Steve’s sprawled out on his threadbare couch, glasses folded up on his chest, staring muzzily at his ceiling. He’s always been a scrapper, never letting hard times or illness dampen his ‘can do’ attitude, but he is just so over everything. Not only has he managed to fuck up his chance at S.H.I.E.L.D. Entertainment, but now his landlord’s pounding on his door for past due rent, and to top it off he, of course, got the flu. Wonderful.
Flopping out one hand, he snags the roll of toilet paper from his coffee table and rips off several squares, then shoves them against his nose and blows messily. Behind him, the pounding continues.
He should just sneeze on his landlord. Maybe that’d make him fuck off for a couple of hours so that Steve can finally sleep.
And then his door creaks open.
Steve shoots up, then has to slump over again and grab the sides of his head. The room swims sickeningly for a moment. “Fred, I told you, I’ll get you the rent soon—”
“Holy crap, man, are you dying?”
Steve lifts his head again, blinking owlishly. There’s a blur of someone standing in front of his coffee table, hands on his hips. The voice is familiar, but Steve can’t place it. He fumbles with where his glasses had tumbled to his lap and pops them onto his face, the arms askew. “What—Clint?”
“Hey, hi. Hello. Are you alright, man?” Clint asks, like it’s totally normal to waltz into someone’s home uninvited.
“How the hell did you get into my apartment?”
Clint gives a casual little shrug, grinning. “Hate to say it, man, but your locks are pretty crap.”
Steve rips off another square of toilet paper so that he can glare at Clint and not make a disgusting mess. “Maybe so, but you could at least do me the courtesy of inferring what they’re supposed to do.” When Clint grins blankly at him, Steve rolls his eyes. “Meaning I don’t actually want people breaking into my apartment.”
“You weren’t answering your phone,” says Clint, looking a little hangdog. “Or opening your door. I was getting worried.”
Steve sighs, crumpling up the tissue and tossing it onto the mountain that’s accumulated by his couch in the past two days. “Thanks, I guess.” Pushing up his glasses, he rubs at one eye with the heel of his hand. His brain is having some trouble computing Clint’s presence in his apartment and what that might mean. “You tried calling me?”
“I kept getting a ‘this number is out of service’ message.”
Steve frowns. He fumbles around on the coffee table for a moment, knocking over a couple more tissues onto the tissue mountain, and grabs his phone where he’d tossed it earlier. The small LTE normally present in the top left corner is long gone. “I thought I paid that one,” Steve says, a little muzzily, then groans and drops his head onto the top of his phone. His mother’s probably already on her way over to make sure he hadn’t died. Damn. He’d have to drag his sorry corpse back to Starbucks to text her—
“Hold on, let me get that for you,” says Clint, pulling his phone out of his back pocket and rapidly typing out a quick text. “Done. You should have service in fifteen minutes or so.” Clint shuffles his phone back into his pocket, then hikes up his pants and crouches in front of the coffee table to look Steve in the eye. “Say you’ll come back.”
Steve blinks at Clint from over the top of his glasses. Then he pushes them up again and scrubs at both his eyes. He doesn’t normally have hallucinations when he’s sick, but it’s not completely unheard of. Steve’s body is just full of new and wonderful surprises. “Clint. You can’t possibly want me back bad enough to break into my apartment. I’m a shit makeup artist.”
“About that,” Clint says, fidgeting with Steve’s roll of toilet paper. Steve sees the exact moment Clint realizes how not sanitary that is. “Oh. Ugh. Am I going to get the plague?”
“About what?” Steve asks, impatiently. “What’s going on here?”
“The truth, Barton. No more pussyfooting around.” Steve’s firm demand is ruined by a sneeze, which he just barely manages to catch in his elbow and triggers, yet another, coughing fit.
“Right,” Clint says, after Steve has finished hacking up lungfuls of phlegm. “I can’t believe I’m going to ask you this considering all of this”—he circles a finger around the table, somehow managing to encompass Steve in the gesture—“but have you considered going into porn?”
Steve slowly wipes at his nose with a bundle of tissues. Then he laughs. It ends badly, of course, because his lungs and throat were built by a faulty manufacturer with junky parts, but he can’t help it. “M-me?” he gasps between wracking coughs and choked laughter. “Porn?”
Clint nods, very seriously.
Steve tosses the tissue onto the coffee table, ignoring Clint’s scrunched nose. “Yank the other one.”
“Listen,” Steve says, arranging his expression to look as seriously as he possibly can considering his nose is leaking like the pipe under his bathroom sink. “No one wants to see all this.” He circles a finger around his own face.
“Maybe not in its current state.”
“In any state.”
“You never struck me as someone with a low self esteem.”
“I don’t have low self esteem. I have a realistic one.”
Clint pats at his jacket, then reaches into an inside pocket and plucks out a small thumbdrive with a Stark Industries logo printed on the side. He sets it on the coffee table with a quiet click, then slides it toward Steve with one finger. He doesn’t meet Steve’s eye. “L-look, this wasn’t intentional—it’s just, you and Bucky, you know, the cameras were already rolling.”
Clint darts a glance at Steve, then looks quickly back down at the table, picking a nick at the corner with his fingernail. “We’re a porn studio, Steve, and we were shooting a porn.”
Steve snatches up the thumbdrive, entire body prickling with boiling hot embarrassment. “Did you watch it?” he demands.
The corners of Clint’s eyes crinkle in the beginning of a smile, thankfully he tamps it down, because Steve would have seriously thrown him out of his apartment even if it meant breaking every bone in his body and then dying a snot-filled death in the disgusting hallway. “Steve. Buddy. I was there, remember? I saw the whole thing first hand. But no, I didn’t watch it.”
Steve buries his face in his hands. Just what the fuck is his life right now? Visions of leaked sex tapes and tabloid headlines fill his mind. Oh, fuck. He’s going to be the next Kardashian.
“Calm down, I can see you freaking out. We haven’t released this—we would never, not without your permission. And if you want, I’ll go back to the studio and delete every copy. But—watch it, maybe? And think about it.” He gets to his feet, frowning down at the mess of tissues by the foot of the couch. “I’ll have some egg drop soup delivered, or something.”
Clint actually locks the door behind him when he leaves, which is a nice thought but apparently completely useless. Steve looks down at the thumbdrive, then jumps a little when his lights abruptly turn on. On the coffee table, his cellphone buzzes. He drops the thumbdrive on his lap in surprise, then fumbles for his phone. He’s got missed calls and ten texts from his mom, and one from DoorDash, letting him know his order of egg drop soup, soup dumplings, mixed veggies, and roast duck would be there in thirty minutes.
“I don’t regret that for a second.”
The video freezes on Bucky, spread eagle, hair a sweaty tangle and stomach a mess. Steve stares at his computer screen, chopsticks half lifted to his mouth, soup dumpling forgotten.
He gets it.
He’s watched his fair share of porn, but few like this. The video is high quality without being garish, lighting soft in a way that belongs on the big screen instead of a hardcore porn video. But it’s more than that. It’s the way Steve and Bucky are zeroed in on each other, oblivious to their surroundings, as if no one else exists in the world. They aren’t putting on a show for the cameras—it’s just them, murmuring quietly to each other. Steve doesn’t even remember what they were talking about—the conversation wasn’t important, and can’t even be heard in the video—but it’s the way they lean toward each other, how Bucky stares down at Steve, shattered, how Steve watches him with a hungry glint in his eyes. It’s almost unbearably intimate, and Steve is torn between wishing it had remained a private moment while simultaneously desperately glad he has a hard copy.
If he takes Clint’s offer, it means he can touch Bucky again and get paid for it.
His other option is that he can get kicked out of his apartment and live under a bridge.
All things considered, the decision is an easy one.
Steve: So you know how you’re all about sex work positivity?
Steve: I got a job as a porn star.
Incoming call from Mom...
Three weeks later, after his usual bout of bronchitis finally clears up, Steve stands in front of the ornate door, hands in his hoodie pockets. Clint had told him to be here at five, and in his eagerness he arrived about twenty minutes early. Sucking in a deep breath, he lifts a hand and knocks on the door.
It swings open nearly immediately and—and it’s Bucky, gray eyes flashing and face all twisted up in a scowl, before it goes completely blank. He’s shirtless, because of course he’s shirtless. One hand is on the doorframe, and Steve’s eyes track over strong line of his bicep, to his clavicles. For the first time since he started busking caricatures, Steve’s fingers itch to draw. Not some grotesque exaggeration sketched out for fifty bucks, but a true character study, where Steve can take his time to really capture Bucky’s beauty.
“Bucky?” says Steve, a little hesitantly.
“Steve?” Bucky says, and although his face is expressionless, there’s a whole ocean of shock in his voice.
“I’m guessing you didn’t know I was comin—uh.” Steve coughs a little into his fist. His chest only rattles a little.
“No, they neglected to mention it,” says Bucky, and Steve wishes he could read his face. “Are you—I mean—that is, uh—”
“Very adorable,” says another voice, and Bucky is muscled out of the way by a shorter man. Steve recognizes him as the guy in the NASA shirt from the first time he was here. He’s wearing a shirt with a DJing cat, this time, and another expensive suit jacket. “So you’re the kid who’s turned my studio into a warzone.”
“I’m twenty-eight,” Steve says, knee jerk, then frowns slightly. “Wait—warzone?”
“Never mind that.” The man flails an expressive hand. “I’m Tony. Get in before you let all the air out.”
Steve dutifully walks in, glancing at Bucky, who has not stopped staring at him since he opened the door.
“You,” says Tony, grabbing the gobsmacked Bucky by his arm. “With me. You”—he points to Steve—“talk to Natasha. Over there. Other side of the room, big guy, not in Bucky’s pants, Jesus Christ you two.”
Bucky is watching him.
He can feel his eyes on the back of his neck, and while Steve isn’t normally a blusher (he has to have shame to be a blusher, and Steve refuses to have shame), the burn of Bucky’s intent gaze spreads up the back of Steve’s neck and to his cheeks.
Natasha picks it up, of course. “I get that this can be embarrassing at first—even scary—but if you ever feel the need to slow down or take a break, just—”
“When do we start filming?” Steve interrupts.
Natasha’s eyebrows fly up. She glances over Steve’s shoulder, then smirks knowingly. “In about an hour.”
Steve glances at Bucky over his shoulder and, yep, he’s watching Steve—covertly, under his lashes and over Tony’s shoulder. He looks a little stunned, which means Tony must have broken it to him that Steve would be his partner du jour.
An hour. Steve’s supposed to survive a full hour.
“You’re not allowed to touch him until then,” says Natasha.
Steve whips back around to glare at her. “What, seriously?”
“I can’t have the two of you blowing your loads before you can even get makeup on.”
Steve coughs a little into his fist. “That’s—a little crass.”
Natasha laughs in his face.
“Right, right, it’s the porn industry, get used to it Steve,” Steve mutters, then glances over his shoulder at Bucky again. Bucky’s focusing on Tony now, but he meets Steve’s eye, lips quirking in a small smile. It looks like an invitation. “Wouldn’t it be good, though? Take off the edge so that we don’t, uh, ‘blow our loads’ too quickly?”
“Think of it as an hour long foreplay,” says Natasha, flatly. Then she raises her voice. “That goes for you too, Barnes! No touching the newbie until the cameras are rolling!”
“Natasha!” Bucky protests, with a flattering amount of outraged disappointment.
Natasha rolls her eyes, then catches Steve by the wrist and bodily hauls him into the kitchen. She strides over to the double-doored stainless steel refrigerator and grabs a couple bottles of water, tossing one to Steve.
“Thanks,” Steve says, cracking it open.
“This isn’t just about the porn for you, is it?” Natasha asks, watching him with inscrutable dark eyes. “You’ve caught feelings.”
Steve shrugs and takes a swig from his drink instead of answering. That’s for him to discuss with Bucky, not with her.
“Hmm,” Natasha says, finding her answer in his silence, anyway. She watches him thoughtfully. “I hope you know what you’re doing, Rogers. Bucky’s really important to me. I won’t have him hurt.”
Steve frowns at her, remembering something Bucky had said the first time they met. “HYDRA?” he asks.
Natasha’s eyes narrow dangerously. “I see someone’s been spreading secrets that they have no business sharing.”
Steve waves his arms so wildly he nearly flings his bottle of water at her. “No, no! He only talked about his own involvement with HYDRA, but mentioned something about how he’d brought someone with him when he left. He didn’t even specify any gender. I just—inferred. Sorry. Don’t be mad at him.”
Natasha’s expression smooths out again, this time in mild surprise, which Steve interprets that to mean she’s wildly shocked. “Huh. He doesn’t talk to anyone about HYDRA.”
“No.” Natasha considers him shrewdly. “You’ve got hidden depths, don’t you, Rogers?”
“Thank you,” says Steve, dryly.
Natasha snorts, which is a little unexpected from someone so carefully put together. “I can see why he likes you so much. You’re—unexpected.”
Natasha leaves him in the kitchen with strict instructions not to go hunting down Bucky, which ends up being unnecessary because Bucky finds him. He prowls into the kitchen, a swagger to his hips, moving like he’s fucking sex on legs. He is. He totally is, and he knows it. Steve can’t even move, pinned to the spot by his sharp gray eyes.
“Soo,” Bucky drawls, leaning insouciantly against the kitchen counter and smirking at Steve. “You want to touch me?”
“Yes,” says Steve.
Bucky clearly isn’t expecting such a forthright answer, because his smile wavers and his eyes widen fractionally. “Oh.”
“I’ve wanted to touch you for weeks,” Steve admits, voice pitching low.
Bucky’s eyelashes flutter. He swallows and looks away, raking his bionic hand through his hair. “Me too,” he admits, quietly, like he’s sharing an intimate secret with Steve.
“I keep thinking about what could have happened if we weren’t interrupted.”
“Yeah?” Bucky breathes, and his gaze gets a little fixed, as if he’s picturing the could haves and would haves.
“I want to see you on your knees.”
Bucky gasps, eyes squeezing shut. “Fuck, Steve.” His hand spasms against the counter, and then he reaches down, like he’s going to touch himself.
“Stop,” Steve orders. “Don’t touch yourself. Not yet.”
Bucky’s hand freezes, then drifts back to grip the edge of the slate granite counter so tightly that his knuckles go white.
“Is this okay? If I talk to you like this?” Steve rumbles. “You can tell me to stop.”
“Don’t you dare stop,” Bucky snaps.
“Stop!” Tony yelps from the doorway.
Steve jumps guiltily, the connection between him and Bucky shattering at the sudden intrusion.
“Natasha said no touching, and that includes verbal hand jobs, goddammit.” Tony storms into the kitchen, planting himself at the head of the counter with his hands on his hips. “Jesus Christ, is no one a professional here?”
“I’m going to kill you, Stark!” Bucky bellows.
“I’ll kill you if you ruin another shoot!” Tony shouts back, frantically waving an accusing finger at Bucky’s face. “Keep it in your pants, Barnes! You can manage another thirty—fifteen minutes, can’t you? It’s like all your fucking professionalism has blown right out the window just for a pair of pretty eyes and perfect teeth. And you!” Tony whirls on Steve, eyes blazing. “I know you’re, like, eager to prove yourself—”
“Not quite,” admits Steve.
“—eager to hop on Bucky’s dick, but save it for the cameras!”
That’s not quite right, either, but Steve nods.
“Good! Now, Bucky, get the hell out of here, and for god’s sake stay away from Rogers until we’re ready to shoot!”
Bucky turns away, muttering something about a cockblocking son of a bitch, and stalks out of the kitchen.
Under all the watching eyes of cameramen and their cameras, Steve’s courage fails. It was different, when it was just a thoughtless handjob. Steve’s always been impulsive—ask literally anyone who knows him—but this feels like a huge commitment. Once his video is out there, there’d be no calling it back. He’d be Steve Rogers, the Porn Star, instead of Steve Rogers, the Failed Art Student. How’s he supposed to look his friends in the eye after this? Sure, his social circle consists of one Sarah Rogers—his mother—who is fully supportive as long as he remains safe and would rip out her own eyes before watching any video starring him, but still. Still. Bucky’s a Big Name in the porn industry. Steve will be noticed, and he’s not entirely sure how he feels about this.
This is what happens when you let your dick do the thinking, he accuses himself, but even now, looking into Bucky’s kind gray eyes, he truthfully amends, and your heart.
“You alright?” Bucky asks, taking Steve’s hand with his cool prosthetic.
“Y-yeah,” Steve lies, then takes a deep breath and squares his shoulders.
Bucky laughs quietly, tugging him a little closer. “Look at you, ready for battle.” He lifts his other hand to caress the side of Steve’s face, thumb lingering at the corner of his mouth. “Can I try something?”
“Sure,” says Steve, recklessly.
He’s expecting—well, he’s not sure what he’s expecting, but he’s definitely not expecting Bucky to lean forward and kiss him. It’s just a dry slide of lips at first, but the effect is immediate: the warm tingle from his lips spreads down to Steve’s stomach in a heady rush of butterflies, like a brand new crush on a summer day. His fingers tremble as he reaches up to cup the back of Bucky’s neck, pulling him closer, opening his mouth to slide his tongue against Bucky’s lips until he lets him in, and he’s never had a kiss like this, where the press and dance of tongues sends jolts through his arms until he feels too big for his skin, vibrant, electric. He’s never had a kiss that’s gone straight to his dick, already hard and straining against his jeans.
His hands drift down to grab at Bucky’s hips and he stands on his tiptoes, meeting an answering hardness through Bucky’s tight jeans. At the first connection, he has to still them both and squeeze his eyes shut. He can feel Bucky, hot and heavy, against his own dick, nothing but their jeans separating their erections. Steve groans into the kiss, fingers twitching against Bucky’s hips.
Bucky grabs his ass, thrusting their hips together, deepening the kiss until it’s frantic, and Steve matches him for passion, digging his fingers into the strong bones of Bucky’s hips. And here’s how Steve can tell Bucky’s a professional: by the way he rolls his hips against Steve’s, like a dance, like they’re already fucking, and Steve meets every thrust—he’d worried his lack of experience would reveal him as clumsy, inept, but moving with Bucky like this, it’s as natural as breathing.
He doesn’t notice how one of the cameras has moved to capture a close up on how their clothed dicks grind together, or how the angle of the lights have shifted. He’s too busy panting into the kiss, eyelids fluttering, half closed and unseeing. He’s lost. He’s going to—
“Cut! Cut, I said! Stop! Dammit, you two, will someone get a fucking hose—”
Bucky rips himself away, striding across the room, and Steve staggers a couple of steps after him, confused about why the fuck they’re stopping. Bucky’s got the back of one hand pressed against his mouth, and even from this distance, Steve can see that his fingers are trembling. He needs to blink a couple of times to get his fuzzy thoughts in order, and then he turns around to look back at the crew. Several faces stare back at him, wide eyed.
“Woah,” says Clint, which, yeah, that about sums it up.
“Alright, look,” says Tony, stepping away from his camera to glare at Steve in a way that’s rapidly becoming familiar. “Look. There’s no getting around it, you two are fucking brilliant together. I haven’t seen this kind of chemistry on camera since ever, but the two of you need to slow the fuck down.”
Steve shakes his head to clear it. “Right,” he says, voice gravelly and bruised from the kiss. “Okay.” Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Bucky shiver in response of hearing Steve speak. “Actually, I’m not really sure that’ll be possible.”
Tony slides a hand down his face, glaring up at the ceiling. “Okay, here’s what we’re going to do. Since the two of you are like a couple of newlywed virgins having sex for the first time on your honeymoon, we’ll start with the end. At least fucking take your clothes off so it looks like you guys have been at it for longer than five fucking minutes. Barnes!” he barks.
Bucky’s shoulders lift as he takes in a breath, then he turns back to Tony, completely composed again except for the evidence straining against his jeans. “Sure thing, boss,” he says, voice quiet, and Steve is already ready to throw himself into Bucky’s arms and kiss him silly.
It takes nearly thirty minutes for the crew to set up near the king-sized bed in one of the bedrooms, and both Natasha and Clint have taken it upon themselves to keep Bucky and Steve separated until the set is ready. They forgo the additional lights, since the bed is angled to perfectly capture the natural lighting from the large bay window, and the evening sunset fills the room with a warm glow.
And then Steve and Bucky are facing each other again, standing at the foot of the bed on opposite corners. Bucky’s watching him—hasn’t stopped watching him, and Steve knows this because he hasn’t stopped watching Bucky, either.
“It’s not just me, right?” Bucky asks. “You feel it too?”
“Yeah, Buck,” Steve murmurs, and lets his eyes do the talking for him, caressing his face with a look until Bucky’s eyes drift away and a light blush tinges his cheeks.
“Thank fucking god.”
Steve grins at him, a flash of teeth. Then he says, “Strip.”
Bucky shivers, then hooks his thumbs under the bottom of his shirt and pulls it over his head in one fluid motion. It’s breathtakingly hot, the way his abs ripple and his strong chest flexes. Steve walks over to him, placing one hand on his chest, between his pectoral muscles, steel under silk. Steve trails his fingers down to his navel, where there’s a dark happy trail that disappears under the top of his jeans.
“On your knees.”
Bucky’s lips part slightly, and he sinks to his knees, staring up at Steve, his eyes both hungry and hopeful. Steve reaches down, caressing the side of Bucky’s face until his thumb catches his bottom lip. He presses it into the corner of his mouth and Bucky parts his lips obligingly.
“Is this okay?” Steve asks. “Tell me if you want to stop.”
“You’re going to be the death of me,” says Bucky, reaching up to unbutton Steve’s jeans.
Bucky is—okay, Bucky is a pornstar with years of experience, and Steve’s had maybe three blowjobs total. He sinks one hand into Bucky’s hair and tries to look like he’s not about to fly apart at the seams after two whole seconds of Bucky’s perfect mouth wrapped around his dick. Every nerve ending in Steve’s body has come alight. Bucky’s bionic hand is between his own legs, working himself even as he works Steve, and the view is unbearable. He has to close his eyes and grit his teeth, or he really will lose it. Bucky licks a slow, torturous stripe up the length of him, and then Steve’s dick is halfway down Bucky’s throat, and Steve’s breath grates out of him in desperate half-sobs.
This isn’t fair.
How the hell was he supposed to be prepared for this? How could he be prepared for the worshipful way Bucky presses kisses along the side of his dick, like he’s something precious? Or the way Bucky reaches up to grip Steve’s hips, thumbs tenderly caressing the dip of his hip bones. How is Steve’s weak heart supposed to survive this?
“Bucky—fuck,” Steve gasps, trying not to thrust into Bucky’s mouth, trying to make the best blow job in the entire history of mankind last.
Bucky pulls back until his lips are just a wet pressure against the tip of Steve’s dick, looking up at Steve under his dark lashes. “You can come on my face,” he says, and how the fuck is Steve supposed to resist an invitation like that? Bucky just manages press the flat of his tongue against the tip of his dick before Steve’s orgasm is torn out of him, whiting out his world as if he’s been pitched headfirst into the sun, shattering him from the inside.
He loosens his hands from Bucky’s hair, petting the back of his head apologetically, and looks down, then groans, dick pulsing feebly at the sight. Bucky licks the corner of his mouth, catching some of Steve’s come with the tip of his tongue.
“Get the fuck up here,” Steve demands, yanking at Bucky’s shoulders. Bucky carefully tucks Steve back into his jeans, zipping him up with trembling fingers, then climbs to his feet.
“You’re so—that was—” Steve stumbles over his words, entire body shivering from the aftermath. Bucky isn’t much better, muscles quivering under golden skin, his eyes slightly wild. Steve surges up to kiss him—never mind that Bucky’s face is covered in Steve’s come—clinging desperately to the back of his head. Bucky groans into the kiss, grinding his dick against Steve’s hip, and they’re trembling against each other. It’s too much. It’s too fucking much.
“Tell me what you want,” Steve murmurs into Bucky’s ear.
“You,” says Bucky, automatic. “I just want you, Steve.”
Steve kisses him, hard and open mouthed, tasting himself in Bucky’s mouth. He pulls back just enough to brush his lips against Bucky’s cheek. “You want me to fuck you?”
Steve can feel how Bucky’s eyes squeeze shut and the way his entire body shivers at the question. “I’ll need some time,” Steve murmurs in his ear. “How about I finger you, instead?” Bucky’s panting in his ear, hips rolling against Steve’s, slightly erratic. “Or what if I eat you out?” A groan at the question, and Bucky’s grinding so hard into Steve’s hip it’s almost painful. “I’ve never done that with another man before, but for you, Buck—”
Bucky’s hands spasm against Steve’s hips and he shudders almost violently, groaning hot and wet into Steve’s bare shoulder, and Steve grins, drunk on lust and savage triumph, petting Bucky’s sweat damp hair.
And then, abruptly, he’s being pulled away.
“Hey—!” he yelps, but Bucky’s dutifully unbuttoning the front of his jeans, and there’s an embarrassing number of cameras pointed down his pants because, oh yeah, they’re shooting a porn. The room has devolved into chaos, Natasha and Clint shouting at each other, Tony shouting at them both as he wheels his camera around, but Bucky’s eyes are on him the whole time, a searing weight branding his chest, right over his heart.
“I can’t believe you made me come in my pants,” Bucky groans, bionic arm draped over his eyes. His cheeks are a dull, brick red.
“It was gorgeous,” Steve insists, tugging at his arm. They’re sprawled out on the bed they never even managed to make it on, cleaned up and changed out of their messed up jeans and into soft sweatpants. Steve had to borrow a pair from Bucky, which, all things considered, isn’t that weird. Best yet, they’re completely alone. Steve can hear the low murmur of Tony and Natasha’s conversation just outside the door, and Clint bellowing something about one of the cameras. Steve wonders if it’s always like this, everyone living in each other’s pockets. He wonders what it says about him that it doesn’t feel at all weird, and why it’s actually sort of nice.
“I haven’t come in my pants in over a decade,” Bucky says, but he lets Steve pull his hand away and link their fingers together. Then he glares a little, but there’s no bite to it. “Stop looking so pleased with yourself.”
“I’m not sure that’s possible,” Steve admits.
Bucky snorts. He lifts their joined hands, rubbing a metal thumb over Steve’s fingers.
“I should tell you,” Steve says, staring at their hands, not quite able to look at Bucky’s face for this. “In my contract, I specified that I’d only be doing shoots with you.” He braves a look at Bucky’s face, and there it is again, that stunned expression that Steve can easily picture himself falling in love with. “Not saying that I expect the same from you, but—I’m only interested in doing shoots with you.”
Bucky gapes at him. Then he makes to scramble off the bed.
“Bucky?” says Steve, wondering if that was too forward.
“I need to change my contract,” Bucky says.
Steve laughs, bright and surprised, then tugs him back. “Later! Do that later.”
Bucky settles back into the bed, but there’s a determined glint in his eyes that warms Steve’s heart. He thinks Bucky’s going to be fighting an uphill battle to secure a contract like that, but the thought that he’d want to fills Steve to the brim.
“Steve, I was thinking,” Bucky says, rolling to his side and pushing himself up on one elbow.
Steve reaches up, tucking an errant lock behind Bucky’s ear. “Hm?”
“I know we’re colleagues now, and, hell, we’re going at this kind of backwards what with all the—you know—but—do you want to grab dinner?” Bucky says, nervous. “As a—as a date?”
Steve stares at him. “You’re serious?”
“Um, yes?” says Bucky, in disbelief. “Steve, are you fucking kidding me? Do you have any idea how hard I fought for you to—Steve, you are fucking ridiculous, I’m already halfway in love with you and we’ve only met twice.”
Steve’s grin spills messily all over his face, and he reaches over to tangle their fingers together. “In that case, I would absolutely love to go on a date with you, Bucky Barnes.”