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“They put me on hold again,” Bucky whines into Steve’s side. The shitty hold music playing tinnily over Bucky’s phone speaker is giving him a headache, a cherry on top of his shitstorm of a day. He burrows deeper into Steve’s ribs like that’ll help get rid of the pain, but all it does is make Bucky’s hair messy.
Bucky’s frustrated and upset and tired. He got up at seven in the morning just to watch for his package, but it never arrived, and now it’s eight in the evening, well past the delivery window, and it’s still not here. Steve even shelled out for overnight shipping, for fuck’s sake. Bucky’s been on hold for nearly two hours while bored sales representative after bored sales representative transfers him from department to department unhelpfully. He feels like he’s about to scream.
All Bucky wants is to be fucked.
Which is the whole fucking point of calling customer service in the first place. Because he is supposed to get fucked today. He is supposed to get a Sybian with a nice saddle and a thrusting function onto which he can fit his gargantuan sparkly purple vibrator. He is supposed to be so overwhelmed by the end of the night that he’s sobbing and Steve needs to put him back together again.
Bucky has been preparing for that all fucking day. He’s shaved his legs and waxed his hole and put on a pair of lacy pink panties that’d feel nice when he got hard inside of them. But instead, it’s all going to shit.
At least Steve, Bucky’s knight in shining armor, is lending a sympathetic, if equally annoyed, ear. He’s wrapped Bucky up in a blue Snuggie and is petting his hair softly, kissing his cheek every so often. Steve wants the Sybian just as badly as Bucky -- they have a whole scene planned out -- and Bucky knows from the way Steve’s jaw isn’t quite relaxed, his eyebrows just a bit furrowed, that Steve’s pissed.
“Assholes,” Steve murmurs, kissing the top of Bucky’s head. “You’d think they’d understand how badly you need to get fucked from the overnight shipping.”
Steve’s not wrong -- Bucky does need it. It’s practically a panacea for him: it puts him to sleep, cheers him up, calms him down, makes him feel safe and happy and adored. Bucky loves to get fucked, on Steve’s fingers and his strap-on and on Bucky’s own, admittedly expansive, collection of dildos. Which is why he was so excited for the Sybian to come. Just getting fucked for hours while Steve watched, impassive. Maybe Steve wouldn’t even be watching. Maybe he’d get bored and start reading the paper or watching TV or something. Acting like Bucky’s just a part of the furniture. Like a none-too-interesting piece of decor.
They could, of course, do a similar scene with Bucky’s suction cup vibrator secured to the bathroom floor in lieu of the Sybian. That would be nothing to sneeze at. But it still wouldn’t be the same as having something thrust into him, having no control over whether it hits his sweet spot and he just has to moan.
Bucky blushes at the fantasy despite himself and burrows somehow further into Steve’s T-shirt. Steve smells like laundry detergent and Bucky’s own coconut shampoo, probably from Bucky hiding his face in Steve’s side for the past half hour. Steve reciprocates the motion in kind, sweeping his hand up and down the soft fleece of the Snuggie, the touch gentle and soothing.
“I’m upset,” Bucky mumbles, like Steve can’t figure that out from the way Bucky’s been pouting into Steve’s shirt and complaining for the past two hours.
Steve makes a soft, sympathetic sound in his chest that vibrates against Bucky’s forehead. “I know, love. I am, too.”
It’s the most basic thing to say, but it hits Bucky perfectly, and he swings an arm over Steve’s broad chest, squeezing like that’s gonna help get his anger out, like Steve’s the pink stress ball tucked away in Bucky’s nightstand. He feels all twisty, his adrenaline and excitement for the arrival of the Sybian souring into frustration. Maybe he can convince Steve to just lay into him tonight, pound his ass with a dildo until Bucky cries.
The hold music is still playing annoyingly, and Bucky’s half-tempted to just give up, turn off his phone, and change tact to just trying to convince Steve to fuck him.
He wants to kick something. His lacy panties don’t feel sweet and sexy anymore, just itchy and constraining. Bucky groans a little “hmmph!” of upset into Steve’s chest. He’s been half-hard all day, but now he just has blue balls. He’s squirming, half on Steve’s lap and half on the couch.
Bucky knows he’s being a brat, but he’s mad and he doesn’t care. Steve said he’s also unhappy, which is probably why he’s allowing it instead of shutting Bucky up with a quick spank.
In lieu of that, Steve just keeps rubbing Bucky’s back and sides, quiet. He’s staring at a point over Bucky’s shoulder, eyes narrowed, clearly thinking deeply. Bucky cranes his neck to see what Steve’s staring at, but all he sees is the armchair laden with throw pillows across from them. Steve’s probably immersed in fantasies of yelling at whoever is making Bucky unhappy, so Bucky just continues to wriggle around like a toddler having a tantrum.
Finally, after a fucking eternity, the hold music abruptly clicks off and someone says, “Hello?” on the other end.
Bucky scrambles to sit still, one shin resting on the couch, the other foot on the floor with his thigh shoved between Steve’s legs since Steve loves to manspread. Steve’s head is at Bucky’s chest level, and if he was feeling even a little bit more lascivious he’d be trying to convince Steve to motorboat him through the Snuggie. Instead, he sits still like a dead fish.
Steve’s arms are slung around Bucky’s waist, but he’s not quite hugging; rather, he’s still staring at the opposite armchair.
“Hi,” Bucky says into the phone, trying to keep the annoyance out of his tone. It’s not the customer service people’s fault that things are fucky with his Sybian delivery.
“So, unfortunately, I’m afraid I have some bad news,” the lady on the other end says regretfully. “The website hadn’t been recently updated when you ordered, so the product is actually out of stock. The soonest we can get your package to you is in two weeks.” They do sound truly remorseful, but that doesn’t keep Bucky’s face from falling with disappointment.
“Oh.”
“We’re so sorry about the inconvenience.”
“It’s okay,” Bucky mumbles. “Is there any way we could get a refund on the overnight shipping, then?” He’s trying with all his might to stay calm, but he’s unable to keep the upset out of his tone.
Steve looks up at that, a frown settling onto his own face. He ducks forward and mutely kisses Bucky’s sternum through the Snuggie. It feels nice, but it doesn’t make Bucky feel better, either.
Bucky stays on the line for a few more minutes to secure the refund on the shipping before hanging up and letting the phone fall into the couch cushions. He stands up, untwining himself from Steve, and starts pacing the length of the living room, a frown splitting his face. The Snuggie makes it hard to walk, and he has to hold it up like some pissed-off princess with a bad case of blue balls.
He just wants to ride a stupid Sybian. It shouldn’t be bothering him this much, but it is. His skin feels too tight for his body, and he has a lump in his throat. He’s not going to cry, though, because as much as he is a pillow princess and embodies the Platonic ideal of a whiny bottom and loves being stuffed with cock until he feels sick, this isn’t really that big a deal. The Sybian is still coming, just not right then.
Just like Bucky.
Nevertheless, there’s still an unpleasant sinking sensation in his stomach, leaving him cold inside the fleece hug of the Snuggie. He knows it’s disappointment, but he can’t help but feel a little silly for feeling so fucked up about something that, in the grand scheme of things, is a small issue.
Bucky turns around to pace the length of the room again, but walks square into Steve’s broad chest. Steve always moves silently despite his bulk, and it never fails to surprise Bucky. Instead of backing away and apologizing like he would normally, though, Bucky just wraps his arms around Steve and shoves his face into Steve’s chest.
“Now I’m really upset,” Bucky grumbles into the junction between Steve’s shoulder and pec.
“Oh, sweetheart,” Steve whispers sympathetically. He returns Bucky’s gesture, enveloping Bucky in a nice-smelling hug. Bucky kisses the soft cotton of Steve’s T-shirt. Maybe he’ll ask Steve to let him wear it to bed tonight. Bucky loves wearing Steve’s clothes to sleep, especially when he’s in a bad mood.
“I have blue balls now,” Bucky whines.
Steve huffs a laugh. Bucky’s pretty sure it’s not meant to be condescending, but it feels that way and Bucky frowns, tries to push back from Steve. He likes when Steve’s mean sometimes (usually when Bucky has come three times and Steve looks at him with darkness in his eyes and tells him to keep stripping his own cock), but right now it’s the opposite of what he needs.
Steve holds Bucky fast, though, keeping him from escaping the hug.
“Don’t be mean,” Bucky says, pouting. “You were just as excited as I was.”
Steve shakes his head like Bucky’s an idiot. “I’m not trying to be mean, love. Maybe we can fix this,” Steve says softly.
“How?” Bucky whines. “The Sybian isn't coming.”
“Maybe not, but you will,” Steve says reverently before starting to chuckle loudly. The sound reverberates through Bucky’s Snuggie and tickles him, to Bucky’s great confusion. Why would Steve joke about that at a time like this?
“Okay, Buck,” Steve says, still coming down from his giggle fit, “have you had enough to drink? Are you hungry?”
Bucky’s eyes narrow. Steve only asks that if he’s about to do a scene with Bucky, but he knows for a fact Steve’s not going to because Bucky’s fucking Sybian isn’t here, and that’s the scene they had planned. Steve doesn’t do anything without at least a few minutes of forethought.
Bucky doesn’t say anything in response -- instead, he just shrugs. He undoubtedly trusts Steve to have something fun in mind, but Bucky’s heart was really set on the stupid Sybian. “I guess, but what’s the point?”
Steve snorts again, like Bucky’s a semi-cute, mostly stupid animal whose antics Steve is absently watching. “That mean you’re all fine, sweetheart?”
“I am, but what are we even gonna do? I wanna be fucked,” Bucky complains.
Steve shifts back and rubs his hands over the Bucky’s fleece-clad biceps.
“Yeah, honey, I know that it feels like the end of the world. Come to the bedroom with me, anyway?” Steve’s voice is nauseatingly saccharine.
“You better not disappoint me, Rogers,” Bucky grumbles even as he follows Steve into their bedroom. Upset as Bucky is, if Steve checked in with him (albeit briefly) and wants to go to their bedroom, it probably means something good for Bucky. It might not be the Sybian, sure, but the bedroom is where they keep all their good toys. Maybe Steve will fuck him with the humongous yellow dildo, the one thicker than Bucky’s forearm. Or maybe the aneros, or a steel butt plug, or one of their many shiny sounds. Bucky’s annoyed and disappointed, but not annoyed enough or disappointed enough to cut off his nose to spite his face.
Steve plants Bucky by the door frame with a quick kiss to the forehead, then hurries off to their closet. They keep mostly impact play stuff in there, which Bucky generally isn’t averse to, but definitely doesn’t want now -- he’s in too much of a negative headspace for that.
Bucky opens his mouth to tell Steve that he doesn’t want that, but Steve is already out of the closet and heading toward the king-sized bed with a purple body pillow in hand.
Bucky’s eyes narrow -- that pillow is for when Bucky needs more cuddles than even Steve doing his best impression of an octopus can provide, when Bucky needs to both be spooned and spoon something. They’d gotten it when Bucky had sprained his ankle ice skating, so he needed to keep it elevated even in his sleep. Since then, it’d just been a cuddle pillow.
It’s definitely not a tool for when one wants to be fucked as hard as Bucky does.
“I don’t wanna cuddle.” Bucky pouts and crosses his arms over his fleecy chest. “Wanna be fucked.”
“Good news for you, then, Buck. I have no intention of cuddling you. Take off the Snuggie.”
Maybe the body pillow is for some new position or something. Bucky doesn’t care as long as Steve gets a fucking plastic cock in his ass sometime this century. Bucky shrugs off the Snuggie, folding it and putting it back onto it’s special shelf in his closet before turning back to Steve.
He’s shirtless and shaved and naked except for the flimsy panties. Anyone else and Bucky would be nervous, but with Steve he just feels the pit in his stomach grow hot.
Steve’s watching Bucky carefully. It isn’t quite ravenous -- Steve is far too dignified to ever look ravenous -- but the attraction is clear. As asexual as Steve is, he always goes above and beyond to make sure that Bucky knows he is sexy and beautiful and so, so adored and desired. He’s pulling that out in spades now, and it’s working, Bucky’s cock beginning to show interest again.
“You’re fucking gorgeous, sweetie. Love your little panties. Twirl for me?” Steve requests.
Bucky blushes despite his anger and does an obliging turn, letting Steve see all sides of the high-backed, pink lace panties.
“Gorgeous. I get you those in Paris?” Steve asks casually, leaning on the bed and toeing off his sneakers.
“Milan,” Bucky corrects gently. Steve had gotten them for him, but, at dinner that same night, Bucky’d nearly spilled gelato on the neat packaging, so Steve had carried it for the rest of the trip for safekeeping.
“Milan,” Steve repeats. “I remember now. God, I love the stockings I got you there.” Steve swings onto the bed, leaning against the headboard, his jean-clad legs long and imposing.
Bucky does remember the stockings -- they’re sheer and pink to match the panties and tucked away somewhere in the back of his closet. “Would you like me to put them on?” Bucky prompts.
“No, baby, you’d wear out the knees. Come over here.”
Bucky isn’t quite sure how Steve plans to wear out the knees of his stockings with a body pillow, but he shrugs and walks over to the bed. He starts to crawl up the foot, but Steve shakes his head firmly.
“No, babe. Go up on that side,” Steve corrects with a jerk of his head gesturing to Bucky’s side of the bed, where the body pillow is splayed out, not quite invitingly. That makes no sense -- if the point is to get on Steve’s lap the way it normally is, why does Bucky have to climb up the whole other side of the bed?
“Why? It’ll just make it harder for me to get over there,” Bucky challenges.
“Trust me, love.”
Bucky sighs, long and drawn out. Steve sounds like those parents who yell at their kids to stop doing stuff for no reason other than the parents being pedantic and annoying. “That’s dumb, Steve.”
Steve doesn’t grace that with a reply. Instead, he just fixes Bucky with a cold stare, the one he uses when Bucky is getting bratty about Steve not fucking him fast enough or when Bucky maxes out a credit card on accident (which has only happened once, but still). The gaze pins Bucky to the floor, so he follows Steve’s instructions, cowed, and walks over to the other side of the bed.
Of course, that means that Bucky has to scale over the stupid pillow, just to get in Steve’s lap. Steve doesn’t even have a dildo or lube or anything. Maybe he could have something in his pocket, but no dildo big enough to satisfy Bucky would fit in there, and Steve hates lube packets because they get too messy, so he probably doesn’t. The whole thing puts Bucky off even more. As much as he thinks a little bit of pain and stretch is hot during sex, completely dry fingering sounds fucking awful.
“You don’t even have lube. Why am I doing this?” Bucky scoffs, clambering onto the bed.
He hooks one leg over the stupid body pillow and is about to swing himself over it completely, but Steve interrupts him. “Stop there, love. That’s perfect.”
Steve leans over and puts his hand on Bucky’s ankle. The touch is warm, but still confusing. What is Steve planning? Steve is definitely using his Bucky-needs-to-be-fucked- good demeanor, but he has no way of fucking Bucky. Maybe he’s going to get up and get something, but then why make Bucky get on the bed now? Steve loves to make Bucky wait and squirm, but, on the body pillow, he’d get relief if he did that. Which Steve almost certainly doesn’t want, since his favorite pastime is watching Bucky writhe in desperation.
It doesn’t make any sense.
Bucky’s confusion must show on his face because Steve makes a soft, sympathetic sound. It makes heat grow in Bucky’s belly, in a bewildering mix of anticipation and arousal and frustration at Steve’s condescension.
“You must be so confused. Poor thing,” Steve says. The words just add to the growing boil in Bucky’s belly. The little bit of humiliation gets Bucky, no question about it, but at the same time he just wants to know what’s going on and Steve’s keeping him from understanding that.
Steve’s touch on Bucky’s ankle tightens before falling away, moving to press into the small of Bucky’s back. Steve’s hand, soft (from Bucky moisturizing him) and warm (because Steve is a human furnace), is broad on Bucky’s skin. The tip of his pinky brushes the delicate lace of the panties, and the thumb reaches up between Bucky’s shoulder blades.
Steve makes Bucky feel absolutely tiny. Bucky loves it, loves that Steve can carry him without breaking a sweat, that he throws Bucky on the bed just for fun, that he can lay into Bucky within an inch of his life without breaking a sweat.
“Feel settled?” Steve asks, leaning over and kissing the top of Bucky’s head.
“No,” Bucky replies petulantly.
Steve laughs, hearty and deep, like Bucky greatly amuses him.
“That’s okay, sweetheart. You can take your time.” Steve swallows now and grins wolfishly.
“Steve, why am I on a stupid pil-”
“Now go ahead and ride that pillow for me, Buck.”
“Huh?”
It’s a literal record scratch. Bucky’s cluttered thoughts just halt. Steve said what?
“Hump your pillow, baby. That make sense?” Steve repeats like Bucky’s the stupidest thing in the world, like he’s a three year old asking why he can’t fly, like he’s asking why Steve thinks his crying face is sexy.
“No,” Bucky mumbles, completely at a loss. Sure, the direction itself makes sense. Steve wants him to hump his body pillow; it’s not like it’s rocket science. That said, Bucky doesn’t get why Steve wants him to. He won’t be getting fucked, and it won’t be anything close to the experience of a Sybian.
It’ll be way more humiliating than the scene they had planned, besides. It makes him feel like a teenager who hasn’t figured out what a vibrator is yet. There’s something about humping a pillow that feels so much more dirty-bad-wrong than just getting dicked, something deeply shameful about the whole endeavor.
Well, Steve probably likes that part.
“What don’t you get, lovebug?” Steve’s hands wind into Bucky’s hair and tug ever-so-gently, more a soothing touch than a real pull, the same way he runs his hands through Bucky’s hair when he’s putting in conditioner in the shower.
“Why?” Bucky grits out. Sure, having his cock trapped between his own crotch and the body pillow feels nice, especially while wrapped in pretty pink lace. He would love to grind back and forth, moan despite himself, feel utterly overwhelmed and happy about it.
But it’s not getting fucked.
“You wanted to ride something. Here’s something,” Steve scoffs dismissively, letting Bucky’s hair drop from his hands and settling back where he was before. He’s reclining on the headboard like he has all the time in the world, hands behind his head, legs spread out. If he was wearing fewer clothes, he’d look like he was on the beach.
While Bucky wouldn’t mind that, it’s still not really what he needs.
“But I need to get fucked. I need something inside,” Bucky argues.
“You don’t need to get fucked, dumbass. You just want to because you’re a whore for it.” Steve’s tone is casual. It almost reminds Bucky of when Steve gives him feedback on their chess games, and fuck if that doesn’t induce a bunch of woozy fantasies into Bucky’s addled brain.
“But you promised,” Bucky says weakly.
“You had a dildo in you last night, and you’ll get another before breakfast tomorrow. Ride the pillow,” Steve orders. He watches Bucky lazily.
Bucky doesn't move, is still stock-still and straddling the pillow. He can’t even find any way to speak. It feels like he’s been sucker-punched but, like, in a good way. Overwhelmed and turned-around and out-of-his-fucking- skull horny.
Steve, almost in response to Bucky’s stunned silence, exhales through his nose and rolls his eyes. “I have all the time in the world, Buck. There’s no rush. I’ll be here when you realize how good you’re gonna feel.”
Bucky doesn’t move a muscle. He doesn’t want to rub on a stupid pillow like a dog that needs to be fixed. He wants a dildo, or a strap-on, or an aneros, or something, and he informs Steve as much.
“I don’t wanna fuck a pillow. I wanna be fucked.”
“You’re not fucking the pillow, honey. Your little prick’s not big enough for that.”
Bucky shudders involuntarily. They don’t play at this often -- it makes Bucky horribly overwhelmed, makes him unsteady and twitchy and insatiable. Steve knows exactly what he’s doing.
“Steve,” Bucky argues in a small voice. The fight’s gone out of him, and he knows Steve can tell, but he does have a little pride.
They both know Bucky has a normally sized cock. It’s not a huge monster like what Steve has packing, but it’s perfectly normal. Average. Standard. It’s by no means too small to fuck something -- Bucky’s three or four sleeves can attest to that. Still, it’s deliciously shameful when Steve says that. At the same time that it makes Bucky feel small, it makes arousal bloom red-hot in his belly and his cheeks.
“You don’t have to agree, honey. I know I’m right. Take your time.”
And Steve grabs the TV remote from the nightstand and flicks on the flatscreen on the wall opposite them, the one facing Bucky’s bare back.
Like it’s nothing. Like it’s meaningless, and casual. Bucky can hear the sounds of the nightly news begin to play, and he looks at Steve, utterly aghast.
Steve’s impassive, his eyes entirely focused on the screen, his hands resting by his sides. The blue glow of the screen is bright on the bridge of Steve’s nose, but that and the murmur of the anchors is Bucky’s only indication that anything is happening at all. Steve could just be staring into space. There is absolutely no indication that he’s affected by this, by Bucky, at all.
Which, Bucky supposes, is accurate, since he knows Steve does this purely for Bucky’s benefit.
Bucky swallows, throat dry. His dick is straining painfully in the panties. He reaches his hand down, slow like he’s trying not to startle himself-
“Hands off, greedy boy. That’s not what you’re here for,” Steve says sharply. He doesn’t even look at Bucky. He just knows.
Bucky whines, high and needy. It doesn’t do anything, but he can’t help it. He’s just so . . . overwhelmed. Steve is doing exactly what Bucky fantasized about -- ignoring him in favor of something much more interesting, the nightly news story about the fucking school board election, yet it’s just a lot, all of a suden. The purposeful inattention makes Bucky feel hot and cold all over, like a high fever, like a sunburn in the middle of winter.
“Steve,” Bucky tries again. He instinctively seeks out Steve’s attention, can’t help it, even though it’s so, so much better now that Steve is ignoring him.
Steve holds up his index finger, a be-right-with-you gesture that would be rude if it wasn’t making Bucky’s cock weep.
Bucky gasps. It’s practically an out-of-body experience when his hips roll into the pillow, almost of their own accord. Bucky barely has any control over himself. He feels arousal tingling in his dick, his hole, his belly, the creases of his hips, the back of his throat. It burns at the same time that he tries to relax into it.
The pillow is a relief. It’s rough because of the panties, but soothing, too. It’s a good material for him to rub his cock onto, not too mushy but not too stiff. He does it again, just a simple grind back and forth. He might make the same movement on a Sybian if the Sybian was turned off, if he was just rubbing on it.
It feels almost itchy, in the way that he can’t resist doing it again and again and again, the way that there’s a constant need making his skin warm and his body unable to keep still. Steve wasn’t wrong. The humping does feel good, especially now that Steve’s ignoring him. Feels dirty and wrong and shameful and hot, so, so hot.
“There we go, baby. Rubbing your clit into the pillow feels good, yeah?”
Bucky looks up, nearly startled by Steve’s gravelly voice. He’s still in the same relaxed pose as before, his dick soft as ever in his jeans, but now his eyes are focused on Bucky. It’s already more, knowing that Bucky has an audience, but one that doesn’t even care enough to be aroused. It’s overwhelming, and Bucky whines with shame and lust.
“I don’t have a clit,” Bucky protests through gasps. His hips are still rolling in slow, dirty grinds. “I’m not a girl.”
“Could’ve fooled me,” Steve replies. He’s smirking now, and it’s so much all at once. Steve knows exactly what he’s doing, and he’s enjoying it.
“Steve,” Bucky begs fruitlessly.
“Your clit’s pretty small and pink, like a girl’s. And it’s right in front of a sopping wet hole, like a girl’s. And it’s wrapped up in lacy panties, like a girl’s. And rubbing onto a pillow, like a girl.”
“Holy shit,” Bucky squeaks.
“If it looks like one and humps like one, it probably is one, yeah?”
Bucky can’t even make a sound at that. He’s choking on his own gasp.
Bucky wants to fight Steve on his assertion, but the words, unkind as they are, absolutely melt Bucky. He can’t even draw a full breath. It feels like he’s been hit in the face at the same time as he’s been wrapped in a hug. He’s tingly all over.
It’s just so much.
Bucky’s throat and eyes are burning, and he takes a shuddery breath. His hips are rocking faster, and the relief does feel good. It’s like he’s passing Steve’s words right through him, from where they entered his ears to where he’s grinding into the pillow.
Bucky wants to be held, to be touched, but Steve is back to watching a commercial for fucking laundry detergent like it’s about twelve thousand times more interesting than Bucky, so Bucky doesn’t ask for it.
Instead, he collapses forward onto the pillow, tummy and chest pressed into the memory foam and face shoved into the pillowcase. It smells like them, like their bed and their mixed smells, Bucky’s shampoo but Steve’s body wash, and it’s utterly overwhelming.
It feels like home at the same time that it’s so dirty and wanton. Bucky’s just hugging it, albeit with a rather unsavory motion in his lower half, yet he can’t even get a full breath.
Bucky rolls his hips and moans, incapable of doing much else. This does feel good. It feels great. The Sybian, or lack thereof, is the last thing in his mind. Who needs a Sybian when you have a body pillow that smells like the person you love most in the world?
Bucky tilts his head up ever-so-slightly to look at Steve. Steve’s absently scratching his beard, looking utterly relaxed. He hasn’t even undone his belt, despite the fact that they’re laying in bed and that can’t be comfortable. He’s just watching TV placidly.
The sight makes Bucky rub harder, grinding his swollen cock into the pillow with abandon. He’s humping so hard that he’s panting with exertion, his forehead growing sweaty and his cheeks ruddy. So hard that the headboard is smacking against the wall, even with Steve’s added weight. So hard that the whole bed is jiggling, jostling Steve, and still Steve ignores him.
It’d be funny if it wasn’t sending Bucky into a tailspin of arousal.
Bucky lets out a wail, and shoves his face into the pillow like it’ll provide relief from the burning need in his belly.
“Bucky, hush. I’m trying to hear the weather,” Steve scolds, his tone annoyed yet casual, an office worker asking their coworker to quiet down.
Bucky looks back up. He knows his eyes are wide and weepy, and that Steve loves it even as it’s painfully embarrassing.
“I can’t,” Bucky whines.
Steve glares, the kind of expression he makes when something really pisses him off, like someone kicking a puppy or something.
“Yes, you can keep it the fuck down. Just because you’re a cockwhore doesn’t mean that you can interrupt everyone else’s day.”
It should be funny because even as Steve is scolding him, he’s literally wobbling with the force with which Bucky’s moving the bed. But it’s not. Instead, it’s shameful.
Bucky’s ruining Steve’s day because he can’t help himself but hump a pillow. It’s just a sack of memory foam, yet Bucky can’t bear to keep from defiling it.
“You told me to,” Bucky says weakly.
Steve rolls his eyes with so much disdain that Bucky feels cold all over. He still hasn’t stopped rolling his hips. “I told you to hump a pillow, not to act like a filthy, suppressed teenage girl.”
That does it for Bucky. The lump in his throat breaks, and he chokes out a broken sob. Tears are suddenly running down his face, into his mouth, down his chest, onto the pillow. It’s burning hot and painfully uncomfortable. No one likes crying, even when it’s surrounded by something as sexy as this.
Bucky’s hips stutter to a stop -- it’s jerky, rough, uncomfortable. He feels broken, graceless, and pained. He wants to keep going, is nearly teetering on the knife’s edge of orgasm, but he can’t.
He can’t do it.
He’s just a filthy teenage girl humping a pillow.
A filthy teenage girl whose own boyfriend can’t be bothered to watch her do it.
Bucky wraps his arms around the pillow and hugs it. He’s still prone, so he squeezes with his legs, too. He’s crying into the pillow. Everything is just so much.
It’s all piling up: Steve’s indifference and disdain and the lace cutting into his hips and the firm pillow beneath him and the way his tummy distantly hurts from mushing it into the cushioning. Even the sound of some news correspondent talking about the new mall opening is overwhelming.
“Don’t you dare stop, Buck. Sooner you get it over with, the sooner I can actually hear the goddamn news,” Steve says distantly.
It’s all Bucky can do to lift his face enough to look at Steve. On the surface, he’s utterly impassive. His arms are crossed, his head is quirked with annoyance, and he’s staring right at Bucky. Bucky knows Steve sees all of it, sees how Bucky is a mess -- his hair is slick with sweat, he has tears and snot running down his face, and he’s shivering with overwhelmed pleasure. His cheeks are hot and he knows he must be red all over. He’s still so hard, but he can’t bring himself to move an inch.
Despite the scowl on Steve’s face, though, Bucky can see his eyes are soft. They’re the eyes he saves for aftercare, or breakfast in bed, or when Bucky cuts himself while cooking. They’re scanning Bucky down, seeing everything, yeah, but also checking in everywhere, making sure nowhere’s hurting in a bad way.
“Keep going,” Steve says softly, threateningly.
Bucky tries to follow directions. He gives an aborted thrust of his hips, but it lights a painful spark deep in his belly. It’s like nausea, but harsher, sharper. Even the feeling of the lace on Bucky’s skin is itchy and irritating and painful. He suddenly feels almost dizzy, like he’s gonna hurl.
It’s all just too much.
“Can’t. It’s a lot,” Bucky tries to say, but his voice breaks in the middle, and then he’s hiccuping a sob.
Steve’s moving immediately, before Bucky can even swallow another cry. The bed shifts and Bucky would topple off his perch, but then Steve’s there to steady him before Bucky gets the chance. He settles into a comfortable cross-legged position next to the body pillow, his shins pressing against the side of Bucky’s folded legs.
The mere tiny amount of contact makes it instantly better. Still too much, but better.
It’s a lot, but Steve’s here. He’s not ignoring Bucky. He was just doing that for fun, doing it because Bucky likes it, and Steve likes when Bucky likes something. Bucky’s okay.
Bucky heaves a deep, labored breath full of relief.
“Can I touch you, love?” Steve asks carefully.
Bucky nods, and Steve’s hands press, cool and confident, into Bucky’s back, one in the small of it and one between his shoulder blades. The touch is light, incredibly gentle, the way one touches a baby bird.
“Steve,” Bucky moans helplessly through tears that haven’t stopped falling.
“Yeah, baby, I’m here,” Steve reassures, the venom gone from his voice.
“So much,” Bucky tries to explain.
“Oh, sweetheart, I can tell. Do you wanna stop?”
Bucky shakes his head, because he still wants to come, always does.
But when his hips make an aborted jerk on the pillow, he gasps. It’s still too much, too overwhelming. It feels like nausea building right before one throws up. It doesn’t feel good to rub himself on the pillow anymore. As much as it makes his dick ache to keep still, that at least negates the sick feeling. There’s no good option here, though.
In the background, an announcer discusses a new line of hoodies, and it reinforces how impersonal it all is. Bucky twitches, and Steve must read his mind because his hand flies away, the TV flicks off, and then Steve’s right back on his skin.
“Shhh,” Steve soothes. “You must be feeling a lot right now.”
Bucky hiccups because he is.
Steve knows him, and it makes Bucky want to hug Steve so badly. Steve takes such good care of him.
“It’s so much,” Bucky agrees, rubbing his cheek on the pillowcase, partially to dry his tears and partially to ground himself.
“Yeah, sweetie, I know. Do you wanna keep going? It’s okay to say no. We can put you right back in your Snuggie if you need.”
Bucky laughs wetly at that, snorting. That makes Steve chuckle, too, and the sound soothes Bucky.
“Check in with yourself, sweetheart. I meant what I said about having all the time in the world,” Steve adds, a hand coming up to tuck some of the hair that had fallen across Bucky’s forehead behind his ear before returning to plant on his back.
Bucky does a quick body scan per Steve’s instructions. His head feels fine, if a little stuffy from the crying. His face is still hot, but it’s not painful, just embarrassing. His throat is tight, again from crying, but it’s loosening with every deep breath he takes. His chest feels normal, his nipples sensitive with arousal. His tummy hurts, but if he adjusts, he’ll be fine. His feet and legs feel regular, if a little tingly with arousal in his inner thighs. His hole feels fine, good, even, with the lace. His dick is definitely sore, but not to the point of pain.
Even with all the sensation Bucky’s been getting, he can determine that he’s generally okay. A little tired and a lot overwhelmed, but he’s still hard, and the pillow’s still pressed up to him.
He could come, if Steve’s gentle about it, so he nods in affirmation, agrees to keep going.
“Can you use your words, honey?” Steve asks. His hands are still present and careful on Bucky’s skin.
“I can keep going,” Bucky murmurs, his voice still thick.
Steve smiles, his eyes infinitely kinder than they had been mere minutes ago. “Great, baby. Just go nice and slow for me, okay? Doesn’t need to be too much. Just back and forth,” Steve instructs lightly.
Bucky listens, grinding back and forth in tiny, barely noticeable movements. It does feel good, sweet and warm like the tea Steve likes to drink in the evening, especially with Steve’s hands on Bucky, with his soothing words in Bucky’s ear. As much as Bucky loves being ignored and talked down to, nothing can beat how safe he feels with Steve near him, praising him.
“So good, Bucky. So great at this. Hump on your little clit for me, yeah?”
Oh, that’s good. Perfect amount of shame and gentleness and praise. Bucky can’t help but gasp and hide his embarrassed face in the pillow. At the same time as he starts to hide, though, his hips increase speed nearly of their own accord. He’s close. Really, he’s been close -- he just wanted a small break before being ready.
He only needs a little more.
“Great job, baby. Such a good girl for me. You’re so close. Just a little more. Your clit likes it, yeah?”
Bucky starts going faster, his hands finding purchase on the bed and shoving him into a seat once again. Instead of tilting his head down to hide his wanton expression, he now lets it fall back, lets his hair brush his bare shoulders and make him shiver.
He moans, indecent, encouraged by Steve’s filthy words. The panties are rough on his cock, and he feels sweat drip between his shoulder blades. Steve’s hands are still planted on him, shifted to hold his thigh.
“My clit likes it,” Bucky whimpers. He knows it’s in no way a clit, but it makes him feel shuddery and hot all over to call it one, to watch Steve’s face light up as he does.
“It feels good?” Steve prompts.
“Feels so good,” Bucky agrees. He can barely look at Steve; he's so hot and hard and overwhelmed.
“Such a good girl for me, Buck. So good,” Steve praises.
Bucky’s hips jerk back and forth violently -- he’s gonna have a rash tomorrow from the lace of the panties, but that doesn’t seem to matter so much right now. What matters is grinding himself into the pillow, to and fro just a few more times, and chasing the orgasm that’s making his whole body feel fuzzy. His balls catch the seam of the panties, the edge of them feeling the soaked pillow beneath him. He’s messy with sweat and pre and tears, and the sensation is just so much.
“Oh, Steve,” Bucky manages to groan.
“Filthy princess. You can do it, Buck. Just give your clit a few more good rubs.” Steve’s grip on Bucky’s thigh tightens with his words. “You’re doing so well. We can probably still catch the nine o’clock news.”
That, the meanness layered with the loving, that does it for Bucky.
He shudders and shoots into his panties before collapsing his chin into his chest. He’s shaking, his fingers and toes reflexively clenching and unclenching. He lets out a tiny shriek of Steve’s name as he gyrates his hips for a few more precious moments before it really starts to hurt.
Bucky flops forward before rolling onto his back next to the pillow, his thighs draped heavily over Steve’s crossed legs. It’s not the most comfortable position, sure, but Bucky is too overwhelmed to care at all.
He feels good. He feels safe. He feels sated.
“Oh, Bucky, I love you so much,” Steve says reverently. His hands rub Bucky’s smooth thighs, back and forth, not too hard, but not tickling, either. Reassuring. Soothing. Full of Steve.
Bucky would reply, but his mouth appears to be full of glue, so he just makes a happy, gentle moaning sound, a little “ungh” that’s unintelligible but makes Steve laugh nonetheless.
“Yeah, baby. Me too.”
Steve gently scoots back from underneath Bucky’s legs and settles them on the bed. Bucky’s loathe to have less contact with Steve, but he can stretch out and relax now, so he doesn’t protest.
“Let’s get you out of these panties, love. They’re absolutely soaked,” Steve comments. The words make Bucky flush, but he lets Steve manhandle him, lift his hips and tug the panties off. The cool air on his semen-slick skin feels good.
“Oh, yeah, Buck, these are ruined,” Steve says, a laugh in his voice. He’s staring at the panties, his face painted with a wide grin. “Guess I just gotta take you back to Milan, huh?”
Bucky likes that idea, and he expresses it with a small grunt. He loves how Steve is talking to him without expecting an answer. He feels seen and heard without feeling pressure. Oh, Bucky loves Steve.
“Let’s wipe you up, babe.” Steve lowers a washcloth that he must have gotten before the scene even started to Bucky’s spread legs. He cleans Bucky quickly and gently, cooing in sympathy when Bucky squirms as Steve wipes at his genitals.
“I know, sweetheart,” Steve murmurs, kissing Bucky’s belly button once he’s done. He tosses the washcloth somewhere, and then he’s back, wrapping Bucky in a hug and leaning his own back against the headboard.
Steve’s cozy and comfy and safe, and Bucky loves him, loves his creativity.
Who needs a Sybian when they could have Steve Rogers?