#tiny dom steve

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 them…

Yeah.

It's worth the wait.

Bucky, dropping to his knees in front of Steve, wherever they are—he 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 bad—more, 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 himself—that's Steve's job and he has to wait. He doesn't have permission to start until Steve's ready…

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 job—is 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, “don't make me make you,” for emphasis, he digs in the tip of the blade just enough. It spears a hole in his shirt. A single puncture. “Get naked.”

So fucking alive, Bucky's chest heaves, almost pressing himself harder to the blade and drawing blood but he knows better—Steve 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 way—

When he returns, Steve throws it over the armchair, momentarily ogling at Bucky's trembling, thick calves where he stands on his toes.

“Down.”

Bucky obeys.

What a good dog.

“Good boy,” Steve doesn't miss the opportunity, he never does. Crooking his fingers provocatively, he extends his orders, “now, come.”

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, and—

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 that—yup.

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, “beg.” Steve declares, showing all his teeth in his grin.

The effect is immediate, “please!” He gasps, speaking before he thinks, “pluh-please, pleease, Stevie, hurt me, I need it.” 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, “I want it.”

“I know,” he answers, “buut,” he drags it out, bringing the knife closer, yet, not quite touching him with it. Hovering. Sensuously threatening and just menacing enough. “You gotta say it. What do you want?”

“I—”

“Come on.”

“I want it,” he swallows desperately, “I just—would you, I, I want you to—”

“C'mon, boy, I know you can say it.”

“I want you to cut me,” the end of his plea turns into a vulgar whine. Higher and needier.

“Yeah,” Steve's eyelids grow heavy, almost feeling his eyes burn hotter, turning darker, devouring Bucky with them, tip to tail, “you do.” To himself, he adds, “fuck, you really do.” 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 art—tracing 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.

“Tsk, tsk,” 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, “what am I gonna do with you, baby?”

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, “a body like this? You can take so much… so much more than you know.” For effect, Steve pretends to think, twirling the knife how Bucky taught him, flying between his long, thin fingers, shiny and impressive—it draws attention to his artist's hands. Showing them off. Leaving Bucky wanting. “Oh,” he smirks evilly after a little while, “oh, I know.” He points the tip of the knife straight at him. “How about I make you into a pretty toy for me?”

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 up—parting 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 thighs—now with the beginning of Steve's brand to be carved into his body—and 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 in—a 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 thighs—just two tally marks deep—shudder and threaten to shut.

“No,” Steve pins him back in place with nothing more than a sharp look—sharper 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 does—he places two fingers under Bucky's chin. “You begged for this. You want this. You'll take it.”

“St-Steeeve,” he whines, tellingly tasting his name on his tongue and not his safeword.

Slice.

“Oh!” This time, such a good boy, his cock is the only thing that moves. Throbbing. He's hardly breathing.

Cut.

“Ohhhmygod!”

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, and—

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. Cut—

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.

Eventually—easy for Steve and so savagely seductive and luscious for his lover—Bucky'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 them—it 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 him—

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 just—

He. His heart. Oh god. His heart is pounding and his blood is boiling and he's just—

He snarls, loving and brutal, fucking his scarred thighs, “th-that feel good, Buck?” He bites out, frantic, sweating impossibly, drenched, yet still wanting more, “yuh-yeah, honey, you like being a t-toy for me?” He's trembling. “Not just your holes, jus’ 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.”

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.