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Steve goes away a lot, that first year.
At first, he thinks of it as meditation. He gives himself permission to do it, settles into the comfort of nothingness, allows his mind to drift and simply—
Floats.
No identity. No concerns. No demands, self-inflicted or otherwise.
It's good, until it isn't. The black vacuum at his center is laced with lines of unbearable pain—veins supporting a landscape of shimmering misery. Down there in the darkness, he boils. He hasn't believed in God in a specific way for a long time, but now he curses and pleads with the vague idea of his creator.
Why me? Why now? I was gone. I was gone!
*
The first time he goes to his knees on the carpet in his bedroom, his fingers laced into his hair and a sob caught in his throat, it's an attempt to ground himself in something, anything real.
He punches through the carpet and the padding beneath it, holding on to the solidity of the building and letting the sob burn and consume the air in his lungs. He screams into the fibers, bringing his clenched fists up and down until the floor structure beneath them is destroyed and his hands are bloody.
He rubs his cheek against a patch of undisturbed carpet until it burns, one hand fisted in his hair, pulling hard enough to tear out strands. He screams and screams, and when he stops to breathe, wraps his fingers around his throat, digging in with his fingernails and stopping only just before they break skin.
When the worst of it has passed, he collapses to the floor, head down, back arched, ass in the air, rocking rug burn into his knees.
The pain registers as so many bright lights in the darkness.
*
And then they find Bucky.
*
Steve sits in a plastic chair facing the one-way mirror that separates him from Bucky, who is sedated and strapped to an operating table in preparation for the removal of his arm.
A cup of vending machine coffee appears in front of him.
"Drink this," Sam says. When Steve protests, Sam presses the cup into his hand. "It'll help. C'mon."
He downs it in one long swallow. Can't look Sam in the eye. "All this time..."
"We're not doing that." Sam sits down beside him, putting an arm around the back of his chair. "We could do that. But we're not. Look at me." It's an act of sheer will, tearing his eyes away from the universe expanding on the other side of the glass. "There was no way you could've known."
Steve doesn't know how to tell Sam that what he can't wrap his head around is having a reason to live again.
*
"Does he know?" Steve asks.
"He knows who you are. He knows you're alive," Sam replies.
"Does he know I'm here? Watching him?"
Sam shakes his head. "I thought you might wanna come in on the recovery end." He shrugs. "The drug cocktail is out of his system. The arm is off. Ready for a private room, I think."
"Won't he wonder why I haven't—why we still haven't spoken—"
"Steve." Sam laughs. "You needed some time. My only question is, are you sure you've had enough?"
"I want to be there for him."
Sam smiles. "Then it's a good thing you got all that real estate to spare."
*
The doctors are willing to release Bucky to Steve's care.
In short order, Steve's spare bedroom is upgraded with specialized equipment in case of an emergency. Though he isn't thrilled about it, he even agrees to a higher level of monitoring on his floor. A week goes by at a snail's pace, and then the moment finally arrives.
"Captain Rogers," JARVIS says.
Steve flinches, his heart rabbiting in his throat. "On their way up?"
"They will be here in fifty-five seconds."
Steve wipes damp palms down his jeans, inhales deeply and stands. He squares his shoulders, brushes invisible lint off his blue button-down and takes several measured, pacing steps. His field of vision shrinks. His focus narrows to a razor's edge.
Sam is at the door. Alone.
Steve's heart slams, slams, slams. "Sam?"
"He's in the elevator. Pissed off they made him come up in a wheelchair."
Steve laughs, feeling almost giddy. "That's good, I think?"
"I think so too." Sam elbows Steve playfully. "You ready?"
"No point in trying to be." Sam raises an eyebrow and Steve smiles.
"If you say so, Cap. I'll go get your boy."
The silence is thick.
"I'm fine, Sam," Bucky says, right there, right outside Steve's door. And then he's inside, urging Sam back down the hallway. He wears a white tank top and gray sweatpants and hospital slippers. His long hair is twisted into a messy bun atop his head.
Steve's knees wobble.
Bucky walks up to him without breaking eye contact or stopping until their chests almost touch. "Christ." His wondering eyes devour Steve's face. "Christ, look at you."
"Bucky..." Steve's brain is a beehive, buzzing and overly full. Without a second thought he wraps himself around Bucky, arms around his neck, face against his neck. Bucky's arms slide around his waist, sending waves of sensation through him. He can't, won't let go. "How are you?" he asks, his voice rough.
"More like a person. That's—about all I got right now?" Bucky holds onto Steve. "My recall is better than I thought it would be."
"Blessing and a curse, huh?"
There's a flash of mutual understanding in those stormy eyes. "You got that right, pal."
*
Bucky often wakes up screaming.
Steve can relate. More importantly, he can be there.
*
The situation improves in slow, hard-won increments.
It's the new arm that greatly enhances Bucky's progress. He adjusts to a more balanced diet. He continues his physical therapy and adds an exercise routine to it. He goes to his therapy appointments and hangs out with Sam. He sleeps well three nights out of seven.
He is so stubborn, and so strong. Steve sometimes feels like a child in comparison.
*
Steve comes back to himself after disassociating on the rooftop.
It's raining. He's barefoot and his pajamas are soaked through. The only light other than the city below comes from the open elevator behind him. He stands there, feeling like the human embodiment of an open wound, letting the pain wash over him.
He can't recall why he's here, or when or how he got here.
Bucky. What would Bucky think?
*
Over cannoli and coffee one night, Bucky stares across the table at Steve. "Where do you go?"
"Uh. Huh?"
"When I have my nightmares, you know where I am. You know what to do."
"I've been trying."
"You're—" Bucky sighs, running a hand through his shower-damp hair. "You're doing a lot for me. You realize that, right?" Steve shrugs. "So where do you go?"
Face burning, Steve puts his cup down. "Usually, my room. Sometimes the roof. The gym, when I know it's likely to be empty."
Bucky's eyes narrow. "You think I can't help you the way you help me?"
Fuck.
"No," Steve replies, his eyes wide. "No, Buck, that's not it."
"I've lost a lot." Bucky stares at him. "But you're my friend, and I'm yours. You should cash in on that."
Steve's chest aches. "You're right. I'll try. To do that more often. Okay?"
*
The next few times, he can't bring himself to ask for help.
He imagines Bucky watching him down on the floor (again). Or working his way through punching bags with unwrapped hands. Or witnessing his flirtation with the edge of the roof. Or rocking in the fetal position for hours and calling it a gift because it's the only thing that helps.
No. No.
Weeks later, he's in the shower and starts to feel cold even under the hot spray. It's like being sucked down a long, dark tunnel without moving. After realizing how long he's been out of it, he collapses to the tile floor. The noise of cascading water rises around him, a shushing, humming vibration that penetrates him, displacing his insides with static that feels abundant and threatening.
Again, he recalls the promise he made to Bucky. He said he would try. But he can't make himself go. Move. All his strength, all his training and he can't—he can't—
He can't do this anymore.
"Bucky?" he calls out loudly.
Barely two seconds pass before Bucky stands outside the bathroom door. "You okay?"
"Could you, um. Get me a towel."
"Sure." When he returns, Bucky enters, puts one towel on the counter and hands another to Steve through the cracked-open shower door. "That all?"
Steve wraps the towel around his waist and steps out into the steam. He doesn't want to be upright, but he does want to be closer to Bucky. His heart and the lump in his throat feel one and the same. "Um. Could we go into the—"
Bucky leads Steve into the bedroom, then sits down on the end of the bed while Steve disappears into the walk-in closet to dry off and change into a pair of boxers. He doesn't want a shirt against his skin. He also doesn't know how to do this—be like this in front of someone else. No, not just someone. Bucky. His Bucky. Sitting there in an oversized hoodie wearing his hair in a sloppy ponytail and an open expression.
"Can I," Steve begins, breathing unevenly, "I want to do what I usually do but I don't want to scare you."
"Okay. What is it you usually do?"
Steve glances aside. "That space between the bed and the wall. I take a blanket and go there and stay. There. Uh. For a while?"
"Is that all?" Bucky smiles.
"You sure?"
Bucky's eyes gleam. "I know you've spent years honing the craft, but Steve—don't be an idiot."
Steve smiles. "All right, all right. I hear ya."
Bucky sits down against the wall, arranging Steve between his legs, Steve's back against his chest. Steve appreciates Bucky's beautiful new arm as it slides around him and settles heavily across his stomach. Warmth rolls through him, waking his whole body up with relief and joy.
He doesn't have to do anything. He gets to have this.
"Good?" Bucky asks, rubbing Steve's belly with his metal fingers and holding him tighter.
Steve melts into Bucky's arms. "Understatement."
Bucky laughs, burying his face against Steve's temple.
*
Bucky goes on an overnight trip with Sam, and Steve is fine until he isn't—around four hours past the time Bucky is due home.
Fear freezes him in place. He could text or call either of them, he knows that. But the thought of exposing himself as well as ruining their good time is too much to handle on top of how he already feels.
By midnight he's kneeling beside the coffee table in the living room, his hands folded over the back of his neck. He tries to breathe evenly but it's an exercise in futility; he doesn't feel better. He clutches the edge of the glass table with his free hand, only letting up when he feels it begin to crack. He didn't mean to do that, but when he sees the damage he caused, it calms him down. He slumps forward in relief but is there only briefly when the front door glides open.
Silence, and then—
"Fuck," Bucky says softly. "Stevie?"
Steve forces himself onto the couch and turns away, wiping his face. "'M'okay."
"Fuck no you aren't," Bucky replies, sounding an awful lot like Sam. He closes the space between them. Steve bows his head. "Next time, reach out to me, okay?"
"Didn't wanna interrupt."
Bucky tilts his head. "How bad?"
Steve looks at the damaged coffee table. Still in one piece. "Not too bad?"
Bucky stands over Steve and touches the back of his neck. "You make these marks?"
Too drained to lie. "Y-yeah. Yeah." Bucky traces a raised, red mark with a metal fingertip. It's already fading, but it still stings. And that. Oh, that. "Nngh—Bu—"
"This makes you feel better?"
"Yes," Steve confesses hoarsely. He raises his face to Bucky, blinks the wetness from his eyes and licks across his swollen mouth. There, aching on his knees, he finally sees Bucky through his own misery. Sees the blown pupils and the flushed face and the pulse fluttering in his throat. The slightly curled hands, one metal, one flesh, displaying restraint of action. The bulge of his cock and balls in his jeans.
"I can tell you're pulling on this, too." Bucky cards his metal fingers through Steve's hair, waking up the burn left behind by said pulling. He bends, bringing their faces closer together, his hand curling into a fist in Steve's hair. "You gotta learn to ask."
"This is—stupid. I'm sorry." Something about apologizing rips him deliciously open, so he does it again. "I'm sorry. So sorry. Ruined your—ruined it. Now you think I'm gonna be like this just because you ain't around—" He begins to hyperventilate. "What the fuck is wrong with me, what—"
Bucky holds Steve's head up by his hair while staring into his eyes. "You didn't ruin anything. You're not stupid. And I'm not here to judge you."
The words buoy him and provide a buffer between him and the feelings he can't escape. He never takes his eyes off Bucky's, even when the grip Bucky has on his scalp is painful. Especially then. It feels so good.
Suddenly, Bucky relaxes his grip and moves to stand.
"Please," Steve moans in protest, reaching for him, "don't stop."
"Not stopping. Nest time, come on. I got some new pillows we can use."
*
Steve's leg starts to bounce halfway through the movie and Bucky notices. A heartbeat later, his fingers tuck a wayward piece of hair behind Steve's ear, sending shivers through his body.
"I have a crazy idea," Bucky says.
"That's my job."
Outside, a storm is lashing their floor-to-ceiling windows. Earlier, Steve mentioned going back to their nest early to ride out the weather like they used to when they were kids.
"Hear me out." Bucky traces the hairline at the back of his neck. "You've got a nice bed. No one sayin' we can't kill time there, too."
Steve turns his face against Bucky's wrist and breathes in through his nose. "Mmm."
Bucky laughs. "I assume that's an affirmative?" Steve nods.
Ambient lighting bathes the bedroom in a hypnotic, dark blue glow. Steve spills across the center of the bed. He already feels wonderfully dopey.
Bucky watches him, lips curled in a devilish smile. "Comfortable?"
"'S'good." Steve wets his lips. "Feels. Good."
Bucky takes three predatory strides toward the bed, his head tilted. "Turn over."
Steve's bottom lip falls. Heat surges through him. He stares into Bucky's eyes, then rolls over onto his stomach, folding his arms and resting his cheek on them. The bed dips with Bucky's weight as he lies down on Steve's right, metal arm between them.
"Okay to put my hand under your shirt?" Bucky asks.
Steve nods. It's all he can do to stay still as Bucky's metal fingertips shimmy up the back of his shirt. Bucky takes his time exploring the expanse of Steve's bare back. The arm whirrs quietly when Bucky stiffens the fingertip plates he often uses to scratch. He digs in, giving Steve a good, hard scratch from his hairline all the way down his spine and into the small of his back.
"God," Steve moans. He focuses all his attention on staying still.
Bucky repeats the process across his back, each application harder and deeper than the last. "You're burning up," he whispers against Steve's temple. "Can I see?"
Shaking, Steve grabs his shirt between his shoulder blades and pulls it over his head.
"Fuck. Fuck, Stevie." Bucky traces the vertical marks, pauses—and then suddenly rakes horizontally across them, down and across and down and across. The skin almost breaks, and he wants it to, as badly as his knees want to take his weight, push his ass into the air, curve his body, beg with it—
—yes—please—hurt me—
*
Four in the morning. It's a clear, bright night. Steve curls his toes over the edge of the roof and exhales, releasing blackness into the night sky.
"This is a first," Bucky says from his perch atop the corner of the roof.
Of course, he hadn't used the elevator—Steve would have heard it coming. He slides his hands into his pockets, the corner of his mouth lifting. "Hey."
Bucky's boots hit the gravel. "Awful close to the edge."
Steve's chest tightens. "Yeah." Bucky stops at his side, looking like an assassin in his black tactical gear, his hair pulled back into a tight ponytail. "I ain't jumping, Buck."
Bucky steps up onto the ledge, putting his boots between Steve's bare feet. A strand of hair flies free of his ponytail, whipping in the cold wind that makes Steve's eyes water.
"Nah," Bucky says. "Because if you go, I go."
Steve drowns in the city light reflecting off Bucky's eyes. "You mean it?"
Bucky takes Steve's trim waist between his hands and steps forward, putting space between them and the edge and setting Steve down onto the gravel effortlessly. "That's something you never need to ask."
*
Steve goes home after a charity event, exhausted but happy.
For once, it was a pleasant evening—there were no awkward questions from the press, few uncomfortable social interactions, and he felt good about the cause. He stops outside their door, cataloging the creases in his otherwise perfectly tailored navy-blue suit and thinking about the man waiting for him on the other side. Inside, he puts his keys down and toes his dress shoes off.
Bucky steps into view.
"Hey," Steve exhales, smiling easily.
Bucky smiles back. "Good night?"
Steve tilts his head. "Actually, yes. It was."
Bucky follows him into his bedroom. In front of the walk-in closet, he begins to shrug off his jacket—but Bucky is already there, touching his shoulders. "Can I help?"
The back of his neck grows hot. He wants that too much to divert Bucky in any way. "Mm. Thanks."
His eyes roll shut when Bucky's fingers hook on his jacket and pull his arms free of the sleeves. Tingling races across his shoulders and back as Bucky hangs the jacket up. He turns Steve around, wraps his hand around the knot of Steve's tie and tugs side to side, loosening it. Steve holds his breath. The tie slithers away. Bucky undoes his shirt buttons, one by one. The shirt goes, and then there's the undershirt—
Steve exhales shakily. Bucky's fingers peel the undershirt from his hot skin, making a static-filled mess of his hair and his head. Bucky walks him backwards toward the bed, then gently shoves him down onto his back across it. Steve bounces on the mattress with a throaty laugh. He can't help arching up as Bucky unbuckles his belt, then unbuttons and unzips his fly. Warm, strong fingers, so close—
Bucky pulls his pants and dress socks off, drapes them over the back of a chair, and then makes a rough, teasing noise in the back of his throat. "All the way down to the silk drawers, huh?"
Steve laughs. "They were in the garment bag with the suit. I swear."
He can't take his eyes off Bucky above him and between his bare knees hanging off the edge of the bed. He stretches his arms above his head and when he relaxes leaves them there, his hands dangling over the far edge of the mattress. Their eyes locked, Bucky deliberately straddles Steve's thighs and sits down on them, leaning forward, sliding his palms over Steve's bulging biceps and down his forearms to circle his wrists and pin them to the bed.
All the air in the room is sucked out.
"Proud of you," Bucky whispers. He transfers Steve's wrists to his metal hand, which makes a noise as it clamps shut around them. His flesh hand draws Steve's head to the side, exposing the corded expanse of his neck and throat. Steve bites a moan in half. He closes his eyes as Bucky's nose and mouth skim the side of his neck, breathing him in. Parted lips graze his jaw, just under his chin—against his temple, breathing hot and fast. "I've been thinking about you all night."
Steve's stomach drops. He inhales, a moan lodged in his throat. "Bucky—"
"The way you looked in that suit, walking out of here. Knowing how many people would be lookin' at you, wanting a piece of you." Bucky jostles Steve's face toward his. Their foreheads knock together. Their noses brush. Steve tries to use his arms, but Bucky's grip holds them effortlessly fast, which only makes him more desperate. Bucky traces his lips with his flesh thumb. "And then you came home to me."
Steve cranes up as Bucky lowers himself down and kisses him, finally releasing his grip on Steve's wrists to cup Steve's face between his hands instead. Steve surges against him, licking into his mouth and rolling him onto his back, fingers siding into his hair.
Things grow fuzzier as the kisses slow down. He loses track of time, of kisses, of Bucky's hands moving up and down his back and across his shoulders. Eventually, Steve realizes he's on the cusp of sleep he's been fighting off for a while. They're wrapped around each other, arms and legs intertwined, Bucky's mouth pecking at Steve's as Steve drifts in and out, blissfully content.
When Bucky finally retreats, Steve makes a soft, bereft noise. "Don't stop."
He feels Bucky smile against his cheek. "You're sleeping."
"Even then."
Laughter. Warmth. Bucky everywhere, everything.
*
Steve's cellphone ringing from the pocket of his dress pants wakes him up.
Bucky stirs and presses closer, the metal arm he has slung over Steve's chest reflecting shafts of early morning sunlight across the ceiling. "Mmm. Whasit."
"'M'phone."
"Forget it."
"Mmph."
"It's. Over. Somewhere. Jus' forget it."
Steve's eyelids and mouth are glued shut. His black satin boxers are a tangled, damp mess around his hips. Last night—
He rubs the back of his hand across his eyes and looks at Bucky, not sure what his face is doing, not sure he knows how to come at this one. Bucky stares back, eyes warm, expression soft, and kisses him.
"You're beautiful," Bucky whispers.
Steve's heart beats faster. "Buck."
Another kiss, and another. "So fuckin' beautiful." Bucky slides warm metal fingers up the back of his neck. "Do something for me? Get up and—take these off." He draws a metal fingertip across the waistband of Steve's silk underwear.
"Just, uh." Going red from his hairline to all points south, Steve stands beside the bed, facing Bucky. "Like this?" Bucky's widening pupils rake him from head to toe, conveying approval. Steve drags the silk off his hip bones, then lets it fall to his knees and, finally, his ankles. He steps out of them, his full-body blush deepening as Bucky watches. His cock begins to fatten up and he clears his throat, wondering—
"Go turn the shower on," Bucky rasps.
Adrenaline pounding through him, Steve's fingers tremble over the controls. When Bucky joins him, sleep-rumpled, boxers barely clinging to his hips, Steve feels dizzy.
After stepping out of his underwear, Bucky puts Steve under the showerhead facing the wall and climbs in behind him. "Gonna scrub off all that party slime. Okay?" Embarrassed and unsteady, Steve only nods. Bucky kisses across his wet shoulders. "Let me take care of you. You got no idea what it does to me."
It's the last thing either of them says for a while.
Bucky takes his time, washing Steve from head to toe, in almost every nook and cranny, filling the room with citrusy steam.
By the time Bucky turns Steve to repeat the process on his front, he's dropped hard. He tilts his head against the tiles as Bucky washes broadly over his chest and arms, his neck and face, then back down again, over his nipples and up again, scrubbing his armpits and the crook of his elbows. Soap and water stream down Steve's flat stomach and hips, catching in the lush curls around his erection. Bucky washes right around it as it bobs in mid-air, like it doesn't even exist.
"Bucky," Steve moans.
Bucky lets out a satisfied hum and goes to his knees to wash Steve's legs and feet. It feels incredible, but Steve's brain currently resides in his aching cock and all he can think about is Bucky touching it. God, he wants Bucky to touch it. Bucky sweeps the soapy cloth up the inside of Steve's leg to his balls. Each one is weighed, squeezed, and carefully scrubbed, and then Bucky's slick fingers slide back—
"Oh g-god," Steve cries out.
—and scrub circles around his hole, between his cheeks and back again, several times. Steve flings a hand over the top of the shower wall and holds on as two cloth-covered fingertips dial around his hole, sending hot, urgent waves of sensation through him. The ache is so deep.
"You like that?" Bucky rasps, his voice echoing off the walls.
Steve's chest heaves with uneven breath. "Y-yes. Yes."
Bucky rises to his feet. He angles the showerhead to rinse the front of Steve's body. Then his back. Then between his legs—
Steve makes a noise.
"Did you come last night, or this morning?" Bucky asks.
"N-no."
Bucky angles the spray at the base of Steve's cock. Down the shaft. Right against the sensitive, throbbing tip. "Do you want come?"
"Do you want me to come?" Steve whimpers, coming up on his toes.
Bucky makes a noise like a growl, wrapping his metal hand around the back of Steve's neck and kissing him, hard and deep. "Turn the water off."
Back in the bedroom, Bucky sits on the bed, watching Steve approach. When they're close enough to touch Bucky reaches out with a towel and dries Steve off thoroughly, taking his time. When he's done, he sets the towel down on the bed and stares at Steve, his eyes hungry.
Steve sinks to his knees on the carpet, his hands landing on Bucky's thighs. Bucky's cock rises between the folds of the towel wrapped around his waist, half-hard and dark and so fat already. Steve's mouth floods with saliva. He kisses Bucky's throat in supplication, thrilling at the salty taste of his skin. "'M'good at it, Buck." He presses between Bucky's thighs, confessing against his ear, "I want to. Please?"
"God, yes," Bucky moans.
Steve kisses down Bucky's chest and the trembling, rock-hard plane of his abs and hips, his coarse pubic hair tickling Steve's chin. He buries his face in it, breathes in deeply, then does the same below, rubbing his face across Bucky's big, swollen balls. Bucky's cock is thicker and shorter than his, and he can't stop scenting it, feeling the delicate skin over so much steely hardness, the big mushroom head already wet and ready for him.
Bucky leans back, his thighs spreading out on either side of Steve. "You look like a fuckin' dream, sweetheart."
Steve floats—the sort that feels like actual floating—and knows he's going down hard.
He lashes the dripping cockhead with his tongue, tasting it, bitter salt spreading across it as he drags it up the underside and through the swollen slit.
"Fuck. Fuck." Bucky's metal fingers stroke the back of his head. "Can I be rough?" In response, Steve slowly sinks down, his mouth stretching wide around Bucky's girth. "Fuck!"
Steve takes in more with every bob of his head, breathing evenly through his nose. Snot and spit well up and go unnoticed. He closes his eyes and falls into sucking, barely noticing the first time the head cuts off his air. Bucky sobs. Steve lifts off, trailing spit and precome. "You're holding back," he groans.
"Okay," Bucky breathes, rocking inside Steve's mouth, thrusting over his tongue and then deeper, forcing Steve to hold his breath as Bucky fills the back of his throat.
Steve's thoughts slow. Drool slips out of the corners of his mouth and down his chin. Bucky moves inside him, forcing the hot, panicked grip of Steve's throat to yield. Steve whimpers, digging his fingers into the mattress on either side of Bucky's hips so hard his fingers punch through the mattress.
"Let me in," Bucky moans, breathing raggedly. "Let me in. Oh fuck. Oh, fuck."
Starved of oxygen, Steve drowns in the noise of Bucky's cock fucking in and out of his throat and slips even farther away, swaying on his knees, trying to participate but Bucky is—Bucky is so deep—
"Good boy. Good boy." Hips at the edge of the mattress, Bucky fucks his face harder, faster. "That's it. Gonna make me come, doll. But that's what you wanted, isn't it?"
Steve sobs, shaking. He can't—he can't—
—Bucky's hips pound against his face, hard enough to hurt, to bruise and he—
He moans loudly around his burden as the feeling rises and rises and he comes untouched all over the floor, his hips pumping and his throat milking Bucky's big cock. It lasts and lasts, far beyond the ejaculation, his body spasming in pleasurable waves, his mind a haze.
"Did you—oh fuck—" Bucky comes down Steve's throat, hips snapping, fingers in Steve's hair holding his head down, his balls bouncing off Steve's chin. His come slides right down, no swallowing required.
Steve stays there, a compliant, perfect cocksleeve, nursing the shrinking flesh as it leaves his throat and then slides free of his lips. He closes his eyes, rests his face on Bucky's thigh and catches his breath.
Bucky strokes his hair. "Come lay down."
It's like sinking into a cloud. Steve moans, sprawling on his belly as Bucky puts a pillow under his cheek, then drapes himself partially over Steve's back. Kisses fall wherever Bucky can reach. Steve drifts in and out, not keeping track of the passage of time.
The sleepiness doesn't last, but the arousal does. He makes a noise and Bucky stirs against him, kissing his shoulder. His cock throbs against the sheets, sticky and still so hard it aches. Bucky's fingertips ghost down his spine and he lifts, presenting the bubble of his ass. One fingertip surmounts the rise of his sacrum, then the top of the split between his cheeks. He strokes between Steve's cheeks, broad circles that eventually focus on Steve's hole. "Still hungry, doll?"
"Please," Steve gasps, "Bucky—"
"In the shower, this ass wouldn't quit. Kept pulling me in. God. I wanted to fuck you open right there."
"Please. P-please."
Bucky kisses his ear. "Please...?"
Steve turns his head and kisses Bucky's red, sweet mouth plaintively. "Fingers?"
The pad of Bucky's middle finger circles his hole. "So soft, sweetheart." Steve rocks into the touch, wanting more. "Mm. If I do that, I might hurt this tight, perfect ass." He applies pressure, not stopping until he's two knuckles deep and Steve is whimpering. A minute later the whole finger is inside—dry and burning and perfect—screwing deeper into Steve and staying there. Steve loosens up enough for Bucky to pull out and push back in with two.
"God!" Steve sobs.
Bucky rolls his wrist on an endless, relentless loop, working Steve open with sweat. He slides down the bed for a better angle, slotting back in with his fingertips facing down this time.
"Buck," Steve moans. Sweat breaks out over his body.
"Don't fight," Bucky rasps. "Just let it feel good." Two fingertips find the gland and rub against it. Each brush leaves Steve feeling hot and overwhelmed, the electric sensation surging in his balls and the base of his cock, catching him by surprise.
"Oh my god," he moans, his hips churning against the mattress. "Fuck me," he gasps. "Fuck me."
The looping stroke gains speed, creating a shaky, uncontrollable feeling inside like he might come, or he might piss, and the confusion on top of the pain lights him up like a Christmas tree. He drives himself down onto Bucky's fingers and comes, cheeks clamping down around Bucky's hand. "Oh my god! Yes."
"That's it. Get it all out," Bucky pants, reaching between Steve and the mattress to jack his cock with his free hand.
When it's over Steve rolls away from the mess, trembling as he's wrapped up in Bucky's arms and kissed until he is forced to pull away to breathe. He means to say or do something to express the gratitude and affection he feels, but as soon as Bucky pulls the blanket over them, he's dead to the world.
*
They wake and shower in turns later, not speaking much but easily rotating around each other in a way Steve finds satisfying. He straightens up the place while Bucky puts their grocery delivery away, and it occurs to him that this is what simple happiness feels like.
He puts down a folded blanket, looking over at Bucky in the kitchen wrangling oranges that must have spilled from a torn bag. The air in his lungs feels suddenly insufficient. He crosses the apartment, comes up behind Bucky and pulls him close.
Vibrating with it, he whispers, "I love you. I love you so much."
Bucky stiffens, then turns in Steve's arms, kissing him. "Steve. Me too."
The next kiss is harder, hungrier—Bucky's tongue sweeps his mouth, and he moans when Bucky pushes him against the refrigerator. Bucky's hands slip up the back of his T-shirt, up his back and down to the waistband of his shorts. He makes a noise when Bucky strokes the top of his buttocks.
He still feels crazy with wanting it, though it's only been hours. Eventually, he can't angle his filling cock away—their knees knock together, Bucky's hip pins Steve's half-mast in place, and metal fingertips rub up and down the slit between his cheeks.
Face burning, Steve breaks the kiss to breathe. "Oh—"
Bucky crowds closer, caging him, kissing him, his voice rough and low. "Come to bed."
The next thing Steve knows he's shirtless and face-down on the bed, Bucky on all fours over him, nuzzling kisses into the back of his neck and shoulders. He reaches back and wraps a hand around Bucky's neck to keep him close. Bucky kisses his wrist, then his left shoulder, between his shoulder blades, down his spine and into the small of his back.
He hooks his fingers in Steve's underwear and pulls, dragging them down while also drawing Steve's hips up and back. Steve moans and bends further into a C-shape, his cheek on the bed, his ass in the air—and it's good, but then Bucky knocks his thighs apart and he spreads wide open, his cock and balls swinging.
Bucky rumbles appreciatively, running his hands along Steve's shoulders and up and down his back, his strong hands firm and proprietary, bringing blood to the surface of Steve's skin. He rakes ten fingernails side by side down the middle of Steve's back several times and then, without warning, drags them over Steve's ass and down the back of his thighs.
"Oh, god, oh my god," he moans.
Bucky makes patterns of lines over patterns of lines, and before long Steve is a hazy mess floating on a cloud of endorphins. The scratches burn and itch and pulse but—aren't enough this time. He arches into Bucky's hands as they cup his ass, the desire boiling inside of him.
"Please. Please hit me," he begs, rising higher on his knees.
Bucky lets out a broken, desperate noise and brings his flesh hand down onto Steve's right buttock. Snap! Then the other. Snap! Left again. Crack! Right again. Crack! Left cheek again, this time from left to right. Right cheek, right to left. And then Bucky begins all over again, varying the placement and angle so Steve never knows where or how he's going to get it.
"Fuckin' beautiful. Christ." Panting, Bucky fingers the slope of Steve's crack. "What about here, huh?"
"Uh," Steve moans. "Wh—huh?" Bucky gives him a tame swat, right there, right against his hole where he's so empty it's suddenly all he can think about. "O-oh. Oh. Oh fuck."
Swat. "Yeah?" Swat, swat. "My good boy?"
Steve puts his face down on the bed and sobs, "Yours—"
"Hold yourself open for me."
The first full hit there makes stars explode behind Steve's eyes. He throws his head back, unable to make a noise, and then Bucky hits him again, and again, whole-handed and without holding back.
Steve's cock is wet, and his ass rises wantonly into every blow. The deep, spreading heat of the layers of scratches and blows rises around him like a hot bath. The surface of his skin is tingling and alive. The longer it goes on, the more complex and all-consuming the feeling grows. He drifts, safe and used.
Finally, Bucky stops, breathing heavily, his skin glowing from exertion. "God. God—" He sounds turned on, overwhelmed and a little disoriented.
Steve gazes at Bucky over his shoulder. "Th-thank you."
Bucky bends to kiss Steve's back. "You're welcome." He kisses lower, humming against Steve's abused skin. "Beautiful boy. All red down here. You want some kisses?"
"Please," Steve moans. It's all he gets out before Bucky's tongue drags over his hole. "Oh my god," he moans. "Oh my god. Oh my god."
Bucky burrows deeper, working Steve's hole with open-mouthed, suction-filled kisses. "Getting wet for me? Huh?" Chin-deep, he alternates licks and kisses. "Lift up. Get your mind off that cock."
"Fuck," Steve whimpers, and obeys.
"So open already. Christ." Lick after lick after lick and suddenly Bucky's tongue is inside him—
Steve puts a trembling hand in Bucky's hair and holds on, moving against him. "Y-yes. Stay. Please." He rides back against Bucky's tongue, jaw slack, his cock bobbing beneath him, hard and ignored.
The next time Bucky stops to breathe he stays on his knees. He pulls Steve up in front of him and knee-walks them to the headboard, his clothed cock snug between Steve's cheeks. He leans to the left to retrieve lubricant from the bedside table, then kisses the side of Steve's neck, moving against him. Steve rocks back against Bucky, breathing faster. All he can think about is that big, fat cock.
He buries his face in Bucky's messy hair. His lips against Bucky's temple. "I want you to fuck me." He cups Bucky through his shorts, then pushes them down, freeing his cock.
Bucky kicks his shorts aside and pops the lubricant tube, kissing along Steve's shoulder. "You got no idea how fuckin' good you feel, rubbing up on me—wanting it—fuck."
He rubs the lubricant in circles against Steve's hole, then smears remainder down his cock. The blunt head traces up and down Steve's crack, pressing harder against his hole with every pass. He spreads his knees on the mattress, braces himself against the headboard, and when Bucky pushes, his vision goes dark around the edges. It hurts. He holds his breath and lets the pain run him over, then gasps in anguished ecstasy, his knuckles white over the headboard.
"Stevie," Bucky cries out. The point of resistance finally breeched, he sinks into Steve like a hot knife through butter, their hips meeting, Steve's rim stretched out smooth and tight around him. A broken noise punches out of Steve's lungs. Bucky's yanks him sideways into a messy, hot kiss, then holds him tight and close while pulling out and pushing back in slowly. Steve feels every inch slide home.
"Ah—ah! Ah!"
"Look so good, taking me."
"God!"
The itchy emptiness melts away. Bucky begins to thrust, sending waves of sensation through him. His cock flops in front of him, hard and neglected. After an initial vigorous pace Bucky slows down, giving Steve stretches of deep, gut-rearranging fucking at a steady pace. Bucky's hips collide with his ass faster, harder, balls slapping skin, anchored by the metal hand curled around Steve's throat. It's like completing a circuit when that relentless, spearing heat combines with Bucky's hand stroking the length of his cock.
"Bucky," Steve moans urgently, "Bucky—"
"Come for me, sweetheart," Bucky moans raggedly, fucking up into him so hard he forces Steve clear off the bed while taking his weight effortlessly.
Steve comes so hard he browns out clutching the headboard, choked noises squeezing free of him as he empties everywhere—over the wooden slats, the pillows, the blankets—
Bucky cries out and follows him, the bed squeaking and slamming into the wall rhythmically as he comes, pumping Steve full of it. Steve comes and comes, glancing blows to his prostate sending lightning through him, keeping him on edge. He's so wet inside. He pumps his hips back and forth and the mess starts to spill out, dripping down his balls and between his thighs.
Bucky collapses onto his knees. They lie in a sweaty heap, Bucky's hair literally everywhere before he gathers it into a bun. Steve watches him dopily. Bucky laughs and kisses him.
*
Steve wakes in sex-scented darkness and rolls over, burying his face against Bucky's chest and breathing in deeply. He kisses Bucky's chest, then up his neck, straddling Bucky's thighs and sliding on top of him.
Bucky stirs and lets out a noise.
Steve runs his hands up and down Bucky's chest, then bends low and kisses between Bucky's ribs. "We smell like each other. All mixed up. It's so good." He slides down into Bucky's pubic hair. "God, Buck." He rubs his face against Bucky's flaccid cock, then kisses it, licking up the shaft and wrapping his lips around the head, licking the bitter saltiness down.
Bucky's head falls back. "Stevie—"
"What you do to me," Steve breathes, "I've never felt like that."
"I find your sweet spot?"
"Not only that." Steve buries his flushed face against Bucky's thigh. "Everything we've been doing." He exhales, looking up through his eyelashes. "It's perfect."
Bucky strokes Steve's hair. He's quiet for a while, but then breaks the silence. "You've been better."
Between the therapist, Bucky, and Steve's new appreciation for exercise that's good for him instead of just another way to harm himself, he is doing better. Some days are bad. Some days are good. He increasingly feels like he wants to be here and, for now, that's more than enough.
"Found a few footholds, as it turns out," he says, and leans up to kiss Bucky's smiling lips.