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Steve sighed with relief as he shut the front door against the cold, damp December wind. It was always got worse the closer he got to the water, but the privacy afforded by the small, two-story warehouse he and Bucky had bought near the Navy Yard more than made up for it. It had been a florist’s wholesaler when Steve and Bucky were growing up, and when Steve saw that the building still bore the sign—Brooklyn Flower Exchange—it felt like he’d found the one building in the whole borough that hadn’t changed.
They’d spent a year renovating it—well, Bucky had, anyway. He’d worked construction before the war and now that he was free from Hydra’s mind control, he’d found a great deal of peace and purpose in turning the 150-year-old brick building in the shadow of the Brooklyn Bridge into a home.
Bucky was up to something, Steve knew. He’d been weirdly insistent that they have a particular Cabernet with the steaks he was planning to grill later, and Steve realized that he wasn’t going to find out what it was all about unless he bundled up and went out into the early dark to the wine store on Hicks Street that stayed open late in search of it.
Now, as he was hanging his coat on the hook by the door, the answer to that question was standing in the middle of the living room floor.
Bucky had snapped up the padded burgundy pleather dining chair at a stoop sale a couple of weeks ago on their way home from the farmer’s market, to Steve’s merciless teasing. The chair had no arms and a weird high, narrow back, and Steve was certain it had been marketed as “architectural” 30 years ago but which really had no redeeming aesthetic value at all.
More interesting was the coil of black silk rope sitting on the seat, and on the floor beside it, a familiar carved wooden box that housed the rest of their toys. He went over to give the rope an appreciative touch. He loved being bound, letting Bucky take over, letting Bucky tend to his body for a while. It reminded him of those cold nights 70 years ago when Bucky would lie on top of him, his heavy warmth both protective and possessive, until Steve stopped shivering long enough for them to make love.
Steve felt his dick twitch and he turned to kiss Bucky, hard.
“So that’s why you bought that hideous thing into our home,” he said, and Bucky graced him with a wicked grin and relieved him of the bottle of wine.
“I’m going to undress you now,” he said, thumbing open the buttons of Steve’s flannel. “And while I do, I want you to think about that night you came home early from Geneva.”
It wasn’t hard to do—Steve had hardly been able to get it out of his mind.
After nearly a week of nonstop meetings to renegotiate terms of the Sokovia Accords, he’d had no gas left in his tank for the gala dinner on the last day. Instead, he’d rebooked his flight at breakfast and gone straight to the airport after his final session that morning.
Time zones being what they were, it meant he’d gotten back to New York around 11 that night, and though flying first-class definitely made things more bearable, he was tall and big and very, very tired of people. By the time he let himself into the Brooklyn loft that they called home, all he wanted to do was collapse on the sofa with Bucky and not speak to anyone for a week.
He’d smiled when he heard Bucky’s music blasting—something mellow and electronic, exactly the kind of thing Bucky liked when he wanted to shut out the world. Volume aside, it meant Bucky was in the same mood he was. He’d left his coat and suitcase at the door and followed the music down the hall to the bedroom.
The bedroom door was partly shut, and as Steve approached it he’d seen Bucky with his hair caught up into knot at the back of his head, sitting on the edge of the bed in a tight t-shirt that showed off the tiny peaks of his nipple rings. More interestingly, his sweatpants and shorts were pulled down to his thighs and his hand was curled around his very erect, very shiny cock.
Steve had felt a low growl form in the back of his throat. Bucky was just getting started, moving his hand in long, slow, strokes, and Steve had leaned against the doorway, watching unnoticed and feeling his own dick stir at the sight. He’d quietly unbuttoned his own jeans and gently freed his half-hard cock from the fly of his boxer briefs. Then he’d spit in his palm and began to stroke.
Maybe Bucky had heard him, or noticed the movement, but he’d looked up and turned his head a few degrees until he saw Steve in the doorway. Bucky hadn’t reacted at all, just locked eyes with Steve’s and bit his lip the way he did when he was turned on, and kept going.
Something about watching Bucky’s shift from the lazy softness of arousal to the tense urgency of need did something to Steve he didn’t expect. Necessity had made silent lovers of them both back in the 30’s, and even now they just didn’t know how to make noise anymore. But Steve had felt his voice escaping, soft, grunting groans as he got closer to his climax, and when he came, it was with a cry so loud even Bucky could hear it over the music.
Bucky had liked that, Steve noticed. As he’d slumped against the doorway, letting the aftershocks rattle through him, the fingers of Bucky’s metal hand curled into the bedclothes and he came with an ecstatic grimace and a thrashing jerk of the hips Steve had never seen him do before.
Afterward, Bucky had grinned at Steve from across the room and said, “That gives me ideas.” But when Steve had asked him to elaborate, he’d only winked and told him to wait.
Now, three weeks later, as he stood naked in his living room while Bucky slid a blindfold down over his eyes, he was pretty sure he was about to find out what those ideas were.
“Bend over,” Bucky prompted, patting his ass. “Legs apart.”
Steve did as he was told, sucking in a sharp breath as Bucky gently parted his cheeks and guided in a slicked-up plug. Steve groaned as it pushed against him and jumped a little when it bumped against his prostate.
“Sit,” Bucky instructed, guiding him to the chair. “Hands behind the chair back. Grab your elbows.”
Steve did as Bucky asked. The chair’s padding was just soft enough to put a teasing amount of pressure on the plug—an hors d’oeuvre of pleasure, but nothing more—and the back was just wide enough that he had to arch his back to reach his elbows, stretching his chest open in a deliciously exposing way. Bucky deftly bound his arms into place, then began strapping Steve’s torso to the chair from hip to collarbone with a web of knots and wraps that left him both entirely exposed and utterly immobilized.
“Good for a while?” Bucky murmured, running fingers beneath Steve’s bindings to test the give.
“Yeah,” Steve said, blushing when he realized that his voice had dropped half an octave. He was very, very good indeed.
“Good,” Bucky said, then patted his knee. “Spread your legs.”
Steve did and felt a jolt of excitement punch through him as Bucky began to bind his feet to the front legs of the chair from knee to ankle, forcing him to straddle the chair as much as sit in it. His cock and balls felt spectacularly vulnerable on the seat of the chair before him, soft and terrified even as his belly twisted with anticipation.
There was a familiar creak and rustle as Bucky returned to the toy box for a moment, and then a moment later, his mouth was on Steve’s, kissing him long and slow, sending a sweet wave of pleasure through him as Bucky buckled the stiff, padded leather collar around his neck. It wasn’t meant to choke—Steve never wanted to struggle for breath ever again—but to raise his chin and restrain his head.
Steve hummed appreciatively and caught Bucky’s lower lip between his teeth to suck, but Bucky just laughed softly and pulled away, and then a moment later, he was gently pushing the ball of a gag into his mouth. As Steve rearranged his mouth to accommodate it, he felt himself begin to drool.
“Safe signal?” Bucky asked, and Steve made three short, sharp percussive noises with his voice and tongue against the ball, pushing a gout of saliva across his lip and down his chin.
“Messy,” Bucky murmured, but didn’t clean him up.
Then suddenly Bucky’s hand was on his dick, slicking him with lube. Steve shuddered with pleasure as Bucky slid the cock ring up his shaft, gently working each of his balls through it one by one.
“Good?” he murmured, and Steve raised his eyebrows—their sign for yes when he couldn’t speak—then groaned as Bucky caressed his dick one last time. Bucky pinched his nipples and nibbled on his ear and said softly, “Wait here.”
As if he could go anywhere. He heard Bucky retreat to the bedroom, and Steve sat and drooled and pulsed his muscles around the plug and felt his cock twitch with anticipation as he thought back to the night he got back from Geneva. About the look on Bucky’s face when he realized Steve was there, and decided to keep going.
Eventually he heard Bucky return. Music started to play on the sound system—more of the mellow electronica—and then he heard the soft heavy rustle of furniture being dragged across carpet. The armchair, from the sound of it, the big one with the soft armrests that Bucky liked to read in. Close, too, he thought—just a few feet away.
He felt his breath catch as Bucky moved close and leaned over him. His loosened hair brushed against Steve’s cheek and something soft and silky brushed against his knee as he checked Steve’s binds one more time.
“Still good?” Bucky murmured, patting and thumbing each knot, and Steve grunted and raised his eyebrows.
Bucky hummed an acknowledgement, then rose a little to remove the blindfold. As he did, something new brushed Steve’s cheek—
A string of pearls, he saw as Bucky tossed the blindfold aside and stepped into view.
A string of pearls, long pink satin robe, a pair of captive bead rings through his nipples, and a single black velvet opera glove on his metal arm. A little bit of mascara, Steve thought, glancing up at his face. A bit of lipstick, a hint of sweet perfume.
And nothing else, Steve saw as Bucky casually pulled the robe open and strolled to the bar to pour himself a martini from the shaker he’d evidently had waiting in the small fridge below. Steve’s eyes raked up and down Bucky’s gloriously lithe, carved body as he speared three olives on a cocktail stick to garnish his drink, couldn’t tear his eyes away from Bucky’s half-hard cock beginning to rise.
Bucky perched on the side of the armchair and sipped on his drink while he fondled his cock, seemingly totally uninterested in Steve sitting just a few feet away. Then he set the drink aside and began to slowly—not ostentatiously, just slowly—eat the olives one by one, gently tonguing each one up to the top off the stick before biting it free.
Steve groaned with pleasure—this was the hottest fucking thing he’d ever seen Bucky do in his life.
Bucky didn’t smile, just gave Steve a measured look up and down, settling his gaze on his cock. “You like to watch,” Bucky said, and Steve grunted and raised his eyebrows. Drool was running freely down his chin, and he pushed down against the plug in search of stimulation. He was starting to get hard and very much starting to want to feel a hand or a mouth around his cock.
“I like to see you like that,” Bucky continued. “I like knowing how much you wish you could touch me,” and Steve grunted again. Bucky’s eyes flicked down to his crotch. “You’re going to show me how much you want to,” he said.
Steve moaned appreciatively as Bucky arranged himself artfully in the armchair, slinging one leg—Christ, he’d shaved, too—over the arm and splaying his other leg wide, giving Steve the eyeful of his life.
Then Bucky reached into his pocket for a small tube of lube, applied a loving stripe of it down the length of his dick, and began to lightly tug on it as he gazed at Steve.
His face took on a look of quiet intensity, his lips slightly parted and his eyelids softly lowered. When his cock began to stiffen beneath his touch, he reached up with his gloved hand to toy with one of his nipple rings. Bucky had sensitive nipples, Steve knew—all the more so since he’d gotten them pierced—and he knew from the way his pupils flared that Bucky was very, very happy right now.
“You like what you see?” Bucky asked. His voice was low and hoarse now, and Steve hear how his breath had quickened.
Steve groaned again. His body yearned to touch and be touched, to feel Bucky’s warmth around his cock, to feel his mouth and tongue drag across his skin. He wanted to grab Bucky with both hands and nibble his ears and suck on his cock and eat his ass till Bucky was begging to be fucked. He found himself pulling involuntarily against his binds as his own cock pulsed with desire.
“I think you do,” Bucky said, pinching his nipple a little harder, spasming a little at the jolt of sensation that fired across his back to his spine. He let his gloved hand drift to the center of his chest and lift the pearls to his mouth, dragging them across his lips and tongue, sucking on them as he looked Steve dead in the eye.
It was an outrage how sexy he was like this. Steve began mouthing the gag in a desperate search for sensation, drool dripping down his chin and chest, running tiny cool rivulets down his skin.
And his cock loved it. Loved the sight of Bucky dolled up like a whore, loved his own ridiculous helplessness. Christ, he never knew his body could feel this way, electricity crackling through his veins as Bucky pleasured himself in front of his eyes.
He watched Bucky’s need rise, watched his face began to spasm and his body begin to undulate in the chair, building sensation everywhere he could. He rubbed the velvet-gloved hand up and down his body, teasing his own navel, his other nipple, the sensitive side of his neck. He reached down and played with his balls, then teased his taint with a single velvet fingertip as he sucked on the pearls.
His mouth fell open, letting the pearls fall, and his eyes clenching shut for a moment as a sharp moan burst forth—Steve had never heard him make a sound like that before. He began to stroke faster. A fine sheen of sweat broke out across Bucky’s skin as his pleasure began to demand more and more of his attention.
Steve groaned again, feeling his hips buck against their binds. His cock was iron hard now, the ring intensifying his urge maddeningly, the smoothness of the pleather seat insufficient to stimulate his balls the way he needed. He gripped hard against the plug, trying to push it in further, trying to give his prostate the pressure it needed to do its fucking job. Fuck, he needed to touch something, needed Bucky to release him—he struggled so hard that he shook the chair.
“Talk to me, Stevie,” Bucky panted. He was positively glistening with sweat now, licking his lips and thrusting hard into his hand. His cock was shiny and dark and Steve wanted to do things to it, wanted to lick and suck and swallow it down to the root. “Tell me how much you want to touch me. Tell me how much you want me to touch you.”
But Steve was so hot he couldn’t even try to form words, even if he could articulate them. He just whined and groaned against the gag, tonguing it furiously as he struggled to move. Christ, he’d never needed to come as much as he did right now. He felt like he’d been on the edge for hours, searching for something, anything to unlock his release.
Finally, his need to fight burned itself out and he collapsed against his binds, panting and whimpering—begging—with tears running down his eyes.
But Bucky could hardly spare a thought for him now—his face contorted and his breaths burst forth in a sharp, hard staccato, and he gripped the back of the armchair for dear life as he spattered his stomach and chest with cum.
And Steve screamed at the unfairness of it all, at seeing Bucky gain his release while his own aching, needy cock stood untouched between them. His fight returned and he struggled against the ropes again, begging and crying to be touched, syllables piling up uselessly against the gag.
Bucky sighed and grinned at Steve’s distress, and swiped a fingerful of cum from his belly and sucked it down, and somehow it was this, this casually filthy act that finally carried Steve over. His balls clenched and his dick juddered with such force that Steve thought he might accidentally tip the chair backward.
He sobbed as the aftershocks coursed through him, roiling up a sweet slurry of relief and fulfillment that washed across every shattered nerve in his body.
“Hi, baby,” Bucky said, running to his side and unbuckling the gag, pressing soft kisses to his tears and tender mouth. “Are you okay?”
Steve gulped and nodded. He was shivering now a little, and felt completely boneless as Bucky quickly released him from all his restraints and rubbed his limbs to loosen them up and soothe the welts he’d dug into his skin with his thrashing. Bucky held a bottle of cold water to his lips and he drank it greedily, quenching the scraping thirst that his screams had left behind.
“Can you stand or do you want to chill here for a little longer?” Bucky asked.
“I can get up,” Steve said hoarsely. His mouth and tongue felt sloppy from the gag, and he idly wondered if he was slurring his words as badly as he thought.
Bucky helped him stand, removing the plug and tossing it aside, and walk to the sofa. He draped the soft throw blanket around his shoulders and gave him some more water. He went to the kitchen to wash his hands and returned with a plate of orange slices for Steve and a couple of mini-cheeses for himself.
Steve was still a little teary—happy but overwhelmed—and Bucky didn’t crowd his mind with conversation. He just sat next to Steve, leaning against him as he sipped his own water, nibbled on his cheese.
“How are you feeling?” Bucky said softly after a little while, rubbing his back and playing with the hair at the nape of his neck. “Did you like that?”
Steve snorted and flashed him a grin. “You think?” he asked wryly. “I should come home early from business trips more often.”
Bucky hummed happily and rested his head against Steve’s shoulder. “I’ll always be here when you do.”