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Bucky sees Captain America first on a television in homeroom. Even on its small screen, hanging overhead the whiteboard on the other side of the room, he seems imposing, the wide set of his shoulders and the firm line of his mouth. In the months to come, recaps of The Avengers’ every outing becomes a regular news item. Montages of SHIELD approved media that does its best to obscure everything but the least obvious tactics and weaponry. Sometimes even locations remain a mystery to the masses, when they’re able to pull a mission off in secrecy but have to disclose for one reason or another their accomplished goal.

With less than a year left until graduation the usual, restless discussion stirs up; speculating over what Captain America can or cannot survive. Bucky watches the footage and listens with one ear as Robbie from two seats down wonders if stoic Cap could survive through fire, like he’d survived freezing. Or torn apart into too many pieces to regenerate, Lucas says, and someone nearby makes a dramatic, hurling noise. Or thrown out of airlock in space, someone else whispers excitedly, a little too loud for Mrs. Weeks, who taps her ruler on her table so the room returns to a muted hush.

That first time, Bucky wonders how a guy like that can live in the world as it is, what he spends his time doing when he isn’t out saving the world. He’s like an alien from the pulpy, battered, science fiction books he keeps in a box in his closet, a creature ripped through time and space, dropped into a strange new dimension. Except the Captain is in human skin, Bucky thinks, and suddenly he’s asked to defend a world he’s no longer a part of.

The news eventually shifts to their own student-led broadcast, and Bucky turns his attention away from the screen.


Months later, Bucky hears the motorcycle first. He only dimly registers it until the engine dies right outside his window. He’s lying in bed reading by the yellow light of the lamp on his nightstand, in a thin tank and his boxers, the weather just warm enough in the ending days of Spring that his window is propped open to let the night air in without the sweltering heat he knows is incoming.

Bucky sets his book aside and walks to the other side of his bedroom, bracing his hands on the sill to look outside. The evening traffic is light, parked cars lining the road. His breath catches when he sees it's none other than Steve Rogers, parked right below his window on the street, swinging one long leg over as he dismounts. He’s in civilian attire, dark jeans and a plain white t-shirt, showing in a bright stripe through the gap in his leather jacket.

Bucky watches with bated breath until Steve enters their building. He scrambles out onto the fire escape a second later, and stares down, afraid to even blink, watching the column of identically placed windows in every floor below and above, twisting his neck until an indeterminant amount of time later, a light turns on. Bucky’s heart leaps hard in his chest.

It’s the apartment directly below their own.


It becomes something of a ritual over the next few days. Bucky does his homework at his desk with one ear on the street sounds filtering through his window, and an hour or so after dinner he hears the familiar rumble of Steve’s motorcycle pulling up to their street.

“Why do you think he’d pick a place like this?” Bucky asks over dinner one night.

The super had come around the week before, working his way door to door with a stack of NDAs and a firm warning.

His ma shifts on the sofa. She’s half-way to falling asleep, still in her hospital scrubs, with her plate on the low table before her practically untouched.

“Pick a place like what, honey?” she asks, the television overcutting her sleepy mumble.

“He could live anywhere,” Bucky says. His ma always refers to the Captain as ‘that poor man’ and predictably, her face goes soft.

“He probably just wants to feel normal every once in a while,” she says.

It’s not that Bucky thinks low of their neighborhood, it’s just that the Avengers summon up in his mind Stark’s tall, shiny tower, and their fast flying jet and cutting edge weaponry. It seems, relatively speaking, a downgrade.

He washes his dish at the sink and retreats to his room, sitting by the sill until his eyelids droop and he climbs into bed.


Bucky takes to sitting out on the fire escape when he knows the Captain is home, craning his head to see as much as he can of the apartment, which isn’t much. Mostly he sees the soft, dark fabric of a curtain fluttering out against the ledge every now and then, or a shadow passing by, a flicker in the muted wash of light. He hears the television some nights, in a low hush, but more often old timey music, lingering in the air like a mist.

Bucky can’t match the glimpses he’s gotten of the person behind the shield with the image he’s had in his head. He takes out his old comics, pages curling at the edges with age, and frowns down at the exaggerated, comic figure of Steve. The good Captain’s always after the right thing, within these faded, inked and colored lines, and Bucky figures it must be as overblown as the mighty bulk of the comics Captain, against the more believably proportioned human figure in the floor below. Bucky’s still got nothing on him, with his skinny arms and chicken legs, and he’d be lying if he said the silhouette of the Captain’s broad shoulders hadn’t begun to color his dreams.

He goes to bed with the image of the Captain flitting behind his eyelids, touches himself thinking about straddling Steve’s hips, feeling the breadth of his chest beneath his hands.


At the skatepark Robbie buys them both hotdogs from a stand down the street. They eat in the shade, splattering ketchup to the concrete between their knees. Then Robbie knocks his leg against Bucky’s and smiles, and Bucky joins him when he stands, moving behind the cover of the empty restrooms.

Bucky clutches at his aching dick with one hand and takes Robbie out with the other, looking up as he slides his tongue along the underside and takes the head into his mouth. The concrete’s hard on his knees and down his shins. He can usually get lost in it, for all of a minute or two, but this time it’s like he’s watching himself do it, pushing the buttons to pilot his body through the motions. Then Robbie’s gripping at Bucky’s hair and turning his face up to the sky, swallowing down a curse as he comes.

Bucky grabs his board and brushes the grit from his knees. He waves off joining Robbie when he calls for him and returns home.


One night a few weeks later, Steve’s motorcycle fails to appear. Bucky waits for a half hour, then another after that. The idea hits him so suddenly it makes his heart pound in his chest.

He climbs down the fire escape as carefully as he can, still in his tank and boxers, too wrapped up in the immediacy of the idea to go back for more appropriate wear. The window below him is unlocked.

It slides open beneath Bucky’s hands.


It’s the most illegal thing Bucky’s done in a while, probably, other than ditching class to sneak hits in the student parking lot, hidden in the lanes of sun-warmed cars. Maybe this is what their school counselors meant when they said weed was a gateway drug, Bucky thinks, and he grins to himself in the dark.

He bangs his hip against a piece of furniture as he steps inside. His heartbeat’s the loudest sound in the room. Something reflective gleams in the low light. Bucky sticks out his hands and maneuvers his way around in the shadows.

He’s rounding the wall leading towards the kitchen when a strong hand clasps around his forearm, and he’s whipped around so fast his head spins. Bucky lets out an embarrassing, surprised squeak, before a hand muffles any further noise he can make, landing square across his mouth. He’s pressed back with another arm tight around his middle like a vice, someone taller and much stronger and undeniably male holding Bucky trapped to his chest.

“Now my understanding of the law is that it's gotten a whole lot harsher on peeping toms and crooks,” a voice says, low in Bucky’s ear, a hot puff of breath ghosting against the side of Bucky’s neck.

He makes a muffled protest, and tries to yank his body forward with all his might, but it’s like wrestling with a brick wall that’s grown arms and snatched him up tight. He kicks back, ineffectual, arms trapped to his sides, and the guy turns Bucky around in another head spinning move, so Bucky’s chest is pressed against the wall and the guy’s hot, solid body spans the length of Bucky’s back. His hand leaves Bucky’s mouth, much good that will do, with his cheek mashed against the wall.

“Let go of me, asshole,” Bucky spits out, wriggling futilely.

The guy’s got Bucky’s hands behind his back now, held together at the wrists with one big hand. Bucky’s heart crashes against his chest, his breath escaping in panicked bursts, and it's like his insides squeeze tight and hot and something gets tripped up low in his gut. He feels his dick perk up, fattening in his thin boxers, pressed against the wall with the guy’s solid build against his back and ass, the heat radiating off of him like a damn furnace.

The guy snorts, then lets Bucky go so quickly he’s left gasping against the wall for a brief moment, before he whirls around. A light switches on, flooding the dark. It’s none other than Captain America. No fucking shit , Bucky thinks. Then, of course . Somehow the idea of Steve sneaking around in the dark of his own home hadn’t permeated through his panic.

Bucky blinks in the glare of sudden light. Steve’s staring at him, an indecipherable expression on his face, there for all of a second before it's gone, like the flick of a theater curtain at intermission.

“I’m not a crook,” Bucky spits out, hands in fists at his side. The word feels weird in his mouth. He’s distinctly aware in that moment, of every way he’s at a disadvantage, standing in his thin, inadequate clothing like a cornered alley cat. Steve has a good few inches on him in height, and pounds of muscle. Bucky’s awestruck in that moment, a flush of desire sweeping through the adrenaline. He squares his shoulders and swallows down the commentary on antiquated insults. “Or a peeping tom, neither.”

Steve lets out a soft, scornful sound.

“You’re just in the habit of breaking into strange apartments for the hell of it, then.”

“I didn’t break in,” Bucky say stiffly. “Your window was open.”

Steve raises an eyebrow, and it makes Bucky feel even smaller.

“So it’s my fault,” Steve says.

Bucky flushes in the silence. Steve’s eyes rove the length of his body, from head to toe and back again, and Bucky sends a fervent prayer to any listening God or saint that his dick has appropriately softened, probably shriveled in fear just like the rest of him.

“You live in this building?” Steve asks. He turns away from Bucky and walks further into the kitchen. Bucky blinks back in response. He takes a step to the side, towards the front door, then stops when Steve looks his way.

“Um. Yeah,” Bucky says. “Floor above. Which uh, I’ll just be on my way back now.”

“Stop,” Steve says. Bucky freezes like a deer in headlights.

“What’s your name,” Steve asks. He’s looking at Bucky with that strange, intent expression again.


“Steve Rogers.”

“I mean. I know,” Bucky says, but he sticks his arm out anyways to meet Steve half way.

Steve’s big hand envelops his own in a firm shake.


Bucky takes to slipping into Steve’s apartment most nights of the week. Steve turns him right out the first few times, shutting him out in the hallway or leading him straight back to the window with a firm hand to Bucky's neck. Eventually, he gives up, and mostly ignores Bucky, reading or making dinner, or sitting at his armchair like an old fogey in a nursing home, listening to his records play.

Often, Steve is gone for days at a time, returning way past the hour Bucky’s gone to bed at night or sometimes in the middle of the day, so that Bucky finds his motorcycle pulled up curbside by the time he makes it home after school.

He doesn’t think anyone would believe him even if he told them, that he was spending his afternoons with Captain fucking America, but Bucky doesn’t want to anyways. It feels special and fragile and selfishly his , something no one else should touch or sully.

Steve starts leaving the window cracked open most nights, so Bucky can easily shimmy through. He thinks about asking him if he isn’t really afraid to get robbed, but he can already see the crook of Steve’s eyebrow at such a question, the look that says without saying exactly what Steve’s thinking. Bucky figures anyone who’s stupid enough to steal from Captain America deserves to meet the sharp side of his shield.

Which he finally sees one day, propped against the end of the sofa.

“Nice,” Bucky says, side stepping into the apartment. He calls out for Steve and hears a muffled reply from the bedroom. He heaves the shield up with both hands. It’s heavy as shit, and the knowledge nearly makes Bucky weak at the knees, the way Steve makes the thing look as light as a feather and as serious as child’s toy in his hand.

“Jesus. What would it take to destroy this thing,” Bucky asks, making his way to the bedroom. “Dumped in the fucking fires of Mount Doom?”

He freezes at the threshold. Steve is stripped down to an undershirt and navy cargo pants, belted at his narrow hips. The muscles of his back bunch and stretch as he reaches and pulls the undershirt over his head.

“The fires of what?” he asks, turning to squint at Bucky. Bucky tries to close his mouth before he starts catching flies, his brain struggling back online. Steve’s got more than one way to leave Bucky speechless. Sometimes it’s just the trade of verbal barb for barb, smooth as a familiar dance. Other times it’s like this; his sheer physicality.

“Oh,” Bucky says, setting the shield down with a clunk . He moves gingerly to the nightstand and picks up Steve’s battered notepad, stepping around Steve’s half naked form like he’s got a force field in place, struggling for normalcy.  

“That’s totally going on the list,” Bucky says, pen scratching across the page.


One night Steve comes home and the light doesn’t turn on through the window. Bucky bites his lips, then climbs down anyways, and wiggles through the window as soon as he has enough space. He stands waiting for his eyes to adjust.

“Hey kid,” Steve soft voice says in the dark. Bucky nearly jumps in place.

“Shit,” he says. He scrambles for the wall switch.

“No. Leave it,” Steve says. Bucky blinks in the dark. He can see Steve’s form now, from the light filtering through the curtained window, a dark shape sitting at the end of the living room sofa.

“What happened to the mission?” Bucky whispers. He picks his way across the room, relying on his familiarity with its layout, and what little light is available, eyes wide like he can will himself into developing night vision.

“Finished. More or less,” Steve says. His voice sounds stiff, and he isn’t moving from his spot.

Bucky sits down on the seat next to him, tucking one leg underneath his body. The movement jostles Steve and he lets out a low, bitten back groan.

Bucky’s eyes search Steve’s form rapidly. He can see the gritted, white slash of his teeth, head resting back on the cushions, the line of his throat, his arm around his middle. Bucky’s heart leaps to his throat.

“Shit. Steve,” Bucky says, quickly. “Are you injured? We need to get you somewhere. Should I call someone?”

“Shh,” Steve says. “No, and no. Just gimme your arm.”

“We need to get you to the hospital,” Bucky whispers as loud as he can while feeling like he wants to shout. “How bad is it?”

“It’s just a scratch,” Steve says, like now’s the time to get a sense of humor.

“Oh my god,” Bucky says, in disbelief, and Steve makes a soft sound like a laugh. His hand comes out to grasp at Bucky’s forearm.

“I hate you. If you die it’ll be your own damn fault and I’ll never forgive you.”

There’s a weird silence where Steve doesn’t say anything, and his hand freezes on Bucky in that light clasp. Then he gives Bucky a little shake, and sits up in his seat.

“Save the drama for the school play,” Steve says. “Come on, help me up.”

He’s like a bag of bricks thrown over Bucky’s shoulders when they both stand, and Bucky’s knees nearly buckle.

“Jesus,” Bucky whispers out in a forceful rush.

“Sorry,” Steve mumbles, and takes some of the weight off, the arm that isn’t around Bucky’s shoulders still clasped across his front.

They make it to Steve’s bedroom slowly in the dark. Steve lies back on the bed with a low groan. Bucky pulls the thick, dark blinds down tight at the window first, then switches the lamp at the nightstand on next to Steve. He looks pale even in its soft, yellow light. He’s still in his uniform, and under the spread of his hand Bucky can see red bleeding out in a blotchy spread through the fabric.

“Jesus Christ,” Bucky says, frustration burning through him.

“It ain’t that bad,” Steve mutters. His brow is furrowed and his eyes are shut.

“I’ll be the goddamn judge of that,” Bucky answers, feeling completely out of his depth, and absolutely not about to show it. He strides over to the bathroom and yanks open the medicine cabinet, then looks under the sink, hand scrabbling at the first aid kit he eventually finds.

“Get that top off,” Bucky says, walking back into the bedroom.

“Shh, I’m breathing,” Steve mumbles.

“Very funny. Chop chop,” Bucky answers. He rifles through the kit, rummaging through its contents and laying them out on the nightstand, taking inventory.

“I’m gonna heal by the time you get a good look at it,” Steve says.

“Let me clean it at least, or get you a Tylenol or something.”

“Got enough for me to pop one every few minutes?” Steve’s voice is thin, clearly still in pain. His chest moves slowly up and down as he breathes.

Bucky blinks in response.

“Don’t the Avengers have a medic or something,” he says, lightly, afraid of the answer he might hear. He keeps his head down, fingers moving through the kit. “How did they let you get home like this?”

There’s a pause. Then, Steve mutters so low Bucky almost doesn’t hear it.

“Wasn’t with the Avengers.”

Bucky blinks in surprise. His knees give out, and he sits down suddenly on the edge of the bed next to Steve’s prone figure.

“Easy,” Steve mumbles.

As little as he’s payed attention to the political implications and pundit debates, he has a feeling the Avengers have as much personal leeway away from SHIELD as marionettes caught on string.

“That’s not - I won’t tell anyone,” Bucky says quietly. He settles a hand cautiously at Steve’s middle. Steve’s free hand comes up and he catches Bucky’s wrist gently, fingers easily spanning its width.

“I know,” Steve says. He opens his eyes and stares at Bucky in the dark. “Wouldn’t tell you otherwise.”

“Still gotta let me look at it, at least,” Bucky says, clearing his throat. “Clean the wound or something.”

Steve rolls his eyes. But he leans up anyways and Bucky scrambles to his feet.

The uniform is stiff and surprisingly heavy. It unzips from the front, the opening hidden from view until Steve’s fingers pull at it and then it's like an optical illusion coming apart before Bucky’s eyes. Steve winces as he struggles out of one sleeve. Bucky peels the rest off of him and leaves it in a crumpled heap on the floor. Steve’s wearing a tight, short sleeved shirt underneath, made of some shiny material. There’s a tear at the side from a hole, like a bullet wound.

“Holy shit,” Bucky says.

“Went right through me,” Steve grits out. “Healed over the worst of it.”

“Well that’s really reassuring,” Bucky says. He gets down to one knee and pulls cotton balls and antiseptic from the nightstand.

“Less talking, more helping,” Steve says.

Bucky snorts.

“Now he wants help,” he mumbles under his breath.

Bucky fits a latex glove from the kit over one hand. Then he pulls at the hem of Steve’s shirt, nearly peeling it up the flat expanse of his stomach. Steve does the rest of the work, pulling it off over his head with one hand. His skin’s hot under Bucky’s fingers, stomach clenching slightly with pain. Bucky’s cheeks burn, suddenly hit with how close he is to Steve’s half naked body. He has to force himself to concentrate on the task at hand. He cleans the wound quickly with fingers that feel stiff and clumsy.

When Bucky glances up, Steve’s looking at him through dark, slitted eyes.

“Lemme see the back,” Bucky says.

Steve shifts to his side without a word. Bucky stares down. The exit wound has nearly healed shut, a puckered scar that seems to smooth out as he looks on in disbelief. He wipes at the dried blood anyway.

He clears his throat and moves away, collecting the discarded cotton balls and dumping them in the bathroom wastebasket along with his glove. He washes his hands thoroughly in the sink anyway, trying to blink away the image of Steve’s chest, flawless skin glowing in the halo of light.

When he gets back Steve is breathing a lot easier, and sitting up in bed. The wound at his side seems to be healing quicker and quicker.

“Thanks for that,” Steve says solemnly.

“Sure thing,” Bucky replies. He shifts on his feet uneasily.

“Get over here,” Steve says. He pats the space next to him where Bucky was sitting before.

Bucky takes his seat again carefully. Steve does nothing but stare at him, arms lax at his side. The movement of his chest as he breathes draws Bucky’s attention down inexorably. His hand moves as if propelled, settling gingerly at Steve’s stomach.

“Bucky,” Steve breathes out, almost in warning, or maybe just cause, but Bucky’s already moving, leaning down, pressing a kiss gently to the soft, hot skin at Steve’s navel. Bucky rubs his lips there for a moment then pulls back, looking up to catch Steve’s eyes on him, dark and intent. He’d gotten shitfaced at the park a couple of weeks back, shown up in the early hours of the morning at Steve’s door. Steve had looked at him the same way when Bucky’d pressed up against him, left a wet kiss at the pale line of his throat before Steve had gently pushed him away.

Now Bucky feels his breath puffing out against Steve’s skin and back against his face, and Steve isn’t pushing as Bucky presses his next kiss down a little lower, with his mouth open so he can suck at Steve’s skin. He feels like a devotee at an altar, trembling with want.

Steve makes a soft sound. One hand comes up and settles at the back of Bucky’s neck.

“Bucky,” he says, a little more firmly, something tight and desperate in his tone. Bucky glances up again. Steve’s looking down at him, but he doesn’t speak, and after a moment Bucky makes a soft, humming sound, and moves lower, heart racing as Steve’s smell grows more intimate. He finds Steve’s dick through his pants with one hand, and rubs at it gently with his palm, then goes lower still and presses his face against it, repeating the motion with his cheek. He breathes in and the smell makes his face hot, his groin heavy; deep and musky and masculine. Steve’s hips push up, and he makes a low sound. His dick fattens against Bucky’s face as Bucky rubs against it.

The heat coiling low in Bucky’s gut pulls tighter. His pulse races. He wants Steve so badly he feels like he could burst, wants him in his mouth and pressing inside him, wants Steve holding him tight, covering him with his big body, pushing him down against the mattress with his weight.

Bucky sits up so he can search at the front with both hands until his fingers find a clasp and he can unzip the front. Steve’s arm goes lax at his side. His head falls back on his pillow and he lets out a single, shuddering breath as Bucky takes him out.

Steve’s cock is thick and long in Bucky’s hand, the scent of him making Bucky swallow. He’s sucked his fair share of dick; in the back of cars and under the school bleachers and in frantic, rushed moments in various bedrooms, scrabbling in silence with the pressing threat of thin walls and nosey family members. But Steve is something else, the hot weight of him as Bucky’s hand strokes carefully up his length making his insides clench tight.

Bucky ducks down and licks up the underside, eyelids fluttering shut, feeling like he’s got his mouth on an ice cream after a long summer day, like he’d crawl for this dick and say thank you. He purses his lips and repeats the movement, pressing the wet slide of them up and down its length.

Steve lets out a low curse. His hand curls into a fist at his side.

“Put your hand in my hair,” Bucky says in a rush, pulling off to speak. He pushes at Steve's side so he can seat himself fully on the bed, and gives Steve’s hardening length a squeeze.

Steve looks down. His hand comes up. He slides his fingers in Bucky’s short curls, and Bucky pushes into it like a cat rubbing against its owner. He looks down to Steve’s side and sees the wound is nearly completely healed, only a faint, shiny scar left in the skin, soon to disappear completely.

“Bucky,” Steve says again, and Bucky ducks down before he can say anything further. He pops the wet head of Steve’s dick into his mouth and sucks. Steve moans and his hips jolt. Bucky squeezes at the thick base with his hand and takes him in further stubbornly, as far back as he can, lips curled over his teeth. Steve hits the back of Bucky’s throat. Bucky’s own cock gives a pitiful, helpless jerk, leaking wet into his shorts. He moans around Steve’s length, stroking at the base which gets slicker with saliva by the second.

“Fucking hell,” Steve grits out. His hips jerk up in tiny thrusts. His fingers go tight on Bucky’s scalp and it sends a sudden, hair raising shudder down Bucky’s spine. His swollen balls draw up tight, and he moans around Steve. Steve pulls Bucky off by his hair, breathing hard, cock slapping up stiff and wet against his belly. Bucky’s neck arches, swollen lips parted. He pants like a dog, about as equally hurting for Steve to mount him.

“You got a mouth on you,” Steve says. His eyes are dark. His hand goes to Bucky’s jaw, and he smears a thumb against Bucky’s lips. Bucky ducks his head down and captures Steve’s thumb in his mouth, sucking up the length.

“You just finding that out now?” he mumbles, looking up at Steve through his eyelashes. Bucky keeps his eyes on Steve as he licks up the pad of his thumb. He tries to reach for Steve’s dick again but Steve’s free hand catches his wrist, staying him. He stares at Bucky for a long moment, like he’s looking right through him, like he might not even be there.

Then he’s pulling Bucky up and over his body like he weighs nothing, forcing Bucky to breathe out a surprised, excited sound. He lands on his back and Steve curls over him. The great hulk of his body covers Bucky from head to toe.

Bucky’s legs fall open. He lets out a soft whimper and suddenly he’s shy all over, and he can’t even bring his hands up to Steve’s naked chest. He grips at the blanket underneath.

Steve stares at him for a moment before leaning down and nuzzling at Bucky’s neck. His lower half settles on Bucky’s body, hard dick against Bucky’s crotch, the delicious weight of him pressing Bucky to the bed.

“Oh,” Bucky lets out softly, as Steve’s hot mouth latches onto his skin, sucking kisses down to his collarbone.

“Sweet thing,” Steve says against Bucky’s skin, voice low. And fuck it’s nothing close to what anyone’s said to him before, should sound corny as hell, but Bucky flushes even hotter. He opens his mouth to protest but nothing comes out. He stares down at Steve with wide eyes while Steve pushes up at Bucky’s shirt to uncover his chest. His big hand settles over the bulge in Bucky’s shorts, and kneads firmly at it.

“Ahh,” Bucky lets out, head knocking back. His balls swell and grip up at the feeling, and his dick blurts out precome.

“You sweet all over?” Steve murmurs. He’s grinning up at Bucky when Bucky looks down, squeezing at Bucky’s dick and watching him squirm against the mattress.

“Steve. Oh - ” Bucky gasps out, a grunt knocking loose as Steve finds his heavy balls and massages them through the fabric. Bucky can’t for the life of him find a thread of his former composure.

Steve tugs Bucky’s shorts and briefs down his narrow hips with a single motion. He’s smaller than Steve, and so hard he sticks up stiff and ruddy once freed from the confines of his clothing. Steve takes him easily in his mouth, right down to the base so his nose presses against Bucky’s stomach.

“Oh, fuck,” Bucky says, breathing out harshly, staring down disbelievingly. Steve’s mouth is so hot and wet, and he sucks hard, swallowing around Bucky’s length. If he could grin he’d be doing so, eyes scrunching at the corners as he looks up at Bucky, pinned underneath him, fingers digging into Steve’s hard shoulders as Steve sucks up tight.

Steve pulls off, breath puffing out against Bucky’s wet length. He pushes at the back of Bucky’s thighs with both hands, so he’s spread wide and Bucky’s breath leaves him in a whoosh as Steve ducks down to suck at Bucky’s balls. He takes them both in first, then sucks one in gently in his mouth at a time. They’re swollen and heavy and tight as drums, so sensitive that every pull of Steve’s mouth sends a shooting jolt of pleasure low in Bucky’s gut. His ass clenches down empty, an ache deep inside him, his cock leaking and dripping down a steady line of wet.

Bucky gasps out helpless ah ah sounds at every suck of Steve’s mouth, legs pinned open, every sense centered between his legs where he’s hot and heavy and tight.

Steve just keeps at it, gentle and merciless, until Bucky’s drawn up so tight he’s gasping out every breath. Then Steve’s wet finger goes to Bucky’s hole, and he rubs at the sensitive opening, a tickle of sensation that builds up as Steve takes Bucky’s stiff length in his other hand and squeezes up its wet length.

“Come on, gorgeous,” Steve’s muttering under his breath. “Let me have it. Let it go.”

“Oh shit, oh fu-uck,” Bucky says. His orgasm draws out, slow as molasses, like time itself churns to a halt and his whole body seizes up, his eyes rolling up and his head knocking back. Bucky’s hips jerk up helplessly as he comes, wet pulsing from his dick as Steve milks him, finger rubbing at Bucky’s hole. It goes on for a long time, as Bucky’s whole body curls and rocks through the aftershocks.

Steve’s hand gentles on him, the sound of it obscene and sloppy through the mess of come. He stops when Bucky grows too sensitive, moaning and drawing his knees up weakly, trying to pull away.

Bucky lies there, boneless and sapped of any will to move. He looks down eventually, blinking hazily, and Steve’s looking back up at him, chin settled against the back of one hand at Bucky’s hip, the other rubbing gently at Bucky’s side.

Bucky lets his head drop back on the pillow, utterly exhausted, thoughts wiped blank. Sleep overtakes him in a rush as soon as he closes his eyes.


Bucky wakes up in his own bed the next morning, without a stitch on under the covers. He pushes up on his elbow and blinks at the bright rectangle of light slanting through the window, the previous night’s events returning slowly. He stretches in bed, groaning. There’s a slight twinge in his navel. He feels utterly relaxed, and he grins as he scratches at his belly, flushing as he remembers Steve’s mouth on him, the wicked gleam of his eyes in the light. He rubs at his morning wood, then stands up and shuffles to the bathroom.

Bucky takes a chance and stops at Steve’s after breakfast. He knocks at the door. Silence is his only answer, as expected. He takes his backpack and spends the day at the skate park, gliding over its valleys and swells, stopping only to catch his breath and rest.

His mind wanders as he moves through the familiar motions, returning to dwell on Steve like a yo-yo. He thinks about Steve’s broad, naked chest glowing in soft lamplight and his stomach tightens. He halts at the top of a wide bowl and sits at the rim, resting his board on his thighs, breathing hard. No one’s paying any particular attention but Bucky feels like he’s got a floating sign above his head, a great big downward arrow letting everyone know he’d spilled inside the mouth of an American icon.

He leaves with his board tucked under one arm, breathing easier once he’s making his way back down the street.

Once he’s home Bucky climbs out onto the fire escape and makes his way down to Steve’s window.

“Please, please,” he whispers under his breath as his fingers tug at the window. It sticks at first before sliding open. Steve’s apartment looks different in the light of day, large and airy. He moves around the living room furniture and into Steve’s bedroom.

Steve’s uniform is tossed over the side of a chair near the dresser. Bucky holds it up in the light and studies the puckered tear in the side, the blood stain turned a rusty brown in the dark blue fabric. He leaves the uniform where he found it and moves to the closet. Steve’s clothes are hung and folded pin neat in the small space.

Bucky finds the hamper stuck against the wall to his left. He rifles through, pulls a white undershirt from the pile, and moves to the bed. He’s got his hand down his shorts before his ass hits the mattress.

He bunches the undershirt in his hand and presses it to his nose, lying on his back, squirming in place as his hand finds his hardening dick and gives it a hasty stroke. He moans softly, inhaling Steve’s scent, imagining it as it might be clinging to Steve’s hard body after a long day, stuck to the small of his back and at his armpits.

Bucky rubs the fabric against his face with one hand gently, imagines Steve holding him down at the back of his neck and making him do it, or letting Bucky press up against him and stuff his face into the crook of his arm, scenting him.

He makes short work of it, so turned on that he's’ barely keeping up with his eager, fattening dick, fingers slipping through the wet leaking from the head, as desperately drooling for it as Bucky is at the mouth. Bucky comes with a muffled groan. He pulls the undershirt to the side and pants into the heavy silence, staring up at the ceiling for a long while more.


A few nights later Bucky’s up late, removing the wheel assemblies from his board on the floor in the middle of his room when he hears Steve returning home. He sets his board aside and scrambles for his phone.

He gives Steve half an hour before he’s at his window. The apartment’s still dark inside, which is unlike Steve on the occasions he isn’t nursing a secretly obtained side wound. Bucky steps over the ledge and makes out Steve’s form, sitting upright in his armchair in the corner of the room. When it’s bad enough that Steve doesn’t even bother with his records, Bucky knows he’s deep in a funk.

“Took you long enough,” Bucky says, making his way across the room. He hears the clink of ice moving in a glass.

Steve is silent. Bucky approaches so he’s standing between Steve’s knees. There’s a bottle of whiskey on the side table, and a glass in Steve’s hand. Bucky can smell it from where he’s standing.

“Hey, Buck,” Steve says, finally. Bucky climbs into the chair, straddling Steve’s lap. He takes the glass from Steve’s hand.

“Thought you said the stuff doesn’t do anything for you,” Bucky says. He sets it down on the table next to the bottle, and leans down, pressing a soft kiss to the side of Steve’s lips. He’s hard and warm between Bucky’s thighs, and under his hands where they’re pressed palm down to Steve’s chest. Bucky’s pulse jumps in his throat. Steve’s lack of response makes him feel nervous, like he’s done something wrong, a nervous flutter needing reassurance starting up in his chest. He wants Steve’s arms around him.

“Try and try again,” Steve murmurs. Then he turns his face up, and Bucky eagerly presses a kiss to Steve’s face, his mouth.

“You sound like you’ve seen some shit,” Bucky says, carefully. He cards his fingers through Steve’s hair and rubs at his scalp. What he wants to say is, I missed you , but the words feel small enough in his chest, weak and unsteady, and he doesn’t trust them to come out anything but childish and petulant from his lips.

“Something like that,” Steve says. His big hands come up to grip at Bucky’s ass, tugging him closer so their hips meet. Bucky grinds down readily, feeling Steve’s thick cock harden in his jeans. Steve captures his lips for a real kiss, leaning forward and licking into Bucky’s mouth. Bucky’s had beer plenty and champagne at a cousin’s wedding or two, but the whiskey on Steve’s tongue tastes like something else, deep and smoky, and it sets Bucky’s blood thrumming in his veins.

Bucky hums out a happy sound; half-pleasure, half-relief. Then Steve is surging to his feet, Bucky held tight in his strong arms.

“Mmph,” Bucky says against Steve’s lips. He curls his legs around Steve’s waist and holds onto his shoulders.

“You been leaving your paw prints all over my apartment, you little scamp?” Steve asks, voice low. Bucky wriggles in his grasp.

“Didn’t take nothing,” Bucky says. He pinches Steve’s bicep lightly, hardly grabbing onto anything. “Maybe you should start locking your windows up like a normal person.”

Steve huffs out a laugh.

“Yeah, let’s see how far you’d last,” he replies.

Then he’s walking towards the bedroom, Bucky kissing at his face and throat. He dumps Bucky gently on the bed and moves to flick the wall switch on, drawing his shirt over his head on his way back. Bucky blinks in the light, and flushes at Steve’s grin. He’s shy again, settling down quiet as Steve crawls over him, feeling like every time he sees Steve he’s got to get used to him all over again, the sheer awe of his presence.

Steve gazes down at Bucky with a somber expression, his eyes flitting over Bucky’s face. He leans down and kisses Bucky slowly.

“What’s gotten into you?” Steve asks, voice low. He nudges at Bucky’s lips. Bucky’s aching to touch him. He brings his hands up to Steve’s waist. Steve nuzzles at the side of Bucky’s face. “Go ahead, sweetheart.”

Bucky slides his palms down Steve’s sides to his hips. He tries to reach for Steve’s crotch without ending the kiss. When he can’t, and Steve doesn’t move to help him, he makes a small, frustrated sound. Steve’s breath escapes in a laugh.

“What’d you do without me here, huh?” He rocks down against Bucky’s crotch, who whines instantly and wraps his legs around Steve, pushing up into delicious friction.

“Beat myself off like an animal,” Bucky grumbles. Steve grins. He grinds down, rubbing his hard dick against Bucky’s smaller one and against his swelling balls. He does it like he’s playing with Bucky, nudging his dick from side to side in his sleep pants, then grinding against it until Bucky’s hips are jerking up into the pressure, before moving off.

Ah , come on. Steve,” Bucky says. His dick bobs up helpless, trapped, swelling hot with blood.

“You’re a squirmy thing,” Steve says. He sits up on his knees and flips Bucky over onto his stomach easily, blanketing Bucky completely with his body. “You ready to take this, baby?”

Steve presses his crotch against Bucky’s ass and grinds against him slowly. Bucky’s breath leaves his lungs in a sudden woosh.

“Yes. Yeah,” Bucky says, eagerly, breathless. He shimmies out of his pants under Steve, and feels air against his bare ass as Steve moves off the bed to rummage in a drawer.

He spreads Bucky easily with one hand when he returns, and wet fingers meet Bucky’s entrance.

“Oh,” Bucky lets out. He stuffs his hot face into a pillow. Steve’s got him going hard with just a few seconds, rubbing at Bucky’s exposed hole. It’s sensitive down there, his hard dick and heavy balls dangling helpless between his legs as Steve strokes him, jolts of pleasure emanating from his hole to his crotch.

Steve wriggles a finger in slowly, up to the knuckle. Bucky can feel himself clenching around Steve’s finger almost involuntarily, and it makes him hot all over. Then Steve’s feeling inside, around and up until his finger finds a spot that aches in a funny little tickle deep up inside him. Bucky pushes up to his elbow, face screwing up at the feeling, and keens out weakly as Steve rubs and rubs. Then he crooks his finger, right up against it, and Bucky cries out. His balls grip up tight in response.

“Steve,” he lets out, voice high and weak.

“Right there, huh,” Steve says.

He shifts behind Bucky, then pushes a second finger in and gives Bucky’s hard dick a loose stroke with his free hand. The two fingers inside Bucky crook down hard.

“Oh, fuck ,” Bucky says. Steve’s fingers go back to idly rubbing, and the impulse is impossible to resist. He rocks back onto Steve’s fingers. A second later they’re withdrawing, and Bucky bites back a desperate whine. Bucky hears the slick sound of Steve’s hand on his dick before its pressing at his entrance.

Steve presses a kiss to the space between Bucky’s shoulders before pushing in, without further preamble. The pressure stretches Bucky’s slick, hot, hole wide, stuffing him full and deep. Steve’s hand is still stroking and stroking between Bucky’s legs as he plunges inside, then it’s like the pressure all builds in a sudden wave and Bucky’s hips jerk once before he’s coming, clutching at the sheets and keening through clenched teeth, come splattering on the bed below.

“That’s it,” Steve’s saying, rocking into him. “That’s my boy.” Then he’s covering Bucky with his hot body as he bottoms out, pressing him down into the mattress. Bucky lets out a low, moan.

“Made you come just like that, huh. Just feeling my dick up in you?” Steve’s ask, voice low and nasty right up against Bucky’s ear.

“Yeah,” Bucky says in a small voice, face hot, cheek flat against the mattress. He grinds slowly against Steve, feeling his thick dick moving inside him, deep in his gut. Steve moves with him, sliding his arms under Bucky and palming his chest. He turns them so they’re spooning and they lie like that for a while, kissing, Bucky craning his neck back for Steve’s mouth, until Bucky’s hard and wriggling in Steve’s arms.

“Want more?” Steve asks. He palms Bucky’s dick, cupping it in his hand.

“Yeah,” Bucky replies eagerly. “Come on.” He grinds his ass back against Steve, who’s still impossibly hard and deliciously thick inside him.

“Want me to spill up in you?” Steve asks, his voice hot against Bucky’s ear. He pinches at a nipple, teasing the nub of flesh until it peaks and hardens between his fingers.

“Oh,” Bucky says, eyes screwing shut. Steve tugs at it, sending a responding jolt of sensation straight to Bucky’s crotch. “Yes. Yeah. Gimme it, gimme it.”

Bucky’s reaching back as Steve turns him over, slipping out and leaving him empty for all of a moment before he’s lining up and pushing back in. The thrust of his hips is merciless, pounding his fat dick into Bucky’s slick, used hole, wet and welcoming the hot, delicious thrust of Steve’s cock.

Bucky’s so lost to it he’s nearly drooling against the mattress, cheek jolting against the sheet with every thrust, senseless to everything but the building sensation deep up in him that crashes down and makes his ass clench and his whole body shake. Bucky comes for a second time, squeezing down on the satisfying fullness inside him. Steve stills. He bites down on Bucky’s shoulder and his cock jerks and spills hot and wet.


Bucky either passes out or falls asleep too fast to remember. He wakes up twice in the night, once to find himself held tight to Steve’s chest, hot breath puffing against the back of Bucky’s neck. The second time, the bed is empty beside him and Steve is standing at the window. His arms are crossed at his chest, half of his face fallen into shadow, still as a statue in the dark.


Steve’s gone for a week and a half. On his first day back he’s called to cut a ribbon over new ground downtown. It’s international and political and Steve’s lips are tight when he says they’ll be needing Captain America there .  

Bucky pushes through the teeming throng to the front, where Steve stands in his uniform, arms clasped behind his back; face blank, chiseled from rock. A banner unfurls beyond the stage. Bucky watches the fancy suits lined up besides him. He studies the line of Steve’s profile and the easy, lizard smile of the older gentleman to his left. A voice booms out over a loudspeaker, but Bucky’s attention is pinned in place.

For a long moment Steve stands stoic and tall and he looks like something god-like and timeless, radiating power.

Then he moves and his eyes rove the crowd and eventually come to settle on Bucky. He smiles: a tiny, private, quirk of his lips.

Bucky smiles back.