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Steve has a big dick. There’s really nothing else to it: the shape of it is all Bucky can think about as it rests heavy and twitching against the furrowed prominence that comprised his sacrum and tailbone. Thick, hard, and big, it’s a daunting promise, a prelude to consummation: he’d been working Steve up all day, it only makes sense he had to bend him over now. He yields with a trembling groan, lowering the arch of his back to plump up the swell of his ass, providing a tantalizing rock of skin against skin. He feels the weight of Steve adjust, a palm resting upon the curve of Bucky’s ass to steady him. It was rare that Steve ever initiated any form of coitus where eye contact was possible to avoid, yet curiously, that became an option today: Bucky is on his stomach, a thick pillow buoyant beneath his head, the bridge of his hips cusped betwixt callous roughened thumbs. (He can tell which fingers engage the straps on his shield, which furl into a tight resisting fist, just by the way they touch him blind.)
Bucky makes a sound not unlike the mewl of a cat in heat or a man famished brought to sup, an understanding of the measure of his lover's cock evermore effective the moment his slicked up head broaches his loosening hole. The act is slow and deliberate and to let Bucky feel the glide of every dense inch. It burrows deep, and Steve can’t stop himself until he’s hilted, flush with the muscle and welcoming fat that comprised Bucky’s fantastic ass. It was far from his favorite thing about him, but Steve would be a liar to suggest the view was anything but incredible, and he’d never been very good at fibbing.
He tried, though. Tries even now, submitting to the warm convex he finds himself nested in, ready to worship Bucky and his gorgeous body and his pretty face and his beautiful soul. He wants to turn him over onto his back, wants to pledge his devotion to the altar before him, blood and all.
But this is how Bucky demands his service: fuck me until I can’t walk, Steve.
Steve isn’t so sure he can manage that (how many times has he watched Bucky shrug off a god damn ballistic, point blank?), but he was nothing if not a go-getter. He’d do his God damned best, wouldn’t he? Captain America never cinched off an operation without positing his maximum effort; a bad job was worse than no job at all.
Bucky knows that, and relies on it. He knows him inside and out, knows what he’s like when he’s gotten something in his head: in another life, Steve’s dogged pursuit of freedom and justice would’ve been a cruel, cutting weapon, the way the Winter Soldier’s tenacity had worked against them. Steve leans over him, one big hand planted beside his head to bear his weight, the other smoothing across Bucky’s shoulder. It appraises the sharp vertices of his unmarred scapula, fingers dragging greedy to the valley of the wings, down to the small of his spine. His thumb curls across the flank of Barnes’ adonis belt, palm widening to cup at the cheek framing the wealth of his cock. Bucky must like this, because he whines into his pillow, the muscle momentarily tensing.
He wiggles. The Captain in Rogers lifts his head and straightens his shoulders, presenting for some long dead officer. His chest heaves. ‘ Bucky. What is it I told you? ‘
The terseness to his voice is put on, but he’s getting better, his intones more convincing this time than the last time that he’d tried to tame the brat in his compatriot. Some tiny little part of Bucky, bred to obey, a mould to fit the exact shape of Steve’s wielded authority, tightens up at the tone of his voice. His stomach clenches, the deep root of Steve’s cock bedded somewhere in the low center of him, like it was working to till his insides, to mark him forever. Bucky thinks he might like that: to belong so irrevocably, to exist just for Steve, no one else. Wash away the sin, the pain, the guilt, of all who’d came before him, determined to find use in the Soldier who submitted to everything, anything. He wets his lips, turning his head so his cheek pressed flush with the downy pillow, unmuffling his voice, his curls mashed into the linen case. ‘ N.. no movin’ ‘til you says. ‘
Steve had his own rules as a dominant. Admittedly, they were poorly enforced, and existed solely for the benefit of their sex life and scenes: in a war, the freedom to engage in sex beyond distilled vanilla was nominal. Nothing brought him greater pleasure than to cradle Bucky to his breast bone, wrestle him into guided submission, and find exactly what he wants. But, they existed: chiefly among them was the need for Bucky’s patience. Steve had thought sustaining stillness when demanded would build it up, the way it had his reverence for the rifle: Bucky could wait in one place for a week at a time, anticipating the perfect shot, the perfect moment to fire his perfectly aimed rifle and conclude his perfect hunt. He would open a skull, and the wait would begin anew, and rarely did he tire. Truly, it fascinated and amazed Steve, and made him wonder at times if he was really the man for the job. Maybe they should’ve picked Bucky.
But, his patience for other elements was.. lacking. He wanted gratification, and the delay could not be stifling or significant. Steve understood, in their day to day life: it could end at any moment. There was so much of life that either had yet to experience despite their well documented past, and the barrier between peace and death was exceptionally thin.
Bucky’s trying to fuck himself on his cock, is what he’s doing. Steve realizes it right away when he scoots back again and meets his hip bones, capitalizing on the moment he had lost to thought. This time, Rogers manages a punishment, subdued as it was. ‘ Knock it off, ‘ he grouses with a slight frown, administering an open palmed smack to the slope of Bucky’s fine ass. A barely-there pink mark forms the impression of his hand, painting the rounded surface of one glute. Despite a little sound Steve fails to discern the tone of, Bucky obeys, settling still. He’d wanted to. Steve barely touched him: he’d hit Bucky a hell of a lot harder than that before, on the infinitely rare occasion the arbiters of fate had shoved a separating wedge between them.
He stills, thumbs the globe of that same pink cheek to spread Bucky just a little more. The sight of his cock swallowed by that impossibly tight pink vice was almost enough to make him come right there, if his constitution had been what it was when he was in the war.
And then Steve begins to move. And, oh, fucking God–
Where Bucky’s attention had flagged, lost in the playful banter his partner had initiated, it reignites with a conflagration of passion. Steve rolls his hips back to drag the massive wealth of his cock free (he’d been big even before the serum, for all the good it did his dating life) so that it barely remains hooked inside Bucky, taking only a moment to let his beloved get a good breath before he slams it back in. Right back to hilt, as any good hammer, like he couldn't bear to be separate from Barnes for even a single moment; Bucky cries out in response, his voice pitching up into a register Steve thought was girlish. It was almost as if Bucky could feel every desperate pulse of ignited veins, every needy flex of the muscle begging to unload inside him. Steve’s pace hastens, both hands migrating down Bucky’s back to tilt up the angle of his hips, achieving one that allowed him to drive his cock so hard into Bucky that the resounding smack-smack-smack of skin on skin as he set his pace almost entirely drowned out his moans. And Bucky was anything but a quiet moaner. If those walls might bear the evidence of sound, the caliber of Barnes’ pleasurable vocalizations far outscored Steve’s. He can only imagine how little of them would remain, ground down by every ‘fuck!’ and weepy utterance of his name. Steve, Steve, Steve.
Steve’s response is to groan, low and rumbling. He lowers himself to Bucky’s ear, tucking a broad forearm beneath the collar of his chest to force his head up. Barnes’ mouth slackens, saliva sheening his plump lips, a thin clear arc smeared from one corner of the mouth to the wispy curls where Bucky’s baby hairs sat in absence of sideburns–his hair was getting long, and truth be told, Steve liked it better like this. He was handsome as all hell with the short hair, sure, the kind of fella who should’ve been on the front of magazines and posters. But it smelled so nice, felt so good to tangle his fingers into, to stroke affectionately every time Bucky would drift off against his chest. If only he had enough hands to lavish him the way he deserved: one to tangle in his pretty hair, one to hold his hip in place to take his cock, another to greedily memorize every twitch of muscle fiber and stretch of sinew that ran adjacent his spine, a fourth to caress his throat and take hold of his chin.
Limited to two, he decides on bracketing Bucky’s shoulders, anchoring him in place. This way, Steve can keep him from sliding forth upon each thrust, whilst also keeping him safe: were they chanced upon by any form of danger, Steve would bear the burden of responsibility and consequence, not Bucky. This is where he wanted him, anyhow: drunk off his dick, incoherently grunting and moaning and whimpering and crying (‘fuck, fuck, Steve, ghhh, God, I can’t–’), clenching hard as orgasm approached. Bucky shoots white hot and sticky wet, pink flushed dick snugly trapped beneath his belly where his first load pools and leaks. But neither of them are finished.
They both know, one load is nothing for a super soldier. It’s barely more than foreplay. Steve’s mouth lands upon Bucky’s shoulder, sucking furious marks that would claim him for the rest of the week. Bucky still whimpers and keens, each deep punch that rubs at his sweet spot earning a pitchy moan. Steve comes second, a few stuttering slams into Bucky’s ass to fill him entirely. He trembles as he humps into Bucky once or twice more, the slick of his own backslide dizzying and ludicrous to think about. His cock pops free with a lewd, wet bob, cum and lube dripping a healthy glob across one cheek. Steve pants, working through some after shocks: a final rope jumps across Bucky’s lower back, easy evidence of their excursion.
‘’ I’m… I.. ‘ Bucky finds himself at a loss for words, unable to even offer his commentary. When Steve asks, was that good? he merely nods, letting his head thud back into his pillow. Moments later, Steve’s hands plant at the underside of his thighs–or rather, the tops, pressed into his sheets–and flip him right over, unbothered by his weight or the awkward center of gravity. He tugs Bucky down on his bed, letting his half hard dick flop against the crevice of Bucky’s adonis belt and groin. The remnants of his spend cling thin to the tip of his cock, a tantalizing dew of fluid Bucky wished he could taste.
‘ You’re… gorgeous, Buck, I… I’m so lucky. Can I– ‘
The head of Steve’s cock swabs his still wet cunt, his flexing hole seizing around nothing, around absence. Bucky tightens at the feeling, his post coitus slackened glow breaking to the tensing of muscle. His brows lift, a new sensation crawling his belly, somewhere between excitement and anxiety. Oh. They weren’t done. They can fuck again.
It hadn’t crossed his mind. But, he’d never say no to Steve. Nothing could be better than this: to shut off, to feel nothing else but guided pleasure. No decisions. No lives to take or save. No critical information to learn or share. No playing pretend and putting on costumes. No sniping.
And Steve’s.. already hard, precum slicking his uncut cock, weeping from his slit. Bucky watches as he seizes the length of his dick, squeezing the head to roll the skin down and eagerly bolster his mounting erection. Christ, he’d be dripping like a girl if he wasn’t wetting his skin with the secretion. He aligns himself, carefully observing his partner’s expression to ensure he wasn’t getting a silent no, that the man ripped and sewn back into the Winter Soldier wasn’t trying to make himself useful and desirable again.
Steve didn’t ask what the KGB had all done to him. Didn’t want to know, really. But Bucky had offered some, just enough to disinfect the wound, or lance it. Just enough for Steve to know that the Winter Soldier’s compliance yet bled into Bucky, despite his freedom.There were no chains to bind him, yet Steve knew Bucky well enough to know he’d invent them. Bucky adored him. He wouldn’t say no even if he’d begged.
Still, there’s a weak little nod, and it’s all Steve needs.
Bucky’s cunt ached yet, his hole loosened just enough that slipping back inside him offers only pleasurable resistance, friction that feels divine. He’s tight, and it feels.. snug, welcome, hot, wet, all for him. ‘ Oh, god, Buck.. ‘
Somehow, this time, he feels even harder to Bucky, despite the lazy and dream-like thrusts. More incessant, even. Like he wanted to climb inside Bucky and never leave, like he was trying to find God, somewhere deep in Barnes’ absent womb. Steve’s eyes roll up into his head, sweat accruing a thin sheen from his brow to the heft of his pectorals; Bucky clenches and flutters around him, pelvic floor contracting weakly. Every hearty punch of his dick sends jolts through Bucky’s entire nervous system, making him feel slack and stupid: he lifts his legs, slinging either heel over Steve’s shoulders.
Steve, of course, takes this as an invitation. He folds him in half like any cheap chair, bringing those knees down upon either side of Bucky’s own skull. The angle permits Steve to press entirely flush with Bucky’s cunt, his balls squishing against his ass: if only he could live and die here, and forget everything else but his partner beneath him. It felt fucking unbelievable. Bucky’s hole had a grip unlike anything Steve could ever emulate with his hand or a toy: the super soldier trials, the red room alterations, the infinity serum, had a phenomenal side effect of strengthening every fiber and minute muscle in Barnes’ body. That his cunt felt as velveteen and warm as a slick pussy, and leagues tighter, was an unintended side effect, but one that made Steve feel completely fucking insane. Bucky was made for him, he was made for Bucky.
His breath fans across Bucky’s cheek as he drops his lips to his jowl, his kisses formless and without pattern. The last seizes Bucky’s lips, hungry and needy. Bucky is shameless when he simpers into Steve’s mouth, the sound he makes captured and reverberating back. He licks his tongue up the pad of his lip, forcing him open to suck his tongue into his mouth, lap at the trapped muscle. Anything, anything at all, to portray the absolute well of his love, and how deep it ran. Steve knew Bucky worried incessantly about a past out of his control, about the things the Winter Soldier had done with his body in the absence of Bucky Barnes. It hadn’t mattered how many times Steve had told him that his actions hadn’t been his own, and rather were nothing more than a string of suggestions implanted unto the psyche like binary unto code. It made no difference, as, in the end, the body was still his, the motions and gestures were still his, the weaponry, the skill, all his. He was guilty as sin, marked by something Steve himself could never understand.
But Bucky knew it was there, and he knew his suffering wasn’t done for one simple reason: he was alive. Only the retribution of death would serve a modicum of justice unto the families of those the Winter Soldier had so methodically eliminated and displaced.
The Soldier had, once, stolen a child from her mother. It was the worst thing they allowed themself to do, the most morally reprehensible, in their mind. No harm befell the toddler, but the mother had struggled, and the Winter Soldier had acted decisively: a finger knife had ripped her larynx and esophagus right open, leaving her a scarlet ruin of death. They had never found out what stealing the girl had even accomplished, another Russian secret rolled under an ancient carpet. The sort that overturning would’ve harmed more than it helped.
Looking back, he wishes they’d fought back more. Maybe then, death in service would’ve meant something: maybe then, the lives the Soldier had taken might be spared. Or, Steve had suggested once, someone else would’ve done it anyways. You.. the Winter Soldier.. he tried his best to leave no casualties. Someone else might not have cared.
Steve had told him once, his curiosity had won: he’d read the Winter Soldier reports, the declassified files, all the secrets buried beneath their name. And yet, here he was, still entirely in love with him, his devotion manifested in each thrust of his painfully stiff cock. Each whine was an I love you, each gasp an I want you. The ranks of blood that the Soldier would drown in upon it’s day of judgment meant nothing to Steve. It was a fault, or a forgiveness so divine, Bucky couldn’t tell the difference. He’d asked his rabbi once, what he was supposed to do. Kneel and write acrostics? The old man had cupped his shoulder, and said, James, you aren’t the first veteran to come out of a tour of duty with regrets. Make yourself good with Hashem, but learn to forgive yourself first.. If only he’d known the truth.
‘ Nghhh–Steve, you’re–fuckin’ me so deep–пожалуйста, не останавливайся. ‘
Rogers, who’d gleaned just enough Russian to squeak through a conversation, groans into the vibrations of Bucky’s larynx, spurned by the request. Don’t stop. He hooks both arms around Bucky’s waist and ribs, crushing him tight to his broader form, as if they might meld into one singular being.
To never be separate from Bucky again–
The thought alone is enough to send him sailing right over the edge. His hold is brutal and firm, each thrust hastening into a piston that loses its form every few seconds, his, his, his, all his. He drinks in Bucky’s scent (the notes of steel and gunpowder overwritten by his strawberry scented shampoo, the smooth shea he used on his scar tissue, the honey caramel douse of aftershave), tips his head up with the edge of his jaw to swallow his tongue, their kiss a grounding point for both of them. Bucky’s sonorous moans and weeps muffle and echo off Steve’s hungry kisses, slipping between the clack of their teeth, the spittle that wets Bucky’s lips.
Bucky seizes and rolls forward–as much as this position allows, smothered into Steve’s chest, feeling every inch of his indomitable strength and will–reflexively jerking through a second orgasm, this one starting deep in his pelvic floor. It rolls through him all the way to his chest, nerves dispersing tingly and hot across his face. He hadn’t even known he’d came, the evidence of it a wet and thin mess strewn from his upper abdomen to his dripping cock, rubbing still against Steve’s belly.
Steve finally stills, his seed trailing down the minute gap between Bucky’s flexing walls and his flagging dick, languid white streaks that reminded him of the little rivulets that wet inland in Hells Kitchen when the rain dominated the poorly made drainage system. Bucky’s cunt was trying to push it out, yet unable to expel the cum he’d dumped with his cock yet buried, impossibly thick and stretching as it was. He presses his forehead into Bucky’s, panting as he gathers his thoughts, just to finally open his eyes. Blue and crystalline, the way Bucky would always remember them, fixed upon Bucky’s features, his fluttery lashes. He hums, ‘ I love you, Bucky.. so much… ‘ only to be met with the softest and warmest of chuckles, Bucky’s freed hand coming to caress the side of his face, pet him like the good hound he was (the slobbery retriever, desperate for affection), thread loose and appreciative arcs through his freshly cut hair. Still, Steve can see how god damned red he is, and the shade of flushed pink-red that clung to the swarth of his skin, stress marks darkening into bruises. Shit, that’d been his fault, his teeth marks gorged into Bucky’s bicep, the impression of his mouth flowering bruises down his throat to his thick pectoral, fingertips digging marks across his flank, his thumbs leaving an impression in the narrow valley of his hips. He was practically moments away from scarring Bucky, adding to the monument of impossible suffering he’s undertaken, another mark that would gnarl into the skin and fail to heal.
But, his worry simmers into a nervous flutter the instant he sees the look on Bucky’s face, the bliss (his watery eyes leave a tract of tears Steve would otherwise smooth away) succumbing to a subtle fall of the mouth, a furrow of the brow. Bucky brings both hands into Steve’s shoulders, and only then as they grip at the steep hill of his traps does he realize how strong he really is: the force Barnes applies borders on cruel, on impressing solid metal lines into Steve’s skin for the rest of the day, opening tiny slits where the adamantium vertices sharpened. Steve doesn’t complain.
‘ Dont… don’t fuckin’, do that, Steve– ‘
An apology wells at the base of Steve’s tongue, the twining in his gut a song that spoke only of the failure of a man: you are your father, after all.
But, Bucky, as ever, is lightening fast. He captures his feathery lower lip in a suckling kiss. Against his mouth, he whispers, ‘ Don’t act like I’m.. I’m a breakable toy. I wanted that… I wanted you, your big, thick, hard fuckin’ dick inside me, treating me like I’m built for it– ‘ His natal finger comes to Steve’s lips, pressing soft at the apex of their plumpness, to shush him again. ‘ –it feels good, Steve. I want it again. I wanna know jus’ how much I can take. ‘
If it was Bucky’s intent to mast Steve’s interest for a third time, he’s winning: Steve feels it swimming about his intestines like some angry barracuda, his dick throbbing yet in the welcoming and warm depth of his beloved.
Steve nods.
A third time it is, then.