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The shadows mostly blend together, for the lack of any real light. The air is getting staler by the minute, and Steve doesn’t even know what day it is, anymore—which should be concerning, probably. Should be something he needs to address.
But he’s never really been concerned with details like that, not with Bucky in the room with him. Within reach. Within the space it takes to feel his breath as the only motion, the only proof of life in this fucking hovel, in this no-man’s-bunker behind enemy lines.
“Word on the street’s got us moving within the week,” Bucky looks up from his StarkPad with a sigh, leaning back on the rickety chair that may very well be older than either of them, which is a novelty. “So that’s exciting.”
Steve’s jaw drops, just a little.
“You’re shitting me.”
“‘Fraid not, Stevie,” Bucky throws his feet up on the opposite chair, ignores the precarious creaking of the wood. “I like Fury, don’t get me wrong, but goddamn,” he shakes his head, and breathes out slow. “I spent the better part of a fucking century sleeping in a tube, and even I’m gettin’ stir-crazy.”
Steve rolls his eyes, and stretches out on the stiff cot in resignation: they’ve been holed up in this goddamn bunker for at least a week and a half, he figures, waiting on recon to give them the go ahead to strike the Hydra stronghold on the surface. Bucky’s read a pile of yellowed paperbacks. Steve’s started sketching on the fucking walls.
“I’d kill for a smoke, right about now,” bucky breaks through the din of Steve’s frustrated thoughts.
“For once,” Steve breathes out, hands shaping unconsciously around an imaginary cigarette. “For once, I agree. Fuck.”
Bucky laughs, a little surprised: Steve’s never cared for the taste of nicotine.
“Close quarters gettin’ to ya?” Bucky challenges, and Steve doesn’t know if there’s a question, if there’s insecurity laced inside the question, but if there is? He’s quick to kill it.
“No,” Steve says flatly, clearly. “Not that.”
“Mmm,” Bucky hums, lips quirking upward; “good.”
“Just,” Steve starts, searching for the words: “it’s just the waiting.”
“Always,” Bucky grins, leaning farther back, testing the old wood just a little bit more. “Impatient little punk,” his grin grows wider as he puts on a voice. “Bucky, when’m I gonna hit my growth spurt? I can’t wait any longer,” and Steve groans, because he didn’t sound like that, not ever, not even before puberty; no.
“Bucky, I can’t do paints, it takes too long to dry, I just can’t hack it, I gotta go back to the charcoals,” and that was after puberty, he remembers, he definitely did not fucking sound like that.
“Bucky, I can’t wait for you to come home from the fucking war, I gotta subject my body to untested fuckery and risk my life because I’m champing at the goddamned bit to get shot at, you gotta understand—”
“I never said that last one—”
“Impatient,” Bucky cuts him off. “Impatient, impatient, impatient,” and that grin, that fucking shit eating grin.
“And god help me, Stevie,” Bucky leers, just a little, eyes bright. “I’ve never been able to keep from feeding inta it.”
“Buck—”
“Faked the carvings against the doorframe,” Bucky keeps on, setting the chair back on all four feet with a crack and getting to his feet. “How long’d it take you to figure out you’d only grown a hair, not an inch?”
“Shut up.”
“Sold those paints back to Missus Morris for her charity work—”
“So it went to good use,” Steve shuts him down, with as much conviction as he can manage. “Which is what matters.”
“Told you in that bar,” Bucky’s voice lowers, his smile changes to something a little bit melancholy, a little too full of meaning as he stand toe to toe with the cot Steve’s lying on.
“Couldn’t take my eyes off you,” Bucky whispers, gestures to Steve openly, all-encompassing. “This,” he shakes his head, lowers his eyes, rubs idly at his chest. “My heart wouldn’t stop shaking.”
Steve sits up slowly, just as Bucky lowers himself to straddle Steve at the hips.
“You,” Bucky frames Steve’s face, and Steve leans into it like he needs, and he does. God knows, he always has; he always will.
“You’ve always been that skinny kid from Brooklyn,” Bucky breathes, murmurs close against Steve’s cheek. “Y’always will be.”
Steve feels his cock start to swell, start to curve into Bucky’s weight atop him, and Bucky smile right at the corner of Steve’s mouth.
“Restless as all hell,” he scolds; praises all at once. “So goddamn keen.”
“Gonna keep me waitin’?” Steve quirks a brow, lifts his hips just a bit into Bucky’s crotch, and Bucky laughs, bright and beautiful, and somehow manages to get hands on Steve’s ass to squeeze, to pinch light before Steve lowers himself back down.
“My favorite antsy little asshole,” Bucky nips at Steve’s lower lip. “That day to this.”
And Steve wants more, so he reaches and pulls Bucky’s head back down to kiss him full, hard and wanting and fierce, and he loves the feel of Bucky’s breathless gasps against his open mouth once he pulls away.
“And demanding, jeesus,” Bucky marvels at him. “All,” and he leans to suck below Steve’s ear, stealing the air straight from Steve lungs as he grins against the skin: “Breathless with anticipation.”
More’n that, though. Goddamn.
‘Cause Steve’s spent a longer lifetime than most in plain fucking worship of those lips: long and lush against his skin, and he’s never lost the shiver that mouth draws from his veins, never gotten over, or acclimated to the way he sings inside the rushing of his blood for the press of that goddamned perfect pout, and just the barest touch can still undo him, and he’s already breathing heavy with the way that Bucky’s moving downward, sucking along his throat, he’s already coming apart, but then—
Bucky’s lips find their intended target, Steve’s weakest point, and Bucky knows it: Steve just makes out the curl of his lips before he arches hard into their heat and whimpers through a trembling moan.
“Remember when these used to take up the better part of your goddamned chest?” Bucky mouths against the peak of Steve’s nipple; “could count your ribs with my tongue,” Bucky swirls said tongue around the rough flush of skin before centering back on the bud and nipping.
“Could count your fuckin’ pulse even before you got going, right against my lips,” Bucky murmurs, switching sides and lavishing affection before pulling away and grinning wide up at Steve from the chest: “Still can.”
And yeah, with the way Steve’s heart is already jackhammering, running wild, he fucking hopes that Bucky can feel it, because goddamn.
Bucky’s got the better part of the full swell of Steve’s pec in his mouth, lavishing attention and suction and the graze of tongue and teeth without relent, and Steve’s head’s getting hazy with it, his cock hardening with the tightness of his nipples under Bucky’s attention, and it’s not until he’s straining and full fucking mast that his length brushes Bucky’s, and Bucky bites full at his left nipple at the contact, and Steve’s heart skips a fucking beat under that mouth as he keens at the crest of pain beneath all that pleasure—as Bucky transforms his whine into a moan as he grinds his hips down mercilessly, tortuously: perfect.
Perfect.
Steve’ll be gone quick, and he’s long since moved past any shame in it: Bucky’s it for him, Bucky’s always been it, and he drives Steve fucking crazy, presses his buttons with the skill of knowing him like the lines of his own hands, and Steve won’t apologize for popping off between heartbeats, after mere moments, because Steve won’t apologize for being so goddamn crazy for this asshole, his asshole, that he’ll come quick over and again at just the right touch, at just the right press, inside all the fucking love.
Bucky’s mouth doesn’t let up, and his hips don’t relent, and when he reaches back and starts working the cheeks of his ass, massaging the muscles, spreading so to just expose his hole: Bucky has to know that’s the end of him.
Steve barely gasps before he spills heavy between them.
“Jesus,” Steve gasps, and yeah, he sure as fuck isn’t antsy anymore. He lets himself pant through the high before he makes to sit up, to kiss Bucky hard, to thank Bucky for knowing him so goddamned well, for loving him so goddamned much, but he can’t.
He can’t sit up, because Bucky’s sliding down his body, hands tight against his thighs.
Steve feels his breath coming hard all over again.
“Buck?” Steve asks, voice pitchy as Bucky starts cleaning his skin, lapping his seed with real fucking gusto: like always, but it hits him funny somehow, just now. Makes his chest tight with a longing, an aching sort of want.
Steve doesn’t get an answer, not in words, but Bucky slides his body up Steve’s once more, claims his lips and lets Steve taste himself all over Bucky’s mouth and Steve’s chest swells and his heart leaps and yes, yes.
That’s an answer.
Bucky grins, and takes his time sliding back down, hitting all of Steve’s pleasure points on the way, all the places Bucky knows’ll send him over the edge again, and fast: tracing his collarbones, and teasing the dip between them long and languid, all the time in the world. Kissing soft at his raw nipples, a benediction. Mouthing at the muscles, as hard as the press of his ribs and it always takes Steve back to another time, another place, another body with this body and Bucky knows it, Bucky breathes in memory between them as he traces his abs with his tongue in a way that worships what the universe has done for them, to them: worships, instead of condemns.
Steve feels his thighs tighten under Bucky’s hands, and Steve knows Bucky notices, because he starts to work the muscles between his fingers, steady and sure.
Steve groans as Bucky noses into the curls between his legs, breathing at the hardening length that’s starting to rise once more but not touching: deliberate.
The hands on Steve’s thighs grip firmer, all intention, and lift.
Bucky mouth is at his crease in an instant, and Steve’s shaking from the bones on out.
“God, Bucky,” he whispers, biting down on his lip with unforgiving force, breaking skin as Bucky nips at the swell of his ass, tongue the globes of each cheek before lapping at the seam, dragging teeth against each side and then diving deeper, teasing the hole without any sense of urgency, without any of the buzzing need that’s starting to take Steve over once more.
Steve feels himself start to leak at the slit of his cock, and he bites harder, tastes copper against the lingering musk of his own spunk, the trace of sweetness that is only Bucky on his tongue, and there’s a moment of clarity as the pressure builds, and the need for release starts to peak: there’s a moment where he remembers being lucky to come just the one time in a night, no matter Bucky’s ministrations, and the memory slots raucous up against the now, and Steve’s ribs are tight, and his breath is short, and he spills again with Bucky’s tongue tracing the crack of his ass, god god.
Bucky laps upward from the base of his ass, tongue hot like a brand against the perineum, weighing flat against Steve’s balls for an instant that draws an extra twitch from his spent cock, and he glances up through those lashes with a purposeful deviousness that Steve feels rolling in his gut, feeling filling up his pounding heart because that look is playing the field, that look knows the body splayed beneath it, knows its stamina and the way it unlearned the concept of a refractory period as soon as it soaked up those goddamned vita-rays.
“Know what?”
Steve’s panting, less from exertion and more for the gleam in those goddamn eyes, and fuck if Bucky’s grin doesn’t grow at that, at the way Steve can’t fucking get a word out. Fuck if Steve’s pulse trips to the point of pain when Bucky swirls his tongue in the cum pooled on Steve’s stomach before he spreads Steve’s legs wider and lifts.
“I wasn’t done down here.”
Steve whimpers, and Bucky goes to work.
And never let it be said that Bucky’s tongue is anything but a miracle of human anatomy; never let it be hinted at that Bucky works anything less than magic with the way he can drive Steve goddamned insane as he pushes, angles just right against the tense ring and begs entry, willingly given as Steve moans, as Steve gives and clenches and writhes and stills all at once as Bucky twirls his tongue, works his lips, pulls back to kiss that hot pucker, to mouth and suck before pushing back in, flicking the tip of his tongue just a touch, just enough to toss Steve’s head back on the hard cot, to send Steve’s hand to trembling, his arms to flailing out and seeking relief and purchase and god almighty. Bucky works him expertly, thumbs all the while teasing at the crease of his thighs, the vee of his groin, and fuck, fuck—
Steve barely has a chance to register the swell of tightness in his balls over the overwhelming din in his ears, in his chest, in his mind before he’s shooting hard: less heavy, but equally less restraint and he shakes, spurts wild and surges upward, catches the last goddamn stream Steve gives in his mouth like a trick, like a tossed goddamn piece of popcorn from the air.
His smirk is blinding. The way he licks the rest from his lips—all cat and the cream—is enough to rekindle the heat in Steve’s belly all over again.
“How ya doin’, punk?” Bucky asks, and Steve rolls his eyes—or tries to. He might manage. He might be too blissed out.
It’s a toss up.
“How the fuck do you think?” Steve gasps out, breath only just starting to even—starting. Not even close to managing, not yet.
“Fabulously?” Bucky ventures, his voice pure silk and honey: all promise and rakish allure.
All Bucky.
That mouth’s at the hollow of Steve’s throat again, and fucking hell.
“Jesus,” Steve gasps; “Jesus Christ, Buck,” and Bucky’s sucking at that dip like he can pull the pulse of Steve’s heartbeat to the surface and straight into his mouth, and he might goddamn manage with the way Steve’s blood’s pounding, with the way that rhythm’s ratcheting right back up.
“Yeah,” Steve moans, because fabulous, yes. Fucking fabulous. “Yeah, fucking,” Steve’s voice cracks with Bucky’s teeth grazing at the push of his pulse against skin. “Yeah.”
Bucky’s lips close and he smiles wide and warm against Steve’s neck.
“Good,” and it’s fire through the whole of Steve when Bucky purrs it, right into the flesh of him, and Steve vibrates with it, lets it take him over and raise him higher.
“Let’s take that up a notch.”
And Steve’s mouth is open around a protest, around not possible, Buck, not fucking possible, but Bucky’s in between his legs between rapid breaths, impossible, and Steve’s heart in his throat only lets him get a word of it out before he can’t anymore:
“Not—”
And he can’t anymore, because Bucky’s mouth is on his soft, spent cock and fuck.
Fuck.
He moves in practiced halves, teasing Steve to quick hardness, licking and damn well worshipping his length tip to root and god, god but for all that Steve’s too sensitive, for all that it’s starting to fucking hurt just to feel, Steve thinks it’s gotta be like taking bullets to every inch of his body in order to see the fucking stars: the idea of being worth it doesn’t even register.
This is worth everything.
Once he’s stiff enough, Bucky steals his breath fast and unforgiving, swallowing him down in one fell fucking swoop.
“Oh god,” Steve groans, arching without thinking, without bothering to restrain himself and if he pushes farther down Bucky’s throat, Bucky only relishes it, only sucks around him all the harder, only presses his tongue against the underside of Steve’s cock all the more coyly, only swallows around Steve’s ever-hardening length, and he can feel the very moment when the spark of sensation on his nerves dares to tip from too much to too much in the best of all ways, and it’s coming, it’s building—
The fingers of Bucky’s left hand are at his hole, out of nowhere; are circling the already loosened flesh before sliding further, slipping in, and Steve groans long and loud, cock straining up against the roof of Bucky’s mouth, skin too tight, blood too hot and his vision’s hazy, he can’t fucking think, and—
Bucky’s finger crooks, knows Steve inside and out, and strokes his prostate with practiced ease, smooth and cool but quickly warming as Steve cries out, as Steve’s vision blurs around the edges, and it only takes a tease, it only takes a few more careful, knowing strokes before the blurring turns to white and Steve sees fucking stars; comes straight down Bucky’s waiting throat.
It takes him longer, this time, to come back to himself, to feel Bucky milking him soft and slow between hollowed cheeks, to feel Bucky spreading him at leisure, no rush, all tenderness as he sinks back into himself from the lightness, from the overbearing thrill.
“Come here,” Bucky murmurs, and Steve can’t barely move, so it’s less of a matter of him rising to the request than it is of Bucky coming to him, always willing to come to Steve, and Steve’s heart pumps hard at the way that’s always been true, at the way Steve’ blessed beyond measure to have this, to have this man.
He musters his slowly-recovering strength to kiss Bucky with every ounce of feeling, every bit of love that swells inside him, that fills and animates, that makes him whole, and Bucky meets him blow for blow of feeling, and oh, but it’s heaven.
Steve doesn’t know that he deserves it, but goddamn, he will take it until his heart gives out.
Bucky’s three fingers deep in him, Bucky’s tongues tracing the whole of Steve’s mouth, the flats of his teeth, when Steve gasps between those open lips:
“I”m ready.”
And a part of that might be a lie: his body will take it, of that he has no doubt—and he’s more than ready, at any time, in any way, for Bucky, just Bucky in every way: but he’s starting to crack somewhere at the center of his chest, starting to give way under so much feeling, so much intensity, the unrelenting perfect of what it means to join with Bucky and savor him closer than any other thing, any other heart or soul—he’s starting to give way.
He’ll give way under Bucky, into Bucky: always.
He’s ready.
And it feels like Bucky reads it in him, sees every thought: knows his mind as he flattens one palm over Steve’s heart and coaxes Steve’s knees up with the other, gentle and giving and right, and he kisses Steve harder, now, with more feeling than Steve can hold but he holds it, he treasures it, he never lets it go.
Bucky’s sliding into him while their lips are still entwined, and maybe Steve’s already too far gone, maybe it’s just his own heart bleeding forth, but it feels like Bucky’s mouth on him is breathing joy, full and pure and true, right into Steve’s chest, into his lungs: somehow buoying his soul.
He’s fully seated and Steve clenches around him until Bucky moans, and Steve drinks that too: holds that close inside his ribs and vows to never let it go—as ever.
He’s stored every sound, every look, every taste there; he’s never felt more real, more solid, more full in his whole goddamned life.
“Bucky,” Steve gasps, moans, breathes like the world is made of his name, of that sound; Bucky rocks into him with precision, perfect pressure and rhythm, matched to the beat of Steve’s heart like they were made for this, and Steve thinks they were, thinks he is.
Believes it.
“Oh god, Bucky,” Steve’s panting, and his eyes are wide, and Bucky’s staring into him like he’s the whole world, and Steve will never get tired of that, will never stop being absolutely taken in and made anew by those eyes and the heart that lives in them, and he’s gonna fall apart, he’s going to melt away and yet he knows that Bucky will keep him, will save him, will usher him into the world anew like he always does, like he always has and always will and Steve is trembling, a single raw nerve exposed to the elements, enveloped in pure adoration and worship and feeling and knowing and being and fuck, fuck, fuck.
“Fuck, Bucky,” Steve whimpers with it, shivers with it; he’s nearly gone, he’s nearly there. “Buck, I can’t—”
“C’mon Stevie,” Bucky whisper against his lips, cants into Steve as Steve loses time, loses breath, loses the world outside of this: “I got you, I got you baby,” and he takes Steve’s hands, splayed out to either side: he takes them and laces his own through, presses palms tight as he breathes into Steve’s mouth: “Let go.”
And Steve does, lets go of everything: save the hands against his own.
The last thing Steve can feel as he peaks and starts to unravel is Bucky’s own warmth spilling hard into him, flooding and finding every part of him and somehow saying yes.
Fucking yes.
He doesn’t quite register Bucky pulling out of him; only comes to his senses in time to whimper, to mourn the loss of Bucky sheathed tight inside his body. He feels the heady drip of Bucky’s seed at the base of his ass and he moans, just the trace of it too much against his prickling, shimmering livewire flesh, and Steve’s at one with the world, Steve’s on a higher fucking plane, and he’s buzzing with what it means to be alive, he’s hurting with what it means to breath air, and when Bucky moves, when Bucky’s mouth finds the cleft of Steve’s ass, finds the slick-spilling ring of his hole, it might be damnation. It could be salvation.
Fuck if Steve knows.
What Steve does know is that Bucky’s lapping up the mess, eating himself from Steve like a starving man, a drowning man, all reckless abandon and utter fulfillment and want, and Steve can’t breathe for it, Steve feels too much, eyes streaming without his consent, the overwhelming sensation pouring from him, endless and unfettered and every fucking thing that makes the cosmos, that lives between them, and he’s wet with what’s left, with Bucky’s tongue when Bucky’s pulls away, lips shiny and cream-slick and he doesn’t even hesitate to press his mouth to Steve’s, to plunder there, now, and drink just as deeply and Christ, Christ but Steve can’t handle the flavor of Bucky on his tongue, the way it mingles with the barest residue of his own taste behind his teeth from another kiss, another rise and fall of his chest and his world at Bucky’s hands, and somehow, somehow unthinkable Steve’s hard, he’s hard again at just the fact of this, of them; the taste of Bucky between their tongues and good god, it’s always good, it’s always more than good between them, but this is something new, this is something Steve’s never felt before: stripped bare and bleeding for it but never more alive—this is transcendent.
He thinks he comes, boneless and beautiful and with his whole heart: he thinks he comes again, again, and the world slips away and all he knows is that Bucky is wrapped around him, Bucky is pressed against him: Bucky.
All he knows.
Bucky’s kissing, soft and light across his shoulders, his chest, his neck when the world starts to take on color again.
“You still with me?” Bucky mouths at his skin.
“Fuck,” is all Steve can manage. “Fuck, I,” and his breath’s still coming quicker than normal, he still feel electrified from head to toe. “Fuck.”
Bucky’s smile is the warmest thing; the most perfect thing pressed up against Steve’s body. Steve feels full with it, overflowing with it. The laughter that bubbles out of him, breathless and weightless and free, is pure joy. Nothing less.
“The hell was that, Bucky?”
Bucky lifts his head and smiles bright as he meets Steve’s eyes. “Good, yeah?”
“Good,” Steve huffs. “Good’s like,” he shakes his head, swallows hard; “Good’s like a fuckin’ insult.”
Bucky laughs at that, nuzzles tight against Steve’s sternum.
“That was,” Steve buries a hand in Bucky’s hair; “that, you...”
There aren’t words, is the thing. There never have been. For what Bucky is. For what Bucky means.
“Fuck, I love you.”
Those are the words. Those are the only fucking words.
“Love you back, punk,” Bucky tilts his head upward into Steve’s touch, kisses at Steve’s clavicle as he sighs: “Love you back.”
And it’s perfect. It’s perfect in a way Steve never thought could exist. In a way Steve’s never known. Which brings him to:
“But seriously,” he turns, presses a cheek to the top of Bucky’s head. “What was that? I mean,” he reaches down and drags Bucky’s hand to where his heart’s still pumping heavy: “I’m still seein’ stars.”
“Mmm,” Bucky presses his mouth to the spaces between his hand on Steve’s chest. “Then I did my job.”
Steve pulls back a touch, and Bucky glances up, curious. Steve raises an eyebrow, and Bucky just smiles, soft and glowing in the way Steve loves best.
“Wasn’t about to let you miss it,” Bucky murmurs, leans to mouth the words against Steve like they’re bigger than mere words; like they’re vows.
“Miss what?” Steve prompts, but he holds Bucky a little closer. Just because.
“Your fireworks, babydoll,” Bucky grins up at him, sly but with that look he gets when Steve doesn’t see the obvious, when Steve misses what right in front of his face.
“My,” and Steve stammers, because it hits him like a bolt of lightning, sends him reeling, makes him warm from head to toe. “My…”
“Told you they were for you,” Bucky just keeps looking at him, just keeps watching him like he’s the only thing in the world. “I don’t care what anyone else thinks,” Bucky surges up and catches Steve’s bottom lip between his own, tugs playfully as his eyes dance with the same grace his whole body owns. “They’re yours.”
Steve’s choked up, all of sudden. “Buck—”
“Couldn’t let you start the day off without ‘em,” Bucky insists, shrugs with a wry smile that’s mixed up with just a little pinch of bashful: perfect. “Had to do my best with what I had.”
“You,” Steve shakes his head, “you,” and knows, knows before it unfurls all the way that the smile he’s got in him won’t fit on his fucking face: super-serum or no.
He reaches out and frames Bucky’s face, traces his cheekbones: is so fucking in love.
“You.”
Dear god, but Bucky is perfect.
“Happy Birthday, Stevie,” Bucky whispers to him, covers Steve’s hands on his cheeks. “And many fuckin' more.”