#buckitty

Domesticated and (mostly) docile in his apartment with Steve, Bucky's first instincts tell him he's closer to grumpy than charmed when his afternoon nap--curled into as tight of a ball as he can be when he's got so much thick muscle packed onto his frame and he's resting on the short end of their oversized L-shaped couch--is interrupted by what at first-? He's not sure.

First, he cracks one eye open, unsure why he's not drifting anymore. His right ear twitches. Steve's not being too loud and waking him up. His stomach's not rumbling, so it isn't dinner time. Also, it's not like the sun has gone down, so it's definitely not dinner, it's still hot out, and--

Ah, there it is.

The heat.

Bucky had been snoozing comfortably in a pool of afternoon sunlight, but somewhere along the way, his body has been cooked, overheated, and now, he's sweating. His lip curls up.

Gross.

Bucky huffs, displeased by how his tight shirt is sticking to his back.

With a yawn so large it makes his jaw click, he scratches at the ends of his long-sleeve shirt until one of his nails hooks it and he can drag it up 'til the seams scream around the thickest part of his forearms. Yet, lifting his shirt is nowhere near enough to cool him down, and he ends up shifting and squirming, pawing at the elastic waistband of his sweatpants until he can kick them off, too. Stripping down leaves him in nothing but his painted-on boxer briefs and tight, rumbled henley.

Squirming like that, though, gives him a new problem. Or, an awareness of a problem new to his sleep-heavy mind. Judging by what his body's saying, he's had the problem for a while.

He's hard.

He's really fucking hard.

God, for as much as he's sweating--his muscled back damply sticking to the stretched, stressed fabric of his poor shirt he wriggled into this morning after rolling out of bed, his long hair looking like a nightmare--he's wetter between his legs. His cock, heavy and thick, pulsing like a cracked tooth still wedged into his jaw, is leaking into his underwear. That's not enough, though, his dick is also doing its damnest to burst through the fly at the front.

Christ.

Bucky's eyes roll back into his head, soaking in the sudden sensory input of his heat sneaking up on him like this. He can't think straight under the fever-like onslaught. Was he due for heat? Already? It feels like he just had it? Didn't he? Oof, it gets hard to know when he's supposed to be in season and not with how Steve fucks him so well, ruining him to the point that he's not sure he's not constantly in heat. Steve presses every button he didn't know he had, mashing them until Bucky just a shapeless lump of purring putty in his hands.

Either way, this is definitely heat.

He shivers despite the flaring temperature of his body, feeling the hair on his arms raise at the slightest sensation ghosting over him. In response, Bucky grunts, squirming again just to shiver harder instead of alleviating the tickly, hyper-awareness of his nerves.

Rolling more onto his side, his tail flicks wildly. The muscles at the small of his back are all too tight and twitchy. He can feel how his round asscheeks drag thickly against one another that much more when he's lazing on his side; the friction between his cheeks slick and smooth from a messy cocktail of slick dripping from his hole and the sweat running down his back in rivers.

He's burning up.

Without realizing it, Bucky's shifted again. He's on his front now. When'd that happen?

"Ohhh," he exhales and all the humid air rushing out of his lungs like he's been kicked. He practically paints the couch cushions in condensation because his breath is so hot and thick, building up while he napped.

His body is so hot. He's burning up. He's molten. He's on his front on their perfectly nice couch without knowing how he got there, not really, and he's ruining their fucking furniture 'cause he can't help it. His hands are nail-deep in the cushions, kneading them while his tail lashes, keeping itself out of the way from his soaked, clenching hole.

The rest of his body keeps adjusting, too, restless as his tale as he squirms and writhes and pushes and pulls. This way and that, going until his instincts can quiet, pleased with his position. Of course, he ends up with his legs spread wide, the muscles in his thick legs pulled taut and shaking despite their normal, coiled strength. His dick and balls want to hang heavy, heavy, heavily, but they're kept tight to his overwhelmed, overheated body by the pesky, clingy fabric of his boxer-briefs. His big, broad back is arched deeply. His shoulders are shifting and bulging as he works his arms underneath his face-down body, kneading the couch that much harder.

He's so, so ready to be mounted. Fuck, he's ready to be bred. That's what his body wants. That's what his instincts need.

"Steve," Bucky groans thickly. Then, in lack of an instantaneous response, he groans again, this time louder, "Steve!"

Ugh.

Fuckin', of course, trust Steve to wander too far to hear him the one time Bucky actually needs him. He needs that dick--needs his cum. He, he, he needs--

Bucky gets distracted by something, anything, comprehensible happening in his head by the shudder of arousal that rushes through him. (Who needs coherent thought when he's got ceaseless desire? Apparently, he doesn't.) He might be big and strong, but, Jesus, just put him in the right position, and his instincts take over. He can feel himself dripping. He can feel his hole clenching and unclenching around nothing. He needs something. Anything. Steve's hands on him--petting his ears, pulling his tail, stroking his flanks, jerking off his cock, fingering his achy hole, and all the rest of it, any kind of torture Steve feels like inflicting with those magic hands--sound better than anything.

He needs.

In his built chest, Bucky's heart thumps harder, beating like a fist against a drum. And. That's not a bad idea, actually. He's getting grumpy, left alone, needy and hard, so, the easiest thing he can do to alleviate any of it is press his head harder into the cushions, half nuzzling and half grinding his forehead against it in teeth-gritted frustration. He punches the cushions, pounding them. He wishes something, fucking anything would pound him.

"Steve!" He's closer to an actual mewl than he wants to admit.

God. Fuck. Fuck.

He wants to be fucked so bad.

Resolving to be left to his own devices while Steve fucks off to do whatever he's too busy doing to pay attention to Bucky, Bucky grumpily buries his burning, blushing face deep into the cushions--his dark hair eagerly takes it's place fanning across his face, fluttering over his open mouth with his heaving breaths. Paying the rest of his body no mind when his hole is so pleading and empty, Bucky leans onto his right arm to free his left. He shudders harder than he should in anticipation for damn well knowing what his own hands feel like on his body but... he can't wait, his heat is breathing down his neck so harshly, demanding now.

Pleasure now.

Or else.

With his unburdened left hand, Bucky unsteadily reaches back, finding the elastic of his boxer briefs waistband, accidentally, frustratingly flicking himself with it a few times, pulling a hiss from his own lips and quickly giving up entirely on having the motor function to simply pull his underwear down. Rather, he uses his retractable nails and his strength to rip them off.

"AH!"

Jerking into the tearing, eye-rolling friction of the fabric dragging across his hypersensitive, leaking dick, Bucky's hips have a mind of their own. He keeps grinding, squirming, and moving. He can't help it. He's shivering from tip to tail. That feeling of his tangled up, soaked boxers against his too-tight skin after waking up in heat and after finding himself all alone also after being a grumpier yet attention-seeking cat in general has Bucky scoring long scratches into the couch without realizing it. He's stressed. It's not his fault he scratched the cushions! If Steve were here, this wouldn't've happened. Instead, he, yeah, he would've, he could've--

God.

The now useless scrap of cloth falls between his spread-apart knees and leaves Bucky with wide-open access to his dripping, achy hole. He doesn't slide his fingers in right away. That would be too easy. So, he just slides the pads of his fingers through the mess, spreading it around from the base of his tail over his leaking hole to his perineum and the sensitive place where his heavy balls just start to pull at his skin. Without meaning to, he yowls.

Oh, god!

It feels good.

It feels so good.

His skin is glazed with slick like molten glass. He knows he's all pink and swollen and wet between his legs. He wants to fist his dick so bad, too, but he's only got one hand. If he wants to hold himself up like this--like his instincts desperately need him to--he can't use both hands.

Uselessly, his knees slide a little further apart, the tingling of rug-burn settling just under his skin, his hips rutting forward into nothing but thin air, the tip of his dick hitting his belly sharply, springing tears to his eyes and splattering pre-cum across his clenching abdomen. He wants to tear his hair out, he needs pleasure so fucking bad. He doesn't care about anything as frivolous as friction-burn to his knees.

Fuck that.

Fuck meee.

He mewls louder, half-shaping Steve's name after crying it out so many times before, it doesn't matter that he's not here, that he's left him like this, that he's such a bastard that he'd leave him when he's, he's--

He just wants him. He wants him all the time. He wants to scream Steve's name, have Steve's hands on him, have Steve's cock in him, Steve, Steve SteveSteveSteveSt--

"Buckyy? You home?" The sound of the front door shutting underscores Steve's voice and sounds a million times louder than normal with his heat-heightened senses. "Are you hiding from me, tomcat?" Steve's voice dances with humor, the nickname dripping off his tongue so easily, "you wanna play? You've been sleeping aaaall day, lazybones."

Bucky just groans, muffled into the cushions. He's relieved but still fucking desperate. If Steve doesn't get over here right now and whip his cock out of his fucking jeans to sink into him, balls-deep, he's gonna--he, he'll--he doesn't know what he's gonna do but something. He'll do something. Anything. He's going to go insane. He needs to be fucked. He needs to be mounted. He needs Steve to stick it in him. He needs to cum. He needs relief.

He's going insane.

"Steeeve," Bucky's voice is sharp and wailing like an alleycat engaged in a claw-heavy brawl. His big, heavy cock is twitching madly underneath him and the sound of Steve's heavy, rushing footsteps to come and check on him has never been sweeter.

"Oh." Steve stomps to a halt, "oh, kitty."