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Steve is grateful for the strobe of the lights and the crushing crowd of bodies; it means that there’s less of a chance for him to be recognized, and less of a chance for some blurry photo to make its way onto the internet. The last thing that he needs is a scandal scarcely a year into being back in the world. Tony would have a field day cleaning that up, and Steve would never hear the end of it.
The club is a far cry from the bars back in his day, that’s for sure. The fairies had to be discreet back then, just in case the cops came sniffing around. There were the few brave men who wore rouge and lipstick anyway, some darkening their eyelids with pigment and fanning their lashes out with mascara. With his artist’s eye Steve could certainly appreciate how it looked, but had never found much of an appeal to it.
Now, in the twenty-first century, Steve discovers that makeup among men is a lot more popular. He loses count how many have brightly-colored eyeshadow, thick brows, and richly filled-in lips. And the glitter. Oh god, the glitter. Steve has never seen so much of it in his entire life.
It dusts the bar he's leaning against, waiting for a bartender to come his way. There’s a throng down at the other end, so Steve knows it’ll probably be a few minutes. To pass the time he turns, facing the club, and scopes out the floor.
Scopes. He winces. This isn’t a fucking mission, Rogers.
(A small part of his brain argues that it is: it’s a mission to get laid, no matter which way he puts it.)
The giant, multi-screen display at the back changes color in beat to the music. The circular dance floor is packed, and the various couches around it are teeming with people. Waiters weave in and out effortlessly, balancing small trays full of beer bottles, martini glasses, delicate tumblers.
Steve can feel the hot flush begin at the back of his neck as he watches the men on the dance floor. He knows that dancing has changed a lot since the forties, but most of that out there is not , by any definition, dancing . A couple (or are they just two strangers?) closest to the bar have their hands in each other’s back pockets, and their hips are moving, all right, just…
Steve swallows, hard. Then wishes, desperately, that he had a drink to down.
Yeah, so he knew that going to a gay club so soon out of the ice was going to be a culture shock. He just didn't anticipate it to this level. He can practically hear Nat laughing already, saying something like what, no one had sex in your day?
Not two men, and definitely not in public.
The bartender comes his way, and Steve orders a whiskey, neat. There are too many different types of beer to choose from, and the fruity drinks that don't taste like alcohol at all are useless anyway since he can’t get drunk. Whiskey is simple and familiar and he’s always liked the burn of it going down.
The guy gives him a long look as he pours the whiskey into the tumbler he’s set on the bar, like he recognizes him, so Steve slaps down the money and disappears as fast as he can, hunching his shoulders just a bit as he works his way into the humid mass of bodies.
The bass of the music vibrates the soles of his shoes. He can’t hear anything besides the pulse of it, not his own voice or his heartbeat. It’s almost shocking how easy it is to blend in with the rest of the club-goers; nobody gives him a second glance, and the ones who do stare at him in a way that Steve knows is definitely not recognition.
He stays on the outside of the throng for a couple songs, sipping his drink and getting a feel for the rules and atmosphere. He’s warm already, his white t-shirt sticking to his lower back, and sends a silent thanks to Nat for telling him to “ditch the grandpa checkered button-down.” Not that he’ll ever admit it.
Finishing off the last of his whiskey, Steve sets it on the tray of a waiter nearby, asking, “Is this okay?” He receives a look in response that reminds him how woefully different he is from everyone else in this century. Right, so don't ask if it’s okay to give the staff your empty glasses. Got it.
Wiping his hands on his jeans (“Don’t you dare wear khakis to this club, Steven, I swear to god.”) he takes a deep breath and works his way into the crowd.
It’s an assault. That’s the first thing that comes to mind. Cologne and alcohol, sweat and cigarette smoke. An immediate humid heat. The gap he created to get into the crowd is already closing, and then Steve has men on all sides in various forms of motion.
It’s strange, from the touching and the disorienting music; it goes past culture shock and into plain old shock. Steve’s beginning to realize that he should have taken Clint up on his advice to wear some ear plugs. To a normal human this music would be loud; to Steve, it’s nearly deafening.
He’s never been a great dancer, but pretty quickly he finds out that it’s less about your style than it is about how you move, especially your hips. It takes a few songs, but soon Steve is finally starting to relax and really let himself go, closing his eyes and letting the beat move him.
It’s when he opens his eyes at the end of a song that he sees him .
Tall, muscled, with long brown hair nearing shoulder-length, wearing a tight black v-neck that scoops so low it should be illegal. And his jeans, dark and tight, emphasizing enough of the strong muscles of the man’s thighs to make Steve swallow hard. He’s had his share of attractions to various men since waking up, but none have been like this. None have captured him, drug him in, and kept him on his toes all in just a few seconds like this man has.
Steve reasons that it’s probably the atmosphere. He also reasons that this man is ridiculously attractive, can move his hips, and is… staring right at him .
It isn’t the typical “oh, you’re Captain America” look. It is dark and intense and in no way like anyone has ever stared at Steve before. It’s…lust, pure and simple, animal nature at its basest. And it makes Steve burn hot from the inside out.
Steve has had plenty of gals stare at him since the serum, all desire in their eyes and their tongues practically hanging outta their mouths. That had been superficial, purely. No one was interested in Steve Rogers apart from a quick fuck and maybe the bragging rights that they had bagged Captain America. Never has Steve had one pair of eyes make him feel like this. Never has Steve wanted to make someone else feel like that.
The man eases through the crowd like a fish through water, doing it with the grace of someone familiar with their surroundings. As he gets closer Steve can discern the small details the strobing lights muddled, like the man’s high cheekbones and strong jawline, the dark scruff on his cheeks, the fullness of his lips, and the piercing blue of his eyes.
Jesus, he’s fucking hot.
Stopping in front of Steve, the man turns one corner of his mouth up, then shamelessly rakes his eyes down Steve’s body. He crowds closer and begins moving, urging Steve out of his stupor with two hands on Steve’s hips, guiding him to move them until Steve is, although it’s awkward and hesitant and not at all like the man’s fluid movements.
It’s made even more difficult by the fact that Steve is hard , Jesus Christ, cock already fattening in his briefs and pressing obviously against his thigh. His head swims with the primal urges that come with arousal. Dazedly, Steve wonders if the man has noticed.
The man doesn't take his eyes off Steve’s. They’re intense and hooded, wide and almond-shaped with faint crow’s feet at the corner. Steve’s hands settle unsurely on the man’s shoulders, earning him a laugh. He leans in and Steve goes, too, pulled like a magnet. Low, the man’s voice is underscored with a rasp as he says, “You don’t gotta be so proper, gorgeous.”
Then he takes his hands from Steve’s hips, slides them to the swell of his ass, and pulls Steve closer until they’re touching, dancing, grinding Steve thinks, a little delirious as he finds that the man is hard as well.
Some part of him says that he should be terrified. Men don’t do this, not in public, not like this. But the bigger part of him, the one that’s making him slide his own hands down the man’s broad shoulders and warm back to hesitantly brush the pockets of his jeans, tells him that it’s okay now, that they’re just two men in a club of hundreds all doing the same thing.
The man squeezes and Steve chokes on a squeak of surprise, his fingers reflexively doing the same thing. They’re still leaned in close enough for the man to be heard as he says, “Now that’s more like it,” as he grins. Their hips flush together, Steve feels every part of the man’s erect cock against his own, and he gets a little thrill that sparks through him quick as lightning; the bass shudders through him, resonating in his chest like a second heartbeat. They keep working their hips together, and Steve feels some of the stiffness and self-consciousness melt away as the man crowds closer and places damp lips to the side of Steve’s neck.
Around them the crowd still moves, but Steve has lost focus on them. Instead he watches the man’s face: the way he moves freely, without worry of judgment, tossing his head back and closing his eyes, letting the music take him. Light flashes over him, blue-red-yellow-pink, every color just as gorgeous as the last. That long hair, dark and loose, fans out behind him.
Steve is so grateful for his eidetic memory and the extensive range of oils and pastels at his fingertips in this new world. Even if he never sees this man again he wants to remember the way he’d looked, just now.
“What’s your name?” Steve asks suddenly. Because he can never shut up and always has to run full-speed into things without thinking he adds, “I’m Steve.”
The man pauses, wetting his lips. Then he says, “You can call me Bucky.”
“Bucky?”
“It’s a long story.” Bucky fully palms Steve’s ass and reels him in, dragging his hips in an obscene way that can suggest only one thing. It makes Steve’s head spin. “The most important question, Steve, is what your policy is on hookups.”
It’s zero to sixty in no time at all. Steve spares a moment to wonder if all modern men are this forward. Then he decides that it doesn’t matter.
Steve sucks in a sharp breath that has less to do with the filthy drag of Bucky’s cock over his own than it has to do with the image of Bucky naked and spread out over Steve’s sheets, looking like everything Steve has ever denied himself.
Just that thought alone has him harder than he’s been in a long time, so it isn't too difficult to say, voice only slightly strangled, “My place is a few blocks away.”
Bucky grins, squeezes another handful of Steve’s ass, and says above the pounding music, “Lead the way, sugar.”
——
Normally Steve would worry about the state of his apartment. Sarah Rogers had not raised a slob, so even the few dishes he’s left in the sink would normally be a source of embarrassment. Same goes for the recyclables left on the countertop and the lone mug left on the coffee table.
As it is, Steve doesn't have time to worry about the banal things like tidiness, or whether or not his shield is in the closet and not in the middle of the floor, because as soon as he shuts the door and puts his keys in the small bowl on the table in the entryway Bucky’s shoving him against the wall.
Surprise quickly melts into determination as Bucky kisses him like it’s his job. It’s deep and messy and noisy, both of them panting as Steve changes angles, then Bucky, then Steve again as he grips Bucky’s long hair and tugs. Bucky moans, slipping his tongue into Steve’s mouth, grabbing his hips and sliding his thigh between Steve’s legs.
“Fuck,” Bucky pants, mouthing at Steve’s jaw, nipping at his lip and dragging it out enough for Steve to whine with the mix of pain and pleasure. “You are…so fucking hot, Steve.”
He starts a steady grind with his thigh, rendering Steve a melting puddle against the wall. They should really move this to the bedroom where Steve has condoms and lube and, most importantly, a bed.
But Bucky’s lips are so soft and he smells so good, like smoky-sweet cologne and sweat mixed with the harsh scent of hard liquor, and he’s nibbling at Steve’s ear in a way Steve didn't even know could turn him on. He isn’t totally adverse to wall sex or suckjobs next to the front door, but he’d been hoping to spread Bucky out and take his time, see all the different ways Steve could make him feel good.
“Top or bottom?”
The question melts through Steve’s lust-addled haze. Bucky’s lips are against his neck now, steadily making their way towards his throat. A part of him knows that he should be familiar with the term, but a bigger part of him that’s focused on the grind of Bucky’s dick against his has shorted out completely.
“Um.” Steve blinks, confused, as he tries desperately to get his brain back online. “Top of what?”
Bucky stops, then pulls back completely. Steve reluctantly meets Bucky’s eyes, his raised and expectant eyebrow, and says, with all of his Captain America eloquence, “Uhhhh.”
After a long second Bucky laughs, shaking his head. It almost feels fond. He reels Steve back in for another kiss, hand fisted in the front of Steve’s shirt. Steve reciprocates by clutching at Bucky’s broad shoulders, feeling absolutely helpless under this onslaught and one hundred and ten percent okay with it.
Once Steve is thoroughly dazed, lips sore and neck aching from Bucky’s lips and teeth, Bucky pulls back again to ask, “Let me rephrase. Do you like receiving, or giving?”
Oh. Oh . The tips of his ears begin to burn hot, and he can’t look at Bucky, looks somewhere near his shoulder when he says, hesitantly, “Receiving?”
Not that he’s received anything in the last seventy-five years. Wasn’t really a point whoring himself out once the war hit and jobs to help the cause grew. But the truth is, Steve likes it both ways. Likes giving it to someone good, and likes opening his legs for another man. Steve’s just so used to people taking one look at him in this body and assuming what they want that he hadn’t really considered anything besides taking someone home and fucking them.
Bucky’s hands on his jaw direct his face back up, and Steve’s eyes widen at the dark heat he finds in Bucky’s. Bucky bites his lower lip before he says, “Is that so?”
Steve swallows, hard. “Yeah?”
“Goddamn.” Bucky shakes his head, threads one hand into Steve’s hair and slides the other down Steve’s chest, the pads of his fingers catching on every ridge of muscle on the way down. “You tellin’ me that all this ain’t used to hold someone down and fuck them senseless?”
Jesus Christ. Maybe, if Steve had had the time, or if he had been born in a century when it wasn’t a crime to be gay and he’d been able to explore his options once he’d gotten the serum. The USO girls had been nice, sure, but just because Steve looked like the ideal man didn’t mean he felt like it. In his mind he was still the scrawny asthmatic runt that never garnered a second look, so after a few rounds with a couple of the girls Steve stopped and withdrew.
Steve opens his mouth and manages not to sound too hoarse when he says, “Maybe if you’re lucky you’ll find out.”
Bucky inhales sharply, nostrils flaring. “Okay, so now you’re actually just trying to kill me.”
“Nah, just trying to get this”—Steve, in a moment of boldness, slides his hand between Bucky’s legs, cups his dick and squeezes lightly before letting go—“in me.”
Bucky inhales, then grips Steve’s hair tightly and pulls hard before kissing him, smothering Steve’s moan at the pain. The hand on Steve’s chest slides down his quivering belly to the hem of his shirt, impatiently pushing upward until it’s rucked up underneath his arms and Bucky’s palm is on his chest, rubbing and squeezing.
“Initiative,” Bucky all but purrs into Steve’s ear, pinching Steve’s nipple and letting him squirm with it. “I like it. Tell me, Steve: are you a bossy bottom?”
Steve has no idea what that means, but at this point he’ll be whatever Bucky asks him to be, up to and including Captain America, uniform and all. Yes feels like the right answer, though, because Steve wants Bucky’s dick in him now .
So Steve breathes it into Bucky’s mouth, a hissed-out yes that sounds more than punch-drunk. Says, “Fuck me” and feels a delirious thrill run through him. Suddenly it’s not images of Bucky spread out over his bed anymore: now it’s him, bare and vulnerable for this man that he’s just met and eagerly accepting him into his body.
Steve has jumped out of planes without parachutes before, zip-lined down onto the top of a moving train, fought HYDRA, and taken out countless terrestrial and extraterrestrial threats to the world. But now, somehow, staring into Bucky’s eyes, dark gray by now with his dilated pupils, makes him feel as unsteady and unprepared as a newborn kitten.
Bucky blinks, and Steve tracks the flutter of his eyelashes. The silence between them lasts hardly more than a few seconds before Bucky is impatiently pushing Steve’s shirt up until Steve gets the hint and clumsily takes it the rest of the way off, throwing it somewhere into either the small kitchenette or the living room.
Bucky’s shirt is next, and Steve all but growls at the exposed swell of Bucky’s pecs, the hard lines of his abs, the dark hair on his chest that trails down into the thick waistband of his Calvin Kleins. He wants to drop to his knees, worship Bucky’s belly with his tongue and teeth until Bucky is shoving him down further, towards the straining bulge of his cock, and oh, isn’t that a thought.
Steve must stare too long, because Bucky’s amused voice sends him skidding back into the present. “Bedroom? Or are you just gonna stare at my chest all night, Steve?”
“Can’t help it that you look so good,” replies Steve without thinking.
A small flush colors Bucky’s cheeks at that, and Steve bites back a smile. Good to know.
Bucky recovers quickly, saying, “Before I die of old age?” with an innocent smile and a not-so-innocent once-over.
Steve leads them to the bedroom, stopping briefly at the door with his hand on the knob. He takes a second to gather the bravado that he used to have in his late teens and early twenties, that got him through more than one black eye and split lip from encounters gone sour.
Swallowing hard, Steve closes his eyes, steels himself, and turns the doorknob.
Bucky is immediately on him, rough in all the right ways and pushing every button that Steve has. He isn’t shy about crowding Steve to the bed, nor does he hesitate to plant one palm in the center of Steve’s chest and push, hard enough to send Steve sprawling onto his comforter. The mattress bounces, springs creaking under his weight, and Steve is so turned on that just the brush of his jeans and underwear over his dick is putting him dangerously close to coming already.
Bucky climbs on after him, settling his knees on either side of Steve’s hips, his hands flat on the mattress on either side of Steve’s head. He looms over Steve’s supine, vulnerable form, caging him in.
Steve shudders.
He easily has twice the amount of muscle mass of Bucky, and definitely at least five times the strength, but looking up, seeing that broad, muscled chest, that strong jaw, the flex of Bucky’s biceps as he shifts his weight, has Steve feeling smaller than he has since…well, he was actually small.
And it makes him so hard he actually whimpers with it.
Bucky clearly picks up on it; a grin slowly pulls the corners of his mouth upward, and he looks exactly like the cat that caught the canary when he says, “You like this, don’t you? Having someone over you, even though you look like you could bench a fuckin’ school bus.”
Steve certainly can’t say, “Well, before the serum, when I was ninety pounds and asthmatic, it was a lot more believable,” so he settles for something that vaguely resembles the truth: “That’s why I like it. People look at me and get a preconceived notion of who I am. And I enjoy subverting it.”
“Oh?” says Bucky. “What else do you enjoy subverting?
It’s so ridiculous that Steve can’t help but chuff out a laugh. It breaks a little of the lingering tension, and Bucky laughs as well, says, “Sorry, I couldn’t resist.”Laughing looks good on Bucky, Steve discovers: he wears the handsome, brooding stranger mask well, but when he laughs it’s like that mask never existed.
It makes Steve want to kiss him, so he does.
Bucky takes control immediately and Steve is more than happy to let him. It’s like flexing a muscle he’d forgotten he had: he lets his body go limp, his mind shut off, falling into the same familiarity he’d had before the war. It isn’t full control, but it’s close enough that Steve can actually feel himself relax for the first time all night. He drags a hand up the back of Bucky’s neck, to his long, thick hair, letting it fall through his fingers before taking a gentle hold. When Bucky moans in response, Steve feels warm all over.
“You want it?” Bucky asks in between filthy-slick strokes of his tongue. He works his hips with the same unhurried pace, hitching one of Steve’s legs over his hip to bring them closer. “You want my cock inside you?”
With Bucky’s cock rubbing against the clothed spread of Steve’s ass words don’t come right away. When they do, they’re rudimentary, ground out rough: “ Fuck , yes.”
Bucky kisses him, as if in reward, and in a movement so quick Steve doesn’t have time for it to process Bucky’s got Steve’s jeans and briefs pushed down to his knees, hard cock slapping against his belly. Bucky looks up and salaciously grins. “You a white briefs kinda guy, huh, Steve?”
Steve burns red from his cheeks down to his chest, and Bucky laughs, slithering up Steve’s body to kiss him, murmuring, “If I’da known I would’ve kept those on for a little while longer, appreciated how your cock looks in them. Maybe made them all wet with my mouth, just to see.”
Steve is going to die, he’s sure of it. The very core of him is aching, the throbbing need more urgent with him bared completely; the desire to roll over and present himself is almost unbearable, an undeniable and overwhelming reaction.
Suddenly Steve needs to feel Bucky’s dick in his mouth. Needs to taste him, choke on him. Find out if Bucky is circumcised or not, discover what can make him scream.
“Buck,” he says, not sure why the nickname comes out but not too adverse to it, either. Steve doesn’t let himself get too hung up on that fact, using his bulk and strength to easily flip their positions.
Once Bucky is on his back, staring at Steve with a shocked expression, Steve wastes no time sliding his hand down Bucky’s belly to the button of his jeans. He does take a moment, however, to appreciate the swell of Bucky’s crotch, the denim pulled tight over his cock. Any other time, Steve would want to draw it out: make Bucky incoherent with it, maybe make him beg for Steve’s mouth.
Now is not any other time. Steve pops the button, eases down the zipper, grips the flaps of the jeans where they spread, framing the bulge in Bucky’s underwear.
Steve pulls. Repeats, tossing clothing off to the side to be forgotten. Then Bucky’s legs are splaying out on either side of Steve’s thighs, his body shifting on the sheets, and Bucky is wonderfully, gloriously naked.
Steve spares one thought for Bucky’s cock, red and curved against his belly, nestled in well-trimmed dark hair and just beginning to glisten at the slit. Average, maybe a little more so, and very much circumcised.
Steve drinks his fill before sliding down the bed, settling on his elbows and urging Bucky’s legs over his shoulders. Takes a breath, swallowing back the rush of saliva at the musky scent of arousal, and grips Bucky’s cock at the base to angle it up and take him down as far as he can.
Bucky shouts .
It’s not without a little bit of gagging, because it has been awhile , but Steve recoups quickly and finds his rhythm, tugging Bucky’s cock in time with the slide of his mouth. Bucky shakes, heels digging into Steve’s back, and when his hand hesitantly slides into Steve’s hair Steve encourages it with a muffled moan.
He slides off with a slick pop , breaking the thread of saliva trailing from the head of Bucky’s cock to his lips with his tongue. He laves the broad of it over the head, then looks up to find Bucky staring at him flushed and dark-eyed. The hand in Steve’s hair gently strokes, and Steve finds himself leaning into it like a cat. It’s been so long since he’s had casual touches, since he’s been touched like he’s a human and not a science experiment. It does something interesting to his heart.
When Steve sinks back down, he doesn’t break eye contact with Bucky. He’s rewarded with the way Bucky’s eyes roll slightly back, the way his lips part on a sharp gasp, how his back arches and his head tips back. Steve can’t help but rock slightly into the sheets at that, whimpering around Bucky’s cock and working it faster, hollowing his cheeks and sinking down towards the circle of his fist with wet, slick sounds.
God, he’s missed this.
Above him, Bucky grunts, “Oh fuck . Steve .” Arches, muscles trembling, a ragged gasp torn from his throat. The hand in Steve’s hair tugs sharply, warningly, and Bucky chokes out, “Gonna come, m’gonna come …”
Steve slides off, sucking in a wet gasp, and staggers to his knees. Below him Bucky lies, dazed, legs still up around Steve’s shoulders, bending him in half. The muscles of his abdomen contract with his deep breaths, and his cock, red-flushed and slick, moves with it. Bucky blinks, eyes sliding up towards Steve’s face, and says, “Jesus Christ.”
Steve grins in return, shy. “What,” he teases, “ain’t gotten any suckjobs lately?”
Bucky gets up on his elbows, grabbing at Steve’s shoulder. He untangles his legs while Steve bends down, presses their mouths together hot and greedy and moans at Bucky’s ravaging tongue as he searches the taste of himself.
“Haven’t gotten any that good lately,” Bucky says a few minutes later, breathless, mouths and chins slick with the other’s saliva. “If I didn’t have the incentive of fucking you I would’ve let myself come down your throat.” Punctuates it with a nip to Steve’s lower lip, steals away Steve’s surprised groan. It’s easy to feel the curve of his lips into a smile, pressed against Steve’s like they are, when he says, “I’ll just have to come in your ass instead.”
“Buck,” Steve says, trailing his fingertips over Bucky’s sharp jaw, into his soft hair. “C’mon, fuck me.” It sends a ripple down his spine, making him acutely aware of that fact that his jeans and underwear are still down around his calves. For a hot, fleeting moment he feels desperately filthy, the way he used to down at the docks when men would push his pants down to his ankles and take him up against the brick out of the way of the sodium glow of the streetlights.
Now, at least, it’s not about money.
Bucky gracefully arches up, twisting to flip their positions. He braces his weight with his left hand on the bed, lets his eyes trail, slow, down the length of Steve’s body. Steve flushes, squirming.
“Well, we need to get these off, don’t we?” says Bucky when he encounters the tangle of clothing at Steve’s ankles. He flashes that grin again and eases them off, tossing them to the floor. When he turns back around Steve parts his legs, wordlessly inviting Bucky in.
If his mind hadn’t been otherwise occupied by nerves Steve might’ve laughed at the moony look Bucky’s giving him, staring like what’s between Steve’s legs is the second coming of Christ.
Well, Steve thinks wryly, if he’s lucky there’ll be a second coming tonight.
Witty internal monologue aside, Steve says, “C’mere, c’mere,” and tugs Bucky down, cinching his thighs around Bucky’s waist once they’re flush together. When Steve squeezes Bucky sucks in a sharp, affected-sounding breath, so he does it again, biting the inside of his lip to hide a smile.
The grin fades pretty quickly when Bucky rolls his hips, rubbing their dicks together for the first time. Jesus, it’s one thing to suck a dick for the first time in way too long to think about . It’s entirely different when Steve hasn’t been touched since he was a glorified chorus girl. Just the ridge of Bucky’s cock nudging against his has him bucking his hips so hard it’s a miracle he doesn’t send Bucky flying off the bed.
Steadying himself and pressing down harder, Bucky says, smooth as silk and dripping with sin, “Oh, just wait until I get to the main attraction.”
Steve whines. Whines . Has he ever whined in bed before? Doubtful. No one’s ever given him this kind of attention before.
Steve slides his arms between Bucky’s biceps and ribcage to grip his shoulders from behind. The first few rolls of his hips are clumsy and unsteady, but, like his dancing in the club, it doesn’t take long to figure out that a particular rhythm is all you need.
They kiss, sloppy, and Steve moans around Bucky’s tongue in his mouth, catches it briefly between his teeth before returning the favor. The muscles of Bucky’s back ripple under his grip, skin just beginning to dampen with sweat. Bucky’s hair is in front of his eyes, blocking off the light as Steve looks up. He’s so goddamn beautiful.
“Buck,” says Steve, breathless. He slides one hand free, tucks Bucky’s hair behind his ear and arches on another moan as Bucky’s cock drags just right. “Please, ah, just--”
“Lube?” asks Bucky, dragging his lips over Steve’s. “Condom?” he adds, repeating the wet suction of mouths.
“Bedside drawer,” Steve directs. When Bucky disentangles himself to scoot to the edge of the bed Steve staggers up onto his elbows to watch, greedily taking in the way the dim light from the lamp plays over Bucky’s back, the sharp cut of his hip as he twists slightly to open the drawer, the fine hairs on his thighs and arms.
Bucky turns around, then smirks. The drawer slides closed with a definitive wooden sound. The unopened condom and half-full bottle of lube land beside Steve’s pillow. Bucky himself settles between Steve’s legs, gently parting them and running broad, calloused palms up and down the thin, sensitive skin of Steve’s thighs.
“God,” Bucky rasps, dragging his eyes down Steve’s flushed, heaving chest. They stop at Steve’s cock where it lies, slick and red and hard enough to hurt, on his quivering belly. Almost reverently Bucky sweeps his right hand to Steve’s balls, cupping, then trails his fingers up the underside of Steve’s cock. Steve jerks, and Bucky says, “You’re so sensitive. What’s it gonna be like when you’re on my cock, sugar?”
Steve grits his teeth and pushes his head back against the pillow.
“I know, I know,” says Bucky, teasing. “I’m gonna take such good care of you. Make you feel better’n you’ve ever felt before.”
Steve knows. God, does he know. In just the last half-hour he’s felt the best he’s had since he came out of the ice. And it does not, he tells himself, have anything to do whatsoever with the way Bucky smiles at him. Bucky probably smiles like that at all his one-night stands. He’s an attractive fella, after all, and clearly knows it.
Steve tries to affect some sort of nonchalance. Tries not to stare too raptly as Bucky pops open the lube and pours it onto his fingers. Definitely tries not to stare as Bucky warms it between those fingers; then, deciding it’s enough, spreads Steve’s thighs a little more and scoots slightly down the bed. Steve tries to act like he gets laid on a regular basis and that this isn’t the first time someone’s had their fingers up his ass in the twenty-first century.
Of course, that all goes out the window at top-speed when Bucky circles his rim, ghosting pressure over and over before finally letting his index finger slip in.
Steve keens. And though his face is burning red, embarrassment doesn’t steal over him once he sees the dark look in Bucky’s eyes and the hand that squeezes tight around the base of Bucky’s cock. Like he’s close to blowing his load already, like Steve is something that could get him that hot.
“Oh, gorgeous,” Bucky finally says, and his voice is more than a little rough as he eases another finger in, gaze darting down to it and back up to Steve’s face. “How long has it been?”
“Uhn.” Steve grunts and arches his back, pushes his hips down to force Bucky’s fingers deeper. He tries to swallow back his needy whine, then says, “It’s, ah--awhile.”
Can’t really say since before your parents were even born .
Bucky’s fingers probe and stretch, opening Steve up but purposefully avoiding his prostate. It’s driving Steve insane, this buildup of sensation without fully triggering it. The burn from the stretch fades quickly with Bucky’s clever fingers, and he’s liberal with the lube to keep skin from catching. The slick, absolutely filthy noises of it (Bucky fingering him open, Jesus Christ, getting him ready to take his dick) make Steve’s heart hammer in his chest. Can Bucky hear it? Steve wouldn’t be surprised if he could.
Three fingers makes Steve shout, heels digging into the sheets, thighs tensing. It’s so good, so fucking good, and Bucky’s right there , if he just slid a finger over a little more…
“Please,” Steve gasps. He’s shamelessly screwing down onto Bucky’s fingers now, hands clenching hard enough into the sheets he’s afraid he’s going to tear them. He squeezes his eyes shut, overwhelmed, desperate. “I can take it, I’m ready, please --”
Bucky’s fingers slide free, and Steve almost sobs at the emptiness until he hears the sound of the condom wrapper opening, hears Bucky’s ragged breaths, the grunt as he slides the condom down his dick and the slick slide of his hand over it as he lubes himself up.
“Steve, baby,” says Bucky. “Look at me.”
Steve opens his eyes. Lets them dart briefly down to where Bucky’s dick hangs, heavy and sheathed, between his legs. Swallows hard as he realizes it’s about to be inside him.
He looks up at Bucky. Memorizes the flush of his high cheekbones, the unruly way his hair falls over his face and the tufts that stick out. Steve says, with all of the certainty he isn’t sure he ever truly felt in the war, “Fuck me.”
The wrecked look on Bucky’s face darkens. Rough, he pushes Steve’s legs up, bending him in half and leaving him completely vulnerable. Steve’s breathing hard, and so is Bucky.
“Yeah,” Steve croaks, moaning at the slick, blunt nudge of Bucky’s cock against his hole. “C’mon, give it to me, Buck.”
Buck shoves in, hard, no warning, and Steve practically screams his pleasure.
It hurts, but in a way Steve loves, that burn-stretch that pulls his shoulders up, like they’re on an invisible string. It leaves him breathing fast and shallow at the sudden fullness. His body rushes to adjust as Bucky stills, balls-deep, and looks down; lips parted, wide eyes equal parts awed and turned on. It hits Steve like a kick to the solar plexus and leaves him just as breathless. Bucky is looking at him like something desirable, something wanted, and not just because of his body.
“Buck,” says Steve at the same time that Bucky says, “ Steve .”
Steve isn’t sure who moves first, but they’re kissing, hard, Bucky letting go of Steve’s legs and Steve immediately wrapping them tight around Bucky’s waist, drawing him closer, needing him closer. A sharp nip to his lower lip leaves it throbbing, makes Steve whine against the insistent slither of Bucky’s tongue.
Pulling away with a wet noise that curls the fire in his belly just right, Steve says, licking a stripe up the underside of Bucky’s neck, “Move.”
There’s hardly enough time to take a breath in between before Bucky’s pulling out and slamming back in, their skin clapping together.
Steve muffles his shout in the meat of Bucky’s shoulder, sucking a mark there as Bucky leans forward to grip the headboard with one hand. The other twists in the sheets, dragging them into a messy fistful.
Jesus, it feels good. Bucky isn’t shy about giving Steve all he’s got, his low grunts matching Steve’s punched-out moans, his rough voice egging Steve on, calling him beautiful and perfect and so fucking hot.
They leave Steve blushing full-body, turning his head to hide his face in his shoulder. Bucky says, “Uh-uh, look at me,” and Steve does, shyly, then has no choice but to close his eyes as Bucky pegs his prostate.
When he opens his eyes again Bucky is looking at him intently, lower lip between his teeth. Bucky says, strained like he’s barely holding himself together, “You are such a pretty fuckin’ thing.” Steve gasps, then shudders; the words are simple, but they hit Steve with an intensity that has him reaching for his cock, desperate to quell the steady throbbing between his thighs.
Bucky continues: “Jesus,” he says, eyes dark and temples slick now with sweat, “if you could see yourself, Steve, spread under me and blushing a pretty pink, touching yourself while I fuck you.”
He follows the quick movement of Steve’s hand. Steve jerks himself faster, tighter, tongue just touching his lower lip. It’s tempting to slide his hand lower, feel between his cheeks where Bucky’s cock is filling him, touch his swollen rim and let the latex-smooth length brush his fingers.
“Harder,” Steve gasps instead, digging his head into the pillow, arching up to meet every one of Bucky’s thrusts. Arousal steals over him fast and sharp, fuzzing his vision and clouding his head, chasing away any thoughts that aren’t about getting Bucky’s come in him. Even with his hand wrapped around his cock it’s not enough; he needs that last bit of leverage. “ Bucky , Bucky, oh god, harder, yeah, harder --”
Without warning Bucky is flipping him, pushing Steve onto his stomach then dragging him up onto his hands and knees. He slides back in quickly, hands clenching the spread of Steve’s cheeks before moving to tightly grip his hips.
Steve keens, pushing back, spreading his legs wider and arching his ass up. “Oh god, yes,” he gasps, “like that, fuck . Don’t stop, don’t stop.”
He clumsily reaches for his cock, gripping it tight and moaning loudly. He is so close, teetering just on the precipice, fresh pre-come slick on his palm, the filthy sound of their skin together loud in his ears.
Above him Bucky moans, low in his throat, and says, “That’s it, sweetheart.” One of his hands drags up Steve’s side, over his shoulders and into his hair. “That’s it, god, you feel so fuckin’ good, Steve.”
Bucky makes a fist and tugs, hard.
Steve’s orgasm steals over him without warning.
He’s aware of his own startled moan that only increases in pitch when Bucky fucks him through it with his own surprised noise, hitting his prostate on every thrust and milking it out of him until Steve is begging in breathless syllables. He feels when Bucky follows suit with a sharp inhale, pressing his forehead to Steve’s upper back as his hips jerk and he begins to fill the condom.
It takes them a few minutes to catch their breath. Bucky eases out and rolls off, landing heavily on his back without bothering to take off the condom. Steve follows suit, landing in the wet spot with a wince but still too high on endorphins to really care about it.
Steve’s arms feel unsteady in the wake of his climax as he reaches up to push his hair back. Exhaling, he stares at his ceiling, fighting a grin. With his legs akimbo and non-self-conscious for the first time in decades, Steve feels thoroughly fucked-out in the best way. And if the serum is already allowing him to stay hard, maybe Steve can blame it on an impressive refractory period that has nothing to do with Vita-Rays.
Except.
Except Bucky is already on his side, propped up by his elbow, and staring at Steve’s still-ready erection. And what he says next, smile shaping around the words, derails any coherent thought completely.
“I knew the serum would have these effects,” says Bucky, sly and not at all looking like someone who should be surprised.
“Uh,” replies Steve, “um. What?”
Bucky laughs and leans over, pressing a kiss to Steve’s bewildered brow. “I knew you were Steve Rogers the moment I saw you in that club. You’re the greatest soldier who ever lived, but you’re not exactly great at being covert.”
Steve could hit himself. In the face. Repeatedly.
He should have known . Of course he couldn’t even go into a gay club without people knowing who he was, recognizing the broad shoulders from camera footage and the blond hair from interviews. He can practically hear Natasha cackling in his ear.
“You knew?” he croaks, sitting up and flushing as he realizes he’s still naked. Any ease he’d had before is gone, and he groped quickly on the floor for his underwear, grateful they didn’t get thrown too far. He wriggles them on and looks at his feet on the beige carpet of his floor and says, “You didn’t say anything?”
“About you, or to you?”
“Um.” Steve chews his lower lip. “Both, I guess.”
“You’re hardly the first celebrity to walk through those doors,” replies Bucky. He sits up as well, but does not reach for his underwear. Steve has to actively fight not to look when Bucky rolls the condom down, ties it off, and tosses it into the trash can Steve keeps by the dresser across the room.
“I’m not a celebrity,” Steve automatically says. “No one knows Steve Rogers.”
“Oh, come on, Steve,” Bucky says, amused. “Did you really think that a club full of gay men wouldn't recognize Captain America? You’re practically a gay icon.”
“How?” Steve’s forehead creases. “I’m not even…”
“Out?” Bucky finishes. He smiles, and it’s bright and warm. “There are historians dedicated solely to this theory, Steve. It’s not in history books because there’s a lot of shit our government doesn't want to know. Like records of a Steve Rogers working at places later identified as secret gay clubs? They want us to believe that it’s a common name. And sure, it is. But then there were the rumors after the war that Steve Rogers, Captain America, gave good old-fashioned suckjobs for his rent money back in the day. As you can imagine, those got shut down pretty quick and labeled as people trying to tarnish your good memory.”
Steve winces. Those weren’t exactly his proudest moments, but a handjob or a suckjob, especially ones in the cars of men rich enough to afford them? Steve was a poor kid from the Heights with a laundry list of ailments who was lucky enough to be blessed with a pretty face and a habit of quick learning. He doesn’t regret any of it.
“So that’s it, then,” Steve says, probably a little more hostile than necessary. He squares his shoulders and sets his chin. “You knew who I was, so you decided to let me take you home so you could, what, brag to your friends about how you screwed Captain America? Prove that these historians were right and that Steve Rogers was a two-bit queer whore back in the day to make enough money to scrape by?”
His hands are curled into tight fists, and his heart is pounding, and he’s watched Bucky’s face rapidly erode from amusement to confusion to fear and finally to despair. It doesn’t matter that Bucky’d made him come harder than Steve can remember, or that Bucky has a beautiful smile. Always quick to anger and prone to lashing out without asking questions, the only thing that Steve cares about right now is getting Bucky out of his bed and out of his apartment.
“Steve, no ,” Bucky says. He scoots closer and seems to finally realize his own nakedness. A delicate blush colors his cheeks as he searches the floor for his own underwear, quickly pulling them on once he finds them. “Listen to me. I’m sorry. I should have told you that I knew. But I didn’t want you to kick me out.”
“You’re not really helpin’ your case here, pal,” Steve grits out.
Bucky leans forward and touches the taut muscle of Steve’s forearm. “Hey,” he says gently. “Look at me Steve. Please.”
Eventually, reluctantly, Steve does, and it is absolutely not because of the dejection in Bucky’s voice.
Bucky’s eyes are wide and round, his forehead creased. A faint shimmer to them in the lamplight hints at unshed tears. The hand on Steve’s arm slides up, over the delicate bones of Steve’s wrist to settle over Steve’s clenched fist. Steve stares down at it, silent.
“I wanted you to take me home because it was you . Not because of who you are and what you’re capable of,” Bucky explains. “You’re hot, and you’re great in bed, sure, but I ain’t that kinda guy. When I saw you it was…”
Heart leaping into his throat to hammer away there, Steve looks back up at Bucky and says, “Like nothin’ you’d ever felt before?”
Bucky visibly relaxes, a slow smile brightening his face. “Yeah, Steve,” he says.
Maybe it hadn’t just been the club’s atmosphere. After all that he’s seen Steve isn’t one to usually pull the fate card, but a voice in his head that sounds suspiciously like Sam’s says that some things are meant to happen. And the accompanying tug in his chest seems to agree.
“You shoulda told me, you jerk,” Steve says. Relaxes his hand and slots Bucky’s fingers between his, tugs him in for a kiss. Bucky laughs against his lips and Steve swears it’s the best sound he’s ever heard. Cupping the back of Bucky’s head with his other hand and shivering at the brush of Bucky’s fingers against his jaw, Steve adds between kisses, “Feel like maybe I been waitin’ my whole life for you.”
“You fuckin’ punk,” Bucky says. “Jesus fuckin’ Christ, me too, Steve. Me too.”
----
When Steve wakes up in the gray hours of the morning and looks over at Bucky sprawled on his back and breathing deeply, he shoves his face into his pillow to hide his grin.
When Bucky wakes up, sleep-ruffled and bleary-eyed, Steve gives him coffee and bacon and pancakes.
He’s new to these one-night stand things, but Steve’s pretty sure you’re not supposed to fall for the first person you do it with.