My fuckbuddy is Captain America and other reality-shattering revelations (that keep Bucky awake at night)
Well. That was unexpected.
Bucky blinked and looked Steve up and down. Maybe it had something to do with the ugly Christmas sweater or the fact that Steve was standing in his living room, but Bucky wasn’t sure he believed Steve at all.
“When you say ‘Captain America’ you mean like, sideshow impersonator, right?”
Bucky was struggling here. He'd never been one to be slow on the uptake, and he honestly thought he was pretty damn clever. He was an ace at Cluedo and whooped ass at Werewolf Online. Yet he also wouldn’t put tickets on himself and say he was a genius; he was no fucking Einstein. After all, according to Steve, Bucky had been getting pounded by Captain Fucking (Bucky had to resist the urge to snicker to himself) America for the better part of a year without noticing.
Mostly, Bucky felt jibbed. Like he’d been robbed of something special. That awe-inspiring moment that happened in movies and nasty porn. Banging Captain America was one of those life-altering things that, Bucky assumed, should have come with sparks and red and blue fireworks. It was something you should just know. The moment Bucky saw that shoulder to waist ratio and felt that heavy bulge pressing against his ass, there should have been a guiding, spiritually cosmic awakening in him that just went: this godly cock belongs to the hero of the ages, and it’s time I salute the flag…pole.
Honestly though, it would explain a few things. Steve’s insane refractory period, for one. That was basically inhuman, and Bucky had often joked about that in his less than wholesome daydreams. The power and force in Steve’s thrusts also lined up with the whole super soldier thing and the way Steve was able to move Bucky around like he weighed no more than a doll backed that theory up.
Steve moved cars and stuff on a frequent basis, and nothing made Bucky feel skinny and light like comparing himself to an SUV.
Still, the world had been through a lot these past years, and Bucky wasn’t about to just blindly accept any and every guy claiming to be a super-hot lab experiment. Not that Bucky had come across many of them in his lifetime, but he still wasn’t about to be some gullible fool.
“Late night infomercial Cap performer?” He asked in one last, ditch-all effort to force this insanity to make sense. “Documentary reenactor?”
Steve didn’t look amused, so Bucky took that as a no.
“Bucky,” Steve said. It was the sort of tone parents used on unreasonable children – not that Bucky would know; he hated kids and avoided talking to them at all costs – and somehow that only seemed to solidify the claim. Parental, stern and slightly reprimanding; if that wasn’t a perfect cross-section of the Star-Spangled Man, then the world had been sorely misled in its assumptions.
Also, the way Steve said his name should have been illegal, and Bucky tried to make a mental note to report that to someone. It was a fucking sin, and then some. Something that went deeper and darker and far more erotically primal than just sin itself.
Bucky couldn’t handle it. Now that the fluffy cat-dragon had abandoned its white mug hoard, Bucky picked up the shiny new cup and paced his way into his small kitchen. Or trudged. That was a better way of describing his haughty steps and jolted movements. His brain had slipped into such a dramatic overdrive that he was struggling to make his limbs function correctly.
Mug in hand, he reached for the most essential thing in the kitchen, probably even the house. Some people would say photos of loved ones, or laptops and wallets. Others would say food, or that a good set of knives was vital to living a good life. Bucky considered the Stolichnaya as the most important thing and, honestly, on most days, if he only had a minute to grab something crucial before fleeing his apartment, it would probably be the bottle of vodka. There wasn’t much a solid chug couldn’t fix, and it wasn’t like the booze could grow legs and save itself.
Alpine, on the other hand, would be fine and could save her own damn self. Hell, she’d probably be the one causing the chaos and would thus be long gone, leaving Bucky to die alone in the wake of her destruction.
Said fluffy white monster was on the fire escape window sill, licking her paws and rubbing her ears as if Steve hadn’t just dropped the biggest bomb this side of WW2. Bucky suspected that she already knew somehow. People said cats were psychic and astral travellers and other such stuff that Bucky didn’t really believe in, so maybe she’d looked into the great unknown and found an answer to all the big, important questions that wasn’t 42. It was highly unlikely, but maybe it was time for Bucky to re-evaluate those beliefs. After aliens and robots and being the kinky outlet for the pinup boy for America’s (apparent) wholesomeness, it was probably about time Bucky did some deep soul searching. It might do him good, especially since god only knew he’d never go to confession or anything. That would take too long and probably burn out the brains of some priests. Then again, most of them tended to do worse than Bucky did and fuck, he was getting off track again.
Unscrewing the cap – the bottle cap, because there was no ‘unscrewing’ Steve – Bucky returned his attention back to the man in question. He tipped an overly generous pour into the mug before blindly flailing behind him to open the freezer. He kept his eyes on the man standing awkwardly in his cramped living room even as his hands went through the practised motions of dropping ice cubes into his cup.
Steve, for his part, just stared back, a sheepish, apologetic look on his stupid, stupid face. It matched the pouting snowman on his sweater in a way that was almost garish.
Bucky took a healthy glug of the cooling Stoli before looking into the mug, shrugging at the liquid level, and then filling it up to the top.
It was the holiday season. Everyone drank.
Also. Captain America had been reaming him into a multitude of solid surfaces a few times a week for close to a year. If that didn’t justify copious alcohol consumption, then it was time to swear off humanity entirely because all faith would be lost.
The cool, smooth tones of the vodka went well with the sudden hit to the senses that the alcohol punched Bucky with. It sparked pleasantly in Bucky’s brain, giving him the fortitude to carry on.
“When you say Captain America-”
“Bucky.” This time it was more pleading. A desperate need to be understood and taken seriously and hell, Bucky was close to doing just that. The way Steve shifted and shuffled his feet and looked down and then up at Bucky through lashes that looked like they belonged on a comic-book villainess was wearing down Bucky’s resolve to be a sceptic.
Now honestly, two hours and thirty-nine minutes ago, when Steve had said he wanted strings to tie them into a relationship, Bucky had been ecstatic. He’d been frothing at the mouth over his fuckbuddy for too long now, and honestly, something just had to give. They either needed to part ways before things got too much or fuck until they got it out of their systems and couldn’t stand each other.
Or, of course, go for that terrifying middle ground where conversations were had, and feelings were allowed.
While Steve had been off getting clothes and food – Remembering the food, the hand not tightly wrapped about his vodka mug reached for a spring roll – Bucky had gone through the obligatory freak out stage.
Strings were big! They changed things. Bound things. Made separate things into one thing. Sure, they could be cut if need be, but the marks of their presence would always be there, indented and choking in all the ways that Bucky didn’t enjoy. It was a giant leap, and they’d need to lay their cards on the table and see what shit life could throw at them.
That sounded brave; Bucky didn’t feel brave though, and so he’d paced around the living room and almost gnawed straight through his bottom lip.
Alpine had watched him, her blue eyes flicking back and forth as Bucky roamed the small space.
“You’re really no help, you know that?” Bucky had hissed at his cat, and she, ever insightful, had hissed back.
That, Bucky decided, concluded all attempted conversations with the feline. Temperamental little beast that she was.
By the time Steve had come back, shuffling a duffle bag and delicious smelling Chinese food through the unlocked door and into the kitchen, Bucky had calmed himself down. It was fine. This was fine. He was fine. Everything was fine with an i and not a y. After all, there were only so many times Steve could freak out and run, and if they were playing at all-out honesty, then those strings wouldn’t be around long enough to even leave a mark.
Needless to say, Bucky thought that he would be the one throwing multiple spanners into the world of ‘strings attached’. After all, not many people considered his line of work to be wholesome and socially acceptable.
“I need to tell you this,” Steve had said first. Bucky had pulled an Alpine and hissed a little, but sure. Maybe Steve was about to tell him that he was wanted in five countries and three states for murder or was part of the Pink Panthers or something. Bucky hoped it would be the first one; less chance of him getting wowed by the idea of an international man of shady mystery and high stakes jewel heists. After all, Bucky had always been a sucker for – well, conman movies and cool shit like that, but he hadn’t even had the chance to finish that train of thought before Steve ploughed ahead.
“I’m. Well.” He’d taken a deep breath like whatever it was he had to say was shocking. Murderer for twenty points; Bucky had been willing to put money on it.
“I’m Captain America.” Steve had said, and Bucky found himself really wishing for a homicide confession. That would have been easier to swallow.
Bucky was utterly sure that he handled it like a pro. He didn’t gush and freak out and ask for an autograph on his ass cheek or anything, and he didn’t spontaneously nosebleed all over the place like some twelve-year-old anime fangirl. So that was a bonus, and Bucky gave himself a point for being a sensible, reasonable adult about yet another out-of-this-world situation. He was getting good at this.
It also blew Bucky’s own issues and pending confessions way out of the water. Bucky guessed they’d jump off that bridge when they came to it though because right now, knowing that Steve ran around in tights and like, stopped dangerous things with a giant frisbee was a little more important.
That all, in turn, brought Bucky back to the present where he was standing in his kitchen with a mug of vodka in one hand and his mouth forming an O around the end of the spring roll he’d shoved in there and then forgotten to chew.
That wasn’t to say that Steve was doing any better. He was still standing in the middle of the room, looking really awkward. Even Alpine had read the room and stopped her obsessive grooming. She had one hind leg up in the air, her front paws between her spread hind legs. She’d been licking herself – honestly, cats; weird things, but they seemed to get all the fun – and was now just staring at them with her tongue out.
Bucky blinked and stopped staring at the bloody hussy-cat. He took a bite of the cold spring roll and chased it down with some more vodka.
“When you say-”
“Bucky.”
Bucky wondered how long they could do this for before one of them short-circuited and just shut down.
“I know it’s a lot to take in,” Steve said, and Bucky, for once, had the mental fortitude not to pull a ‘that’s what he said’ joke over Steve’s choice of words. Now was not the time for size queen frivolity.
“And I understand if this changes… everything.” Steve actually sounded sad, and Bucky was sure he could see a faint pout on those beard-framed lips.
Bucky munched on the spring roll and tried not to swoon while playing the devil’s advocate for his own brain.
Steve was saying words, but he was also coming closer, and that was dangerous. Perilous territory in the way that Bucky wanted to grab and touch and lick and nibble.
“You’re not saying anything,” Steve reasoned out loud. Bucky swallowed the spring roll and took another sizable gulp from his mug, all while quirking an eyebrow in Steve’s direction. “So, I’m going to take that as thinking and possible shock, and not as terror or fear. But. Blink twice if you don’t want me to come any closer.”
Bucky stared until his eyes threatened to dry out. Not that it took that long for Steve’s hands to be on him anyway.
Steve had always been strong. Bucky had been aware of that from the start, and it was one of the reasons he’d fallen so hard and fast.
Not that he’d fallen for Steve, of course. It was just a matter of myfuckbuddy is hella hot and throws me around just how I like, sort of falling. Perfectly normal.
But now when Steve closed his hands around Bucky’s hips and lifted him easily off the floor to deposit him on the kitchen island, Bucky noticed things. Different things. Sure, he noticed how Steve’s forearms pumped up and the veins that swelled up to the surface, and there was no way in hell that Bucky couldn’t see the way Steve’s biceps almost ripped out of his sweater. He also noticed that throb of a pulse in Steve’s throat; it made Bucky want to nip and bite at it like some depraved creature of the night. Which, he guessed, he was, just not in a Stoker sort of way.
Despite all that sexy muscle straining, it was uncanny how Steve didn’t show any signs of struggle. Bucky was not a little guy. He was tall and sometimes he went to the gym – he tended to get his exercise through night-time activities that were a lot more fun – so while gym junkies and steroid addicts who thought arm wrestling was a sport would be able to lift him easily enough, there still would have been some sort of strain—a tightening of the jaw and a pop of an eye and maybe an unsexy grunt.
Steve didn’t even bat a perfect fucking eyelash.
Bucky tallied that up as one check in the ‘Steve isn’t lying’ column.
Sitting up on his bench, Bucky looked Steve up and down and then threw back the last of his vodka. It cold-burned the back of his throat and made his fingertips tingle and ache, though, maybe, that was just from denying himself the impulse to touch Steve.
Steve took the mug gently from his hands, and Bucky let him.
“I want this,” Steve said, stepping in between Bucky’s legs. When had Bucky started spreading them? Automatic impulse; Bucky cursed himself, but that didn’t stop him from widening the gap and inviting Steve in closer. “With you. I want to try. If you’ll have me.”
Steve’s hands were the embodiment of sin, and idly Bucky wondered how and why he was so heavy with the bullshit biblical references all of a sudden. But like, if there was a devil that didn’t wear Prada, then it was Steve. Or at least it was Steve’s hands. They skimmed up Bucky’s sides, catching on the folds and wrinkles of his clothing before trailing over his chest. Bucky sucked in a deep breath and Steve's fingers followed the dips and rises of his collarbones and throat. And then they were there; those damn strong fingers cradling Bucky’s head and Steve’s worn and weathered – but currently gentle – thumbs skimming back over the lines of Bucky’s cheekbones. It was a power move and one that rendered Bucky helpless. He was putty in Steve’s hands, and his legs hooked and pulled and pressed Steve closer, his ankles settling in comfortably behind Steve’s impressive thighs.
“Is this a Captain America™ interrogation technique, because if so, oh my god,” Bucky’s words trailed off with a gasp. That sentence didn’t end up where Bucky had intended it when he started, but that was hardly his fault. Not when Steve was looking at him like that, and touching Bucky like he was the most important thing in the world.
“Bucky.” Stern. Long-suffering with Bucky’s puns and jokes. Hopeful; all the ways that Steve could say his name should have been illegal because they did unjust things to Bucky’s brain and nether region. Bucky was sure he could get away with pleading insanity just from the way his body responded to Steve.
“Steve.”
That made Steve stop. He blinked and smiled, the expression wide and open and so honest that he’d stand no chance against a Bond villain. But that was alright. Stark seemed to be as close to a real-world Bond villain as they came, and he’d declared himself good at some stage, so that took some pressure off things.
Honestly, keeping track of world-threatening superbeings and their allegiances was about as rough as playing Town of Salem with half the players on mute.
“Are you okay with this?” Steve asked. Stupid, polite old-world people. Bucky was sure that Steve would be the type to spell ‘okay’ with an a and a y, unlike any normal product of this century.
“If you really are Captain America, then what the fuck are you doing here?”
Here as in here; in all ways. With him, in his crummy little walk-up apartment with the squeaky door and a needy old deaf woman next door. Here, in Bucky’s life and not just checking it out for a wild ride on the other side of the tracks. Here, scratching Alpine behind the ears and buying Bucky cute mugs that somehow said a world more than the cheesy meme implied.
“I’m here because I want to be,” Steve said. That wasn’t all that impressive and swoon-worthy in Bucky’s opinion, but the way Steve looked at him and swiped his thumbs over Bucky’s cheeks again made up for that.
“I don’t often get to go where I want, and be who I want, and spend time with who I want,” Steve continued. “And you are hot as hell, and didn’t fall all over me, and you smiled and didn’t call the gossip columns when I kissed you. And then you sucked my brain and all sense of reason out through my cock and-” Bucky laughed out loud at that, cutting Steve off for a moment as he chuckled himself. “And then I sort of got attached to you and your really odd ways.”
Well, at least Steve wasn’t trying to fully win him over with honied words and elaborate sweeping gestures.
“Sap,” Bucky still accused simply. He wasn’t blushing; it was just hot in the room.
“You asked,” Steve chuckled in response, those thumbs sweeping that same path, and Bucky had to wonder if Steve understood what that act really did to him.
Now that all that was out of the way – not that Bucky was one hundred percent sure that Steve really was America’s ass; there was still a chance that he was lying – Steve tilted his head forward, moving in for a pretty well-deserved kiss.
“Wait!” Bucky exclaimed, one hand shooting up to stop Steve’s advances. The muscles that his fingers splayed out over should have been impossible. Then again, Bucky guessed they technically were.
Steve paused like the real old-world – but kinky as fuck – gentlemen that he was, and really, Bucky probably should have put two and two together months ago.
“This means you’re old as hell,” Bucky breathed. If Steve was the infamous Cap, then; holy shit. Bucky blinked as his eyebrows furrowed in borderline horror. “I don’t do the ‘Daddy’ thing. Or… ‘granddaddy’ thing.” Bucky’s face screwed up as he said the word, his stomach-churning. “Oh god, that was disgusting just to say.”
Steve took it all in his impressive stride, his hands dropping to Bucky’s hips. They didn’t let go, but rested there, fingers curled to give him a careful grip. He used it to pull Bucky in closer, ever so subtly grinding them together.
As always, Bucky was impressed with what he felt.
“I’m not that old,” Steve reasoned. It came with a twitch in his pants and a hard press that only grew larger. No old man could do that, but Bucky heard what any rational person would.
“Oh my god, you’re like. Dead.” Holy shit! Bucky was basically boning a corpse. Or, really, a corpse had been boning him.
Nope. No way that Bucky tried to justify that in his head made it any sorts of okay.
“I didn’t die,” Steve sighed.
“But you were like, born in the ’40s! I think my grandfather was-” Bucky wasn’t sure they were sharing the same conversation here, but that didn’t matter.
“I died in the ’40s,” Steve corrected, not even realising that he’d walked right into Bucky’s trap.
“See!” Bucky exclaimed, quickly changing track as his brain switched over. His right hand shot up, index fingers stretching and pointing like he was cursed to draw attention to lies. “Dead!”
“Science!” Steve explained, as if that, well, explained everything. It didn’t. Not at all, at least not to Bucky and his basic human grasp of the world. But then, aliens! And a robot had blown up a European country, so really Bucky had accepted harder to swallow realities, so he shrugged and nodded, and that seemed to be all the assurance that Steve needed.
It was amazing just how fast Steve could move when he wanted to. They went from fully clothed, rutting against each other, to Bucky being stripped down to his birthday suit and bent over the floating island bench in a matter of seconds. Steve could have ripped all of Bucky’s clothes off for all he knew. Bucky let out an oof of air as he was turned around. A strong hand planted itself into the spot between his shoulder blades, shoving him roughly down, so his cheek hit the fake marble of his counter; Steve’s feet kicked his legs apart in a way that made Bucky moan wantonly.
Fuck, he loved this. The way Steve just took charge. The way the taller man moved Bucky around like he was some living doll. How Steve held him down and drove him wild and also made him feel like he was something important and special and treasured. It was a crazy mix that Bucky had never found in anyone else before, and that certainly wasn’t due to a lack of trying.
When he and Steve had first started fooling around, Bucky had been sure that he’d won some sort of fuckbuddy lottery, but now he just knew.
It was hot being with someone who knew what they wanted and who wasn’t afraid to take it. Within reason, of course, and while they’d never had that talk – not officially, at least – Steve was observant and crazily controlled enough to stop if Bucky ever asked.
“Oh god, yes,” Bucky moaned. As if he’d ever want Steve to stop doing things like this, or to stop rutting his still clothed erection against Bucky's naked behind.
“We need to keep supplies everywhere from now on,” Steve grunted. Bucky agreed with that. Oh, damn, how much he agreed with that! From now on his cutlery drawer was going to have a spot for lube and condoms, and his magazine rack? Well, who even read magazines and papers these days anyway? He’d fill it with much more useful items. “I’ll have to go to the bedroom,” Steve sighed. He was still pressed tightly up against Bucky’s ass, and his hand was still planted on the back of Bucky’s neck. “But I’m taking you here. Don’t move.”
Bucky moaned out loud and nodded, his cheek squeaking against the countertop.
It was a wholly unnatural feeling letting Steve move away from him, and even stranger for Bucky to stay put. The moment Steve’s warmth was gone, Bucky became aware of everything, like the cool breeze against his back from the air cooler he used to help balance out his shitty, over the top central heating. He could feel the way his legs shook slightly, and the rigid line of the countertop pressing in against his stomach while his rigid line hung slightly squished against the cupboard door.
It was a thrill that had his fingers clawing uselessly at the faux marble and his glutes shaking with need.
The time alone was a wicked torture that would have been a masterful powerplay from Steve if one thing hadn’t happened. They said that no one expected the Spanish Inquisition, but Bucky knew for sure that there was one terror even worse.
Alpine jumped up onto the kitchen bench and sat her fluffy white ass down. She looked at Bucky in a way that was clearly judgemental before lifting one paw to her mouth and giving it a little lick. The action looked snide as all hell.
“Don’t judge me,” Bucky snarled. Alpine hissed back, her tail flicking from side to side and for a horrible moment, Bucky was sure that she was going to come over and swat at him. Exhibition wasn’t something that Bucky was too worried about. It was more the fear of her insufferable temperament and those damn sharp claws that made Bucky act like a prude with a need to keep his clothes on when she was in the room.
Alpine glared at him some more until Steve made a sound of appreciation deep in the back of his throat as he returned. The cat meowed and jumped down, no doubt to rub herself against Steve’s calves like the treacherous little hoe that she was.
“If only you could see yourself,” Steve’s voice filled the room, a soft murmur that reminded Bucky of gentle kisses but rough, tight hands. His cock twitched against the wood and Bucky let out a needy little moan in response. He’d been looking in the opposite direction to the bedroom, and he had – for once – been completely good and not moved an inch. Bucky could only hear as Steve chuckled at Alpine’s attention, and he could only guess that soft meowing and purring and cooing from Steve meant that he’d picked her up.
Bucky was about to protest and show his abject disapproval by standing up and causing a scene, when he heard Steve say, “just for a bit,” in that kind tone he used for the damn fur monster. The bedroom door closing stilled any movement Bucky had been about to make, and he smiled so wide that his lip brushed against the island top.
The next thing he knew, Steve’s hand was trailing up his right flank; Bucky shivered at the touch and gasped, his skin breaking out in bumps.
“I like you like this,” Steve purred. Bucky was already that far gone that he was proud he could even whimper in response. “Naked and spread out and being well behaved.”
Bucky was used to tracking Steve’s movements behind him. Not that they only ever fucked like this, with Bucky bent over and his ass up in the air. They went at it every which way, and even then, some ways that seemed utterly impossible – which now, Bucky reasoned, made a lot more sense. Steve was strong as hell, and while Bucky had thought it remarkable that Steve could fold him in half against a wall and keep him upright with his feet in the air, Bucky had been too sex-drunk to really think about the how or why.
Still, Bucky was good at noticing the little things. The smell of his favourite lube, for one, and the sound of Steve unbuckling his belt and sliding his zipper down. That, in particular, needed to be added to the list of Steve Illegal things; it was a dangerous drug, and the visions it conjured in Bucky’s mind were better than any porno. He could just imagine the way Steve’s fingers would work that metal, and the way he would hook his thumbs into the flaps of his jeans and pull them apart. There was no sound of material hitting the floor, so Bucky had to stifle a groan as he heard Steve shift and grunt and then felt the silky heat of Steve’s cock resting against his cheeks.
Steve wasn’t even going to take his damn pants off, and Bucky was honestly worried he was about to pass out.
Captain fucking America thrust his cock up and down Bucky’s cleft a few times before the crinkle of foil stole Bucky’s shoddy attention.
“Hang on,” Bucky pleaded, his arm flailing out to pat at Steve’s thigh in a bid to get his attention. It was the first time he’d moved since Steve had told him – ordered him – to stay.
Steve, as always, paused. It came with a sigh this time, and a bit of a defeated huff(ed). Maybe Steve expected Bucky to freak out about him being old and dead again, but honestly, that was basically yesterday’s news and so far from Bucky’s mind. His mind being his dick, of course, because that was what was driving his brain-ship right now. All stick; all go-go-go.
“If you don’t want this, that’s… understandable. Just be honest,” the well-hung super soldier said.
Bucky laughed and rolled his eyes. If someone had tried to tell him that Captain America was a drama queen, then he would have laughed in their face. And yet, here they were.
“You can’t get sick, right?” Bucky said instead.
“Riiiight,” Steve said, clearly with a much longer vowel sound than needed. The poor man was confused.
“And I’m clean…” Bucky prompted.
“You did shower this morning.”
“Oh, for fucks sake,” Bucky huffed. Now he was starting to doubt his own intelligence. Half the shit that Steve said gave his age – or ‘out of time mentality’ or whatever the fuck they liked to call it – away, and honestly, Bucky should have known that there was something weird about him ages ago.
Cock blindness; that’s what Bucky put it down to. Steve had fucked the observant sense clear out of him.
It was wholly strange to be naked and bent over his kitchen counter having a bloody yarn with the man fiddling with a condom behind him, but this was one of those moments that Bucky had to just press on through. It was important.
Drumming his fingers on the table and giving his ass an enticing little wiggle, Bucky glanced over his shoulder at Steve. “Unless super soldier spunk can get nice boys pregnant, then we don’t have a condom-needing issue here.”
“Oh,” Steve said with all the conviction of someone who didn’t understand what was happening. Then it seemed to click. “Oh!” Now he was there. Good boy.
“Oooh!” Bucky agreed with a nod. Sage words, all around, and Bucky was mildly impressed that they could have a whole conversation with a single syllable, same sound sentences and actually understand each other.
“You sure?” Steve asked. His voice caught in this throat, all scratchy and thick and belittling any attempt he might have made to seem like he wasn’t fantasizing about it. Bucky got it. He really did. Swimming wrapped up wasn’t the best feeling – ditching the condom was probably the best part about becoming exclusive – but then all tops seemed to have this pleasant trigger in their heads that went off at seeing their spunk everywhere. It was Alpha dog syndrome or something. Not that Bucky had anything against it and if he was honest with himself – dirty as fuck, but honest – then he knew he’d get off knowing that Steve’s release was in him.
“Fuck me, Captain,” Bucky stated decisively.
That was all it took. Bucky knew he’d swayed Steve to the dark side just by the way the other man groaned. The fact that Steve took all of a single heartbeat to line his uncovered cock up with Bucky’s entrance and push, simply solidified what Bucky already knew.
Steve entered in one swift, demanding thrust, and Bucky basically screamed the house down.
It didn’t hurt. They’d been going at it all night and morning, so Bucky wasn’t rocking some tight, needy little ass right now, but he still felt it all the way along his spine, from the base of his tailbone up to his neck, and the pleasure of it drove him wild. The fact that Steve was unrelenting and moving already made it even better. Steve had this fantastic way of taking exactly what he wanted with seemingly little regard for Bucky at all, only, in so doing, he gave Bucky everything he needed and more.
There was a hand gripping Bucky’s hip tightly, and the other was back in its seemingly rightful spot. Fingers curled around the back of Bucky’s neck, holding him down and pinning his torso in place even as Steve worked Bucky’s hips back and forth.
Bucky mouthed at the counter in pure desperation as Steve picked up the pace. It was rough and demanding and unforgiving and everything that Bucky craved. It drowned out the crazy monologues that Bucky generally had running through his head and replaced them with simple things. Base needs and desires. More. Steve. Please. Harder. Steve. Fuck.
And then just like that, Steve stopped. No more thrusts, no more wonderful fingers clawing at Bucky's hips. No more super soldier cock opening him up in ways that made Bucky drool! Just Steve moving away and an emptiness that threatened to swallow Bucky whole. The swat to the ass was appreciated, but it was a cold comfort.
“I want to see you,” Steve said over the bleating sounds of Bucky's protest. He’d been so close, even being rocked up and driven into his own kitchen bench as he was. It was torture.
“Come on,” Steve instructed. His hands grabbed Bucky’s hips again, but this time he pulled Bucky fully back. For his part, Bucky slid off the counter like a liquefied person, and only managed to straighten his back once he’d taken two staggering steps away from the island.
Steve’s hands disappeared, and Bucky frowned as he found himself trying to stay on his shaky, jelly-like legs.
“You’re a mess,” motherfucking Captain America breathed against the back of his throat, and that’s when Bucky realised that everyone’s favourite wholesome and relatable superhero was getting off on this. On Bucky being naked and hard and slick with lube and stretched open, and fuck, hardly able to stand.
Oh, how TMZ would lap this shit up!
“Over to the couch.” The instruction came with a slap to the ass that stung so much Bucky’s cock jerked and tried to make demands for attention. Bucky ignored it and shuffled and staggered his way out of the kitchen and into the lounge room. It was only when Bucky’s hands could grip the back of the couch like a safety rail that he turned and saw that Steve had not only been following him but was doing so while lazing stroking himself.
“Holy shit,” Bucky swallowed. Honestly, right now, even the ugly as fuck Christmas sweater was doing it for Bucky, and that was a thought he’d never expected to have.
“Keep going.” Steve was all about the simple instructional commands right now, and even that was doing it for Bucky as well. He was a little unsure of what that meant, but the hand Steve wasn’t using to touch himself flicked in the direction of the armrest.
Bucky took the hint and scooted around, and Steve wasted no time. One minute he was halfway between the kitchen and the lounge, and then the next his hand was on Bucky’s chest, pushing him back. There was no stopping the startled gasp, or the way Bucky’s legs flew up lewdly as he fell back onto the cushions.
Steve shimmied out of his pants and dropped them to the floor, but that wasn’t before a devious grin flashed across his lips. Bucky watched, prone and hard and fucking needy, as Steve reached for his discarded pants and slipped his belt free.
Bucky was sure his eyes blew up to the size of saucers when Steve turned the leather over in his hand. He gave the belt a tight pull and grinned down at Bucky with a purely predatory look in his eyes. Steve was a kinky bastard, and given that he was meant to be perfect Captain fucking America, Bucky couldn’t help but chuckle. He wondered how the world would deal with their golden boy getting off like this.
“Up,” Steve commanded, his fingers rapping against the side of Bucky’s right ankle. Bucky was clearly too slow on the uptake because Steve huffed and grabbed his foot, using it to manoeuvre Bucky’s leg up and out. “Hand,” Steve grunted. Bucky made sure to do as he was told this time, and with the skill of someone used to buckling up uniforms, Steve fastened Bucky’s wrist to his ankle with the belt.
It was rudimentary and crude, and even Bucky could have slipped it if he’d wanted to, but there was no way this side of hell that he’d ever do that. In fact, he wrapped his hand around his ankle and held on tight, even as his cheeks burned a little at the position it put him in.
Steve liked it; it was written all over his face, and while he did leave Bucky for a moment, it was to come back with the sparkling Christmas ribbon that Bucky had pulled off the gift box. When Steve fastened his left wrist to his left ankle, Bucky was sure that being tied up with Christmas cheer was quickly becoming one of his new kinks.
Steve gave him a bit of a yank, moving Bucky’s lower back up onto the armrest of the couch. It had Bucky’s head back against the cushions, his ass up – just as Steve liked – and with his legs spread wide and fastened to his hands, Bucky was rendered completely immobile. Again, that was just how Steve seemed to like it, and, as if to prove as much, Steve took a moment to stroke himself while looking Bucky over. They’d done a lot of deliciously dirty things in the past – and Steve wasn’t the first that Bucky had played around with – but this had Bucky flushing in ways that he never thought possible.
Thankfully he wasn’t left so exposed for long. Steve gave him one last appreciative look over – the glance totally lecherous in all the best ways – before he bent his knees, grabbed Bucky’s hips and picked up where they’d left off.
Steve sank down to the hilt, his body shuddering with pleasure before pulling back. Bucky whimpered out when Steve’s hips kept going, withdrawing his super-soldier-cock completely.
Legs twitched, fingers clawed at his ankles, and Bucky’s cock left damp trails across his abdomen. “Steve.” It was just a name, but Bucky was sure he’d never sounded so damn desperate in his entire life.
“You’re so good,” Steve murmured. His eyes were certainly not on Bucky’s face as he lined his cock up and pushed in once again. Bucky mewled and arched as much as he could but then Steve – fucking Steve – pulled out again. It left Bucky gasping and muttering nonsense and moaning like he was some cam boy or a whore in an old-timey Western movie.
The torture went on for wholly too long in Bucky’s learned opinion. It took him past the point of desperation, into the realm of cursing Steve’s superhero cock – as well as wondering why Bucky had never clued into how weird Steve’s stamina was before – and then back to Bucky being a mindless, drooling mess. Each slide in, rock, drag and spasm of being left empty had Bucky pleading; for more, for less, for harder and deeper and oh god, don’t stop!
Once Steve really got started, Bucky found himself giving up. There was nothing he could do – nothing he wanted to do – other than take it. His body pressed into the cushions each time Steve roughly drove home, but Steve’s hands had threaded through Bucky’s raised legs to grab at his hips and then pulled Bucky back up again. And he seemed to always know the right angles to make, and the right places to hit, and Bucky had to wonder if Steve had always been a sex god or if that came out of a bottle too.
After several brain-rattling thrusts against Bucky’s prostate and two lazy strokes from Steve’s right hand, Bucky terrorised his neighbours with yet another series of loud proclamations and moans before spilling all over himself.
Steve, the otherworldly beast that he was, pushed on and took his damn time. When he did finally come, it was with his fingers in Bucky’s mouth, and his body jammed in between his stretched legs, pressing Bucky tightly into the couch.
If Bucky had the power of thought – which he didn’t; that had been fucked right out of him – he would have gone on a tangent about the intense feeling of Steve’s release flooding his insides and all that other rubbish that people went on about. The reality of the matter was a lot different. Bucky had been taken to the point of almost drooling on himself, and he was so raw – pleasantly so – and tingling all over, that there could be a whole damn Captain America appreciation parade happening in his ass and he probably wouldn’t have noticed.
As it was, the belt and ribbon combination was stripped back without Bucky registering that he could move his limbs again. Given that it came with no pain, he guessed that Steve had controlled what would have otherwise been a dead drop of his legs.
He floated back to himself when Steve wrapped around him and nuzzled at his temple. Somehow Steve had gotten them both on the cramped couch, and Bucky’s legs were thankfully no longer up over the armrest. Instead, he was nestled in against the back with Steve somehow managing not to fall off the edge. Bucky would have – fallen off, that was, but then he guessed that the super-soldier thing killed the klutz gene. Said star-spangled man was pressing little kisses against Bucky's sweaty temple, nuzzling and licking and then damn-well nibbling his way down Bucky's throat.
“Are you alright?” was asked between kisses.
Sex-drunk and cock-high, Bucky grinned and shivered at the attention, lapping it up and all but purring. He tightened the arms he was slowly regaining use of and nodded. He felt good; really good, and that only intensified when Steve wrapped himself around Bucky and pulled him in closer.
“Always so good for me.”
“Well,” Bucky chuckled. His voice was raspy, and his throat dry. One leg moved to thread in with Steve’s despite the strain in his muscles. “As the famous philosopher, JT once said,” Bucky grinned. Steve was looking at him with wide, earnest eyes. They were so blue and receptive; Bucky almost felt bad. “I’ll let you whip me if I misbehave.” Now it was Bucky's turn to nuzzle and sigh out his content. “So get ya sexy on!” Bucky concluded, the words murmured against Steve’s flushed skin and a half-hearted attempt at a shimmy.
The gasp Steve let out sent Bucky into a fit of soft but hysterical giggles. Steve sounded just like some bible bashing old prude being offended as if he hadn’t just bent Bucky over the back of a couch and all but demanded Bucky to scream his name.
“Somehow I don’t think that’s from a famous philosopher,” Steve finally objected.
Banging Captain America was going to be fun; kinky, innocent bastard that he was.
-----------
Bucky groaned and leaned back in his chair. The cheap IKEA thing made a creaking sound that said it was on the last legs of its life, and honestly, Bucky was pretty shocked that it had lasted this long.
Still, fear was for the weak, and he gave himself a little spin, his right arm lifting the cord of the headset up, so he didn’t strangle himself in the process. He executed it perfectly, and like it was something he did frequently. As Bucky curled his top lip up to balance his pen under his nose, he mused that yeah, he did tend to spin a lot. It was a boredom quirk.
“Are you there, Jamie?”
Bucky rolled his eyes and dropped his pen back to his hand so he could speak. Technically no, Jamie wasn’t here, but it was close enough to James that he hadn’t bothered to correct the old bitty.
“Yes, Mrs Jones, I’m here.” He said in the headset with his best ‘you’re not killing me with boredom’ tone. Bucky was convincing. “Honestly, it’s your choice.”
“But what if Timmy doesn’t like what I decide?” the old woman asked. She didn’t wait for a response before moving on to talk about that time that Timmy, her son, had hated the colour she’d picked to paint the front fence.
Bucky turned wide, desperate eyes towards the ceiling and prayed for luck. And if not luck, then more aliens, or another Norse god ready to kill them all. Or a plague that would bring the world to a stop. He’d take robots, too, but they hadn’t been all that successful the first time around. Unless, of course, you were in Sokovia, but then Bucky as well as ninety-nine percent of Americans, didn’t know where that was on a map, so they really just didn’t care.
His phone buzzed quietly, and Bucky rocked forward in his chair just enough to snatch it off the table before reclining back again.
As Mrs Jones talked his ear off, Bucky opened the message and baulked for a whole different reason. Well. What did one say to that?
Licking his lips, Bucky rocked back and forth and made an affirmative humming sound into the headset, letting Mrs Jones know that he was totally listening, and wasn’t at all having a solo thumb war over his phone keyboard while trying to work out what to say.
‘Of course, I’m drooling,’ Bucky typed back. ‘The idea gets me so fuckin’ wet.’
It took all of fifteen seconds to get a reply.
‘I knew u wanted me dic, babie.’
Bucky’s eye twitched at the spelling and grammar. Clearly, Steve had been rubbing off on him – ha! Oh, he had been, but that wasn’t what Bucky meant – and started to influence Bucky’s SMS speaking habits. Why not spell the word? It was just one more letter. Hell, the correct spelling would have come up in auto-correct! Pick it.
Rolling his eyes, Bucky typed out an appropriate reply.
‘Want? Need!!! Gotta get that deep in me.’
‘Fuck yeah take it like a slut!’
Bucky raised an eyebrow. Seriously? That was what people thought was hot these days?
Then again, it wasn’t like he could really talk. He’d called himself worse, and while Steve would always kindly lecture him about self-worth afterwards, it didn’t stop the way the super-soldier’s cock throbbed and twitched and leaked when Bucky whored himself up and out for Steve. But that was between them; between two… whatever they were. Strings attached, committed and exclusive fuckbuddies that had been too preoccupied with getting off to actually put a label on their relationship.
That was a funny thing about Steve. He was all into the domination and making Bucky scream and cry and plead for more, but he never used crass words that verbally degraded Bucky. Shove Bucky’s head into a pillow and plough him, or have Bucky gagging on cock while grinning and moaning with delight, sure, but it never came with a single derogatory word.
Clearly, they just didn’t make the dominant male species like they did back in the ’40s. Or whenever Steve was born; Bucky should probably read a history book at some point. Or watch that dude with countless educational history channels on Youtube. Surely, he’d have a biography special on Captain America.
‘Oh yes, yes yes,’ he sent back, ‘fill me with your god cock.’
“Yes, Mrs Jones,” Bucky switched back. He lowered his phone and stared at the logo of the company that was flashing on his monitor. The screensaver had kicked in; that’s how long Mrs Jones had been going on for. “That is correct. For an extra ten dollars a week, you can cover a nominated family member.”
‘Oh, you want that, baby?’ The message flashed across Bucky’s screen, filled with so many eggplants and water emojis that the sexual innuendo all but punched Bucky in the face.
His thumbs danced again as he mentally constructed replies. What would Peter, 51, NY City like? He had a lot of shot-down-low images of his cock. It was like an amateur photographer thinking that if they stood at the base of the building and aimed their stock standard lenses up, they’d fool Instagram scrollers into thinking they had some semblance of skill. Only here, skill meant length and girth, and honestly, Bucky had seen a lot better, and that wasn’t even taking Steve into account.
‘You know I do, big boy! Gonna feel sopoo good.’
‘Gonna put this in all ya wholes.’
Honestly? There was a difference with holes and wholes, and Bucky covered the mouthpiece of his headset with his hand so he could huff his disappointment at humanity out loud.
‘Ya better worship my dic!’
His phone vibrated in his hand, and Bucky was faced with yet another unflattering dick pic. First of all, as a gay male obsessed with getting cock, he still didn’t see the appeal in the unsolicited – or even solicited – dick picture, and secondly, if you didn’t have anything impressive, then don’t photograph that shit. No one wanted to see a well-sharpened pencil dick, no matter how into a person you were. Sure, in person, then it wasn’t always the size or girth that counted, but you’d better have a fucking cracking personality and some other assets to make it worthwhile.
‘How is your day going?’
‘Love that dic pic, honey. I wanna choke on it,’ Bucky typed with a series of eggplant and kiss emojis. He hit send before he double-checked himself.
The moment he hit send instead of reply, Bucky knew something was wrong.
“Shit,” Bucky hissed.
“What was that?” the elderly female voice questioned.
Bucky screwed up his nose and flailed his arms at his mistake. Little three-dot bubbles floated by Steve’s name as he typed his reply.
‘What??????’ came back through his phone as Bucky almost fell off his cheap chair with all his flailing.
‘Choke on what?’
‘I know what a dick pic is. A picture of a dick. I didn’t send you one.’
‘Bucky.’
“Jamie?”
‘Answer me.’
‘Choke on me dic you love it it u skank!’
‘What’s going on?’
‘Take it yeah yeah that’s it take it make me cum.’
“Jamie?”
‘down ur throat and on ya face.’
“Shame,” Bucky blurted out, “That’s a shame, Mrs Jones.” He covered. Holy fuck what was going on – oh god; was what was really going through Bucky’s head. The old woman made a series of huffs and then spoke to her dog in the way that only crazy people did. Honestly, she seemed to have one foot in the grave already; Bucky was doing her a favour with this phone call, but even then, he had no clue what she’d been talking about when his life had fallen apart.
He’d just sent Steve – what?
Bucky frantically started scrolling back through his phone even as Peter, 51, NY City kept flashing up over the top of his screen.
‘Take me cock!bitch !yeah.’
“But, Jamie…”
‘Bucky.’
‘What’s going on?’
“…are you there?”
‘gonna drown u with it slut.’
Bucky had a bit going on right now.
“Can I be frank with you, Mrs Jones?” Bucky asked. He hit the Screen Off button on the side of his phone and clutched it to his insanely beating heart. He was about to have a heart attack. This was it. His end. The demise of the great Bucky Barnes, unflappable since ’03; taken out by an accidental text message. As a healthy thirty-something-year-old (because Bucky was so used to lying about his age, he actually forgot, especially in times of high stress) he was about to just keel over and cark it due to cardiac arrest. In his place of work, no less.
Oh god, he hoped they didn’t check his work browser history!
The woman made this weird noise that came paired with muttering about Frank and how she thought his name was Jamie, but Bucky just ignored that. He was too busy trying to use his left hand – because his right would not let go of his phone – to use the mouse and delete Firefox’s history, just in case.
“If the aliens come back, we’ll still be alright. Captain America will save us, so you don’t have to worry so much,” Bucky said with a sense of seriousness that even he found surprising. It wasn’t like he’d kept Steve from anything important, but aliens were old news now, and honestly. If Steve was balls deep in him and grunting the way he was prone to do, then Bucky was going to be royally pissed if Steve left him gaping and horny just because of aliens.
Yes. Steve would save them. Steve. His Steve.
Oh, fuck!
Bucky pulled his phone from his chest and took meticulous care to open the right messenger program.
‘I’ll explain at home,’ Bucky furiously typed to the Captain himself. This was all just too hard. Steve replied with a series of exclamation marks that went on for a long time and came followed up by a just as long row of question marks.
“But, even so, that’s why having a comprehensive plan is so important, Mrs Jones. It will cover you for all known catastrophes, including Extra-Terrestrial debris, as well as Gamma Ray radiation.” That was a good deal, all things considered. People used to say that you had a higher chance of getting taken out by a vending machine than by a shark, but now it was all about those wayward laser bullets and cyborg meat falling from outer-space wormholes.
‘I’m going to let myself in.’
“It does not cover global pandemics, but when will that ever happen again? It’s not like it’s the 1920’s or anything,” Bucky informed. It was essential to get that stipulation and clause across for legal purposes.
“I know you quit smoking, but you wanna come for a ciggy break?” another voice added into Bucky’s chaos. He turned in his chair, offering his co-worker wide, desperate eyes while nodding.
“How about you think it over, Mrs Jones, and I’ll call you back at lunchtime tomorrow to lock the details in, yeah? Yes. Okay. Wonderful. Perfect. I’ll call you then. Bye-bye. Take care.” Bucky spoke over any protests the old woman had before disconnecting the line.
“Fuck breathing that second-hand shit over me, I need one,” Bucky nodded furiously. He only ganked himself once on the headset cord in his haste to stand up and leave the desk.
Honestly, selling pre-paid funeral insurance – separate from life insurance because open casket reconstruction was costly – in this sociological state was a fucking nightmare.
-----------
Two months ago, Bucky had stood in his kitchen and thought: Well. That was unexpected.
This, he guessed, wasn’t all that unexpected, and it only seemed natural that it would come around full circle. It had to come out eventually, and while this wasn’t the way Bucky would have liked it, it did make breaching the subject a lot easier.
“I was working,” Bucky said as if those three simple words would make everything fall into place in Steve’s head.
“I thought you sold funeral plans.”
“I do-”
“So then who were you talking to?” Steve repeated. He’d asked that twice now, and while Bucky was sound of mind – at least, he thought he was – he was still struggling to make words happen. It had left Steve repeating himself which, as far as Bucky could tell, was something he didn’t enjoy. “Tell me!”
Now Bucky had a lot of hang-ups. He really did, and he was the first to admit it. When it came to his sex life, he wanted a man that was going to be gruff and tell him to drop his pants and bend over, and Steve ticked all those boxes. He even came with the added bonus of having a cock that didn’t need special lighting and a creative camera angle to make it look good. Bucky liked to be manhandled, and he wanted to be pushed down and taken and made to cry out and whimper and plead and beg and apologise for anything and everything.
But Bucky put his foot down when it came to his personal life, and he didn’t get off on being commanded around like some pet or toy. Control and dominate him in bed – and the kitchen, and couch, the shower… and the balcony that one adventurous time – but this wasn’t some 50 Shades of Fucked-up Nonsense, 24/7 thing.
And so, while Bucky understood that he had some explaining to do, he couldn’t help but be huffy over the audacity and commanding order in the Captain-who’d-never-actually-earned-a-captaincy’s demands.
“Look,” Bucky sighed. He was already opening up the freezer, reaching for some ice for his Stoli. Surprisingly, his Christmas gift mug was still intact. Alpine obviously approved. “I’m sorry Captain I-have-an-amazing-military-cheque-and-am-funded-by-Tony-Stark America, but a guy’s gotta make a living out here. Have you seen the state of the world?”
Ice. Twist the bottle lid and glug, glug, glug that excellent clear liquor in. Bucky gave the mug a quick swish before taking a big gulp and swallowing it down with a small screw up of his nose.
“I have, and it’s pretty abysmal,” Steve admitted. Good. Bucky could work with Steve admitting fault in the world.
“Exactly!” Bucky exclaimed. His triumph was short-lived, however, as Steve carried on.
“But that doesn’t mean that anyone should turn to-” Steve stuttered, “to prostitution.”
“I’m not a prostitute!” Bucky exclaimed in shock and borderline horror. He didn’t know why he was horrified, but he was. “I’d damn well cost more than ten cents a message if I was a proper hooker. I’d be high-class. An escort. Like. The fancy kind that gets flown around the world and shit.”
Yeah, nothing about that sounded fancy, but honestly, Bucky didn’t care. He had class. And even if he didn’t? Well, he’d hooked Captain America, so that stood for a lot, so fuck anyone who tried to say that Bucky was nothing more than a ten-cent hooker.
Steve wasn’t listening. He had his arms crossed, stern cranky face on. Typically, it drove Bucky wild and had him weak at the knees and practically salivating, but now it just spoke of Steve’s stubborn determination to arrogantly not listen. No wonder he’d gotten into a public smackdown with Tony Stark awhile back.
“Prostitution is for those without choice.” Typical Captain America narrow-mindedness right there; for once, Bucky was able to collate the man he saw in spanks on the TV with the guy standing in his living room. It wasn’t necessarily pretty.
“I’m not a prostitute.”
“There are better ways to make money.”
“Have you seen the state of the economy?”
“And money isn’t everything.”
“Money keeps a roof over my head.”
“And you have the choice to not sell yourself.”
“I feel like we’re both talking and not actually having a conversation here,” Bucky pointed out.
“And your-”
“Fucking stop!” Bucky all but shouted, his hand shooting out in front of him. He was done. This wasn’t happening, even if he rationally knew it was and that it had to, it still just wasn’t happening! Not like this.
If strings – those fucking little bits of ties that forced two people together – were going to be a thing between them, and if Bucky was going to accept that Steve wore tights and all but flaunted his unbreeched ass at the cameras, and wait, what was Bucky’s point?
Bucky sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose.
If Steve got to be a Frisbee throwing superhero, then Bucky got to be – well, whatever the fuck it was that he needed to be to pay rent. There were no ifs, buts or maybes about it.
“I’m not a whore!” Bucky said forcefully. Steve opened his mouth to say something, his face breaking with warring expressions. Bucky ignored it and carried on. “I just convince gullible dudes to spend money on a bogus dating app with the promise of one day meeting me for a date,” Bucky reasoned. He really didn’t understand why Steve was having such an adverse reaction to this.
“It’s just a money grab that filters down into my pocket based on how many messages I send,” Bucky concluded. “While pretending to be female ‘causeitsnotagaychatsitesoitsevenlessofaproblem,” he added in, muttered low and quick and hopefully not audible. Because out of everything, that was what Bucky had the most issues with himself.
Steve, of course, wasn’t fucking human – or something – and so he did in fact, understand what Bucky had mumbled.
“What?”
“It’s not a gay chat site,” Bucky repeated a little louder. Honestly, he wasn’t too sure what was worse. The fact that he got paid to flirt with desperate, lonely guys – and thus swindled them out of $1.99 a message – or if he did it while pretending to be female. Or that it actually worked, and that he made a fucking killing doing so.
But, on the flip side, maybe Steve would see the endearing side of the whole situation. After all, while Bucky wasn’t a whore, he was getting paid to play a role. To be someone else. Bucky was basically an actor! This was basically his ticket to Hollywood. After all, if any of the men on the other end of the app ever found out that they were flirting with a creatively opportunistic gay man, then they’d probably have a fit and die.
“Go on,” Steve urged, pulling Bucky out of his ‘best case scenario’ thoughts.
“I’m currently Natasha, a busty blonde Russian babe with a love of vodka and a kitty cat that needs attention,” Bucky outright admitted. And yeah, maybe the name was a little insensitive what with Steve’s connection to the Black Widow and all, but, in Bucky’s defence, his version of Natasha had been born long before he knew about Steve’s tight-wearing ways and questionably famous friends.
Steve had that hot but judgemental look on his face again, and while Bucky was still ultimately against the ‘Daddy’ thing, he had the sudden urge to add a ‘sir’ in there. He wondered how Steve would take that.
“Why do you think I’m always so fucking horny?” Bucky concluded with a one-shoulder shrug and his best attempt at a sheepish look. It was a little trite given the topic of conversation, but Steve’s edges seemed to soften all the same. Bucky took the opportunity for what it was and inched his way closer.
“Steve.” Bucky said the name simply, but firmly, pausing and breathing in deep. Steve didn’t pull away when Bucky reached for him, which Bucky took as a good sign. He let his thumbs flick over that perfect line of Steve’s beard, following the hair over Steve’s cheeks. It fucking killed Bucky when Steve did that to him, and Bucky would honestly agree to anything if Steve touched him like that and asked anything of him. Bucky just hoped that it would work in reverse.
“I’m sorry you found out that way, but I’m not going to apologise for finding creative ways to pay my rent.” Steve huffed a little, his eyebrows furrowing, but Bucky pressed himself in closer and kept going.
“Steve,” Bucky sighed the name out, and it frightened him how good it felt on his tongue. Like it was the only name he should ever say. “It honestly means nothing other than a boost to my pay. And the occasional giggle over how disgusting people can be.”
Steve couldn’t have been too mad, because he was reaching for Bucky, those sinful damn arms closing around Bucky's lower back to drag him in closer.
“I’ll cover your rent,” Steve said, and honestly, it was a struggle for Bucky to keep his head in the game when Steve’s hands were on him. Even just sitting splayed out over the small of his back like they were, was enough to have Bucky going weak and wanting nothing more than to climb Steve like a tree.
“No,” Bucky finally rasped out. Why was his mouth so dry? He licked his lips and swallowed thickly while looking up into those impossibly blue eyes. There was a flick of green in there; an emerald in the otherwise clear sky and Bucky had long been obsessed with it.
Steve raised an eyebrow and pulled a little, pressing them in closer. It was his lips, this time, that brushed across the top of Bucky's cheek and that was honestly more swoon-worthy than the man’s thumbs. Bucky was pretty damn sure that Steve – annoying and stubborn and backward and old-world Steve – was going to be the death of him.
“I don’t want a sugar daddy.” If Bucky wanted an arrangement like that, then he’d damn well go out and find one. There were even websites for that sort of stuff, and Bucky was still young enough and hot enough to snare some rich old guy. But that wasn’t a life he wanted. He wanted fun and great sex and hell, he’d wanted no strings attached until Steve had waddled through his door dressed like a Dorito. That had been the night that really messed with Bucky's head and tipped his personal goals upside down.
Bucky wasn’t sure what this was – this thing between him and fucking Captain fucking America! – but he knew he wanted it to be as real and grounded in reality as possible. He wanted Steve, not the superhero, and that meant that Bucky didn’t want any Avengers benefit handouts either.
Honesty was, of course, the best medicine, so Bucky pressed on. “Unless it’s Ryan Gosling. He’s my free pass to, just BT-dubs.” Bucky figured that was probably important to get out there while they were laying all their cards on the table.
“Your what? Who? Huh?”
“You know; kind eyes, perfect bone structure. Hey girl memes. (But) often plays super awkward, quiet but murderous dudes.”
“I’m going to assume this is an actor.”
“Yep.”
“And what’s a free pass?”
“Something that thankfully – for you – is narrowed in on Ryan Gosling and not someone like… Tony Stark.” Bucky teased. He hummed in the back of his throat, a devious grin on his face as he looked up at Steve and took sadistic pleasure in the horrified look on his face.
“Don’t worry,” Bucky assured. “If I ever run into Ryan and he wants to fuck-” the look on Steve’s face was classic, “-I’ll make sure you’re invited too. Even if you’re just allowed to watch. I’ll put on a good show for you, sir.”
Steve was doing things; expression things that resembled a stunned fish as his mind worked to make sense of Bucky's words. It was adorable, even if it did contradict the steadily growing bulge in the super soldier’s pants.
“You like the idea of watching, huh?” Bucky taunted with a wicked grin and a playful wink. “Or was it the sir that got you?”
“Both.” Single-word, monosyllabic sentences. Bucky had Steve wrapped around his little finger, and they both knew it. “Say it again.”
“I’ll let you watch...?” Bucky teased. He knew full well what Steve meant, but the gruff, stern look that flashed over his face made the disobedience more than worth it.
“No, Bucky.”
Not quite ready to drop the original point, Bucky pulled his best seductive routine by nibbling on his bottom lip and fluttering his lashes up at Steve. “So, can you accept what your strings are getting tied to, sir?”
It was somewhere around there that the bullets started to fly. Bucky wasn’t too sure, because he was really focused on getting his point across and making an independent, strong fuckbuddy-with-strings-attached stand while yeah, also taunting the hell out of Steve and getting him ready for makeup sex. Bucky wanted strings, and he wanted Steve, and it had occurred to him over Christmas that Steve was in a much better financial situation than him, but that didn’t mean Bucky wanted a sugar daddy. Or a boyfriend that paid his rent and bills. That, in Bucky's opinion, was even worse.
That was prostitution.
Of course, that was working on the idea that Steve was his boyfriend. That was a new term to pop into Bucky's head. Fuckbuddy with strings attached was the general way he referred to Steve in his head, and it wasn’t like they’d been out and about as a couple or anything. Did Captain America date? Have boyfriends? Was that a thing that would be accepted and seen as normal? Shouldn’t he be the heterosexual blonde cowlick American dream with a history in like, lacrosse or whatever weird shit was seen as cool while dating the prom queen?
Speaking of, Steve was on him like a tonne of fleshy, hot bricks, all body mass and weight and limbs closing Bucky in as they fell to the floor.
Bucky squeaked and blinked and wondered what the fuck was going on until his mind helpfully flicked back through a few reels of random thoughts and came up with one word.
Bullets.
“What the fuck?” Bucky yelled though he had the suspicious feeling that Steve wasn’t listening to him. Steve was too busy pushing his head down – in a very unsexy way too, just in case that needed to be pointed out – and shouting his own words.
“Stay down,” Steve kept saying. Bucky's shirt rode up, and his back made a squeaking sound against the old lino flooring as Steve all but forcefully shoved him in behind the island counter. It sure as hell wasn’t the first time that Steve had given him floor-burn, but it certainly was the first to come from bullets ripping Bucky’s apartment to shreds.
It was wood splinters mostly. That was an odd thing for Bucky to notice, but cowering behind his island bench with Steve all but suffocating him in his attempt to keep Bucky down and whole, Bucky had a disturbingly long time to think.
So the wood splinters were a big thing. Generally, in movies, it was all about that glass. That shatter and the sound it made as the shards fell to the ground. It went hand in hand with the danger and the cringe-worthy idea of getting cut to pieces. Where there was broken glass, there was blood. Cuts to the face, to the arms, the feet; it was all part of that epic hero moment that showed how tough and badass they were while the audience shuddered and squirmed and thought about that one time they’d been sure they were going to bleed out through the foot because they’d gotten a piece of glass stuck in their big toe after breaking a wine glass and not doing a good enough job of sweeping it up and Bucky really needed to fucking breathe.
Bucky didn’t have much glass. He had windows – had in every sense of the word – but his kitchen was shitty chipboard and aged pine, and Alpine had ensured that Bucky used nothing but the adult equivalent of a Sippy cup. So while the world did shred around him, and a few bullets hit the Made in Cheap China porcelain bowls that Bucky still owned, there was very little fanfare and danger. Unless there was a vampire in the apartment, because then all those wood splinters would be really dangerous and possibly as life-threatening as the bullets that had made them—
And holy shit someone was shooting at him!
“Breathe,” Steve was saying the word that Bucky’s brain was trying to focus on. Yes. Breathe. Air. It was ok. He wasn’t dying; bullets, yes, vampire slaughterhouse; sure. But Bucky was alive, and Steve had his hands around the top of Bucky’s head in a way that wasn’t sexy, and the homegrown hero was talking him through what should have been automatic bodily responses.
“Breathe, Bucky. In. Out. It’s okay. I’ve got you.” Steve was rational and calm, like fucking alright, alright, alright McConaughey reading audiobooks to promote deep sleep patterns.
“I’ll protect you.” That. That was all Steve, and it broke through the denial shock-wall that Bucky had thrown up the moment everything had gone to hell. “Stay with me, Buck.”
In. Out. Bucky pursed his lips and exhaled. Then he inhaled. The air hurt, but his head stopped spinning long enough that he was able to concentrate on the way his fingers were clutching Steve’s shirt so tightly that it hurt.
It was hours – or minutes or possibly seconds because Bucky hadn’t thought to pay attention to the time when everything had started going amiss – before the whizzing of projectiles stopped. Bucky’s fridge was hissing in a way that sounded wholly unusual, and his shelves and their contents were now on the floor. His oven had seen better days, but then Bucky hadn’t really cleaned it since that drunken pizza on the chopping board incident, so he guessed the inanimate object was used to be disregarded and destroyed, and that made Bucky feel slightly better.
“Buck? Baby? Are you with me?”
Thumbs. Face. Cheeks. Swipe. Classic Steve move. That was a Steve staple, and the man’s beard tickled against Bucky’s forehead as a fleetingly chaste kiss was pressed there.
Bucky nodded. He licked his lips, swallowed the dust he’d meant to clear off the top of his kitchen cabinets, and then nodded again.
“You get the demon cat,” Bucky whispered when all was finally quiet. He didn’t know how these things worked. Did people crazily Gatling-gun spray a place and then move on, or would they linger and look for movement? If Bucky sneezed from the burn of wood chips and bullet dusk that had settled into the back of his nose, would it all start up again?
Oh well. Steve wasn’t bulletproof, and Bucky didn’t want him to be hurt or anything, but history said that Steve could take at least ten more bullets than Bucky’s human-ass body could tolerate, so it was best if the super-soldier moved first.
And if Bucky was honest, Alpine’s terrified squawks were getting kinda annoying. She was making that dying cat noise that clearly belittled the fact that she was actually fine and just screaming out for attention.
“I’ll get the vodka,” Bucky offered as a considerate afterthought.