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“Are you sure, Buck?” Steve asks softly, body frozen in the act of shrugging out of his bomber jacket. Bucky knows what his answer is, what he wants to say, yes, god, please yes. But, what if Steve is the one who isn’t sure, who isn’t ready…
“I -,” Bucky is momentarily confused. His face crumples, and he thinks he might be sick. “I thought you might want… I mean, like during the war, and I… But, no, it’s fine,” he says hastily. He starts to push off from the wall, readying to gather his things and leave. “Stupid of me, you’re busy, meetings and all. No time, just forget it, it’s fine, really.”
It’s just that, since they found each other again, Steve's been so goddamn careful with him. After all the things Bucky has been forced to do, all the people he’s been forced to hurt, he knows that Steve will think this is asking too much. And he hasn’t wanted Stevie to look at him like he’s depraved for even considering this, so he’s remained silent. Even though he’s wanted this so badly sometimes he’s thought he might burn up from the inside out, the fire within consuming him until there is nothing left. And lately, something in Steve's eyes has made Bucky think he's not alone in this.
Across the room, Steve looks distressed, and Bucky wishes he hadn’t brought this up. It’s taken months for Bucky to work up the courage. He has wondered everyday if there is something wrong with him, because how can he still want to do this? Or maybe he's just as fucked in the head as he suspects, and this never happened. Suddenly he thinks he should really be someplace else, and he starts to move towards the door.
“No, Bucky, wait,” Steve calls out desperately, crossing the room in three large strides, placing his hand on Bucky’s arm. “I do want this, so fucking much. I just thought you didn’t.”
“Wasn’t sure if maybe I was remembering things wrong again.” Bucky’s voice is soft, and unsure. “We did do this, didn’t we? Back then?”
“Yeah, we did, Buck.”
Bucky swallows hard, “Is it ‘cause you’re afraid of me now?"
Steve lifts a hand to Bucky’s cheek, tilts his face down and soothes him with a kiss. Slips his tongue into Bucky’s mouth and silences him more effectively than if he’d struck him. “You’re not gonna hurt me, ok? Come on, let’s start over. If you still want to.”
Closing his eyes, Steve smiles when he Bucky threads long fingers into his hair. Then, he tugs roughly, pulling Steve back.
“I thought I told you to get undressed.”
Bucky’s words seem to slide down Steve’s body like rain, the change beginning with his eyes, working its way down his limbs, his cock jumping, already beginning to fill.
Steve drops his jacket where he stands, fingers flying up to his collar, working open the buttons hurriedly. Bucky’s eyes greedily rake over his bare skin. He pops each button open, licking his lips, likely knowing how that always drives Bucky crazy.
Tossing his shirt behind him, Steve starts on his pants next. He unbuckles the belt, pulls it free. As much as he loves the sight of Steve in his uniform, Bucky is ever so grateful he’s in civvies today. Steve proceeds to kick off his shoes, maybe a bit too enthusiastically when one hits the wall next to Bucky’s head with a loud thunk. Then in one fluid motion, Steve shucks his pants and boxers at the same time.
Steve is naked from the waist down, having left on only his undershirt, his cock standing rigid and flushed. Already Bucky aches to touch him, to do something besides just stand there and stare. Steve keeps his eyes lowered, never straying any higher than Bucky’s groin area.
Tentatively, Bucky reaches a hand out, warm, flesh and blood palm laid flat against Steve’s chest, who hums happily at the contact.
“We, um, we didn’t talk about anything yet…” Bucky sighs, starts over. “Safe word?”
“Come on, Buck,” Steve says impatiently. “You’re not gonna hurt-”
“Safe word?” Bucky interrupts.
Steve’s cock twitches in expectancy. “Cyclone,” he breathes.
Bucky swallows thickly. “Still?”
When Steve nods, Bucky clears his throat. “Okay, good. Charcoal.” Like Steve’s favorite pencils.
They’ve been waiting months, it’s time to begin. “On your knees, soldier,” Bucky growls from behind, voice pitched low and gravelly, the way he remembers Steve likes it.
Steve doesn’t answer, doesn’t acknowledge the order in any way, other than to fall to the floor, mostly naked, kneeling at Bucky’s feet.
“Hands behind your back. Don’t move unless I tell you to. Is that clear?”
Again, Steve remains silent, his perfect obedience the only answer needed.
“Don’t think you’ll be needing this,” Bucky drawls, and slips the tip of a blade between the thin strap of Steve’s undershirt and his skin. One quick, harsh tug, and the strap rips. The other side quickly follows.
Steve’s breath catches in his throat when Bucky drags the point of a dull switchblade down his arm. A thin, raised, line forms in its wake, pale pink visible against the backdrop of Steve’s golden-fair skin. The steel drags back up again, giving the line a twin. Across his chest, down, catching in the fabric of the flimsy shirt, ripping it open easily.
Placing the small knife between his teeth, Bucky reaches out with both hands and places them against Steve’s chest, caresses his body gently before sliding the now ruined shirt off.
Bucky moves behind Steve, bends down, wraps the remains of the muscle shirt tight around Steve’s wrists. The white fabric whispers softly where it brushes against bare skin. He doesn’t tie it, doesn’t need to, simply places the ends into Steve’s long fingers. The super soldier could easily break free, anytime he wants to, the thrill is in knowing that he won’t.
He takes his time in undressing himself behind Steve, drops the switchblade into the pocket of his pants- it won’t be needed right now, and instead pulls an evil, vicious looking thing in its place. Stepping around to face Steve, Bucky twirls his combat knife, the one with the wicked sharp, serrated edged, made for catching on flesh and tearing it. Steve’s chest rises and falls evenly, taking deep, measured breaths. “Color?”
“Green,” Steve exhales.
The shining tip of the knife is pressed against Steve’s collarbone, and Bucky flicks his hand down sharply, the blade slicing open the skin, and blood welling up immediately. Steve gasps, fingers tightening on the bindings in his hands. It doesn’t mean stop, though. That's what the safe words are for, though Bucky is the only one who’s ever used his.
The wound is small, and shallow, but it still weeps. Steve’s eyes glance down, sees the red standing out so starkly against his skin, and shivers. Unyielding metal fingers twist into the short strands of golden blond hair, pulling and yanking hard to the side.
Bucky leans down, mouth at Steve’s ear, and breathes, “Do you like that? You do, don’t you?” He speaks to capture Steve’s attention- the blond is not expecting it when a fine streak of fire blooms on the opposite side of his body, eyes going glassy, a sharp intake of breath sounding from him.
Upright once more, Bucky skims the knife down, teasing, making seemingly random slices along the way, and finally, comes to rest at Steve’s sternum. Thin, red rivulets stream down the muscles of Steve’s upper body. Bucky presses the tip of his knife forward, and carves what looks like a “3” right in the middle of Steve’s chest. “Зима,” he says roughly. Winter. The marks will not last; by the end of their little game, Steve’s body will once more be a blank canvas, free to be marked all over again. The thought excites them both.
Steve is biting his lip now in silent determination, and his body trembles all over. Brushing his fingers through the blood that seeps from the wound, Bucky places them at Steve’s lips, smears the blood against his mouth. He pulls his precious boy into a filthy kiss, coppery taste flooding his mouth and igniting his own need further. Steve kisses back fiercely, coaxing Bucky’s tongue into his mouth and sucking on it, making him groan.
Pulling away, Bucky goes to stand behind Steve’s back once more, and the blond whines, actually fucking whines at the loss. Like this, Steve cannot see him, is ignorant of what Bucky is or isn’t doing. “I want to see you touch yourself,” Bucky whispers.
Obeying, Steve reaches down, takes hold of his cock, flushed and leaking, and slowly, begins to stroke. Bucky kneels down to press himself to Steve’s back. He slides one hand, the metal one now holding the dull blade again, around Steve’s waist, holding him in place, the knife dragging insistently against tender flesh with each movement Steve makes The other he splays over Steve’s chest, and the cut that still bleeds. He rubs the red, slippery wetness into Steve’s creamy, smooth, skin. Steve’s eyelashes flutter, and he moans softly, a wanton, desperate sound.
The blond continues to stroke, and Bucky presses his mouth to the soft spot where shoulder meets neck, and bites down hard. Steve cries out in his arms, and arches backward into Bucky’s body. “Faster,” Bucky chokes out.
Steve is making delicious, breathy gasps, his hips jerking as he fucks into his fist. The dark haired man can feel his own need growing with every second, and he ruts against the hard body in front of him. He can tell Steve is close, so close. The knife travels up and down, angry, red welts appearing on the sensitive skin between hip and upper arm; first the left side, then the right, again and again. At the same time, Bucky digs his fingernails into the cuts on Steve’s chest, raking roughly, drawing more blood.
He shoves his fingers into Steve’s mouth, who begins to suck greedily at them, hot, velvety tongue working in circles around them. “Come for me, now.” Bucky grunts.
Two more strokes, and Steve comes, his blue eyes rolling back in his head rapturously, teeth clamping down on Bucky’s fingers. He paints the floor in thick, white, lines. He’s barely finished when Bucky shoves him forward, face down on the floor. “Clean up your mess.”
Fascinated, he watches Steve begin to lick the come from the floor, dragging his chin through the mess. He trails the dull blade against the back of Steve’s thighs, pale skin marking up easily, until Steve’s whole body is shuddering in delight. Bucky can’t wait anymore. He wants to fuck Steve’s filthy mouth, now.
He walks around Steve until he stands in front of him, reaches down again and yanks Steve up by the hair. Bucky takes himself in hand, rubs the head of his cock against his lover’s mouth. Groaning, he pushes forward, Steve swallowing him down with practiced ease.
Christ, Bucky doesn’t deserve this, won’t ever feel worthy of the trust Steve places in him.
On his knees, hands behind his back, Steve is gorgeous. Of course, Bucky thinks his Stevie is always gorgeous, but like this, pretty, pink lips stretched wide around Bucky’s thick cock, he’s a goddamn work of art. Tears leak from his sapphire-jewel eyes as Bucky fucks his throat raw. He sets a merciless pace, groaning while he watches his dick disappear into the eager mouth again and again.
With a particularly brutal thrust, Bucky shoves his cock straight to the back of Steve’s throat, who tries to swallow, to breathe. The tightening sensation makes Bucky moan loudly and he has to close his eyes for a moment.
There had been a time when Steve couldn’t do this, back when he was small and weak and sickly. Oh but now, now, Bucky can use him the way Steve needs to be used. Fill and stretch whichever hole he wants, empty himself into Steve, and then do it all over again.
Bucky holds Steve’s head in place when the man instinctively tries to pull off. Two more seconds, three, four, five. Bucky pulls back, giving the other man time to breathe. He knows exactly how long and how far to push, just how much his lover can take. Steve is not Captain America now, he’s relinquished control, given himself completely to the part.
Bucky pulls his cock from Steve’s mouth with a wet, obscene, pop. Spit slicks Steve’s chin; he looks wrecked. His tongue peeks out from between swollen, abused lips, head leaning forward hungrily. Bucky rubs the pad of his thumb lovingly, reverently across Steve’s cheek.
Steve stares up at him, eyes wide and glassy and so fucking blissful. The tear tracks that stain his cheeks make him no less beautiful, in fact they only add to his allure.
“Please, Bucky,” he croaks, voice hoarse and scratchy.
“Anything you want, Stevie, always,” Bucky answers, and then drives his cock into that pleading mouth. He gives Steve no time to adjust, just goes back to fucking his mouth as hard as before. With every thrust, he pushes Steve’s head down on his cock. Steve gags, chokes, but Bucky will not slow his movements. Steve chose this, had all but begged for it and Bucky will always give Steve what he wants, even when what he has asked for is unforgiving ferocity.
Still, Bucky cannot help but caress Steve’s hair as he fucks into his mouth. He thrusts deeper, barely giving Steve room to breathe. Bucky shoves in one last time, sinking his cock into Steve’s throat, and comes with a groan, cock pulsing, fingers tightening in fine, spun-gold strands of hair. He pulls out with the last spurts, just so he can watch as it some of his release spills out of Steve’s mouth.
Steve, who stares at Bucky from his spot on the floor, eyes looking slightly dazed but very gratified. A drizzle of come shines on Steve’s full bottom lip, and Bucky reaches out to wipe at it with his metal thumb, smearing it. He touches it to Steve’s mouth; the super soldier opens up covetously, licks and sucks the digit clean, until the metal gleams with his saliva. Bucky smiles at him.
When he notices Steve beginning to sway in place, Bucky bends down gracefully and releases Steve’s wrists, lifts the super-soldier heavy body easily, and carries him bridal style to their large, king-sized bed. Lays him down on soft, midnight-blue Egyptian cotton.
Instantly, Steve curls up on his side. Bucky joins him there, presses into the warm body, reaches around him to wipe away the crimson mess staining his skin with a clean, damp cloth. As he had suspected, the wounds are already closing.
Steve hums contentedly in his arms. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome, babydoll,” Bucky croons, stroking Steve’s back, his side.He nuzzles the back of his neck, whispers against the shell of Steve’s ear, “So good for me, Stevie. My perfect, precious good boy. I knew you would be, babydoll.”
And it’s true; won’t ever stop being true. Bucky could live to be one hundred years old, (technically he already is) and he’ll never be able to give enough back to Stevie for all that he’s been gifted with.
Soon. Steve’s breathing evens out; he hasn’t moved in the last five minutes. Bucky’s sure he’s asleep, is just, in fact, about to drift off himself, sated and happy, when he hears Steve whispering.
“Love you, Buck. Only you, always.”
“Love you too.” He kisses Steve’s shoulder and wonders what he did to deserve this.