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September in Northern Italy is far warmer than Steve had been expecting. The breeze stirring his hair and the leaves of overhead lemon trees carries the smell of salt and brine, though they had left the sea behind several miles ago.
Before them’s nothing but dirt trails worn down by local animals. Though this is far from he and Bucky’s first tour in rural parts of the European theater, now on their sixth in a single year, he’s certain now he’ll never get used to the way woods seem to go on forever in waves of green and brown.
Only a few steps ahead of him, tiny beads of sweat are starting to form at the nape of Bucky’s neck. Steve wants to kiss them away, taste the salt on his lips the way he can smell the salt in the air.
A familiar warmth stirs in his gut, but he pushes it down. He can wait, he can be patient. But it’s been too long since they’d had more than a few seconds of real privacy. As if Bucky can hear his thoughts, he turns to look back with a crooked grin, one that makes Steve’s mouth go dry.
He fumbles for the canteen hanging at his hip as Bucky faces forward again.
Steve doesn’t make a habit of indulgences like this, he’d never compromise a mission just to manufacture time with Bucky, but this time it was the best call strategically.
There’s a factory, deep in the bowels of Modena, that Colonel Philips wanted better eyes on before a full infiltration. This would normally have been when Steve sent Falsworth and Bucky out for a week—as two snipers, their patience, agility, and stealth were unparalleled—to get a lay of what security and routines Hydra had in place. However, Falsworth twisted his knee climbing a rock face a few days back, when they were just outside Livorno.
So, Steve sent the next best option after Falsworth: himself. He left behind his shield to make them less conspicuous, and they’re staying connected to the rest of the fellas through radios Stark fashioned for them, though the line’s been reassuringly silent besides their scheduled check-ins.
Steve tries, he really tries to distract himself with thoughts of the current objective. But his mind strays to the last time they’d been truly alone together, something more than just grinding or quick hands shoved in the front of each other's fatigues. As Steve’s eyes travel from the back of Bucky’s neck down to his waist, then the sway of his hips as he walks, he remembers their time in London spent mostly in Bucky’s hotel room.
The day before they deployed again Bucky was beneath him, lips hot and wet and needy against Steve’s. Bucky’s calloused hands, gripping at Steve’s biceps when Steve pushed into him for the first time that night, the low groan in the back of Bucky’s throat, how it turned into a stuttered whine when Steve pulled out and pushed back in again and again and again.
Christ, the sounds Bucky made that night…
He’s so distracted that he nearly barrels Bucky clean over.
“Geez,” Bucky says, snickering at Steve’s awkward sidestep. “What’s got you whistlin’ Dixie?”
“Nothin’,” Steve says too quickly, sure his face is flushed in a way exertion could never accomplish anymore. “Why’d you stop?”
Bucky’s eyes narrow in on Steve’s face suspiciously. Whatever he sees there, which Steve’s sure is far too much, makes him raise an eyebrow.
Instead of commenting on Steve’s fluster, Bucky simply gestures to the clearing that they’re now stopped in the middle of. “Seemed like as good a place as any.”
Steve nods, glancing around to get his bearings.
Whenever they’d left the trail behind, Steve couldn’t say for sure. But he’s glad for it. The less potential for surprises, the better.
“Dig-in or tent?” Bucky asks as he drops his pack to the ground.
”Tent.” As much as he loves seeing the stars above them, a tent would be easier for a lot of reasons, tonight especially. “I’ll be back in twenty.”
The woods are dark to begin with, darker still now that the sun’s starting to set. To be safe, he does five laps in a half mile radius around the clearing, taking even more care than usual. But there’s nothing except trees and small animals that skitter in the low underbrush.
Bucky’s done with the tent by the time Steve gets back. He’s sitting cross legged on the ground like a child, but he’s got his rifle disassembled in his lap, cleaning the parts with a concentrated furrow in his brow.
Even though Steve’s steps are near silent, Bucky looks up as he approaches with concern first, a wave of relief second.
Bucky wipes his forehead, looking up at Steve with a pouty frown.
“Got any water left?” Bucky asks, holding out his hand expectantly.
Without a word, Steve passes his canteen over, sparks jolting up his wrist as the side of his hand brushes against Bucky’s open palm.
He watches Bucky’s nimble fingers unscrew the lid. He watches Bucky take a sip, eyes closed as he tilts his head back, Adam’s Apple dipping as he swallows.
”Thanks,” Bucky says, holding the canteen back out to Steve, his pink tongue swiping at a rogue droplet left on his bottom lip. Steve takes it. “I ran out a while ago.”
“There’s a creek ten meters west.”
“Good to know.”
With care, Bucky starts clicking the pieces of his gun back together. Once it’s fully assembled, he sets it off to the side and stretches his arms above his head.
“Tired?” Steve asks, gaze inevitably finding Bucky’s red lips again.
Bucky smirks, shrugs. “Could use a lie down.”
In one slow step, Steve stoops close enough that Bucky has to lean back, though his cocky smirk doesn’t falter. One of Steve’s arms reaches past him to lift the tent flap. “After you, then.”
Bucky hooks his fingers on Steve’s belt buckle, tugging slightly as he ducks under the lifted fabric. Pulled along, Steve drops the flap behind them, not bothering to bring his pack in.
His buckle’s released when Bucky lies back onto the already laid out twin-sized bedroll. He’d also already turned on a small field lamp, the dim orange light casting long shadows on Bucky’s face. For a moment, Steve hovers there, hunched in the short tent, just looking down at him.
His dark hair’s curling at the temples, the dimple of his chin disguised by two-day old stubble. He’s propped up on his elbows, head cocked to the side. His mouth—always smirking, laughing, always so goddamned smug—is twitching with poorly hidden amusement.
Steve kicks lightly at Bucky’s ankle, widening his legs, and drops to one knee between them.
”You want somethin’, Captain?” Bucky sounds almost bored, but his eyes are tracking Steve’s movements.
Steve hums, one of his hands finding Bucky’s right knee. He slides his palm, slowly, carefully, up Bucky’s thigh. At Bucky’s sharp intake of breath, he pulls it back again, down past the knee, wrapping his fingers around Bucky’s calf. “Why?” He finally says, gently pressing on Bucky’s shin until his leg bends at the knee, foot flat to the floor. “Seems more like you want somethin’.”
”Big talk comin’ from somebody desperate as you," Bucky says, though his voice is taking on a familiar breathless quality. Almost there, almost there. “I mean, for Pete’s sake, you’re the one pawin’ at me.”
“Huh.” Steve, with tremendous effort, peels his hand off of Bucky’s leg. He sits back onto his heel, turning as if to open the tent flap again. “Well, maybe I should just…“
Bucky reaches out, quick as lightning, and grips Steve’s rotated shoulder. He can easily break the hold, but he lets Bucky turn him anyway. Sitting all the way up now, Bucky’s scowling, their noses nearly brushing.
”Oh,” Steve says, feigning surprise. “So you did want somethin’?”
Low, warning, Bucky says, “Steve…”
“Bucky…” Steve echoes, unable to stop his hands from moving as one finds the side of Bucky’s neck, the other falling back to rest on Bucky’s bent knee. “All you gotta do is ask. I’d give it to you.”
”I asked you first.”
”Alright then, guess it’s up to me.” Steve crowds forward until Bucky’s forced to lean back on his elbows again.
Steve’s hand on Bucky’s neck strays up to press a thumb against his bottom lip. “So here’s the plan. I’m gonna get you off with my hand so you stop bein’ so goddamn annoyin’. Then maybe,” Bucky’s eyes widen as the digit dips into the wet heat of his mouth, “just maybe I’ll take you nice and rough until you’re stupid with it.” He drags his thumb down to the dimple of Bucky’s chin, leaving a wet streak in its wake. “Anyhow, that’s just my thinkin’.”
”Jesus wept,” Bucky groans, the apples of his flushing a pleasant pink.
With Bucky’s mouth already spit-slick, their lips slide together easily, messily, when Steve kisses him.
Hungry for more, he presses down further. Bucky’s back hits the ground with a muffled thump, his elbow failing beneath Steve’s weight. Steve would pull back to check on him if Bucky wasn’t already keeping him in place with the hand still on Steve’s shoulder.
He’s tempted to just give in, to rut against each other until they both spill over, the way they have been the past few months. But they have rare time tonight, and Steve has plans.
He rips himself back. “Boots. Boots, now.”
Then they both scramble to get their laces untied. Steve gets his pair off first, tossing them carelessly in front of the tent’s entrance. With that out of the way, he turns to Bucky, who’s just gotten his first one off with trembling hands.
Patience, Steve thinks. Patience. Patience.
”Hey!” Bucky protests as Steve grabs him by the ankle and yanks until he has the boot (and most of Bucky’s leg) in his own lap. “I had it.”
”Uh-huh,” Steve says, considering he may just not be a patient sorta fella. He makes quick work of the knot despite Bucky’s continued grumbling.
Once that boot joins the others, Steve figures he may as well deal with the pants, too. Before Bucky can react, Steve gets his pants unfastened and yanks them down, exposing miles of lean, pale legs, and tosses them to the side.
“Yeesh!” Bucky yelps. “Somebody’s in a hurry.”
“‘Course I am.” He’s delighted as Bucky also whips his shirt off before crawling the short distance to straddle Steve’s hips. “Who wouldn’t be? I mean, look at you.”
Bucky’s cheeks flush darker in the lamplight, but the look he gives Steve is unimpressed. “Don’t gotta sweet-talk me, Rogers. I’m a sure thing.”
It’s not sweet talking, Steve wants to say. It’s just the truth.
It’s an understatement to say Bucky’s always been handsome. Steve used to watch the way he cut paths through rooms—people would step out of his way, women would blush if he just smiled at them. And it’s not like Bucky was oblivious to it, he’d always swagger around with the confidence of somebody who knew he’d never leave a dance hall alone.
And now he’s got Bucky, the best lookin’ fella in Brooklyn, slung across his lap with a tent in his cotton briefs and a pretty blush on his face.
So he presses the heel of his palm against Bucky’s cock through the fabric, watches his eyebrows pinch together and jaw drop open, and says, “I know you’re easy for it. Doesn’t mean I can’t be friendly.”
“Not—not certain,” Bucky stutters out, nails digging into the meat of Steve’s shoulders through his shirt. “If friendly’s what I’d call you.”
Steve snorts and wraps his hand around the back of his neck, guiding Bucky down until their lips meet. This kiss is even wetter, messier than the last—all tongue and teeth and Steve can’t get enough.
The soft noise Bucky makes in the back of his throat when Steve’s fingers dip beneath his waistband goes straight to his own cock, but he ignores it for now. This first one is just for Bucky, so he pulls out every trick he’s learned in the past few years of their… well, whatever it is they are.
Bucky’s hard and hot in Steve’s hand. Suddenly desperate to see it, Steve breaks the kiss to look down, stopping for just long enough to pull Bucky’s waistband down. His cock slaps up against his flat stomach, long and pink and curved just slightly to the right.
“Christ,” Bucky squirms, face scrunching up. “It got fuckin’ cold out quick.”
Steve can hardly feel the cold anymore, so he’s surprised to hear it. He quickly wraps his fingers back around Bucky’s length, tugging it with an apologetic smile.
“Sorry,” he says, not particularly sorry as Bucky plants his forehead against Steve’s shoulder, open mouth starting a wet spot on the fabric above his pec. “You’ll warm up quick.”
It doesn’t take long after that. Bucky’s always been vocal, and Steve’s always loved to listen. His telltale low moans always give way to something throatier. They’re different from the sounds he makes when Steve’s got his fingers or cock buried in him.
On an upstroke where Steve twists his wrist, Bucky goes tense in his arms with a, “Steve—I’m gonna—Oh god, am I supposed to—?”
“Mhm,” Steve hums. “Go for it.”
“Shit shit shit,” Bucky’s hips stutter forward, thrusting into Steve’s hand like he’s trying to fuck it. Then he goes still, silent as he comes so hard a few drops hit Steve’s chin. Steve works him through it until Bucky slouches, only pulling his hand away when Bucky’s hips twitch away from the overstimulation.
“That was fast,” Steve points out, wiping his palm on a dry part of his now ruined shirt.
“You’re—“ Bucky grumbles when Steve pinches his bare ribs. “You’re such a shit-heel.”
Steve laughs, tipping forward until he can lay Bucky flat on his back, his own cock jumping against his zipper at the sight of Bucky sprawled and spent. “Don’t be like that. I still got plans for you.”
“Mm, yeah,” Bucky says, tossing his arm across his eyes. “In a minute.”
Steve could never complain about that, not when he has such a great view. His eyes greedily follow the lean lines of Bucky's chest, his sharp hip bones, his softening cock, surrounded by a tidy thatch of dark hair and shiny with spend.
He has to press down against the front of his pants, trying to relieve some of the pressure, and a deep grunt forces its way out of his chest. Bucky peeks out from under his arm and grins lazily, adjusting to stretch out beneath Steve like a cat in sunshine.
“Like what you see?” Bucky asks, raising an eyebrow.
“Yes,” Steve breathes honestly, skimming his palm up the inside of Bucky’s ankle, to his calf, stopping at his thigh.
Bucky sighs happily, then he’s shimmying, going for the waistband of his briefs still halfway up his legs. Steve immediately goes to help him, tossing them away like the rest of Bucky’s clothes and hell, what a sight a fully naked Bucky always is.
Steve leans forward but Bucky stops him with a raised hand. “Take that disgustin’ shirt off, first.”
“Alright, bossy,” Steve mutters, but gets rid of it as requested. Even he can admit the texture of cooling spend on fabric isn’t pleasant. “Any other demands, your highness?”
Bucky shrugs, letting his legs fall open wide. “I’m sure I’ll think of somethin’.”
“Let me know when you do,” Steve says, scooting forward until he’s kneeling comfortably between Bucky’s spread thighs.
He trails his fingers down the pale skin of Bucky’s abdomen, following the trail of smattered hair and ignoring the muscles jumping beneath the touch. He goes around Bucky’s soft cock, though it gives a valiant twitch when his knuckles graze Bucky’s sac.
Steve freezes, confusion and heat exploding in his head at an already slick, stretch-soft rim. Without thinking, he slips his index finger in up to the second knuckle.
“You—“ Steve starts, then stops. He uses his free hand to push one of Bucky’s legs even wider, needing a better view. “When did you—?”
“Earlier, when you were gone ten minutes longer than you said you’d be,” Bucky says with a breathless chuckle, Steve can feel the vibrations of it through the finger he still has in him. “Gave me ‘nough time to clean my rifle, too.”
The image is far too much. Bucky, in this tent, working himself open while Steve was on patrol. Did he have to bite down on something to keep himself quiet? How many fingers? Was it rushed, a bit rough? Or was it slow as he could do it while waiting for Steve to get back?
Steve thunks his head against Bucky’s hipbone. “Goddammit.”
“If you wanna check it out yourself,” Bucky says, sounding altogether too pleased with himself. “Be my guest.”
Unable to get out a proper response, Steve’s focus narrows on the warmth beckoning him in. He presses his middle finger in next to his index, probably too quickly, the slick Bucky used a bit tacky with time. Still, Bucky moans, head falling back limply against the ground when Steve pushes them to the hilt.
Just to be mean, Steve crooks his fingers up, jabbing directly into the ball of nerves he’s become so familiar with and keeping them there, pressing firmly.
Bucky’s legs try to clamp shut but the grip Steve has on his thigh keeps them open, a dribble of pre-come pearling on Bucky’s half mast, and Steve wonders how on earth he got this lucky in life.
He whines, writhing, so Steve takes mercy on him, sliding his fingers back until the tips hover over the puffy rim. Steve sighs, tracing the pucker for a moment, enjoying the way it makes Bucky shiver.
But ultimately, they don’t have forever. So Steve wipes his fingers on his discarded shirt. He finds his own tin of slick deep in his front pocket and wastes no time getting his fingers re-greased, smearing a glob over Bucky’s rim for good measure.
Bucky grunts, shifting uncomfortably. “S’cold.”
“Sorry,” Steve says, promptly shoving both of his fingers back in.
Freshly slicked up, it’s easy as anything to spread his digits wide, crook them up again, drag them in and out. His attention is torn between watching his fingers disappear into Bucky and watching Bucky’s brows pinch, the harsh exhales out of his nose.
He gets three in quickly, eventually four. Bucky’s eyes are bleary but they stay focused on Steve’s face. At some point, he makes grabby hands that Steve can’t help but follow.
Kissing Bucky while he’s got something up his ass is usually pretty one-sided, but Steve doesn’t mind a bit. Mostly, Steve just kisses at his slack bottom lip, bites and licks at it until the flesh is red and swollen.
He goes past the point of Bucky being ready. It’s only when Bucky starts making impatient, irritable little noises against Steve’s mouth that he finally pulls back.
His hands are trembling when he finally unbuttons his trousers. He hisses when he gets his hand around his cock for the first time, hard and hot and sensitive from how long he’s been ignoring it. When he slicks it up, it takes all of his strength not to pitch clean over.
“You want it?” Steve asks, his own voice deep with it. Steve catches the head of his cock against Bucky’s rim, hypnotized by the way it flutters open and shut. “Yeah, you do. You want it.”
“Steve,” Bucky whines, pawing uselessly at his chest. “Steve.”
“Hush, I’ll give it to ya, sh,” Steve babbles as he pushes in just an inch. The heat and pressure is mind-searingly good as Bucky’s hole tries to pull him in further, deeper. His hips jerk and he accidentally shoves in another too quick two inches. Bucky keens beneath him, his eyes screwing shut. “Shit, Buck, so tight. Always so fuckin’ tight.”
Through ragged pants, Bucky grits out, “Don’t—don’t gotta go slow.”
Steve shudders, steeling himself with a deep, shaky breath.
He doesn’t stop until he’s fully seated, hands clamped around Bucky’s hips like a vice. Bucky’s feet scrabble for purchase against the tent floor. For Steve’s part, he’s entranced watching the spot where they’re connected, how that swollen pink rim stretches tight around his cock.
His thumb strays down to press against the taut skin there and Bucky’s hips jerk, clenching down on Steve so hard his vision nearly whites out.
He pulls halfway out and rams back in once, thumb scooting up to press into Bucky’s taint.
“Oh god,“ Bucky garbles, knees twitching where they hang loosely open around Steve’s hips. “Stop bein’—stop bein’ such a goddamn tease.”
“That’s just dramatic,” Steve tuts, though he can’t help but agree.
He takes away the hand at Bucky’s hip and hooks his arm under one of Bucky’s legs, hoisting it so when Steve sits up onto his knees, Bucky’s hips lift off the ground.
Without warning, Steve pulls back his hips until it’s only his head still inside before slamming back in. The force of it judders Bucky up the bed roll but Steve doesn’t let him get far. It takes a few tries but Steve knows the instant he finds that spot inside Bucky, adjusting so he can hit it on every thrust.
Bucky certainly doesn’t seem to mind. His mouth—always so chatty, always smirking—hangs open in a perfect ‘O’ as little moans of ah ah ah fall out of him in time with Steve’s movements. He’s got a hand in his own hair, tugging the strands with his fist, his eyes shut tight. Bucky’s other hand is crawling down towards his neglected cock, hard again, head flushed a dusky pink. Steve bats the hand away and Bucky groans a wordless complaint.
Steve has to say, “Open those eyes.”
“Mmph?”
Well, Steve did say he was gonna take him till he was nice and stupid, he just didn’t expect it to happen so quickly.
“Your eyes, sweetheart,” Steve repeats. “I wanna see ‘em.”
Bucky blinks, his pale eyes red-rimmed and shiny in the lamplight. Even still, he has enough werewithal to say, “Such a fuckin’ sap.”
Maybe not as stupid as Steve wants him.
“Well, if that’s how it is.” Steve slows down so he’s rocking in shallow, barely there, not even close to the right angle for Bucky. “I could just keep ya here, like this. Unless you think you could do better.”
“Y’know?” He’s trying to sound casual, but Steve can hear the strain in it. “I reckon I could.”
Without another word, Steve drops Bucky’s leg. He slips his arm around Bucky’s lower back, the other lifting his hips. He rolls them over easily until Steve’s the one on his back, Bucky perched on his lap with Steve’s cock still inside him.
Amused at Bucky’s dumbfounded expression, Steve interlaces his fingers and pillows the back of his head on them, stretching his legs out long.
“Go ahead,” Steve says airily. “Put your money where your mouth is.”
“You’re on, Rogers.” Bucky recovers from his surprise enough to smirk, palms landing on Steve’s chest with a smarting smack. “I’d never write a check I couldn’t cash.”
Steve’s gotta hand it to him, all those years of manual labor at the docks and now long marches in rough terrain have really paid off. Despite the trembling Steve can see in his thigh, Bucky sets a tremendous pace.
Steve lets himself get lost in the feeling, wrapping one hand loosely around Bucky’s slender waist, the other going to Bucky’s neglected cock.
If they weren’t so isolated, Steve would be concerned about how loud Bucky’s being. The moans Bucky makes are uncharacteristically pitched up, breathy, punctuating every time he lifts and sits back down on Steve’s lap.
He pumps Bucky’s cock with renewed vigor, anticipating the moment Bucky’s legs start to fail. With each rise and drop, Bucky’s palms slide forward on Steve’s chest, his eyelids fluttering.
Taking matters into his own hands, Steve plants his feet flat on the floor, tightens his grip on Bucky’s waist, and thrusts his hips up to meet Bucky’s as he rocks down.
Bucky’s eyes fly open, wide and bright.
Steve grins, grinding up. “I got it from here, dollface.”
“You—uh—goddamn bastard.”
He puts his other hand on Bucky’s waist and Bucky’s fist immediately replaces it, working his own length over.
With his feet still firmly planted on the floor, Steve starts a brutal pace, picking Bucky up and slamming him back down on his lap at the same time he thrusts up.
He’s not sure how long it is before Bucky goes still, but the resulting clench around his cock when Bucky comes a second time is too good, painfully good.
Bucky falls forward, smearing spend across Steve’s chest, shuddering through the aftershocks. It’s all Steve can do to slow down.
He could finish like this, he could, his hips grinding deep, if only he could—
Bucky mumbles something against Steve’s pec.
“Huh?” Steve asks, voice thick and rough with need. “What?”
With what seems to be an extreme amount of effort, Bucky looks up at him and says, “Keep goin’. Flip me over, if you wanna.”
Jesus. Jesus Christ.
Steve’s moving before he knows it, turning them back around. He only pulls out for a second, just to flip Bucky on his stomach, yanking him up by the hips so he can plunge back in.
Bucky lets out a strangled, broken mewl Steve knows he’ll deny for the rest of their lives but it just makes Steve hungrier. He pistons his hips, fingers digging into the flesh of Bucky’s ass, his thighs, gripping wherever he can.
He can hear Bucky saying something, but with his face squashed into the bedroll, it’s too muffled to understand. Lurching forward, Steve grabs him by the hair and turns his head gently, not slowing his pace.
“Please,” Bucky’s pleading, a throaty rasp. “I want—you need to—in me, please.”
It’s too much.
When Steve buries himself in Bucky again, it’s with a white-hot punch in the gut, hips rabbiting forward as he spills inside of Bucky, as if to get even deeper.
Spots dance in his vision and he slumps forward, just barely able to keep Bucky’s hips up. He presses his forehead against the middle of Bucky’s back and breathes through it, mouthing at the salty notches of Bucky’s spine.
Once his heart stops thudding at a thousand miles an hour and he can take a full, deep breath, he slowly lowers them both to the bedroll.
Even though he’s softening quickly, he stays inside Bucky. He adjusts so he’s holding Bucky’s back against his chest, his arm cradling Bucky’s head.
Bucky’s breath is so even, so calm that he might’ve been asleep, except—
“Call Arlington,” Bucky groans, shifting closer. “Sergeant James B. Barnes, killed in action. But tell ‘em he died doin’ what he loved.”
Steve sputters a laugh, burying his nose into Bucky’s hair. “Yeah? And what’s that?”
“Gettin’ my lower half destroyed by you of all people,” Bucky snips, “Lord knows why I put up with it.” Though the gentle way his fingers trace along Steve’s bicep tells a different story.
Snickering, Steve presses a kiss to the sweaty nape of his neck like he wanted to earlier.
It takes a while, but they finally untangle for long enough for Steve to get half-dressed. He helps wipe Bucky clean and gets him tucked into the bedroll and thin blanket, despite various complaints about not wanting to get babied. And then more complaints about Steve leaving the tent.
“Gotta take a leak,” Steve says, exasperated but fond at Bucky’s pouty face. “And check that we didn’t make enough noise to wake up half of Italy.”
The woods are quiet as Steve left them. He relieves himself in the treeline and then does a cursory pace of the woods. Still, he finds nothing but green and brown as far as the eye can see.