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A century ago, give or take, Bucky might've believed that chit-chat had its merits.
But now?
Talking seems like spitting into the wind, especially when nods and shrugs do just fine. Those work with Steve and his relentless trips down memory lane, dredging up their glory days in Brooklyn, the fairs, the broads. Work with Natasha too, with her 'been there, done that' empathy act, thinking she can bond over shared red on the ledger. Don’t work with Dr. Raynor, but that’s neither here nor there.
So, he doesn’t talk much.
But it's not like he needs to. There's always someone filling the silence. One 'I-can't-shut-the-hell-up' Peter Parker, who spews words like a broken dam.
His mouth runs like a leaky faucet. Fast, constant. For a while, Bucky assumes it's some sort of defense mechanism, but it’s not his job to psychoanalyze Stark’s Spider-Wonder.
When Peter is around (and Bucky refuses to call someone who can bench press more than him a “kid”), it’s constant chatter, nervous energy, and rapid-fire questions.
Bucky used to find peace at the compound. It was a place to recalibrate, to let the memories fade, if only for a while. It was quiet. Simple. Now? It's like living with a radio that only has one station.
Peter is everywhere. In the kitchen when Bucky wants his morning coffee. In the gym when Bucky’s throwing punches at lunch. Even in the damned garden when Bucky’s just trying to get a breath of fresh air. By evening, Peter’s draped over the couch, multitasking between some phone game and — surprise, surprise — talking.
It's not the persistent yammering itself that’s eating Bucky's last nerve — he's been through war, been the Winter Soldier; he can zone out any background drone. Hell, Peter’s voice could be somewhat soothing if he wasn't constantly trying to wrangle Bucky into every conversation. A "Hey, Mr. Barnes, have you seen this meme?" (whatever the hell those are) here, a "Mr. Barnes, think this web feature's cool?" there, or the dreaded, "Mr. Barnes, wanna chat about...?"
Anywhere he turns, there's that mop of curly hair, those eager, sparkling eyes, and that mouth. The mouth that just won't fucking close. A part of Bucky wants to take those web shooters and glue Peter’s mouth shut. Just for a moment. A brief, blissful moment.
Like right now.
Bucky's parked in a chair, arm out like some old vehicle waiting for a tune-up. Around him, the workshop hums and clicks, filled with beeping gadgets and devices way out of his era. But it's not Stark’s future-shocked palace of overcompensation driving him insane or creating the constant buzz in his ears. It's Peter with his deft fingers dancing over Bucky's metal arm, doing... whatever it is they're doing.
And don't get him wrong; Bucky is grateful. To Stark and this tech that makes the pain bearable. Even to Peter, who took over adjustments a few months after moving in. But the chatter? It's endless.
Peter's on a rant about something he’s been working on with Stark. Bucky isn't buying a ticket for that particular verbal roller coaster. Instead, his eyes are fixed on Peter's mouth. Not because there’s something hypnotic about how the lips move or how they form words, but because Bucky really wants him to shut up. He blanks out for a few minutes, which is just a side effect of the incessant blabbing.
A question cuts through the haze.
"Mr. Barnes, Earth to Mr. Barnes. Got plans today?" Peter's voice nudges Bucky's attention.
Dragging his mind back to the present, Bucky's gruff reply is succinct.
"Going out." That should do it, right? Two words. That’s more than he's said all day.
But then, the never-ending stream of words starts again. Peter dives back into tales of Queens, a favorite eatery, the incomparable joy of fresh dumplings. Bucky’s focus drifts, latching onto the curve of Peter's cheek, the way his eyelashes flutter when he blinks. Peter is irritating.
Mid-sentence, Peter throws in another query.
"You going alone? 'Cause we could—"
"Seeing someone," Bucky interrupts. It's not a lie. His therapist counts. Not that he's about to explain that to Peter.
Silence. Actual, bona fide silence. Bucky takes a deep breath and exhales. Peace at last. For about twenty seconds. Because then Peter's voice returns, albeit a tone lower, posing yet another question.
"Oh, seeing someone? Like… a date?"
Of all the rabbit holes Peter could dive into, this ain't the one Bucky's joining him in. Not in a million years.
"For the love of God, please stop talking," Bucky snaps, feeling his jaw clench.
The silence that follows? Fucking golden. For a few minutes, Stark's tech-drenched playground just feels like another room — not a reminder of the years Bucky's missed. The air conditioner’s hum: steady, predictable. Chilled air prickles the skin on his torso, his t-shirt crumpled up and hanging from his human hand.
Peter, finally not saying anything, just touching his metal arm, as he’s finishing up. A slight pressure where metal meets skin, then a colder touch as Peter smears on some fancy Stark-approved ointment. The touch of his fingertips exploring the sensitive junction is... not entirely unpleasant. Whatever. If it keeps the scars from pulling, Bucky's not about to bitch about it.
And then, like clockwork, Peter ruins it.
"Make me."
A second of not saying anything, maybe two. But then it comes, like water from a burst pipe.
"You think because you've got a few years on me, you can just grumble and I'll scuttle off? News flash: it's not the 1940s. People talk. A lot."
A surge of annoyance grips Bucky. He imagines giving Peter a quick, sharp reminder of where the boundaries are. Maybe use the metal arm for emphasis. Nothing major, just to set him straight.
"Listen, doll—" Bucky says, his voice a low warning. He knows Peter's good at many things. Hard not to notice. But pushing Bucky's buttons? All of a sudden he's a damn prodigy.
That said, even though Peter seems to be constantly hell-bent on trying to get Bucky to engage with him, he actually has the audacity to interrupt him.
"You know," Peter begins, with what is an unmistakable mouthy edge, "maybe if you weren't such a colossal dick all the time, people wouldn't feel the need to fill the silence.”
Bucky's patience, already hanging by a thread, finally cracks. A sudden urge runs through him, the kind where he imagines yanking Peter right over his knee and using his metal arm to deliver a good old-fashioned smack. Not in a playful way, just... a lesson, you know? Teach the little shit some respect. Show him there’s a line, and he’s tap-dancing all over it.
"Watch your mouth" Bucky feels his eyes narrowing.
"Like I said, make me," Peter shoots back, a daring glint in his eyes. It's a challenge. And Bucky's never been one to back down from a challenge. That’s what got him the metal arm in the first place. That’s what ultimately landed him here, to sit on this chair.
In a swift move, faster than he even realizes, Bucky has Peter over his knee, that mouthy little ass presented just right.
The first smack is more about shock than force. Peter's reaction is immediate — a sharp intake of breath, his body tensing, but no resistance. Despite the bravado, despite their spar in Germany, Peter doesn't seem to want to fight this. At least not yet. He probably knows he deserves it.
With the second strike, Peter remains still. Bucky feels the firmness of solid body over his thighs, a jolt of satisfaction running through him. He's calling the shots, and for a brief moment, the world is back in order.
The third, decidedly harder slap, echoes in the room. Bucky would bet his left boot that he can feel the exact outline of Peter's back pocket against his metal palm, even though feeling much of anything with that arm is a joke. Not in a “feeling” sense. It's hard to describe, even to himself, so he long ago gave up.
Bucky gears up for another, ready to cement his point, and then the fourth slap comes down. Not as hard, just a shade lighter than the last. He rests his hand on the ass, the weight of Peter’s lanky body on his knee. That should do it, right?
He's about to let Peter get up and scuttle away. But then... a moan?
Peter goes silent the moment the sound ripples through the room, his body pliant, comfortably weighted on Bucky’s lap.
Bucky eases up, pushing Peter to stand on his own two feet. Peter's legs seem to wobble, so Bucky supports him, his other hand sliding to grip Peter at the first convenient spot. The spot at the back, just where he can feel the sharp outline of Peter’s spine, making him momentarily wonder if they're feeding him enough.
"Still think I should make you?" Bucky asks once Peter is steady.
That usually pristine baby face? Red. Not just the cute, 'Oh, I've been caught with my hand in the cookie jar' kind of red. No, this is the 'I just got my ass handed to me' sort of crimson. And it clashes horribly with the mess that is his hair, like he's just been dragged through a hedge backward.
His pupils? Dilated to hell and back. So much so that those brown eyes look black. Probably some adrenaline, or maybe a Spider-thing. Bucky's not a biologist.
Peter's lips are parted slightly, each shaky breath making them quiver. Probably trying to come to grips with what just went down. Or maybe just embarrassed. Bucky would be.
There's a second when Bucky thinks he might see the beginning of an argument, some kind of defense forming in those wide eyes. But no words come out. Peter just stands there, looking like he's been hit not on the ass, but on the face. Those limbs, previously all action, now seem uncertain. And he is quiet. For once.
"Fix your hair," Bucky says eventually, grabs his t-shirt from the floor and walks out, not bothering to see if Peter complies. He doesn't need to. He knows Peter will.
The shrink's office. Bucky really loves spending his time in overly sterilized rooms, draped with pastel-colored curtains, probably selected to 'calm the soul' or some crap like that. He sinks into an uncomfortable couch — some attempt at luxury, he assumes — but it's still a shitty couch in a therapy room.
With a heavy sigh, he recounts the recent events to Dr. Raynor, who’s nodding along with that annoying clinical patience of hers. He swears he can see the judgment in those eyes, the 'here we go again' expression. Great.
Then, she starts. The lecture. About boundaries, about respecting youth, about how times have changed. Yeah, yeah, he's heard it all before. But, there's a new one this time.
"You have no right, James. No right to spank someone else's child."
Child? Bucky's brow quirks in genuine confusion. He's about to interject, to clarify, but Dr. Raynor's on a roll. And he knows better than to interrupt a woman in her element. Especially not this one.
Still, he's distracted by the abstract art on the wall. What even is that? A bird? A plane? He tries to shift, to find a comfortable position on the couch, but it's a lost cause.
Finally, the monologue ends and he gets a word in.
"He's not a child, Doc."
She raises an eyebrow, question clear in her eyes.
"How old is he?"
Bucky thinks for a moment.
"Nineteen." He’s nearly sure. Yeah, nineteen. He remembers Peter saying something about this three weeks ago or so, over breakfast. Not that Bucky was listening exactly, but some details stick.
A pause, then a slow exhale from Dr. Raynor.
He lets his eyes wander again, finding a ceramic vase. Why's he even here? Oh, right, the pardon. An olive branch, with thorns.
"You need to apologize, James," she finally says, snapping him out of his resentful daze. "And make it clear that such behavior isn't alright. No matter the age."
"Alright, Doc," he says, nodding slowly, "I get it."
He doesn’t.
However, he does go to find Peter when he is back. Mainly because he can’t trust his own judgment. Often, still too often, lines blur, memories cross, and before he knows it, Bucky's staring at his reflection, and the Winter Soldier is staring back. Today, though, it's just Bucky walking to Peter's room. He's pretty sure of that. Mostly.
Even before reaching the door, he can hear it: Peter's heartbeat. It's a familiar rhythm to Bucky — quick as a hummingbird, but raised now. Bucky doesn't really care why. But still, the sound of that heart pumping blood, strong and relentless, sticks in his mind. He can imagine it inside Peter’s chest, the warmth of the blood pulsing through.
Without waiting for an invite, he knocks once and then pushes the door open. He’s here to apologize, isn’t he? How much more politeness do they expect?
And there's Peter, lounging on his bed, nose buried in his phone, in a t-shirt and shorts, those long legs bare and stretched out. Looks comfortable as hell. Too comfortable, if you ask Bucky. But nobody did.
The moment Bucky steps in, Peter's attention snaps up. He's off that bed in a flash, wincing just slightly. Yeah, Bucky sees that. He doesn’t feel guilty about the memory of his hand touching down on Peter’s ass.
Bucky's gaze drifts from Peter to the state of the room. It’s a predictable mess. Cluttered with tech, clothes, random shit. The sheer amount of stuff here makes something in Bucky tick, the soldier inside him itching. How does anyone live like this? He's got like... three things to his name, if you don’t count weapons. He has a lot of those, but they serve a purpose. Why the hell does Peter need all of this? Bucky can’t see anything that serves a purpose, that is. Except for Peter.
Taking in the state of the room, Bucky's mind drifts back to his own youth, about a hundred years ago or so. If Bucky had left a mess like this? Well, he'd have gotten a hell of a lot more than a slap on the ass. His mom would’ve seen to that, and promptly.
A smirk tugs at the corner of Bucky’s lips. Maybe Peter could use another lesson. In tidiness. The thought plays out in his mind: flipping Peter back over his knee, using his other hand this time, feeling the sting of his palm on skin. The realization that he's thinking about it more than he should hits Bucky like a cold bucket of water. He nudges the smirk back where it came from.
He's pulled from his thoughts by Peter's voice.
"I'm sore," he mutters. Bucky's eyes dart over, catching the faintest hints of red creeping up Peter’s neck. He’s frowning, that signature stubborn tilt to his chin. But then there’s the bite to his full bottom lip, a nervous habit. Bucky’s ears pick up the soft sound when the lip springs free.
"You can't be," Bucky shoots back. He's seen this guy do some insane shit. Just last week, Peter had plummeted from a building, hopped up like a spring chicken, stopped a car barreling his way, and then polished off three burritos like it was nothing, legs swinging off the Queenjet’s wing. All in, what? Thirty minutes?
Peter's blush intensifies, the rosy hue spreading, painting his cheeks a color Bucky's suddenly finding hard to ignore. Peter shuffles then, toes of those delicate feet curling inward. It's an endearing sight, but Bucky's not here to be endeared.
"Well, I am," Peter retorts, that stubborn tone back in full swing.
Bucky narrows his eyes, sizing him up. He thinks for nearly five seconds.
"Show me."
Bucky's been through enough crap to last a lifetime. No, multiple lifetimes. If there's one thing he's convinced of, it's that any semblance of sexual attraction must've died along with the numerous versions of himself, crushed under the weight of torture and manipulation.
He's walked through battlefields without batting an eye, felt pain that would kill most, and endured more torment than anyone should. And through it all, some parts of him had broken off. Not physically, except for the arm. But they just did.
The floor beneath his boots? It's hard, simple. He's slept on floors like this, been chained to them, electrocuted on them. Just a floor. Nothing sensual about it.
But then Peter's moving, and Bucky's goddamn eyes betray him. Peter's bare feet, precise, move across the carpet, each step a soft pad. He turns, and Bucky's gaze follows like it's on a leash. The shirt lifts, and those shorts, they lower just enough to reveal skin. Pale skin, with one side tinted a shade of red that looks like Bucky's handiwork.
Ugh. He shouldn’t like that. He shouldn’t be thinking of it that way. The contrast is... striking. No, arresting.
Bucky swallows, feeling his own throat tighten. He tells himself it’s just the floor, but his focus isn’t on the floor anymore. It's not even on the red mark, but on the expanse of untainted skin, a canvas that makes his fingers twitch.
He sucks in a breath, trying to pull himself together, but there's this weird sinking sensation in his gut. A churn, a twist. Hell, he doesn’t even know anymore.
It's not sexual. Right? Right. Probably. Maybe not. Because, suddenly, he doesn’t feel dead down there anymore.
Peter's fingers fiddle with the hem of his shorts, pulling them back up, covering the expanse of pale skin, the fiery-red imprint fading from view. Bucky wonders if he's supposed to say something, make some remark. Or apologize, though that's the last thing on his mind. The first thing on his mind is mainly disappointment that Peter is now done.
Peter's eyes, when he turns again, are wide and questioning. There's vulnerability there, but also a challenge. Bucky can't tell if he's supposed to back off or lean in. But then again, when has he ever done what he's supposed to?
Bucky opens his mouth, about to actually say something, to try and deflate the new tension in the room. But before he can utter a word, Peter's closing the distance between them, fast, sure-footed, with no hesitation.
Bucky's caught off guard, a rarity for him. He takes a step back, struggling to find words, none of them feeling right. He nods, because it's one of the two things he seems to be capable of doing, and he isn't sure shrugging is any better. Peter's hands find purchase on his metal arm. It's disorienting, because Bucky could swear he feels Peter’s warmth on the metal.
Then Peter's lips are on his, and damn if it isn't the most grounding thing Bucky's felt in ages. He doesn’t respond, his mind wondering if Peter has to strain to keep standing like this, if the back of his neck hurts, if his cuffs burn from having to reach up.
Bucky doesn’t respond, but not because he doesn't want to. Peter is... a doll, really, especially now when his mouth isn't spewing endless sentences like a machine gun. Bucky doesn't respond because he doesn’t seem to remember how.
The kiss ends, not with a bang but with a whimper, really. Peter pulls away, stepping back. He now looks anywhere but at Bucky, as if the floor has suddenly become the most interesting thing in the room. His head's tilted down, his shoulders hunched, like he's bracing for a storm or maybe a grenade.
A quiet, "Oh, sorry," barely escapes Peter’s lips, but Bucky catches it.
The softness of Peter's mouth lingers on Bucky's lips, the ghost of pressure where Peter had pressed into him. It's like a residue, a taste of something Bucky’s long forgotten. Something stirs inside him, a different sort of war.
Because, let’s face it. Peter's a young guy. Not that it's a problem. Bucky's been to war, the real fucking kind. He’s been with men. A bunch of them. Many of those men, the lucky ones who managed to get their asses out alive, probably went back to play house with their wives. And a fair share of those same men, when stuck in the muck and the cold, had found their way to Bucky. Whispers of "first times" and initially nervous touches. But then those first times turned into second, third... Bucky lost count. So, Peter being a guy? Not the issue.
He doesn’t know what the real problem is. Peter’s of age. Seems willing too. Maybe there isn’t a problem at all. Maybe Bucky’s just too used to seeing problems everywhere.
Bucky is still processing when he’s pulled out by Peter’s mouthy attitude.
"Are you just gonna stand there? If you’re done being weird, maybe you should just... I don't know, get out?" Peter’s voice is laced with hurt, which only pisses Bucky off more. Not necessarily at Peter. It just pokes at something raw.
Bucky takes a step, then another, stalking closer. Maybe he’s trying to remember how to kiss. Or maybe he just wants to shut Peter the hell up. Put that ever-yapping mouth of his to better use.
Either way, he wraps his arms around Peter, and it’s like trying to hold a suddenly falling tree. He can feel Peter’s knees give the second it happens, even though Bucky isn't really doing anything yet.
“Oh my god,” Peter starts talking again, his lips inconveniently moving. “Is this happening? This is happening?”
“You talk too much,” Bucky says, before he leans in, keeping Peter from tumbling over. He’s not heavy. Just… irritating.
The thing about kissing is it's muscle memory, right? Like riding a bike or shooting a target from fifty meters. Should be easy as hell. But here Bucky stands, kissing Peter like it's the first time he’s ever laid lips on someone. Not smooth. At all.
Bucky's not one to overthink, usually, but right now? He’s overthinking. It's Peter's fault, with his goddamn soft lips and tiny gasps that tug at something in Bucky's chest, something that's been numb for so long. Damn those noises.
Adjusting his grip, Bucky starts walking, every step measured. He can feel Peter’s knees buckle a little more, can hear the hushed breaths that escape him. He’s practically carrying him at this point. Shit, is Peter actually whimpering? He's probably enjoying this. The brat.
The back of Peter’s legs hit the edge of the bed, and Bucky notes the slight change in Peter’s balance. Perfect. He’s almost standing. He gives a gentle shove and, like a ton of bricks, Peter goes down onto the bed. He opens his mouth in protest, but the springs are still screaming, because Bucky is crawling on top. The sensation of the mattress beneath them, the sound of fabric rustling, the taste of Peter's mouth.
Somewhere along the line, Bucky remembers. Remembers the press and pull of a kiss, the pleasure from a slick swipe of tongue, the art of breath. His lips move with more intent, more assurance. Peter makes a sound, some cross between a moan and a groan, and Bucky can't help but smirk against his mouth.
He moves his hands, both cold and warm against the skin of Peter’s sides, having slipped under the t-shirt, which is probably weird for the kid. He wasn’t going to call him that. But he did. And it's alright. As long as nobody else calls Peter that anymore. The kiss gets rougher, but Peter doesn’t pull away, just arches up, seeking more contact.
Bucky pulls back a fraction instead.
"Got your footing now?" he drawls, eyes locked onto Peter's.
Peter just huffs, his eyes wide and glassy.
"You're an asshole," he breathes out, but there's no real heat in it.
"No shit," Bucky replies, diving in for another kiss. It's easier now. Familiar. He knows how to do this. He always has. It just took a mouthy brat to remind him.
There's a rhythm they're sinking into. Peter’s lips are pliant under Bucky's, but every so often, they nip and tug, like he's still challenging Bucky, testing how far he can push. No surprise there. Peter always has to have the last word.
"Mmm," Peter hums, pulling away for a second. "You're a bit dense. What took you so long?" He smirks, that shit-eating grin that just begs to be wiped off.
Bucky growls, a sound that vibrates through his chest. "You just can't shut up, can you?"
Peter’s laughter, warm and genuine, bubbles up, and it sounds way too good in Bucky's ears.
"Wouldn't be me if I did." His fingers trace patterns on Bucky's back, grounding and irritating all at once.
Another moan slips from Peter as Bucky’s mouth finds his neck, a vulnerable spot. A mistake on Peter’s part to expose it so willingly.
"Bucky..." The way his name sounds from Peter's mouth, half-choked and breathless, that's something.
"You're too damn mouthy," Bucky grumbles against Peter’s skin. The warmth, the pulse beneath—it’s distracting.
"Someone’s gotta compensate for Mr. Silent Broody over here," Peter teases, his tone light.
That’s it. The last straw. Bucky shifts, turning Peter beneath him, holding him down.
"Keep running that mouth," he warns.
"Or what? You'll—"
Before he can finish, Bucky delivers a quick smack, enough to sting but not truly hurt. Peter yelps and, Bucky could swear, his ass lifts up a bit higher.
Which is working out just fine, because it gives Bucky a chance to pull back more, to grab the waistband of those shorts and pull them down.
First to the bottom of the pale cheeks, one still slightly more flushed than the other. Then, before the urge to settle down there gets too strong, off Peter entirely, enjoying the sound of Peter’s ragged breath and the quiet non-whimpers he fails to hide, his face somewhere by the pillow, not on it.
Bucky likes this. All of it. The way Peter shivers when the shorts slide against his skin, the small hairs rising, either due to static or something else. He even likes the weird muffled giggle that comes out of Peter’s mouth when the shorts touch the soles of his feet, and he curls his toes as if he's ticklish, his legs jerking a bit.
Most of all, he likes the look of Peter’s strong legs and the nearly perfect rise of his cheeks. Color, no color—it doesn’t matter because they feel amazing under Bucky’s touch when he goes to lay his hands on them. He squeezes them a bit, feeling the tone give under the press of his fingers. The skin is soft, and when Bucky moves his fingers, pressing just a bit harder on the cheeks, they bounce back with a slight tint, as if burned by his touch.
It's so fucking hot. Peter is so fucking hot.
That, and the noises Peter makes, the way his hips move, as if he's grinding himself into the bed from this. Although, he's definitely grinding. Bucky likes that too. Enough to go for the buckle on his own belt, feeling the coil of want he didn’t even think he could anymore.
"Shirt off," Bucky commands, tone blunt. No flowery bullshit.
Peter's face turns to the side, an eyebrow arched, but damn it, he listens. Smart boy. Bucky will teach him to be good.
Peter grabs the hem and starts to pull, and as that shirt rides up, there's this magic moment. Muscles move, contract, play peek-a-boo beneath the skin. He rises on his knees as he's doing that, and it’s… hell. Bucky never thought of Peter as a kid, but right now, 'kid' definitely isn't the word that comes to mind.
The sinewy lines of Peter's back, the bend of his spine that directs Bucky's gaze to all the right places. He's smaller than Bucky, sure, but packed with a type of strength that's almost deceptive. Like a fucking cobra, slender and deadly. Not at all like a spider. And the way his lats stretch, his shoulders roll - that’s a sight.
"Happy now?" Peter quips, throwing the shirt somewhere. It lands on the desk. Bucky follows it with his eyes, watching it topple an empty can of pop to the ground.
Bucky doesn't answer. He's caught in this weird limbo of irritation and appreciation. It's comforting, in a bizarre way, to know that he doesn't have to be overly gentle. Not that he's ever gentle. But with Peter's strength, the possibility of accidentally harming him is diminished. It's not that Bucky has a habit of accidentally breaking people, but when you've been around as long as he has, you become cautious.
And here's the real kicker: If Peter decided to, if he really, really put his mind to it, he could probably tear Bucky's arm off. Not easily. Bucky wouldn't hand it over on a platter. But the potential is there. For some reason, Bucky, he likes that too. Scratch that, he fucking loves that, his hands pulling the zipper down on his pants.
"You just gonna stare?" Peter asks, that newfound sass making its appearance. He turns around, and, yeah, Bucky is definitely staring now. At Peter’s perfect abs, the v-shape that points directly to his cock. He isn’t huge. He's smaller than Bucky in every way. But it’s proportionate to his body, to his height. Bucky wants to lean over and put this cock in his mouth just to hear Peter inhale. The thought is… jarring. For all his experiences, and, yeah, he was never selfish, this was never his favorite part.
"Maybe. Got a problem with that?" Bucky smirks instead, pulling his jacket off. He goes for his t-shirt straight after, folding both over the nearby stool. It bothers him that Peter is messy. Messy is complicated. So, Bucky, for everything he's gradually doing, is bothered. Very much bothered by the expression on Peter's face as he leans over to untie his boots.
Bucky looks up while doing that; it just needs some finger coordination, not so much the eyes. Still smirking, already anticipating what’s going to happen, and Peter's face… it’s kind of wrecked. Peter had seen him without a t-shirt. Many times. The last one was just a few hours ago. But now Peter, standing on his knees on his boyish unmade bed, looking at Bucky, seems almost unsure. Unsure, but also a bit hungry. Bucky chuckles at that, making a point to look at Peter’s cock while he works on the second boot. He can almost see Peter’s hands twitch, as if suddenly embarrassed.
“Trust me, Peter,” Bucky says, straightening back up to kick the shoes off. “You’ve got nothing to be embarrassed by. You are a fucking doll.”
He bends again to place the shoes under a chair. Pulls his pants down, feeling his own cock bounce out of the boxers as they ride down together with the jeans. It hits him in the gut, that feeling of his cock weighing down, pulling on his skin. Shit, he missed that feeling. He folds the jeans too, slings them across the chair’s backrest. And turns around.
He stands there, a foot or so away from the bed, his metal arm glinting under the lighting, the scars and ridges on his skin as bright as daylight. He catches Peter's eyes roaming over his body, taking in every dip and curve. It's been a while since someone looked at him like that. Not with that annoying mix of pity and wariness, or the pure terror he's gotten used to. It's like another punch to the gut.
"I want to fuck you," Bucky says, taking a step towards the bed, feeling the side of the mattress against his legs. “That alright with you?”
Peter's cheeks flare a brilliant red, but he doesn't look away. Instead, his voice is a shaky whisper. "Haven't...I mean...I've never...you know..."
Bucky raises an eyebrow. He doesn’t pull back. He places his metal hand on Peter’s hip, Peter's knees on the edge of the bed. He pulls him a bit closer, enough to feel the warmth and hardness against his groin.
“You're nineteen,” he says, not to embarrass him further. Actually not getting it for a moment. Peter is handsome. He'd have fucked him in a hot minute back in the day. He’d probably have let himself be fucked by him too if it came down to that, just to feel the tremble of his hips and his breath on his skin when he's dying from the pressure around his cock. Is this century fucking blind?
"I’m strong," Peter murmurs, a hint of defense in his tone. "Didn't want to hurt anyone. Accidentally."
That makes two of them. See, smart one.
"But," Peter rushes to add, "it’s not just because of that, in case you think."
Bucky isn't thinking that at all. Instead, he's still processing the earlier confession. It hit Bucky somewhere deep, somewhere he didn't even know could still be reached. It stirred a weird possessive satisfaction inside him. The idea of some other asshole having a piece of Peter before him? That's a no from Bucky. A big, fat, resounding no.
He nods, trying to keep his face impassive.
"Good. Means I won't have to retrain you from any bad habits." He doesn’t know why he says that. He’s said more words to Peter in this room than in the last month to everyone else.
He kisses him instead of thinking.
Bucky presses his lips to Peter's, hard. There's no finesse, no poetry to it. Just raw need and the press of skin on skin. He hears the sharp intake of breath from Peter, the subtle hitch in his throat. A little gasp.
He loves that sound.
Tilting his head, he deepens the kiss. His tongue swipes across Peter's bottom lip, demanding entrance. Peter's mouth opens, and yeah, that sound again. A muffled groan, the soft slide of lips, the wet noises of a messy kiss.
He's always been a sucker for sounds. That's his thing. Bucky doesn’t speak much, usually, but sounds? He lives for them. The whisper of the wind through leaves, the damn waves on Stark's shitty sound machine that he had initially wanted to toss out a window, but now, god help him, he needs to fall asleep.
But right now? Peter’s little noises top the list.
Pulling back slightly, Bucky bites gently on Peter's bottom lip, dragging out another sound from the kid. A whimper, maybe? Fuck if he knows. But he chases that sound, that feeling, kissing Peter again and again, teeth clashing, breath mingling.
Peter's hands find their way to Bucky's shoulders, fingers digging in. It's another sound added to the mix, the rustle of skin on skin, the grip of desperate fingers. The grip on his metal arm is so strong, Bucky can almost hear the metal give.
"Doll," Bucky murmurs against Peter's mouth, not really a word, more like a feeling made audible. The feel of Peter's hot breath against his lips, the moans that spill between them, have him hungering for more.
More sounds. More Peter.
He pulls away, still hearing the ragged breathing, the sounds of longing. Peter chases his lips, trying to pull him back into another kiss. Bucky teases, letting their lips brush but not fully commit, reveling in the frustrated huffs from Peter.
Bucky dives in again, devouring the sounds, letting them fill his senses. He might be ancient in some ways, might have fragments of another self tucked away in his mind, but right now, it's all him. All Bucky. And all the fucking beautiful noises Peter makes.
Bucky's lips slide from Peter's mouth, finding their way down his jaw. A clear path, as if he's tracing a treasure map. Mostly because it feels like that. And because, while Bucky isn’t normally overly gentle, he has to be this time. Peter’s skin tastes like salt and something sweeter, something uniquely him. Perhaps summer. He feels Peter’s pulse jump under his touch, right at the hollow of his throat. Rapid, like a trapped bird.
“Bucky,” Peter pants, and Bucky smirks against his neck, satisfaction rippling through him. He's vocal, alright. This vocal Bucky is alright with. “Didn’t... expect... this.”
Bucky doesn’t grace that with a response. Instead, he takes another greedy mouthful of Peter’s skin, this time by the collarbone, eliciting another shaky gasp. This is good.
He noses along Peter’s body, back up to his jaw, finding his lips again, slow this time, savoring every push and pull, every wet slide and nip.
His metal fingers dig slightly into Peter’s hip, a reminder of the cold, unforgiving strength he possesses. But Peter doesn't seem to mind, if the eager way he's pressing back is any indication.
"Your move," Bucky mumbles, offering Peter an open invitation.
With a grin Bucky can feel against his lips, Peter tangles a hand in Bucky’s hair, tugging slightly.
“Just keeping up, old man.”
“Watch it,” Bucky warns.
Peter's smirk widens as he slightly pushes Bucky's upper body away with his hand, leaving his hair alone. He slides his other soft palm over Bucky’s ass.
“Make me,” he says, eyelashes fluttering, lips red and wet, chest rising and falling with each breath.
Who'd have thought? The little brat's got game.
Bucky has him turned around on the bed within seconds. Not that Peter is resisting. He bends under Bucky, his spider agility making it look easy, as he neatly folds right in front of him under a push of a hand. Knees under his body, feet sticking out on each side of his ass. His back is perfectly straight, stomach on the bed. And he's fucking wide open.
If Bucky didn't know for sure, he'd think they'd made Peter in a lab. Just for this.
Bucky kneels on the ground behind Peter and doesn't smack his ass again. Instead, it's the perfect height to just lean over, spreading the cheeks with his fingers and putting his mouth on the brat. And, oh, the smell, the taste. It makes Bucky's own cock jerk. He nearly moans himself when his tongue touches down on Peter's hole. Alright, all those other men? Definitely not Bucky's favorite part. Two fingers, something greasy, that would do the job. Hell, most of the time, all those first-timers were already so loose you could run three dicks in like through a wide tunnel without any prep. But Peter? Peter is tight.
Bucky dives deeper, each flick and swirl of his tongue eliciting sounds from Peter that he's sure are illegal in at least a dozen countries. And with every sound Peter makes, every shiver and moan, a new wave of greedy satisfaction builds in Bucky.
Bucky's never really been the type to pay much mind to the subtle intimacies of these encounters. He's lived through enough to know life’s too short to sweat the small stuff. But something about the way Peter responds— every tremor, every shuddering breath— feels like a goddamn personal victory. It’s intoxicating. Addicting, even.
"Jesus, doll," Bucky mutters more to himself than anyone else, his voice rough with need. "You planning on giving the whole building a show?" Not that he'd mind if Peter did. It's just that for someone who zips around New York in red and blue tights, he sure isn't keeping much to the imagination right now.
But there's no more time to muse on that because Bucky is too lost in the sensations, in the pure carnal moment. The rough texture of his stubble against the softness of Peter's skin sends a thrill down his own spine.
And then there's that nagging part of him— the Soldier, always tactical, always on guard— whispering how vulnerable this position makes him. But fuck it. If this is how he goes out, Bucky thinks there are worse ways to bite the dust.
His free hand— the metal one— ghosts over Peter’s thigh, squeezing gently and then not so gently.
Deep down, a thought edges into Bucky’s mind. A dangerous thought. One he immediately pushes away. It suggests that this might not be just another hookup. That this isn't just about getting off.
But he doesn’t let himself linger there. Instead, he focuses on the here and now. On the sounds. And, yeah, those sounds.
Peter's legs twitch, which, given his usual agility, says a lot about the work Bucky's putting in. With every swipe of his tongue, Peter's grip on the sheets gets desperate, fingers twisting and pulling, as if he's trying to hold onto sanity. Bucky can practically feel the goddamn power of the moment, like electricity charging the air.
Each time Peter gasps out a curse or a broken plea, Bucky's ego swells a bit more. 'That's it,' he wants to say but doesn't. He's said enough. 'Let everyone know who's making you sound like a broken damn record.'
The more Bucky explores, the more Peter writhes and squirms. At one point, Peter tries to push back, as if he's seeking even more. Bucky doubles down on his efforts.
Bucky's metal fingers trace patterns on Peter's thigh, smirking to himself when he feels the muscle beneath twitch and jump. Peter's voice cracks, the sound rough and broken, and for a split second, Bucky wonders if he's pushed too far. But then another moan follows, louder, more desperate, and he realizes—nah, Peter's just losing it. Big time.
He feels a sudden jerk against his chest, Peter's hand reaching back, fingers blindly seeking Bucky's own. He grins, the satisfaction almost too much.
"Can't get enough, huh?" He can't stop talking to Peter, which should be concerning, but it's not—especially when he can feel his own breath bounce off Peter’s wet hole when he pulls away to say something.
Peter's response is a choked-off half-laugh, half-moan. It's desperate and raw and so damn honest.
"You're—god—killing me here."
Bucky chuckles, pulling back just for a moment to admire the mess he's made of Peter—a good, trembling mess of limbs and muscle. But it's not enough, not if Peter is still stringing sentences together. Bucky pushes a metal thumb into Peter’s ass, slightly regretting he can’t feel the squeeze. He needs his other hand for something else.
It reaches for Peter’s balls, squeezed between the bed and Peter’s body; he's so flat on the mattress, so lean. He pulls on Peter, making him nudge back a bit, causing the balls to swing slightly. Though they don't move much, they seem to be moving up a bit, as if Peter is close. Maybe he is; Bucky isn't sure. It's been a while. But damn, doesn't Peter shudder the moment Bucky rubs his sack, the soft, wrinkled skin contrasting with the smooth? Bucky wonders if he could fit them, Peter’s balls, in his mouth. He considers the angle for a moment, but it's awkward. Instead, he leans in to press a hard, biting kiss on Peter’s right ass cheek, settling there, watching his thumb.
The metal thumb works in and out, and it's the oddest sensation for Bucky—knowing exactly what he's doing but not really feeling it. Not through that thumb anyway. But the sounds? The whimpers and pants? Those he feels. They reverberate right through him, settling somewhere low, making the Soldier stir, too.
"It's almost a shame, you know," Bucky says, "Here you are, an Avenger, and look at the state of you." It's a taunt, and Bucky doesn't know why he's doing it, why he's pushing like this. But fuck if it isn't fun.
Peter's answer is a stuttered, "Bucky..." and it's almost a growl. Or it might've been if it wasn't edged with desperation. It's like music to Bucky's ears.
A smirk finds its way onto Bucky's face again.
"Can't even form a sentence, can you?" He teases. He replaces his thumb with two fingers from his human hand, pushing in just enough to make Peter gasp.
Suddenly, there's this image in his mind of Peter all decked out in that getup, swinging from building to building, being all heroic. Heroes… Bucky has an issue with them. But that’s neither the time nor the place to unpack it. Because here he is, coming undone by Bucky's fingers. The thought is heady. "Who'd have thought, huh? Spider-kid, all twisted up over little old me."
Bucky’s soldier side, always calculating, notes the slight tension in Peter's muscles. The way he's starting to shake a bit more, the rising pitch of his moans. Bucky knows he's close. The Soldier would usually use this, exploit it, but here, now? Bucky just wants to see him break apart.
His fingers work with a purpose now, sure and steady. The Soldier in him always knew how to finish a mission. This one's no different.
"Come on, doll," he taunts, feeling more than a little smug. "Let's see what you've got."
Bucky's not even sure who he's trying to prove something to anymore, but it doesn’t matter. It's just them here. Peter and Bucky. And the Soldier. Always the Soldier. But for now, it's drowned out by the chorus of Peter's moans.
Peter's body tenses, and for a split second, Bucky almost thinks he's fucked up. But then there it is: the telltale arch of Peter's back, the desperate clawing at the sheets, and that glorious, choked-off cry. Bingo.
"Knew it," Bucky mutters, not even sure if Peter can hear him over his own ragged breathing.
He slows his fingers, drawing out each motion just to coax a few more of those precious reactions.
"Guess the hero gig doesn't prepare you for everything, huh?" The sarcasm drips heavily, and Bucky doesn't even try to keep the smug grin off his face. It hurts, his face, from grinning so much.
With a final drag of his fingers, Bucky pulls out, watching as Peter collapses, a panting heap on the sheets.
"Need a moment, doll?" Bucky asks, even though he himself is feeling the aftershocks, the warmth, the aftermath of it all. He's almost painfully hard now. But it's a good pain. He can rub one out later. He's sure he can, just thinking back to this.
Peter just groans in response, his voice hoarse, sounding like he's been through a ten-round fight. But then he's twisting on the bed, his hand reaching out, grabbing Bucky's wrist, nearly yanking him onto the bed, on top of himself.
"You think you're so clever, don't you?" Peter's voice is rough, his eyes glinting with a mix of exhaustion and some residual fight. It would have been more effective if Peter weren't under him right now, his stomach sticky with his cum.
Bucky just shrugs, rubbing Peter’s mouth with his thumb.
"Me?" He asks. "Nah. Just good with my hands."
"You're an asshole," Peter snorts, a shaky kind of laugh that Bucky doesn't mind.
"Been called worse," Bucky shrugs again, his eyes never leaving Peter's. The Soldier stays quiet, letting Bucky savor the victory. For now.
And Peter should be all nice and loose inside, just like his muscular body that's sinking into the bed. Bucky can feel his own cock against Peter’s thigh and doesn't resist a quick grind. Just a few moves of his hips. He holds in a moan but can't stop his eyes from closing for a second or two.
"I really want to fuck you," he says to Peter, hearing and feeling Peter’s heart crash against his ribcage. "It's fine if you're done, though."
Peter’s mouth opens slightly, his brown eyes widening just a tad. He looks almost innocent like that. His mouth looks so perfectly fuckable that Bucky briefly entertains the thought of asking for a quick blowjob if Peter isn't up for the rest. But then Peter nods. Once, twice, three times. The last nod is so energetic he almost headbutts Bucky in the nose, their faces so close. Bucky laughs.
Peter stills.
The moment hangs heavy between them, like some kind of dramatic pause in picture. Bucky, with his killer instincts, instantly senses that shift in the air. The lighthearted banter? Gone. In its place, a silence so loud he can hear it ringing in his ears. He pulls back, pressing his palms into the bed on either side of Peter. The weight of those brown eyes, the slight furrow of Peter’s brows; it's a lot.
"Fuck," Bucky murmurs, rolling off him. He's now on his knees, hovering awkwardly to the side of Peter. Maybe he really did fuck up after all.
"Hey," Bucky starts, clearing his throat. It sounds grating even to him. "You good? 'Cause I can leave, you know?"
Peter shakes his head, his face still uncharacteristically serious.
"It's not that." There's a pause, a beat, and then, "I've just... never heard you laugh before."
And, shit, isn't that a punchline? Because when the hell did Bucky start laughing? He tries to recall, flipping through the fragmented memories of pre-war Brooklyn, but those images are hazy, fuzzy around the edges. Then there's the Soldier, cold and emotionless. No room for laughter there. So, what now? Is this another part of the old Bucky trying to poke through?
He doesn't voice any of these thoughts. Instead, he just stares down at Peter, his mouth working soundlessly for a moment. Then, "It was just a laugh, doll."
Peter just shrugs, lifting himself up on his elbows. "It was... nice."
Bucky doesn’t know if he should be insulted or comforted by that. Maybe a bit of both. He doesn't leave, though. Instead, he moves Peter sideways on the bed, gripping his hips, and settles himself down on his legs, half-sitting.
“How about that fuck then?” he asks, and sees Peter’s soft cock twitch in response. “I take it as a yes.”
He moves Peter to wrap his shaky legs around him - don't worry, doll, won't drop you - angles Peter’s hole over his own dick, and, without further chatter, sinks him down.
Peter's warm and tight around him, and Bucky's taken aback. It's been a hot minute since he's felt something like this. Like, a long damn while. His senses come alive, and for a second, the Soldier's precision gets lost in the rush of raw, human sensation.
Bucky grips Peter’s hips a bit too tightly, probably leaving marks. But who gives a crap? It's not like Peter's protesting. Besides, he's probably got other things on his mind right now, like remembering how to breathe with a dick inside him.
It’s a bit of work for two: Peter's body adjusting, Bucky trying not to lose his goddamn mind.
"Fuck," Bucky mutters more to himself than Peter. The heat, the feeling, it's familiar yet so damn foreign. Like a forgotten song that suddenly plays on the radio. He can feel every pulse, every twitch. Every little gasp Peter lets out.
Once fully in, he doesn’t move his hips. He moves Peter instead. Peter, who now has his hands wrapped around his neck, is another thing that is driving him crazy. Bucky keeps it casual, mocking almost.
"This good for you, doll?" He doesn't wait for an answer, not really. His focus is on the sensation, the drag and pull, the slick slide of skin on skin.
Peter's voice comes out, hoarse, strained. "You talk too much. Asshole."
He likes that. He suddenly likes, really likes, hearing Peter speak. To hear Peter sounding like that, wrecked, because of him. His smirk grows.
"Been established, remember?"
He picks up the pace, each thrust deliberate, harder, deeper. He feels Peter’s hard cock bouncing against his stomach. It's a heady mix of power and vulnerability, knowing he's the one causing this, witnessing Peter quiver around him.
Bucky lets out a grunt, the friction, the sensation, it's all too much. Memories, distant and fragmented, of another time, another place, with different people, flicker by. But none of them are quite like this. Not with this intensity, this rawness.
Suddenly, a wild kind of urge to see Peter, more of him, rushes through him. He’s there, around Bucky, and holy hell, he is so tight, so warm, taking him in so well, just soft whimpers and moans, as his lanky body is being impaled on Bucky’s cock, and Bucky just wants more. It’s just not enough.
He pushes in a few more times, groaning into Peter’s neck, feeling his strong fingers almost tearing muscles beneath his own skin. More, yes, more. And just a little break, just enough not to come right now, because it has been years, decades even. It’s just polite to get Peter off first. He remembers that much.
With one more push, he breathes in the heavy smell of sex and slips out fully, earning a rather cute huff from Peter. Bucky puts his body down, moves himself, still sideways on the bed, with Peter’s head almost hanging from the side of the mattress and his legs spread. And, fuck, his throat. The skin on it looks thin; he wants to bite it. He leans over to do that. Just for a second. A quick little bite and a thorough licking to apologize. He licks the whole throat, running his tongue over the Adam's apple, and it’s weird. He knows he’s being weird. But Peter doesn’t seem to mind, still just sobbing in the most brilliantly pathetic way Bucky has ever seen anyone do.
He pulls Peter’s ass a bit higher, gets him to spread his pale legs wider, and sinks in again. And, yes, yes, this is good too. Not better, just different. He moves around a bit, changing the angle a few times until Peter’s back arches, his eyes flicker open, and he nearly decks Bucky in the jaw from how high his clenched hand jerks upwards. There you go, baby, lie down and take it, see the stars.
Bucky laughs again.
He wants to fuck Peter senseless. He does it over and over again until he eventually wraps his metal arm around him, just to stop Peter’s body from sliding further from the bed. His shoulders now hang in the air, Peter’s hair moving every time Bucky hits him with his cock. And Peter’s body is bending over him, like an actual doll. He is nearly crying at this stage, Peter. It’s a good cry; Bucky isn’t worried about that.
“Please, Bucky, please, please, please, oh, please,” he begs beautifully too.
Bucky's in deep, really deep, and he notices it. Not by the way Peter’s breath stutters or how his fingers clench around whatever they find (mostly Bucky's skin or sheets). No, it's something even more primal. There, on Peter’s heaving stomach: a bulge. An actual bulge that moves with each of Bucky’s thrusts.
It's the most fucked-up shadow puppet show Bucky's ever seen.
"God," he breathes, pulling back a little to get a better view. With every thrust, with every movement of his cock inside Peter, he can see the outline of himself, distorting Peter’s stomach from the inside. It's mesmerizing in the most twisted way. He's inside him. He can see himself inside him.
Who the fuck needs x-ray vision when you have this, right?
It's some freaky shit, to be honest. Like those horror movies where there's something crawling under the skin, except this isn't terror – it’s arousal. It's raw and animalistic, a visible sign of Bucky’s intrusion. It's a sight that should probably gross him out, but instead, it just drives him wild.
Bucky leans back further, bends Peter more; he is almost an arch at this stage, his shoulders poking out, his head thrown back. And Bucky, staring at that moving distortion, every push he gives makes the bulge more pronounced. He's marking territory in the most primal way possible, leaving an imprint not just on skin but underneath it.
Bucky growls, the sound rumbling deep within his chest. He's always been one to appreciate the visual, and this? This is a goddamn masterpiece. Each movement, each shift, is proof of how deep, how thoroughly he’s claiming Peter. And he's all in for it, for every damn inch, for every visible sign of his possession. Fucking magic.
But then again, the raw intimacy of it is jarring. Here they are, two dudes, fucking their brains out, and Bucky can see himself inside the other. It's intimate on a whole new level, and Bucky isn’t sure if he's ready for this shit.
Ready or not, it comes out anyway:
“Move your hands to your stomach, doll,” he asks, almost nicely, while drilling into Peter with enough strength to make the bed shake. “Come on, baby, do it.”
Peter’s fingers touch the pronounced bulge on his stomach, and his eyes fly open. He tries to move his head, the one that's bobbing with every thrust of Bucky’s cock inside him. He can't see; that's a shame. But he can touch. Bucky can feel it through Peter’s toned muscles - the press of his hand over his cock.
“Feel that, doll?” Bucky smirks, thrusting again, watching the motion play out both inside and out. "That's all me."
Peter’s body goes rigid, every muscle tensing. The sight of Peter losing it, coming undone beneath him, does things to Bucky. Things he can't quite articulate, not that he'd want to. Peter comes, hard, the cum gushing out of his dick and onto his hands, still over the stomach.
Bucky grunts, the world blurring around the edges. His rhythm falters, but fuck if he cares. With one last powerful thrust, he's there, the rush hitting him like a freight train. It's consuming and everything else just fades away. It’s just him and Peter. Them, and an alarming creak beneath them. The sound of splintering wood fills the room, and in a matter of seconds, the bed gives way.
They crash to the floor, landing amidst the ruins of what used to be a decent piece of furniture, the tall headboard falling nearly on top of them. Bucky is the first to react, instinctively bending to shield Peter from the wooden debris. Not that he needs it, but Bucky can't help it. At least the mattress is still intact.
They're lying there on it, and Peter just stares up at the ceiling, his breathing still ragged, a look of disbelief on his face. It's a picture Bucky will remember for a while: this mouthy brat, fucked senseless, lying in the aftermath of a broken bed. There's some poetic justice in there somewhere, though Bucky's too spent to figure it out.
The air is cold against Bucky’s back as he lies on top of Peter, holding up a leaning headboard with his arm. He doesn't feel like doing that right now. His weight is probably enough for Peter to feel it when Bucky aims for the door, chucking the headboard there. There's a crash of wood against wood. A bit of a wreck that blocks the entrance well enough, the door still miraculously closed. Bucky has no goddamn clue why at least four Avengers aren't already on their way here. But Peter and Bucky, they need a minute, or maybe ten.
The quiet is good, the only sound being their synchronized breathing. No words are needed, not right now. The room is filled with the heavy scent of sweat, sex, and a hint of pine from the splintered bed underneath them.
Bucky can see the wreckage around them, but, guess what? It’s not like this room wasn’t already in a state. He shifts, pulling out, and lets his back hit the mattress.
"Your room's a disaster," he mutters.
Peter shifts too, as if preparing to rise. Like he's actually going to start tidying up right now, of all times. Ridiculous. Before he can make a move, Bucky's metal hand is on him, gripping his waist and pulling him back.
"Not now," he says, draping Peter on top of him.
He pulls Peter into a quick, demanding kiss – no time for any of that slow, romantic bullshit. As they part, Peter, with that ever-innocent look, burrows into Bucky's neck, his breath tickling his skin.
Then, the audacity.
"Is it always like this?" Peter's voice is muffled against Bucky's neck.
Bucky can't help the incredulous laugh that bubbles up, paired with a playful smack to Peter's ass.
"No," he drawls. Seriously, this brat.
The two of them lie there, the ambient quiet seeping into the room. Bucky's pretty sure the whole building is dead silent. Or maybe it's just the ringing in his ears. It's hard to tell. He focuses on Peter's breaths instead — in, out, in, out. There’s something rhythmic about it, something almost hypnotic.
Breathing. Existing. Not a sound more. It’s nice, it's calming. Kind of surprising, really. Bucky's been wound up for what feels like an eternity. Now? Now, he's near peaceful.
And then Peter just has to go and ruin the moment, like the chatterbox he is.
"Are you still going to see that person?" he asks, the words rumbling against Bucky's skin.
Of course. Can't have five minutes of silence without Peter's brain running a mile a minute. Bucky's half tempted to tell him to shut up, but he’s in a surprisingly good mood.
"Yes," he replies, tightening his hold on Peter for a brief second. Before Peter can spiral into overthinking — and Bucky suspects he’s good at that — he quickly adds, "It's a pardon thing."
Peter lets out a small "Ah," and Bucky can feel the corners of his mouth tug upwards in a smile against his neck. A smile Bucky definitely put there.
Several long, quiet minutes go by. Bucky's mind drifts, taking in the weight of Peter on top of him, the feel of his skin. But, of course, Peter's got more questions.
"So, does this mean we can do it again?"
Bucky nearly laughs, but he doesn’t want to make it a habit. Peter's not too smart if he believes that, now, after this, Bucky's gonna let him just walk away. Oh, no. He’s already got plans. Plans that have formed somewhere between Peter's first attempt at a kiss and now. Plans that revolve around ensuring that Peter doesn't fucking bolt. For the time being, this spot, right here, feels just about right.
Sure, they might want to hit the road at some point. Bucky’s got money. Yeah, it ain't Stark cash, and it’s blood money — Hydra's blood, but what the hell, money's money. The Soldier made sure to stash shit everywhere, and not just weapons. If Peter ever decides to up and leave, well, that'll come in handy.
Tomorrow he will probably let Peter fuck him. Just once. Maybe a few more, depending on how Peter likes it. Can’t stay a virgin forever. Not that he is anymore, but fucking and taking is not exactly the same thing.
As he considers the possibilities, Bucky nods slightly, nuzzling his nose against Peter’s messy hair. He smells like sweat and something uniquely Peter.
Eventually, hearing Peter’s heart speed up, he finally replies:
"We’ll need a better bed."