Chapter Text
Steve
With a breath that’s more rumbling growl than soft and sleepy, Steve hazily and half-consciously feels his body awaken. The process is completely unhurried. Underneath the blankets he’s been sharing with Bucky all night—collecting their shared body heat, curled up together—there’s a growing fine mist of sweat on his skin. He’s radiating heat, and he probably has been for, at least, a full hour. But, now, his body has reached a fever pitch at the same time that his brain has decided itself to be fully rested and ready to come alive once again.
Steve’s brain slowly finds his feverish body to be aching. It’s not an ache, nor a fever, in the way that he used to be so accustomed to waking up with in decades past—sick and sweating—this is an ache that’s much more pleasant. It’s sweeter. It’s an ache centered at the base of his cock, throbbing and tight. The pulsing ache is harsh enough to make his body quiver. His nerves chaotically blinking back online and throbbing in time with his heart pumping thick, hot blood through him.
Jesus Christ, he’s hard. So hard he’s gritting his teeth, sighing harshly through gritted teeth as it takes over him in pounding waves.
How could he help it, though? He’s pressed so tightly to Bucky’s back, curled around him with his nose in his hair, breathing in the sweet, familiar scent of his shampoo, his arm around his waist, his pelvis to Bucky’s backside, and his legs entangled with Bucky’s. All against the front of his body is Bucky.
Just Bucky.
Steve has missed his partner so badly over the past week and a half, so how can he be blamed for simply wanting to inhale him? He wants him all the time. The serum burns hot in his veins, leaving him boiling over for his lover. He wants, no, needs to protect him, he needs to keep him, he needs to have him. Even in his sleep, lust for him coils tightly inside Steve. Bucky’s here now, though, and with a few previously had conversations between them in his head, Steve lets his sensitive, shivery body do as it pleases—uncoordinatedly, instinctively humping Bucky’s sweatpants-covered plush backside, the hot friction causing his toes to curl. Another sleep-rough growl-like sound overflows from Steve’s lips. He shuts his eyes, reveling in the lazy, unmediated pleasure for as long as he can take it.
It’s not very long.
Steve only spends a handful of warm and sticky moments—time drawn out like taffy stretched between playful fingers on an endless summer afternoon—defiling his lover’s sleeping body before the supercharged lust inside him demands more. It’s the worst, most perverse type of craving. More. It’s a craving that Steve is weak to, he surrenders to it, helpless, and moves his weight as if he is shifting in his sleep, rolling with Bucky only to put him on his belly on the bed. Overtop of Bucky’s sleeping form, Steve spends just one more stray moment grinding teasingly into him with pleasure building deliciously in his gut, Steve breathes deeply through it; near-trembling as adoration builds alongside his pleasure; he loves how much trust the younger man has for him at the same time that he loves and adores his fucking body. God. He could worship this pretty body. He regularly does worship him and his body. It’s a fucking work of art. Bucky’s ass is thick and round and his thighs are just as mouth-wateringly shapely. Strong and thick. It drives Steve insane. Even just the curve of his back from his handsome shoulders to his hips…
Fuck.
He’s breathless, saliva flooding his mouth.
Fuck, Steve thinks again, another rush of humid air escaping his lungs as he catches an eyeful of the cute red lines pressed into the side of Bucky’s face. He’s easily gone where Steve wants him, comfortable on his stomach, naturally turning his head to the side to breathe easily and incidentally exposing the part of his face that had been previously pushed into the bed. And maybe Steve’s just a fucking pervert but those lines… Jesus, Mary, and Joseph… they give him just the same knee-jerk, cock-twitching reaction as the pink-red impressions left on Bucky’s wrists and ankles when they venture into bondage more comprehensive than what Steve can provide with his hands and own strength. All because Bucky’s bound now, too. Just in a different form. Not padded leather handcuffs or rope or a spreader bar but sleep. Sleep is keeping him from moving, from resisting, and Steve has free rein to take.
Steve actually fucking growls as he forcibly hauls himself away from that round, pretty ass. He has to step back, though, just for a moment; he has to get high on his knees and reach to the nightstand, grasping the tube of lube left there carelessly. Plus, he stays on his knees with a scant few inches between them to pull the sweatpants Bucky wore to bed down over the gorgeous curve of his ass, exposing the pale gold of his skin—tempting and lush, his hole now only obscured by the full expanse of his backside. Steve swears under his breath. Shameless, he touches. He gropes. He takes handfuls of that ass and squeezes, not hard enough to wake his lover, just enough. (Yet, never enough to completely sate his own urges, he wants this all the time.) He palms his thick thighs. He cups his soft, full balls between his legs. And he traces two fingers, feather-light, over his taint.
If Bucky were awake, he’d be whimpering already, begging for Steve to crook his fingers and rub against his prostate from the outside, massage the fat little flush of his perineum, and make him feel knee-weakeningly good. But. He’s not awake. Instead, he’s soft and limp, precious in his sleep, making all these little whiffling sounds, and so Steve can do whatever the fuck he wants.
He’s perfect.
This is perfect.
Steve confidently knows he can get away with all this without waking Bucky up because he crashed into bed last night. Extra tired after his long, long week-and-a-half accompaniment with Maria and Coulson (and a few other high-ranking S.H.I.E.L.D agents) to a global defense, political convention thingy. Something Fury was supposed to attend but, he’s Nick Fury, so he didn’t—why would he? He hates that shit. But, he did care enough to send his most trusted agents instead. Having heard Bucky talk about what the convention was going to entail before he left (mostly meetings), Steve’s very glad that Captain America wasn’t required to attend. So, by the time he returned yesterday afternoon, Bucky had looked entirely dead on his feet. After kissing him senseless at the door, Steve coaxed his partner into eating a real meal, bathed him in their massive, clawfoot tub, and laid him out on the couch, helping him relax until it was at least sort of late enough to be considered a reasonable time to go to bed. Then, yawning with drooping eyelids, Steve watched Bucky swallow two of his prescription sleeping pills—just to ensure that his well-earned rest didn’t get interrupted unpleasantly, even though neither of them doubted he was about to be out for ten hours minimum.
So, yeah, there’s no fucking way he’s going to wake up now. Just the opposite, he’s all easy and lax, with no tension whatsoever. Just sweetly letting Steve have him. And he’s going to stay that way.
Still, because it’s part of the fun—part of the game, Steve forces himself to slow down as if Bucky might wake up at any moment. That imagined danger adds to the allure, to the twisted anticipation, like Steve isn’t throbbing with the need to chase his own pleasure but the need to skirt the edge of disturbing Bucky as much as possible without jostling him into consciousness.
Biting his lip, Steve carefully pops the flip-top lid on the lube, watching Bucky’s beautiful, lax face for any signs of tension resulting from the sound. When he doesn’t find any, he coats four of his fingers with glistening slick languidly. Bucky’s pretty hole is always so tight—looking so sweetly tiny—when they start. And without having been fucked by Steve for so long, he’s going to need all the help he can get.
Wetly, Steve traces the pads of his fingers between his cheeks—from his tailbone to just behind his balls. Steve likes it messy. He likes it wet. The filthy, obscene sounds send hot, electric sparks from his ears directly to his cock. And Bucky isn’t awake to (playfully) complain about wasting so much lube just to make him drip as if he has a real pussy, so… he goes for it.
He groans, truly taking his time and playing with Bucky’s body, rubbing lube against his smooth, pretty skin. Just knowing how much he can stretch and how puffy and pink he can get… fuck. Steve feels crazed already. He wants to tear him apart. He’s so fucking into him. He needs to have him. Now.
When Steve can’t take it anymore, anticipation boiling over inside him, he stops massaging and instead pushes the tip of one of his thick fingers juuust inside Bucky’s twitching rim. Steve presses deeper much faster than he expects to be able to—his perfect, little body is just letting him in.
“God,” Steve sighs heavily to himself, letting himself be drawn so harshly into Bucky’s gravitational pull that his nose bumps the small of his back. Then, turning his head just barely to the side, Steve presses the tip of his nose into one of his dimples of Venus. Bucky smells like himself and home and Steve isn’t ashamed enough of himself, not anymore, to care that just that makes his dick twitch. He’s gone for Bucky. He knows that. Yet, all the while, he slowly sinks his index finger into him.
Still sleeping soundly, Bucky’s body is so relaxed. Easy and soft. So, without half the normal effort, Steve can get so deep into him. All the way to the webbing between his index and middle finger It’s impossible for him to resist nipping the very top of Bucky’s ass, just lightly dragging his teeth against him—just a smoldering taste of his skin. A tease.
The bluntly erotic and wet sounds of Steve pulling his first finger back, then pressing it inside, back, in, back, in, back, fucking him gently, echo through Steve’s body. His breath must be hot enough to leave condensation on Bucky’s skin like fogging up a window. God. Inside him is Heaven. Velvety-slick, hot, and vice-tight while being irresistibly yielding, too.
Steve adds the tip of his second finger, smoothly and slowly beginning to press inside…
And, suddenly, Bucky's next sleep-deep exhale contains the sugary twinge of a whine. It’s barely there, but Steve’s so fucking focused on him that he hears it. He could recognize the sounds of pleasure in his lover from miles away. He relishes pulling them out of him. Whimpers and whines, gasps and moans, wails and screams. But… when he’s barely started? And the game is for Bucky to remain unknowing of the pleasure Steve is taking from him, from his body? That just won’t do.
So, for a minute, Steve stays exactly where he is, flushing at least five degrees hotter when he realizes he’s literally been drooling against his skin. He really does want to eat him, more than he even consciously realizes. Yet, Steve has to let the moment settle. When the other man’s unconscious breaths fade back to their normal rhythm, he pulls himself away, sitting back up and feeling gut-punched by the site of his rim eating his fingers up. Any thought of wiping his hungry saliva off of Bucky’s skin, like he planned to when he sat up, is gone.
Look at that, Steve growls in the confines of his head. He presses both of his fingers in as far as he physically can, Bucky’s wet entrance kissing the webbing between his fingers. Then Steve puts just a little bit of strength behind his arm, a tease, pushing against his yielding flesh… just a little deeper. And Steve’s bottom lip suddenly ends up between his teeth, biting enough to feel the sweet flames of pain beginning to lap their way up his legs. Weakening him. Melting him.
Against what he would do if Bucky were awake, Steve thrusts his fingers in and out of him, getting him used to the intrusion of two fingers, never curling them the way he knows he would want. He wants to avoid his prostate as much as possible. He wants to keep him dead asleep where his tired, exhausted body will give in entirely. Letting Steve plunder his way deep, deep inside him.
Another fingertip. Three. Full. Fuller.
Working him more open, Steve can’t help but think about how, normally, to get Bucky to so quickly, so easily let him in as deep as he can—either with his fingers or his cock, carving into him—is to wring as many orgasms out of him as possible. Let him cum his brains out until he’s overcooked and can’t use any of his muscles anymore, hardly able to speak with how much pleasure and lust have rushed into his body. Trembling and weak. And then, Jesus, the way Bucky gasps and groans at that point. Fucking mewling on his cock and fueling his ego horribly when he goes there; when he gets so fucking cock-drunk that he becomes useless, unable to do anything but incomprehensibly whine, and the most words he can form revolve around how big and thick and deep his cock is and how much he needs it. He loves it. He’s not like that now, though. Of course, not. Now, he’s silent.
Now, Steve is three fingers deep in his pretty cunt, making his rim twitch and flutter so adorably that… Steve can’t resist, just once, he has to, he curls his fingers and presses the pads of them against his prostate. Just firm enough to make him—
Bucky’s silence is interrupted by a sweet, whimpering sound that emanates from low in his chest, completely involuntarily bursting out of him.
Fuck me.
Steve inhales shakily, telling himself, okay, just one more—
And this time, with another hit of pleasure, Bucky makes this precious little gasp. He can’t help the noises; he can’t alter them when he’s not awake and this is how Steve knows that he’s real all the time, when he’s fucking him and he’s awake, he’s making the same goddamn obscene noises. He’s really such a fucking slut for his dick. His sounds are the same, whether he knows he’s making them or not. Awake or asleep. He has to make them. He gets so worked up. Oh, God. Even in his unconscious state, it feels so good, he can’t help but moan. It’s not just that, though. It’s not just his sounds, it’s so much worse for Steve because he feels so good inside.
So good.
He’s so, so hot. Velvety and smooth, leaving Steve with no choice but to start panting, fantasizing about how it’s going to feel when he finally gets to get his dick inside him and he’s just as sweet, hot and smooth and tight. Tight. Still clinging to dreamland and the blankets on their bed. And, worse, Steve can feel the slow, thudding beat of his heart where his fingers are inside the tight clench of his body; pumping faster than it normally beats in his sleep, but nowhere near the same intense race when they fuck and both of them are conscious. The sensation is incredible.
Again, Steve adds a fingertip. Circling his yielding, soft rim for a moment, a tease, then plunging forward. In. Steve can’t fucking get over how easy he is. He’s a goddamn dream—a wet dream.
The lust inside Steve gets worse and worse, hotter and hotter, as he slowly, patiently fucks him on his fingers. Four fingers. Once more, he’s thinking about what Bucky is like when he’s awake, even as he revels in the filthy, filthy pleasure of taking advantage of his sleeping, yielding body—he’s thinking about how Bucky always gets impatient by now, whimpering and shaking, begging him to just stick it in him. He’s ready! C’moooon, do it! If Steve does, if he lets the carnal desire in him override all else, the blunt head of his cock will kiss Bucky’s pretty, open rim and Bucky will fucking choke, eyes rolling back, keening, gasping, and admitting that, ohhh, fuck, I always forg- guh, forget how big it is, in the most erotic, whiny tone. His inner brat showing through. And if Steve doesn’t hold him down while pressing so unbearably slow into him, waiting for him to adjust, Bucky will writhe on his cock, swearing it’s in his throat, but remain hilariously adamant that he can’t take it out and go back to fingering him. Not even just for a few more minutes. No. He’ll die without it. He’ll take it. He’ll choke on it and whine and lose his damn mind. Just for some cock. Brat. If Steve doesn’t let his carnal desires take over, if he resists Bucky’s desperate sounds, pouty lips, and round, “innocent” eyes, and he keeps fingering him open… Bucky will writhe and squirm and arch and fight until he has enough wiggle room to ride his damn hand. Using his hips, moaning under his breath, sweating until he’s glistening ‘cause the poor thing isn’t used to working so hard for his pleasure.
Steve heaves out a shaky breath, caught between the perfect images from countless memories replaying in his mind’s eye and the current eyeful of four of his fingers going into Bucky’s wet, wet, wet hole. He’s just fucking eating them up, greedy for it even in his sleep. Steve presses his fingers aaaaaaaaall the way into his willing body, right up until his knuckles, the widest part of his hand.
Fuck.
Fuck.
Steve could—
He’s so pliant, sleeping and easy, melting, yielding, that Steve could—
If he wanted, he could fucking fist him.
In his sleep.
And the only way Bucky would know would be if he woke him up with the pleasure or if Steve waited, hours, days, or even weeks later, after he woke up naturally, to tell him. Steve would pull him in close, maybe arrange him in his lap, and whisper it right into his red, wet mouth, holding him tightly and watching him lick and bite his lower lip, his eyes dilating, skin flushing, muscles squirming, getting desperate at the idea of what’s been done to him without him even knowing. How he’s been spoiled. Ruined. And once he knew the secret, he’d absolutely beg to be fisted again. Retroactively admitting, true or not, that he felt achy and loose when he woke up that day but was too embarrassed or confused to ask why.
He could.
Steve could do it. If he wanted to. He would just have to fold his hand and press harder and he could get his knuckles into his sweet, little body, too. Fuller than just four fingers.
“God,” Steve sighs tightly, keeping his voice as low as he can. He doesn’t want to ruin all his work now—he can’t let Bucky wake up just yet—but he also can’t keep everything in. The pressure in his chest is building and building and building. Hotter. Burning brighter, consuming all the fuel that he has, spreading rapidly like a forest fire. He’s so hard.
Before he totally combusts, Steve takes a selfish moment to take the edge off, lying back over Bucky, pressing him into the mattress with his weight, and letting his achingly hard cock rut against the softness that is the back of Bucky’s thigh. He has to hold his breath, otherwise he’ll pant and moan deeply right into his ear. A dead fuckin’ giveaway. Yet, because he doesn’t, Bucky makes this innocent, sweet purring sound in his sleep, always happy to be cuddled. Held. If only he knew what Steve was doing to him, keeping his fingers wet and hot in his pussy and humping his body like a horny damn dog.
Steve’s chest tightens unbearably, the overwhelming sensation taking him. Friction and heat race through his tension-ridden body. He can hold his breath for a long fucking time but when there are waves of pleasure and friction and heat assaulting him… it gets way shorter. And he’s almost choking right now. So, as cautiously as he can manage, Steve pulls away. He can’t resist humping him a handful more times, his thrusts sloppy and uncoordinated. Pleasure-driven and instinctual. He’s dripping pre-cum all over Bucky’s thighs. But when he finally does manage to make himself stop, he gasps.
He gasps, then he growls when he retracts his fingers from Bucky’s cunt. Already, he’s gaping without having anything in him. Empty. He’s pink and messy and it fucking collides with Steve like a slab of concrete collapsing on his head. Lookit that, his crazed inner voice rattles. Lookit ‘im. He’s so fucking wet. Drippin’. For you. ‘Cause of you. Steve would love to say that he takes Bucky’s lack of ability to complain about not being stuffed full immediately as he continues sleeping soundly—he’d love to say that he stares at the open, vulnerable gape of his pussy and plays with his rim, tracing it to see it twitch and clench and flutter, or that he uses his slippery, hot fingers to reach under his limp, heavy body and find his cock, tugging it, feeling how thuddy and throbby he is, his dreams probably turning filthy by this point, wet and fantastical, trying to make sense of the physical pleasure he’s experiencing without being awake—but he doesn’t.
He can’t.
Steve Rogers is a weak, weak man. Flawed. He has to just—
Oh.
“Fuck.” The swear is punched out of Steve, coming from the depths of his gut, he all but fucking doubles over, crushing Bucky under his weight. The sensation of the head of his leaking cock pressing against and then sliding into Bucky’s body. JesusfuckingChrist, he’ll never get tired of the toe-curling sensation. It’s so, so good.
If he feels like Heaven on his fingers, it’s nothing compared to how he feels on his cock. Molten hot, smooth, and tight. He lets his weight slowly, slowly push him all the way into his body, until his hips are pressed tight to his round, round asscheeks. Balls deep. Steve’s eyes roll back into his head. It’s so much. So good. His arms, planted on either side of Bucky’s shoulders to hold himself up, quiver. There’s a string of swears and blasphemy on the tip of his tongue, and an overwhelmed whimper begging to burst out of his chest just behind those sinful, potential words.
Fucking—
Fuck.
Deep inside Bucky is exactly when Steve understands the religion he grew up in. Bucky is Heaven. He’s Heaven all the time, but he’s especially Heaven inside. He absolutely was created in His image. A perfect divinity. The place Steve sees God is in his lover. He sees God through him. He reaches out and touches faith when caressing his skin—when Bucky’s lips part in a sleepy gasp, when he moves unconsciously in his sleep, presenting his throat to Steve’s hungry eyes, tossing his head to the side, when his hair is so disheveled, splayed across their pillows, and when he shakes, the holy spirit passing through him.
God.
How can Steve resist?
Steve fucking knows he’s Heaven, and he doesn’t feel bad about dragging him down to Earth and then further, all the way to Hell, using him, fucking him, defiling him. His body. He’s all easy and lax. There’s no tension anywhere in his body. He’s just letting him in and in and in.
Steve bites his lip until he tastes blood, stifling every bone-deep groan and growl as he grinds and rocks and fucks him deep. He might be strong, but he’s barely holding himself up. He’s so weak. It’s pathetic. It’s just that, Jesus, the way pleasure radiates through his body, made extra obscene by using Bucky when he’s unaware and sleeping, is crumbling him. He’s weak and he’s holding back at the same time—he’s unraveling, but he wants to sink his teeth into his skin and he wants to grab him until bruises bloom on his pretty pale-gold skin and he wants to snap his hips until he orgasms viciously. Steve’s head is spinning. Out of control. He can’t wake Bucky up. He wants to keep him here, like this. Just like this. Sleeping and beautiful and yielding. So, he has to keep it slow. Grinding deep. Rocking slow. Barley even fucking him. Just enjoying the slick, hot, tight clench of his cunt. His balls hit against his body again and again and again, with every minute thrust, punching the air out of Steve’s lungs. He feels like he’s dissolving, like cotton candy in water—his nerves in pleasure.
Gone.
“Guh, uh, uhh,” Steve groans, trying so hard to be quiet. He’s so fucking hard to be silent when he’s so hard and Bucky feels so good and—
Fucking God.
It’s overwhelming.
Steve has to squeeze his eyes shut tight, seeing fireworks on the inside of his eyelids. Sparking. Erupting. He can hardly bear continuing to hold himself up when his hungry gaze finds Bucky’s mouth. His pretty, full, pink lips are statically open and he’s started drooling in his sleep, just barely panting. So untouched by the pleasure and also so deeply involved in it. Steve can’t stand the erotic sight of him, he’ll come crashing down right now. He’s a fucking site. Already warm from sleep but now from lust circulating with the steady rhythm of his heartbeat, his cheeks are blushing brightly. He’s so fucking gorgeous. It makes Steve violent, he’s so perfect and obscene and—
He’s, he’s—
Oh, God.
Steve can’t do it.
In the end, Steve doesn’t even try to resist, he indulges, selfish and greedy; he can’t keep his eyes closed, he has to admire him; he can’t help but touch him, he has to feel him. He can’t—
Amazingly, Steve doesn’t come crashing down on top of him, losing his fucking mind, but he does shift his weight, holding himself up with just one arm—all while still rocking deep, deep, deep inside him—to use his other to trace the line of his spine. Fuck. His soft skin, the heat of him, the delicate lines of his body amidst rumbled sheets. He thumbs the dimples of Venus at the small of his back. Steve’s never seen anything prettier. Well. He (gently) squeezes his ass, spreading his cheeks just enough to see a tease of the way his body is swallowing his cock. Wet and pink and pornographic. Maybe there’s one thing prettier.
That fucking pussy.
Jesus Christ.
Steve can see his own pulse in the engorged veins on his cock when he pulls back, his shaft glistening wet, just the fat tip of his cock still inside Bucky, it just reminds him of how much he aches. He can feel it in his fucking teeth. Throbbing. Intense and so fucking gutting, yet… he has to stay silent. He can’t show how good it feels. He has to keep it all in. Smoldering deep, deep in his gut. Just him. It’s his secret. It’s, it’s—
Too much.
With just one more stolen glance up at his sleeping beauty—all limp, trusting, and flushed pink—Steve is done for, he’s balls deep in him, grinding hard as if he can get in any deeper, and he’s losing it. Completely. He doesn’t give a shit if he’s raced to the finish and hasn’t done the marathon that he should’ve. He’s burning up. This isn’t about anyone else’s pleasure right now. It’s him. His. And he needs it. He can’t help it.
He orgasms with intense, overwhelming, hard waves of fire and pleasure that crash through him like a fucking tsunami. Drowning him. He shakes so much worse. Quivering. Vibrating.
There’s no way he can do fucking anything about the little, “ah, ah, ah” s that spill from his open mouth with every pump of release and matching grind of his hips, claiming his lover and making him even more of a wet, used mess. His hips jerk hard at the thought. He’s weak, he can’t help but chase pleasure, getting himself higher.
Higher.
His orgasm feels like it goes on and on forever, molten hot pleasure assaulting him from all sides, and Steve, to be truthful, has no fucking idea how he stays quiet—or if he even does at all. He could’ve growled and groaned and pulled his sleeping beauty right out of his dreams, crashing into the real world with just a taste of pleasure. Just the last dregs. He has no idea. His vision whites out and his ears ring loudly, his body trying and failing to cope with the intensity of his orgasm. Shattering like glass.
Fuckfuckfuck.
It feels so good that it hurts.
Oh, God.
It’s ripped out of him from between his clenching teeth.
And yet again, he finds that he’s trembling worse, on the other side of it now. So much worse. Shaking apart, almost crawling out of his skin. He can hardly hold his tongue when he pulls himself back from the clench of Bucky’s body. He’s too sensitive, all sharp nerve endings, no buffers. Raw. His cunt’s so good it could kill him (maybe it already has and this is Heaven).
Panting unsteadily, shakily, Steve squeezes his eyes shut, resting with both of his hands planted firmly on the bed at either side of Bucky’s shoulders. He convulses with the aftershocks a few times, twitching. His broad chest heaves and his breath rustles Bucky’s sleep- and sex-mused hair. Steve feels worn and used himself. Though, he can’t imagine he looks worse than Bucky does because fuck. The moment his eyes are open, they’re glued to the poetry of Bucky’s body. Like a fucking caveman, a string of disjointed words hit what’s left of Steve’s brain, nonsensical and feral, wet, pink, loose, hot. His cum is dripping out of him. Already. He cums a lot, he has since the serum, but… this is a little fucking ridiculous. He’s a mess. There are slick smears of lube, too, all over him, glistening from his tailbone, over his hole, and down to his balls. It’s gotten onto his thighs, too. He’s so messy. Literally dripping. His poor, poor, puffy hole. It’s crying. That pussy really coming out now. Dripping and loose.
God.
With revitalized hunger roaring inside him fervently, his cock comes alive again, pulsing and twitching, aching to grind against Bucky once more and take away the painful throb of arousal. Steve has to fucking tear himself away before he dives face-first into his body, careless as to if he interrupts his lover’s sleep or not. He wants to lick all of the mess up, he wants to stick his tongue so far into the pretty gape of his hole that he will be able to feel it when Bucky finally, finally wakes up with a desperate wail, feverish and completely disoriented, unsure when or how he got so fucking hard. Twitchy and achy and needy and—
Guh.
Steve really rips himself away, stumbling out of bed on unsteady legs.
He can’t take it. He’s too much. He’s gotta—
For the sake of his own goddamn sanity (and his own perversity), he has to leave Bucky on the bed like that. He’ll just keep defiling him over and over if he’s in the same room as he is when he’s so sweetly limp, bare, and yet on display. He’s gonna… he’ll… he’ll, he takes a step back toward him, magnetized… Steve drags his eyes away once more, yeah, okay, he focuses on his hands, balled into fists, he’s gonna go make some fuckin’ coffee and read the paper and do anything to leave Bucky to sleep until he’s had his fill of rest. Steve exhales heavily. He bites his lip.
Fuck.
Just one last peek, Steve decides, lightning fast, before stealing a glance at his spread, yielding form lying across the bed. He could moan. He’s gonna leave Bucky all exposed. Steve hasn’t bothered to pull his sweatpants up and he hasn’t bothered to clean the wet, slick mess of lube and cum and sweat off of his skin and he hasn’t bothered to soothe that pretty pussy that has to be throbbing.
With some regret, but mostly simmering arousal, Steve leaves Bucky face down, ass up—vulnerable and sweet, smelling richly of sex, but otherwise perfectly peaceful in the morning light of their bedroom.