#brat steve

Bucky was--emphasis on was--on his way out of the fucking door right when Steve came tumbling out of their office-turned-into-Steve's-art-studio. Of course. What else could Bucky expect other than his own impeccably bad timing? Because Steve had been in there for hours, doing God knows what, wrapped up in the sweeping arms of creation, making him forget everything but the act itself. His big, buff artist boyfriend should be coming out for food and water and a bathroom break. But Bucky knew just by the way Steve's eyes scanned the room that it was not one of those primal needs he was looking to sate. Steve's body doesn't turn languid and syrupy with the lust for water or the pressing urge to piss and his eyes don't fill with hunger like that for food. Nah.

And so, fine, maybe underneath the mental complaints Bucky's dick had twitched at the thought of being just as important to Steve as those needs to live, maybe more important even--the ever-present, nuclear, serum-powered need to stuff his dick into a nice, hot, tight hole--sue him.

Buuuut he has things to do. He's not like Steve. Definitely not. When his dick calls, he doesn't have to pick up the phone every time. He, sometimes, even has the strength to slam down the phone and hang up (somewhere in there there's a pun about leaving himself hanging and being hung). So, he huffed and rolled his eyes and pretended to not want Steve's hands on him. He was already dressed with his feet shoved into his boots. He doesn't have the time for dick right now, batting those insistent, dinner-plate palms away. S'what he deserves, a little lovey slapping 'cause he's an annoying, buzzing fly insisting on circling Bucky when there's literally so much space in the apartment for him to fly around.

Ugh.

Again. But. Because Steve knows just where to grab and press and tug at him, aligning their bodies from tip to tail, his thigh hot and big between Bucky's legs, Bucky's back pressed against the inside of their front door... he crumbled.

Not his proudest moment.

"Just the fuckin' tip," Bucky growls, already not meaning it. If Steve wants to be pushy, though, Bucky's allowed to hit back. Give and take. That's a relationship. This is what they do. They play games. They've been together their whole entire lives, they're allowed to invent new, snarky ways to fuck with each other.

Unpressured and unsurprised, Steve laughs at him.

And Bucky may have been joking before but, oh, oh no. He won't have that. Steve is gonna eat shit. He will. Steve might seem more competitive and stubborn from the outside, but that's because he's a donkey. Bucky is a horse by comparison. Similar but also nowhere near as widely known for being an ass.

"I fucking mean it," Bucky fists that dangerously blonde head of hair, pulling at it until his neck arches so they're eye-to-eye rather than offset with Bucky staring into space, vision blurry, eyelids heavy, as Steve's hot, wet, red lips attach to his collarbone, sucking and gnawing at him like a dog with a new bone. Toying with him. "Just the tip," he repeats himself, steeling his voice the best he can when he feels anything but. Well. His dick is steel, but the rest of him is about as resistant as a twist tie between someone's fingers. "Get off and lemme go," he goes on, "I got shit to do, Rogers. Be quick. Y'know, you're usual M.O."

Steve, surprisingly, doesn't complain too much or shove back at him, getting off on how they can talk shit. It's just, "you say the sweetest things, Buck." He can't be too offended, though, because he's using those mits to shove his pants and underwear down and spread his cheeks to check and--"still wet from this morning, hmm?" He's pleased with what he finds.

Bucky grunts, barely keeping himself from shuddering with one, oh, two of Steve's fingers probing his hole. Still slick and slack, just like he said. Fuck, Bucky hates it when he's right. it's not his fault, though! Steve just can't fucking keep it in his pants.

Never.

"You were planning on going out like this?" Steve rubs around his gaping rim with those damn thick, calloused artist fingers, asking him with just about the same inflection as if he's questioning why he's wearing a scarf for summer weather.

Bucky's entire gut ties itself into a knot, nearly pushing a too-obvious sound of enjoyment out of him. Groaning. Steve's big, dumb, caveman fingers feel good, touching him where he's about to split him open, again, so what? Big whoop. "Dhh--I d-don't have much of a choice with you on me all the time, now do I? You're worse than a barnacle," he tries to hit back. His shot misses by a mile, not hitting him where it counts but in the ego instead--

Blondes, Bucky swears.

"You saying you're loose 'cause 'a me?" Bucky doesn't need to see Steve's face to know he's grinning like a lunatic.

"Pfft," he blows out a breath of hot air, more annoyed sounding than he really can manage to be so long as Steve's hands are on him, touching him, teasing him, "as if anyone could be loose with the fucking canon between your legs."

Steve bites his throat, locking his jaws around him until he whimpers. Then, victorious, he growls, "guess you're lucky I'm just sticking the tip in then like you want, hmm?"

"Uh-hhhuuh," Bucky starts to agree, but the sound is turned guttural and embarrassingly strung out by the quick, hot shove of the fat tip of Steve's cock into him. No warning. Just sudden murderously good, hot pleasure.

Oh, fuck.

Steve isn't done, apparently--that's not the end of his plundering of Bucky's body and pride, why would it be? How could it be? Steve's a fucking donkey. Bucky doesn't even know why he likes him save for that drool-worthy cock, and speaking of...

Steve shifts his hips back and the tip pops out, sliding past his rim, making it stretch stretch stretch then go lax abruptly. Empty. Bucky whimpers, far too devastated when he knows he's getting the tip right back. He knows! But, guh, as Steve shoves his way back inside, just the first inch, maybe two if he's lucky, Bucky moans, startled by how nice it feels. Yes. And that's how it goes.

Whimper-moan, whimper-moan, whimper-moan.

Out-in, out-in, out-in.

Steve shoves in and fucks back out.

The bastard could easily keep the tip of it inside and grind smoothly, he's got the muscle control and stamina for it, but he doesn't. He's being rough on purpose. Intentionally driving Bucky wild by fucking him in a jerky, both unsatisfying and over-satisfying way.

And, of course, just as Bucky starts to moan more and try to uncoordinatedly bat at his shoulder, wanting to badger him into just keeping it inside, please, god, it'd be so much less maddening that way--as is, he's shuddering, his rim is all sensitive and raw and hot feeling and he can't deal with it--Steve uses the tip of his cock to draw around his rim like he's smearing lipstick over Bucky's mouth. It makes him feel dirty. Used. Depraved.

Ohmyfuckinggod.

"Told you to do just the tip," Bucky hisses, pissed, so fucking frustrated with all this tension under his skin, deep in his muscles, he wants, Steve just needs to stop being such a--fuuuck. The way it stretches and pulls at his rim is too good. "So keep it in or get off me."

"Sorry, Buck," Steve's starting to pant, the only evidence of his breaking apart. Good. He deserves it. "Honey," his breath hitches before he really gets into it, "I can't help it! You're just so wet, I keep slipping out!" He has the gall to say all that, full of faux-innocence.

Bastard.

Bucky groans, "uunnngh," letting his head drop back, not caring when his skull connects with the wooden door. It hurts but the shock of sensation is welcome when he's fighting tooth and nail for crumbs from Steve. Fine. He curls his fingers into fists, arms thrown around Steve's neck indulgently.

Fine.

He can deal with this. He was tortured for seventy fucking years. Of course, he can take this. He can deal with a little bit of sexual frustration. No sweat. He can--

A cracked, nearly-shattered noise slips out of his lips. High and needy. Maybe he can't. The shove-in and pull-out is too good, each stretch and release of his overused rim makes him want to fucking die. Mouth hanging open, drool about to slip off his puffy, buzzing bottom lip, chest heaving so hard he's lightheaded, hyperventilating, and, just, it all leaves him with no choice but to swivel his hips and force himself down onto that fucking cock with the latest unsatisfyingly shallow thrust in Steve gives him. He won't give? Fine, Bucky will just take more of it.

It's agonizing, though, because it's not enough.

With the next harder, deeper roll of his hips down, Steve's big, infuriatingly steady hands catch his hips, "woah, Buck," he murmurs, holding him as he coos at him like he's a spooked horse, soothing his big, hot, heavy hands down his sides, shushing him, "watch yourself, Buck, you're gonna get more then the tip if you do that."

Bucky groans and breaks enough to let himself nod. Just a quick, barely budging up and down. He can't spare more than that, it's too humiliating. His pride. He won't have his pride more loose and fucked out than his hole, he wouldn't be able to bear it.

"But you said-" Steve's voice should be waaay more strained and less innocent. This is criminal. Bucky knows what he said but he doesn't fucking care now. Ugh. Read the room, Rogers! Bucky likes him the most when he's whimpering, humping him, and finishing in two quick pumps like an inexperienced frat boy, big and muscular but with the spirit of a golden retriever puppy in his huge chest, red in the face but unspeakably satisfied from finally, finally getting his dick wet.

"Don't care," Bucky grits, using his supposed superstrength against Steve's. It's a shame his strength seems to be shot to shit when he's being fucked-but-not-fucked-enough, so he just ends up squirming there uselessly. Not even pinned by cock, just barely scraping his toes against the ground, otherwise completely dependent on his asshole boyfriend.

Steve.

Steve's a good boy. Yeah, right. He's awful, following what Bucky said knowing that he's cursing his own words with venom right now.

Squirming harder, Bucky bites, "c'mon, just gimmie it--"

He can show Steve stubborn. Fuck him. He can be relentless. He's, he's an assassin! Just, c'mon, c'mooon.

It takes just a little more squirming and shoving and breathless orders that make them sound more like weak suggestions--it takes more work than he would like--but he gets there. He gets Steve to listen. His dick is back out of him when he finally just... gives in.

Finally.

He moans with his whole damn, huge chest into the junction of Bucky's arched neck, hot and sweaty, his hands bruising his waist, holding him so his left leg is curled around his waist and his right leg is stretched out, his toes barely making contact with the ground anymore, the way he's being fucked.

Steve is using him like a fleshlight, fucking up into him hard.

YES!

It happens so fast, though, that Bucky does not have time to gloat. The best he can do, the whole fucking thing inside him so fast, is choke on a sob.

It's in his throat.

"Ahh, yeahh," Bucky breathlessly laughs, frantic and unspeakably pleased, full of perverse glee like waking up on Christmas but to a tree surrounded by presents that turn out to be only wrapped up sex toys, "that's it," he moans. His hands squeeze roughly at the nape of Steve's neck, holding on for the ride. And there it is.

There's his good boy, whimpering, his hips stuttering now that his dick really is shoved somewhere hot and wet and tight, up in his guts. Losing control because Bucky is sloppy and too much. Too good. "Fuck me," Bucky demands. Steve is already going hard, but, damn, Bucky will be dead the day he doesn't push for more. So what if he's a desperate bottom that always ends up fucked out and loose? Steve's just as bad with his huge, hung-like-a-horse cock and stupid high sex drive. They're made for each other.