Steve, Bucky, Fever Dreams, and Unintentional Seduction
The soft, snuffling sounds of sleep emanating from Steve and his rattling lungs and plugged nose with its deviated septum don't simply stop, cutting out from the ongoing droning of his snores to slightly less loud, waking breathing, heavy and labored with sickness layered over his usual asthma. No, the waters are much muddier than that. Steve's stream of consciousness, running between sleep and wake and dizzying under the flood of his fever, is hard to see through. Muddy, indeed.
The thing that announces to Bucky that his sick-as-a-dog boyfriend has woken from his latest fever-inspired nap is the rough scratch of his baritone perking up Bucky's ears.
Instinctively, reclining in their ratty, creaking armchair, Bucky turns his head to see what's the matter.
Nothing seems to be, though. For all his waking up, talking, slurring, as if he's continuing a sentence that he was already weaving in a discombobulated dream, he's still huddled in a pile of thin, thread-bare blankets on their sidewalk-free-sign-found couch. The layers obscure his boney yet angelic body as it sweats and shivers. He's been fighting his latest illness for a few days now. Bucky thought it was on the downswing, but
"--know that ya don't think 'm lookin' an' I am, 'm watchin', you're arms are, mmmngh, lov'yur arms, arms're good, flex when you, yah-ya, when yur shavin' ur face, handsome m'fckin' face, you don't even know it, ya, jus', standin' there... shaving--"
Hearing him talk like that? Maybe not.
Maybe he's sicker than ever, running his mouth, letting his hotter than fever libido slip out of his mouth, mirroring the slide of beads of sweat down the side of his face.
"--Mmmhmm, shaving, arms, gettin' s'close to th-the mirror, breath hot on th'glass, foggin' it up, leanin', leanin' over, jezuuss, yur ass, Buck. S'dissssstracting. Stickinn out. Ass. Arms. Like yur arms. S'big. So big. Yur so big. Wanna bite 'em. Bite yur arms. 'Specially when yah get home fr'm work, sweatin' an' bulgin' an' I can see all yur veins an' yur tired, voice rough, gettin' short wit me. Hnnngh. F'ck--"
As he drones on, Bucky's own face starts to get hot, first blushing pink and then deepening to a red as if he's spread himself out on the beach to let the sun cook him.
He can't look at Steve.
He feels like he shouldn't look at Steve, like he's a fucking pervert, peeping on Steve's most private, out-of-his-mind dreams despite how he's, literally, seen Steve in every state. He's Steve's fella, his best friend, it's fine if he listens to him talk like that, it's just...
He ain't got no inhibitions like this. His illness has lowered him all the way to the ground, lying on his belly, drooling into the dirt, drawing filthy pictures with a wobbling, unsteady fingertip while flaming hearts circle in his eyes. Drunk on it. And, fucking Christ, does it sound good.
Over on the couch, where Bucky's averted his gaze carefully, looking down at his own lap and the tent not rising in his trousers, Steve tumbles on, lazy and slow, all Brooklyn drawl. His words drip with honey.
"--Gonna eat, eat 'em, gonna, Jesus, Mary, fuh-fuck, you're so haaan'some, Buck. Smell s'good, too. Wanna faint when I smell yur aftershave on yur shirt but, also, also, wanna die--I wanna die, I luv it sooo much when ya don't shave for 'a day an' yur stubble, mmmmngh, ngh, Buck, yur stubble scratches me an' I see heaven, I swear it, like 'm already dead. Like it, rough, hurts, like it on me. Against m' face 'til I'm blushin' red. I like it. Like you. Luv ya--"
Bucky can't.
He fucking can't.
He can't sit still. He can't not look at Steve, going on and on and on and on and on and on on and on and on and on and on and on on and on and on and on and on and on on and on and on and on and on and on on and on and on and on and on and on, his eyes shut, color vivid on his face like a sunset landscape painting--something beautiful like what Steve could make--lashes kissing the tops of his cheeks, sweat darkening his hair as it curls over his forehead.
God.
Bucky just barely sucks in a deep breath, forcing his way through it with his hands clenched into fists over his thighs. He, he doesn't know what to do.
He wants Steve to shut the fuck up. He wants to be quiet as he can, opening the space for Steve to fill, talking until his throat goes hoarse. He wants to touch himself through his pants. He needs to. He wants to jump Steve's fucking bones. He can't jump Steve's bones, he's sick, he's already got too much going on, Bucky can't expect him to get it up, Bucky can't burden him with more physicality. So, it's not fair.
He can't.
He can't touch himself and jerk one out to this. It wouldn't be right to anyhow because Steve doesn't even know what he's doing and Steve can't enjoy it right now.
So.
He's...
Teeth gritted in his mouth, he's gotta just sit here.
Listening.
Sweating.
Tortured.
"--luv, luv yur aftershave an' arms an', nngh, even yur pomade, Buck, shit, just gotta run m'hands through ya hair until it's on m'hands an' I, I, I... Buck. Yur hair hangs in your face an' my heart goes funny in m'chest. Stunner. Buck, yur a stunner. Whistling when ya shave an' comb yur hair and get ready for work an'... don't leave. Don't ever leave. Want you fer me. Mine. Mine t'bite. Bite yer arms. Yuh-yer neck. Can't go to th'docks if youu, if you're indecent."
Steve--phsycially weak, sick as hell, yet ever stubborn, even when he's out of his mind--has the gall to smirk. It's a lazy, sloppy smirk. And yet...
It still fucking works on Bucky.
Involuntarily, Bucky lets out a squeaky little whimper, his hips jerking forward. Oh, Jesus Christ, Steve keeps talking like that and Bucky might cum in his fuckin' pants.
Now, it's all he can do to keep his eyes open, keep his eyes on Steve, 'cause the pictures his little artist is painting in his mind are so much worse--getting pinned by Steve's boney frame up against their bathroom cabinets, back against the sink, head hitting the mirror, nerves all singing a deafening crescendo, uncomfortable and jumbled up in their tiny bathroom but not caring because Steve kisses like he does everything: daring and stubborn and with the force of fucking god behind him. Kissing the life out of him, kissing him until he can't breathe, kissing him with teeth, kissing him until he's marked with bruises that bloom red and blue and purple over his neck and chest and stomach and between his thighs. Bucky couldn't leave the apartment for days with those hickies littering his body, achy and possessive--they'd be as obvious as neon sign glaring in the dead of night, seducing sleazy men into gritty brothels, bars, and clubs alike.
And that's not even to meantion how, else, if he did step foot outside after such a loving tear into, he'd be wandering around in a shivery, raw-edged daze, stumbling, whimpering to himself with every drag of his starched, button-up shirt, cotton-soft undershirt, pressed slacks, or underwear against the teeth marks. He would be irresponsibly high off the knowledge of being owned, pleasure knocking him onto his ass. He'd be treated so good, he'd be too indecent to go in public, he'd be... be...
Owned.
Trembling, Bucky swallows thickly, pushing down a moan as he conversely pumps himself up, he can do it, he can wait a few more days for Steve to recover from getting sick, he can, he will, he has to. He'll get Steve better, taking care of him the best he can, and then he'll beg Steve to take care of him, too. He'll get on his knees. He'll stretch his neck out, arching it, the next time he shaves. He'll bend over the sink completely, presenting himself. He'll flex. He'll groan and beg, sweaty and overworked after an extra-long shift. He'll do anything. Anything. He wants to be owned.
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i would so gobble up some blood play fic from you if u did wanna explore thatâŚ
related to this
Okay, okay, okayâ
This is what I'm thinking: I'm thinking shrinkyclinks with blood play would fuck. And you know why? Because Steve would absolutely adore such an, on his part, easy kink to so thoroughly destroy such a powerful, big man. Like, of course, the ease isn't in the safety of it allâblood play is a varsity level kink that requires lots of care to safely participate inâbut instead the ease is in how little physical effort Steve needs to bring Bucky to his knees.
Obviously, trigger warning for blood and knife play below!
As much as Steve relishes turning Bucky into a puddle of shivering, pleading, wet-eyed desperation with nothing but his hands and one modest knife, all sharp angles and polished metal, Steve always, always, always waits for Bucky to come to him.
He could lick his teeth just thinking about using a knife of his docile attack dog, but he resists. He's a sadist. He likes the way Bucky moans and cries in pain. He does. But it's so much better when Bucky is the one begging for it. He can't wait any longer, he needs it now, please, please, Stevie-? Those puppy dog eyes. That pouting mouth. Those hands tugging at his own clothes like he can't wait to get out of themâŚ
Yeah.
It's worth the wait.
Bucky, dropping to his knees in front of Steve, wherever they areâhe can't wait another second, he needs it. Offering, not even brandishing, offering Steve his favorite knife, whining for it like a slavering puppy on a leash. It's been too long, he wants the rush, he always cums so hard when Steve does that to him.
Please.
It can't be that easy, though. It never is with Steve. There has to be some of that electric give and take, push and pull, pain and pleasure.
So.
Steve raises an eyebrow, wordlessly communicating that it's not good enough. Not yet. Bucky can't just have it. No. First, he has to labor for it. Clean the knife if he wants it so badâmore, he'll have to sharpen the knife if he wants it so bad. Desperate thing.
And, oh yeah, he better do it well enough to meet Steve's standards, too.
Steve has turned him down before, just to wind him up more. The longer they go between sessions, the more Bucky drools for it.
The anticipation is part of it. The deliberate, ritualistic sounds of sharpening and cleaning. The way Bucky shakes, doing it. And, of course, to add to it, Steve warns his lover that he can't cut himselfâthat's Steve's job and he has to wait. He doesn't have permission to start until Steve's readyâŚ
Nevermind how, really, they have already begun. Why else would Steve be kicked back, his feet brashly crossed over the coffee table, his crooked back slouched into the sofa, biting into an apple with a clean snap as he watches? He's in control, even now. Meanwhile, Bucky quivers, anything but calm and collected, kneeling on the floor, dragging the reflective metal blade of the knife across its oiled sharpening stone.
Bucky's whole body is barely contained, nearly-squirming energy. Steve is sprawled out, imposing, and awaiting his prize. Like a roast pig to a king, Steve always gets the first cut of meat.
Finally, finally, Bucky does it.
Sharpened.
Cleaned.
Ready.
Then, he must scramble back toward Steve, falling over himself as he curls back up onto his knees, kneeling up to perfectly balance the exceedingly sharp blade across both of his palms. That pretty head of his is face down while his hands are up, presenting it to Steve, waiting with baited breath to know if he's done a good jobâis he a good boy.
He is.
Steve takes it. His long, lean fingers wrap enticingly around the handle, it fits perfectly in his palm despite the knife really being Bucky's. It should seem too big for him, yet⌠with his trimmed fingernails scratching against its surface and his pale, lithe forearm flexing, brandishing it at him, he owns it more than Bucky ever did.
Flicking his wrist, Steve indicates that Bucky has permission to stand. And stand, he does. Up and up. Towering. Still, elegantly, like a dancer, all sharp, lean limbs, bony joints, and an untold rhythm propelling him forward as art incarnate, Steve follows him. Stepping in close, breathing him in.
Over Bucky's clothes, light enough to not damage the fibers despite how dangerously, alluringly sharp the blade is, Steve drags the knife down his chest.
All authority, Steve murmurs, so paradoxically sweet, âdon't make me make you,â for emphasis, he digs in the tip of the blade just enough. It spears a hole in his shirt. A single puncture. âGet naked.â
So fucking alive, Bucky's chest heaves, almost pressing himself harder to the blade and drawing blood but he knows betterâSteve is entirely in control. He can't, even by accident, do that. Lightning fast, Bucky flicks into action, eagerly stripping, landing on his feet like a cat.
He's so reckless and excited, Bucky ends up ripping his underwear.
Steve laughs.
In the interim, between the slightly cruel, mostly amused chuckling and the need to fetch some supporting characters for this show that's about to go down, Steve demands without argument that Bucky needs to stand on his toes, arms behind his back, fingers interlocked. Balance while he darts to their bathroom, quickly locating one of their waterproof sheets, tucked away for their messier moments. Sometimes blood. Sometimes not. Either wayâ
When he returns, Steve throws it over the armchair, momentarily ogling at Bucky's trembling, thick calves where he stands on his toes.
âDown.â
Bucky obeys.
What a good dog.
âGood boy,â Steve doesn't miss the opportunity, he never does. Crooking his fingers provocatively, he extends his orders, ânow, come.â
He loves to see Bucky shiver, trying and failing to suppress just how such a command affects him. He loves being a pet to Steve. No thoughts. Just obedience. Knowing whatever he does, Steve will have him. Steve does all kinds of delicious, devious things to him. Things that hurt and feel good, and, andâ
No. Thoughts.
Bucky easily lets all his muscle be overcome by Steve's sharp, bony edges. The other man pushing him back into the now covered armchair. Beneath his heavy buly, the sheet crunches satisfyingly, overflowing from the furniture and across the ground. Now, it's not just an armchair, it's a throne dedicated to their shared, crazed desires. Bucky sits on it, sure, but they both know who's truly in charge.
With him sitting there, such a patient, gorgeous boy, Steve narrows his eyes at him knowing thatâyup.
Just looking at him will make Bucky squirm. Writhing where he sits, hands digging into the covered arms of the chair, and his erection huge and naked in his lap. That girthy, veiny cock demurely strains against his stomach. He couldn't be harder if he tried to get it up more.
Good. But, Steve wouldn't be the sadist (or perfectionist) he is if he didn't strive for better.
Simply, âbeg.â Steve declares, showing all his teeth in his grin.
The effect is immediate, âplease!â He gasps, speaking before he thinks, âpluh-please, pleease, Stevie, hurt me, I need it.â He swallows thickly, trying to push down all his excess spit. That gulp doesn't do a damn thing to get rid of the gravel low in his throat, âI want it.â
âI know,â he answers, âbuut,â he drags it out, bringing the knife closer, yet, not quite touching him with it. Hovering. Sensuously threatening and just menacing enough. âYou gotta say it. What do you want?â
âIââ
âCome on.â
âI want it,â he swallows desperately, âI justâwould you, I, I want you toââ
âC'mon, boy, I know you can say it.â
âI want you to cut me,â the end of his plea turns into a vulgar whine. Higher and needier.
âYeah,â Steve's eyelids grow heavy, almost feeling his eyes burn hotter, turning darker, devouring Bucky with them, tip to tail, âyou do.â To himself, he adds, âfuck, you really do.â Murmuring the words, Steve draws delicate, looping pink lines over his skin using the back of the blade. Not cutting yet. Not daring to break the skin. There's no blood, all artâtracing the obvious definition of his quivering muscle, the fine control of his joints, and the bones closer to the surface. All of him. Flesh, bone, and metal.
He's sex incarnate.
âTsk, tsk,â Steve taps his tongue against the back of his teeth, clucking, at the same time he draws his blade over skin, still teasing, not sliding, âwhat am I gonna do with you, baby?â
Bucky pants, his eyes gone huge and dazed as they follow every tiny movement and little twitch he makes.
There's a lot. Steve can't stay still, he's making moves all over his frame, âa body like this? You can take so much⌠so much more than you know.â For effect, Steve pretends to think, twirling the knife how Bucky taught him, flying between his long, thin fingers, shiny and impressiveâit draws attention to his artist's hands. Showing them off. Leaving Bucky wanting. âOh,â he smirks evilly after a little while, âoh, I know.â He points the tip of the knife straight at him. âHow about I make you into a pretty toy for me?â
In reaction, Bucky whimpers, nodding frantically to jerk the pitch of the noise up and down. His cock agrees, twitching heavily.
So, Steve spreads Bucky's thick legs before saddling upâparting his own legs to balance on his lover's knees, his weight keeping the brunette still symbolically. Of course, Bucky's too strong and Steve's too light to have a real effect but that doesn't matter. It's about the image. The atmosphere. The first, daring, smooth draaag of the sharp side of the knife against exposed flesh.
A pretty line that opens in pale gold skin, thin and shallow but immediately rushing to fill with hot, thick blood. It is an admission of lust. As true as the reality that Bucky is human and bleeds like anyone else is the truth that he likes this. He wants this. His spread thighsânow with the beginning of Steve's brand to be carved into his bodyâand thrown-back head and heaving chest and dripping cock all confess his secret. He likes this.
Still, the sweet, aching pain hits Bucky immediately and he nearly squirms, straying out of the snare Steve has lovingly wrapped him inâa hunter in love with his prey, no matter how long and hard he must chase. He likes the chase.
Another slice. Deceptively effortless for how high reward the action is.
Bucky's thighsâjust two tally marks deepâshudder and threaten to shut.
âNo,â Steve pins him back in place with nothing more than a sharp lookâsharper than even the knife he's wielding, whipping his head up to collide their eyes in the most erotic kind of violence. Steve doesn't need to, but he wants to, so he doesâhe places two fingers under Bucky's chin. âYou begged for this. You want this. You'll take it.â
âSt-Steeeve,â he whines, tellingly tasting his name on his tongue and not his safeword.
Slice.
âOh!â This time, such a good boy, his cock is the only thing that moves. Throbbing. He's hardly breathing.
Cut.
âOhhhmygod!â
Slash.
Cut.
Slice.
He can only hold onto the stillness as Steve works on inflicting more and more sweet pain on his thick, clenching inner thighs before the poor pup starts squirming again. Moving. Shivering. Trying really, really hard not to buck into the pain he enjoys so much but⌠there's only so much he can do. It's cute. He's trying so hard. And if Steve wants him to work harder? Try harder? Well. That's just par for the course.
Naturally, then, between every perfect, rushing glide of knife to skin, as he squirms too much, Steve uses the excuse to slap the hard, smooth planes of his chest.
Who cares if it makes Bucky squirm more and it makes it harder for Steve to work with his knife? It's about the pain. It's about how Bucky howls and how his muscles ripple and bunch, desperately ripped between wanting to fight, his body knowing he shouldn't be willingly arching into such torture, and wanting more, his mind knowing it feels so fucking good. Rushing with lust-thick blood and endorphins and adrenaline and, andâ
Yes!
Bucky gasps and moans and shudders. Dripping from his fresh, loving wounds, open mouths of desire panting and drooling, and from the tip of his engorged cock, his slit pearling with sizzling pre-cum.
Steve slices, cuts, and slaps, painting a picture of red and pink and desire thickly across Bucky's entire body. He's blushing from his sweating hairline down his handsome, slack face to his pulse-pounding throat where it drips feverishly to his chest. Further, Steve twists his nipples and bites his thick neck and feels Bucky's entire body undulate beneath him. Rippling. Desiring.
Enraptured in his every reaction to each cut of pain, slicing through him like lightning striking his body, Steve watches blood appear and clot and scab with bated breath, barely holding back his own groans. Cut. Blood seeps. Cut again. Look back to the last, find it already clotted. Cut again, again, see the clotted scabbed and the bleeding clotting. Cut. Look. Cutâ
Scar.
Bucky's supercharged body is fascinating. Squirming, rippling, bulging.
Taking it.
Steve is only sweating because he's touching Bucky's burning body. For such ease on his part, this devastates Bucky. Of course, Steve's getting off on this, too, he's hard enough it aches, but his internal reaction is nothing compared to Bucky's obvious, outward expression of pain so good it's become pleasure.
Pain, pain, pain; pleasure, pleasure, pleasure with every strong beat of his heart.
Eventuallyâeasy for Steve and so savagely seductive and luscious for his loverâBucky's a mess. Mentally and physically. Blood is smeared everywhere. All across his pale gold, misted and blushing skin. Pooling and thickening on the protective sheet. His dark hair is frizzy and stuck to his sweaty temples. Alternatively throwing his head back and hanging it forward, stuck in mindless bliss, he's biting his lip until it bleeds, too. All swollen and wet. He's strained. Moaning. Unable to control his squirming.
The picture of divine ecstasy. A marble statue carved by the hand of an artist more like a lover, now overgrown in the embrace of pain like ivy, entangling and entwining until they are one and the same. Pain and pleasure.
Slap.
Cut.
Slice.
Slap.
Slash.
Slap.
Controlled and agonizingly loved.
Steve goes on and on, letting Bucky have it until he's floating in the dreamy clouds of pain, barely aware, more slurring and drooling and bleeding than anything else. Everything that isn't Steve and Steve's devout torture of him is blotted out. Just this. Here and now.
Slice.
Cut.
Slash.
The gleaming knife, the quick blood, the lewd groans, and obscene faces he pulls, sagging into their furniture.
And, also, just for fun, just because Steve's really, mostly, killing time until the serum heals his cuts beyond clots and scabs to thickened, fresh scars that will fade overnight or, at most, in a day, Steve's jerking him off. His fist is a blur. Fast and rough. Letting him feel the whiplash between pain-derived pleasure and pleasure-derived pain, it's stark but still so guttingly good.
Setting the knife aside.
Jerking him off with blood stained hands.
Then.
Just, momentarily, right before, almost there on the edge, before he lets Bucky cum, Steve grabs Bucky by the hair and shoves, taking advantage of how off-kilter he is to throw him to the floor. He doesn't need much strength to do it with how destroyed Bucky is. It's almost as easy as opening his gorgeous skin with a knife sharpened by an ex-assassin.
Almost.
Bucky lands cataclysmically on their wooden flooring with a car-wreck of a grunt and moan and thump crushed together. All that muscle and mass. Face down. Ass up. Struggling to get his organic or metal arm underneath him, either of themâit doesn't matter. Slow and delirious but instinctually fighting back. That other training, before Steve, kicking in⌠a little bit. They can't have that. Still, all Steve has to do is slide to the floor with him, touch a fingertip, maybe two, to the low of his arching back and he calms. Immediately. He knows he's safe. He knows it's Steve. He doesn't need to fight back. And the way his back sags, giving in, surrendering, is almost enough to have Steve cum.
God.
That isn't all, though. There's more satisfaction to be had.
Harder.
Achier.
Behind that gorgeous, arched back and thick, gym-honed ass, Steve soothes and dishevels him by pushing his thick, sensitive, freshly scarred legs together, crushing his heavy balls and pressing over newly tenderized nerves. Bucky mewls. A big, bad wolf now nothing more than a whimpering pup, nuzzling and blind in the dark of the den. Looking for direction.
Steve gives it to himâ
Direction.
Stretching a lean arm out to his full wingspan to grip and scruff the back of his neck all while so fucking satisfactorily pushing his dick right in there.
Hot.
Bucky tries and fails to stutter out his name, panting and feeling beneath him. Marked by his hands and now his sex, too.
Between those lovely, lovely shuddering, weak yet thickly muscular legs, it's all blood and sweat and pre-cum. Bucky's blood. Bucky's and Steve's smearing, mixing sweat and pre-cum. It's sticky and gross and there's not enough lube, so the friction sort of hurts, rough on his throbbing cock, but like Bucky, Steve's not afraid of a little pain. And he moans, fucking Bucky's thighs. He has to moan. Christ.
This fucking man.
His.
His. His. His.
Every punch of his hips forward, rutting into him feels more animal than the last. It's too fucking erotic. So unbelievably hot that Steve's justâ
He. His heart. Oh god. His heart is pounding and his blood is boiling and he's justâ
He snarls, loving and brutal, fucking his scarred thighs, âth-that feel good, Buck?â He bites out, frantic, sweating impossibly, drenched, yet still wanting more, âyuh-yeah, honey, you like being a t-toy for me?â He's trembling. âNot just your holes, jusâ lookit you, baby, all of you. You're my precious little toy. Look at you, sweet thing, now you're all ribbed for my pleasure, aren't you? My pretty, designer toy.â
Bucky loses it underneath him, vibrating with his sobs like he really is just a high-tech flashlight equipped with ribbed texture, vibrations, and heating. Squeezed tight. Meant for Steve's pleasure.
I've had this in my head for like, years, just making itself known every once in a while. Pre-serum Steve and Bucky.
I've seen a lot of that, but they usually write or draw pre-serum Steve being the bottom as if that feisty, asthmatic twig isn't stubborn enough to top. (I prefer top Steve if you couldn't tell)
- â¨ď¸ anon
Yes! Yes! I love me some small feisty top and/or small feisty dom Steve!! I completely agree there needs to be more, I've seen plenty of both myself but I can always get on board with more porn, lmao.
Anyway... this was supposed to just be top pre-serum Steve, set pre-war, but, uh... I ended up blacking out and writing dom pre-serum Steve instead. Also. This ended up being human furniture kink/bondage/edging? So... I don't know how we got here đ but please do read it if you're interested because đŽâđ¨đŽâđ¨
It's been a long fucking time since Steve's felt this easy and loose. He's got nothing to do today. It's a good, quiet Saturday and there's no rattle in his chest thanks to the early warm weather that isn't hot and humid enough to trigger his asthma like what tends to happen in the height of Brooklyn summers. Even better, his joints don't really even hurt today 'cause he hasn't done so much walking, cooking, or cleaning. The apartment is neat and tidy around him already. There are no sheets or clothes to launder. Last night, he even was able to steal an hour or so in their communal bathrooms for a mostly warm bath seeing as all the other tenants were out for their Friday night dancing, drinking, or whatever else they do to let off steam that's cheap.
It's a good day.
Light pouring in from their open windows along with the sounds of Brooklyn below their fire escape, the faint murmurs of neighbors through recklessly narrow walls, and the flicking of a thin newspaper with every page he turns. There's also, of course, the noise of his rasping inhales and exhales, accompanied by a slurp here and there of steaming, watered-down coffee from one of their good mugs. Steve can't handle too much caffeine, besides, he'd rather leave the bulk of their scrounged-up coffee grounds for Bucky. He's the one tumbling out of bed in the morning before it's light and usually coming home well after it's dark. And--
Oh, yeah.
That's definitely part of why he's relaxed. Not the coffee, not the clean apartment, not the newspaper (which, really, has nothing he'd like to think too hard about written across its pages, otherwise he's going to ruin his own casual calm), but Bucky.
Bucky is here, too. Just out of sight. But it's alright because Steve can hear--even with one ear that doesn't work so good--the soft, even-yet-ragged-edged breaths of Bucky.
Bucky is keeping him company, not by running his motor mouth about the sci-fi book he's most recently borrowed or talking about his plans for Saturday night, but by keeping quiet and keeping Steve comfortable.
Bucky is being very good and, really, that's the best part of Steve's Saturday afternoon.
Bucky is so good for him beneath his heels. He's still and resilient underneath Steve's feet crossed at the ankle. Just breathing even though Steve knows that he wants to whine and shake and plaster himself against Steve as he usually does when they do things like this. He's not doing any of that, though, because Steve told him sternly not to. Not if he wants to cum today.
He's to be still--as motionless as a piece of furniture. Right now, he's being a very obedient footstool. Earlier, when Steve first made himself a cup of coffee, Steve was considering making him into a pretty coffee table. But, if he did that, then he would miss out on the simple pleasure of feeling each and every subdued tremble of Bucky's body beneath him. Half quivering with unreleased need, just aching to be touched and made to cum, and half quivering with the strain of holding himself perfectly still.
Stillness is a challenge because, well, they've been at this for some time, sensual, easy, clear-headed relaxation for Steve and a syrupy, hot, spaced-out zone for Bucky. That, and, Steve hasn't been easy on him.
First, this morning, after waking entangled in Bucky's arms, Steve used his morning wood against him by stroking him until Bucky was squirming aimlessly against the pleasure and making little sounds in his sleep at how nice his dreams had become. Like that, warm and cuddled together, Steve made sure to go slow and loose with just enough stimulation to make his cock drip sticky, wet smears of pre-cum all across the smooth, flat muscle of his lower belly without rousing him to the real world but still good enough to leave him twitching and making all these precious, eat-me-up whimpers in his sleep.
Then, when he did wake up with a shocked, possessed gasp of sudden pleasure, Steve slithered down underneath their thread-bare blankets to breathe in the hot, humid, heady musk of Bucky's arousal, swallowing him down as much as he could. Sucking him and sucking him and sucking him until he was dizzy and he'd already had to squeeze his fist around the base of Bucky's cock twice. Bucky didn't get to cum this morning, leaving his cock angry and his balls heavy and swollen but drawn up, convinced they'd be allowed to cum sooner rather than later. Cute. Bucky didn't cum. But, Steve did. He rutted against Bucky's aching, weeping, red-hot cock until he spilled between their bodies. After he was finished dragging out the last smoldering coals of pleasure, he smeared the mess he made into Bucky's skin just because. Just because he can. He wants Bucky to smell like sex. He wants Bucky to not be able to twitch without the scent wafting into his nose and being sucked deep, down into his lungs, reminding him of what filth they've done.
After that, Bucky made them both breakfast. No clothes allowed. His reward for making them a good meal? Another almost-orgasm from Steve. This time, his pleasure and denial came from humping against Steve's leg after he choked down his serving of food without tasting it. He was much too interested in getting four of Steve's fingers in his mouth--shoved down his throat until his eyes watered and his own drool smeared onto his cute cleft chin from choking--after being hand-fed, kneeling on the floor between Steve's lithe, spread thighs. He had to let himself go, be dumb and sweet enough to hump Steve's leg like a dog, his face burning with humiliation and pleasure, mouth hanging open, but be well-trained enough to stop when Steve said stop, reading the signs of his approaching orgasm across his face like an open book. Steve (lightly) kicked him in the chest just to make sure he wouldn't cum--pushing him back from kneeling to spread out on their floor, naked and so hard that Steve could watch, standing, towering, over him as his cock twitched and pulsed in time with his pounding heart. Bucky whimpering the entire time like the kicked puppy he is.
gif by @/zanephillips
Lunch was held in a similar affair except for Bucky kneeling next to Steve on the couch in the living room, not at the rickety dining table with two mismatched wooden dining chairs. That, and, Bucky didn't cook lunch. He was too spacy for Steve to even let him try. So, Steve heated up some leftovers from the other night and brought them to Bucky to, again, feed him and then deny him. He was really surprised Bucky survived that because, between breakfast and lunch, Steve had been alternating between drawing Bucky, demanding he hold various different poses for him, and jerking Bucky off until he came right, right to the edge. Then. He stopped and went back to drawing. At some point, Bucky started crying. His eyes were all big and wet and innocent, his soft, pink mouth quivering, silently begging for mercy while his cock wept just as urgently from between his legs, curved up against his tummy and so fucking hard it had to hurt. His expression, raw and desperate, looks pretty damn good taking up a whole five pages of Steve's sketchbook--he wanted to get it from every angle he could and track the progression of it as Bucky cried himself out, shaky and needy but also not willing to break the scene when he knows if he waits like Steve wants, it's always so much better--but that look was much more incredible etched across Bucky's face in real life. Nothing will compare to that. Pencil on paper could never crumble like Bucky can when he's in the throes of submission.
With lunch finished, that's when Bucky's job to be a footstool began. To prep him, Steve prepped him. He worked three artist's fingers into his tight little hole with thick Vaseline--neither of them will admit it, but just the smell of it gets them both more than a little hot, it's, just, fucking trained response at this point--to stretch him out for their biggest, heaviest dildo. They don't have many. And the way Bucky's gotten then-? God, Steve doesn't wanna know who he sweet-talked or what part of town he had to go to. They just have them. And Steve, by God, will use them. He'll stuff one into Bucky that takes effort to keep inside, making him clench like a vice around it so it won't slip out--making him all full and keeping him aware of it. Then, with that inside him, Steve used his leather belt to tie Bucky's legs together, clamping his thighs shut just above the knee. He doesn't want to get away, all the moaning and ragged panting and jerky, needy squirming says that clear as day, same with his red-almost-purple, severely erect cock, but he surely won't be able to now. He won't be able to crawl. He won't be able to not feel his heavy, pent-up balls between his legs. he won't be able to do anything but stay nice and still while clenching hard on his nice, fat toy. He won't be able to see, either, since Steve took a clean rage and blindfolded him. He gagged him, too. Just because. Furniture can't see. Furniture can't talk. Furniture can't move. Furniture can't cum.
But...
Apparently, this little footstool can get wet.
He's dripping all over the floor, all that squeezing tight around his stuffed-up hole must almost be milking his prostate, making his cock just leak and leak. And the heated drip-drop of pre-cum spilling messily out from the slit of his engorged, soooo stiff cock isn't the only wetness. He's stopped crying by now, he doesn't have any tears left, nothing but hollow sobs in his chest. The other wetness that Steve is going to meanly make Bucky clean up later--it's his filthy little mess after all, being so eager and dumb that he can't even play a game for a few hours, following the simple rules Steve sets for him, just be a footrest! It's not that hard!--is his drool. He's drooling badly around the gag.
He's a fucking mess.
And he's starting to get even messier. He's breaking. Cracking. Shattering.
Underneath Steve's heels--that he might be digging into Bucky's back on purpose, maybe, he'll never tell--Bucky's breathing is getting less and less even, more and more harsh, his ribcage flexing and heaving. He's squirmier, too. His thighs quivering, challenged by having to hold him up while being held together themselves. His arms, too, are shaking. He can't take his own weight. He can't bear it. It's too much.
With a muffled, choking moan, Bucky suddenly collapses onto his hands, leaving him ass-up. Apparently, if his agonized, shuddering squeak is anything to go by, the change in angle has made the dildo inside him shove deeper into him.
Cute.
Steve does nothing more than exasperatedly, impatiently fold the newspaper he's been "reading," tossing it down across his lap, and look over at Bucky. He's a hell of a lot redder and shinier than he was the last time Steve saw him. His hair is plastered to his forehead and blindfold keeping him locked onto nothing but the sensations happening to his own body. The rest of the world tuned out. He looks feverish. If his eyes weren't covered, they'd be hazy and fucked-out, lost to anything other than Steve. And with Steve? He'll just cry and curl around him, begging for more. Anything. Anything else Steve wants to do to him. Just more. Please!
"Really?" Steve clicks his tongue, rubbing his foot along Bucky's side and belly and hip. He feels just how hard he's breathing, heaving in air and pushing it out harshly. He's quaking. Quivering. And he convulsed when Steve lets his foot uninterestedly drag over his cock. Steve knows he has shit circulation. He knows his bare feet are cold as shit over Bucky's feverish, edged cock. He doesn't care. Let him quiver and shake and let him dig his teeth into his gag trying and failing to deal with the cold, sharp pleasure. He's afraid of it, he's trying to hold back. It hurts! He doesn't know Steve's gonna make him cum like this. He's trying to save himself, how cute.
With enough force to make Bucky feel hot flares of agonizing, pleasurable pain against Steve's cold, boney foot, Steve pushes his cock up into his heaving body, pinning it tightly and rubbing back and forth. Back and forth. Back and forth. It doesn't take more than a minute before Bucky is letting out all these sharp, needy, gurgly sounds that mean I'm gonna cum! I'm close! I'm gonna cum! Guh-gonna! Gonna cum! Steve knows. Steve doesn't stop.
He lets Bucky cum like that, face-down, ass-up with his eyes blinded, his mouth stuffed, his thighs tied together, his greedy, twitching hole stuffed, and his balls so overfull and denied that he feels like he's gonna burst at the seams.
He does.
He cums everywhere.
The orgasm so fucking intense that he can't make a sound. He can't move. He just goes rigid and lets Steve rip it out of him. Over-overwhelmed.
"Good boy," Steve purrs, all too smug and satisfied with the teeth-rattling intensity of Bucky's orgasm.
Bucky squeaks out one last sob before going entirely limp. He's so worn out, melting down onto his belly, that he doesn't even make a sound when his oversensitive cock grates against their wooden floors.
Hey so I guess Iâm on the needy sub train now...(choo choo motherfuckers and all that) so anyways how do think the whole âtraining to be asked for helpâ would translate to our shrinkyclinks boys? Would Steve have to put a LOT of time in or would Bucky be willing sooner? Idk I just thought Iâd throw that out there... -âď¸ Anon who very worried about your feelings, noble S and who hopes you feel A-ok in no time at all luv uâ¤ď¸
previous train car w/ Sub Steve
Yes yes yes, shrinkyclinks!
(No worries, I'm feeling fine! School just is The Way It Is sometimes, unfortunately lol)
This isn't so much of a story/particular situation but lots of thoughts together, so apologies if that wasn't what you were looking for:
Compared to shrunkyclunks (re: beefy-Cap!sub!Steve and dom!Bucky) I think shrinkyclinks beefy!sub!Bucky would be much easier to break. And then to train once "broken".
I get that feeling/vibe for the simple reason of Steve having been trained for Years to not ask for help and to not give into what he needs; to muscle through the loneliness and pain and hurt all by himself. By the skin of his teeth.
And Steve is not only from a time where it's not something a man like him, or a man at all, is supposed to feel but is also internally coming from a place of always needing to be the last one served- the last to eat and take a seat at the table. He thinks of and puts himself last. It's in his very nature. So of course he's not going to want to admit to needing help or to feeling shitty.
But, this Bucky on the other hand...
This Bucky is easier to train because while beefy, subby Bucky may have been raised to not give into his subconscious needs and may have been expected by society to not be soft and needy too, he doesn't have quite that Steve Rogers - Cap!Steve - conditioning. Not that his less conditioned feelings are any less important, it's just less hard wired into him.
And shrinkyclinks Steve still battles with his Buckyâs unwillingness to ask for help and to receive it without guilt but, again, it's not the overwhelming beast that Cap!Steve's Modern!Bucky would face when "training".
Also! These two on their own, no comparisons:
In the past I've written shrinkyclinks Bucky as being a sub who didn't really realize he was a sub until it all but literally gut punched him.
His subbiness, that is, when he went into subspace after Steve noticed it in him and did some ~light domming~ so he could discover himself some more.
So... I think their training would go pretty swiftly in some regard.
Like, once Bucky is down, Steve can keep him down in subspace and order him to tell him whenever he needs something - whether it's to get up from kneeling to go pee, to rest his knees, or if his dick is so hard that it hurts and it needs attention or anything he needs at all - and Bucky will trip over himself to make sure he does those things for his dom. Bucky is such a good, melty sub who falls apart so easy. However, if Bucky isn't down and isn't hankering to go down... its trickier.
He can take forever to finally get what he wants out through his teeth.
I think how Steve gets him there, to approaching him with his needs and wants unprompted, is through time and practice. Practice with how Steve makes sure to give him his full attention when Bucky admits to needing something or needing help. He looks at him, turns his full body towards him. He makes sure to uncross his arms, leave himself open to his sub. He thanks him for telling him, hugging him if Bucky will let him. And afterwards, so long as it's something Steve can do something to fix right then and there, he does it. And slowly but surely, with time, they get there.
Bucky gets to the point of walking in through their door after a hard day and finding Steve, calling out to him first, gently, admitting that he needs his dom. Stripping off his jacket and boots, metaphorical or real if it's the winter. And when Steve acknowledges him after he speaks - always telling him to come closer because in that kind of mindset Bucky needs to hear it, he needs to hear he's wanted - the big brunette drops to his knees and crawls to him. Nuzzling and leaning into him, his atmosphere, to get as close as he can to him. Saying it again because now that he finds himself able to say he needs help and ask for that help he kind of gets stuck in a loop of saying it again and again. Wallowing in the well deserved release.
Omg, re: your recs from your bookmarks.. we are the things that we do for fun by nonymous FUCKED. ME. UP. in the best way!!! Bucky trusting enough to just let go⌠steve just being wonderfulâŚ. the ARTWORK!!! I literally thought about it for weeks; Iâm glad you also enjoyed it!!
related to this
"we are the things that we do for fun" by Nonymos
R I G H T ? !
IT'S SO GOOD!
I think I found it via someone else's bookmarks because I'm apparently creepy enough that I scroll through other peoples bookmarks on AO3 for good fics haha, but either way, I enjoy it So Much. <3
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