. “Smart and pretty,” he amends. “And,” because he’s a fucking sinner, he has to say, his mind is constantly in the gutter, “as intellectually stimulating as this conversation was— is, and we can pick it up at a later date, if you want, I now wanna know if you’d like to use that smart brain and some of that pretty with some of the stuff we got.” Bucky’s eyes widen. “Does that sound like a plan?” Bucky’s eyes stay wide but darken quickly, pupils expanding, “yeah.” He sinks his teeth into his lower lip, “that sounds perfect.” - “Mmmmmhh,” Steve feels more than he hears the moan that pours over his lips and out of his mouth. Bucky’s body is pressed tight against him, trapping him against the inside of his front door, his eager hands untangling Steve’s fingers from the heavy bag of toys. His moan rattles his chest and is swallowed immediately by Bucky’s mouth, hot and forceful against his. Steve doesn’t fight for a moment. He gives up holding onto the bag, he gives up holding in his next groan when Bucky bites then licks his lower lip, fucking his mouth, God, he’s fucking fantastic kisser—Bucky’s lips smear from his mouth down his chin to his jaw, dragging heat and spit with him, “I want to try rope again,” Bucky growls against his beard, biting him. Steve blooms for him, arching his neck, giving him all the space he can to do anything he wants to him. Shivers are already cascading down his spine, filling his gut and trickling into his cock. With every pulse of his heart and every demanding kiss and touch and direction from Bucky, he’s getting harder. The question hidden in his assertion is lost on Steve until Bucky taps two fingers against his face, not a slap, but a tease of one. Calling for his attention. A threat that the desperate masochist inside Steve wants to cash in on. The sudden lightning, hot sting. God. Please. But they’ve only just started. And Bucky asked him if he could— “Please,” Steve gasps as hot, sizzling kisses are painted down the line of his neck. “You’re sure?” Bucky pulls away for a moment, eliciting a whine from Steve and forcing him to curl his hands into Bucky’s thick hair, dragging him against him once more so he can feel his dom’s lips against his. He needs him. He has to feel him. So close, Bucky can’t hide his dorky smile with the quiet admission of, “I’ve been studying up.” There is no room in Steve’s chest for a laugh, despite the circumstances. He can taste the words on his tongue. All he’s got in response is— “Yes,” Steve moans with another bite to the sensitive, thin skin of his throat. His pulse is hammering. And now Bucky is sliding a hand under his shirt, palm to his belly, scratching through the trimmed hair he finds and pushing lower, over his faint Adonis belt, getting close to blatantly palming his cock through his jeans. But he doesn’t. Not yet. Tease. Flames lap up Steve’s leg, working their way higher and higher as Bucky grips him by the hips and drags him off the door, where he melted, toward the playroom or, wait, what-? Bucky has the bag of newly purchased rope and toys in one hand and is steering him past the playroom with the other. They’re going to Steve’s bedroom. Before Steve can ask what he’s going to do to him, what his plans are for him if not in the playroom, he’s distracted again, kissed senseless where they’re standing in the middle of the room. Guh. Just as his knees are starting to buckle against how fucking pushy and demanding and hungry Bucky is being with him, holding him, rucking up his clothes, and digging his fingernails into his flesh, Bucky shoves him back onto the bed. The lust-hot air in Steve’s chest leaves him with a gasp of shock. Oh! He bounces slightly on the mattress, fingers tangling in the sheets, until Bucky climbs on the bed, too—until Bucky climbs onto him. On top of him. Straddling his hips, leaning over him, imposing, and collaring his neck with a squeezing hand.
Fuck.
“Strip.” Bucky demands, there’s power heavy in his eyes and it’s an intoxicating look that Steve would easily get drunk on any day, any time, going down without any sting, any burn, all sweetness. Easy to drink. “I need some things from the dungeon,” he purrs, “and I want you naked by the time I get back. Got it?” “Yes, Daddy,” Steve rasps, swallowing thickly, letting his mouth fall open stupidly with a soft cry when Bucky holds him tighter after he speaks, choking him.
Holding him.
Letting him feel the edges of oxygen deprivation, sizzling through him, just under his skin, making him feel restless and crazy. “Good,” Bucky lets go. Steve is still dizzy. It’s not the lack of oxygen.
Guh. Fuck.
He’s supposed to—
Shit.
When Steve blinks and realizes he’s supposed to do something, Bucky is already gone. Quickly, Steve staggers up onto his elbows, head still spinning, hands trembling with exhilaration, looking down at himself as he helplessly imagines there’s a red handprint painted on his neck. A claim. A shudder takes control of his muscles. Fuck. Fuck. He wants to be covered in claims. Bites. Handprints. Fingernail crescents. Lines from floggers and whips. He wants. But first, before he can have any of that, he needs to get out of his clothes. Steve wiggles, squirms, peels his shirt off, undoes his belt, unzips, and shucks his tight jeans and briefs off in one rushed, chaotic movement, uncaring when his dick gets caught in the mess. It’s just another hit of friction, more sparking heat adding to how hard he is—nearly throbbing already. Just remembering that Bucky is going to do whatever he wants to him with rope, tie him down and make him take it, could get him there. He wants it.
He wants it bad.
“Mmm, what a good boy, following orders…” Bucky swaggers back into the room, smirking. His eyes are as heavy as a physical touch, dragging down his bare body. Steve can’t help but preen, letting his head fall back, puffing his chest forward with a desperate wanting noise, propped up on his elbows. The better he looks the faster Bucky will actually touch him, right? “So fuckin’ gorgeous.” Steve helplessly shivers, goosebumps rising as Bucky’s weight causes the mattress to dip. He’s so close. Steve aches to be touched. Already. He’s not gonna fucking last. He needs. He can’t stand not being consumed by subspace a moment longer. His eyes squeeze shut. Please. He wants to beg but his tongue is too heavy in his mouth. So all he does it think it, please, please, pleasepleaseplease. “You ready to get even more pretty for Daddy, gorgeous?” Bucky’s breath is hot on his ankle. Steve jerks, surprised. His reaction only causes Bucky to chuckle darkly. And, Christ, yes, his plush lips follow the hot, humid wash of his breath, layering lush kisses in a smeared, hot line up the inside of his leg from his calf to his inner thigh. “Unnh,” Steve groans, skin alive with sensation, thighs tensing. He wants to touch, but he doesn’t know if he’s allowed; he wants to sink his fingers into Bucky’s hair and tug and pull and guide him onto his cock so he can suck it, he wants the wet, hot, obscene pleasure, but he wants to be good more. So he twists his fingers in the sheets harder. Keeping his hands to himself until told otherwise. He’s good. He’s good! Please! He wants Bucky to notice. He aches for his praise, for his humiliation, for his everything. The closest Bucky gets to his struggling cock is kissing his hip and growling at the sight of his engorged, heavy cock lying against his lower belly. More heat pools at the base of Steve’s spine. “Daddy’s gonna make sure you can’t move,” Steve moans at his promise, yesss, “he can’t wait for you to be all helpless that way he can do anything he wants to you.” Another obscene sound comes out of Steve, uncontrollably bucking his hips up against Daddy’s face. Christ. He’s so hard. How is he going to get harder? How is he going to survive? “Oh, you like that idea, huh?” He licks his lips, showing off his teeth with a mean grin, “you wanna be tied up, baby?” Shame burns in Steve’s chest at the eager, easy way he groans, “uh-huh!” That shame just gets worse when Bucky laughs at him, “guess I better get started then, hm? I’ve got such an impatient little thing on my hands…” He doesn’t get started, though.And it’s killing Steve. It’s—Bucky traces his fingers up the center of his quivering stomach, over his heaving sternum, between his round pecs, and to the hollow of his throat. His heart is trying to beat out of his chest. The lust and anticipation are hot and thick in his veins, replacing his blood drop for drop. Steve swallows. He feels like he’s floating, lost in his desire, but his dom’s fingers suddenly under his chin silently command Steve to open his eyes. He does. He follows orders. He has to. Instantly, Steve gets lost in the hunger, dark and dangerous, in Bucky’s eyes. He’s crawled like a big cat, heavy, impressive, and dangerous up the bed, between Steve’s legs, and is now pressing him to the mattress with his body. Trapping him. All of the muscles packed on Steve’s own frame seem to be stripped away, leaving him helpless—barely weighing anything. He can’t breathe. He’s overheating. Lashes fluttering shut again as Bucky closes the space between their flushed faces and claims his mouth for his own. Steve melts like a popsicle on summer-heated concrete. It’s so hot, he’s sizzling as he gives himself over. All of himself. He surrenders. And his murmur of pleasure at being kissed so deeply, so possessively turns to an all-out whine when Bucky’s fingers pluck at his nipple at the same time that he dominates his mouth. Oh! Ah! Bucky swallows his noises and forces more from him at the same time. In the same breath. Steve doesn’t have a choice. Steve just follows. Unthinking. His chest is humming with pleasure, fit to burst if Bucky dares give him anymore. He’s vibrating. His nipples are tight and hard as Bucky plays with them, only getting worse and worse. Aching. Bucky’s barely done anything to them but he’s so sensitive. He can’t help it! And he’s getting so hard. His nipples. His dick. There’s been no warm-up, so now tears are pooling in Steve’s eyes under his shut lids, overwhelmed by the onslaught that is his dom. His Daddy. Fuck. He treats him so well. Giving him so much pleasure. So much pleasure that Steve needs so badly, as greedy and slutty as he is. It just keeps fucking coming. More. More lust and more shame and more melting into an unrecognizable puddle. Eventually, when Bucky doesn’t show him mercy, out of pure desperation, Steve curls his legs around Bucky’s waist, clinging to him, using the little leverage he has to hump up against him. He’s so hard. Steve’s so hard, too. Full of reckless heat and arousal. So good. He wants— “Guh!” Steve breaks their kiss, a string of saliva stretching between them, he can’t! It feels so good! He can’t fucking kiss back. He can’t fucking function.Bucky is rubbing his other nipple now, cupping his tit and rubbing the pad of his thumb back and forth, back and forth, back and forth over it.
“Oh.”
He twists. “Fuuuck!” Steve throws his head back so far that the muscles in his neck strain, stretching deliciously. “These big tits all for Daddy, huh?” Bucky’s lewd lips brush the red, burning shell of his ear, pushing the obscene words right into his empty fucking head. Steve chokes. “Yeah,” Bucky’s voice curls sensually around his smirk, sadistically delighted by the torture he’s putting Steve through, “look at these fuckin’ things, baby, you look ripe.” He digs his fingers unforgivingly into the meat of Steve’s chest. And Steve whimpers. “No wonder you’re such a dog,” he laughs darkly while Steve whimpers more, not like a dog but a pathetic, sad puppy, “couldn’t help it, could you, baby? Not with his big, sensitive things—just begging to be touched, huh? Touching ‘em makes you feel so good, doesn’t it? You just lose your head.” Steve barely has time to register how much delicious embarrassment rushes through him before Bucky ducks his head and uses his slick, hot, kiss-swollen lips to torture his nipples. Not just licking them but latching on and sucking on them. Dragging his teeth over them.
Fuck. me.
Steve starts by whining through his gritted teeth, jaw clenched, but quickly he’s entirely washed out to sea and his mouth is falling open and he’s sucking in lungfuls of seawater, drowning. Too much. Too much. Moaning like he’s spontaneously dying. His mouth.
Daddy’s mouth on my, my tits!
Fuck!
Feelsosogood.
Bucky starts with his right and then goes to his left nipple, making sure both are swollen, red, and shiny; making sure both of his nipples are so fucking hard and needy that Steve can feel his pounding heartbeat through his tits as well as in his swollen, dripping cock. Shit. Shit. He’s going to rip apart at the seams. His dom is merciless. When his mouth is busy with one of his nipples, his fingers are plucking, twisting, and pinching his other. There is no escape. There is nothing to hold onto. There is nowhere to wriggle away. He is drowning. It’s the only thing he can do. Too much pleasure, rising over his head, leaving him with no air to breathe.
God!
Steve cries out sharply when his dom stops, pulling back to press his pecs together instead of mouthing unkindly at them. Bucky uses his hands to shape him into having so much cleavage. Steve isn’t sure if the sound he makes, wailing, is a result of relief, shown mercy finally, or complaint, wanting more. He doesn’t know what he wants! He doesn’t know— anything. But Bucky does. Bucky knows everything. Steve doesn’t have to worry about a damn thing. As Steve’s head truly empties itself for good, leaving no thought and absolutely no smarts behind, Bucky locks the familiar weight of his collar around his throat and uses the ring at the front to attach something, and… there is nothing in Steve that even questions what is happening. It’s happening. Daddy is doing it to him. He doesn’t need to know. He never needs to know anything ever again. Bucky can have it all. He can make every decision. He can have every part of Steve to do whatever he wants with, no matter how mean and vicious and sinful it i— Steve howls suddenly. Tears immediately escape his eyes, ruining what he has left of his vision, blurring it into an unusable mess. All because, out of nowhere, Bucky is attaching ruthless clamps to his poor, sensitive, swollen nipples. His entire chest feels like it is on fire.
Christ.
It’s worse than Bucky’s teeth. “GOD!” Steve cries, trying to curl in on himself around the sweet, burning, pleasure-pain. Bucky won’t let him, though; Bucky holds him down and won’t let him move. And Bucky is still for enough time for Steve to give up the instinctual fight, shaking weakly in place, relaxing back to his submission. Bucky reads him like an open book, spine cracked wide, pages worn, ink smeared, love notes scrawled in the margins, so well-read it’s memorized. Well-loved. Bucky knows to let go the moment Steve is submerged once more. Limbs and mind heavy. Cotton stuffed in his ears, muffling the outside world. Then— Then, he starts with the rope.The familiar, silky coils entangle him like roots. He is growing into the bed. He is a part of it. As comforting and warm and boneless as the blankets and mattress. He is Bucky’s to tend and nurture and cultivate like a garden. He is Bucky’s. Bucky folds him however he sees fit. Positioning him with a pillow under his shoulders after constricting his heaving chest in a harness of rope. All he can do is gasp breathlessly. He doesn’t need oxygen. He is thriving on rich, decadent lust. The pillow underneath his shoulders leaves him hovering with his head tilted back, straining his neck and by extension the chain that connects the clamps on his nipples to the front o-ring of his collar. The pillow also leaves his chest pushed forward, and his arms up and out—contorted into a perverted offering, not unlike a saint pinned to a cross. Steve moans dreamily. An offering. Steve is about to be consumed. He aches for it. He wants to be chewed and swallowed. Used. Bucky’s mouth—warm and wet with saliva, his wicked tongue, and sharp teeth. He wants. He wants inside him. He’s going to be inside him. Bucky is serving him up, preparing him more, stretching his arms and legs to the sides, and attaching him to the four corners of the bed frame. Spread. Exposing him to be played with. Plucked like a beloved instrument. Consumed like a favorite dish not often allowed, thus demanding to be savored. A sound stretches from deep, deep inside Steve to out of his gaped lips. It drips with arousal. Steve is an ill-defined, shimmering ball of arousal. Nothing else.
Nothing else.
Steve wouldn’t—he doesn’t need anything besides the sharp, hot sensation of his nipples being tortured and his body claimed and enwrapped in rope and the leather and chain of his collar. Through the pounding of his heart and his own stupid, unstoppable noises of unadulterated pleasure, he could hear his dominant’s command to orgasm and he would. Untouched. Wet. Messy. Spilling, overflowing against his own fever-hot, damp flesh. But he gets more than he needs. More than he can process.Too much pleasure. Too much. “AH! GOD!” Steve screams against the unrelenting press of a sudden cock ring being forced over the throbbing, swollen head of his cock and slid painfully tight down his shaft. He feels like he’s been filled with lava. A rush of tears cascade down his face like a waterfall. That isn’t all, though. There’s more. And there’s nothing left inside Steve. He’s screaming, shouting, wailing, but there aren’t words inside the frantic, gutted sounds. Sensation comes from every fraying nerve in Steve’s body: his tits, plumped and shaped by the tight harness cutting into his heaving chest, his nipples, so hard and tight they could cut, his ankles and wrists, straining blissfully helplessly against his restraints, his cock, kept fat and unbelievably hard by the ring, and so, so much more. Bucky’s hands are matches and kerosene as they grope and jerk and pinch and twist and slap and pet. Steve’s head is too far gone to keep up. It feels like he’s being touched everywhere at once. Bucky’s hands are everywhere at once. Kind and cruel. It feels like there’s a red-hot iron poker being stabbed into his very core, delivering the most intense pleasure he’s ever felt. Fresh from the fire, lighting him up, hotter than hell. He is molten glass. Liquid. Burning. Burning. The noises that are coming out of him explode from shrieks and sobs and screams to silent begging. It feels overwhelmingly good. Impossibly good. Pleasure shouldn't be allowed to be so sharp and painful and good. He's dying.
Dying.
Bucky is fucking killing him. Murdering him and getting off on it, voice a rough and salacious snarl as he orders, “now.” Steve shatters. It doesn’t matter if the cock ring is still entrapping him, he can’t even think enough to know, Steve obeys. He is good. He’s so good. He feels so good. God, he didn’t know he could feel so good. He’s surpassed the glass ceiling on pleasure, broken out into open space. Out of oxygen and surrendering to the pure, white-hot void engulfing him.
-
Slowly, slowly, slooooooowly the light filters back in from under Steve’s eyelids. Reawakened to the land of the living but remaining dulled. Half-dead in the most incredible way. The only sensation living in his body with him is tingling—pleasant tingling, like sparkling magic that enchants his skin and nerves and muscles and bones, leaving him floating. Lighter than air. Hovering only golden glitter and beds of clouds that’ve made their way into his ears, muffling the sounds of the outside world. He is bathed in bliss. Something brushes his skin. Steve doesn’t jump or jolt, his eyelashes barely flutter. He’s aware, he’s just… slow. Like honey dripping off the tip of a silver spoon in a thick drizzle.
“Steve—”
He barely hears his name being called. A whisper through the tingling, glittering, fluffy space. There’s another brush to his skin. Fingertips. Fingertips, warm and soft, stroke up and down his pale, freckled forearm, tickling the hairs that live there. The feeling sinks into him. It’s like being cradled from the inside. A caress to his ribs and a playful squeeze of his heart, leaving him tinged with gold. Gilded. Full of affection and love, protected by precious melts. Only good things allowed. Nothing can touch him but— “Mmmmm,” a humming sound of static flows over Steve’s lips as his head finds enough strength to turn to the side. He still can’t open his eyes. “Hi,” Bucky’s sweet voice melts back into his mind, finally placed. Steve can’t make words, but he can exhale. The air may as well be golden, too. Everything feels golden. He’s still floating. Bucky can touch him. Bucky is touching him— holding him and patiently waiting for him to return to Earth, feet back flat on the ground, soles to Earth. Steve’s nearly there, his toes are skimming the ground, but not quite. He hums again, trying to curl more into Bucky’s warmth but not being able to. It’s alright, though. His dominant gathers him up and puts him right where they both want him to be.