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Sometime after the fall of SHIELD, Tony decided they needed to meet on a regular basis. Tony, Bucky thinks, likes to have everyone under one roof so he can keep them safe, even though he’d puff his chest up like an angry little bird if you told him that. Steve says the meetings, which aren’t actually regular at all but whenever Tony remembers them, are more to keep everyone abreast of what he’s doing, but they let Tony think it’s all his own idea.
This is how Bucky Barnes, formerly a Howling Commando, formerly the Winter Soldier, expert sniper and terror of the intelligence community, ends up in an ergonomic chair in a conference room, having a meeting. The thought makes him smile a little. Steve, sitting next to him, sees the smile and raises his eyebrow, wanting in on the joke. Recently Tony surprised Bucky with a new function on his phone and tablet that allows him to type without the metal fingers actually touching the screen. He’s grateful. It’s made tormenting Steve faster, anyway.
I was just imagining the Winter Soldier at a board meeting, he types.
Steve looks down at his phone and Bucky knows he’s trying not to smile. It stings him a little bit, but the fact that Bucky can find things funny, even this, makes Steve happy. Bucky is all about making Steve happy.
World’s shortest board meeting, Steve replies unexpectedly, and Bucky almost laughs. He chokes it down with a cough that doesn’t even make a dent in Tony’s monologue. Everyone else looks absorbed, even Natasha. It’s not that Bucky’s not interested, but they’ve moved past the science parts and are now into SHIELD finances. Transparency at all costs is Tony’s new motto. Bucky thinks maybe he’s hoping to bore them into not paying attention when he inevitably admits he’s made a sex robot.
It’s been a long day already. Bucky’s only been home from Antarctica for two days. Steve was in Switzerland almost the entire time Bucky was gone, and the two of them have been attending debriefings nonstop. It’s left very little time alone, and Bucky needs it – he needs Steve’s foot running up his calf while they eat breakfast and he needs Steve’s arms tight around him at night and he needs Steve naked for longer than the desperate over-the-kitchen-table fuck they managed the second Bucky got home. He shivers at the memory of watching Steve’s shoulders and back move while he frantically touched himself, his face pushed into the table and his mouth open against it, crying out hoarsely with each rough thrust until he came without warning. He’s not often that noisy during sex but he was exhausted and missed Bucky and that’s a combination that makes him reckless. Bucky dragged him into the bedroom and by the time he’d pulled Steve’s clothes all the way off, he was asleep facedown on the bed.
Bucky needs to touch him, suddenly, more than anything. He puts his right hand on Steve’s leg, not too high, and it’s almost enough to settle him but not quite. Steve sighs a little and shifts toward him, and Bucky slides his hand up until it’s in the warm groove of his hip, the tips of his fingers just touching the bulge of his cock. The second Bucky runs his finger over it, it starts to thicken and get hard. Steve squirms but doesn’t do anything to stop him, and he spends a few minutes there, stroking through the denim, until he can hear a distinct catch in Steve’s breath. It’s tempting to undo his jeans and just take him in hand. He could do it – it’s not like anyone’s paying attention – but he sees the way Steve moves forward and rubs his chest against the table a little. His nipples are so sensitive it’s almost unfair to take advantage, but when it comes to making Steve feel good, fairness goes out the window.
Steve’s been pretty still and quiet so far, but as soon as Bucky’s fingers touch his nipple, his hips jerk. He grabs his phone fast, and in seconds Bucky’s phone lights up.
What are you doing?
Bucky uses his left hand, unencumbered, to reply. Do you want me to stop?
Steve licks his lips and looks around the room. His cheeks are pink and he’s a little sweaty. He has, as Sam likes to tell him, no chill.
Are you going to make me come?
Bucky grins. Yeah.
Steve wipes his upper lip and doesn’t respond. Bucky waits a moment, wondering if he really does want to stop, but Steve pushes into his hand. Bucky shakes his head. Baby, he types, and when Steve sees it he goes an even brighter pink, eyes fluttering shut.
Gently, Bucky tugs on his nipple, twisting it. Steve squirms again and Bucky can see his hips moving slightly – he’s trying not to, trying to stay still, but he can’t. More twisting, slow, tight pressure, and Steve’s tightening too. Bucky would bet the muscles in his thighs are tensing and releasing and he wants to see it, wants to see him desperately trying to find some kind of friction against his cock.
Stop moving or everyone’s going to know you’re about to come, Bucky writes. Steve goes absolutely hot – Bucky can feel it even with only two fingers touching him. His breath hitches up in that unmistakable way, in-in out, almost a sob, and Bucky knows he’s about to go off in his pants. There’s nothing Bucky loves more than watching Steve come, but it’s especially good when Bucky’s driven him to it until he’s utterly lost control. He spent twenty-five years in a body that wouldn’t do what he wanted it to, and even now the possibility that he might not be completely in charge of himself makes him so ashamed he can barely stand it. But he’s easily overwhelmed by pleasure and he’s ashamed of that too, and when he’s turned on the shame and the pleasure become one.
“Steve will coordinate with the task force that’s already there,” Natasha says. Bucky, who’s been listening with a fraction of his attention, doesn’t jump, but Steve does.
“Yep,” he says tightly. His voice doesn’t break, but Natasha gives him a narrow look anyway before going on. The moment she turns back to the screen Bucky pinches, dragging a fingernail over his nipple, and that’s all it takes. Steve presses one hand over his mouth and nose and the other grabs Bucky’s hand and holds on, squeezing convulsively. His hips rock in small, restrained thrusts. Bucky’s on the verge himself, he realizes, surprised by the heavy, thick pulse between his legs. He’s less sensitive than he was, but he’s still not always entirely in touch with his body until suddenly he’s overwhelmed. There are still days when all it takes is Steve’s fingers running over his skin, lighting up all his nerves, to make him come. He’s always been so weak for Steve – his ridiculous eyelashes and the way he looks up from underneath them like he has a single bashful bone in his whole body, his smell, his big hands that know exactly where to touch and can lift a tank or stroke Bucky’s hair at night.
Watching Steve come down, trying to regulate his breathing and recover, Bucky thinks for a moment that he might just get up and leave and drag Steve with him. One of the advantages to having everyone think you’re a little crazy is that you can do what you want and no one will bother you about it. Bucky likes to let people underestimate him. It’s handy, and on occasion very funny. But this crew is hard to fool. He’s not sure what they’d do if he suddenly sprinted out of the room, but it’s probably not best to test it even to cover for Steve who, Bucky thinks, is going to have a difficult time hiding that wet stain even if he can somehow manage not to look guilty as hell.
“Right, fine, whatever, see you next time,” Tony says, waving them off, meeting over, and Steve throws Bucky a panicked look.
Untuck your shirt and pull it down as far as it it’ll go, stay turned toward me and walk out fast, Bucky tells him. Steve nods, pulling his shirt out from his jeans and letting the tails fall over his fly. It covers the stain beside the zipper pretty thoroughly when he stands, but his face is still so wrecked, cheeks flushed and eyes dazed like he got smacked with something hard, that no one looking at him could fail to realize what’s happened. Not a single tiny bit of chill. Bucky grabs his arm and marches him out of the room like they’ve got somewhere to be.
“Hold on, Steve,” Tony says.
“We have three other briefings today, sorry,” Bucky says with just the right amount of regret. He rushes out into the hallway and shoves Steve into an elevator before anyone else can question them – Natasha and Clint both would know they don’t have any briefings, since they were in Antarctica with Bucky – and the doors close faster than expected.
“Sirs, would you like me to hold the elevator until Captain Rogers is presentable?” Jarvis asks.
“Yes, please,” Bucky says.
“I’m presentable,” Steve protests, but when Bucky pulls him close, Steve wraps around him languidly and buries his face in Bucky’s neck. Post-sex Steve is stupid and sleepy, for a few minutes at least.
“Yeah, you’re ready for a press conference,” Bucky says, kissing his neck and the side of his head. “Come on, pal, look alert.”
Steve straightens and scrubs a hand over his face. “It’s your own damn fault.”
“Hey, that was your fantasy, not mine,” Bucky retorts as the elevator starts moving again.
“I can’t believe you remembered that,” Steve mutters, going bright red again.
“When it comes to you, I remember everything,” Bucky says.
“Do you?” Steve asks, looking puzzled but pleased. He’s always surprised somehow that he’s important to Bucky.
“Everything,” Bucky says. “Everything important, anyway. Not like your birthday, or whatever.”
Steve grins and shoves him a little with his elbow, like Bucky didn’t wake up at midnight on July fourth to wish him a happy birthday the way he has since they were kids.
*
The unfortunate truth is that Bucky’s memory, like Steve’s, is terribly accurate. It wasn’t always like that; he had a better than normal memory before Zola’s laboratory, but nothing special. Now he remembers with his entire being. Sometimes he feels like he exists in more than three dimensions because a memory will put him in a different time and place entirely.
It didn’t all come back at once. He remembers dropping Steve, the mission he couldn’t and will never be able to complete, on the shore and making sure he was breathing, staggering away, splinting the arm that was already healing, laying low until he received orders. But no orders came and as the days passed the pain came through. It began as a slow buzz of discomfort in his head, on the surface of his skin, and increased until he could only lie naked on the floor of the hotel room with his hands cradling his head. Everything that touched him hurt like fire licking across open nerves. He was lucky the hotel was one they’d always used for him. The screaming didn’t draw any notice.
It happened from one moment to the next, while synapses reconnected and dead cells reformed. One moment he wasn’t aware and the next moment he was. It wasn’t that he’d been lost but rather that a puzzle piece had appeared to connect all the disparate ones rattling around in his head. I exist gradually became I have a name and after the name, the life: the slow bleed backward through the years. He knew yesterday and then last week and then last month. Sometimes there were months that were actually years because of the ice. The pain was bad when he began to remember and it became worse when the widening pool of memory spread out and hit the year 1948 and it hurt most when it hit 1945 – the red tide brushing up against December 1945 and then overtaking it, flooding November and October and September August July June May April March metal sawteeth bloody snow a face he loved above him moving away so fast like a train receding into a tunnel–
Most of the screaming happened then.
When the pain was gone he was still stuck there, in 1945. For months the only thing he could see was that sad, sick man curled up on the floor of a cell and burning up with infection, or strapped to a table and struggling not to scream, doing it anyway, fighting because Steve was on his way. The men, the guards and scientists, showed him newspapers that told the truth but it was a long time before he knew, really knew, that Steve was dead. There was no one coming. There was no one.
With most of him still in 1945 he chased them, all the HYDRA operatives in all the bases he remembered. In Canada he caught a bullet to the shoulder that he couldn’t dig out and the voice in his head, the voice that was Bucky Barnes and knew there was something before 1945, told him to go to Steve, that Steve would help him. Unconscious in the facility, he dreamed about 1944 and 1943 and 1942 and 1941 and the dreams – not dreams really, only memory – were so full of helpless love he was drowning in it, as warm as he had been cold. When he woke up he was weak with it, laid low, and he cried and begged for Steve until his voice went hoarse. He had once had a thick wall around that part of himself, but it was the work of years and even when he got them back he couldn’t quite rebuild those defenses. After he became fully aware, after he realized he was being contained and observed and fell silent, there was Steve’s voice and he knew that they – an unnamed they, not HYDRA, a different they who didn’t hurt him but picked at him, probed him, asked him questions all day long – were preying on that early weakness.
He watched, waited to discover what they wanted from him. Steve’s voice defined his days and he tried not to respond, but even if it was a hallucination or a trick, it was still Steve. He would sit with his eyes closed and let the voice wash over him. Do you remember that time we went to Canada – there was that guy, you kept calling him Dave and he got mad because he wanted to be called Frankie, and he had a couple tickets to a show you wanted to see, remember? Do you remember that explosion outside Graz that burned off half of Dum Dum’s mustache? I was out running the other day and I remembered Morita drawing in the other half while he was asleep, and I started laughing while I was running. All these little old ladies in the park shushed me and said Captain Rogers, stop scaring everybody, and I had to stop and apologize.
He didn’t question the hallucination until one morning shortly after breakfast, when he was doing pushups and listening. There was a little tremble in Steve’s voice when he said Do you remember the day my mother died and I yelled at you and told you to get out of the apartment? I always wished I hadn’t done that. I never wanted you to see me cry. Stupid. I know you wouldn’t have cared, I just thought I had to be…I dunno, tough, strong, hold out more than anyone else. There’s a lot of things – I guess I just – I wish I’d been a better friend to you. I let you down a lot.
That was when I knew it was you, he told Steve later. There’s no way my brain would make you say something that stupid. Had to be the real thing.
The real thing: that’s Steve.
You’re pretty gone over him, huh, Tony said when he was still in the facility and they were working together to try to realign his arm, which had been pushed a little out of socket during training. Steve was on the other side of the room, fiddling around with some of Tony’s tools and trying not to look anxious. You don’t have to play dumb with me. You can try to hide that look on your face but I recognize it. Not because you’re obvious. Not like him, he might as well have an I Heart Bucky Barnes tattoo on his forehead. I just got your number, that’s all. He’s everything to you.
Bucky didn't respond – he likes to keep quiet around Tony because it makes him talk more, reveal more – but he thought about that phrase, everything to you, a lot. He doesn't say it, or even think it, partly because he'd feel stupid and partly because it's inaccurate. What they have isn't that small. Steve isn't just everything to him; he's everything to all things, everywhere, in all times. But you can't say all that – or he can't, anyway. When he comes home from a six-week mission and Steve is on the couch waiting for him, asleep with a book on his chest, Bucky thinks there's my guy. It's funny how those three words can contain something so big that Bucky loves even the things that touch him, his clothes and their furniture and the dumb coffee he drinks. Their bed, where the world is narrowed down to only the two of them, is so beautiful to him that it's almost sacred. If he felt less, maybe he could say more.
But he's always been like this about Steve. There was always that sweet tug of pain. He can trace it back to the age of seven, when his mother explained to him that he couldn't marry Steve because Steve was a boy. He told her he would do it anyway, but he understood suddenly why other boys made fun of them. He didn't mind, but Steve already got picked on enough. Not around the other boys, he thought then, and later, not at all. It was always there, that abiding ache, but there was something beautiful in it. It felt good to hurt for Steve. It wasn’t a raw pain but something that settled around him and kept him warm even as he slept in a puddle of icy foxhole mud. When he looked at the sky in Italy expecting stars and saw only smoke, he thought of Steve, and when he screamed on the cutting table it was for Steve. He felt too much, always too much, but he never found it hard to keep quiet. When something’s part of you for that long, you can forget it’s there. He pushed it away long enough not to want it anymore, not really.
Except now that he looks back on it, he can't believe he ever thought he succeeded. Early, he only wanted to kiss Steve all the time. That was as much as he knew how to do, and he didn’t know how else to show the happiness and pleasure he felt in Steve’s company, so much greater than he felt around anyone else and so confusing. He’d dream about kissing Steve’s face and his mouth, endless warm kisses, and wake up wet and trembling. When it turned less innocent he was already old enough that girls had started to notice him, and he could kiss as much as he liked. There was nothing as good as having a girl in his lap, grinding up against her and kissing until his lips were swollen and sore. Sometimes he’d get off that way, but he liked to wait. He liked to pretend it was Steve making him hold off, so he’d walk home like that, with his cock hard, wet and huge and almost hurting in his pants, ready to come the second he touched himself. In bed, he’d lie on his belly and pretend it was Steve’s slight weight pressing him into the mattress, Steve’s fingers around his cock, Steve kissing his neck and telling him he was so good, he was so beautiful and Steve loved him. You love me, you love me, he’d think, and when he came it was with that same beautiful ache wrapped around him. After, he could get it under control again and Steve was just Steve. That was all he needed; anything else was a dumb kid’s daydream.
*
On the subway home, Bucky thinks about what he’s going to do to Steve once they get there. He sits across from him and looks out the window and is very well behaved, even when he catches a glimpse of Steve’s hands. For a moment, overcome by a shiver of lust, he wavers from his purpose and wants to be fucked into the mattress instead. It never takes long like that, flat on the bed with Steve’s big, warm body wrapped around him. It feels like pleasure is being punched out of him and all he can do is dig his nails into Steve’s arm and hang his head and take it. Before he comes Steve will whisper, “Do you want it?” and sometimes when he nods Steve will give it to him right away, make him come three times, maybe four, until he’s wrung out. Sometimes he’ll make Bucky wait, holding him there and refusing to move even when Bucky sobs please, please, I want it, god please just fuck me. Being forced to wait always gets him off so fast, and when he’s reduced to begging it’s only a matter of time before he comes on Steve’s cock without either of them moving. And sometimes, sometimes Steve will just pull out and refuse to get him off at all. Bucky hates and loves it when that happens. He asked Steve for it, after all – asked him to occasionally not let him come, to wind him up for days on end until he’s so desperate he can’t see straight. Steve didn’t understand at first, but when he saw how hard Bucky fell apart when he finally let him come, he was a quick convert.
That’s how it is with Steve. He’ll do what Bucky asks because it’s Bucky asking, but he’s dubious about it until he sees results. He’ll smack Bucky’s ass and the backs of his thighs until he's so excited he comes, keep on going until he cries and then hold onto him tight after – two kinds of release and sometimes he needs them both – but that first time he almost wouldn’t do it, always unwilling to hurt him. Now he understands, now he knows how to make it hurt exactly the right way. He knows that sometimes all Bucky wants is to give it up. Steve understands, Bucky thinks, because once in a while he needs to give it up too. He won’t ask for it like Bucky will, but it’s there in the tightness in his shoulders and the way his fingers drift more and more often to the bridge of his nose to pinch like he’s got a stress headache, although Bucky knows that’s unlikely. It’s there in the way his face closes down even to Bucky, which is unacceptable.
Across from him, Steve looks tired. He’s wearing Bucky’s hooded sweatshirt over his button-down and a baseball cap that he thinks disguises him, and rests his head against the window, oblivious to the rest of the people in the car staring at him and pretending not to. Even the orgasm in the meeting didn’t unwind him all the way, and Bucky smiles down at his own hands because he knows how to get him there. He’s looking forward to it.
*
He loves their neighborhood, he really does. Everybody lets them be. It’s amazing to him that he can walk down the street and people wave but don’t come near. Possibly that’s because of Bucky; he’s friendly enough, but when it comes to keeping people away from Steve he’s not friendly at all. The Winter Soldier files haven’t leaked yet, although he knows it’s only a matter of time and when they do things are going to get bad, but for now he’s happy to let their life be quiet here.
Bucky directs Steve into the house, through the door, with a hand on his back. Steve lets himself be led, and looks unsurprised when Bucky shuts the door and says, “Let’s get your clothes off.” He’s starting to blush again, and when Bucky’s got him naked and is standing behind him, pressing him against the front door with his hands pinning Steve’s wrists in place, he’s red all the way down his chest.
“Buck, come on,” he groans. So bossy. Bucky loves it, but Steve’s not in charge now and he keeps forgetting. He always does.
“Yeah? Tell me what you want,” Bucky murmurs, kissing just under his ear and pulling his hips away. “I’ll give it to you if you can say it out loud.”
He can’t at first. That’s Steve for you. It’s not just that he’s bright red and breathless at being forced to say what he wants, but that he’s so clearly losing his cool and he fights it so hard that Bucky has to be a little bit of a bastard about it to get Steve where he needs to be.
“I won’t touch you at all if you can’t even say you want to be fucked,” he says.
Steve breaks – a little. “I do, I want it,” he blurts out. “God, just put your cock in me.”
“My goodness, Captain America,” Bucky says, “that’s filthy.”
“You of all people should know I’m not innocent,” Steve gasps, straining against him. But even when he’s asking Bucky to treat him rough, even when he says push my face in the bed and make me take it, mess me up, I like it when you do me really hard, even when he’s desperate enough that he’ll do anything, get on his knees and just rub his face against Bucky’s cock through his jeans, start mouthing it through the layers of fabric because he wants it so much, he still looks like he’s one sheepish grin away from handing out merit badges.
“Oh yeah? Tell me what you did earlier, then,” Bucky says. “What happened in that conference room? I bet you can’t say it.”
“I – ” Steve swallows. Yeah, you’re quiet now, Bucky thinks.
“You came in your pants,” Bucky says, smirking.
“You know what happens when you play with my – ” He stops.
“Can’t even say nipples,” Bucky says fondly, letting go of Steve’s wrist and finding the right nipple, the one that he didn’t play with during the meeting, and pinching gently. Steve presses his face into his own bicep and moans, rocking forward and back.
“I want to be fucked,” Steve mumbles after a few moments, his words muffled into his arm.
“What was that?” Bucky asks. “You’re being a little vague.”
Steve whips his head around, glaring. “Bucky.”
“Oh, you want to be fucked,” Bucky says with a grin. “I guess I could probably do that if you’re nice to me.”
“I’ll be nice to you,” Steve says darkly. He’s scowling, still trying to stay in control because he’s embarrassed and it’s too much for him just to let Bucky give him what he wants.
“Let go, you can do it,” Bucky murmurs. Steve keeps trying to push back and get more and Bucky’s not having it; he finally holds onto Steve’s hip tight with his left hand and pins him there, strokes Steve’s hair with his right hand slowly. Steve moans in frustration and tries to move, but Bucky won’t let him. “Sssh, it’s all right. Stay still and let me do it.”
“I want to make you feel good, though.” Steve says. His voice is thickening a little like he’s about to cry. He goes down so hard, it’s such work to get him there and Bucky loves every second of it.
“It’ll feel better if you let me do it,” Bucky says, and decides it’s time to pull out the big guns. “You’ll do that for me, won’t you?”
“Yes – yeah, of course,” Steve says.
“I knew you would,” he whispers, and just for Steve, he adds, “Come on, sweetheart.”
“Bucky,” Steve moans. “That’s not fair.”
“Since when are you ever fair?” he asks, kissing Steve’s shoulder. “You need it, huh?”
“I don’t – ” Steve begins, and Bucky knows he’s about to lie and say he doesn’t need it, doesn’t need anything.
“Yeah, you do. You’re so big, but you still need me to take care of you.” That’s almost got him, he’s almost there, and so Bucky kisses him and adds sweetly – because he feels sweet, because he loves him – “You can be my baby for a little while, let me make you feel good.”
And Steve shivers and breaks, the way he always does when Bucky calls him baby, calls him his sweetheart. He doesn’t do it very often. That’s not really the way they are – pet names, touching in public, that kind of thing. But at some point there was one of those nights where they were both run ragged and needed it slow and hard and warm. He was riding Steve and it was so good, good enough that sometimes he thinks about it and gets hard just at the memory. Steve’s hair stuck up everywhere from Bucky’s fingers and he drove up into Bucky with the same effortless, gradual glide of his hand squeezing Bucky’s cock. I wanna do this forever, Bucky said with his head tilted back, half out of his mind, and Steve smiled up at him and said I’ll do this to you for the rest of your life. Something about it hit him just right and he came with a deep, ferocious pleasure that stayed with him for days.
God, he moaned, I love you, you know that? He felt drunk on it, on how good he felt and how in love he was. Steve shook his head with a grin and said yeah, Buck, I know, but he sounded indulgent, like he was humoring Bucky and maybe he didn’t believe it all the way, and Bucky, overwhelmed, cupped Steve’s face and kissed him and said every single second. Steve’s face when he said it was a picture of total, desperate love and longing, a look almost not meant for anyone else to see, and Bucky knew his words had gotten him, the same way Steve’s promise had gotten him before. It’s always been you and it always will be, sweetheart, he said, soft – he’s always been able to be soft with Steve the way he could never be anywhere else – and Steve looked almost anguished before he pulled Bucky close and pressed his face against his shoulder and came, shuddering.
Afterward he stayed in Bucky’s arms for a long time, quiet and thoughtful while Bucky let himself be as much of a doting idiot over Steve as he always wants to be. Weeks later Steve had that pinched look on his face after three hard missions in a row and was starting to get stubborn about it, resisting comfort with every fiber of his being, before Bucky finally put a hand on the back of his neck and said come on, baby, come to bed. All the resistance went out of him fast, just like that, and he let Bucky take him down hard.
You like that a lot, Bucky said afterward.
I don’t know why, Steve said shakily. His eyes were wet and he shut them tight.
I know, Bucky said. Don’t worry, I know.
“You gonna let me take care of you?” Bucky asks, because yeah, he knows.
Steve nods, but Bucky already sees it in his body, muscles relaxing, no longer pushing. Bucky lets him go and directs him to the bed. He shivers while Bucky opens him up with his fingers and Bucky smooths a hand over his stomach and whispers let me, let me, and when he presses inside he says it again. On his back, with his hands pinned above his head and Bucky’s weight holding him down at the hips, Steve can’t do much but writhe, but he’s finally beyond trying to control anything.
“Keep your hands there, okay?” Bucky says, and Steve nods and does exactly what Bucky tells him to do. That’s Bucky’s favorite moment because if Steve is being obedient, then he’s so knocked out by pleasure, limp and dazed with it, that he’s finally outside himself for a while. And now Bucky’s free to use one of his hands to stroke Steve’s face. He hooks his other arm under Steve’s knee and rocks into him harder, faster, with more pressure, and Steve’s eyes flutter shut, mouth dropping open. But he doesn’t move his hands, just curls his fingers tight. His cock is wet, dripping a sticky pool of come on his stomach, and Bucky wants it in his mouth. The thought makes him shudder and drive his hips even faster and Steve, who always wants more, stiffens. He gasps out an urgent, breathless ah, ah, ah, and his cock thickens with each snap of Bucky’s hips and Bucky knows he’s almost there.
“Go on, you can do it,” Bucky murmurs, and Steve opens his eyes, seeking reassurance that it’s all right, that Bucky will hold onto him and keep him safe if he lets go. “You’re about to come so hard, aren’t you?”
Steve nods and Bucky reaches up to hold his wrists down again and fucks him mercilessly, the way he really wants to be fucked. Steve’s breath catches on a broken cry, and when Bucky whispers come on, come on sweetheart, he loses it completely. He tightens around Bucky, trembling for a moment before thrusting helplessly into the air, come spilling all over his stomach in quick, uneven spurts like it’s getting fucked out of him. Bucky follows him the second Steve lets go. He can’t help himself; there’s probably never going to be a time he doesn’t get off on Steve getting off. It feels so good he has to struggle to hold himself up so he can watch Steve, but the pleasure drags him under and he closes his eyes, lost in it for a minute. When he opens them Steve has gone lax under him, shaking and breathing unsteadily.
“Yeah,” Bucky pants, easing out of him and trying to sound smug even though he wants to put his head down on Steve’s shoulder and sleep for a little while. “You needed it bad.”
“Bucky,” he says, throwing an arm over his eyes and trying to hide how much he likes it when Bucky talks like this. It’s right there in the shiver that runs through him. So easy.
“You can admit it, you know.” Bucky grins and reaches for him. “I’m not gonna judge you if you need someone to take you down and fuck you brainless.”
Steve goes red and stays that way, burning up with embarrassment at how much he likes it. He groans, rolling over and burying his face in Bucky’s neck, mortified, but he’s still hard and Bucky knows he can get him at least two more times, just on the strength of his humiliation.
It’s easier for Bucky, he supposes. He craves the loss of control Steve gives him, chases after the complete breakdown that comes with it. He’d hate for anyone else but Steve to know that, but he’s not ashamed of it. But Steve denies it and denies it right up until a point and then he crumbles and it’s catastrophic when he does. For the next week he’ll be clingy but fight against it, angry that he missed Bucky so much he’s letting himself be needy. Bucky may or may not snap at him to get over himself; he usually does after a while. In the old days when Steve was prickly like that it would start a fight, but he’s mellower now. He’ll allow himself to rely, to depend, to lean a little – a very little. And Bucky won’t be insulted, the way he used to be, that Steve doesn’t trust him enough to lean on him all the way. He knows, by now, how deep Steve’s need for him really goes.
“I can’t believe you let me make you come with everyone in the room,” he says, stroking Steve’s back.
“Oh my god,” Steve replies, surging up to kiss Bucky hard. Bucky pushes him on his back again and straddles him, trying to decide what to do next. Steve looks up at him, waiting. There’s my guy, Bucky thinks, grinning, and tries not to wonder whether he deserves this. The point is that after all this time he needs to enjoy it, and he intends to for the rest of the night, and the rest of the week, and the rest of his life.